#whimsy's seven days of ficsmas

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Mulled wine for Benjicot Blackwood x Bracken reader. And arranged marriage after the war where she was afraid of him and his house because of her upbringing and the rumors about the Blackwoods magic and Ben's bloody attitude in battles and how some claim it's because of magical power he has that the young boy was so capable and she thought him scary and demanding but she ends up smitten with the shy and sensitive gentleman warrior. Fluffy but ends up smutty, please!

Sorry for the rant.

I hope you like this, anon!

“Mulled Wine”

Pairing: Benjicot Blackwood/AFAB Bracken reader (Second Person POV/both parties 18+)

Themes: Smut | Fluff

Warnings: First time | Kissing | Foreplay | PIV sex

Wordcount: 2K words

Summary: After worrying over how you would be treated on your wedding, Lord Benjicot Blackwood surprises you with his conduct.

Minors DNI | 18 + | This story can be found on AO3

Moonlight shone down on the Godswood of Raventree Hall, and the Weirwood tree that loomed over all else gleamed a pale silver. The tree was a dead and leafless thing. Its bark was as white as new snow, and its many twisting branches were home to a hundred ravens, if not more. You watched them from the window of your new bedchamber and shivered. Raventree Hall was as old as Stone Hedge, yet its lords devoted themselves to the Old Gods. Theirs were the ways of blood magic and sacrifice, the others had said, not songs and incense and prayers to the Seven Who are One. And you were now a part of it all, thanks to the marriage your mother and father brokered on your behalf after the war ended. 

“Is everything to your liking, m’lady?” Wyla, your new handmaiden, asked. She finished arranging your bed for sleeping and awaited your next command. “Should I fetch anything for you?” 

“No, Wyla,” you said, looking at her, “I have everything I could need, thank you.” 

Wyla dipped to her knees in a curtsy. “A peaceful night to you then, m’lady.” 

“A peaceful night to you also, Wyla,” you said, returning your attention to the window, and the Godswood beyond it. 

You thought of the Lord that you were commanded to wed. Lord Benjicot Blackwood, or Bloody Ben, as all those who witnessed him in battle called him, was a warrior who fought with much violence and without fear. Throughout the wedding ceremony and the feast that followed, the Lord of Raventree Hall spoke little, save to say yes during the pledging of vows, throw a jest or two at Oscar and Kermit as the Tully brothers spent hour after hour eating and drinking their fill, and to gently dispense with the bedding ceremony when calls rang out for it. He glanced at you only on occasion, and when he touched you, it was to press a chaste kiss to your lips and lead you to both the feasting hall and then the Lord’s tower afterward, where he disappeared into another chamber after seeing you to your own. 

His absence after this unnerved you. Was he performing some strange and bloody rite in this other chamber? Was he drinking himself into a stupor? Or was he preparing himself before he came to claim his rights as a husband? 

The last notion proved to be a frightening one. There were some men, not many, but some, who were as harsh and unforgiving in the bedchamber as they would be on a battlefield. And Benjicot were both when armored for battle. You took a deep, steadying breath and girded yourself for what was about to take place. This night was not going to be a peaceful one. Not for you, at least.  

Someone coughing behind you disturbed your thoughts. “My lady,” Benjicot called softly. “May I enter?”

You turned once again and found yourself surprised by what you saw. Benjicot stood on the other side of the entry, cups of wine in hand. He was tall and lean and dark of hair, as were many of those of his House. He was also barefoot, and garbed in nothing more than soft woolen breeches. He flushed from cheek to chest when you looked at him and lowered his gaze. 

“You may enter, my lord,” you replied, uncertain what to make of his bashfulness. “After all, you are the master of these halls.” 

“Raventree Hall is yours also, my lady,” Benjicot answered. He stepped inside. “As of this duskfall, you and I are husband and wife.” 

“Of course, my lord,” you said. “Is there anything I ought to do?” 

Benjicot turned toward the door, then peered at the cups in his hands. “If you could shut the door, my lady. I… I find that my hands are already full.” 

“Of course.” You crossed to the door. It closed with a soft thump. “What have you there, my lord?” 

“Mulled wine, my lady,” Benjicot said, his skin still tinged with a pale flush of pink. He held out a cup for you to take. “It is a splendid drink when the night is chill, and I thought… I thought we could have it to celebrate our union.” 

You came to him, accepted the cup, and took a sip of the wine. It tasted of ground nutmeg and cloves. It was also sweetened with honey, though it was not oversweet. “It is very good, my lord,” you remarked, taking a second welcomed sip. The night was indeed chill, and the wine provided much-needed heat. Even with a fire roaring in the hearth, the room was still cold. 

Benjicot looked pleased. His lips even curled up at the corners. It was the first time he had done so since the ceremony. “My thanks,” he began haltingly, “my lady. I… I prepared it myself. And please… call me Ben.” 

Here was a man who was nothing like the fierce warrior who rode to war. The knowledge of it was startling, but in a pleasant degree. “Thank you, Ben,” you said, and smiled back at him. 

Benjicot, utterly red in the face, reached for your cup and took it off your hand. He took a swallow from his own, and walked over to a little table to set them down. At length, he gestured at the bed, and said, “Would you care to join me in bed, my lady? We… we could keep each other warm if nothing else.” 

It became plain that Benjicot was as anxious about this night as you were. “Of course,” you said, feeling more at ease. “I will join you in bed.”

The pillows and the featherbed were soft, and the furs were even softer. The relief you felt when you slipped beneath the covers rose from the tips of your toes. Benjicot walked around the chamber, blowing out the beeswax candles as he passed them. By the time he returned, only one remained by the side of the bed. He left it alight. 

“It must seem strange,” he said, joining you, “a Blackwood taking a Bracken for a wife. Our Houses have been feuding with each other for centuries.” 

“It is strange,” you said. Gooseflesh spread all over your limbs when Benjicot settled beside you, and his arm brushed against yours. “But my mother said times are changing. Perhaps the time has come to put an end to the feud also.” 

“Perhaps,” your husband murmured. He turned onto his side and propped himself on his elbow to better look at you. “You looked glorious today, my lady. And I… I must beg pardon for not speaking to you after the ceremony, or during the feast. I… I find words a trial when I am surrounded by others.” 

“There is no need to beg pardon for, Ben,” you said, blushing from his tender words. You turned onto your side and found Benjicot gazing at you intently. There was hunger in his eyes, and warmth. Neither aspect frightened you. “I now understand why you did not speak, and I am not angry.”

The Lord of Raventree Hall truly smiled then, and his eyes communicated the joy he felt. You found yourself captivated by the sight of it. After a moment, Benjicot took your hand into his, and said, “That is good to hear, my lady. May I ask you something?”  

“You may.”

“I… that is… May I kiss you?” 

Never did you expect a lord to ask his bride permission for such a thing. Still, you found it rather endearing that he would think of your sentiments on such a matter. Letting go of any fear you had over this night, you looked up at him and said, “Yes. You may kiss me.” 

Benjicot leaned in. His kiss was sweet, hesitant, and perhaps, a little clumsy. And yet he kissed, he kissed. When he heard you sigh, he grew bolder, and pushed you onto your back before moving over you. 

The warrior many spoke of with fear proved uncommonly gentle with his touch. His lips sought yours, over and over and over again, all while he brushed a shaking hand over your cheek, your throat, and your hair. Then that same hand wandered, gliding over and caressing the soft swell of your breasts, your waist, and your sides, before it moved back up again to unfasten the little buttons on your robe. So lost were you in your husband’s embrace that you did not even perceive your raiment coming undone until it fell away, and cool air washed over your exposed body. 

“It is most unfair, husband,” you teased when you could finally speak, “me being unclad while you still have some form of attire upon your person. Such an imbalance cannot linger overlong between us.” 

Benjicot chuckled. “I meant no such thing, wife.” He rose to his knees and tugged down on his breeches. When he slid out of them and threw them to the floor, you looked away, your cheeks aflame. Benjicot was already erect, and when he returned to you and gathered you into his arms, you could not help but tremble. 

“Do not fear me,” he whispered into your ear. “I will not hurt you.” 

“You have not until now,” you admitted, shrugging out of your robe and relishing the welcomed quiver that followed when Benjicot kissed your brow. “I will put my trust in you.”

Benjicot grinned and renewed his kisses. And he kissed with more fire and desire, as if he had been freed by the timidness that held him back at the start. He grazed your lips with the tip of his tongue. He growled softly when yours dipped into his mouth, and your hands circled his waist. Overwhelmed by passion, he braced his hands by your shoulders and groaned when you parted your legs and rested them over his. He shuddered when you took his cock to hand, and guided him inside of you. 

The pain that followed his intrusion was still hot and sharp despite the arousal between your thighs. Regardless of this, you encouraged him to go further, and go further he did, not stopping until he sank deep. Benjicot then went still, cooing half-whispered words of praise while you grew accustomed to him, and you became comfortable beneath him. He shifted ever so slightly, to make himself comfortable also. The movement was enough to make the pain ebb away and let pleasure take its place, the likes of which you had not felt before.  

“I am ready,” you told him. 

Benjicot moved, pulling his hips back and pushing in, again and again. With each thrust, the pleasure you felt at first yielded little by little to something else, something that could not be described with any known word. It was potent all the same, like a wave that kept on rising and rising as you both lost yourselves in each other’s flesh. Soon, the sound of grunts spilled free, as did needy moans and desperate pleas. Perhaps they carried all the way down to the feasting hall, or perhaps, they did not. Neither of you thought to consider such a thing. All that mattered was the joining of your bodies, and the seeking of mutual gratification. Suddenly, Benjicot struck a place he had not done so before. Stars burst to life behind your eyes when he did, and you orgasmed first, your toes curling from the all-consuming sensations that followed the violent trembling of your limbs. The sounds of your release rippled through the room before it was followed by another sound, the one your husband made as he reached his own climax and emptied himself of his spend. 

A moment or two of silence followed as Benjicot went still. “Are you well, wife?” he asked, and pulled away. “Did I hurt you?” 

“You did not,” you said, and smiled when his eyes lit up with relief. “This night went better than I could have dreamed.” 

“That is good, then,” Benjicot said. He rolled off you and settled on his side. When he reached out, you moved closer and nestled within his arms. “Let us rest a while, then, and talk. We have much to learn about each other.”

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Whimsy's Seven Days of Ficsmas!

Requests are open for Christmas Fics! Stories will be posted between 16th and 22nd December and requests will be closed on 30th November, so get your asks in now!

Prompts:

Mistletoe: Maedhros/Maglor

Mulled Wine: Benjicot Blackwood x Bracken reader

The Longest Night Gothmog/Eönwë/Finarfin

Blind Man's Bluff (Victorian AU only)

Gift - Melkor/Maedhros/Mairon

Solstice Feast - Tauriel/Thranduil 

Mince Pies - Kermit Tully/Blackwood wife reader

Rules :

Fandoms I will write for: Apollo & Hyacinthus | Tolkien | Prince Nuada | ASOIAF/Fire and Blood/HOTD only

Characters I will write for in Tolkien stories: Elves and Ainur only.

Other AUs I will write for Tolkien stories: Medieval AU/Fall of Valinor Au/Victorian England AU/Prosperity of Nargothrond AU

Please specify if you prefer soft/fluff, NSFW/Smutty, Dark/Dead dove.

I will not repeat prompts nor character(s)/ships, so requests will be taken on a first-come, first-served basis.

I will not reply requests if proper details are not given.

For reader inserts: Please specify if the reader is to be AFAB, AMAB, or gender neutral

Ships: If the pairing appeals to me, I will write for them.

I will not write any sexual or dark content featuring minors.

For smut: Please mention your wants/do not wants.

For dark content: I will take requests for death, violence, dub-con, non-con, and incest.

For monsterfucking, please specify if you want werewolf or draconic.

I will not take requests for scat splay, water sport, needle play or spit kink.

Minors DNI

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Hiiii!

Please, Tauriel X Thranduil

Solstice Feast !!🍂❄️🎄

NSFW/Smutty

Pós BotFA if possible

rough and needy, unresolved sexual tension, submissive and dominant role switching. A little bit of dog style. They're not worried about making babies... Hahhahaha

Fluffy at the end

Galion and Feren are embarrassed

Would that be possible? You are so excited! Forgive me for any mistakes, I am a Brazilian reader. Big hug.🍂🌻

Here you go! I hope you like this!

"Solstice Feast"

Pairing: Thranduil/Tauriel

Themes: Smut

Warnings: Kissing | PIV Sex | Switch aspects | Doggy style | Hair pulling

Wordcount: 1.9K words

Summary: A drink to celebrate the winter equinox and a great victory leads to something else between the Captain of Woodland Realm Guard and her king.

Minors DNI | 18+ | This story can also be found on AO3

“You did well on the battlefield, captain,” Thranduil said. He poured a measure of fine golden wine for himself and another for Tauriel. “And I grieve for your loss. Tell me. Do you truly love the kinsman of Thorin Oakenshield?”

Tauriel accepted her cup and took a sip. “Kíli was a most steadfast and amusing companion,” she confessed, studying Thranduil keenly. The Elvenking was not pleased with the mention of the dwarf’s name. She could perceive it in the way he clenched his jaw and how his hand tightened around the cup it held. It roused her curiosity. “I grew quite fond of him.”

“Fond,” Thranduil said, draining half his cup in two deep swallows, “is not a word I would have expected you to say, certainly not after you wept over the slain dwarf’s body. Come now, captain. Speak true. Do you love the kinsman of Thorin Oakenshield?”

“I do not,” Tauriel said, her curiosity growing after relief flashed in the eyes of the king. “I mourn his death, yes, but I do not love him. Why do you ask such a thing, my king?”

“I merely wished to know, that is all,” Thranduil said. He finished the remainder of his wine. “And, I confess, I would not have approved of you aligning with one of the Naugrim. They are a doughty race and uncommonly skilled besides, but as the companion of an elven captain of your high standing? I think not.”

Tauriel finished her wine as well. Outside the tent set aside for Thranduil’s own particular use, elves, men, and dwarves ate and drank to celebrate a great victory and honor the winter solstice. Someone had already begun to sing; it would not be long before the others joined, and many sweet voices rose in song. Tauriel did not dwell on that. The king’s declaration captured her attention instead.

“Do you believe Kíli was unworthy of me?”

“Most certainly. There are others, Tauriel. Elves who are truly worthy. You should consider setting your eyes on one of them instead.”

“Other elves?” Tauriel said, unable to help herself. There was far more to what her king was saying, and she was determined to learn it. “I see. Pray tell me, my king, who are these other elves you speak of? Is it Legolas, perhaps?”

Thranduil shook his head. He still clutched his empty cup, his fingers white at the knuckles. Presently, he said, “No, Tauriel. Not my son Legolas.”

“Oh,” Tauriel said, narrowing her eyes to thin slits. Legolas was the Crown Prince of the Woodland Realm, and a fearless warrior besides. He should have been one of the worthy elves Thranduil spoke of. “Then Galion, or Feren. Even Angon might suit, I think. He is quite fierce in battle, and I find only you can surpass him as a warrior.”

The Elvenking made no attempt to conceal his growl of displeasure. Tauriel, now beginning to latch onto the real cause of his conduct, strode to him. She took the cup out of his hand and set hers and his down on the little table in the center. At length, she said, her eyes twinkling with mischief, “Or perhaps there is someone else. Someone far higher than even them in rank. Is that the truth of it, my king? Is there someone other than them?”

Thranduil took a step toward her. “There is none like that,” he said, lowering his head just enough to smell her hair. The heady scent of cedar filled him with every breath he took. “But I suppose Angon would suit, should you decide to seek him out. Will you do so?”

Liar, Tauriel yearned to say after having perceived Thranduil’s falsehood. Thranduil would not have approved of her seeking Angon; it was plain in his eyes. Nevertheless, she stood still, her body enveloped by Thranduil’s taller, larger form. Then she fought back the welcomed shiver that threatened to arise after he reached out and brushed his hand against her own. She would not yield so easily. Not until he freely spoke of his own feelings.

“Perhaps,” she said with an air of forced indifference, “and perhaps not. Angon may suit me as a companion, but he does not appeal to my desires like he should.”

“Oh?” The king arched a quizzical brow. “What does appeal to your desires?”

“Boldness,” Tauriel began, her breath hitching when strong but gentle fingers laced around her own. “A dash of arrogance. The willingness to take command. Those are the things that appeal to my desires.”

“The willingness to take command, you say,” Thranduil replied, intrigued. “Does this mean you desire to surrender to your companion in every way?”

“I do not mean complete surrender,” Tauriel allowed. “But it would be liberating, would it not, to let another take the lead?”

“Indeed,” Thranduil agreed. “Tauriel,” he murmured, his lips a mere hair’s breadth over her own, “this cannot go beyond the walls of this tent.”

“I understand, my king,” Tauriel returned, her heart aflutter, “but you must tell me why. So far, you have given me no explanation as to why you comport yourself so.”

Thranduil stepped back and looked hard at her. Tauriel, returning his gaze with equal resolve, remained uncowed. Seconds slowly melted into each other as a heavy silence settled between them. Finally, the king crumbled. He sighed and said, “I desire you. I have done so for quite a while. I guarded my tongue because you were... are… too young. Then there was your position to consider and mine. This is my explanation. Are you satisfied?”

“I am,” Tauriel said, gratified that the king did not attempt to deceive her this time. She closed her eyes again when Thranduil drew near, and his presence overwhelmed her. “And, like you said, this cannot go beyond the walls of this tent. The others will not understand.”

“They will not,” Thranduil whispered. He dipped his head and let his lips glide over hers. When the captain of the Wood-elf guard tilted her chin to meet him halfway, he rewarded her with a kiss that left her skin tingling. “Are you agreeable to staying a while and sharing my featherbed before leaving for the solstice feast?”

Tauriel grinned. “I would be a fool to pass up an hour or two of sharing unbridled passion with the king. I will stay.”

Thranduil grinned as well. “That is good then. Now undress yourself and get in the bed.”

Tauriel flushed, but she did as she was commanded to do so. She fumbled with the buttons of her woolen vest, the knots of her tunic, the clasp of her belt, and the laces on her undershirt and her boots. Still, she freed herself of her garments while listening to the king disrobing himself. She could feel his eyes on her the entire time, and when she finished and turned to look at him, she found lust and hunger burning bright in his sky-blue eyes.

“In the bed,” Thranduil ordered, though not unkindly, “if you please.”

Tauriel obeyed, her cheeks aflame as Thranduil walked toward her, unclad and unashamed. He pushed her down when he climbed onto the featherbed, and he kissed her anew. There was no tenderness this time in his kiss, only a deep longing to ravage and take. Tauriel grew bold. She let Thranduil kiss her before she suddenly spun him around and moved on top of him. Thranduil laughed triumphantly.

“Do you wish to command me, Tauriel?” He husked, resting his hands on her sides when she straddled him, and her weight settled over his thighs.

“For a little while, my king,” Tauriel said. She took hold of his hands when they moved up in search of her breasts and brought them back to her sides. “No, my king,” she added after a moment. “You cannot touch me anywhere besides where you are touching me now. Later, you may do so, but not now.”

The Elvenking let out a sound of impatience. “I shall do as you say,” he uttered and bit back a groan when Tauriel took his erection to hand. “I will only touch you where you want me to.”

Tauriel nodded in approval. She stroked his cock until it stiffened and twitched against her touch. Then, she moved forward—bracing her hands against his torso to steady herself—and fit his tip against her core. When she slid down onto him, Thranduil forgot all sense of himself. He arched his back when he found himself locked within the welcomed heat of Tauriel’s body, and his fingers dug into her soft flesh, bruising and marring them as she started to move. He opened his eyes, filled with a desire to see, and found himself being greeted by the sight of his length disappearing into her, her chest heaving, and her limbs trembling from the exertion of their lovemaking. He dared not move his hands. He kept them by her waist instead while she brought down her hips and ground against him, again, and again, and again, and her breath turned to ragged gasps. When Tauriel brought down her hips harder and faster than she thought she would, Thranduil cried out his pleasure.

“Hush, my king,” Tauriel warned. “The others will hear you.”

“The others will not hear me,” Thranduil declared with certainty. “They are quite occupied with their singing.”

What he said was indeed true, for the singing was now louder than before, and each word carried through the camp without hindrance. Thranduil decided to take advantage of this. He grabbed Tauriel, flipped her onto her back, and then turned her onto her stomach after he pulled out of her.

“On your hands and knees, Captain,” insisted the king as he made himself comfortable on his knees. “The time has come for me to take the lead.”

Tauriel heeded him, parting her legs and moaning when he slipped inside of her. Her nails dug into the furs beneath her while he thrust steadily and drove her closer and closer to her release.

Someone called from outside the tent. “My king? Are you there?”

Tauriel dropped to her elbows. She bit her lower lip and buried her face in her forearm to try and silence herself. Thranduil, on the other hand, continued without ceasing. “Yes, Feren,” he barked, “but I am occupied. Captain Tauriel and I have much to discuss. I will summon you and Galion some other time.” 

“Of course, my king,” Feren answered. He paused for a moment, and then said, “Galion and I shall await your summons in our tent.”

Tauriel lifted her head not long after. “I am certain he heard.”

“Feren will guard his tongue if he did, as will Galion,” Thranduil panted. He grabbed a fistful of Tauriel’s hair and tugged at it, though not ungently. The act gave rise to fresh sensations that were more powerful than the ones before them. They tore through Tauriel’s veins like trails of fire and brought about an orgasm that overcame her and blinded her to all else. She sobbed out the king’s name while he chased after his release, and she then heard it, him grunting in satisfaction as he withdrew and spilled his seed onto the pelts. Then she collapsed onto her side, weary from what took place, and she took a steadying breath as the world around her grew still.

The weight of the featherbed shifted. “Tauriel,” Thranduil said, brushing his hand over the tousled mess that was her hair. “Are you well?”

“I am well, my king,” Tauriel said. She turned onto her back and found Thranduil seated beside her, watching her. She smiled up at him. “I am just weary by what we did; that is all.”

Thranduil was relieved. “Just so. Stay and rest a while. Later, I will help you dress, and we can join the feast.”

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

For the Seven Days of Ficsmas prompts, Blind Man's Bluff (Victorian AU only), featuring Prince Nuada x AFAB reader. Smutty (trusting you to do him justice). Either enemies to lovers or established relationship, whichever you think would be spicier. Side note- I absolutely love your unique writing style and the impeccable world building you manage to churn out in all your fics! 😍 Everyone should add a bit of 'whimsy' to their day, haha. 😉

- T 🌱

Ahhh T 🌱, you have no idea how your words appealed to my vain little leo heart. Here you go. I hope you like this!

“Blind Man’s Bluff”

Pairing: Prince Nuada/AFAB Reader (Second Person POV | Established Relationship)

AU: Victorian England AU

Themes: Smut | Soft/Fluff

Warnings: Kissing | Blindfolds | Foreplay | PIV Sex | Sex in a public/Unusual place

Wordcount: 1.2K

Summary: A game of blind man’s bluff is given a wholly different ending one crisp, cold night at the manor.

Minors DNI | 18+ | This is also availble on AO3

Nuada evaded your grasp, slipping out of your outstretched hands like a fish in the water. The sound of vexation you made amused him to no end.

“You must try harder, my love,” he called softly, and ran toward the cedar trees by the eastern wall. “You will not catch me otherwise.”

You laughed despite your frustration and followed the sound of his voice. “Where are you, my prince?” you asked, your hands continuing to clutch nothing but air while you stumbled your way across the vast and silent country garden. “Where have you gone off to now?”

“I am here,” Nuada answered from beside the fountain. Then he sprinted to the hawthorn hedge far behind it with a speed no mortal possessed and said, “I am here.”

“You are wicked, my prince,” you huffed, stopping. The night was as cold as a December night ought to have been. Frost crunched beneath your slippers, and an icy wind nipped at your cheeks. Nevertheless, you continued, your eyes covered with a strip of silk, your body garbed in a heavy woolen robe and a nightgown meant only for sleeping. It was a game Nuada was told about while dining with your family, and it was a game he very much wanted to play, but only with you, and only after the others took to their beds. “Please do not drag this on so.”

The elven prince chuckled and crossed over to the trees. Even in the moonlight, no one could see anything here, certainly not through the low-hanging branches weighed down by icy particles. Then again, no one was expected to come out and see. Not with the spell of deep sleep he carefully wove over the rest after they had retired for the night.

“I am not being wicked,” Nuada teased. He stepped away from roots jutting out of the earth and sat on the little path running around the trees, utterly at ease with the frost-hardened stone beneath him. The time, he decided, had come to end the present diversion and begin a new one. “I am simply obeying the rules of this game. But you are close. Very close. Follow my voice, my love. You will find me.”

There was little else you could do but to blindly fumble forward. “Closer, my love,” Nuada said as you drew near. He kept a watchful eye on each step you took. The little path may have been free of roots, but it was not free of uneven stone. He did not want you to fall. “Closer. I am right before you now.”

Suddenly, you tripped over a pebble. Nuada rose with blurring swiftness and caught you. “I have captured you,” you declared, giggling in his arms. “Or is it you who has captured me? I do not know.”

“I do,” Nuada said. He sat back down and drew you onto his lap. “It is plain that I have captured you. And, as you mortals are oft fond of saying, to the victor goes the spoils.”

You could not answer, for he leaned down and pressed his lips to yours. His kiss was sweet; it tasted of the charlotte russe he had for dessert.

“I was counting the minutes until midnight,” Nuada murmured. He made haste to unfasten his cloak and lay it on the ground. Then he kissed you a second time, growling softly when your fingers tangled themselves in his hair. “I was waiting until the others retired to their rooms,” he said against your lips. “Are you angry with me for taking so long?”

“I am not, my prince.” You gasped in surprise when he lowered you onto his cloak and moved on top of you. “Is this the proper place for us? It is too open and too cold.”

“It is more than proper,” Nuada began, his nimble fingers making quick work on the sash of your robe and the buttons and ribbon on your nightgown. “The world is all but dead at this hour, and the others have been bewitched. No one will see us, or hear us, or disturb us. As for the cold… it is a trifling thing, but I will be quick, and I will not leave you out for too long. Leave the blindfold on,” he commanded, though not unkindly. “It will only increase every sensation you feel from here on out.”

The prince was indeed correct. Every sensation you felt was sharper and more powerful because of the blindfold you wore. The scent clinging to him was more potent. The strength in his hands was more palpable. The flashes of pleasure that surged up your back when he took one nipple into his mouth, and then the other after that, nipping gently at them with his teeth until they stiffened and ached, was unlike anything you felt. Even the cold that washed over your skin when your silks completely fell away felt wonderful.

“Will you stay a while?” You could not see what Nuada was doing. In truth, you did not have to. The rustle of clothes being removed was indication enough of what he was doing.

“Until the first chimes of daybreak,” Nuada returned softly. He undid the buckle of his belt and tugged his trousers low enough to free his erection. When he brought his body down on yours, he slid his arms around your hips to hold you close to him. “Then I must leave. The spell I cast will last only until then. But do not fret. I will return again tomorrow.”

He dipped his head and renewed his kiss. The warmth radiating from his flesh was a welcomed thing, as was the warmth from his touch. You circled your arms around his neck, and your legs you parted and entwined around his hips.

“Take me,” you begged. Heat pooled low in your belly, making you feel warm and feverish all over. It was almost impossible to bear. “Please take me, my prince. I am yours.”

It was all Nuada needed to hear. He entered you as gently and as tenderly as he could, growing drunk on the sound of his name parting your lips. Then he moved. He was quick, just like he said he would be, but his thrusts still drove you to wilder passions. The cold no longer mattered. Being out in the open no longer mattered. What truly mattered was him and his vise-like hold, his nectarous kisses, and the skill of his lovemaking.  And it ended as quickly as it began, with his orgasm cresting and consuming him as you slowly drowned in yours during a shared moment of blinding ecstasy. Nuada moaned as he emptied himself of his spend. He relished the feeling of your nails raking his back. Then he thrust until softened, and pulled away.

The world looked a strange and eerie place after you were freed from your blindfold, all hushed and white and devoid of most life. The prince rose, and pulled you up with him when he did so. He set your nightgown and robe to rights. Then he placed his cloak over your shoulders, to better shield you from the cold.

“Will you come inside, my prince?” You said, turning to face him. “There is quite some time left until daybreak.”

Nuada picked up the remainder of his clothes after having fastened his trousers. “Of course, I will,” the elven prince assured, smiling. “Lead the way, my love,” he said, taking your hand into his, “and I will follow.”

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

The first "Seven Days of Ficsmas" story will be up in a few short hours, and featuring Prince Nuada.

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Mistletoe

Pairing: Maedhros (Nelyafinwë/Nelyo)/Maglor (Kanafinwë/Káno)

Themes: NSFT

Warnings: Kissing | Some sensuality | Sibling incest

Wordcount: 800+ words

Summary: After racing through the forest, Maedhros and Maglor find themselves beneath sprigs of mistletoe.

Minors DNI | 18+ | This can also be found on AO3.

“You cannot hide from me, Káno!” Nelyafinwë cried, amused rather than wroth. “There is naught you could do to escape me!”

Kanafinwë laughed merrily even as he ran. “I wish you good fortune then, Nelyo!” he shouted, ducking beneath the low-hanging branch of an ancient oak tree. “For you will surely need it!”

Nelyafinwë picked up his feet and ran even faster. Trees hemmed him in from every corner, and roots jutted out of the earth along the way. Still, they did not hinder him. They could not hinder him. He knew this forest well, having hunted within it a hundred times already with the others. At length, he loudly called, “Tis you who will need good fortune, brother mine, and not I!”

“That will never be the case, brother mine,” Kanafinwë hooted as he dashed into a dense grove of trees, confident in having evaded his brother’s grasp.

Nelyafinwë prepared to cry out an answer when he caught a glimpse of gold glinting between the trees to his left. He halted and studied it intently. It was indeed gold, and it was gold from an elven prince’s circlet. It gleamed in the light of the stars as it rested amidst hair the color of new ink, and it disappeared into the thicket ahead of him. Nelyafinwë smiled triumphantly. His brother never shied away from adorning himself in costly array, and, on this occasion, he had been no different. When they raced into the forest on a whim, Kanafinwë did so garbed in his finest silks and with gold adorning his hair, his throat, his fingers, and his ears. Even his belt had been made of beaten gold medallions. They clanged softly against each other as Kanafinwë sprinted around beech and fir and pine. And they played a part in giving the one who wore them away.

“A reward then,” Nelyafinwë responded gleefully and ran around the thicket, his bare feet making nary a sound over the forest floor. His brother was within his clutches now. He could feel it in his bones. “The victor receives whatever they desire from the vanquished.”

“Agreed!” Kanafinwë bellowed cheerfully. Then he stopped between the thick canopy of starlit trees, stood still, and listened. Nothing could be heard save for the whisper of leaves rustling in the cooling wind. He took off again, assured of having gained a victory over his brother. 

That was not to be, for suddenly, he was swept into a vise-like hold and grappled to the soft, loamy earth by an elf who came at him from the side. It was an elf taller and more powerful than he, with hair the color of deep, burnished copper and eyes that burned like brilliant blue flames.

“Nelyo,” he giggled as he struggled to break free, “you have found me.”

“Indeed I have,” Nelyafinwë returned, still exhilarated by the chase. “And I believe I can now claim the rewards of victory.”

“Aye. What reward do you seek?”

Nelyafinwë rose, and he took his brother up with him. He lifted his gaze. Clinging to the branches above him were bunches of mistletoe, their leaves a pretty shade of green, their berries a pale, waxy white. Kanafinwë followed his brother’s gaze. His lips curled up at corners when he understood what Nelyafinwë desired for a reward.

“If it is a kiss you seek,” he husked, his eyes alight, “you need only take it.”

Nelyafinwë grinned. He pushed his brother up against the nearest tree bark, startling him, and he drew him in for a kiss. Kanafinwë sighed and closed his eyes when he felt the strength in his brother’s hands, and the warmth radiating from his touch.

"I have longed for you, Nelyo," he breathed, sliding his arms around Nelyafinwë's waist and pulling him close. "It has been so long since you and I were last alone like this."

"It has been too long, Káno," Nelyafinwë moaned into the next kiss. Soon, he lost himself in the tenderness of his brother’s embrace, and the sweetness of his lips. And his brother was right, it had indeed been too long. He yearned to savor the most of the precious time left to them before they had to return to their family.

“Let us make the most of this time together, then.” Kanafinwë gave no further thought to anything besides the trails of fire already surging just beneath his flesh. He kissed his brother with equal passion, his head swimming with the scent of jasmine oil that clung to his brother’s skin and hair, and invaded his senses with every breath he took. “Is this the reward you desire?” he panted, and pulled away.

“This is the beginning of the reward I seek,” Nelyafinwë murmured. He dipped his head and sought once again the welcomed heat of his brother’s mouth, the hint of spice clinging to his tongue, and the sharp gasps of pleasure that were only ever heard by his ears. He moved even lower, kissing and licking his way down Kanafinwë's throat until he was impeded by the choker his brother wore. “The rest of it I will claim also,” he added, stepping back and taking Kanafinwë’s hand into his, “but only after I have rid you of all this finery, for they hinder me. Now come, Káno. Our tent awaits us.”

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

For the Seven Days of Ficsmas, the following prompts have been taken:

Mistletoe: Maedhros/Maglor

Mulled Wine: Benjicot Blackwood_Bracken reader

The Longest Night - Gothmog/Eönwë/Finarfin

Blind Man's Bluff (Victorian AU only) - Prince Nuada/AFAB reader

Gift - Melkor/Maedhros/Mairon

Solstice Feast - Tauriel/Thranduil 

Mince Pies - Kermit Tully/Blackwood wife reader

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

"Gift"

Pairing: Melkor/Maedhros/Mairon

AU: Medieval AU

Themes: Smut 

Warnings: Kissing | Anal sex | Hand job | Anal fingering | Masturbation | M/M/M 

Wordcount: 1.3K words

Summary: Nelyafinwë arrives in Castle Angband, carrying a special gift with him. 

Minors DNI | 18+ | This is also available in AO3

Melkor sat up straight in bed when a young but familiar lord was led into his bedchamber.

“He has done it, then?” he asked, his eyes alight. “Nelyafinwë brings with him what I have long desired?” 

“Indeed, my king,” Mairon said. He tugged at heavy oak doors and shut his lord’s room from all that lay beyond it. “And he does not come only bearing what you have sought for so long. He brings three hundred warriors with him also, all of them armed and armored and ready for battle.” 

“Warriors willing to pledge themselves to me, I hope,” Melkor returned. He looked at Nelyafinwë, tall and proud and fierce in his heavy cloak, deep green tunic, and burnished, coppery hair. “Come closer, Nelyo. Let me see the gift you have brought for me.” 

Nelyafinwë came to his side with a box wrought out of gold. He threw open the lid and revealed its contents to the king he secretly pledged to serve. Melkor peered inside. Nestled amidst costly silk were three jewels, all precious and wondrous to behold. He lifted one and held it to the light of a nearby lamp. The jewel glittered like a star in the night sky, all brilliant gold one moment and then a pale silver the next. And it was heavy. Heavier than one would expect from an object so small. Nevertheless, Melkor was pleased. He returned the jewel to its resting place and closed the lid.  

“How did you convince your lord father to surrender these jewels?” he inquired, his curiosity piqued.  

Nelyafinwë gave the box to Mairon to take. “My father would never willingly part with the Silmarils,” he confessed. Then he smiled sheepishly and added, “I simply waited until the others had to depart for a festival, and I told them I was unwell. Getting into the vault was easy after that. My father should have left guards at the entrance. He should not have told others where he was keeping these jewels. And he should have taken greater care with whom he shared the keys, and with whom he trusted with his secrets.” 

Melkor laughed. “You will go far in my service,” he declared. “And your rewards will be many, beginning with the lands and titles and slaves I have decided to bestow upon you. Has Mairon told you of them?” 

“He has indeed,” Nelyafinwë returned, bowing deeply. “They are more than what even I expected them to be. You are most generous to me, my king.”  

“Leal service is always assured rewards,” Mairon said, crossing over to a little table by the bed. He set down the box and turned to face Nelyafinwë and his king. “And we have missed you so. Are you weary from your long journey?”

“I am not,” Nelyafinwë said. He flushed when Mairon came around him and set himself to the task of freeing him of his robes. “And I have missed you both as well. Pray what must I do first?”

“See to the king first,” Mairon counseled. He unfastened the pin on Nelyafinwë’s travel-stained cloak and let it fall to the rushes. Then he undid the clasps of his tunic with quick, nimble fingers, and tugged it down his arms. It pooled around Nelyafinwë’s feet with a soft rustle. “I will join you.”  

Nelyafinwë nodded in agreement. He pulled his woolen shirt over his head and threw it without ceremony to the floor. When he sat on the edge of the bed and bent over to remove his boots, Melkor ran his hand over his exposed back, making him shiver.

“Did your father ever suspect your attachment to us?” Melkor said to him. His eyes traveled the length and breadth of Nelyafinwë’s body when he stood to remove his breeches, taking in all they saw. The firstborn son of Fëanáro possessed a form that seemed to defy mortal flaws. The sight of enough to make his mouth water with anticipation. “Did he think anything untoward was taking place between us three?” 

“He did not,” Nelyafinwë said bitterly. He drew away the furs covering the king, got into bed, and straddled his lap. “Then again, he did not perceive much beyond what was taking shape in his forge. That was how consumed he was with the creation of the Silmarils.”  

“I see.” Melkor drew Nelyafinwë into his embrace and kissed him, whimpering when the tip of his companion’s tongue brushed against his lips. Then he stopped and dropped his head amidst the pillows. “Go on,” he commanded softly.  

Nelyafinwë grinned and dipped his head. He kissed his way down Melkor’s throat and the expanse of his chest, eagerly lapping up the half-whispered words of praise he heard. When Melkor brushed a hand over his hair, he grew bolder, greedily taking a rigid nipple into his mouth, laving at it and tugging at it with his teeth, before turning his attention to the other one.

“You serve me so well already.” Melkor groaned and closed his eyes when a flare of intense pleasure surged through him. He heard the sounds of a sash coming undone, silk falling, and boots being removed. Mairon was preparing to join them. “How do you wish to partake, precious?”

“I will amuse myself,” Mairon suggested. His golden eyes glinted with barely disguised lust. “We must not tire our companion more than we should tonight.”

“Of course. Does that suit you, fair Nelyo?”

“It does, my king.”

“Very well. Precious? Please prepare him for me.”

When Mairon took his place upon the featherbed—on his knees and behind Nelyafinwë—he had with him the vial of oil set aside for occasions that called for the use of it. And he used a generous hand as he always did. He prepared Nelyafinwë with great care, murmuring soothing words as he slid one finger and then two, thrusting them gently again and again, into his hole. Nelyafinwë, for his part, kept still while Mairon used more and more oil. He winced first when he felt pain, and then he sighed feverishly when that pain gave way to something that made him forget all sense of himself. By the time Mairon finished, he was ready to let Melkor breach him.

Melkor did not stay idle. He held Nelyafinwë’s hips, keeping him steady and letting him grab onto his arms as he shuffled into position. When he slid down onto his length, inch by slow inch, Melkor could not help but arch his back in response. 

“Does he feel good, my king?” Mairon panted, unable to take his eyes off them both. He came to Melkor’s side—fisting his cock all the while—and laid down beside him.

“He most certainly does,” Melkor husked. He opened his eyes and looked at Nelyafinwë, how his breath came out in shallow gasps, and how his limbs trembled from exertion each time he lifted his hips and brought them down again. “Are you close, Nelyo?”

“I am, my king,” Nelyafinwë grunted wildly. “So very close.”

“Just so.” Melkor took his companion’s erection to hand, driving him to such peaks that he could no longer restrain himself. Nelyafinwe shuddered. The sensations that followed each stroke were so powerful that they brought about an orgasm that struck him viciously, and without warning. Stripe after stripe of pale seed spurted onto Melkor’s belly as he shook, and the king cried out his pleasure as his own climax came over him. Melkor could barely breathe. He could barely even form a proper thought. So lost was he in the frenzy that followed his release that he did not even hear the cry of Mairon spilling himself onto the silken sheets. He thrust until he had emptied himself of his spend, and then he stopped.

Mairon was the first to stir. He rose to his knees and helped Nelyafinwë off the king. “Would you like to stay here with us?”

“Of course, my lord,” Nelyafinwë said. He made himself comfortable on his side and closed his eyes when the king draped an arm around him, and Mairon did also. “I would like to stay here.”

"That is good," Melkor said sleepily. "Remain with us, Nelyo, and rest a while. There will be much to celebrate later, I assure you."

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Today on "Seven Days of Ficsmas" Maedhros and Maglor do things brothers should not exactly do in "Mistletoe"

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Today on Seven days of ficsmas: Tauriel and Thranduil do the horizontal tango. Yup. They do it. And I wrote them doing it.

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Today on the last day the Seven days of ficsmas : The second request featuring a Fire and Blood character, this time featuring Benjicot Blackwood.

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Can I request mince pies with Kermit Tully x Wife Blackwood reader (Benjicot's younger sister) and Smut please?

Here you go!

“Mince Pies”

Pairing: Kermit Tully/AFAB reader

Themes: Smut

Warnings: Food play | Kissing | Praise | PIV sex

Wordcount: 800+ words

Summary: A sweet confection becomes a part of play between the Lord of Riverrun and you.

Minors DNI | 18+ | This can also be found on AO3.

“We are making a proper mess of ourselves, my love.” Kermit chuckled when crumbs and bits of fruit soaked in a curious distilled wine fell onto the pelt. “And old Tansy will be mortified to see us using the pies she baked for this purpose,” he said, dipping his head. More sugary crumbs and bits of fruit fell as he nibbled at the broken pastry spread over your belly. Gooseflesh covered your limbs when he did so.

“She would, to be sure,” you giggled. When Kermit kissed your stomach and ran the flat of his tongue over it, igniting a flash pleasure, you gasped, unable to help yourself. “Thank the gods she will never learn what happened tonight.”

“Indeed,” Kermit returned. He moved higher—his lips and his tongue leaving a damp and heated trail all over your sides, your breasts, and your throat—until he found himself being welcomed into your embrace. “Your skin tastes of spices, sweetling,” he husked, slipping his hands around your hips, “and cherries as well. What did Tansy call these things?”

“Mince pies,” you murmured, sighing gratefully when his body pressed against yours. The warmth clinging to it was a welcomed thing. It was even more welcomed than the thick pelts around you, the soft featherbed beneath you, and the bright fire burning within the stone hearth. “They are all the rage now in King’s Landing.”

“Ah.” Kermit covered your mouth with his own. His kiss was as sweet as the confections prepared for him and you, if not more so. “Now, enough of such talk,” he growled when you twined your arms around his neck and spread your legs. “Your husband has another hunger that needs to be sated.”

There was no sweetness in his kisses this time, but a savage frenzy that nearly turned your bones to water.  Then again, that was how it was with him during hours like this, when the two of you were alone. Kermit made love with more passion than tenderness, and you were left aching when he finished. Nevertheless, you never found cause for complaint. Kermit always saw to your pleasure instead of just seeing only to his, and he never failed to leave you satisfied.

Tonight was no different. Kermit made love the way he always did, with as much fire and ardor as he could muster, while uttering half-whispered words of adoration and praise between his kisses.

“I relish the sounds you make,” he said when you whimpered helplessly.

“You are so very good at pleasing me,” he declared when you returned his kiss with equal fire.

“Yes, my love, just like that,” he uttered when your nails scoured his back.

You shivered each and every time he spoke. Kermit was wild and bold and headstrong. He also possessed a certain way with words, the kind that would leave a woman warm and willing and lustful. Yet it was only you who heard such words, and when he slid his cock inside of you, you were already wet.

“Tomorrow night, we must make use of something other than pie,” Kermit grunted as he thrust and brought you both closer and closer to release. “Something I can spend my time licking off you. Something that is almost as soft to the tongue as you are.”

“Tis a good thing you and I are wed,” you teased, flushing, “for you are a most wicked man, husband mine. Did my brother know you were like this when he agreed to speak to my father on your behalf?”

Kermit grinned and halted for a moment. “I confess,” he panted, “Ben did not. Do you think poorly of me, wife, for hiding my true nature from him?”

“Far from it,” you laughed. “And I am intrigued by your suggestion. Perhaps sweetened cream? That might suit us both.”

“It would indeed.” Kermit—pleased by your suggestion—moved again, rocking his hips against the insides of your thighs. He dipped his head to ravage your mouth. 

No more words were heard, save for the rare few that served to feed one's growing arousal. Kermit drove into you relentlessly, the wet but muffled sound of his skin slapping against yours mingling with the wanton cries that filled the chamber. Your orgasm struck first—vicious, hot, and powerful. It blinded you to almost everything save for the one who took you to the very heights of rapture. Then, you heard him moan, loud and long and deep, as he shuddered violently and emptied himself of his seed. A final kiss was offered, and your husband finally went still. 

The world beyond the walls of the bedchamber was hushed. It was as if most of the keep had retired to bed. Kermit rolled onto his back. He gathered you into his arms and pulled a fur over you both. “Is there anything left for us to eat, sweetling?” he asked, his chest still heaving from exertion.

You lifted your head and peered at the bedside cupboard. There was little upon it save for a silver tray still laden with the delicacies of the season. “There are more pies to be had,” you said, settling in the crook of his arm. “And fruit and cheese besides. We can have a nice supper.”

“Later,” Kermit replied, yawning. “Let us rest a while, sweetling. We can finish the rest of the food later.”

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Longest Night

Pairing: Gothmog/Eönwë/Finarfin (Arafinwë)

AU: Medieval AU

Themes: Smut

Warnings: Porn without plot | Threesome | Kissing | Anal sex | Oral sex | M/M/M | Handjob

Wordcount: 700+ words

Summary: After Gothmog heeds Eönwë’s entreaties, Arafinwë is brought into the shared bedroom as a third companion.

Minors DNI | 18+ | This story is also available on AO3

Eönwë tilted Arafinwë’s chin to better gaze at him while he lay on his side, propped on his elbow. “Does he feel good, sir?” he asked, his eyes alight with ravenous curiosity. “Is Gothmog all that you desired he would be?”

“Sir Gothmog is all that I desired he would be,” Arafinwë panted, having finally grown accustomed to being on his elbows and knees. His fingers dug into the furs beneath him, and his entire body shook each time his other companion thrust into him. “As are you, Lord Commander.”

The Lord Commander beamed. “You always did know what was best to say,” he said, leaning forward to cover Arafinwë’s mouth with his. The kiss that followed was full of heat and hunger. It tasted of honey and cloves and cinnamon as well, from the spiced wine they all shared to celebrate the longest night of the year. “You possess a most delectable mouth,” he purred when he pulled away to speak. “I wonder if you would agree to put it to another use altogether.”

Arafinwë flashed a wicked grin. “Far be it from me to deny you, Lord Commander.”

“Good.” Eönwë trembled when addressed so. He moved up and settled amidst the pillows, his legs spread out with Arafinwë between them. He gripped his erection and, longing to have his lusts sated, said, “Go on.” 

The young lord eagerly opened his mouth, dipped his head, and swallowed Eönwë to the hilt. He never imagined an encounter like this. He certainly did not imagine yielding to the demands of his baser urges like this. Still, he lost himself to them all with ease and pleasured the Lord Commander as best he could with the bobbing of his head and the hallowing of his cheeks, with the heat of his mouth, the pressure of his lips, and the lapping of his tongue, all while the fierce knight many spoke of in fear of took him from behind.

Gothmog watched, mesmerized, as his beloved’s eyes closed and his mouth parted in a silent moan. At first, he was reluctant to bring a third companion into the chambers he shared with him. He thought it was too great a risk. Secrets of many kinds could have been revealed to others, exposing them to the shame and ridicule of others. Then, when Arafinwë—the one who caught his beloved’s eye—was finally presented to him, curious, loyal, bright-eyed, and ever willing to please, Gothmog finally relented. He was glad he did so. Arafinwë did not disappoint either of them in any way. 

“How is he with you?” He husked, his hands digging into Arafinwë’s sides. The act earned him a muffled but transported whine. He relished it.

“He pleases me well, beloved,” Eönwë gasped, chasing his release. When Arafinwë sank his mouth around his cock, he grazed the tip with his tongue. Eönwë shuddered, his every muscle tightening as spurt after spurt of his spend spilled onto Arafinwë tongue. “Swallow,” he commanded softly, his limbs shaking from the force of his climax, “and let Gothmog see to the rest.”

Arafinwë obeyed without hesitation. He swallowed the bitterness of the Lord Commander’s seed and lamented in silence when Eönwë moved away; the absence of his length made his mouth feel strangely empty. Nevertheless, he listened to the one behind him, grunting and growing drunk on the sounds he made while he fucked him relentlessly. And he was surprised. Gothmog, despite his reputation, was a tender lover. Even now, while caught in the throes of passion, he did nothing that could hurt him. He drew his hips back and pushed in again, growling when Arafinwë pushed against his thrusts halfway. Suddenly, he plunged deep, and he cried out his pleasure when his orgasm overcame him, hot, sharp, and powerful. Still, he held onto his senses and leaned down, sliding his hand around Arafinwë’s belly and taking him to hand. Two strokes were all it took before the lordling came, and he emptied himself onto the furs. Gothmog then pressed a kiss to his shoulder, and he drew away.

“Are you well, Arafinwë?” Eönwë spoke while Gothmog laid their companion to rest between them. “Did either of us go too far?”

“Neither of you did, Lord Commander,” Arafinwë admitted. He sighed—his body overcome with a sense of ease—when Eönwë drew him close, and Gothmog settled beside him. “I am glad I accepted the invitation to join you both this night.”

“We are glad also,” Gothmog said, burying his face in Arafinwë’s thick, golden hair. “Now, tell us more about yourself, lordling. This night is far from over, and there is many an hour left before you have to retreat to your own chambers.” 

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Comin up for the Seven days of ficsmas: the three Ms. Melkor, Mairon, and Maedhros. And for once, Big Tall Red Elf is not being put through the horrors.

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Today on Seven days of ficsmas: The first of two Fire and Blood themed stories, this one featuring Kermit Tully and Reader getting "creative" with mince pies.

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Coming up later for today's offering for Seven days of ficsmas - the medieval trio of Gothmog/Eönwë/Finarfin.