#square filled: Light elf

[thebigbiwolf]

Spittle - Part 1/2

Summary: The chocolate seems innocent enough - if you look past the Infernal writing on the wrapper, and with so few pleasures in the wilderness, you all but jump at the chance to sneak yourself a small treat.

Unbeknownst to you, the bar is infused with succubus spittle. Just one square is rumored to contain enough potency to send a mortal into the throes of ecstasy.

This is what happens when you eat half the bar.

Fic Tags: Sex Pollen (kinda), aphrodisiacs, succubus magic, a bit of dom!Astarion, unprotected piv, overstimulation, he talks you through it (iykyk), more tags will be added later.

Fic Warnings: Explicit Smut (18+ MDNI), Dubcon (if you squint), Language, No use of Y/N, magical influence

Read on AO3: Here

A/N: Remember the dead spider? I remember the dead spider. Anyways, the reception I've been getting on Starvin', Darlin' has me wanting to thank everyone with a one-shot. This got away from me so I went ahead and split it into two parts.

I've never written anything like this and it was significantly more difficult than a multi-chapter fic. I hope everything comes across the way its supposed to! And a huge thank you to my beta @imaginarydromedary for...you know... encouraging me to post this, despite everything.

From what you could tell, there wasn’t much to the apothecary. 

As you push open the dilapidated doors, your first thought is to search for supplies - anything that could help if things went south on your way to the goblin camp. 

Dried herbs hang from the rafters beneath a thin veil of cobwebs, filling your lungs with a pungent clash of scents. Empty bottles lined the shelves along the wall, caked in several months worth of dust. Large chunks of the building were missing where stone met splintered wood, some areas almost entirely overtaken by greenery.

You step over broken shards of pottery, scanning over the floor and countertops for something - anything that may be of use, but to your disappointment, it seems like the shop was entirely ransacked long before your arrival.

You sigh deeply, knowing you’ll likely never hear the end of this from your companions. It was your idea to search the village. You were the one who suggested taking out the goblin scouts, exerting everyones’ energy, and now you’re afraid you’ll have very little to show for it.

You catch a glint of gold, an object reflecting the sun's rays beneath a pile of rubble. You kneel down to brush away the surrounding debris, thankful for even the smallest promise of coin before your hands catch on… some sort of serrated edge?

You pull at it, and it easily comes loose. It's a thin, rectangular block, just barely larger than the length of your hand. You wipe away some of the dirt with your sleeve, revealing an intricately designed foil wrapping underneath.

As you speculate what this might be, you hear footsteps approaching from behind, light and familiar. You turn to face the elf with a smirk.

“You’re supposed to be the stealthy one.” You chide at him, playfully, “Or has my blood put a little skip in your step?”

Astarion scoffs. “I’ve been here the entire time, watching you fumble around in the dirt.” 

Crimson eyes study you, then the object you’re holding. He places his hands on his hips, head cocked to the side with a raised brow. “Is that what you’ve dragged us all the way here for?”

“First of all,” you waggle a finger at him, “You’re especially grumpy when you’re tired. I’ll have to make a note to prioritize your beauty rest. Second, I haven’t finished looking around, but check this out.”

You hand the bar to him as you stand. The cool skin of his fingers brush against your own, and you’re irritated with the way your heart skips at the brief contact. Why did the one man you found attractive in your camp have to be such a primadonna? And such a huge pain in the ass? 

Astarion’s eyes scan over the textured paper with suspicion, angling it towards the light to get a better look. The golden wrapping is stamped with an image of red lips On the back, letters twist and curve in a language you don't recognize, following a single circular pattern where they meet in the center. You’ve never seen anything like this, neither in your travels, nor within the city walls of Baldur’s Gate.

“Where did you find this?” 

You shrug, then point to the pile next to you. “It was buried right there.” 

He silently stares at the foil, mouth pursed, until your patience begins to wear thin.

“Well, can you read it or not?”

His nose scrunches. “Of course I can’t read it. It’s written in Infernal.”

That’s… odd. Why would an ordinary apothecary sell goods made by devils? Or, worse, for devils. Unless, of course, it was some sort of marketing trick, perhaps a play on the phrase ‘sinfully sweet’, or some other cringeworthy branding.

You take it back, turning it over in your hands before tearing at the corner of the wrapping. It's sectioned into dark, rich squares, and smells indisputably like chocolate.

“It looks like candy.”

“An excellent observation.” he says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Now, can we go? We’ve spent more than enough time here already.”

You roll your eyes and stuff it into your bag, setting off for camp, vampire in tow.

–

During dinner, you decide not to tell the others about what you found, knowing Astarion’s likely already forgotten the event. You set down your empty plate, thanking Gale for tonight’s meal. He smiles at you and bids you goodnight as you excuse yourself to your tent. 

You pick up your rucksack, thinking fondly of the dessert that awaits you inside. Having lived at the beck and call of your companions for weeks on end, you can’t help but smile at the idea of selfishly indulging in a small treat like this.

You tear open the rest of the wrapping and snap off one of the squares, immediately popping one into your mouth. It melts - buttery in texture, with a smokey, slightly bitter flavor. You can’t remember the last time you’ve eaten something so rich. Maybe weeks of the same rations have made you easier to impress, but this felt especially notable.

As you break off a second piece, a strange tingling sensation begins to spread across your lips - a pleasant buzzing that starts at your neck and spreads down through your chest. 

Strange, but not entirely unwelcome. You’ve heard of such inebriating chocolates, ones laced with alcohol or species of flowers that numb one’s senses for a short while. All harmless, of course, and you don’t have watch tonight. You may as well enjoy yourself. If worst comes to worst, Shadowheart is just outside with an assortment of spells and potions. Always better to ask for forgiveness.

It only takes you minutes to finish half the bar. You set the rest next to your bedroll for later and turn to blow out your candles, enjoying the lingering physical effects of the chocolate. Your skin feels flushed and delightfully warm as you settle down for the night.

When sleep finally takes you, it's dreamless, at first. Your consciousness sways, floating in an empty abyss, until colors begin to bleed onto the blank canvas of your mind.

A trickle of red morphs into the shape of familiar eyes, piercing you with their intensity..

Droplets of white spatter over a dark background, diffusing, blending into whisps. They curl and twist before settling into soft, coiffed fibers. 

Hair , you recognize immediately, his hair . His eyes.

Astarion. 

His image fully takes form, as if it had been waiting for you to make the connection before entirely revealing itself. 

He reaches out and seizes you, grabbing painfully at your hips as you crash into his body, hands exploring you - tight, possessive, squeezing at every inch of exposed skin before settling on the curve of your ass. He digs into your flesh with the blunt edge of his nails.

His lips press hot, wet kisses to your throat, mouthing just below the ear, before dragging his tongue along your nape and sucking, hard . You whine at the pressure, eliciting a grin from the elf, so characteristically pleased with the pathetic little noise he’s managed to pull from you.

“You thought sleeping would allow you to escape this - to escape me , unscathed?” He growls against your skin, his voice almost unrecognizable - as if it’s layered beneath a lighter, somehow more arrogant, feminine one.

“No, no, no. Wake up, darling. You’re in for a very long night.”

–

You startle awake, gasping - loud, labored breaths struggling to make use of the unbearably thin air. The edges of your tent bleed in and out of focus, spinning at a nauseating pace as you attempt to recollect yourself.

You wipe at the sweat collecting on your brow, the muscles of your arm heavy and aching, and find that your skin is absolutely drenched. 

Hot. Why is everything so hot? 

It's as if you're being cooked alive beneath your blankets, strangled beneath the furs. You throw them off; normally soft to the touch, the fibers now only worsen the prickling beneath your skin.

Could this be some sort of illness? A fever? 

No, this doesn’t make sense. Everything feels off. 

Fleeting thoughts of Astarion cross your mind - quick flashes of a sinful smile that was not his own.

It didn’t quite match the one you’d silently come to admire, and now that you think of it, the hunger in his gaze was much too intense for the reserved elf. 

His hands, his mouth, the way he touched you -

Your abdomen cramps, bringing your thoughts to a screeching halt.

A stabbing, visceral pain; a knife plunging into your organs. It overwhelms you, forces your body to curl into itself. You hold your pelvis, grunting, and grasp at your sheets. Tears sting the corner of your eyes.

This is - well, you have no idea what this is. 

You can’t think past the pounding in your head, the throbbing in your midsection. You're compulsively twisting, writhing, begging the gods for some sort of reprieve, but it's then when you make the most mortifying discovery of the night.

You’re soaked .

N ot just your smallclothes, which may have been understandable given your strange dreams, but through your damned pants. Not even the sheets were spared. 

“What  in the hells…?” 

You run your fingers over yourself, only intending to confirm the horrifying reality of your situation - that this is not, in fact, some sick, perverted nightmare, but the lightest touch sets off every nerve. 

You wail at the sensation: one massive wave of bliss giving way to several small jolts of pain. 

Pleasure to the point of agony.

The shock of the sudden orgasm courses from your sex through every limb, clenching and releasing pitiful, warm slick. It leaks freely out of you into your already thoroughly ruined underwear. 

Your heart pounds. You stay like that for what feels like a lifetime, toes curled, limbs twitching, waiting for your body to settle. 

After a minute or so, your breathing evens, and the thick haze surrounding your thoughts begins to lift just slightly, along with the suffocating heat. 

But something within you knows this isn’t the end - knows this isn’t enough . A desperation lurks beneath the surface that you can’t quite name. It screams at you. You need more.

‘Aw…’ A familiar, feminine voice prods at your mind. You quickly recognize her, the woman from your dreams who wore Astarion’s image.  

‘All alone, are we? Empty and needing to be filled? Doesn’t that hurt?’

It does. It aches unlike anything you’ve ever known. The lingering buzz of your orgasm just barely quells the worsening cramps, and they’re beginning to rear their ugly head again not minutes later.

You choke out a sob. “Wh- why are you doing this? What do you want?”

Sharp, wicked laughter fills your head, echoing off the walls of your skull. ‘I’m not doing anything, dear. Just enjoying the show.’ She hisses, ‘I told you, it’s going to be a very long night.’

You must be hallucinating. This fever - whatever this is, is simply cauterizing your senses, or possibly interacting with the tadpole? But the tadpole doesn’t speak, not like this. Never so clearly. Not with words.

Think, please. There has to be a reason this -

“Is everything alright?” Shadowheart raps on the canvas of your tent. “I heard a yelp. Are you hurt?”

Shit.

‘Ooh, this one might do!’  You feel an unwelcome… eagerness flood you.

No. No. Absolutely not.

You try not to panic. 

Under no circumstances should she or anyone else come in here.

The best strategy may be to ignore her - pretend you’re still sleeping. It seems like a good plan, but before you have a chance to follow through with it, another sharp contraction hits. This one is somehow even worse than the ones before. 

You pull your sheets up to your mouth to stifle your whine, but the half elf’s ears are sharper than most. “I’m coming in.”

She opens the flap to your tent and gasps when she sees you there - skin flushed pink, doubled over and covered in sweat. 

“Gods, what’s wrong? What’s happened?” Her hand reaches out towards you. 

Without thinking, you swat it away with your own. Your skin tingles at the contact, and the essence of a smile crosses over the threshold into your mind. The intruder giggles with satisfaction.

“Don’t,” you plead, “Don’t touch me.”

She scans over you, taking in your humiliating state. Her face twists with concern. “I need to know if you’re feverish. Please. You look awful.” 

‘Well, I think you look delectable.’

You groan.

At this point, you know it’s no use fighting this thing on your own. You go back and forth on whether you want to tell her the whole truth, about the voice in your head and its influence on your body, but the idea mortifies you into silence. 

Regardless, a cleric is likely your best chance of fixing this literal mess, so you nod, close your eyes, and brace yourself.

Shadowheart’s palm meets your forehead. It’s somehow worse than you anticipated. Even the simple, chaste touch sends you reeling, as if her soft hands are caressing your entire body. Flashes of heat wash over you, burning your skin, threatening to pull you back under another wave of ecstasy. 

It’s too much. You try your hardest to suppress a moan, but the muffled sound manages to escape from between your tightened lips, pitiful and broken.

The disembodied voice squeals with delight.

She quickly retracts her hand, clearing her throat. “Apologies. I can confirm your temperature is… elevated, but the rest…” She shakes her head. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

You want to scream, cry - anything to release your frustration, but you keep your mouth shut, not wanting to risk making any more unsavory noises.

“I believe I can give you some relief by treating the fever, but I’ll have to consult the others on the rest. This doesn’t look like any ordinary sickness.”

Consult the others? No. Gods, no. Nobody can know about this. Is she mad?

You intend to protest, beg her not to share this with anyone, tell her whatever death awaits you on the other side of this would be preferable, but she’s speaking an incantation before you have the chance.

A bright, green aura envelopes you, cooling your skin and ever so slightly easing the cramps. With the pain dulled, it's as though you can finally think again. 

You want to laugh. This situation is so utterly ridiculous that you’d find it hilarious, were it anyone else, but with the modicum of relief comes exhaustion - eyelids heavy, vision blurring with weariness.

“Get some rest. We’ll figure this out.” 

Her reassuring words are the last thing you hear before you’re overcome by darkness.

[mllersjoel]

good old fashioned lover boy

Pairing: Regency!Wyll Ravengard x gn!reader

Summary: It's dreadfully boring at this ball, especially when Lord Gortash won't stop talking to you. Lord Ravengard steps in, and just maybe, this night can be saved.

Word Count: 1.1k

A/N: why does no one write for my bb boy. i love him. have some regency au (writing comms r open btw!)

It’s your second year as an eligible member of society, and you are bored out of your mind. Your guardian has dragged you to yet another ball, with dancing and schmoozing that you would rather die than be doing. Thankfully, you’ve managed to avoid just about everyone who wants to sign your dance card with a glare or pretending to choke so hard tears well up in your eyes. You came here because your best friend, Astarion, promised to accompany you this time and fill up your dance card with his name only, but that plan swiftly fell out the window as he laid eyes on a pretty half-elf.

You could see him check out of the conversation, eyes flitting to them then back at yours. 

“Just go, Astarion,” you sigh, shoving him playfully.

His eyes blink back to yours, trying and failing to pretend like he wasn’t ogling another person. “I have no idea what you’re on about, darling.”

“I can handle myself and it’s pathetic watching you try to concentrate on me. Go.”

Astarion smiles broadly, kissing your cheeks. “Have I ever told you you’re the light of my life?”

You snort. “Just when you want something.”

He shrugs, taking your hand and pressing a gentle kiss to the back of it. “If you need me, just shout.”

He leaves, and you’re barely able to let out a breath before another man (greasy, looking like he needs two decades of sleep) takes his place. Without asking, he signs his name on your dance card. “Enver Gortash, Lord of this estate. Care to dance with me?”

You are pulled to the dance floor before you can even answer and you desperately try to come up with an excuse. “I—I can’t dance right now,” you protest, attempting to extricate yourself from his grasp without seeming rude, “I’m waiting for someone.” He ignores you, laughing. 

“Don’t play coy,” he says, assuming a waltz position. The music begins, and you have no choice but to dance with him. You catch Astarion’s eye and watch him square his shoulders, ready to pull you out of there as you minutely shake your head at him. 

‘Don’t make a scene,’ you mouth.

The entire time you dance with Lord Gortash, he drones on and on about his estate, how he fought for his wealth (although it was an open secret that he participated in less than savory business practices), and how immodestly he thinks women are dressed now. The song feels like its going on forever, then, blissfully, the music stops. There is a slight bustle as everyone switches partners, looking at who’s next on your dance card. Lord Gortash takes your hand, and with a predatory grin realises you have no one else on your dance card. As he takes your pencil, eager to write his name again, a hand grips his wrist and stops him.

You look up and see a beautiful man, dark skinned, hair braided closely to his head and a slight stubble covering his cheeks. He has a deep brown, almost black eye, while the other seemed pale and translucent. His smile is charming and bright, without a hint of sleaziness the other man seemed to carry in bucket loads. “I’m terribly sorry to cut in,” he says, the dulcet tones of his voice sending a slight shiver down your spine, “but I believe it’s my turn to have the pleasure of their company.”

Lord Gortash scoffs, brandishing your dance card towards the handsome man. “Your name isn’t on there. Mine is. Get lost, Ravengard.”

The man—Ravengard—nods, taking a step back. He seems as if he’s about to leave, and your heart sinks at the prospect of another dance with this man when he leans back in, pointing near the back. “Oh, before I go, I fear I spy Lady Karlach on her way. She mentioned something about—what was it now?—getting even?”

You see Gortash’s face turn white as he whips his head around, trying to spot someone. Without sparing you a second glance, he practically runs out of the ballroom, tripping on his own feet as he’s nearly sent sprawling. You hide your laugh behind your hand, catching the eye of Ravengard. “Thank you,” you say, adjusting your clothes, “he just wouldn’t stop talking.”

“You seemed like you were in need of saving,” he says, taking your hand and planting a feather-light kiss on the back of it. “Lord Wyll Ravengard, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

You give your name back which he tests immediately, smiling at the way it sounds. He gestures to your dance card, his hand still holding yours. “May I?”

You nod, delighted that this night seemed to be turning around. He writes his name in neat, precise cursive, finishing just as the band begins to play the notes of the next song. His hand is warm as it envelops yours, large, course fingers wrapping around your glove, leading you to the middle of the dance floor.

A slow dance begins to play, and suddenly you are swept up in his movements. He dances easily, leading you as if it was second nature. 

“I don’t think I’ve seen you before,” you say, matching his movements easily.

He smiles bashfully, looking down for a second. “Ah, I’ve been away.”

“And how do you like being back?”

He twirls you, catching you easily when you return back into his arms. “I like it a lot better now.”

As you waltz with him, you catch Astarion’s eye once more. He mouths, ‘Good?’

You nod and smile, glad when he gives you a thumbs up of approval. ‘He’s sexy,’ Astarion tells you, and you accidentally snort, looking away when Lord Ravengard raises an amused brow at you. “Too clichéd?”

“No, not at all!” You scramble, trying to school your face into a neutral expression. Every time you looked at his face, however, you started giggling again. Lord Ravengard laughed along with you, still not missing a step and barely even wincing when you inevitably stepped on his toes. “My friend is being stupid, that’s all.”

“Well,” Lord Ravengard starts, stepping closer than what was deemed proper, “if it’s not my horribly cheesy sayings, may I say that you look more stunning than the goddess Aphrodite herself?”

You gasp in jest, smiling. “Careful, my lord, your hubris may see you cursed.”

The song ends, yet he remains still, holding you. “A small price to pay to adequately compliment your beauty.”

Your heart stutters as he steps back, bowing as you hesitantly remember to do the same. “May I see you again?” You ask, hoping your forward nature doesn’t put him off like so many other men.

He smiles broadly, genuine. “I would love that.” 

[crinkle-cut-pickle-bucket]

Inktober- Day 4: Dodge

Image description:

a black and white comic strip, starting at the top with a speech bubble reading, “Oh, sir—that’s…I’m sorry for bringing up something so—“. To the right of the speech bubble, there is a square-framed picture of fried chicken breast, sliced and topped with a light-colored sauce, and garnished with a sprig of dark berries. Below the first frame, there is a second speech bubble—this one dripping with dark ichor. It reads, “—clearly upsetting”. Below this speech bubble is a series of equally-sized square-framed pictures. The left most is a picture of Taako, a male elf with a messy bun of blonde hair, wearing a professional chef’s uniform. He is smiling widely, eyes closed. In the background of the first frame, there is a small depiction of the word “cough”. The frame’s upper edge drips with a little black ichor. The next frame shows a slightly darker background, with more words filling in the space: words such as “cough”, “gag”, and “ack”. Taako is again centered in this second frame, but is slightly closer. His expression has changed: a confused and worried look has mingled with his shrinking smile. The upper edge of the frame drips with more back ichor. Finally, a third panel reveals an even darker background, nearly completely filled with black and words such as “cough”, “gag”, and “ack”. Taako’s face is now close up, revealing his openly horrified expression. Below this series of three square panels, a large one depicts a horrific mountain of shadowed faces and limbs. The faces are either anguished or depicted with x’s over their eyes. Overshadowed by the pile, and desperately running toward the foreground, is Taako, still wearing the chef’s uniform and the messy bun. A stark shadow spans below him, outlining the word “murderer”. Below this panel, there is a back-shot of the head and shoulders of Angus McDonald. Angus McDonald is a dark skinned boy with short, curly hair, round glasses, and a brimmed cap. His expression, though not fully revealed at this angle, is sorrowful. He is facing present-day Taako, who is now wearing a wizard’s hat and cloak. Taako has his left elbow propped against a table, and his left hand is cradling his cheek. Taako’s expression is seemingly dismissive, as he looks away from angus. There is a speech bubble connected to Taako that reads, “Yeah. It’s fine, Agnes.” end description.

[silvantransthranduiltrash]

When light elves insult the dark elves for the nth time in front of legolas (and sis):

Light elf: -you’re such barbarians, i don’t understand why anyone would- what are you doing?

Legolas & kleoyia: *writing something on notepad*

Kleoyia: playing a game.

Legolas: i mean it’s always the same song and dance with you-

Kleoyia: “barabarians” “heritics” “idiots” “have no comprehensive of a ruling government” “dishonor on you! Dishonor on your family. Dishonor on your cow-“

Legolas: we’ve even made a game of it!

Kleoyia: *turns her notpad around to show a bingo square* Bingo! Everytime we have to interact with you light elves-

Legolas: we bring a bingo sheet with common insults you hurl at us and see who has bingo the fastest.

Kleoyia: it’s usually filled within 15 minutes.

Legolas: ironically the 2 squares that are almost never crossed off are “original insults” and “acusations of things we’ve actually done”

Kleoyia: we keep them in because it makes it interesting

Legolas: but really, do you never get tired of the same song and dance over and over and over again?

Kleoyia: at this point your insecurities and issues are easy to see

Legolas: it’s like going to a museum. “And over there is your superiority complex, over there is your self loathing, and over here is the crippling fear of being an outcast amongst your pears, so instead you make others the outcast!”

Kleoyia: “now if you follow me to exhibit b, we can see how these personal issues fuel violent and discriminatory actions against a people you’ve no understanding of just trying to live there lives”

Legolas: don’t you ever get tired of the constant hatred you spew?

Kleoyia: if i had the time and energy you have to spare to hate people that don’t even know you exist, i could probably solve world hunger.

Legolas: so why don’t you eat something and go to bed? You get cranky when you’re hungry.

Kleoyia: after all, babies need plenty of rest in order to grow into productive, esteemed members of society!

Light elf:......

Elladan and elrohir, who invited the sibs in the first place and watched all this go down: holy shit-

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Hello there! Hope you're having a good day so far! I absolutely love your writing of Thranduil x Elrond x reader one you did. I hope you could do another one of those!

Hi! Since you haven’t mentioned if you wanted this one-shot to be spicy, I’ve decided to keep it soft/fluffy.

Pairing: Thranduil x Elrond x Fem. Reader (Second person POV | Poly relationship)

Themes: Aftercare | Soft | Fluff

Wordcount: 1.1 K words

Summary: A simple bath turns into a round of light pampering.

Warnings: Mentions of prior sexual activity (nothing explicit)

Minors DNI

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

A light wind—cool and already smelling of spring—whispered across the forests of Rivendell. The setting sun cast shadows as it dipped beneath the tree line, its slanting rays tinging the sky in vivid hues of orange and yellow, and gold. Filigree lamps came to life just before nightfall, their brilliant white light driving away the darkness. An elf started to sing, his song light and full of hope. 

Someone knocked on the door, wanting entry into the chambers you shared with Elrond and Thranduil. "Come in," you said, moving away from the window.

The ellith that came in brought hot water for your bath, adding herbs, flowers, and sweet-smelling oils once they had filled the tub. The water was fragrant and hot, but not to the point of scalding. You only waited till the elf-maidens bowed and took their leave before stripping yourself of your silks and stepping into the tub to soak your weary bones. You closed your eyes, your sigh a mixture of contentment and relief.

Your entire body still ached, but you considered it a good ache. Thranduil and Elrond allowed you no respite the night before; their embraces left you exhausted and more than a little bruised. They were away all day, refusing to tell you where they were going.

It could not have been a hunt; it was still too early in the season for it. There was no call for a war party; most of the lands on both sides of the Misty Mountains had been purged of the creatures that had marched under Sauron’s banner. It was a complete mystery, really, but the twinkle in Thranduil’s eyes and the glare he received from Elrond convinced you that a surprise of some sort was in store. They would not return till after nightfall, they had said, giving you plenty of time to rest.

"Ah. There she is." Elrond called softly and walked in, silent as always. A small, neatly wrapped oil-skin parcel was in his hands. This he left on a table before coming up to the tub and pulling up a stool to sit beside you. "Indulging a little, are we?"

"Tending my aching bones, more like," you replied, your cheeks burning when you remembered the night before. Thranduil walked in, as silent as his companion. They had been garbed in velvet and silk, but you could not miss the hints of mail and armour beneath their robes. A force of habit, Thranduil once said, one they could not easily shake off. "Where did the two of you ride off to, my lord?"

"We cannot tell you." Elrond picked up a soft cloth square and dipped it in the water. "You will have to wait till the day of the spring festival to find out."

"The spring festival is still half a month away." You eyed the parcel, wondering what it was. The shape alone hinted at a box of some sort, but what lay within the box, on the other hand...

"No peaking, starlight." Thranduil had seated himself behind you, washing your hair for you.

"And if either of us finds you anywhere near it," Elrond added, running the cloth over your arm. "That box will be hidden till the day of the festival."

You narrowed your eyes; your plans were foiled. "I will find a way," you promised; "mark my words."

"We will put Lindir in charge of it then," Thranduil said.

"And I will be left with no choice but to threaten him with dwarves romping in the fountain again," you retorted merrily. "Gimli’s sons have a fondness for such larks, I am told. The knowledge of my wanting to invite them will loosen his tongue quickly enough."

Elrond could not help but roll his eyes. Thranduil chuckled as he continued to wash your hair. The water was still steaming and soothing to the skin. Elrond started to rub your arms, wincing when the first bruise came into view.

"Did we go too far last night?" He asked, already worried. Elrond thought of last night—of the things they had you do to them, the things you wanted them to do to you. You had been well satisfied by the time you gave in to true sleep, but worries about them both forgetting their own strength often plagued them.

"You did not," you promised. "Neither of you did. I give the both of you my word," you insisted, your wet hair tumbling across your eyes when you turned your head to look at Thranduil and found him to be as concerned as Elrond. "I am fine, truly."

The Elven lords reluctantly accepted your word. While Elrond continued to rub your arms and hands, Thranduil started to scrub your back. The moon had already risen, its silver light spilling through open windows and into the room used for baths. Elrond excused himself and went around the room, lighting candles. Just enough, to not ruin the magic of the moonlight. The wind had grown stronger, stirring new leaves on the trees. Somewhere far away, a wolf howled, making you shiver.

"Tis a normal wolf, starlight." Thranduil listened when slow, rising notes fell away in the end. "The beasts corrupted by Sauron are dead. They can torment no one now."

You nodded, still trembling when the rest of the pack joined the first, their calls echoing through the forests like a mournful dirge. "The both of you are spoiling me," you murmured when Thranduil picked up a brush and gently worked out the tangles in your hair. He had always enjoyed doing this, feeling your hair slip through his fingers, and it made you feel so pampered.

"You should be spoiled," Elrond rose and went in search of a robe. When he came back, he had one draped over his arm. "You are always so good to us, and you deserve no less."

By the time you were helped into your robe, your body was flushed and tingling. Thranduil ran the brush through your hair again, this time so he could braid it. Elrond rubbed a sweet-smelling ointment into your skin, his skilled healer’s hands slowly rubbing out the aches in your muscles. This was what he excelled at, and seeing you smile back was reward enough for him.

"Is there anything else you need, starlight?" Thranduil asked when an elf came in with a tray laden with fruit, cheese, and cold cuts of meat. "Anything at all?"

You eyed the oil-skin parcel again, your eyes bright with mischief. "How about leaving me alone with that box for a few moments?"

The "No!" that echoed through the room was all the answer you needed.

Tags: @asianbutnotjapanese @nupppuff @ryantryan6969 @the-fandoms-georgie

[glorfindel-of-imladris]

2 + 32 please for the fic prompt!

Hello! Thank you for this prompt! 💛

[2, 32] prompt: “Can’t sleep?”

“Can’t sleep?”

There was a restless rustling of cloth and grass. Then, a grunt.

Glorfindel snorted. “You're out of shape, Counsellor.”

“And you need to keep your mouth shut when people are trying to sleep.”

It was a surprise that Erestor even agreed to come along. It was a routine patrol, one more for Glorfindel to become familiar with the land than any real threat. He made a passing joke about Erestor serving as his guide, for old time’s sake.

Erestor agreed. Glorfindel was surprised—but not unpleasantly so.

The fire crackled in the silence. Glorfindel stared at it for a moment, then looked up again at the sky he was observing earlier.

“How the stars have changed. I find I am still getting used to it.”

Beside him, Erestor heaved a sigh that conveyed how he felt about talking at this time of night. “I thought you said you lived in Aman. Did you not have time to get used to them there?”

“Things were simpler there. I never worried about things like the skies changing or time passing. Somehow, it feels as though the stars are clearer here in Middle-earth.”

There was a light breeze that blew in lieu of Erestor speaking. He's more quiet nowadays.

“You, too, have changed,” said Glorfindel.

Erestor's back was still turned to him, lying on the forest floor. “As you said, even the stars have changed,” he said. “A single Elf under them would be inevitable.”

“To what extent—” Glorfindel paused, reconsidering. “No, nevermind. I am afraid to know.”

“Afraid to know what?”

Glorfindel hesitated.

“Back in Gondolin—” It was uncanny how the mention of an old name, an old place, long gone but vivid still in memory, filled Glorfindel with longing. “Back then, we argued and bickered as we do now, but more freely, less carefully. I wonder if perhaps you are merely going through the motions now.”

There was rustling again when Erestor rolled just enough to turn. “Forgive me, but are you complaining about the quality of my performance in petty fighting—”

“The bickering was for show and you know it.”

Memories were things Aman would've dulled, but bittersweetness was a Middle-earth flavour. Glorfindel remembered Erestor in the House of the King, younger then but no less sharp-tongued, unafraid, beautiful.

It did not matter that millennia had passed; they did not feel so long to Glorfindel. He remembered Erestor as though it was but a day since they would cross the same paths around the city square, at the same time in the mornings and evenings, pretending that it wasn't routine, that the teasing wasn't also flirting, the highlight of their day.

But a thousand years in Mandos and Aman was not the same as the years that passed for Erestor. Decay existed in Middle-earth, and few things here could withstand the wearing of time.

“When I said that the stars are clearer here, I meant that things feel sharper. Longing—" Glorfindel nearly stumbled on the words "—and regret for things that may already be gone, I have forgotten how potent they could be.”

It was the most open he's been with Erestor, but then he wasn't sure if their old games were still at play—if anything still, at all, was at play. The doubt that had plagued him ever since his return laid heavily upon him underneath the weight of this sky.

“Forgive me,” he said, backtracking in his companion's lack of answer. “The late hour makes my tongue loose. Sleep, and I will speak of this no more.”

“The bickering wasn't for show,” Erestor cut in, breaking his silence. “For the record, you truly were annoying.”

Despite himself, Glorfindel snorted a laugh.

“But it is interesting what you said—” Erestor rolled on his back so he was looking up at the stars; his arm was warm where it brushed against Glorfindel's “—about the potency of things. Grief, for instance, goes bone-deep. It fills you. But then, so does hope.”

Glorfindel snuck a glance. He considered asking: ‘Did you grieve?’ But then, that was perhaps an insensitive thing to say, even for him. ‘Did you grieve me?’ was too transparent.

“What is it that you hoped for?” he asked instead.

“Reunions.”

Reunions. Glorfindel took a breath. “And hope,” he urged, “does it last?”

“If you will it so,” said Erestor. “Stubbornness helps.”

“Ah.” Glorfindel couldn't help but smile. “You are the most stubborn person I know.”

“So you have told me.”

“And what comes after reunion?”

Glorfindel knew he was just being greedy now, and sure enough, Erestor clicked his tongue. “That is not all up to me, is it?”

It was the most giving he had ever been. Back in the day, one had to wrestle Erestor for even the tiniest bit of honesty.

Even so he would not give it all. Not that Glorfindel expected him to; that would have been too easy.

“You are right,” Glorfindel said, voice a little lighter. “The bickering is real. How can it not be? You are also so annoying.”

This time, it was Erestor who snorted. Instead of answering, he simply rolled back to his side.

Just when Glorfindel thought that he had lost interest in the conversation, Erestor spoke again. “How much has it changed?” he asked. “Beyond recognition?”

Glorfindel looked up. A star, slightly misaligned from where it used to be, twinkled back at him. “Nay. I can still recognise them.”

“Then it is not so bad, is it?” Erestor huffed. “Perhaps you are only being dramatic as always.”

Glorfindel barked out a laugh. “As always?”

“Hm. Some things never change."

“Now you listen here—”

The fire crackled in their camp, and there at least the warmth was the same. It was probably not a good idea unpacking a single blanket to share, for Erestor hogged it now for what he claimed as penalty.

Neither of them was as honest as they perhaps should be. That obstinacy even had them losing what could have been, back in an old life. But perhaps it was why Erestor was now more forthcoming, and even Glorfindel found himself asking more than what he would have before.

As far as changes went, this, at least, was not bad at all.

[petalouda85]

Names

Fandom: Blades of Light and Shadow 2

Pairings: Tyril x f!human!MC (Kassandra)

Word count: 2.7k

Concept: Continuation of Tightrope. Tyril and Kassandra have an unexpected visitor in Riverbend and discuss their upcoming parenthood.

Tags: @liviusofpella, @megas-choices, @starlight-starfury, @dutifullynuttywitch, @thosehallowedhalls, @choicesficwriterscreations

AO3 link: x

A/N: I’ve been thoroughly sucked into the world I established in “Tightrope”; I have so many ideas for it that I will likely need to make a separate masterlist for it eventually. Enjoy this little ball of fluff and hint of spice at the end. And of course, I had to include some crocheting in this fic

Riverbend had its charms.

In retrospect, Tyril had had his reservations about settling in the village despite being the one to suggest going there. There had been an underlying fear that the town would still be a hotbed for tourists and the curious, wishing to see the home of the legendary hero of Morella. But with the new world order, it seemed that few were interested in their legends. Furthermore, the inhabitants of the town had seemed keen to keep their own safe from unfriendly eyes, especially once news of the pregnancy began to leak out. Their loyalty and protectiveness had been a soothing balm in these uncertain times.

There was a time in his life where he couldn’t imagine never using magic for the most basic of tasks nor that he would live in such a humble place. But strangely, he found himself quite comfortable in the small village. Sure, he was quite a spectacle to behold – there weren’t any elves in Riverbend after all - and children would gawk at him, the occasionally brave one asking to touch his ears or show off his magic but most never treated him any different from the rest; it surprised him to admit that he preferred their company to those of the highest houses in Undermount. There was none of the needless extravagance, none of the posturing; the people here were honest and straightforward and uncomplicated.

He walked the familiar path from the edge of the forest towards the heart of Riverbend, a square lined with various shops. He made his way to the bakery, the bell tinkling as he opened the door. Soon, the baker appeared, giving the elf a smile as he approached the counter.

“Good to see you again, Tyril. The usual?” The elf placed his basket onto the counter.

“Yes.” The baker nodded and immediately went to retrieve the usual items, packing them carefully into the basket. Soon the order was filled but when Tyril reached to grab it, the baker stopped him, signaling him to wait. He dashed to the back of the shop, soon returning with something wrapped in brown paper.

“Some apple strudels for Kassandra; she was asking about them last time. No extra charge.” He said as he placed the item in with the rest. Tyril smiled a little.

“Thank you.” After laying out the payment, he grabbed the basket and headed out of the bakery. He required only a few items on this errand and before long, he turned towards the path that led out of the market square, ready for a quiet and peaceful night.

“Elf boy.” Tyril turned at the sound of the nickname, blinking twice to ensure he was not imagining the rogue leaning casually against a cart full of hay. The man flashed his signature cocky smile as he approached the elf.

“What are you doing here?” Tyril asked as the two shared an embrace. Once he pulled away, Mal patted him on the shoulder.

“Had some business in Zaradun. Thought I’d come by on my way back to Whitetower, see how you were doing.” Tyril couldn’t help but smile.

“A most welcome surprise. Come on; Kassandra will be happy to see you.”

The two men walked in silence out of the city square, Tyril eventually turning onto a smaller path which led towards a more hidden trail into the woods. Immediately, the din of the village gave away to the peaceful embrace of the forest.

“So, how is the great adventurer Mal Volari? Last I heard, a lovely elf caught your eye.” Tyril smirked when Mal playfully shoved him.

“Not a word to Kassandra; she’ll never stop teasing me.”

“My lips are sealed.” The two exchanged a chuckle.

“So how is Kassandra?” Mal asked after a moment of silence.

“She’s doing wonderful.”

“And the little one?”

“Everything’s going good. A few more months to go. Aderyn has been so helpful.” Tyril stopped walking, looking ahead on the trail, his mind restless for a moment. “I won’t lie. I’m nervous. There’s a part of me that’s uncertain if I’ll be able to handle it all. Fighting monsters I am more than capable of but children and babies…” Tyril turned to look at Mal when the man placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“From what I’ve heard, it’s normal to be nervous. But if you can survive two world ending scenarios, you can survive dirty diapers and a screaming baby. The kid will be lucky to have you as their dad and Kass as their mom; it’s more than most kids have.” The scoundrel said, his typical bravado replaced with a genuine and sincere tone.

“Thank you, Mal.” The two exchanged a smile and continued their trek further into the woods, the path soon widening into a small clearing, where a humble cabin stood with a small, fenced garden and a smattering of other small buildings, forming a small homestead. It wasn’t much but it had become home in the months they’d been there; close enough to Riverbend to have all their necessities met but far enough to allow them peace, quiet, and safety from prying eyes. Next to the cabin was Kassandra, busy chopping wood.

“Kassandra.” Tyril called out. The woman lowered her axe, dropping it entirely when she turned and saw the visitor.

“Mal!” She called out joyfully, running to him and giving him a hug. “What are you doing here?”

“Visiting you two, obviously.” He pulled away and briefly glanced at her now-visible belly. “Excuse me, three.” Kassandra laughed and hugged the man again. “It’s good to see you, Kit.”

“It’s good to see you too.”

“You going to invite me in?” He teased, smiling deviously when the woman pulled away and punched his shoulder in good nature.

“If you’ll give me a minute. I have to finish this up.” She walked back to her work area, slowly bending down to pick up the chopped pieces on the ground and adding them to the stockpile by the side of the cabin.

“You know Aderyn said to avoid heavy lifting.” Tyril said as he joined her in the space. The woman held up the piece of chopped wood with a grin.

“This is not heavy lifting.” She then snapped her fingers and a heavy log gently lifted off the ground, floated towards the chopping block, and casually lowered itself onto it. “And magic can lift the rest.” The elf couldn’t help but chuckle a little.

“Stubborn as usual.” Kassandra smirked and reached up give him a quick peck on his cheek.

“And you love me for it.” Taking his hand, she walked back towards the house and entered it, motioning to Mal to follow.

The inside was quaint. It didn’t bear the status of the rooms of Whitetower nor the grandeur of the Starfury estate, but it was comfortable and provided all that was needed for the two and future third inhabitant. Kassandra took the basket from Tyril’s arm and placed it on the table in the kitchen area. He joined her as she pulled out the brown package.

“What’s this?”

“Apple strudel. The baker put some in for you since you were asking for them.” Touched, Kassandra opened the package and pulled out one of the treats, immediately taking a bite from it as Tyril began putting away the items in the basket. When empty, he turned to the counter and began pulling forth the items they would need to cook that night’s dinner: cutting boards, knives, pots, and pans. The elf had it down to a routine, a practiced dance.

“Grocery shopping, cooking? Since when is elf boy the poster-boy of domestic bliss?” Mal asked, lounging on the bench by the dinner table.

“Since he doesn’t live in a fancy elven estate anymore with servants and butlers.” Kassandra answered, her mouth half stuffed with the pastry. “But don’t knock him too hard, Mal. He’s gotten much better over the months.” She quickly finished her treat before joining Tyril, helping him prepare the food.

“I appreciate your confidence in me.” Tyril whispered to her as she began to peel and cut the potatoes.

“Don’t be too hard on yourself. Yes, you absolutely destroyed the pot the first time, but you make quite the stew now.” The elf chuckled a little before returning to the task at hand.

The night passed joyfully, the three catching up and swapping stories from their most recent escapades, Mal weaving his usual colorful tales. He also informed the pair of the happenings around the rest of Morella, all relieved that no dire threat had emerged since the joining of the realms; only minor squabbles and internal conflicts that didn’t require their legendary touch. Morella was rebuilding and, for now, peaceful.

Once the dinner was finished and all the tales had been told, Mal took his leave, making his way back to town as Tyril and Kassandra set to their usual evening routine.

“I’ll clean up this time.” Tyril said as Kassandra began to reach for the used bowls on the table.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Go relax.”

“Alright.” Kassandra reached up and kissed his cheek before making her way to the open area next to the kitchen, sitting down on the small couch and pulling a basket to her; it wasn’t one he’d seen before.

She reached down and grabbed a small swatch in the shape of a rectangle alongside an attached ball of yarn and another item, a small wooden stick with a hook at the end. She got comfortable and began to use the hook to work the working thread of yarn into the little swatch. He watched her for a time, fascinated by the movement of her hands and the yarn; he’d never seen anything like it before.

“What are you doing?” He asked after a time. Kassandra stopped her work.

“Crocheting. Aderyn’s been teaching me how to do it.” She held up her project. It was a mishmash of color, and the finished swatch was slightly lopsided.

“What will it be?”

“A blanket. For the baby.” She returned to her work, adding a few more stitches. “Seemed like a fitting thing to do. I remember some of the women doing that when they were expecting a baby.” Tyril smiled a little and quickly finished his cleaning before meandering over to the woman, standing, and watching her work at her project for a time.

“Did your mother do that for you?” He asked. Immediately, her hands stopped.

“I-“ the words were lost in her throat, her face falling. She gulped and looked down sadly at the blanket. “I don’t know. I can’t remember.” Tears welled in her eyes, and he knelt before her, placing a comforting hand on top of hers. She grabbed onto it and glanced at the blanket again. “Did your mother ever do something like this for you?” He thought for a moment before shaking his head.

“I was raised by a governess mostly. And by the time Sarenya took over, I was too old for such things.” He ran his hand over the in-progress blanket, seeing and feeling the love imbued into the fabric.

“Seems that we both missed out on typical parent/kid things.” Kassandra mumbled. He squeezed her hand.

“All the more reason to ensure they do have those things. Give them everything we didn’t.” Kassandra only nodded in response, but she had a relieved smile on her face. She lay her hand on her belly and the two sat in silence for a time, basking in the quiet comfort of each other.

“Boy or girl?” He asked. The woman briefly glanced at him before looking back at her belly.

“I don’t know. Though the older women in town think it’s a boy. I don’t really care either way; I just want them to be happy and healthy.” Tyril rose and went to sit next to her.

“As do I.” The moment he was settled, Kassandra put her work away and leaned her head on his shoulder. He quickly wrapped an arm around her, resting his head on top of hers. “We should probably think of some names for them.” He said after a time. He felt her shift under him.

“I’m open to suggestions.”

“Terran.” Tyril said after a moment.

“That was your ancestor’s name, right?”

“Yes. The one we saw in the visions room.”

“Hmm.” Kassandra was silent for a moment. “A name belonging to someone brave and noble and strong. Though I wonder if your father would have a problem with that name; you did say he criticized that ancestor.”

“He did. But there is no denying that Terran was a great warrior and general.” Tyril placed a kiss on her head. “Besides, I don’t think my father would criticize if he knew you liked the name. He’s rather fond of you.” Kassandra shuffled around and looked up at him, her expression happy and slightly relieved. He gave her a smile in return.

“Regardless, we shouldn’t rush in picking a name. There might be something else we’d like.”

“I’m open to suggestions.” They spent the next few minutes discussing a few possible names, debating the pros and cons of each option. Before long, they were just calling out names, sometimes devolving into giggles at the suggestions.

“We need to think of some names for a girl too.” Kassandra laughed after their game had gone on for a time. She moved out from under Tyril’s arm and got comfortable in her new spot.

“Alright.” He also moved into a more comfortable position, facing Kassandra. “Do you remember your mother’s name?” He suggested. Kassandra looked sad for only a moment before shaking her head.

“No. But I have something else in mind for a girl. Something better I think.”

“Oh?” He sat up straighter, his curiosity piqued. Kassandra looked down at her belly once more, a warm and fond smile on her face before she turned her gaze back to the elf.

“Kaya.” Tyril forgot to breathe for a moment, staring into Kassandra’s eyes, her expression genuine.

“Really?” He asked softly. She reached up and cupped his face in her hand, running her thumb gently over his cheek.

“She was someone special to you. And why wouldn’t I want to name our baby after someone intelligent, compassionate, and kind?” Tyril remained silent, tears welling in his eyes but unable to look away from hers. He tried to find words to formulate some response. Unable to find them, he leaned forward and placed a kiss on her lips, the movement slow but the emotion potent and fervent. After some time, he pulled away, never looking away from her.

“You’re amazing, Kassandra.” She smirked and moved closer, straddling his lap. She wrapped her arms around his neck.

“Tell me something I don’t know.” The two laughed before Kassandra leaned in for another kiss. It began chaste and sweet but quickly devolved back to the deep kiss from before, the movement slow but passionate. He held onto her at the hips before slowly moving a hand down her leg, hiking up her skirt to grasp at the bare skin, the woman letting out a light gasp at his warm touch. She, in turn, moved her hands down his neck, opening his shirt and sliding her hand under the fabric, caressing the warm skin.

Suddenly, Kassandra pulled away with a light gasp.

“Kassandra?” She shook her head.

“I’m alright. They’re kicking.” She rubbed her hand over her belly in a calming manner. “Already taking all the attention, aren’t you?” She teased, causing the elf to chuckle as well. After a few minutes, she returned her attention to him, cupping his face in her hands. “Now, where were we?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He teased. Kassandra smirked before placing a quick kiss on his lips.

“I think this is the part where we head to the bedroom and ravish each other in every way possible.” With a smirk, he shuffled forward slightly, making sure that her legs were secure around his hips.

“Then hold on.” He stood up from the couch, lifting her with ease. Kassandra kissed him once more as he moved to their room, clicking the door shut behind them.

[eluviannaa]

Set at the beginning of Legion. In her father's armory, Zevvie confronts Xydera, bringing back memories of their complicated past. Zevvie faces a betrayal that she will always carry with her.

Part of a character development/free write exercise for the larger story in my comic, Umbral. Plus initial sketches for the characters:

The Sparring Lesson

In the solitude of her father's armory, Zevvie stood with her back to the door, considering a rack of various staves and polearms. Each simple in their design, with marks of countless sparring sessions held within these very walls. These were not tools of war, but instruments of practice and discipline.

With careful judgment, Zevvie selected a particularly imposing polearm, its blade blunted, and lifted it with practiced ease. She balanced it in her hands. She had come here to train, of course, but also to forget. It had always been a place to regain control lost by the chaos of the world’s blows. With a deft flick of her wrist, she popped it up into her hands, seamlessly catching it with grace.

Zevvie was a priest by calling, but her family's traditions had inspired a love of physical combat. At an early age, she had held her first sword with easy conviction. Thus beginning a path that would wield both benediction and blade.

As a blood elf she was slight, but trained muscles had given her strength and a strong silhouette. Favoring practicality, her long pale hair was pulled into a high warrior’s knot and she wore a plain white tabard with flat leather boots. Her face held a soft youth but angular features blossomed just beneath. She often held a expression of idealism, with a broad smile and a determined glint deep within the green of her eyes.

As she stood in the shadowed chamber, her gaze was drawn to the center of the room where a sturdy iron grate covered a square opening in the ceiling. Through it, a shaft of light, illuminating the sparring ring below. Its silent promise of focus.

The door creaked open, and the approaching footsteps of Xydera echoed through the otherwise empty chamber. Between them, a large circle etched into the floor, grooves noting the boundaries where a ward would sound if one strayed too far.

"There was no illusion between us," Xydera's voice finally broke the silence, an echo filling the room.

Zevvie turned her head, her grip on the polearm tightening as she held it close to her chest. "Is that why you’re here?" she questioned.

Xydera crossed the dueling circle, its boundary illuminated, expecting a challenge. "Since I am to liaison with the Justicar, shouldn’t we at least attempt—" she offered, but the words only added to Zevvie’s growing anger.

Zevvie tried to push the nightmare away but failed. She let it consume her but for a moment. The deceit of the elf standing before her, now an eternal confrontation. She searched the memory's depths for what she felt she had so entirely missed. She closed her eyes, a tightness in her chest rising as she thought of how it began.

In her mind, she easily recalled the romance of a waning moon that night, and the murmur of the distant gala. The private gardens of her father's estate had become an arena, a witness to something unexpected. The ceremonial swords they held momentarily awaited a signal.

Xydera was a striking blood elf. A mystery and an unconventional allure that stirred something in Zevvie.

Xydera's once willowy frame had seen the rigor of physical training. She was pretty enough, but her plain features likely held appeal to few. Her long auburn hair fell over one side of her face to frame the intense glow of green eyes and a gentle arc of freckles across her cheeks. Her armor was unusual, a mix of Sin'dorei heritage, warrior plate, and a simple greatsword.

Zevvie allowed the brief flickers of closeness, her emotions quickening her breaths. She gripped her blade, the emotions traveling the length of it. Elven society accepted diverse romance, yet intentions often remained unclear. Zevvie had flirted with many before her but had never attempted pursuit. She was young, and her priorities, curiosities, had been elsewhere until now. This would be a duel, yes, but also the dance of invitation she dared Xydera to accept.

As their blades met, time slowed, Zevvie's half-smile slightly visible even now in the shadows. She stole a glance, a brief suggestion. Xydera, willingly caught in the flirtation, moved to retreat.

Zevvie pivoted, her stance a mirror to the audience of stone statues surrounding them. And then, Xydera's official falter, "I yield." Their swords falling.

"Falling for the oldest trick already?" Zevvie teased.

Xydera's laughter narrowed the distance between them. "You almost had me," she conceded. “But I see a mutual curiosity. Perhaps you will allow me to indulge you. Consider it a yield owed.”

Zevvie's heart raced as the words paused between them. It was a bold answer, one that left her questioning little. She had asked for this, but was not prepared for the answer.

Finding no relief in the memory, Zevvie frowned at the elf before her. "How honorable it must feel to say," her arms tensed as she held the polearm between them. Xydera struggled to find words.

Zevvie lowered her voice, "And to force my yield." Almost a question, she spat the word. "You forget, I owe no allegiance to your fraud."

Before Xydera could speak, Zevvie's polearm angled as she forcefully knocked Xydera back with it.

Xydera could not deny her intentions. In her own memory, she recalled the struggle. But even now, she did not have regrets. Perhaps only that Zevvie could not see the nuance.

Seeing Zevvie holding the weapon brought back memories for Xydera, especially of that first night after their parting. Their duel had left her conflicted. She knew, even then, she would struggle with what would come next. But her position in Quel'dorei society left her with few choices.

That night, as she stepped away from the intensity of the spar, her mind was already shifting gears. She watched the distance between them grow as Zevvie made her way toward the glow of the estate. The elf’s parting glance to Xydera a confirmation that winning the young elf’s affections had been swift. As planned.

She had not anticipated the allure this pawn would present. An elf of such a position was a rare prize, and the thought of the pursuit to follow pleased her.

But slowly returning to the night, her eyes wandered, searching for Seridan, knowing that their meticulous plans were now in motion.

At the edge of the garden, he stood waiting in the shadows. His gaunt features and piercing fel green eyes a sinister presence against the darkness. His pitch black hair was slick and unkempt, the ends angled into a sharp fray, just above the shoulders to frame a morbidly pale face. His lips twisted into an eerie smile as he subtly nodded toward a gathering of Sin’dorei, among them Zevvie's father.

Lord Celadras Solarguard was a distinguished High Justicar of the Blood Knight Order. Though titled, he had earned his place, tirelessly building a reputation that outshined his respected lineage. Such sympathies made him an ideal mark. But an advantage had presented itself with his daughter. Where Celadras's influence on her martial skill had been praised, Xydera saw the vulnerability of a doting father. And their duel had exposed Zevvie’s own flaw, a blind desire for first love. The opportunities were almost begging for exploitation.

As Xydera's eyes followed Seridan's cue, he arched an eyebrow. Now was the moment. She breathed in sharply, preparing herself for the next act. With a silent nod to him, she began her approach. Her steps lifted against the weight of opportunities stifled. Without patrons, her ambitions would stall. She craved more than a place in the Order; she sought revenge. But the game required a placating hand. As she neared the gathering, Xydera summoned her confidence, ready to perform.

"Good evening," Xydera began, her voice raised but carrying respect. She knew she was interrupting those well above her position. It was a risky approach, though it could command a certain respect. "I couldn't help but overhear your discussion on the strategic use of the arcane in battle. Fascinating."

Zevvie's father turned, his demeanor even, assessing. He was tall and imposing, his sharp features mirroring those which Zevvie would come to inherit. Tonight his armor was a typically ceremonial Sin'dorei style, with long blonde hair sweeping softly over his shoulders. To a less discerning eye, it seemed almost as if his rank had shielded him from battle. But a deep scar across his jaw and rough hands carried a history of having wielded many a blade.

His company, a magister and two ceremonially armored lords, paused in their conversation. Experience suggested they were annoyed, but Sin’dorei rarely were so crass as to show their cards fully. As the host, it was implied Celadras should address her. "Indeed. Though I do not believe we are acquainted."

"Xydera Silvershade," she offered a respectful nod. "A friend of Zevendra's. We had the honor of crossing blades this evening. She is quite the opponent."

His interest subtle, he nodded. "Zevendra often finds ways to surprise us all," he offered a cursory smile, pride in his voice. "Though I am not familiar with your family name."

As anticipated, the Sin'dorei regarded her with affected curiosity. Her mismatched armor likely preposterous next to their own society costume. “I'm from a less well-known family, but if I may be so bold.” she waved with casual confidence.

“Anaria shola. In all duels, we stand equal.” Celadras said, a nod to her warrior’s presentation.

"My interests, skill, have carried me outside my family's expectations. And I look forward to such a welcomed friendship. And that I might offer an equal challenge." Sensing an opportunity, she added, "I aspire to the Order myself. Tales of your accomplishments are renowned. It's an honor to share the inspiration it gave to pursue my own path. And now, to become such close friends with your daughter. Dare I say it feels a bit like fate."

“There is much on the horizon as we remain vigilant to demonic activity. I foresee opportunities, though I wish the circumstances could be more positive. Though your armor and demeanor strike me as unconventional.” Celadras seemed almost impressed with the defiance. The Magister at his side, however, looked decidedly bored.

“I still prepare for trial. Opportunities have been limited due to my station, but I understand that skill and allegiance are also highly valued. I have dedicated myself to proving my worth.”

“I have a great respect for earning one’s place. Perhaps we will cross paths again, then.” He lifted a fluted glass, a subtle gesture that the audience was nearing its conclusion.

Xydera smiled, “You honor me.” As expected, his words were adorned with formality, but the nuance was clear. She had succeeded in the most crucial part of the plan: appealing to his ego and had confirmed that he was a pathetically devoted father.

Celadras’s smile was measured in his impatience, "Well, Xydera, it is always a pleasure to meet friends of Zevendra. She and Celaron often spar in the formal ring. You may find the historical weapons we train with of interest. You must join us sometime."

"Lord Solarguard," Xydera replied with a short bow. “And now I will take no more of your evening, but a moment to speak with you was generous indeed. Shorel'aran.”

As she excused herself, she expertly navigated unseen to rejoin Seridan in the shadows. As she neared, he pushed off from the tree, his arms unfolding.

"Look at you," he said with pride. "How impressive." His laughter sinister, he was beside himself as he clapped his hands together playfully. "What fun you will have. I can hardly wait to hear the gossip."

Xydera allowed herself a smile, her eyes focused ahead as they walked. As the glow of the gala grew in the distance, a darkness rose within her. "Imparting humility will be a great pleasure," she declared. “How it will sting, to be outplayed by an interloper who holds a mirror to their incompetence.”

And yet, their romance had become separate. What began as distaste, admittedly a cruel plan, had unfolded as something different between them. But in the end, it was merely an inconvenience, a choice that would remain unchanged however special Zevvie had become. Perhaps in time she would come to see they were not so different. Priorities could change, but rarely did. At least with Zevvie, it wasn’t personal.

“Even now, you misunderstand. These pursuits were separate..." Xydera began.

As Xydera stumbled, Zevvie's resolve only grew. "Since you clearly misunderstand the situation, let me enlighten you. Mindless recitation of vows alone cannot impart the honor you so sorely lack," she said, her voice chillingly composed.

She delivered the final verdict. “As I plan my departure, it seems your attempt at reconciliation must remain unfulfilled for the time being. Perhaps it will allow you time to confront your true limitations—ones that, sadly, were never influenced by your social standing.”

[darsynia]

66. a kiss only meant to last a moment, but when your lips meet, you can't pull away from each other

With Tony Stark please (I love him 😍❤️)

Okay I really enjoyed writing this, and PREDICTABLY it ended up longer than I thought... Thank you for my very first fic ask!! 💚😍

Summary: You're only at the party because your friend needed a +1, but Tony Stark's parties are legendary... Warnings: none Pairings: Tony Stark x Reader Square Filled: 'Soft Under Hard Exterior' Trope Word Count: 1,409 A/N: @avengersbingo

If anyone would like to be on a taglist (when I don't eff up and post before I tag anyone, that is), please don't hesitate to ask!

PLUS ONE

Attending Tony Stark’s 40+1 birthday bash is not what you’d been planning to do when you came to L.A.

It’s actually a complete fluke. You are really only in town to celebrate your best friend’s casting in a really promising pilot, one that catapulted her into a fancier sphere of influence, and earned her an invite to this thing. Except, Stark has decided to go full-out as usual, and every single person who is invited is required to bring a +1.

A female +1.

As it turns out, everyone your midwestern, level-headed, best friend since childhood actually trusts not to ruin this new chance of hers is already invited. So, she’s dressed you up in the most gorgeous, most revealing black dress you’ve ever worn, and dragged you along. 

You and your best friend step onto the property with stars in your eyes, and the first person you meet is Stark himself. Well, sort of. He’s wearing a custom-made birthday hat that’s almost certainly modeled after Madonna’s pointy-boob bra era, and he’s got a bucket full of wristbands that he’s distributing.

It seems that every +1 gets a wristband saying she’s a +1.

The closer the line gets to Stark, the more nervous you are. Finally, you balk.  “Okay, well, dressing up and seeing the house was enough for me, I’ll call a cab and--”

“I heard that. Call Patrol, we’ve got an escape in progress!” Stark says loudly, looking around to find out who’d been speaking. Like an actual tv show, everyone turns and looks at you. “You. You’re scared of me?”

“I’m scared of the idea of you. I have no idea what you’re really like,” you say, without thinking.

The regular flow of party talk resumes around you, but Stark cocks his head to the side and looks, really looks at you, and then he dips his hand into a bucket, pointing at you with his other hand.

“Who’re you with?”

Bestie has been nudging you with her bony elbow so often you probably have marks, and somehow after three minutes, you’re inside with your bracelets. The decor is ‘tropical Christmas,’ which is baffling until your friend’s bracelet goes off right by the bar.

A handsome man turns around, grins, and points up.

There’s mistletoe hanging from the ceiling.

Bestie actually knows the guy, he’s another aspiring actor, so they share a quick smooch before you and she retreat to a far wall to figure out what the heck is going on. That’s when you realize Stark’s swapped the bracelets. You’re wearing one that says ‘Stark’s Elf,’ and she’s wearing one that says ‘+1.’ As you watch the crowd, it’s immediately apparent that the ‘+1’ bracelets light up and chime when they’re near the mistletoe, and it’s everywhere.

“Okay, this is good actually,” your friend declares. “You’d have to be carted out of here by ambulance, and that’s not what either of us need right now.” 

You give her a hug right then, because she’s right. A few kisses you’d have been cool with, but this is a chiming, blinking assembly line. At least the noises aren’t irritating… yet? 

“Mind if I go, uh, network for a little bit?”

“Not at all,” you say, holding up the drink you just obtained.

An hour or so later, you’re happy for her, happy for yourself, and most of all, you’re oddly charmed by Stark’s selfish thoughtfulness. You’d always thought of him as a hard-nosed playboy, and he probably is, but there’s something else there, something kind, soft, even. He’d seen your reticence and given you an out (though again, he could have given you both ‘Elf’ bracelets, so there’s only so much credit to give the guy).

Speaking of an ‘out,’ you need the restroom, so you ask around. The staff member looks at your bracelet and directs you through a door, down a hallway, and around a corner.

On the way back, you pause at the corner to fix the strappy shoe you’d borrowed from your friend, your clutch under an arm, one hand on the wall, one hand on the sandal. Predictably, the bag succumbs to gravity.

You take one look at your neckline, another look at your hemline, and bite your lip.

“That’s a ‘don’t drop anything’ dress, right there,” Stark says, coming out of a door you hadn’t seen.

The alcohol in your system responds with, “Yeah, I might need rescuing, here.”

The lighting in the hallway is dim, but you can still see that his grin is on the sexy side of predatory as he says, “I’m happy to oblige, but I might need proper compensation.” When Stark gets close, he shoots a look up at the ceiling, then gives you a thorough once-over. “You’re the one I placated with the regular bracelet.” He takes a step back and puts his hands in his pockets. “Well, go on, Alice. Back to Wonderland.”

Something’s off, and when you glance up, you see why.

You’re standing under mistletoe.

Again, you’re charmed. This man has set up a kiss factory, but one hint that you’re uncomfortable with it, and he’s decided you’re off limits. Except, he is handsome as hell, smells amazing, and you’re just tipsy enough to be disappointed.

“I don’t recall there being anything in the universal law of mistletoe about a bracelet requirement.”

His gaze sharpens, but Stark says, “That’s the alcohol talking.”

“I nursed a single drink for an hour.” You bite your lip at the thing you just thought up to say, but go for it anyway. “You can see if you can taste it on me, if you think I’m lying.”

“The universal law of consent says that kiss shouldn’t be long enough to tell,” he shoots back. Your eyebrows shoot skyward, and he rolls his eyes. “Hard and fast rule by the party organizer. I maybe should have thought about whether the open bar would ruin all my fun.” He steps closer, inches away. “Last chance, Alice.”

“You haven’t picked up my bag yet,” you point out, heart pounding.

He doesn’t move back as he sinks down, and when he stands again, he holds the clutch close enough to your body that it takes your skirt up with it for a little while. Stark hands it over, then reaches out to hold your chin steady, obviously meaning to drop an insolent, brief kiss on you.

Except, that’s not what happens.

As soon as your lips touch, his hand spasms on your face, and you grab at his lapel, despite yourself. It’s electric, intoxicating, the chemical formula for lust just spontaneously generating between two strangers. 

Stark angles his head and murmurs, against your lips, “No, sorry, gonna need another five to ten--” and doesn’t even finish before he’s sliding the hand on your chin up into your hair and licking into your mouth. He’s more potent than any drink you’ve ever tasted, and he knows how to use his body to persuade, so it’s not long before you’re up against the wall and he’s got a handful of your skirt. Somehow Stark figures out everything you like in seconds, and the deep little chuckle he lets out when you moan in encouragement is as sexy as it is devastating.

It’s only the sound of someone else in the adjoining hallway that breaks the two of you apart, but again, Stark’s generous, offering his arm for balance as you gather yourself.

“And here, I thought I’d given you the wrong wristband,” he teases, picking up your clutch from where it had fallen righteously onto the floor during those frantic few moments.

Two weeks later, when you’re back at home and checking your email, you notice one from Stark Industries, and have a mini freak out before you open it. No one had said anything about giving the bracelets back, but maybe you should have done a little more due diligence?

The subject line is ‘CLICK ME,’ and you shake your head in disbelief. If you didn’t know better, you’d think that’s related to Stark’s repeated allusions to you as Alice in Wonderland…

The body of the email sends shivers down your spine.

Alice,

I thought about it, and I definitely gave you the correct bracelet, so here’s Stark’s Erotic Lust Follow-up: just so happens I’m giving a tech speech in your neck of the woods next month.

Dinner?

It’s signed the Knave of Hearts.

[osakanone]

Hello Angel Cellar I am going into battle And I want your most biblically accurate angels

Music: New Mobilesuit Report: Gundam Wing: XXXG 00W0

A skeletal knight. Her armour is comprised of seashells curving like the body-panelling of some futuristic motorcycle. Metallic gold dances over ocean white. Her skeleton beneath is too, metallic shrouded in where light cannot reach of gears, pistons and swirling mechanical systems that make the F22 Air Superiority fighter of the US airforce look like the Wright Brother's flyer. Her shoulders and forearms are mighty pauldrons dressed about a rounded mechanical hub, like miniaturized riot-shields protecting fascists from the wrath of the people. Upon her chest is not breast, but the bonnet of a car, torn open by a hexagonal beak. Within it, a gemstone, an eye of enormous green like, a pearl held clamlike gazing and watching asll it surveys. Cast about are swirling panels like surf-board guitars of wings and winglets in dove-like forms. They branch like veins, arteries, muscular capillaries in incomprehensible forms supported by mechanical trusses of the space-station: wings lashed by rectangular crane-arms. She reaches to her left. She watches, beneath a samurai's gleaming white helmet, of elf-like long pointed winglet like ears and a steely gemstone gaze. Over her mouth, a facemask, studded either side by her helmet crown. Her chin, a bearded like horn. Upon her forehead, a third eye, upon the studed razorsharp twin boomerang of her tiara. Above, a fourth upon a mohawk of metal. This crustacean armour is made machine-like by rhombus and trapezoid like sections connecting flowing lines. Her boots of gold have goats-feet for heels, and forward some strange combination of a sneaker, and a hot iron press.

Her wings give the impression of a lacy white wedding-dress. Of the vapour-trails left by fighter-jets. There is vulnerability here. She looks dainty almost. Like you could hurt her. But you cannot. Upon her throughout are tiny holes, thruster vents which both inhale and exhale through mechanical insets. Bell thruster church bells like the mighty rockets that took humans to the moon in funnels of fuel frozen liquid hydrogen scream with nuclear fire. E equals Emm Cee Squared becomes diamonds of gasseous heat shocking our thick ocean-like atmosphere. Around her orbit rifles shaped like sabres in clusters of three all longways in a triangle together. They orbit her in mighty rings. Upon each hip, half of a strange rifle, a distortion of physics itself in which the very concept matter collapses and dies in its dragon's breath -- where the very particles used to conceal such mighty weapons are petrolium lit by her, as a match. Each, resembling a scientific instrument sit docked as if holstered. As if she is a cowboy ready to draw. Her feathers are like knives. This thing scarsely called robot, this being is filled with love. She will protect you.

Her name is Zero.

[whump-in-the-closet]

The Scarred Among the Mundane.

hey look new series just dropped. featuring an arsonist elf and the fire he starts and can’t put out. this is going to be the start of another fantasy whump series— but I actually have a plot planned for this one so here’s to hoping I stick with it.

cw: elf whump, failed arson, failed escape, magic whump

masterlist. next

— —

The late afternoon sunlight turns everything to gold.

In the town square, loud voices merely add to the shimmering heat.

And the heat is shimmering. It weighs down on everyone, dragging out even the smallest of moments with languid intensity.

Bright colours are worn by nearly every member of the crowd, and the effect is blinding.

Crimson.

Vibrant snake-like green.

Yellow sharper than a drawn blade.

The occasional flash of steel armour adds a veiled threat.

A shadow peels away from the side of a bakery, cloak wrapped around a skeletal frame. A hood hides the shadow’s wide grin.

It’s a good day to set something on fire.

He dives into the mass of humanity, towering over them all. Even with hunched shoulders and lowered head, he can’t hide his unnatural height. A second glance would reveal pointed teeth and pointed ears.

But no one spares him a second glance. He weaves his way through the crowd and smiles when people unconsciously give him room to pass.

As he walks, he talks. Not to anyone in the crowd, but to himself. Because he is the cleverest person he knows. Why, he’s practically brilliant. Who else could plan such a feat? Such audacity?

Himself alone. The brilliancy of his plan fills him with a humming satisfaction. He goes over the contents of his satchel.

Wouldn’t want to forget anything. Not today.

“Kindling? Yes, yes, the moss will work....Excuse me–” he nearly runs into a baker’s assistant, holding a tray of fresh-baked bread aloft.

The elf acts on instinct, extending a leg. The baker’s assistant, without hesitation, trips. Elvish laughter and man-made loaves are thrown into the air.

The elf snatches one from mid-air and runs.

“Thief! Stop!”

The elf does not stop. He shoves the whole loaf into his mouth, working his teeth around the crust. It’s still warm. Delicious. He swallows it appreciatively. “Not bad,” he tells no one in particular. “For a human delicacy.”

He skids into an alleyway, shadows sinking into his skin. A welcome change from the lethargic sunlight. “Should have grabbed another one.”

But thoughts of bread fade away as his destination comes into view– the high stone wall of the Monarch’s castle.

The elf’s grin sharpens. His pace picks up, heart racing with his footsteps. There’s no turning back. Not now.

He comes to a stop at the wall itself. It’s easily three times his height. And yet the elf can hardly suppress a laugh. After all his work, all his preparation, is it really going to be this easy? As easy as burning down a farmer’s barn?

Guards peer down at him and he gives them a mocking salute, two fingers raised to his temple. It doesn’t matter if they see him. They won’t be able to stop him. No human can stop him.

If they could, he would be dead.

It’s as simple as that.

Oh, what a day. Danger. Thrill. Horror in the guards’ eyes.

What a beautiful day.

He walks backwards, tightening his satchel and taking a deep breath, the air burning his lungs. And then–

Running.

A leap. Cloak dragging behind him.

Stonework beneath his feet as he runs up the side of the wall. He laughs now. No hesitation.

His hood falls off and his pointed teeth catch in the light.

Identity revealed for all to see.

Elf. A creature of the night. A shadow. Feared. Inhuman.

He soars over the open-mouthed guards. One reaches for her spear, but it's already too late.

He’s over the wall, tumbling to a stop into the garden bushes. On his feet in an instant, he brushes leaves out of his braids and checks his satchel.

Everything is as it should be.

“Excellent work, Finn,” he tells himself. “As always.” He plucks a leaf from his cloak and lets it drift to the ground. “Excellent work, really.” He changes his voice slightly, making it deeper. “Oh, no, you’re too kind. Too kind.”

The guards are pouring out of the castle walls now. Calls of “Attack!” and “Intruder!” echo in the green-lit garden.

Finn bolts. He reaches into his bag as he runs, pulling out a flint stone and a carved piece of iron. Ducking through the overhanging fruit trees, he grabs what looks like a pear. With the fruit in his mouth, he skids to a stop at the base of the castle.

He doesn’t marvel at the intricate stonework or the towering turrets or the bright windows. He gets to work setting it on fire.

Eating the pear, he works quickly, setting the dry moss around a tall tree– another fruit one perhaps. But this one is the closest to the castle, which means it will serve his purpose splendidly.

Sparks fly into the air, bright red against the simmering blue.

The guards draw closer.

Finn sees the flashes of steel before he hears them, and he spits the pear out, fingers flying as he strikes the flint again and again.

The moss starts to smoke and Finn starts to grin.

The itch, the infernal, never ending, always begging itch turns to something like pleasure. Satisfaction.

“Stop!” The spears slice towards him and he twists out of the way, dropping the flint.

The moss goes up into blazes. The itch inside him begins to fade, satisfied with the fire he’s begun.

It's a beautiful fire.

Finn laughs. Everything is going so—

The laugh twists into a scream.

Something is wrong. Something is terribly, terribly wrong. His blood turns to ice inside him. It’s only a second of burning, crawling pain exploding every nerve in his body– but the second is never ending.

Golden triumph burns to ash in his throat.

He slumps to the ground, vision crumpling to dust around him. Vaguely, he’s aware of the guards stepping aside for a red-headed human. Her hands are raised, fingers twisted in rune-shapes.

Oh.

Finn’s sight collapses, taking him with it.

tagging: @doonthestair (lmk if you want to be added/ removed!)

[disasterofastory]

North Pole (Stucky x Reader)

North Pole Santa Claus!Steve Rogers x elf!Bucky x Reader Day 12 - North Pole // December 2022 Warnings: none... I mean...well... Reader is kidnapped

Summary: You find yourself at North Pole with to men you don’t know.

A/N: Okay... I love this idea about Steve being Santa Claus, but maybe it’s a bit weird? And it’s soft dark? Because you now, Reader didn’t agreed to all of this. Anyway, I hope you will enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

When you wake up, the air smells like cinnamon, chocolate, and fresh snow. It fills your nostrils as you stretch on the bed with a light smile pulling on your lips. Eyes still shut. The lingering sweetness covers your senses, and you have a hard time clearing your mind enough to wake up. The blanket on you is thick and warm. Your hands smooth over the fabric, and it's soft under your touch. Much softer than what you remember it to be. Your eyelids are heavy when you try to blink out the drowsiness of your mind. Your lashes brush over the soft skin under your eyes. And the bed is bigger. Much bigger. You spread your arms, and you still can't reach the edges. Your bed is definitely smaller than this.

The curve of your lips changes into a frown between your brows as you sit up.

Bright light pours into the room through the windows. The white curtains dance to the will of the cold breeze.

And you are in a room you have never seen before.

The bed is really huge under you with a handmade bedstead and a baldachin hanging around it. The fabric is thin enough to see through it. The headboard is precisely crafted and deep brown. The other parts of the room are the same. Everything is handmade and matching. Browns, reds, and greens rule the space.

Okay, you breathe, where am I? You jump out of bed. You wear the same clothes you went to sleep in last night. The dark green carpet is soft under your bare feet. Your gaze moves to the fluffy slippers in front of you. They are your size. Okay, you think again, what the hell is happening here? You can feel the rapid beat of your heart against your ribcage. You step to the window, not caring about the book that falls to the floor when you push the nightstand with too much force.

White snow covers everything you see. It glints in the morning light. You can't even decide where you should look. It's like a picture from a Christmas book. Small, cozy houses surround the square in front of your window. A huge Christmas tree is in the middle. You notice a few shops too. And people walk around in thick, colorful coats, hats, and boots.

Okay, you hum as you continue to talk to yourself, you are dreaming. Or you are in a Christmas movie. No. That's stupid. You are dreaming. Definitely.

"Oh, you are awake." A straddled scream leaves your mouth as you turn around at the sudden voice and press yourself against the window. The nightstand digs into the back of your legs. Your hold on the windowsill is tight as you fight to keep your balance.

You don't know the man at the door. He doesn't look familiar. He is tall and broad. His dark hair is tied up in a bun, and you can see the gray in his stubble even from a distance. He holds a silver tray in his hands with a mug and a plate full of food. "I didn't want to scare you," he speaks again. His smile slowly fades away as he continues to look at you with worry. "You should sit down." "Where am I?" You ask him, demanding an answer. "And who are you?" "My name is Bucky. I brought breakfast." "I don't need breakfast," you snap. "I want to know where I am and how I can go home!" "We should call Steve," he hums instead of answering. "Who is Steve? Who are you?" "Okay," he nods. "We definitely need Steve."

"Why do you need me?" Another voice joins the conversation, and soon, you can see the owner, too, when he stops behind Bucky. He is a bit taller but not as broad, even though you can still see his muscles under the flannel shirt he wears. "And who the fuck are you?" You groan. "We don't swear in this household," he replies with a frown. His bright blue eyes are on you now. Opening your lips, you want to say something. Shout. Yell. Swear. But instead, you stay silent. "You should sit down. You look pale," Steve states. "I don't want to sit down," you argue. "I want answers." "And you will get them when you calm down." "I don't want to calm down!" "Y/N…" "We should just tell her," Bucky suggests. "Get over with it." "Are you sure?" Steve asks, looking at the man beside him. "We had a plan…" "It won't work." "Hey!" You snap at them. "I'm here." "Okay, okay," Steve says, holding up his arms in surrender. "Ask." "Where am I?" "At the North Pole." The answer is simple, but you can't process it. At the North Pole. Yeah. Funny. A weak, humorless laugh leaves your mouth. "And who are you?" "I am, as you would say, Santa Claus, and Bucky here is my most loyal elf."

North Pole. Santa Claus. Elf.

The silence stretches in the air with a hint of tension while they wait for your reaction.

"Oh, fuck you!"

[bardnuts]

Fall of Last Light

Had the fight of my life last night and I wanted to write it out like a proper scene (under the cut). I never intended for it to see the light of day but @ggreeeenheart said I should share it so I am sharing it the blame lies squarely upon them

Brought to you by the Watersparkers (those motherfuckers) and a potion of angelic slumber which I forgot about until the last possible moment.

-

The cool glow of the barrier curving over the inn was cracking. Fragments of decaying magic fell away like flaming bits of paper and burned to nothing. Tendrils of darkness seeped through the cracks. Ripples of horror and fear ran through the crowd of Harpers and refugees gathered in the courtyard, but Twill could only stare after Isobel’s receding form as the imp bore her away, into the night. 

“The barrier,” whispered Gale. “It’s coming down.”

“No,” choked Jaheira. “It can’t be. This isn’t supposed to …” She rounded on Twill. “What happened?” 

He fixed her with a cool stare. Lady, if you only knew what I’ve just done for you. “They came to kidnap her. We fought, but …” He gestured helplessly at the sky. 

“Ehm,” said Astarion, “Look.”

He pointed into the courtyard, and the others followed his gaze. The two Harpers stationed by the gates had collapsed into silent convulsions. Darkness flowed visibly over their twisting bodies. Beyond the thinning barrier, thorny vines pressed against the boundary, curling and tapping in something very like a … 

Knock.

“Is it just me,” said Astarion, “or does something want to come in?” 

“No,” Jaheira gasped. She swung her staff around. “Prepare for battle!” 

The barrier dissolved all at once. The faint moonglow of Selune’s light dissipated into nothing and a bleak, swampy darkness broke over the Last Light like a stinking wave. Twill felt a choking cold fill his chest, clawing at his lungs and numbing his brain. His hand flew to his throat, but then the feeling passed, leaving only a chill and a sense of vague exhaustion. 

Those gathered in the courtyard, however, had not been so fortunate. The little party on the porch watched in dawning horror as the Harpers and the refugees slumped, one by one, in a gathering wave across the yard, until not a single one was standing. 

“They’re dyin’,” whispered Karlach. 

“Selune’s blessing is protecting us from the curse,” said Gale. “Look!” 

As suddenly as they had collapsed, the people of the Last Light were rising: they struggled jerkily to their feet, twisting shadows streaming from ruined eyes and gaping mouths. Almost as one organism, they turned to stare at the group standing on the porch.

The refugees. The people they had saved. All lost, all for nothing. It’s beautiful, thought Twill, and gripped his sword so hard the wire hilt hurt his palm. No, he told himself sharply, it’s a tragedy. 

“Do not hesitate!” shouted Jaheira. “Show no mercy. These are not the people we knew. If you wish to survive, fight! To battle!” 

The dark rushed in.

Karlach knocked Jaheira aside with a howl and charged at the converging mass of newborn undead. There was a meaty thunk as her hammer plowed through a halfling’s skull. A half-elf lunged at her from behind, but an arrow slammed into his eye. Twill felt the missile sting his ear and whirled to see Astarion lowering his bow, teeth locked in a grimace. 

“Shit,” he said fervently, and spat. 

Gale shouted a Word and Karlach turned, shielding herself, as a tremendous explosion mushroomed over the fountain in the center of the courtyard. Undead Harpers fell in smoldering piles. The cursed darkness swallowed any firelight but the flames lapped at Karlach’s furred boots. With what could only be described as a roar, she swung her hammer and knocked a Harper clear across the courtyard. 

“Could use another one of those!” she shouted.

“There are too many!” Gale shouted back. ��We have to escape!” The air blurred around him, making him difficult to see. He and Astarion fought back to back, the elf sliding around him like water, but Jaheira and Karlach fought alone. Twill hung back, surveying the carnage and trying very hard not to revel in it. 

“Another fireball, wizard!” said Astarion. “Make yourself useful!” He jerked his blade out of a groaning Harper. 

“I’m about dried up! We need to get out of here.” 

“And go where?” 

Pull yourself together, thought Twill. Karlach needed help. With gritted teeth and a stifled urge, he charged into the fray and met an advancing tiefling with a lute in the face. The strings retorted discordantly, the tiefling stumbled back, and Twill recognized him at once: it was Dammon, the smith.

Or, well, what was left of him. 

There wasn’t time to hesitate. Twill leveled his finger at Dammon and hissed a Word that burrowed into the smith’s skull like a hungry worm. He fell to his knees with his hands clamped over his ears, then slumped lifelessly to the ground. Karlach’s only hope for healing, dead in an instant. 

No time for a funeral.

“Behind you!” Karlach roared. Twill turned just in time to dodge a blow from an axe, then threw himself sideways and slipped under the searing path of Astarion’s firebolt.

“Watch it!” called the elf. 

“They keep coming!” This from Gale, who had retreated under the inn’s overhang, eyes wild, perfectly coifed hair disheveled beyond recognition. “We have to get out of here.”

“And go where?” Astarion snapped.

“Karlach needs help!” shouted Twill. At his call, Gale swung his staff around and cried a spell that translated words into heat. Twill threw up his arm as a fireball exploded in the midst of the throng of Harpers, and tried to count in his head. How much could Gale possibly have left in him? Who were they if he went down? A barbarian, a badly-drawn elf with a dagger, and some guy with an indestructible lute. They wouldn’t last a minute without his spells. 

“Get Gale inside!” he shouted. “Inside!” His words were drowned by a distant crack—then screaming.

“In what?” Astarion shouted back, but the din swallowed his voice too. Twill whirled around to see great thorny vines erupting from the ground. The dark was closing in, and nature’s twisted fury had joined what was looking increasingly likely to be a successful attempt on all their lives. Their only hope was to get inside and hope four solid walls and a roof might grant them some respite.

Vines raced across the courtyard toward them. The dark turned cold. Karlach split a halfling’s skull like a pumpkin. Twill stumbled over his own feet, turned around, and ran for the doors to the inn. 

“INSIDE! THE DARK! TAKE SHELTER!” 

Astarion dispatched a Harper in an arterial spray and sagged against a post, fumbling in his bag with bloody hands and gritted teeth. “Of course—of course!” 

A sphere of white moonlight burst forth as he produced the lantern they had stolen from Moonrise Towers. The undead Harpers and refugees faltered in their advance, unwilling to step into the light.

“I could kiss you!” shouted Gale.

“Don’t,” said Astarion. He jumped onto the porch, beckoning. “Come on, all of you, get ins—gah!” 

Blood spattered the floorboards and Astarion dropped the lantern as something hoisted him into the air. His head cracked against the overhang. One of the vines, sizzling in the holy light, had seized him around the ankle and was dragging him toward the shadows. 

Gale slammed the butt of his staff into the ground and the vine exploded from within. A burst of splinters rained over them and Astarion hit the ground with a dazed grunt. 

“All right, Astar—”

“Get inside, you dolt!” 

“Right-o!” Gale hiked up his robes and ducked inside the inn, high-stepping through the puddles of water left over from Jaheira’s ice spells. Twill scrambled past the converging Harpers and sprinted for the door, but as he passed Astarion he hesitated. The elf was hopping from foot to foot, tugging on his boots. 

“What are you …?” 

“They’re enchanted, my boots, they’re electric, the water.” 

There was a creaking groan from the courtyard. Twill squinted into the dark and saw the largest of the vines pulse, then shiver, as if preparing for something, as if readying a blow.

“Take them off,” said Twill. His voice came out weak. “Take them off, take off the boots, take them off now—”

Gale poked his head through the door. “Astarion, what are you waiting for? Don’t just stand out here all—”

With the inorganic shriek of splitting wood, the vines in the courtyard released a hail of splinters and thorns. Twill turned away from the blast and felt dozens of needles slam into his shoulders and neck, knocking him against the wall. Gale went down. Astarion was luckiest—the support beams shielded him from the blast. 

Out in the courtyard, Jaheira fell with a choked cry. Karlach shrieked in agony, knocked a Harper clear across the yard, and broke for the door. Thorns protruded from her flesh in half a dozen places, but she still stopped to pull Gale upright. “C’mon now, stop napping!” 

Gale’s eyes were glazed. Blood ran from his mouth. “What was …?”

“No time for questions, but you’re doing great. March, soldier!” When it was clear Gale couldn’t walk on his own, Karlach braced him with her strength—though it made her gasp in pain—and the two of them splashed through the doorway into the frost-encrusted taproom.

Twill pulled a splinter out of his neck and sprinted through after them. Astarion splashed inside last, boots tucked under his arm, swearing as the frigid water nipped his bare toes. They were all inside now, the only four survivors of the Last Light, back-to-back in a tiny circle of moonglow as the void converged upon them. 

The Harpers were coming through the door now. 

“Your boots!” said Twill. “Use them! Electrify the—no, don’t put them on! Astarion! Just throw them!”

“They only work if I’m wearing them!” snarled Astarion, bouncing on one leg. 

A Harper pushed a crossbow through the opening and fired. Gale fell into the water with a groan, the bolt protruding from his shoulder. Twill splashed across to him, and with Karlach’s help they rolled the wounded wizard onto a dry patch of floor. 

The crush at the door broke. The Harpers began streaming inside. Twill whirled around, icy water soaking through his shoes.

Astarion got his boots back on and jumped in the puddle with both feet.

A crack like thunder deafened Twill. Heat surged up his legs and through his chest. His heart stuttered, and he smelled the too-familiar stench of burning flesh. He watched the Harpers at the door convulse and drop like twisting mice, and then he was on the floor too. Every muscle in his body was twitching uncontrollably. From what felt like a thousand miles away, he heard Astarion’s voice:

“Ah, shit.” 

You idiot, Twill thought dimly. You fucking moron. 

Through blurred vision, he saw vines break through the door. Despair rose like vomit in his chest. They were done for. Karlach swung at an advancing tendril with her hammer, scattering thorns. The retorting blow caught her full in the stomach. She slammed into the far wall and slid to the floor, motionless. 

Gale struggled halfway upright. He pulled a sealed vial from his pocket, popped the cork, and downed the contents. Twill felt a swelling of hope as his consciousness flickered—maybe he was gathering the strength for one more fireball.

Instead, Gale’s eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped, lifeless, to the floor.

“Oh, wonderful!” cried Astarion. “So you get to take the easy way out?” 

A moment later Twill felt a hand on his arm, and then Astarion was tugging on him, trying to pull him upright.

“Come on, you aren’t dying yet. Get up, get—ignis!” This last was shouted at a vine, which burst into shrieking flames. The woods were crowding through the door. 

“We’re fucked,” moaned Twill. “We are so fucked, we are so—”

Another explosion of thorns caught them both. Astarion wheeled backward fell flat on his back into the water. Blood streamed from his mouth and ruined eyes. He was dead in an instant. Without his support, Twill fell back into the water. Aftershocks shivered through him, and he knew that he was dying, but for some reason he was holding back laughter.

So much carnage, he thought. Why is it so … beautiful?

His vision faded. It was over. It was all over.

Light bloomed. 

Gale stood, straight and tall, his wounds healed, crackling with power. All magic restored, all tiredness expelled. His magical slumber had healed him. He drew a pattern in the air as the vines rushed toward him, breathed out—a tiny huff of air—and smiled.

The air exploded. 

His fireball ripped through paintings and scattered furniture. The goblets and cups of the Last Light became a hailstorm, pinging off walls and window frames. The raw force of his spell incinerated the vines, which burned instantly to blackened, shriveled, shrieking twigs. Astarion and Karlach were incinerated—but Gale dodged another hail of thorns, pointed at Karlach’s blackened corpse, and spoke a Word of Revivify. 

She rose with an agonized shriek, bloodied and torn but alive once again. Gale pointed at Astarion and spoke again. And then one last time, at Twill. 

Once the four of them were on their feet again, they made short work of the few remaining vines. An uneasy quiet fell as they sheltered behind the counter in the ruins of the Last Light, a quiet broken only by Karlach’s intermittent shrieks of rage as she hacked a motionless vine to pieces next to the stairs. Gale, Twill, and Astarion sat on the floor together, passing a blood-encrusted bottle of wine around in shell-shocked silence. 

After a while, Astarion spoke. His hair was standing on end. 

“Well,” he said, “that could have gone better.” 

[popatochisssp]

Aesthetics Ref - T Bros

Nickname: Spectr (T!Sans)

Height: 4” taller than you (OR 5’3”)

Eye-lights: Ghost white (#F8F8FF), magic otherwise manifest as white with rainbow flecks

Magic Specialty: All

Scars/distinguishing marks: Opalescent white plating over a chrome endoskeleton

Preferred Style: Cyberpunk, the more covered up the better. Prefers to be as shrouded and hidden as possible, with comfort and utility as high priorities but not opposed to a bit of flair as long as its subtle. Reflective strips and light-up accessories help camouflage him in plain sight and make it less likely people will ask about glowing eyes or glints of metal if they think he’s a cosplayer or just really into the aesthetic. …which he kind of is, but that’s beside the point. Favors black and dark grays and blues, with silver and gunmetal accents when possible.

Outerwear: Hooded jackets or hoodies with cowls and high collars that come up to obscure some of the face. He wants to strike the best balance possible between shrouding him completely and not flaring or hanging too far from his body, to be obscured but not draw attention to himself, whether by catching on something or swishing too dramatically, so quiet and hardy materials are also preferred.

Top: Long-sleeved shirts, cotton and waffle fabric, goes for light and loose and breathable. Little to no design or prints among his shirts except for a rare company logo, or a really cool cyberpunk design that he just couldn’t pass up. Favors crew, cowl, or turtlenecks to v or square necks.

Bottom: Favoring utility, tactical cargo pants and joggers, comfortable and easy to move in with lots of storage space. Preferred fit is baggy down to the knee and more narrow around the shin and ankle, to be fit into boots.

Footwear: Chunky combat boots, durability over style and ankle height or just slightly higher. Laces tend to get loose but never fully untied

Trademark accessory/accessories: Toss up between his soft, sleek wool gloves and the dark face mask he wears over his mouth and nasal ridge. Either rarely comes off.

-

Nickname: PapAIrus (T!Papyrus)

Height: 1’4” taller than you (OR 6’3”), but variable if not fully manifested

Eye-lights: None but overall appearance when manifesting as hard-light is Alice blue (#F0F8FF)

Magic Specialty: None

Scars/distinguishing marks: Usually manifests only as skull and hands, capable of filling in the blanks with limbs and torso but tends not to

Preferred Style: Cyber dystopian, like a digital High Elf living in a desert oasis after an apocalypse destroyed the rest of the world. He loves things swishy and long and impractical, and especially delights in making coattails and sleeves and scarves defy gravity and act independently, simply for the fact that he can. Prefers stark, impossibly pristine white and silver/chrome, but can change his hues on a dime to suit an occasion or a mood.

Outerwear: Long coats, for maximum sweep and flair, sleeveless mostly because it’s less to materialize and dematerialize if he decides not to have arms. Occasionally hooded (if he feels like teasing his brother) but more often with high collars or no collar at all

Top: Crop-tops and halter tops, also almost exclusively sleeveless but sometimes long-sleeved with cut-out shoulders or separated sleeves if he feels like having humeri and forearms to show off and showcase. Also enjoys the occasional bodysuit a la Cortana or other similar futuristic characters of her ilk, to tongue-in-cheek play up to the legacy

Bottom: Bodysuits fill in most of this niche, but otherwise he mostly materializes simple, sleek and cleanly fitting pants because he doesn’t think about it much. Who needs legs when you have a handsome skull and big dexterous hands like his?

Footwear: Boots, generally heeled, favors a bit of a go-go style but certainly not shy of going knee-high, with an impractical amount of buckles, combat style, or even just a simple fancy dress shoe.

Trademark accessory/accessories: A digital approximation of his favorite scarf and gloves from when he was alive but a silvery blue instead of scarlet red—an trade-off, but in the grand scheme of things, this scarf blows majestically whenever he wants it to, wind or no, and these gloves fit his fingers like…well. Does he even have to say it?

[galateaencore]

a kiss to make the other stop being stubborn - Dijkstra/Isengrim

Not sure if entirely a prompt fill, but you get what you get.

NB: this is set after Dijkstra and Isengrim flee to Zerrikania. Also, Zerrikania is giving fin-de-siecle Shanghai.

It was a good day. Good days made him nervous. Leaning out of the inadequate café chair, Dijkstra curled down the edge of his newspaper and glanced across the sunlit Zerrikanian square at the Redanian embassy. He studied its modest façade, the two guards dozing by the entrance. Something caught the light in a second-floor window, once, twice. Dijkstra rocked back, covering his face with the newspaper. The inadequate chair creaked ominously.

“I wouldn’t bother hiding. You’d need a bigger newspaper anyway,” snorted the elf.

Dijkstra glanced at him, sitting there in the sun with his eyes half-closed like a fed cat, and imagined the pleasure of snapping his neck.

“Easy for you to say,” he said. “You don’t fear your old life coming to find you.”

The elf held a cigarette to his mouth, snipped the tip, inhaled. “My friend, is that what you fear or what you hope for?”

The elf’s neck looked all the more tempting. Dijkstra grabbed him by the collar. “Damn you, Faoltiarna. I know taunting dh’oine is something of a sport for your kind, but can you get it through your thick head, can you, that my life’s at stake here? It could end at any moment.”

Isengrim leaned forward and, damn him to hell for doing it in public, gave him a wet peck on the nose. “Then at least you must enjoy the time you have left.”

[providencepeakrp]

PROVIDENCE PEAK’S 81ST ANNUAL  — HOLIDAY MARKET WEEK AND TREE LIGHTING.

Considered the busiest week of the year, most of Providence Peak’s residents spend the entire year waiting for it. A time when sparkling lights are strung up and down the streets of downtown and shop windows are decorated with all kinds of seasonal displays. The skating rink in the middle of the downtown square has been iced over and open for the season, the tree lighting ceremony just on the horizon, and the Hot Cocoa Stop is making it’s rounds through the neighborhoods. It’s holiday market week in Providence Peak and the city has an entire week filled to the brim with events to celebrate the warmth of the season.

SCHEDULE OF EVENTS

All Week (December 17th - December 23rd) - All week long, the residents of the city can find the holiday market in it’s usual downtown location, lining the glowing streets leading up to the large tree in the center of the city. The market will feature a variety of vendors (local shops listed on locations will likely have a booth set up at this event) and the large ice skating rink in the center, with Hot Cocoa Stop serving a variety of warm cocoas nearby.

NEW TO THE MARKET: a now-permanent annual holiday market fixture of Holidays Around the World which creates a magnicifant entryway into the streets of the festival and features vendors selling food and drinks that are common parts of holidays that take part int he winter season all around the world!

Sunday (December 17th) - Join Mayor-Once-More Ava Harris in the town square for the annually tree lighting that signals the start (of crunch time) for the holiday season. The event will begin with a speech from the lovely mayor, who will be joined by her family, and will conclude with the ribbon cutting that will begin holiday market week! Monday (December 18th) - Sunrise yoga with... the Grinch? Well, let's at least hope he puts on pants for this festive, once-in-a-lifetime (seriously, once is all you'll need to experience it) event hosted by The Humming Bee. Relax and stretch at your leisure with a soundtrack of hilariously honest comments from the green man himself. While you're taking a break, feel free to snack on themed drinks and small bites offered by Main Squeeze. Be on the lookout for a special, furry appearance from the man's best friend during your session! Tuesday (December 19th) - Treat yourself to a break from the chill of winter with a festive movie at Cinematic. Go with a classic family tale like How the Grinch Stole Christmas or venture into the world of comedy and holiday spirit with Elf. One your way in, be sure to grab one of the theaters many holiday treats including; sugar plum popcorn, peppermint hot chocolate, and holiday sugar cookies that are sure to make even the jolly old man drool. Wednesday (December 20th) - If you find yourself craving more of the chilly season, find your way to Spruce Mountain Ski Lodge and Resort in Bighorn Hills for individual or family fun alike. The lodge will be opening a portion of their hills for free sledding and snowtubing only and, if that's not enough snow for one night, venture down the hill to participate in their Snowman Building Contest, where first prize will gift the winner with a 3-night all-inclusive stay at the resort! Feeling enough of the chill? Visit the large s'mores and hot chocolate station nearby to warm up and satisfy even the best sweet tooth. Thursday (December 21st) -  Painting with FRIENDS is always a good way to sit back and unwind during the holiday season, but when the Holiday Armadillo makes an appearence? You really can't miss this one. Join Refined Palette for a themed painting session in an atmosphere that would rival even that of the infamous Central Perk as you wine and design your very own holiday trifle in a funfilled and festive holiday activity! (Did we mention the unlimited coffee and seasonal... spirits that will be flowing well into the evening?) Friday (December 22nd) - A holiday charity event, hosted by Providence Peak Memorial, that is sure to be like no other. Join the spokesperson of the night, Chief of Surgery Dr. Helen Briggs, in a truly dazzling dining space in Peak Seasons where attendees will be served an elegant four course meal made with locally grown and in-season products and seasonal drink pairings to match. In addition to the cost of the entry ticket, there will be an auction of donated experiences which will go toward the charity represented for the night. Don your best apparel for a date night with someone you adore, join friends as a night out on the town, or come just as you are. Saturday (December 23rd) - Skyline Shopping Center presents it's BIGGEST. SALE. EVER. No, really. It's big. It's humungous. And it's just going to be really difficult to miss! Hop on down to finish your last minute holiday shopping and get your outfits ready to ring in the New Year with up to 70% off of most merchandise in stores! Those who spend over $200 during their shopping trip will be able to redeem a free coffee and meal in the food court.

EVENT DETAILS

This event will be kicking off Sunday, December 17th at 5pm EST. It will run until Saturday, December 30th at 12pm EST. No new starters should be posted after this time, but members may take the next few days to wrap up their threads.

This event is option and previous threads may continue. Participation is recommended, however not required.

Activity checks and acceptances will be held as usual.

Temperature is expected to be in the mid 50s during the day and 20s at night, so be sure to bundle up!

Have fun and be sure to relax and enjoy this event! Please tag all event related posts with providence.event and be sure to check the starter blog for open event starters.