#a world of whimsy writes

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Hello, there ♡ I saw your requests are back open and I was wondering if I could request some more Thranduil smut where the reader (female human) has a nightmare or is just deeply upset over something (whichever you prefer) and he comforts her, but then it slowly turns into a slow burn fuck sesh 🔥🔥 thank you so much. I hope you are having a good week.

Well hello there! I had a great week, I hope it was the same for you! Now, onto your request.

"Light after darkness"

✨Pairing: Thranduil x Fem. Reader (Human / Second person POV)

✨Themes: Some angst | Smut | Soft 

✨Warnings: Insecurity (Reader) | Mentions of imprisonment/torture | PTSD | Kissing | Fingering (Fem. receiving)| Body worship | Nicknames | Explicit language | Mild dirty talk | Penetrative sex | Cream pie 

✨ Word count: 3k words

✨Rating: 🔥🔥 | Minors DNI | 18+

Summary: A bad nightmare and waking up in the dark ends up with something much lighter and sweeter.

✨ Author's notes: "Girdle of Varda" is a band of countles stars similar to the Milky Way. 

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

The vision returned, darker and more sinister this time.

It started as an inky black mist rolling in, and the world went dark. Lightning struck like a lance, its flash splitting the sky, but little could be seen, save for shadows in the gloom. Ugly things, ones only found in the darkest pits, slithered about, muttering in a tongue that was foul and torturous to listen to. There were flashes of terror and suffering, and there was laughter, coldness, and cruelty. There was the glint of steel, of eyes glinting like red, hot coals. And the pain, sharp and intense, returned, with memories of a dark time flooding in like waves crashing over jagged rocks. 

And that flood only grew, with those waves rising higher and higher. Your heart lurched at the next flash of lightning, at the glint of a sword, at the sound of a beast pounding over muddy earth. You caught the subtle sheen of armour, the agonizing sounds of frantic screams. Red eyes flashed in the darkness again, hot and angry this time, rushing towards you, and then —

"Starlight?" a comforting voice called out from the darkness, pulling you out of the dream and slowly into waking. "Starlight, are you all right?"

You jerked awake, a silent scream trapped in your throat. The utter clarity and terror of that nightmare left you shaken and cold, and you trembled, your eyes barely making out the outlines of a large room. "It's dark," you said in a panic, your chest heaving heavily. "Why is it dark?"

You heard nothing, save for the muffled sound of feet over thick carpets. A candle was lit, its soft, golden light dispelling some of the gloom. Someone walked over to the large, arched windows, opening them to a wide expanse of the night sky. Sheer drapes fluttered in the cool breeze. And how beautiful the sky was! Countless stars glittered against an endless field of inky black, with the Girdle of Varda and a pale full moon standing out against them all. How comforting it was to see that sky after weeks of darkness, the light of that candle, but most important of all, the face of the ellon who made his way back to your side.

"Are you well, starlight?" He studied you, his eyes filled with growing worry. "You were struggling in your sleep."

"Bad dreams again," you tried to take a deep, steadying breath to try and compose yourself. "From before and..." You began to weep then, shedding sad, bitter tears, as the memory of your capture kept flooding back. Thranduil felt helpless, unable to defend you from an enemy he could not fight or even see. It made him angry—so very angry, that he couldn't shield you from the horrors that plagued you some nights. In the end, he settled on the one thing he could do. He joined you in bed, gathering you in his arms and holding you while you wept.

Tears fell, hard and relentless, and you clung to Thranduil's robes, your chest heaving painfully against his. And Thranduil refused to let go, holding you silently without complaint. His presence was a great comfort, and his touch was soothing. You lost track of time, so lost were you in your grief. And it slowly passed, with your tears easing and your sobs quieting. The pain you felt ebbed, and yet you felt empty instead of light. 

"Do you wish to talk about it, starlight?" Thranduil's voice was warm and deep as it cut through the haze. 

"Tis the same as before," you choked, nestling into him. "A foul mist and lightning. Daggers and those ugly red eyes. Then a sword flashed in the darkness. Your elk pawing at the earth. Screams." Your eyes drifted down, to your exposed left arm. "The pain."

Thranduil ran a careful finger over the scars on your forearm, a gift from your orc captors. "Does it still hurt?"

You shook your head. "Not anymore. But I can still feel the blade. And I hate it. I hate how it looks. How it makes me look." You sniffled again when you went over those scars, all words, all in the black tongue of Mordor. No amount of healing could make them go away, and you were bound to carry them for the rest of your days. "I feel ugly."

How Thranduil hated it, hearing you talk like that. He couldn't bear to hear you talk of yourself that way. "You are beautiful starlight, and it pains me to hear you talk of yourself that way." 

"But look at these!" You cried and stuck out your arm, so he could see. "They will never go away, so how can you say that I am?"

Thranduil took your hand into his and lifted it to his lips. "I am not blind to them, starlight. I say you are beautiful because you are. Remember your first night after waking up?" His pulse scrambled with each little kiss when his lips pressed against your skin, at the scent that filled his lungs—the sweet scent of you. "When you were strong enough to dine with the rest of us?"

Your cheeks warmed; how could you forget? Thranduil was the first to rise when you walked in, his eyes fixed on you and no other. He had insisted you sit next to him, and he spent almost the entire night talking and dancing with you. "I thought you had never seen a mortal before me," you managed a weak smile.

"Hah!" Thranduil guffawed, his lips skimming over your fingers. "Mortals, I deal with plenty. You on the other hand? I have never seen anyone like you, and I could not keep my eyes off you. You were a vision that night... You are a vision, starlight. I wish we had met under happier circumstances, but I am glad we did. I would not change the past several moons for anything."

You barely remembered the first few days of your rescue. All you did have were hazy memories of that battle, of opening your eyes and seeing Thranduil for the first time, the fall of his silver-blonde hair, the steel of his armor, the cloak that kept you warm on the ride back to his halls. Still, those first memories of him, blurred as they were, were so precious to you. "I would not change one thing either, save for maybe this."

Thranduil's lips left your fingers and trailed down your arm, barely skimming over the scars. "You are beautiful, starlight," he breathed softly. "Will you let me show you just how beautiful you are?"

You hummed sweetly, all too aware of the heavy thud of your own heart. And to have him take his time to make you feel good? Well, you were not going to say no to that. "Yes," you said, your breath hitching when his eyes darkened.

Thranduil took his time, slowly unburdening you of your robes and unburdening himself of his. He started by touching you first, letting his hands glide all over your body, slowly and gently, like he was touching you for the first time. And he trembled, his breath soft and tremulous, his hands shaking as they continued with their gentle exploration. "Just feeling your naked skin against mine is enough to make me weak," he murmured, delighting in the little gasp he heard. "So soft, and I cannot get enough of it."

His touch slowly grew insistent, and his light brushes grew a little rougher, a little greedier. His hands were everywhere, over your thighs, your belly, the soft swell of your breasts, deft fingers kneading at your flesh. You shivered, your body slowly easing over soft, silk sheets, your fingers digging into the fabric. Thranduil saw this and groaned under his breath. He had only just begun.

He moved over you, his thighs pushing yours apart. Propping himself on one elbow, Thranduil continued with his exploration, his soft, luscious lips just hovering over yours. His free hand kept gliding over your belly, over trembling muscles, and his eyes locked on you. And those eyes of his, burning bright even in the light of that single candle, the blue of them as vibrant as a clear morning sky. That was the only first clear memory you had of him after your rescue: opening your eyes and finding him looking down at you on the ride back. A gasp then ripped through you when his hand came back to your breasts, stroking the soft skin, his fingers drawing little circles, then pinching lightly at first, then growing rougher, until it felt like your entire body was aching. Flushed and breathless, you moved a hand over his, trying to guide him. 

"No," Thranduil gently ordered, his lips brushing over yours. "Not tonight."

You swallowed and moved your hands over your head, your body pulsing as he continued, brushing his fingers over your throat, your lips, and your eyelids. 

You were everything he wanted, needed, even. And he didn't stop. Not with his hand, not with his lips. Thranduil kept brushing his lips over yours, savouring the sweetness of your mouth and he felt it—the slow pin-pricks of desire smolder and grow stronger, degree by slow degree. Hunger threatened to overcome him, but he forced himself to hold back just a little longer. He wanted to taste more of you first. 

Your back arched against him, and you sighed helplessly when he dipped his head, his lips and his tongue leaving a damp trail in their wake. "I cannot get over how sweet you taste," he mumbled against your throat, his teeth nipping at your skin. "Just thinking about my lips against your skin is enough to make me hard."

You pulled away and looked at him through heavy-lidded eyes, searching for any sign of a lie or a tease. There was nothing but love and dark hunger burning in them.

"D-do you m-mean it?" you still asked, as doubt slowly sunk its claws into you. Thranduil was the Elvenking, an ellon who could have had anyone he wanted, and yet he chose you, a mere mortal with a scarred arm. His choice shocked many, and you were constantly worried despite his promise of devotion.

His eyes grew serious as his hand went lower, to the apex of your thighs. "I mean it, starlight, every word of it," his voice was thick and hoarse, a groan escaping his lips when you arched your back again, your mouth parting in a soft moan as his fingers rubbed up against your heat.

There was no talking now, just feeling. Thranduil watched, his blood heating at the sight of you writhing beneath him. He wanted to see, truly see, what pleasure was like on you, and he was not disappointed. Intoxicating, was what it was, and he took his time, drinking in the myriad of expressions that washed over your countenance—the looks of shock, desire, and pure ecstasy. Thranduil enjoyed it all, committing everything to memory. 

"No starlight," he denied you when you tried to move your hand over his once more. "Not tonight. Let me take care of you."

Oh, how he took care of you, running the pads of his fingers over the warmth of your slit, your little pearl. And how it thrilled you—how it sent jolt after jolt of intense pleasure washing all over your body. Having to keep your hands to yourself and letting him take control—it all felt so wonderful and so very erotic. And then he slid a finger in, gently curling it around your pulsing walls, pulling shameless moan after shameless moan out of you.

"You are made for me," Thranduil's breath had grown ragged, his eyes feasting on the sight of you moving frantically, how you bucked against his hand. And how his heart pounded against his chest as you continued to writhe beneath him, your walls clenching around his finger. "Just me. And look at how glorious you are right now, starlight. Look at how your body responds... I could spend all day in our chambers like this, just watching you."

"Th-thranduil," you whimpered weakly, your body slowly unraveling beneath him. You were unsure what heated you more, his words or his touch. "D-dont stop. P-please."

The king growled in approval, his own body aflame. "That first night with us," he crooned huskily, his lips skimming over the shell of your ear. "When you came to eat with us, and I saw you, I thought I had strayed into a dream. I could not keep my eyes off of you, starlight."

"M-more," you pleaded, your body tingling at his words, your muscles tightening more and more with each passing second. "P-please my k-king."

Thranduil was almost undone by that alone. And he felt it—your thighs shaking, your walls slowly tightening. He withdrew his finger and positioned himself, his lips just a hair's breadth over yours. "Your body is intoxicating," he breathed, trembling when the tip of his cock rubbed against your slick. "Fuck," he mumbled, his very breath shuddering. Thranduil swallowed and forced himself to focus. He was not going to move along blindly. He wanted you to feel as much pleasure as he did. 

And you could no longer bear not touching him. You could no longer bear this waiting. You reached over, twining your arms around his broad shoulders and tracing lines between his shoulder blades. "I'm ready," you whispered. "Please, my king. I need to feel you inside of me again."

Thranduil's gaze cut to yours. There was nothing but lust shining in his eyes and it thrilled you to have him look at you like that. 

"Please," you pleaded once more. "I need you inside me."

Thranduil hesitated briefly. Just briefly. He looked at you, eyes filled with reverence, his free hand brushing over your hair. You looked up at him, the two of you staring at each other in wonder. There was a pause. The very air seemed to still. And then, his mouth captured yours in a kiss. His kiss seared, his mouth hot and hungry as his lips plundered yours. Your heart fluttered when he pressed himself against you and his tongue licked past your parted lips to dip into the warmth of your mouth. A noise rose at the back of your throat, a soft, needy moan, something dark and sinful, enticing him to kiss you even more. Your arms tightened over his shoulders, and your legs scrambled for purchase against his hips. You felt it—him piercing your core, his cock sinking inch by slow inch, pushing you deeper into the bed. And oh, how good it felt to have him inside you, filling you to the hilt. Belonging to him, just him. Oh, how you loved that, knowing you were his. And then he moved. His first thrust ripped a gasp out of you; the second, a dreamy sigh.

Thranduil was slow and deliberate. His thrusts were gentle and steady, as if he didn't want to shock you, or cause you pain. All you could do was cling to him, your body tightening again with each passing moment. It was always like this, always so good, and only he could make you feel like this, take you higher and higher, to places you have never been before.

Thranduil's breath quickened and grew ragged. He grunted when your hands moved up and buried themselves in his thickhair. Those grunts grew deep and gutteral and turned to moans every time you tugged, every time you pulled him closer to you. Feeling your naked skin against his hammered at his restraint, and he slowly picked up the pace, going harder and faster, his hips slamming against the inside of your thighs. His moans matched yours, his free hand kept gripping at your hip, so he could go deeper. And how he loved it, how you held him, how your body responded to him.

"You are perfect starlight," he rasped, rough and deliberate, when your hands moved back down to his shoulders and your nails dug into his skin. Thranduil didn't mind it one bit, for it meant you found pleasure in what he was doing. "You are perfect even with your scars, and I would not change a single thing about you."

You would have replied, but your answer was muffled by his kiss. It didn't matter. Hearing that he fully accepted you, scars and all, was enough. Seeing and hearing how strong his desire was for you was enough. You cleaved to him, your legs clinging desperately against his hips as he took you closer and closer to the edge. It was there, in the trembling of your thighs and in the quickening of your breath. Thranduil felt it—the coiling of muscles in his belly, the frantic pace of his breathing. "Together then?"

You looked up at him and nodded. 

Moans spilled free and filled the room, drowning the sound of skin slapping against skin.Thranduil didn't let you go, not when your orgasm ripped through you and you cried for him, his name repeatedly rolling past your lips. Oh, how that shattered him—his name on your tongue, your walls clenching around his cock. Thranduil took you over the edge and fell with you, his moans peppering the air when those coiled muscles snapped, making him lose himself in you. You barely heard it, so caught up were you in your blissed-out state. You barely heard it, the satisfying grunt, the gruff, throaty moan. You felt his body trembling violently over yours before he spilled his seed inside you. One last thrust, one final moan, and he let go, propping himself on his hands to stop himself from collapsing over you.

You hear nothing, save for the sound of your choppy breathing and his. Only that and a sweet smelling wind that blew in through the windows. You opened your eyes to that glorious sky, those glittering stars, and the soft light of the moon. You hungered for such sights, to see light after being kept in the darkness for so long, and Thranduil made it possible again, in more ways than one.

"My king," you breathed when Thranduil moved to his side, taking you with him. The strength of his arms and the gentleness of his touch were nearly enough to make you forget. Nearly. The memories will always remain, but you knew you would be safe in his arms and that nothing could get to you now.

"My queen," Thranduil brushed his nose against your hair. He then started to hum an elven lullaby, his soft, soothing voice lulling you into a deep and peaceful sleep. 

Tags: @shrasdust | @asianbutnotjapanese | @nupppuff | @ryantryan6969 | @viivi

[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!

[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.

[unproduciblesmackdown]

winston my quant of billions

[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

[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.

Previous Part -> (1)

Next Part -> (3)

[backgroundelf]

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

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Hi! Can you please write a fic of Nuada having a bad day, and his s/o takes the initiative to prepare a bath for him? She tenderly washes his scalp, massages his soapy body and leaving kisses on his skin. I like the idea of a grumpy, solemn character getting pampered, and how Nuada would feel getting treated like that for once. :)

I hope you like this!

“Tending the Prince”

Pairing:  Nuada x Fem. Reader (Human / second person POV/established relationship) Themes:  Soft | Fluff Warnings: Kissing  Word count:  1.5K words Rating: Mild NSFW | Minors DNI 

Summary: Nuada comes home in a foul mood, and you decide a little pampering is in order. 

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

It was cold, mercilessly cold, when Nuada made his way back home, slinking through dark roads and darker alleys, moving quickly and silently like a cat as he slipped past oblivious mortals before heading into the abandoned railway tunnels he called home.

Well, it was no longer just a series of abandoned tunnels. Nuada converted a part of them into an underground home, a refuge from the outside world and a small reminder of the once bustling city of Bethmora.

Tonight, he found no joy in any of it on his return, as he was tired and cold, and his body ached all over. Hellboy took it into his head to anger the Vizier of the Troll Market, and Nuada had to save him.

Yet again.

Nuada felt his hands turn into fists. Hellboy was always like this, bullheaded and rash, getting everyone else into a mess, and then, if he failed to extricate himself, someone else had to swoop in to save the day. This time that lot fell to Nuada. And Nauda was not happy about it at all.

Oh, how he wanted to punch something.

And how he just wanted to be alone.

He pushed open the doors, not even bothering to close them behind him. He snarled when Mister Wink greeted him and bit his tongue when you came over. Nuada could never, would never, take his frustrations out on you, no matter how surly he was of an evening. He grumbled a hello before disappearing into your shared chambers.

"Bad day, you think?" you turned to Mister Wink.

Mister Wink seemed to think so, and you tried to come up with something that could put Nuada into a better mood. "Right," you said. "You go lock up the place, and I'll  check on our Mister Grumpy Pants."

The troll chuckled heartily before going off to check all the doors, and you steeled yourself to check on the prince.

"Nuada?" you knocked on the door before entering. "Is everything ok, sweetheart?"

Nuada was muttering under his breath as he struggled to undo the clasps of his armour. You pick up mumblings of Hellboy and the Vizier and other words that were quite colourful and inventive. It seemed like the visit to the Troll Market didn't go according to plan, and that had put Nuda into a foul mood. When he struggled with a clasp for the umpteenth time, you bit back a smile and went forward to help him.

"Here," you said softly, taking over where he left off. "I'll do it."

The rage in Nuada's eyes died the moment you neared him. "I want to be alone, my love," he mumbled.

To sulk and be miserable, no doubt. You sighed and worked on one clasp, then another. "Well, it's obvious you're not managing on your own." Your eyes widened when the deep red bruises on his neck came into view. "And you're hurt. What happened?"

Nuada lifted his arms so you could take the armour off him. "Anung un Rama, that was what happened," he muttered, anger and frustration bubbling inside him again. "And I would rather not talk about it, if you do not mind."

"Alright," you said and started on the clasps of his tunic. If Nuada decided not to discuss something, you would let it be. He would always talk about what vexed him once he was ready to do so. And his skin was so cold, icy to the touch. Perhaps something to warm him up might put him into a better mood, you thought. "How about a bath instead?" You peeled the tunic off of him, trying not to wince at a large bruise on his chest. "You could use it, I think."

Nuada shook his head, determined to refuse. "I would rather..."

And you were determined to have your way. Nuada needed some looking after, it was plain as day now. "In fact," you said, turning sharply on your heel, "I insist on it. I'll have one ready for you. Give me ten minutes."

Nuada grumbled at your back, determined to stay where he was. He did not attempt to move when you headed toward the bathroom. He tried to turn a deaf ear to the sound of water running, to your humming. He wanted to refuse, to not indulge, but -

The sound of that water proved too much, and his body yearned to be warmed a little after being in the filthy cold for so long. With an angry growl, he muttered under his breath and stomped to the bathroom once the ten minutes were up.

And you were there, standing beside a large, claw-foot tub. The lights had been dimmed and there were candles all over. "What is all of this?" he asked, as he took in a little tray on the bathtub counter, filled with all sorts of scents and ointments.

"This, sweetheart is a bath."

"I know what a bath is my love, but what is all of this?"

You came over to him and sank to your haunches. "A bath, nothing more," you insist, working on the lacing of his left boot. "Now lift."

Nuada stifled a wince when he lifted his leg, and that first boot was disposed of in no time. Same for the second boot. You then rose and got to work on his belt. Now that filled him with a sliver of mischief. "In here my love?" he teased. "While I am sore all over?"

Oh, how the innuendo made you blush. But at least he was in a better mood. "I'm not unbuckling your belt for that," you grinned and laughed lightly, and went to work on the clasps of his trousers. "I'm just helping you with your clothes. But if you're of a mind to ruin a good pair of trousers," you said, gesturing at the tub with one hand, "By all means."

Nuada chuckled before quickly taking your face into both hands and stealing a quick kiss. "I have no interest in getting into a tub while still dressed," he said, his eyes lighting up at the soft hint of pleasure reflecting in yours. "Go on."

You smirked and helped him out of his trousers too, tossing them to the pile on the side. Nuada took slow steps and got into the tub, a sigh rising from the tips of his toes when warm water met his skin. You pulled up a little stool and took your place behind him.

"Now what, my love?" Nuada said, and let his body ease back against the tub, his aching muscles slowly easing and unwinding in the fragrant, soapy water.

You reached for the little tray to pick up a soft sponge and dipped it in the water. "And now I'm going to look after you."

Nuada's grumble died when that sponge slowly glided over his skin. Soft, it was, almost as soft as your skin. He sighed wistfully and surrendered slowly when the hurts of the day ebbed away. And how it surprised him, to be cared for like this. It felt alien, but oh-so-wonderful at the same time. "You need not do this," he said.

You smiled and kept running that sponge over his shoulders and arms, his quiet sighs encouraging you to continue. "But I want to do this," you said. "You take such good care of us, and ask for nothing in return."

Nuada softened and tilted his head up, his hands reaching up to play with your hair. "That is because you are worth it. I love you."

Your smile just grew. "I love you." You dipped your head and brushed your lips over his, only to pull away when he winced. "I'm sorry."

"Not your fault," Nuada grimaced and swallowed, waiting for the dull throb in his throat to pass. "I will be fine in a little while."

It took a moment or two, but the pain passed. While he waited, you rose and went to the sink, to fill a wash basin with fresh water. When you returned, you brought it with you and kept it on the counter, next to the tray. "Now dip your head little," you said, and picked up a little bowl.

Nuada sighed wistfully again as the water went through his hair. His throat was sore, but he ignored it, so focused was he on what you were doing. His entire scalp tingled sweetly when you carefully applied shampoo to his hair and massaged away. He sighed again when you poured more water over his hair, to wash it clean. He sighed even more when you took one of his hands, to see to his nails. So strange, that something like this could lighten him and make him feel so good, yet he did not want to give it up, not when you were looking after him the way you did. 

And you enjoyed every moment, just as much as he did. It felt so intimate, taking care of him like this, feeling him soften and unwind under your touch. And since he rarely took the time to look after himself, you thought he deserved this.

Nuada just closed his eyes. It all felt so wonderful, the way his skin warmed, and the way his entire body softened. He felt his breath hitch a little when he felt your lips brush against the tips of his fingers, his wrists. "You are too good to me," he breathed.

"You deserve it," you hummed and carefully nipped down his arm. "And I need to get back to work," you said and sat straight. "Your nails, sweetheart, are a mess."

Nuada chuckled and urged for you to continue.

[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

[mycelialbats]

google history “how to find high fantasy media that isn’t racist” “how to find fantasy video game that isn’t racist” “how to know if a fantasy book is racist before spending $20 on it” “how to-