This is now my writing blog, in an attempt to keep things more organized. I write pretty much everything that I like at the moment. Commissions are open.
Examples of my work: ( 1, 2, 3 ) I also have this tumblr account specifically for my writings.
As you can see, I am capable of doing both short stories and multiple-chapter stories. I work best with prompts but I’m very flexible.
Fandoms I can write: BG3, Dungeons and Dragons, Hetalia, Dragon Age, Mass Effect, Disney, Transformers, Historical fiction, Harry Potter, Twilight, Silent Hill, Supernatural, ATLA, Star Wars, Pokemon, Star Trek, MLP, Witcher, Mortal Kombat, Stranger Things, and if you don’t see a fandom here you can ask me and I will tell you if I know it or not! I didn’t list them all here.
Things I will write:
OCs/Self-inserts
NSFW
Original Fiction (as long as enough information is provided)
Angst
Fluff
Crossovers
Headcanons
Torture/Gore
Omegaverse
AUs
Noncon/Dubcon
Furries
Fetishes (please specify so I can see whether I’m okay with it or not)
If I haven’t mentioned anything that you wish to know feel free to ask as well!
Things I will NOT write:
Pedophilia/Underage
DD/LG (Daddies/Mommies and littles)
Vore
Inflation
Watersports/Scat
Bestiality
Prices:
Short and simple! 1 USD for every 100 words, which I think is pretty fair. I take payments through PayPal. PLEASE NOTE that I have every right to reject a commission, even if it fits my rules.
Contact me over tumblr on this account or this account if you have an offer!
The patterns of the wormhole played out before him on the sensors, its eddies and currents folding space upon itself in a space that could have fit between both of his hands. It was something of a curiosity during his other, more important mission he was currently on, though it seemed that Telek had truly had gotten the greatest of prizes from this anomaly. This Federation ship on the other side of it claimed that it was from the Delta Quadrant, something he at first had dismissed as an obvious and rather poor deception, except when he analyzed the communications logs and he realized that they were in fact telling the truth. Beaming aboard simply confirmed it to his senses. This equipment was beyond what he had seen before, and if this truly was some sort of secret prototype ship of the Federation, would they really risk beaming him aboard?
His natural suspicion soon gave way to scientific curiosity and interest, and he was peering at the instruments with a barely restrained excitement. This unexpected encounter with the starship on the other side of the wormhole was turning out to be a marvel, but one that was clouded with an air of tragedy to it.
“You want me to send a message to Starfleet for you?” he asked Janeway, his voice restrained, but there was that barely noticeable hint of apology that let the captain know that he was not being difficult out of spite. “I am not a high-ranking official among my own people, so I doubt the Senate will take any request I make into serious account.”
Fiercely proud, and always inclined to view the Federation with hostility, navigating interactions with the Romulan Senate would probably be more difficult than flying Voyager through the wormhole. Still, Janeway was never one to back away from a challenge, especially one that was so important for her and the rest of the crew. “I think the Senate might be more willing to cooperate than you might think,” she said, trying not to sound like she was desperate. How she wished she could indulge in hopeful fantasies, but she had earlier only to have those hopes crushed, and this time she was trying to think with pragmatism. “This is a unique opportunity for them, after all.”
His pale eyes narrowed ever so slightly in thought, his brows giving them an even sharper look as he mulled over her words. “I see what you mean,” he replied. “I am not sure if they would, though. I hope they will, but it is best to remain skeptical.” He already sounded like he had given up, but the fact that he was even willing to try despite that spoke volumes.
“That is the best we can ask for,” she said with a nod. “We don’t have any ulterior motives, nothing more than a hope for compassion and charity, as I am sure you can understand being separated from the ones you love.”
His long fingers tightened a little on the sensor array before he relaxed them with a visible effort, his face still caught in a brief expression of longing before that too was smoothed over. Compared to Vulcans it was as obvious as a fireworks display, but there was still a mask that was difficult to penetrate. Klingons, Betazoids, even Cardassians were all easy to read or even guess what they were thinking, but Romulans were not. “I can very well,” he admitted after a moment, his lips barely moving as he spoke. “What may move an individual, though, may not move a collective.”
“I think basic emotions touch us all the same way,” she said, coming closer to him. “I know that we all share the same desires. We are all moved by the same things.”
Telek R’Mor gave her a searching look, different from how Tuvok could. There was an alertness in his eyes, an inquisitiveness that tried to read her mind through his gaze alone. She could see the thoughts and emotions leaping behind them, all on display for her to see and almost unsettling in their intensity. So much lay beneath the surface, waiting to be drawn out. “Which would be?”
Janeway held his eyes, steeling herself against them. She was not afraid, but she was feeling something else entirely. “We are far away from our homes, our families, just as you are now,” she began, “traveling in unfamiliar stars. We are lonely, and wish for a connection to something familiar. I am sure you understand that.”
There was a long moment of silence from him as he stared at her, the tension around his eyes softening. Slowly his hand drifted away from the sensor array, moving with the slow intent that she recognized from Vulcans so well, except when he hesitated in front of her face. When she did not react, he placed his finger under her chin and tilted her face upward to look at her better.
She allowed it; the moment felt surreal, almost dreamlike, like another anomaly had happened that placed the two of them in a different plane of existence from the rest of the world. It seemed like they were the only two beings left in the galaxy, this moment meant for the two of them alone. “It is a pity that a woman such as yourself is fated to feel so alone,” he said, breaking the silence at last. His tone had shifted, becoming something lower, tinged with velvet. Yet there was a trace of sadness as well, a shared pain that they did not need to speak out loud to understand.
“I could say the same about you,” she replied, reaching up to guide his hand away from her chin. Their fingers brushed together, ever so slightly, but she knew what such a thing meant to Vulcans, and their Romulan cousins were no different. She heard his little gasp, and pretended she did not, letting her touch graze the edges of his fingers as she pushed them away. “But this is why I think we will be able to help each other.”
His fingers did not leave hers, hovering so close that she could feel the warmth from his skin. “Perhaps you are right,” Telek said after a brief pause. He was almost smiling. “I think we have a great deal to offer each other.”
It seemed he had barely closed his eyes when he was opening them again, so little time having passed in his perception that it almost felt like a lie that the treatment was finished. Yet he knew that it was true, because the world had changed completely. Or perhaps the better word was that he had changed. He had been corrected, back to what he was supposed to be.
He did not awaken to chanting this time, but to silence around him. Tuvok preferred it at the moment, as the storm inside of him needed the quiet in order to be stilled. He had been disturbingly unbalanced recently, prone to shameful outbursts of emotion and displays, and he might feel humiliation if he allowed himself to feel such things. Before he had been unable to master those emotions and they had mastered him in turn, but now he rose above them like a flake of rust in an ion storm, feeling the writhing mass beneath him but no longer at their mercy. Instead they were at his, and the cool armor of his discipline and training slid over his mind, refreshing in its certainty.
Sitting up, he felt his emotions stilling inside of him, like they should be. They still quivered in him, restless as emotions always were, but he was so used to reining them in that it was like second nature. He breathed in, remembering to be above them, let them roil in the valley he had created for them, while he soared upon the winds of logic and control.
“Tuvok?” Neelix’s voice broke the silence like lightning forking through the sky, and Tuvok’s eyes opened.
Naturally, Neelix would be there to test his patience to the best of his ability. Though the most ironic of it all was that the Talaxian did so unwittingly, which is what made it so effective. His old master could never have possibly invented a more strenuous exercise for his self-control than anything Neelix did by simply being himself.
“What is it, Mr. Neelix?” he asked, his voice cool and calm. It was a good thing to hear from himself. He remembered all too well how he had sounded these past few days: unfortunately The Doctor had not removed the memories from his mind, so he was left to be tormented by them. The only thing to do now was move on from them, as that Tuvok was thankfully gone.
“Are you alright?” Neelix asked, leaning forward a little, eyes wide as if he thought that somehow there might be something wrong with him.
An assumption lacking both logic and sense. If something was wrong, then The Doctor would have never brought him back to consciousness. The fact that he had meant that the surgery was a success, so there was little reason to ask a redundant question. Even now the hologram was coming over with his medical tricorder in hand and Tuvok could tell just from the sound of its beeping that he was fine. Still, those like Neelix usually required some extra consolation for some reason.
“As I have awakened, I am clearly in good health,” he said, his tone dry.
The Doctor switched the medical tricorder off. “As if I would leave you in anything other than perfect condition,” he said with a smirk. He threw a look at Neelix, almost as if he was a little offended that the other was even implying that Tuvok could be anything but. “That Vulcan brain of yours is operating as it should now, for better or for worse.”
Tuvok ignored the statement except for the parts that actually mattered. “Thank you, Doctor,” he said, sliding himself off of the bed. Neelix was doing his usual habit of invading his personal space by lingering too close, while also being somewhat aware of this fact and trying to awkwardly correct himself, constantly shifting between the two states. At this point Tuvok was so used to it that he simply stopped paying attention.
“Do you need to take a moment to rest, Tuvok?” he asked, his anxiety clear in his voice.
“Your concern is misplaced,” Tuvok replied calmly. He knew Neelix was high-strung, particularly when he was confronted with a lack of emotions. A flaw that Tuvok had learned to simply live with. “I am feeling like myself again.”
Neelix’s smile slipped ever so slightly but regained itself. How peculiar, that so many other species fought to keep their emotions in place whereas Vulcans always strove to master and suppress them. “I see,” the Talaxian said with forced cheer. “That’s—that’s good. I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
There was something false to his words, but Tuvok knew that Neelix would never lie about being glad for his health. He glanced at Neelix, seeing how the latter was fighting to keep his happiness in place. He could now examine it dispassionately, much to his relief, and rather than respond to emotion with emotion—something that could only exacerbate the situation to disastrous results—he could now respond with calmness. And when one had calmness and logic as their weapons, they could always strike to the heart of any issue.
“Thank you for being here when I woke up,” he said then. His words were stripped of all emotion, bare and blank, but they did not need to have emotion. Their mere existence was enough.
Neelix’s golden eyes widened for a moment, as if he was for some reason unable to comprehend what he just heard, before he grinned. “You’re welcome, Mr. Vulcan,” he said. It was far more restrained than what Tuvok expected, though it may have been simply because he was overwhelmed with his emotions at the moment. More reason to control them.
Tuvok inclined his head, then turned to leave the sickbay, knowing full well the Talaxian would be trailing after him like a particularly noisy and talkative shadow. He allowed it.
The smell of sulfur wasn't all that bad once you got used to it, Gilbert mused as he watched the various collection of people through the haze of steam in the room. Sure, the first day or two of the reek was enough to make anyone feel dizzy but now the scent barely registered in his mind. He could hear voices in their various languages drifting to his ears, complaining about the smell, complimenting the baths and how much better they made them feel, conversing about family matters and the intricacies of their lives which he was not privy to... for the first time in a long while he was back in a place where everybody was from somewhere else. It was most curious and at the same time refreshing.
He heard movement behind him, bare whispers of it that was all another delicate layer to the muted murmur of noise buzzing about the building. The swish of a towel, the ripple of water being disturbed. "I thought you would be joining me," Frederick's amused voice lilted from behind.
Drawn away by a force more powerful and tempting than his simple curiosity could ever be, Gilbert stepped back from the door and made sure to close it. A servant took his place to make sure no one disturbed them. As he made his way over to the steaming pool in the middle of the room he let his eyes enjoy the sight of Frederick already relaxing in its depths, not a stitch of clothing on him and watching Gilbert with one of those looks of his that made Gilbert's skin prickle with gooseflesh. He offered a matching smile to Fritz's grin and sat himself on the edge of the pool, submerging his feet while keeping the rest of himself dry.
A raised eyebrow was Frederick's response. "I assure you, you will be just as safe in here as you would be up there," he said, resting his arms on the edge and then his chin on top of them. He was dripping water on the Roman mosaic patterns that curled along the edges of the pool, but seemed not to care.
Gilbert's smile widened, his eyes roving over the planes Frederick's shoulders and back, tangled through with the swirled patterns that his wet hair played along them. He never got to see his king like this, at least not in the light of day, and he greedily picked out new details that he could see in this brighter, clearer light. "Of that I am quite certain," he said, reaching out and running his fingers through that hair, just like he had done the other night. The water made it look darker, hid all the hints of red and washed it out to pure brown, but even so seeing it without powder or a wig was a rarity.
He heard a soft chuckle and the muscles he traced under his fingertips relaxed further. "And it feels excellent," Frederick continued, his voice slurring just slightly. "Honestly, who goes into a compound famous for its medicinal baths but never uses them?" His fingers plucked at the edge of Gilbert's dressing gown, running the silk between them.
Gilbert twirled a bit of hair, trying to ignore his desire to shiver at the sensation of wet skin under his touch. "I am not sick, though," he said.
"You were sick quite recently."
"And thanks to your efforts, I am feeling much better." He gave Frederick a reassuring smile. "I rarely get sick, anyway. That privilege falls to you, I am afraid." And he was glad to see his king improving. He looked much more relaxed now, far less pale than when they had first come to Aix-la-Chapelle, when he had been running on the last dregs of his energy.
"That does not stop you from enjoying the purifying qualities of the water, regardless," Frederick replied at once. "No matter how you feel now, you will always leave feeling better. Besides," he paused, the line of his mouth growing soft, "I would most enjoy your company."
Now that... well that was just plain unfair. Gilbert forced his smile to stay in place while he peered down at his king and traced his neck lightly. "You have my company here," he said, indicating to himself with a grand flourish.
Frederick's eyes narrowed, an edge coming into them to do battle with the tenderness that had peacefully occupied them moments before. "You know what I mean," he said, lifting his head. His stare was downright unnerving now, searching his face until he wanted to squirm. "Why are you so hesitant to join me? Are you afraid of us being seen together?"
The very idea made him ridiculously happy. But his skin prickled everywhere when he tried to imagine it. Removing his robe, stepping into the water to relax next to his lover--gods he wanted to, he wanted to show the both of them off the world and to let them know that Frederick was his alone, but he would be so exposed there. It felt as if every thread in his robe was pressing against his scars, making him painfully aware of the sheer multitude of them that overlapped each other on his body, spelling centuries of pain, battles, loss, and torture. He pulled his robe tighter around him, focusing on the feeling of fabric on his skin so it might chase away the crawling. "It is not that, no one would care here anyway," he said. "I would want nothing more than to be with you, in sight of everyone." Not as if this particular room was a good example but nearly all of the facility was public anyway.
But he could tell from the expression on Frederick's face that he had slipped up, had said or done something to give himself away because it was that look, the one where he was in battle and changed his plans to exploit a sudden weakness. "Are you afraid of what I'll see when you take this off?" Fritz asked, low and serious while his hand tugged on the dressing gown for emphasis.
Gilbert swallowed, his fingers twitching against the cool fabric. He silently cursed his king for being too observant and intelligent for his own good and doubted that this would be the last time that he would do so. He had no words to say to that, nothing he could put coherently anyway, so he said nothing.
A moment later Frederick sighed and let go of the robe, placing his hand on Gilbert's knee instead. "I don't mind your scars at all, Gilbert. You know that." His thumb stroked gently, tracing the edge of an old burn scar. Gilbert's feet and calves were covered in them, some more noticeable and some barely a different shade of color than his regular skin, and Frederick looked at them all with an untroubled face.
It took an effort not to sigh. "You say that now," he muttered, "but your past sightings of them were during the night, by the light of candles. It is easy to be deceived by them."
"I think you should let me be the judge of what I will think," Frederick responded.
Gilbert's head whipped down to meet the hard gaze boring into him. A second or two passed, the longest moments of his life, before Frederick softened. "Do you really think I am so heartless as to suddenly revile the sight of your body? Especially when I have already seen it?"
He felt something inside of him grow soft as well. Something that had been holding itself tense, quivering in anticipation for some blow perceived to be forthcoming. "I do not think that you will," he said slowly. "But it has happened before. People look at me differently after they have seen me."
Frederick gave him another look, searching his face, then smiled again. "Then they are not the people whose opinions you should give such high regards to. That is not my confident Prussia speaking to me." His hand trailed higher, sliding a bit of fabric away to reveal a pale scar that crossed Gilbert's thigh for two inches. He examined it for a moment before bending down to kiss it. The contact sent shivers down Gilbert's spine. "They are all a part of you. I could not possibly hate or be repulsed by them."
Gilbert watched him in disbelief, not even aware that he had been holding his breath the whole time until his lungs started to ache from it. "There are many more than that," he said, his words coming out in a rush. Even then they held less weight to his ears, as if he had made them as light as the air in his lungs by holding them back. "And they look worse."
"I am aware," Frederick said. "Remember, I have seen a great deal of them already." He looked up again, eyes light and very blue under the lashes that framed them. "Will you not give me a chance, at least?"
He was so gentle, so pleading in his words. Gilbert could not help but smile at him and relax, letting go of the fabric that he had been holding so tightly. The answering stroke on his thigh and the wider smile from his king decided it for him. He still hesitated for a fraction of a second as he opened his gown, but that did not stop him from shrugging it from his shoulder to pool at his hips. Then he took a deep, steeling breath, and slid into the pool next to Frederick.
Frederick's eyes had changed. They were wider now, shock sweeping through them along with what might have been a fraction of horror. But no--as Gilbert searched and searched again for--revulsion, pity, fear, or any of the number of ways people usually reacted and annoyed him. More like the expression of someone who had prepared for something and what they got was not what they had expected in the least. That was new.
"You certainly weren't exaggerating when you said the dim light hides them," Frederick said mildly. His gaze roamed over him with an alacrity and light in his eye that Gilbert could not place a name to. One of his hands reached up, then paused, hanging in the space between them. "May I?" he asked, turning his hand a little to show its innocuousness.
Curiosity. That's what he was seeing. Gilbert blinked, all at once feeling strangely shy and yet curious himself. What was he intending to do? Where was his disgust, his fright at the sight of someone such as himself? "You may," he said, leaning back and plastering a smirk on his face.
Frederick dipped his head and smiled, then closed the space between them by grazing the scar on his shoulder. Ah, that one. Of course he would pick that one. It frightened everyone who saw it and he was certain that in a few moments the steam from the water would turn its normal pale pink to a belying red. Frederick's fingers were infinitely gentle, touching only the edges and bring a shiver across his body from the feeling. Immediately Fritz pulled back. "My apologies, did I hurt you?" he asked.
The kingdom shook his head, the grin on his face real this time. "No, no, it doesn't hurt at all," he assured, moving closer. "In fact it feels rather nice. Tingles a little."
"Oh?" Frederick's worry morphed to mischief like a candle being snuffed. His hand was tracing along his back again. "Does it now?" The touch was bolder this time, still soft but now he could clearly feel where it was. It left his shoulder and moved down and Gilbert was surprised that no questions followed. There were always questions, and Frederick had one for everything. But the next time Frederick spoke it was not a question at all. "You have been whipped." A pause. "You have been whipped a lot."
Try as he might, he couldn't suppress the wince the words brought. "Yes, I have," he replied and waited. Now it was coming.
Except it didn't. Whether by his tone or Frederick's own intelligence, his king did not pry. But that couldn't be right, everyone always asked. Gilbert chanced a peek at Frederick to see what had sealed his restless and inquisitive mind so thoroughly and was startled to see that his eyes were dark with anger. Was he really so affected by the fact that he had been hurt in the past? That was...Gilbert had no idea what that was. The thought was new to him, no one had ever-
All at once his mind was silenced by Frederick leaning forward and kissing his shoulder, directly on his scar and heaven have mercy he thought just his hand had been torturous enough. "If I could, I would take this away," he whispered against his skin, soft and sad.
Surprise had silenced him. He had no idea what to say, he had never dealt with anything like this before, yet his hand seemed to be moving independently from his brain. His fingers brushed Frederick's cheek, then moved to tangle in those lovely locks of hair. "It is alright now," he said, "it doesn't hurt me anymore. It was a long time ago."
A sigh escaped Fritz and he pressed against the hand while moving to kiss another faint scar at the base of his neck. "Still, I would rather it not happen at all." His hand came around to stroke where his lips had been a moment earlier. "I would rather you to have never been hurt at all. To never feel the touch of a blade here."
He almost, almost slipped up. That one was my own fault. The words were forming on his lips then he stopped himself. If he said that then he would have to explain why it was his fault and the last thing Frederick needed to hear was a recount of Grunwald. He was already sad enough, he didn't need to hear that Gilbert had nearly died in the battle that earned him that particular scar. "But without them I would be different," he spoke instead.
Another sigh, but this one didn't sound as heavy. "That is the most painful part of all, cher," Frederick said, lifting his head once more. His eyes were sad, but he was smiling as he took Gilbert's face in his hands and kissed him. "Although I would not change you for anything. And they make you look very handsome, on top of everything."
Gilbert raised an eyebrow at that, halted from answering by his king kissing him again and he felt his lips curving into a grin in response to Fritz's own. "You know I've been called many things because of my scars," he said when they broke apart, "but handsome was never one of them."
There was a glint in Frederick's eye, chasing away the sadness that had taken residence there. "Then those fools had no idea what they were talking about," he dismissed them easily. His hands trailed up Gilbert's chest, mapping over the few there, and stopped by one that was inches away from his heart. "And here I am, at constant war with myself. Whoever gave you this mark was trying to kill you. If I had been there I would have him killed instead. But here you are now: alive, whole, but bearing marks of suffering that no man should have to live through. Is it wrong of me to wish them gone? Or more wrong that I should take away what makes you so strong and perfect?" His expression hadn't changed from that musing, half-sad and half-mischievous mix. Gilbert wasn't even sure if Frederick wanted an answer or was just voicing his thoughts out loud, he was still floundering after the sudden change in topic as he had been ready to quip that some of those people Frederick had called fools were his own ancestors.
Silence reigned for a moment before Frederick leaned forward to place a kiss on that scar as well; tender, gentle, worshipping not only the mark but the one who carried it.
Unease clenched in his gut at the sight. Gods he loved that, he loved watching Frederick kneel like that but it was also deeply and profoundly wrong. "Stop, stop," he whispered, putting his hands on Fritz's shoulders to push him away as gently as possible. "I cannot accept such homage," he said to that confused face, praying he could understand, "it is unworthy of a king to bestow it."
Frederick's face went blank. That kind of blank that made Gilbert's heart leap with it, and he stared. He stared so long and hard that Gilbert could see his own puzzled features reflected in his eyes and he began to feel even more uncomfortable from it. He had to have said something wrong, he had to, but he didn't know why it was wrong.
What he did know was that this was more than just an empty silence; Frederick was hiding from him, and that was the most painful truth of all. Slamming a door in his face would have achieved the exact same effect, but he knew there were thoughts bubbling under that cool mask the same way a pot of soup over coals boils only at the bottom. Gilbert was about to apologize--although pointlessly in his mind because he didn't see a good reason to except getting Fritz to smile again--but Frederick beat him to it.
"I'm not doing you homage," he said slowly, his mask slipping away now that he was done thinking. His hands came up to grab Gilbert's, lifting them from his shoulders and tangling their fingers together. "Not in the slightest. If you think that then you are very ignorant in the ways of love, in spite of all your years of age."
His heart felt like it was pounding out of his chest, it was so hard that he could feel the arteries in his neck beating against his skin until his head felt dizzy. Frederick didn't sound mad or disappointed but Gilbert couldn't tell what he sounded like. He floundered, searching for some sort of defense, and found nothing in his brain to help him. "I...have loved," he whispered, choosing his words with care, trying to understand the shape of what he wanted to say, "but I have never been in love." Saying those words and admitting that was like swallowing poison and only a second later his heart gave a particularly hard thud to remind him that this was all new and he was out of his depth. His gripped Frederick's hands to stop his own from shaking. "You'll have to teach me," he blurted out, hating every word of it but for Fritz he would do anything.
This time, his king chuckled. It felt like a knife slowly cutting into his flesh. "Oh, my dear, I cannot teach you how to love. No one can. It is simply something you do, act upon your feelings." His amusement vanished when he looked at Gilbert's face and he was reaching forward in an instant. "Shh, calm down cher, it is nothing bad. Ignorance is not a bad thing." He kissed him and stroked his face, following the paths of his fingers with his lips. "No one taught me either, and I am definitely no expert in the ways of love. Just--what do you feel now? Act upon them."
I feel like going and asking whatever gods that exist what in the world I ever did to deserve you, Gilbert thought, a fire burning bright in his mind. There was no way this could have been an accident, somewhere in the past he had to have done something good, something so pure-hearted that Fate decided to reward him by giving him the most perfect man he had ever met. The wave of emotion rising in him was crushing in its intensity, it felt like nothing he could ever say or do would satisfy it.
But Frederick had given him the best advice one could give him: to act. He certainly knew how to do that. He had to do something to settle his out of control emotions or else they would kill him and this time he was the one reaching, he was the one pulling his king into a kiss that tried to tell him everything he didn't have the eloquence to say out loud. But while it set his nerves ablaze, it was not enough. He wanted to do anything and everything for Frederick, the man who had done more for him, was still doing more, than he could ever hope to match.
Gods he just wanted to make Frederick happy. In any way that he possibly could.
He heard Frederick make a muffled noise and then he was being kissed back, lips moving in a slow dance around his that sent him into shudders. Water lapped at the edges of the pool, ripples of his movements creating little waves. Hands trailed up his chest, to his neck, teasing and coaxing and his body nearly jumped to meet them and the fiery warmth they left behind in his nerves. But it wasn't enough.
Gilbert let himself have one last nibble before he grabbed his king's hips--eliciting a surprised noise--and lifted him with no effort whatsoever. A breathless chuckle in his ear told him that Fritz understood then what he was trying to do, and Frederick was cooperating wholly, shifting his legs so his knees were on either side of Gilbert's and he was mere inches from straddling him. There, that was much better. As much as he loved the feeling of Frederick's hips under his hands, he loved the rest of him even more and his excited hands began to roam, starved for sensation of their own.
Wicked eyes grinned at him and he was kissing again, pressing closer and nearly writhing under the sensation of skin against skin, a moan building in his throat until Frederick shushed him. He wanted to be loud, to groan and cry out because he would burst if he didn't, but Fritz's hands had a way of running across his body and winding those feelings tightly, until they were spun up inside of him and he could do little but shake under the force of them. He could feel similar tremors in Frederick and tried to make his touch as slow as possible so he could feel every jump of his muscles, every quiver of anticipation. It was the slowest, sweetest torture he could imagine punctuated by kisses that were only a breath of relief before Frederick would kiss a scar and send him right back into the most exquisite heaven (or hell? there was sulfur around after all) on this earth.
When they finally broke apart Frederick was beaming, face flushed and bright, and Gilbert spoke first. "So, you really think my scars make me look handsome?" he asked, leaning back to let the light hit them fully. Shameless, yes, but he loved compliments too much to care.
The reply he got was a wider smile, something like a distant cousin to a grin. "Extremely attractive," Frederick corrected him, playing with the sounds of the words in a way that told he knew precisely what his nation was doing. He made a show of his eyes being drawn down, along with a touch that inevitably followed, drawing circles in his chest, flirting with the edge of that scar. "Call me insane, but where most men would look upon you in fear because they see scars and think danger, I think strength. I think preservation." His lips trailed after his hands, whispering the words like a prayer against his skin. "I can only think of how determined you must be to have gone through all of these and survived."
He could feel his breath getting quicker, nerves under his skin taunt as they waited for the next touch, the next word. He wanted to wait, he wanted to stretch it out but he couldn't, he felt like his skin was glowing from the praise and his hands were grasping Frederick and pulling him closer. "Go on," he said, his lips brushing Frederick's ear as he ran his nails gently down his back. Gods, his skin was so soft and warm from the water. He wanted every inch of it pressed against him.
"Oh," he heard Frederick say, his tone shifting in a way that went straight down Gilbert's spine. "But of course my brave nation. How could I not admire you?" His king glanced up briefly, his features grinning, before leaning in to kiss his chest and murmur against it. "Just look at yourself, standing so tall and strong after all those scars. You make me want to be that indomitable, that untouchable, you make me want to bow before you." He paused then, a wicked chuckle leaving him. "You like this, don't you?" he asked in a tone that already knew the answer.
No, he was not turning red, that was just the hot water. Gilbert cleared his throat and tried to clear his head along with it, trying to ignore the echoes Frederick's words whispering to him in his head. "Everyone likes being praised," he said, trying to shrug it off.
Frederick's smile did not change. "Likes it this much?" he replied and plunged his hand down to grab--
A choked gasp left Gilbert as fingers curled around him and heaven he had already been hard and now he could feel himself swelling more under Frederick's touch. "I-" he couldn't think, caught red-handed in his deception, "I-" then the hand started to stroke him and now he really couldn't think. He bucked into the grip, a moan building up in his throat.
Frederick kissed him again, pressing closer and oh he was hard too, Gilbert could feel it pressing against him. His hands roamed over his monarch, finding his hips and squeezing them hard, relishing in the feel. He got a wiggle as a reward, pushing into his touch and grinding their bodies together, he wasn't sure who was moaning but he could feel the noise deep in the core of his bones.
"Gilbert," Frederick whispered against his lips, his grip on his length tightening and giving him a slow stroke.
Another moan was torn from him and his nails scratched along Frederick's skin as he arched his back, a slave to the touch. He was being pulled by it like a leash and he went obediently. His chest was heaving, skin alive with thousands of sensations that washed over him in waves, one after another and heightening his senses until even the slightest brush against him made him shiver. "You'll make go even farther if you keep this up," he warned, even though every thought in his head was screaming for Frederick to say that it was fine and to keep going, that he wanted it-
"I want you to," Frederick purred into his ear, his breath curling across his neck in a way that the steam could not compare. He stroked him again and followed up his statement with a nibble along Gilbert's ear, a shudder wracking him as his nation moaned in response.
Thank the gods Frederick always knew what he wanted, as if he could read his mind. A sigh left him and he pulled Frederick close, settling him in his lap comfortably before moving his hands behind his king, fingers tracing teasingly along his skin. Warm and wet from the water, his finger slid in him without any resistance, then two.
Hearing Frederick's answering whine made him look up but the blissful, flushed expression he was met with silenced any concerns he had. He moved his fingers carefully, stretching and pressing against Frederick's soft walls while his king shuddered in his arms, hips rocking into his touches wantonly. The hand around him was stroking again and he could not help but move into it, creating a slow rhythm between the both of them that made muscles deep inside if him clench in sweet anticipation. A third finger joined in and now he really heard Fritz moan, the hand on his shoulder clenching so hard that the nails were digging into his skin the same way the muscles inside clamped down on his fingers. He could barely move them but that didn't stop him as he curled and pushed, his hungry eyes drinking in how Frederick writhed in response. "Frederick."
Glazed eyes fluttered open, staring at him before sharpening. "Yes, yes, let me-" on the same track as ever, Frederick let go of him and sat up straight, shuddering as Gilbert slipped his fingers out. "I'll need you to come forward a little," he said, beckoning to him.
"As much as I love it when you ride me, I don't think you'll be able to do it if I'm not laying down." Despite his skepticism, Gilbert still obliged. Thankfully the seat he was on was deep enough that he could inch forward without being in danger of falling off.
A breathy chuckle left his king. "Not with that state of mind, certainly," he said with a cheeky grin that made him look nothing like the calm, controlled man Gilbert and the rest of the world were so used to seeing. He crawled forward, his eyes never leaving the kingdom's as he pressed closer, thighs sliding along Gilbert's and his heart beating against his as he found his position and lowered himself. "Help me," he whispered, tilting his hips forward.
"Come here," Gilbert said, placing a hand on Frederick's back to guide him while trying to ignore the racing of his heart. Even closer, so close that he had to lean back a little as Frederick sank onto him.
The heat and tightness that enveloped him was incredible, Frederick took him so easily yet the way he clenched around Gilbert made him want nothing more than to bury himself inside of his king as deep as he could possibly go. A loud groan escaped him, echoed by Frederick, and he tried to arch up, but to no avail. The angle was too shallow, teasing them both but unable to give the depth they craved. Frederick scowled fiercely and tried to scoot closer but there was no room, his knees hit the wall of the pool. "W-wait," Gilbert gasped, an idea taking hold of him. His hands reached down, finding purchase in the soft flesh and squeezing, startling a gasp out of the other man. "Wrap your legs around me, I'll hold you." He smirked and squeezed again for good measure.
Frederick's frown lightened. He nodded and held onto him as he adjusted himself, letting Gilbert support him as he freed one leg to hook it around his waist, and then the other. The contact was maddening and Gilbert couldn't resist the urge to pull him close, nearly crushing Frederick against him with their faces inches apart and the legs tightened in response and gods. It was like being trapped and he loved it, loved how they held him so hard and everything in him coiled tightly in response. He bit down on Frederick's neck, wanting to sink his teeth there and imprint his mark on that lovely skin. I want you to remember this.
Frederick groaned and shuddered so hard in his grip that Gilbert couldn't stop himself from following suite. "Gilbert, please," Frederick begged, begged, trying to move, but to no avail as Gilbert was still holding him up.
As if the desire wasn't driving him mad already. "I know," he whispered back, lowering his king as he said and yes yes-
The heat enveloped him in response, so tight that it seemed to tug on every muscle in his body like strings in a spider web all wrapped around the core of his self, dancing to the pleasure that was plucked out of them. It was perfect, the feeling of filling Frederick and pressing against every inch of him, to feel him as no one else ever could. Fritz's nails were clawing him again, his face flickering through expressions of pleasure, longing, even a hint of madness that Gilbert watched with the same intensity of a man in a desert finding an oasis. Gods, being sheathed completely inside Frederick, how could he have lived so long without it? There was a moment where he simply sat, relishing in the feeling and waiting for his king to adjust to him, all the while listening to the quick pants against his neck. His knees started to ache, so he lifted Frederick up so he could cross his legs underneath him, creating a comfortable spot for them both.
Frederick gasped at the movement and jerked his hips in response. The albino responded swiftly, bucking up while pulling Frederick down, a sharp cry coming from Frederick as he thrust himself in deeply, holding his hips with enough force to bruise them. After that it was easy, both of them moving as fluidly as partners in a dance, Frederick swaying his hips and balancing on his shoulders while Gilbert held him and moved him, the both of them pressed so close together it was impossible to untangle them.
Water slapped against the edge of the pool, goaded into messy waves by their movements. Frederick's breath was hot on his neck, his ears, while his hands and legs gripped him ever tighter from the unrelenting thrusts he was riding into. His lips were on him and Gilbert kissed him back just as hard, finding no resistance as he pushed past Frederick's lips, only a sweetly teasing touch that sucked and caressed him in desperation and goaded him on. A small corner of Gilbert's mind told him that he was surely going to leave marks behind from the force of it all but the rest of his insane, one-track thoughts ignored everything that wasn't focused on loving his king as deeply, as thoroughly as he could put all of his soul into. Frederick was so hot, so tight around him and he just had to give him everything he could, it simply wouldn't be right otherwise.
Nails clawed at his back, accompanied by Frederick's strangled cry as his king lurched forward, burying into the crook of his neck and holding him as if his life depended on it. "I've always loved this," Fritz whispered against his skin in wild abandon. "When y-you hold me like this and-ah!-l-leave nothing to restraint." Panting, Frederick kissed along his neck, up to his ear to trace the edge with his lips, still desperately gasping his words out. "How strong you are even wi-with those m-marks and-and have so much power-"
Whatever he was going to say was lost in a shout as Gilbert hit him deep inside, the sound piercing right through the nation but Gilbert did not care. Frederick was perfect for him, too perfect and his words brought on an insanity teetering on the brink of pure, blissful pleasure but he could not, not he could hold him harder, move faster and drive the sensation higher and higher-
Frederick gave a shudder along his whole body, a final, strangled moan leaving him as his walls tightened harder than they had before, dragging Gilbert with him into his release. A hot flash jolted through him, fierce and culminating behind his eyes, robbing him of his vision for a brief second. It was pure perfection, everything good and right in the world as he sagged in exhaustion and held his love in his arms, their limbs tangled and breathing exactly the same. To hold his king like this, to fill him and know that only he could... Gilbert trembled at the very thought and hoped that Frederick would just think it was his tiredness. Even the heat and sulfur were muted to his senses, Frederick being the sole occupier of his attention. Gilbert smiled and ran his hands lazily up his back, trailing his fingers along wet skin and drawing aimless patterns as he went.
A spot of heat enveloped his shoulder as Frederick placed a kiss there, finally stirring himself in his kingdom's arms. "You," he said drowsily, sitting up to look at him through lidded eyes, "are beyond words."
Gilbert felt a smile curling his lips and he brought it into a full-fledged smirk. "I know," he replied, shifting so Frederick could sit more comfortably on him.
There was a scoff and Frederick dug a nail into his skin for a moment. "And horribly arrogant," he added. "But I love you anyway."
He chuckled gently. "I love you too, my dear." He helped Frederick as his king sat up and moved to get off of him, eventually ending up pressed against his side with a contented smile. Gilbert gave him a few moments of peace before grinning. "You know, it's a good thing we didn't invite Henry along for this one."
"Oh Lord!" Frederick said, a rare, delighted laugh springing from his lips that echoed throughout the room. It was loud and bright and it made Gilbert's heart soar and yes he made his king laugh! "Poor Henry is having a hard time here, no doubt. We keep ignoring him."
"Not right now, he isn't. He's out there somewhere conversing with some..." Gilbert frowned as he concentrated. "Dutchmen. Probably brushing up on his language."
Fritz tilted his head up to look at him. "You can sense that?"
"Mhmm. So you can keep the attention on me all you like."
Another, smaller laugh. "Oh no, you greedy little thing. I invited him along and the least I can do is be a good brother and spend time with him." Fritz stretched himself, resting further against him. He looked happy, truly happy and content with the world. "Besides, it's far too hot in here after all of that. I was going to get out soon anyway." He drew lazy patterns against Gilbert's chest as he said that, tracing over the scars as if they were not there.
The nation nodded and stretched out as well, slipping an arm around him and resting his hand on his hip. "Just tell me when, and we'll go back out there," he said, basking against his king for just a bit longer.
~~~
((A/N: In 1742, shortly after the First War of Austrian Succession, Frederick was sent by his royal physicians to go to the medicinal baths at Aix-la-Chapelle (modern day Aachen) for two weeks of rest and relaxation. This was likely due a mix of *complete* physical and mental exhaustion. He had just come back from a war from which he was victorious, but while he had been warring, internal affairs had been neglected. Administration and finances were in disarray, the war chest was practically empty, the army needed more recruits, arms, cannons, horses, everything, along with expensive fortifications needing to be built in newly-conquered Silesia, the treasury held only three-million thalers and salaries still had to be paid... and the list goes on, and on, and on.
Frederick threw himself into work as soon as he got back, with a daily routine that began at four in the morning and ended at eleven at night, working on fixing these problems. Since he just got back from a war, it is small wonder that the workload caused his health to began deteriorating. Thus, his trip to the medicinal baths. Frederick himself wrote to his brother William: "We see many foreigners here, a number of Dutch officers, but very little distinguished company." Henry got dragged along, and Voltaire even stopped by for a visit. I have no idea what the baths looked like in the 18th century, but given the Romans were the first to build baths there I figured some of their architecture couldn't hurt.
As the wonderful Robert Asprey put it: "Voltaire described the king as treating two famous physicians, Cappel and Gotzweiler, "as he treated other powers" — that is, arbitrarily. Frederick did not hesitate to lecture them on the finer points of diagnosis nor to scoff at prescribed regimens. Nevertheless, the stern routine — he was to write no poetry; he was not even to think — seems to have relaxed him. Although he complained of vertigo, he put on weight and left the spa tan and refreshed, a convert forever to medicinal baths."))
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It was said that he was unreadable, his emotions and motivations known to no one but himself, but he did not see how that was possible. To him, everything was clear. Perhaps those around him were simply blind, but it was hard for him to imagine how that was so. Not when, to him, things were so obvious to the point of it being almost ridiculous that others did not see the same. As if they were willing themselves to be blind. Ketheric had never allowed himself such a foolish distraction, though. Even in life his vision had always been piercing and clear, no matter which god he had followed. He had always led with devotion and clarity, but it was simply the changing goals and desires that brought him down different paths.
Some things could catch his eye, though. Like the Nightwarden.
It was her confidence and arrogance that caught his attention first. That was, of course, not entirely different from anyone else under his service. After all, to become a True Soul, one did have to be confident. And confidence was the progenitor of arrogance, so that was natural as well. But Minthara had those long before she had found her light in the path of the Absolute. That was the trait that made her more interesting than the others. It reminded Ketheric of himself, in a way. His confidence had only wavered once, in a terrible memory whose results were now obvious around them, with thick shadows rolling about the land like fog and devouring all light and hope that dared to bloom there still. But he never regretted what he did. Not once. He was not a man of regret.
Neither was Minthara. Or rather, she pretended that she was not. She was better at it than most, but the General could see it lurking somewhere inside of her. That steely armor of sharpness and anger hiding something softer and weaker inside of it. It would take reaching to get to, but Ketheric knew he could get it. He could reach where no others would.
In his dark lands and his dark halls she flitted in and out like a shadow. Not that it was on purpose. She was a drow, that was simply the way they were. It was something that she did naturally, and also made her intriguing. There were so many parts to her that were hiding something else, or showing a facet of a different part of her. He liked watching her, both when she knew that he was watching and when she did not. He could control that, too. He could make it so the shadows of his own towers would conceal or show him. It was another gift from his Lord, a small one, but an effective one all the same. He knew where she was at all times, his scrying eyes allowed him to peer at her from different angles, to see where she wandered the halls, and watch her. It was not the same as watching her with his own two eyes, but he at least did not have to follow in her trail all the time in order to see her.
He was deathless, cold and rigid and unmoving, yet there was a flicker of heat for her somewhere. Her chin tilted up so proudly, her hair pulled up tight as if to keep her discipline tight and controlled, her eyes narrowing as if she felt that she was far better than anyone else in the room with her...except for him. But even then, he knew that deep down she did not truly feel it. That was the nature of drow. They always believed they were better than anyone and everyone else, the vermin that they were. He wondered how she truly felt about him, when he peeled back all of those layers of deference and respect that she liked to wear. He knew it must have galled her somewhere to take such orders from him. All drow secretly hated their superiors, and they made it an art to pretend not to.
He wondered how it would feel to touch her. He was deathless, cold, dry. He lived, but he did not live. He existed, but it was an existence blessed by his dead Lord, who in His great kindness blessed his daughter to live again as well. But Minthara, she was alive in ways that seemed almost alien to him now. It had been long enough removed from him that while he remembered what it had been like to be alive and feel alive, it was like viewing a memory through a fogged window: something that he understood conceptually, but the true feelings and thoughts that had been in his mind eluded them. But she was not like that. She was sharp and alive and bristling, her ferocity and her burning life shining through every movement she made, every word she snapped. It was like a wine that could race through his veins, stirring something to a semblance of life. In his domain where shadows and death reigned, shadows and life like what Minthara was seemed oddly ironic, but oddly intriguing.
Through his dozens of eyes he watched and imagined what they might do together, what he longed to do. His desires were not gentle, and he would break her in his hands, but bring her screaming his name at the same time. He wanted Moonrise Towers to swallow her up like they had swallowed him, and he wanted to see what she would become once it had happened. She was in ways like a night flower, beautiful and mysterious and something from the shadows, but he was no longer a man who could pick flowers. But he was a man who knew beauty when he saw it, and could still wish and want that beauty. A specter of the night he was, something from shadows and graves, far beyond mortals and anything they could understand, and Minthara he could drag up to taste the barest glimpse of the heights he had been given, before he would throw her back down at his feet again. His heart pumped dead blood, no warmth left at all, and he wanted to wilt her and watch it happen in front of him.
For now, he savored the thought as he watched her roaming. He simply was seated, and watched through three different eyes her progress, and smiled to himself.
Character(s): Éowyn, Witch-king of Angmar
Pairing: Éowyn/Witch-king of Angmar
Warning(s): Non-con, 18+
Words: 999
A/N: An AU where instead of the Witch-King dying, he captures Éowyn and takes her back to Angmar to do what he wishes to her.
---
Angmar was a land of great extremes. Of bursting, hot clouds of gas and a sun that would struggle to pierce through the boiling haze and shine upon the black stones below, only for the temperature to plummet when night fell and for the ramparts and streets to freeze solid. The Misty Mountains loomed overhead, every day, and from their merciless crowns the coldest of winds blew to shake the spirit and bring its misery upon the land.
There was never a moment where Éowyn didn’t hate the place she found herself in, whether she was too hot and the stagnant air never received a breath of cooling wind, or the gales came howling from the mountains lashed by icy teeth to pound upon their doors like a madman. She had never seen weather like this in Rohan, and she never was prepared for it.
What she hated even more, though, and what likely went without saying was the...one (she refused to call him “man”) that embodied Angmar and its moods as if he, himself, was the land as well. Éowyn hated the Witch-King, and yet she was so deeply terrified of him that a single look from his flaming eyes could make her freeze in fear.
He always was around her, even when he was not there, because his very presence permeated the stones of his castle until Éowyn could never set foot anywhere without feeling as if the Witch-King would sprout from somewhere and she would feel his cold, hard hand upon her.
And sometimes he did. His breath was cold, colder than even the mountains and it made Éowyn shudder to feel it, and his cold hands that she could not see made her wish to scream.
Even when she did, whether in her voice or in her mind, the stones seemed to swallow her voice and her King just enjoyed her all the more in her suffering. Éowyn couldn’t breathe when he was over her, his black mantle draping all over her and dragging every bit of air from her lungs while unseen hands roams across her body, almost curious in their desire to touch everything, and there was not a single inch of her that was not eventually opened to his violation.
Stripped bare she would be under him, until she would look into his hood and see the blackness there, the empty depths of nothing, and yet sheltered among that nothingness was something, or else she would not feel the freezing, burning chilled touch of him as she did. The princess raged and screamed and tried to throw him off, her tears spilling from her eyes as she suffered, grew joyous, was broken and remade over and over under his harsh hands and his touch until all she could do was sob and beg for it to end—and yet dread its ending at the same time which would leave her so hollowed and scraped empty.
And yet her emotions were such a bliss, such a pleasure.
The Witch-King knew he had felt these things once, but as he drank them pouring from the hröa of his woman he could hardly even comprehend them, let alone remember what it was like. But it was so, so intriguing and blissful, a fire licking along his form and stoking such dead ashes into something resembling the life he used to have.
He could touch, but his touches went ever deeper than mere bodies—how pathetic it was for mortal men to be so limited. He could taste fire, he could taste her light, the scent of her passion in the air, the impression her hair pressed around his fingers, each strand carrying the memory of how he brushed it earlier and the fear that had held her quivering when he did,
Her fear was so drowning, so consuming and easy for him to get lost in the myriad of emotions it brought with it. Anger, terror, despair, pain, and yet the joy as she cried for his touch, the staggering confusion that her joy brought her, acknowledged but ignored, all washing over his form as he dipped into her well, bathing in the falls of her. Her fëa and emotions, her body that writhed from the pleasure of the fëa, all known and yet rediscovered by the Witch-King as he drank and drank to fill those empty parts of himself that could never be filled.
It was like wine that never made him drunk. Gone as soon as he was finished and briefly sated before the hunger was back stronger than before. Her golden, fiery light and flesh wrapped around his fingers, tangled in them while he played and played and twisted her more to squeeze every drop that he could feast upon from her before giving her time to rest.
Upon his bed there were burns and tears, his wraith fingers carving the marks in their fabric as they lay entwined with one another. Her screams and yet her waters staining the bed each and every time. The echoes of her pain and joy that he could feel as he traced his hands upon the stones hours later and drank the echoes that remained while she slept.
Her hair was gold, splayed about like smoke and always wild after his ministrations, but he would brush it and braid it anew. He remembered how to do that much.
To be broken and remade anew every day, like she always was.
She thought her tears were silent and he wouldn’t notice them. But he could taste them in the air.
He would indulge himself in them later, and wind his fëa in with hers to let her feel how deep iron and ice could truly bite.
It would not be as skilled as his Master’s but…the Witch-King was powerful, and Angmar was his domain, and his power in his domain was unequalled.
And she would delight him with her orchestra of suffering once more.
A/N: Since this delves a little deeper into references of Witcher 2, I’ll mention that this story takes place with the setting of Geralt choosing Roche’s path and with both of them becoming close friends.
I’ve also taken liberties of my own about Roche’s past, and the history of the Blue Stripes, which will be obvious in the beginning and end of this chapter.
_____________
He was atop one of the many dormer windows of the Royal Palace, staring out into the night, watching the flickering lights of the Vizima spread out beneath him, and even further than that watching Lake Vizima shimmering in the moonlight like a sheet of silver. Sounds of particularly loud music and laughter would drift up to his ears whenever the wind turned, and even occasionally the smell of food being roasted over open spits in the streets.
Before…so shortly ago it could not even be considered a distant memory, he would have been lurking in the corners of alleys, starving and staring at the merchants with hungry, resentful eyes and thinking of a hundred different ways to try and snatch a piece without receiving a blow to the head from the butcher. And now he was sitting on the roof of the Royal Palace itself, nursing a goblet of Toussaint Red in his hands, spending his very first Velen stuffed with more food and drink than he had ever seen in one place in his entire life.
A/N: Since this delves a little deeper into references of Witcher 2, I'll mention that this story takes place with the setting of Geralt choosing Roche's path and with both of them becoming close friends.
I've also taken liberties of my own about Roche's past, and the history of the Blue Stripes, which will be obvious in the beginning and end of this chapter.
_____________
He was atop one of the many dormer windows of the Royal Palace, staring out into the night, watching the flickering lights of the Vizima spread out beneath him, and even further than that watching Lake Vizima shimmering in the moonlight like a sheet of silver. Sounds of particularly loud music and laughter would drift up to his ears whenever the wind turned, and even occasionally the smell of food being roasted over open spits in the streets.
Before…so shortly ago it could not even be considered a distant memory, he would have been lurking in the corners of alleys, starving and staring at the merchants with hungry, resentful eyes and thinking of a hundred different ways to try and snatch a piece without receiving a blow to the head from the butcher. And now he was sitting on the roof of the Royal Palace itself, nursing a goblet of Toussaint Red in his hands, spending his very first Velen stuffed with more food and drink than he had ever seen in one place in his entire life.
It still felt strange. The change. How differently a Blue Stripes uniform fit over him than his usual street clothes, or his plain infantry uniform, or even his richer garb of being an aide of the king, and yet this one felt like it belonged on him. It shrouded him like a well-worn cloak, and kept the chill wind of autumn off of him.
He looked down at the goblet he cupped in both hands. The red wine inside seemed black in the night. More expensive than a week’s worth of savings back in the slums.
He took a sip. It tasted of change. Of new chances. The night wind had pleasantly cooled it, but it left a trail of warmth inside of him when he swallowed.
“Ah, seems some damn fool left this open,” came the familiar voice of Percival. The Commander of the Blue Stripes.
He froze, completely and utterly, hardly even daring to breathe. He, of course, had left that open, in order to climb onto the roof of the window he was on in the first place, and if his commander closed and locked the window he would be left stranded up here—
“Do you want to find another place?” asked another man’s voice. Mather. One of the captains of the Blue Stripes.
He only barely stopped himself from groaning out loud. Great, he was in the shit now.
“No, no, not at all. I’d rather sober up with some fresh air anyway,” Commander Percival replied, and Vernon released his breath in a very soft, slow exhale.
They were just below him, barely a few feet away, and he drew his legs up to his chest, supporting himself on the roof carefully. They could not see him anyway unless they stuck their heads out and looked onto the roof, but it made him feel safer. He looked around, wondering if he could safely creep away to find some other fortuitously-open window to sneak back into. Eavesdropping on both of his superiors, however accidental, did not sit well with him at the moment, and knowing him it would be just his luck that something would happen to give his position away—
“So, what do you think of Roche? He’s been doing well so far, hasn’t he?”
Every thought of leaving abruptly fled his mind. Again he held his breath, knuckles gripping the goblet so hard that his fingers went numb.
“You’re impressed,” Mather replied, his words careful as ever. “I’d say that’s praise-worthy alone.”
“Speak for yourself. Hell, you like him, and you don’t like anyone.”
“I…respect his drive. He’s incredibly focused.”
A snort. Though the sound of it made it seem like he was doing it while drinking from a mug at the same time. “You’d call a dragon a lizard. Have you looked at the task board recently?”
“Yes. His list is up there, as usual.”
“And just his list. Not requests, requisitions, overdue tasks that have been up there for weeks— ever since I put him up as ensign and told him that that was his one and only duty as a junior officer, it’s been cleared. He cleared it within two days, and any extra requests or tasks are taken down almost as soon as they’re placed up. I’m finally getting my orders on time, without the King’s personal messenger having to chase me down and deliver it.” A long sigh. “I looked at the first few tasks he partitioned out to the rest of the Stripes, just to make sure they were being done properly and he wasn’t playing favorites, but then that was it. I don’t know how he makes them do it and how so well, and a part of me doesn’t want to know. Feels too much like meddling with magic.”
“What do you plan to do with him?” Mather asked the very question Vernon had been thinking.
“No idea,” Percival grumbled, almost under his breath. “Why couldn’t the King have plucked up that scoundrel a few years earlier? I would have picked him over Emnet for Lieutenant in a moment and not have this mess on my hands.”
There was a long moment of silence. Vernon began to wonder if they had actually left and he simply did not hear, when the commander’s voice came again. “Let us go back, before someone notices our absence.”
“Of course.”
And this time he heard footsteps. Still, he stayed, still as a gargoyle atop the roof until he counted several minutes after the sounds had faded away. Only then did he feel safe enough to uncurl himself.
He tipped his head back and drank the rest of his wine in four huge gulps, downing it all recklessly in a red, warm flood.
_____________
His eyes cracked open again, amidst darkness and swirling dreams and voices of men years-gone, and stared blankly at the darkness above him. Shadows and lines of light played with his sight, a confusing mess scribbled by the hand of a madman that he could not make out in his exhaustion and muddled thoughts until it suddenly clicked in his mind that he was looking at firelight dancing along tree branches.
Where was the tent? Why had the others not pitched it?
Roche’s mind whirled in the first grasping notes of confusion and panic, trying to remember where they were and what they were doing here and why those idiots had not put up a ploughing shelter—
Because they were all dead.
His heart thudded in his chest in a single, unbearable beat that felt like a blow from inside of his own body, before then it started racing. Memory came back, Kaedwen, the Blue Stripes hanging from nooses in rows with their lips as blue as their uniforms, Loc Muinne, then the desperate fight on the border with Nilfgaard—
That was a failure.
He tried to sit up, and found himself frozen to the spot, his body unresponsive to the command of his mind. Then his side began to ache, pointedly reminding him of his injury, but what was even sharper than that was the jolt of alarm when he glanced at the fire and saw that he was alone.
“Ves?” he demanded, his voice surprisingly quiet even to his own ears, though his chest felt as if it was ready to burst from the assault of his pain and his memories.
He heard a sound from his other side and immediately turned his head, gritting his teeth at the effort, and saw her at last. She was scrambling to her feet, laid upon her own blanket that was, absurdly, placed between him and the trees. What the hell was she doing there? Did she want to get stepped on?
“Roche!” he heard her gasping instead, and then she was right next to him, her eyes frantically searching his while her hands patted delicately—but insistently—on his body. “Thank the gods, are you alright? How are you feeling?”
One of her hands rested on his forehead and the other barely grazed his bandages, and he grunted a little from the pain. It was a muddled, hot feeling, and his relief at Ves being here had his head nearly swimming. “I am fine,” he said, swallowing thickly. “Damned hurts sometimes, but I’ll be fine.”
She muttered something again, something thankful, and she looked to peer at the dressing on his side. “I’m going to get a look at it,” she said. “I need to see how it’s doing.”
“Leave it,” he ordered, trying to calm his breathing. It was already hard to breathe and talk, and he hardly needed her hands touching there. “Messing with it all the time will just make it worse.”
“We need to check on it!” she protested hotly. “What if it’s getting infected?”
“It won’t get infected within a few hours,” he tried to explain patiently. It was hot and pulsing, whether he breathed or held his breath. “If you dressed it fine and cleaned it well, then it will be fine.” He saw her opening her mouth again to argue without a doubt, and his temper flared. “Leave it, Lieutenant.”
She glared at him, though he could not see it. But he could feel her gaze and his mind could all too readily conjure for him the image of her large, incredible blue eyes glaring up at him, even more intense from the heat of her anger. Was that memory or just his mind playing tricks on him?
His hand moved, far better than the sluggish waving about he had been doing before, but he still clumsily grasped the back of her hand before he managed to work his fingers around hers.
All of her fear and anger, everything she was just barely keeping under the surface, he could feel in how tightly her hand gripped his own. As if she was afraid he would slip away the moment she left go. Roche gripped her back, just as tightly as he could make it, anchoring himself as well as her in a world that was dark, and terrible, and mad, and the ground was threatening to swallow the both of them up.
For the moment, they were both completely, and utterly alone in the world. All they had was each other.
“Ves,” he spoke again, through sheer strength of will placing himself in the present. Her hand on his helped, her strong grip that he mirrored in his own. “We can get it looked at later, when we are out of here and out of danger. Right now we--“ he paused briefly, his mind already on a dozen different threads of thought at the various kinds of “danger” they could be in, and he forced himself to leave those thoughts alone for the moment. “Right now we need to think, and need to get out of here soon, understand?”
Her hand squeezed his. “I-I understand, Roche,” she said, her voice steadier than it had been a moment ago, though he thought he sensed the tremor in it still. “You won’t pass out again on me, will you?”
He mouth quirked into a wry smile. “I shall try my best not to.”
There was a scoff from her, but she did not bite back at him. “I made you tea, like I offered, but by the time I turned back around you were out again.”
“I will gladly have some now,” he said, taking his hand away at last and giving her a nod.
That had always been as good as a spoken order to her. She turned to obey, stoking their fire while she was at it, and as the small flames began to lick at the new branches she was laying on them, he could see her face better. Her eyes were troubled, deeply, and her hands moving with a nervous energy as she grabbed their mugs, and some bread from that morning, and handed both to him.
He thanked her, and for his part tried to focus on his careful breathing as he sat up, and to make sure he did not show any evidence of his wound troubling him in general. He was Vernon Roche, Commander of the Blue Stripes, and he was the one who needed to be calm in the face of adversity, and Ves would be calm as well. It was easier when he sipped his tea and warmth flooded his body, taking away the edge of his pain, even if it was sharp and bitter. “Willow?” he asked after a moment, blinking in surprise as his mind identified the taste.
Ves nodded, a small smile twitching on her lips. “Found a tree a few days ago. Thought collecting the bark would be useful, and now here we are.”
“You were always very clever, Lieutenant,” he said, giving her a nod. What would he do without her? Even when he thought that he had everything already thought out, Ves would show up with something that would surprise him and always end up being something they needed later. She had always been smart and had initiative, which had made her a perfect lieutenant.
The willow would help with the pain, certainly, and he nibbled the bread while his mind buzzed with thoughts. He couldn’t hear anything no matter how much he strained his ears. No shouts or sounds of movements, none of the undergrowth in the forest being disturbed, absolutely nothing. Yet he could not imagine the area not swarming with Nilfgaardians, unless they were the luckiest duo this side of Mount Carbon and they had just managed to find a place where neither of the armies managed to even pass close to their hiding place.
His heart thudded as he thought of the Temerians. Where had they all gone? No doubt every which way but most of them would at least try to head back to Vizima. But who was in charge of the army? He hadn’t seen John Natalis since that afternoon—it already felt like a century ago. He had gone to support the right, which was exactly where the cavalry had hit and—was he even still alive? He could be dead or captured or on the run like the rest of them at this point. Baron Kimbolt? His men held the center, and who knew how many of them had survived the bombardment of the mangonels. Their position had been the least enviable one.
Who they really needed was Natalis, the army would rally behind him. But where was he? And where to head? They could not just stay here no matter how badly he was injured, the Black Ones would soon swarm the land. They had to retreat with the rest of the army, head to Vizima with the Nilfgaardians harassing them every step of the way now that there was no army to stop them.
The mere idea of the banners of the Great Sun being within sight of the city’s walls set his gut churning, his mouth dry. Sipping the tea did not help, as his mind chased itself in endless circles, a hunter searching for the elusive track of a deer. There had to be some way out of this, some way to beat them back, but he could not think of one, and the alternative was unthinkable. Just let them take Vizima and gut Temeria herself in one blow?
“Roche .”
Long habit and training kept him from starting, but his fingers did twitch for a moment as Ves’s voice dragged him out of his spiral of thoughts. It didn’t sound like the first time she had called his name.
He looked to her, to her face which was cast half in light and half in shadow from the flames she had coaxed back to life, and met the one eye he could clearly see. Blue as her uniform, and piercing at him in worry.
The blue reminded of something, of a snatch of thought half-remembered, that slipped between his fingers the second he believed he had a grasp on it.
“What is it, Roche? I’ve been trying to get your attention for the past minute,” she said, her gaze locked on his.
“I’m sorry, I was just thinking,” he replied, and drained half of his tea in a hot gulp. “We need to get to Vizima.”
She frowned at that, ever so slightly. “The capital is days away, Roche, and that’s when you’re in a good condition to walk. Which you are not .”
“It’s either that, or stay here and wait to be captured by the enemy. No doubt we would both make good prizes for them,” he replied, scowling fiercely at the very idea of it. “No, we are going, immediately. We, all of the Temerians, need to regroup at the capital, that’s where the Nilfgaardians are likely headed right now.”
It made his hands grip his mug tightly and his blood burn. His lips wanted to curl back and snarl, like the hound that he was so often called behind his back when others thought that he couldn’t hear them. But Vernon knew that if there was a Nilfgaardian in front of him right this second he would have flung himself at them and torn their throat out, injury be damned. He would leave a trail of Nilfgaardian blood behind him to water Temeria’s soil as they made their way back to Vizima, and it was no better than what every single one of those whoresons deserved.
To him it looked as if Ves wanted to argue. But while she was stubborn and thought more with her heart than her head at times, she still knew when he was right and made a good point. “We’re in Mahakam now,” she said after a moment, reluctant, but now the gears in her head were turning, working in the direction that her commander had steered them towards. “We know this region, Foltest sent us to pacify it years ago and we ran up and down these foothills hundreds of times.”
Her face twitched at her words, all too abruptly, and Roche felt the same emotion shuddering deep inside of his heart, like a sliver of ice reaching out to chill his veins.
We, she had said. We. But it was not the we of her and her commander, alone as they were now. It was the we of all of them, how every single one of the Blue Stripes had walked these lands, left their marks and imprints on them, had breathed the same air, slept under the same trees—they might have even made camp in this precise spot for all he knew.
It felt like a lifetime ago, another lifetime past Kaedwen, and the lifetime past the siege of the La Valettes. He had been forced to live several lifetimes all within the past few weeks, time crammed so tightly within that it was hard to comprehend just how brief it had all been.
And yet he could recall every detail fresh to his mind, even when they had all been in Mahakam pacifying the dwarves, as if he was simply reminiscing on yesterday’s events.
He remembered how Thirteen complained endlessly about his boots getting torn and soaked—it had been spring and the mountain rivers had swollen to three times their usual size from the melting snow, and more than once they had to avoid getting swept away by sudden floods. Silas eventually snapped and said if Thirteen kept bitching all day yet again he was going to throw him into the river. That spiraled into a fistfight which ended before Roche even had to intervene, and with both of their sour moods taken out on each other they were laughing over dinner again.
He remembered how Finch spent diligent hours practicing the local bird calls, until he could mimic them perfectly.
He remembered Shorty and Sheridan and Igo all sitting around the campfire, bickering quietly over various Temerian regiment names to give to the newest of Shorty’s brood.
He remembered Fenn, perched in one of the trees as their lookout, always silent, always watching. The only time he ever truly talked was around his comrades, and his even rarer smiles—
He broke off from those memories with a snap, like he had touched a hot pan and was jerking his hand away from the fire. But the burn remained. The pain was there.
And Ves. She had been in that tent when he had found her. When he had found all of them. He had only been there for a few minutes—how long had she been curled there, weeping and waiting and probably thinking that he was dead along with the rest of the Blue Stripes?
He dug his nails into his palm, forcing his mind on the here and now, and looked up at Ves just as she looked at him.
Neither of them said anything. Neither of them needed to.
Roche tried to smirk, to try and brush it all off as a mere second of distraction, but his lips refused to move in that treacherous expression. And that made him angry because they still had to go. He held onto that thought with all of his willpower, like a dog refusing release a bone. He let it flood him, motivate him to move, to keep going, to just—do anything that was not remembering.
“That’s more like it, Lieutenant,” he said at last, breaking the silence between them, but not the thing that lay in the silence between them. “Come, bring me my maps, we have enough light to chart a route through this blasted terrain.”
I’m still open for writing commissions! Writing is what I love and I need money so I figured why not?
Examples of my work: ( 1, 2, 3 ) I also have this tumblr account specifically for my writings.
As you can see, I am capable of doing both short stories and multiple-chapter stories. I work best with prompts like in Dip Your Feather Wisely but I’m flexible.
Fandoms I can write: Hetalia, Dragon Age, Mass Effect, Disney, Transformers, , Historical fiction, Harry Potter, Twilight, Silent Hill, Supernatural, ATLA, Star Wars, Pokemon, Star Trek, MLP, Witcher, Mortal Kombat, and if you don’t see a fandom here you can ask me and I will tell you if I know it or not! I didn’t list them all here.
Things I will write:
OCs/Self-inserts
NSFW
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If I haven’t mentioned anything that you wish to know feel free to ask as well!
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Pedophilia/Underage
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Vore
Inflation
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Bestiality
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Short and simple! 1 USD for every 100 words, which I think is pretty fair. I take payments through PayPal. PLEASE NOTE that I have every right to reject a commission, even if it fits my rules.
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"We were to stop the Black Ones' advance along the Dol Blathanna - Mount Carbon line. And we did. For three days. Then they smashed us into splinters."
Roche and Ves are two of the survivors. Scattered and flung into a Temeria rocked by war, both from outside and within, they have only each other.
Written for my own Ves.
_____________
Somewhere, he thought he could still hear the battle raging, though he was certain that they were quite in the middle of nowhere. The forest around them was black as pitch, and even the moon and stars were bloated out by the crossing branches overhead. And more importantly, the battle had ended, when the Nilfgaardian cavalry had appeared unexpectedly from their right and had pushed their flank, while the artillery pounded the center mercilessly.
It had been admirable that the Temerians had even held them off for one day, let alone three, and Roche was deeply proud that his countrymen had done so, despite the loss.
They had scattered in all directions from pursuit, and he and Ves had been no different, sticking only with each other as they had fled in disarray with the rest of the army that they could find. But pursuit and chase had pushed and pushed them, until—
He breathed, and his chest exploded with pain as if a hot poker had just been drilled into him.
Roche was certain he did not make any noise. And yet as soon as he felt it, there were wonderfully cool hands on his face, touching him gently. A voice spoke to him, but he could not understand the words over the sound of battle.
Battle? No, no it could not be. It was—blood, yes, he understood now. The pounding of his own pulse inside of his head, his own dizziness and memories layered across his senses, leaving him confused as to what was real and what was not. But even then, his logic remained: they had fled. So unless something had gone terribly, terribly wrong, there should be no sounds of armies doing battle around.
His chest and lungs still burned, and even more so when something—touched inside of him. That brought a grunt from him, a drawn one, but then memory came back to him again.
Yes, he remembered that now. A lucky arrow from the enemy, finding its mark in his side just as the trees closed in around them. It had landed right on his lower ribs—where it still remained. There had been no time to pull it out while the Nilfgaardians were still trying to run them down.
“I’m so sorry Roche!” Ves’s voice came back to him as if cotton had suddenly been pulled from his ears. “I know it hurts, but it has to come out.”
If he had not been so busy trying to master his pain and ride it, he might have snorted at her. But presently sarcasm was nowhere in his ability, breathing and speaking alone were both an effort. “Just—” he panted a little, “—just get the damn thing out. I’ll be fine.” Sweat dripped down his brow from the effort of speaking.
A cold cloth was draped over his head, which was a blessing no greater than if it was from Melitele herself, and then he frowned and turned his head. There was a small fire, with a small pot next to it. When had a fire been started? Had they made some sort of camp? He realized with a small jolt of alarm that he remembered none of it. Just the running in the black forest with his side on fire, running and running until he was forced to lean on Ves for support, and then even that had faded into gray nothing.
Ves’s face came into view. There was dried blood in her hair, and on her uniform, and he frowned a little. Was she hurt? He tried to reach for her and see, but his arm felt clumsy and heavy, not responding the way he wanted it to. She gripped his hand in hers, tightly, and he held back as tightly as he could.
Her eyes were large and worried, and she peered at him intently. Then abruptly she looked away, down, and then took her hand out of his to reach for something that glittered in the firelight. “I-I’ll have to cut it out,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady.
“Do it, then,” he replied immediately, taking another scorching breath. Gods damn it all, it had gone right through his uniform, through the padded wool of his surcoat, even through his chain mail, and it was his pure luck that it did not pierce his lung. Perhaps everything else had slowed the arrow’s impact enough that—
Pain. Hot, driving pain that was splitting his skin and destroying every other thought, feeling, or sensation in his head. Automatically he groaned, his hands clenching, and then he was silent. Discipline, order, that was all that mattered, everything important. For Temeria he had to be silent. So the Black Ones would not find them.
He remembered the lilies in the field of blue. He remembered Vizima. He remembered Ves—her eyes were the blue field where the Temerian lilies grew.
He fought tooth and nail with the pain, and allowed himself to think of nothing else but the pain—if he was distracted, then the pain would come again and take him by surprise, and he might not be able to stop himself then. Still, when there was a peak of sudden, blazing agony it was enough to shake him to his core and there was a rush—he did not know whether it was his pulse inside of his head or his own voice—but it chased him into blackness again.
When awareness came back to him, it was through touch rather than sight or sound. He saw nothing and heard only fire, but the sensation of lips against his own brought him back faster than either sight or sound could have achieved.
There were hands touching his face with a gentleness he would have recognized anywhere.
He kissed Ves back, again trying to hold her, but his hand moved with that same sluggishness that, to his eternal frustration, all of his mental strength could not force to move faster. Still he found her hip and waist, clumsily, almost, and stroked there, trying to seem as comforting as possible. He barely even cared where he was touching, he just needed to touch her.
“Roche,” she was whispering, and his eyes fluttered open to see her leaning over him, their faces inches apart. Her eyes looked red, but he did not know if it was from exhaustion or tears. “Roche, how are you feeling?”
He took a breath, expecting pain. It did come, but it was none of the burning agony that the arrow had brought. It was sharp and short, but much more like a deep ache that was at least manageable. “I’ll be fine,” he assured her, but the words were difficult to form. His mouth felt dry and thick.
As if sensing his desire before he could say a word, she reached for a waterskin, though to his embarrassment she had to help him sit up a little before he could drink. It was warm, but he did not care, it felt as if it had been years since he had last sipped anything. He allowed himself a few mouthfuls before he remembered that this was the only water than they had, and they needed to conserve it while the Black Ones still hunted for Temerian survivors. He capped it and placed it down.
He was leaning against Ves, and her worried hands darted over him, unsure of where to rest. On his back, his other side, his arms, his—hair?
It shouldn’t have surprised him that his chaperon was missing, but it did. A quick search of his eyes showed him that it was not far, a rumpled black mass that he would have to properly sort out later.
He gratefully leaned into Ves, and worked one of his hands into her own. She gripped it tightly, thankfully, and the beginnings of a smile worked its way onto his face. It felt strange. “Are you alright?” he asked, taking light breaths in order to speak. “You are not hurt?”
He felt her stiffen. “You’re the one who was shot with an arrow and passed out while I cut it out, and you’re asking me if I’m alright?” she breathed incredulously.
“I notice you not answering my question.”
“Bloody hell, Roche, of course I’m alright! You’re the injured one here!”
“Good,” he said, relief washing over him. “I’m glad you’re fine.” He stroked her hand, unwilling to let it go. “That’s one good thing out of this.”
She was silent, but he could sense her emotions in the gentleness that she held his hand and stroked it in both of hers, and the little huff that left her lips. “You’re insane,” she whispered. But a grateful sound of deep relief. I’m glad you’re alright.
He pressed against her for a moment. Of course I am. “How long was I out? How bad was it?”
“Only ‘bout a quarter hour, and not very serious, thank the gods. It was in your skin but it didn’t get past the ribs. I-I think one of them might be cracked or broken, I couldn’t tell very well—it’s dark—”
That would explain why it hurt every time he breathed. Not the normal hurt of a surface wound, it was that far too sharp pain inside that spoke of a deeper problem. With how quickly they had to move to stay ahead of the Nilfgaardians, that could present a problem.
They would manage, though. If he had to crawl on hands and knees to stay ahead of the invaders, it was no question at all.
“You did well,” he said, gentle but firmly interrupting her worried babbling and silencing her. “I’m proud of you.”
His breaths were becoming irregular, the pain forcing his rhythm out of balance, and with an effort he paused before forcing them in and out, counting the seconds carefully. His head was swimming, the world tilting a little, and then he was really tilting, and he jerked a little before he understood that it was merely Ves lowering him again.
“Lie down,” she said, trying make her voice sound commanding and failing spectacularly. “You’re still injured, you’ll pass out again if you don’t give yourself some rest.”
“Mmm,” he muttered, feeling for the wound, and noticed only with a start then that much of his uniform had been stripped off. Only his undershirt remained. “Did you bandage the wound?” he asked, his voice sounding odd to his own ears.
“What?” Ves said. “For fuck’s sake Roche, of course I bandaged your bloody wound! You think I’d just leave it open?!”
His mind always tried to stay on top of things. Make sure everything was done, was taken care of. He couldn’t help it, it was pure habit, it allowed him to keep functioning when there was nothing else left for him. “Did you make sure it was clean? No fabric or armor stuck in the wound? They can cause infection.”
“Yes, commander, I did.” There was an irritated huff to her tone, but it was more relaxed than it had been a moment ago. Roche not pestering and making sure everything was in order meant that something was terribly wrong. “Do you want tea? We have some rations still, we can eat now and move later before daybreak.”
“Yes,” he said, or at least think he said so. It was hard to say, as the black sleep of unconsciousness claimed him again swiftly after.
A capriccio - a term in music indicating a light and free approach to the tempo; to perform at whatever tempo and with whatever expression the performer likes.
Manwë had seen the creation of the world. He had played quite a substantial part in the act, even. He had seen the creation of the Lamps and their fall, the birth of the Trees, the first rain and the first snow. Every day he watched the lights bathe the sides of his beloved Taniquetil in silver and gold, each one clothing his palace in its own special type of majesty.
And yet, despite all of that, none of it was quite like the radiance of the Elda before him.
It was not hard at all to see why Ingwë was High King of all elves; Manwë was sure that even if one had never laid eyes on him before they would see it instantly. His beauty was utterly beyond compare among the Eldar, skin like marble and just as smooth, touched ever so faintly by pale rose-tinted color where it was thinnest, a sign of the blood flowing through his veins that Manwë could never perfectly replicate no matter how hard he tried. His hair was everything the Vanyar could hope for, honey gold locks that fell to his knees in the most graceful and gentle of sweeping curves, even though now it was half-pinned into an elaborate, spiralling set of braids along his head that left the rest to drape over his elbows. The light of Laurelin filtered through the high windows and coated every gleaming strand in shimmering, radiant gold tones.
So bathed in glory, Ingwë looked as if he had his own aura of light around him, like one of the Ainur. He seemed to take the light around him and reflect it back threefold, so ethereal in his beauty. Manwë found himself nearly struck down by the sight.
Then the subject of his staring suddenly moved, breaking the moment of silence that had fallen upon the King of the Valar, and looked at him with brilliant blue eyes. “Is something the matter, my lord?” his melodious voice asked, the notes so soft that the silence felt hardly broken.
And yet it took all of Manwë’s effort not to start in surprise and he covered his initial embarrassment behind a gentle, sweet smile. “Not at all, King Ingwë,” he said, straightening himself a little. Thankfully he did not blush like one of the Children, but the feathers on his neck did start to lift and he hoped that Ingwë would not notice. “Forgive me, my mind sometimes wanders aimlessly like the clouds in the sky.”
A pleasant smile graced Ingwë’s lips, all at once changing the shape of his face into a form most fair, like the drawing back of a curtain that lets the light of day inside a previously dim room. “With all due respect, my Lord,” he began, his praise as sincere as ever yet there are playful notes that teased his words, “since you create the winds that the clouds ride upon, I would dare venture that their wanderings are not even half as aimless as you claim.”
Ah! So sweet in his words, and yet so brilliantly bold like all the Eldar! Like drinking a glass of the clearest mountain water, the radiance and purity so stunning that every thread in his body sang in response to it. Manwë could not suppress his delight and a chuckle passed his lips, trilling sweetly around them like the trills of a rare songbird. So great was his mirth that he missed the awe that passed across Ingwë’s face, gone as quickly as it came while the elf stared unabashedly at the Elder King. “I will forgive your words because you simply do not know better,” Manwë said at last as he paused for breath. “I make and guide the paths of the winds, but that does not mean I control every movement. As you might swirl the tea in your cup now, you create the pattern it follows, but the tiniest flow is still left for the tea itself to govern. Do I make sense to you?”
Ingwë glanced at the cup sitting in its saucer, forgotten due to the turn their conversation had taken. “Perfectly, my lord,” he replied, hiding his chagrin by bringing the cup to his lips to sip from it.
Even such a small movement as that had Manwë staring again. Not only from the grace that colored Ingwë’s every gesture, but from the cup itself. It was made from porcelain, painted all over with patterns of flowers, yet it was so thin and delicate that he could see Laurelin’s light passing right through it, giving the flowers a radiance of their own as they were lit from behind. All of the Eldar had their set of skills they loved and were talented in, and the Noldor, for all their love of crafts and creating things with their hands, could not ever hope to match the delicate precision required to make the art of porcelain like the Vanyar. The Noldor adored their gems and metals, but they were works that required a heavy hand and determination, perfect for their fiery tempers. But creations of a most fragile nature, like Ingwë’s tea set, blown glass, painting, poetry, those were far better suited for the endless patience of the Vanyar.
He really needed to stop doing that, he thought to himself with a jolt as he caught himself staring again Thankfully, though, Ingwë seemed to be too preoccupied with setting his cup down properly to notice. Manwë softened seeing his expression and he reached out a hand to reassure him, brushing against his sleeve with only the lightest touch of his fingertips, yet it was enough to make Ingwë freeze completely, his head moving a fraction as he looked at Manwë.
“Do not be so morose, I do not scold you,” Manwë said, letting his voice dip into soft, deeper tones of reassurance that layered the room with a warmth that would have been hard to place had one not known the King well. “I only seek to further your understanding and give such explanations freely, so that you may know the ways of the world better.”
“Oh of course, Elder King!” Ingwë replied, his eyes suddenly widening in his response, pale and as endless as the sky itself. Manwë fancied he could drink from them if he so wished, to dip his ëala into their bottomless blue shades and caress the threads of the Music with his fingertips if he tried hard enough. “I did not take any such offense or hurt at all! Perish the thought.”
Ah but instead of reassuring, it seemed that Manwë’s words had done the exact opposite. Ingwë’s shock and sadness were like thorns piercing his heart and he soothed the elf again, this time letting his touch become more firm on his arm, gliding over the embroidered silk like wind over water. “Do not be so hurt, my dear one,” he said, “I did not mean to assume anything with my words.”
“Your Majesty—“
“Please, King Ingwë, with you it is just Manwë.”
Ingwë had never looked entirely comfortable with the suggestion. Like all of the Vanyar he venerated the Valar too much to lower them to such simple, informal terms of address. Yet he always relented, and Manwë could see once he had gotten used to it the practice became easier for him. “Manwë,” he said, almost stumbling over the name in his disuse, “I would never for a moment think that you would be stern enough to lecture the Eldar on anything, even if we make a most grievous error on a subject and wound with ill-placed words. My heart is merely beset by my own ignorance, and how easily I assume I know something about you, even the simplest of thing, when it is clear I do not.”
There! There it was, the true core of his hurt, the one which all others pains were merely a symptom of. Manwë smiled and in a moment he was rising out of his chair as gracefully as the clouds that rolled along the peaks of the mountains in the early mornings of Aman. “Dearest Ingwë,” he murmured standing next to the seated king and letting his wandering touch glide up a shoulder, to the curve of his neck, so smooth and devoid of feathers. The king shivered a little, but said nothing, merely tilting his head to look up at the Vala. “Do not set such a grief upon yourself, I beg. The only thing which hurts you here is yourself. Does a student lament over every bit of knowledge his teacher bestows upon him, berating himself for not knowing such a thing sooner? Nay, he understands the gift that is given, and knows he is more enlightened for receiving it.”
There was a sigh that passed through the elf’s lips and carefully, as if such an action would cause reproach, Ingwë raised his hand free hand up to Manwë’s, delicately sliding his fingers around it until he took the Elder King’s hand in his own. Then he turned his head and placed his reverent lips upon the hand, right next to the glittering silver and sapphire ring that rested upon his finger.
Manwë gasped softly, and a gentle breath of wind blew through the open windows to caress the air around them, teasing their hair and robe with invisible fingers. Oh, the Eldar always felt so pleasantly warm to the touch. He could never understand it, as cold and chilled as he was in the clouds and the labyrinths of airs, but with Ingwë grasping his hand like that he could feel the first inklings of his own enlightenment blooming in his mind.
“Of course, Highest One,” the object of his desire murmured, using the title that the Ainur did when addressing their King. Yet it never sounded more pleasant than when falling from his lips. “And I am more grateful than words can properly express for each bit of knowledge you bless me with every day, and I apologize for my silliness.”
A sigh of bliss left Manwë’s lips and his eyes fluttered at the sensation of Ingwë speaking against his skin, and it was an effort to pull his mind away from the feeling. He would drift away and get lost within it if he did not. “Dearest, loveliest Ingwë,” he whispered, tugging the Vanya’s hand until he understood what the King was trying to do and got to his feet. Manwë’s hand was still resting near his neck and it was the simplest thing in the world to put a finger under his chin and tilt his up until the blue fires of their eyes matched. “You apologize too much.”
Then he bent down and kissed him. It was such a beautiful, encompassing sensation, one the Vala never tired of and the only thing that could possibly make it better was the way Ingwë gasped when their lips met. But then he was kissing back, clinging to him desperately, wanting to take it all in as if this would be the only kiss he would ever receive in his lifetime—
Ah but what a foolish idea that was, if that’s what he was thinking. Manwë was nothing if not giving. If Ingwë wanted a thousand more kisses, ten of thousands, if he wanted to lay in Manwë’s arms and be kissed for the rest of his life then Manwë would give it. Between ruling Arda, Varda, and the other Valar of course.
He felt laughter against his lips, a sound of delight that sent his spirit soaring into the highest vaults of the heavens. Ingwë’s expression was radiant as broke away he gazed up at him, so beautiful it nearly hurt, but his mouth was curved into a small, teasing smile. “Forgive me then, my lord, for apologizing too much,” he said, his words full of mirth.
Ha! So bold, so playful! He could not even form a proper reply or anything even related to a scolding, he just laughed and pulled him close to kiss him once more, unable to get enough. Manwë let his hands wander through the dazzling golden hair and shivered when two arms were thrown around his neck in return, the touch infinitely careful to avoid pulling his feathers. He could hear Ingwë’s deep, frantic breathing against his skin as their kiss went on, robbing him of the air in his lungs, yet bliss and light and joy tangled between them, dancing in the air and teasing both fëa and ëala in their mingling.
His fingers were tangled in the complicated golden robes just as tightly. Do not leave, he thought, pressing the elf closer until their bodies were against one another. You do not need to breathe. I will be your breath. I created breathing.
He heard a soft chuckle and wondered if Ingwë had heard it, then realized he most likely did. :I would never leave you, even for the end of Arda, my King,: Ingwë whispered back, his blooming, Treelit mind brushing Manwë’s own as their kisses dragged on and on, until it felt as if the world truly would come crashing down around their heads before they finished.
The tea was entirely forgotten as they stumbled out, and would be ice-cold by the time they came back from Manwë’s rooms. Not that either of them would be bothered by it in the first place, for what could compare to the taste of the Elder King and the moans of the High King of the Eldar echoing throughout Taniquetil?
The Lieutenant of Angband manages the organization of the fortress, and sometimes Maedhros writes his letters and reports for him. Sauron is very happy with the results.
“And eighty pounds of dried meat are to be sent along with the wagons, guarded by two vampires each. Be sure to add a note that they are allowed to punish any attempts at thievery with death, in whatever fashion they choose.” Sauron paused in his speech to sip his wine, narrowing his eyes to peer out the window at the assembling troops below. Even as high as his room in Angband was, he could still pick out the occasional snarl and yell of a quarrel far below. A flash of movement here and the head of an orc rolling there…well to be honest that was what he got for poking one of the werewolves while it was busy eating.
The sound of the quill scratching behind him was the main noise in the room, and he half-turned so he could look at Maitimo, who was bent over his desk in concentration as he wrote. He was getting better at it, Sauron could barely hear the pauses that had plagued the elf’s first attempts at scribing the Maia’s letters, and he decided that his idea to teach him Black Speech had been a good one after all. It had, of course, only born fruit after he spent weeks of frustration with Maitimo, painstakingly going over each letter and rule of the language, punishing every mistake he saw ruthlessly until perfection was achieved.
More than once he had wanted to just quit. Maitimo was far too slow for his liking, too hesitant, he didn’t learn his letters quickly enough and tripped over his words, but his pride refused to let him. He had not been not about to admit that he had just been wasting his time on a folly, so he determined that he would make Maitimo learn his language even if he had to beat it into his head with the lash of a whip. A part of him, albeit a small one, had also been aware of the fact that he was only frustrated because he was an Ainu, and for him learning an entire language was a pleasant activity to take up an afternoon, while lower beings like the Children naturally had a harder time with it.
To be fair, Maitimo was actually doing far better than the first orcs he and Melkor had taught Black Speech to. That had taken months and the task had mostly been left up to him after Melkor—impatient as ever—threw up his hands on the second day and stormed away in frustration.
The scratch of the quill stopped and Maitimo looked up, eyes the color of fog meeting Sauron’s gold. “My Lord?” he asked politely.
“Yes, yes,” Sauron replied, giving a little gesture with his goblet as he collected his thoughts. “That will be the end of this order, but add this postscript: I am well-aware of the reports of infighting among Nagrub’s hoard, and that he has been skimming bones off the top of the shipments we send in order to add to that ridiculous headdress of his. Remind him that those bones are for the werewolves only and if he wishes for his head to remain intimately acquainted with his shoulders then he will desist in his foolish activities before he finds it—ach, don’t put it like that, he won’t understand. Say that if he steals any more bones then he will find his head chopped off by the most rusted, chipped axe this fortress possesses, and then used as a kickball for the rest of the orcs.” He sipped again, watching Maitimo’s lips quirk in amusement as he fought down a chuckle at the Maia’s words.
Fighting down a smile of his own—one had to get creative when it came to orcs, after all—he approached the desk and leaned over Maitimo’s shoulder to look at what he had written. His letters had become much better, they were sharper and ragged, more appropriate compared to the artistic elven curls that had plagued his first attempts. Such writing was far more appropriate for the pure Black Speech that Sauron and Melkor used with each other, along with the other highest officers in Angband. The orcs, on the other hand, had their own variation on the language, twisting it to their own corruption the same way everything else about them was twisted, and very few of them were capable of reading it.
But the firstborn son of Fëanáro would be nothing if not skilled in matters such as this, once he started to get used to Black Speech he took off, both for the pure and corrupted versions, and now Sauron only needed to correct him once on a mistake for him to never make it again. Occasionally he saw the red hair twitch as Maitimo glanced at the alphabet next to him for a quick reminder, but it was few and far between.
He stroked that alluring hair as he watched Maitimo finishing his last sentence and was not unaware of the shiver that went through him at Sauron’s touch. “Very good, Maitimo,” he said sweetly, setting down his wine and leaning to nibble the tip of his pointed ear. “Let me.” He took the freshly written letter and quill from Maitimo’s hand, and signed it with a flourish. The rest of the task was left to him, and he folded the parchment, then reached for wax. Fire was unnecessary for a being such as him, and simply pressing the tip of the wax against his thumb caused it to begin melting immediately. After a few seconds he set it back down and pressed his seal into the wax before depositing the fresh letter on top of the stack that had been written so far. “Good job. Now, what is next?
“This one, my Lord,” Maitimo said, reaching for a letter covered with a shifting, messy scrawl that was all too familiar. “It seems to have been written by your lord—”
Face burning, he snatched it from the elf’s grip in an instant and tucked it into his robes. “I will answer that one, and none other,” he said, his voice sharp.
Maitimo flinched. “Of course, Lord Sauron,” he said, going for the next letter in the stack. “This one is from a…Gorad the Mage?” His expression was filled with questions as he looked up.
He nearly snorted into his reclaimed wine. “Ah yes, him. I can guess this one. Tell him…”
Celebrimbor tries to be playful and coy with Annatar, and ends up being played instead.
"And what are you doing out here so late?"
The voice was soft as honey, gentle and sweetening the air with its rich notes before fading away under the trickling of water that ran endlessly from one of the fountains below. Celebrimbor did not turn to see who it was, for who could fail to recognize Annatar's voice after they heard him speak but once? But not only for that reason. Keeping his eyes fixed ahead and his lips silent would always invariably draw the other closer to him, unable to resist the coyness of the Ñoldo who so delightfully pretended to ignore his presence.
As he expected, there was a moment of silence before the softest, most graceful pad of footsteps drew closer to him, almost inaudible over the running water and he only picked them up because he had been listening so intently for their sound. What he did not expect, however, was the touch that pressed into the curve of his spine and slowly trailed upward until the tips of the fingers reached the back of his neck. It was almost shameful how willingly his body reacted to the touch, mindlessly arching against him while a gentle fire began to kindle across his nerves, the entirety of his thought narrowed down to the touch on his neck. He was almost certain that if Annatar would leave then he would simply collapse, as if he was no more than a puppet being dangled by the wires that held him upright.
"Do you not wish to spend some time with me? I can leave, if it is your desire."
"No," he gasped, the word flying from his lips in an instant before he could control himself. Well since it was already out in the open it was time to just throw all the rest of his caution to the winds. "Please, my lord, nothing would make me happier than to have you stay."
He heard a soft chuckle and the fingers gently stroked his skin, sliding ever so slowly through his hair. "Would it, now?" Annatar whispered, his words strangely confined, as if they existed only in the space between them. As if they were words that only Celebrimbor deserved to hear, and no one else.
His lips parted gently, for Celebrimbor was suddenly realizing that there was not enough air in his lungs, and he greedily gasped for more. "Of course, I would not lie to you," he said, his voice far more calm than he expected it to be, but there was still an undercurrent of a tremble there, quivering like the petal of a flower in the wind.
Even before Annatar spoke again, he knew the other had heard it. He could all but feel the smile stretching across his teacher's face as he leaned closer. "You do me a great honor, then, yet you avoid my presence."
"Never avoid, hîr, never," Celebrimbor whispered back, finally turning against the hand to look into Annatar's eyes, hardly a few inches from his own. The sensation of the fingers in his hair sent thousands of prickles down his spine, plucking every single nerve like a harp string on their way down. He held the golden gaze with his own silver, unable to stop his answering smile as he met the liquid depths that were currently staring at him with all the piercing scrutiny that Annatar was well capable of. "I merely wished to see the stars, and how their light bathes my master in their glorious glow. I hoped that you would come out here and join me."
The smile turned knowing, as if he had just stepped into a trap that Annatar knew that he would fall into. "I see," the other elf said, tapping his lips with a finger. "So you thought to cleverly lead me around, then." He tilted his head a little, and then suddenly his fingers were gone from Celebrimbor's neck and he was stepping back.
Just as he thought he would, Celebrimbor suddenly slumped against the balustrade and had to catch himself. Without the Lord of Gift's touch his knees felt as if they were now nonexistent and all of his bones had been replaced with fog. He felt his throat close a little, the feeling of loss overwhelming him as Annatar's presence, so clear like a mountain spring, vanished with every step. One hand somehow managed to free itself from the death grip on the rail and he had moved it only an inch to reach for his lord, as if he could somehow, absurdly, pull him back, but Annatar stopped him yet again.
Arms spread, palms open, his face still smiling, Aulë's smith looked at him. "And how do I look under the radiance of Elbereth's greatest gifts? Does the sight satisfy your curiosity?" He had that endearingly smug smile across his face, like he already knew the answer and merely wished to hear it spoken out loud.
Although to be fair, if Celebrimbor was even half as beautiful as Annatar (and knew it) he would take a great pleasure in parading himself around like a peacock, too. Even his aunt wasn't completely immune to flattery, she was one of the fairest elves in all of Arda and she knew it and she was not ashamed to flaunt it on occasion. But Annatar…he was utterly sublime.
The seconds were stretching, he knew they were, but Celebrimbor could not summon the breath from his body to speak. He was utterly frozen, spellbound before the lovely creature in front of him like Thingol when he first met Melian. The only way he could describe the sight was as if Annatar had ensnared all of the light around him, holding it close to his body until it looked as if he had sucked all of the life from the stars, leaving hollow chips behind, no more radiant than grains of sand scattered across the black beach of the sky. With the darkness pressing closer in response, to him the elf had stolen all the light in the world. Everything beyond his aura looked like spilled ink blotting out the features of the land around him.
And Celebrimbor couldn't find anything wrong with it. He would have been perfectly content to just sit like this forever, to have Annatar be his only light. It was only when Annatar raised an eyebrow, breaking the perfect stillness of his posture, did Celebrimbor feel like he had been released from his spell and his aching lungs gasped in air. Somehow, it felt fuller and fresher than every other breath he had ever taken before in his life.
"I have no words," he spoke with utter sincerity. "Nothing seems to do justice for your beauty, my lord…" He trailed off, licked his lips, and tried again. "I've never seen anything more incredible than you in my entire life."
Surprise, but a pleased one, flickered across Annatar's face and he knew that he had indeed said something that the other had not been wholly expecting. "Considering that I still see the Trees reflecting in your eyes, that is quite a compliment indeed, Celebrimbor," he spoke. But his tone did not hold an inch of disbelief, and only Annatar could somehow be so charmingly arrogant that he truly believed what was being said to him rather than chalk it up as mindless, tasteless flattery.
Celebrimbor bowed, if anything to shield his eyes from the brightness for only a moment. "And yet my words are no less true for it," he said. It was easier to speak when he wasn't looking directly at him.
He did not hear any steps, but he saw Annatar's light drawing closer. He straightened himself in just enough time to be caught in his teacher's arms and for the other's lips to descend upon his own, kissing him with enough force to bring his nerves flaring to life and he responded without a second of hesitation, caught hopelessly in the web that had been woven around them.
Warm breath teased his lips, and Annatar's thumbs traced the curve of his spine. "Now," his lord whispered, "come back to bed with me."
It was a request he could never, ever refuse. One he would never wish to.
Melkor hates Námo. At least most of the time. But that doesn't stop him from falling into the other Vala's bed now and then.
"Enough," Melkor spat as the touch wandered over him once more, cold fingers trailing up his side, to his shoulder, and then idly playing with his neck in a carefully deliberate path. For that alone he would have been annoyed, the planning that went into such a simple gesture, but the owner of the fingers irked him far more deeply. He was ignored, the touch drawing slow, deep circles into his skin, and Melkor had to suppress a shiver. "I said enough," he repeated, his tone dipping into a growl.
:No,: came the whispered reply, a dry rasp against his mind, tasting of cobwebs and spun veils. The pressure increased, right over where the blood beat under his skin, not enough to cut off the flow but the first traces of dizziness began to work its way up his skull.
"Námo," he snarled in warning, his hand coming up to grip the other's.
But Námo was never, ever fazed by anything he did. In an instant his fingertips gripped the back of his neck, far tighter than any of his other touches so far and Melkor groaned at the feeling, his heart starting to race as the other Vala held him in his grip. He could have broken it with ease, but he did not. Not while Námo's lips soon followed, placing kisses on his skin, the cold porcelain of his mask hard and unyielding while his icy lips nearly burned against his heated flesh. He writhed in the touch, yet was held still by the force that pressed against him, both in hand and ëala. It was like a heavy fog, weightless yet thick, prickling all over with a stifling pressure that spoke of conviction, of fate that could not be undone.
A powerful grip worthy of one of the Aratar, but one Melkor could free himself from, if he tried.
Caught in the lull of Námo's ëala, in its wisps and deep echoes, Melkor missed Námo's free hand coming to wrap around his the front of his neck until it was too late. Suddenly the grip on him was fierce, robbing him of his breath and he gasped automatically in response, thrashing in Námo's arms in his rage. "This is not Mandos!" he said, his pale eyes blazing like starfire as his dug his nails deeply into Námo's hands, hard enough to pierce the skin. Enough to make him bleed.
"Wrong," Námo replied, speaking with his lips for once. His voice was hardly more than a whisper, but the way the air shivered when he spoke told that the Lord of the Dead did not need to raise his voice to be heard and respected. "With me you are always in Mandos, Melkor." His fingers wrapped tighter around Melkor's neck, right where the heavy links of Angainor used to rest.
Melkor always spat and raged, but Námo knew better. His could see all the paths their conversation could take, after all, and he knew which was the most likely one Melkor would choose. Even if the older Ainu absolutely hated what Námo did to him, he also craved it for reasons he could not fathom. Námo did not care about that, though, and was the only one of the other Valar who truly did not care about many of the whims and wishes of Melkor, simply observing without judgement. It was what always drew the other back to him, each and every time.
He could hear the breath rattling in Melkor's throat and the nails burying into his skin dug harder, and Námo finally let go. The gasp of air that followed seemed to shake the space around them and he felt Melkor going limp from the feeling, but in his mind's eye he could already see what the dark Vala was going to do next. Melkor whirled, turning onto his back and lunging for his throat, but Námo had moved as well, grabbing Melkor's wrist and holding it down next to his head while Námo quickly climbed on top of him, using his weight to pin him down.
For a moment they stared at each other. Námo's hair fell about them like a curtain, shielding them from the rest of the world and tangling about the bed in raven-dark waves, like threads binding them together, wrapping them in the confines of their own tiny, personal reality. Melkor's eyes glared upward, blazing in anger and a whole host of other emotions he did not bother to name, but as he gazed upon the expressionless mask Námo wore, into the black depths where his eyes should be, the garment shielding everything but Námo's mouth from view, he felt irritation. "Take that off," he ordered, his free hand coming up to grab it.
:You already know what I look like,: Námo's lips did not move, but the voice in his mind was clear nonetheless.
"Take it off, I said! I want to look at you." What did it matter that he knew? He wanted to see him now!
Much to his surprise, his request was granted as suddenly the mask came free in his hand, leaving the Lord of the Dead exposed. Melkor tossed it aside impatiently and reached out to stroke his fingers across Námo's face, marveling in the sight for a moment as he always did. Námo had always been a strange one compared to the rest of the Valar; his skin was so pale and thin that Melkor could see right through it even without his divine gaze, his bones stark and white against the flimsy covering over them. Melkor traced the shape of his skull, right up to where his eyes should have been, if Námo ever decided to have eyes. There were not even sockets under his skin indicating where they would have been, the area was simply smooth, and he stroked there again and again, ever intrigued by the sight.
"I was always amazed by how different you are," he murmured, his voice much calmer than it had been moments ago. "Why the other Valar never saw…" he trailed off, scowling at his own troublesome thought.
Námo did not reply. It was not something that needed a reply nor called for one. Instead he simply pressed their lips together, capturing Melkor in a deep kiss while his free hand traced idly up to his collar, caressing the bones he found there. Then without any warning he dug his fingers into them, listening to Melkor's resulting cry tearing from his throat and into his mouth. Melkor gripped him with his free hand, his nails scratching down his shoulders, forcing him closer.
Melkor was always like fire, so intensely burning, living so much in his current moment that he far outshone any other being in Arda. Simply being around him was almost enough to catch his essence, to feel the rare warmth flowing into his own veins. Námo couldn't entirely hold back his own moan as their bodies pressed together, and with a few quick movements he had jerked Melkor's robes aside, ignoring the protests of the other.
"Don't you da—aah!" Melkor's grip threatened to tear his robes as the other Vala threw back his head and yelled, yet he did not push Námo away. His hips jerked up into Námo's touch, almost unwillingly, and his trapped hand tried once more to free itself.
Pressing his fingers harder into Melkor's collarbone, Námo waited until he heard another cry before starting off on a hard, fast pace that tore the older Vala between the sensations of pain and pleasure. He gasped a little, burying his face into Melkor's shoulder as they moved together, feeling the heat rising in him from the moans and the ëala reaching for his own. Melkor always felt chaotic and twisting, his essence burning both hot and cold, so loud and full of life that pulled the threads of Námo's own lethargic ëala into a storm of energy that flowed between them. He could hear the air crackling with their Power, but ignored it.
The heat was stifling, his hair trapping it between their writhing bodies. Melkor's hand gripped it tightly, pulling, and Námo dragged his nails across to Melkor's other bones to start his work fresh there. All the while he moved, thrusting so deep into Melkor that he thought he could feel the other's very core beneath him, coiling around him and lighting his nerves on fire.
The ecstasy that came upon him finally made him cry out, darkness descending on the room as his ëala danced and broke free of his confining grip with Melkor's making the stones crack around them. He barely noticed, caged between Melkor's arm and chest as they both rode out the throes of their passion with one another, their shadows so tightly entangled that it was impossible to tell one Vala from the other. The fire still burned, simmering beneath the surface, but even if for a moment, they could pause.
Melkor's nails dug very deliberately into his shoulder and his ëala prickled with ice-sharp needles. "I hate you," Melkor seethed, his voice barely more than a hiss.
Námo merely kissed him again, pressing his weight onto Melkor. And, as usual, Melkor allowed it.
Maedhros has spent so long imprisoned that he has no idea what is real anymore.
No matter how many years passed since his rescue from Thangorodrim, it still felt as if those impossibly tall mountains were still looming over Maedhros’s shoulder no matter where he went. On the flattest plain, near the widest ocean, at the top of his own mountains, he could still feel the presence behind him as if he had never left. He was afraid to turn around, lest his fears turn out to be correct and he would be met with their sight filling his vision and the confirmation of this all being another hopeless, tormented dream.
He remembered the pain, still. It was one of the things that never, ever left him.
He hadn’t been in his forge since he had come back. He could see the concerned looks from his brothers when they thought he wasn’t watching, could almost hear their whispers whenever he walked away.
Maybe he is mad. Maybe the torture did something to him. How can he be the High King now if he can’t even be a smith?
Maitimo was always bossing us around . Now look at him, he walks around like a ghost.
Hold your tongue! That is your King you are talking about!
Maedhros clenched his hands together, feeling his nails digging into his soft flesh. Bitter, sharp anger flared to life on his tongue, every beat of his living heart sending another flow of hatred to feed it. Those selfish…what did they know? They were the ones who abandoned him! Rescuing him was too hard, they said, he was probably dead by now anyway. All because not a single one of his own brothers decided to bother to check and see if he had been alive or not!
All of what he endured, they had a hand in making. Everything he suffered at the hands of Sauron because of their carelessness!
A shudder wracked his frame at the thought of his captor’s name, as if the mere thought could summon him. Maedhros could see shadows of him wherever he went, a phantom of his mind that refused to let him have rest. How could he explain the reason he couldn’t go to the forge was because every time he looked at the fire he saw him? The golden color of his eyes, the radiance that drifted from his skin like the light of a flame, the intense heat he could sometimes feel when Sauron got too close, hot enough to make his skin want to peel away as if he was being roasted alive. Maedhros thanked all of the Valar in Valinor that red hair was not common among the Ñoldor, if he saw such flaming hair among someone else he had no idea how he would react. The only reason he even tolerated his own was because it was not at all the right shade, a much darker red like wine.
Sometimes when he wandered the halls he imagined he could hear the Maia’s voice calling to him, playfully singing his name like he so loved to do as he drew closer to his cell. The sight of a knife was enough to make him pause, mouth dry as he remembered. He rubbed his wrists, touched the old scars with the tips of his fingers, remembering where his skin had parted under the blade and Sauron’s nails wiggled under to pull—
In his sleep it was the worst, his weak mind letting down its barriers and flooding him with the nightmares. Sauron above him, smiling at him in that sickening way that made his blood run cold, the light of the candles reflecting off of the liquid staining his fingers and his blade. With all the gentleness of a lover, the Maia brought the knife to his lips and delicately licked the blade in a sly, almost cattish manner.
“Mmm, you always taste so sweet Maitimo,” Sauron whispered to him, the light of his eyes flaring brighter in their delight.
His other hand, one Maedhros had until this moment been entirely unaware of, squeezed and Maedhros gasped as he felt the fingers inside of him, pulling on something in his chest—
His screaming was still echoing off the walls when hands shook him awake. “Maitimo!” a familiar, much more welcome voice shouted into his ears to jolt him awake. His eyes fluttered open and Fingon was there, as he always was, hovering over him and stroking his face gently in his hands. “Maitimo,” Fingon whispered again, seeing he was awake. “Shh, it’s over now. Remember where you are?”
The feeling of soft, cool sheets wrapping around his body. The sound of trickling water and night birds singing outside, the wind sighing in the trees. His scent and Fingon’s rich in his nose as he inhaled, pressing against the bed they shared, forcing the sensations to imprint into his mind. Yes, this was real, he remembered. “Yes,” he whispered, letting out a shaky breath. “I’m sorry, I—“
“Hush, there is nothing to apologize for,” Fingon replied, kisses raining down on his eyelids, wiping away the tears that had started to form there. He was always so gentle, had done nothing but care for him after his rescue even though he had every reason to hate him for what he and his father had done to Fingolfin. “I’m here, see?” He lifted Maedhros’s hand to his face, the curve of his smiling cheek fitting precisely into Maedhros’s palm like it had always done.
Maedhros felt a weak, relieved smile skating across his lips. He stroked Fingon’s face with his thumb, relishing in the feeling, and then on impulse pulled him closer, desperate to have the other in his arms. “Stay with me,” he whispered, clenching his fingers across Fingon’s back, as if he could hold him there forever. “Please.”
A hand stroked down his chest, bringing forth another wave of shudders from him. It was like the touch was everywhere, imprinting onto every single nerve of his which had all suddenly become very aware of how it trailed lower and lower down his body. “Oh, my sweet Maitimo,” Fingon whispered to him, catching his lips in a slow, sensual kiss.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Terror flooded Maedhros’s veins and his eyes flew open because that was not Fingon’s voice. Eyes as golden as flames and just as bright burned into his vision, marred only by the slit pupils slicing through them, their light made all the more intense and piercing by the sheer glee in Sauron’s face.
He shrieked, no this couldn’t be real please let this one not be real another nightmare please please—
Shackles gripped his wrists as he tried to thrash and the pain of his lacerated skin digging into the iron brought him ever deeper into this crystalline clarity, where Sauron’s fingers stroked his face precisely the same way Fingon’s had a moment ago. But Fingon had felt real too, please let this just be another horrid lie.
Sauron’s lips crashed down on his own, swallowing his screams with an echo of a moan responding in his own throat. Maedhros shuddered in disgust and at whatever feeling just coiled deep in his gut, something he refused to acknowledge because he would not.
“Hello sweetling,” Sauron whispered to him as he broke away, his other hand still trailing down and Maedhros felt his heart stutter in his chest when he remembered it. “I missed you.”
