#you may note there's nothing showing the elven script and the reason for that is I want to make a better font before uploading it that way

[bliamapriori]

may we see ur wiki,,,,,

The wiki is currently set as private and I'm still learning how to fucking manage a wiki in general so as of this exact moment I am unsure how someone gets to request and receive permission with these settings, but it's definitely my goal to figure out how to do this at some point this year.

I've been super busy this dec/jan so it's not something I've had the time for just yet, but the second shit starts to calm down I want to look into it.

Right now the wiki is full of dictionary entries like this.

And some articles like this one.

But it's not growing super fast so you're really not missing much. At the moment the area with most action is me setting up templates for when I'm ready to start adding Supernalese language dictionary entries.

[dragonprincewritings]

Aaravos’ horns look perfect for grabbing on to 👀👀👀👀👀👀👀

You’re not quite sure what the horns are for, biologically speaking, but that in itself isn’t saying much. He could say much the same about your pinky fingers that he lacks--what purpose do they serve, how are they useful if he can get along just fine without them? It’s not as if the information would be helpful in any earth-shattering way.

And yet you can’t help but wonder, hard and long and with no end to the curiosity plaguing your thoughts: what were those horns of his even for anyway? A form of defense? A notion of status? Health? Were they simply forms of aesthetic appeal in courtship?

You never end up asking Aaravos for fear he’d find it odd or, worse still, that he’d be amused by the curiosity and tease it for weeks afterwards. It instead stays tucked neatly into your thoughts for only to you ponder about when a situation reminds you, long enough to think about it before finally forgetting again; you’ll never quite have an answer, but that hasn’t stopped you from making your own.

Because you’ve found a very good use for those horns and Aaravos, for all his guile and allure and knack for pretty words, is always left breathless by it.

“Aaravos?”

The sound of his name only earns a twitch of his ears to show that he’s heard you, eyes stuck in one of the many old tomes lining the far wall of his room. The day is warm, but most days seem to be warm in the other-realm he’s called home, so it’s not anything special. It doesn’t stop you from enjoying it though, nor enjoying the way that he sits at his desk, flipping idly through weather-worn pages of a book you don’t recognize--maybe it’s new.

He’s been rather enraptured by the item for the past hour, so much so that he hasn’t offered you more than a few short words and a cursory glance every now and again. It’s nothing aggravating, especially considering your time in his little world has become a regular thing every few nights, but it’s odd enough that you can’t simply let the inaction drop from your focus.

It’s rare that he doesn’t show you immense physical attention in these moments, and the moments that he doesn’t are often for a very good reason--this simply might be one of them.

He looks cute when he reads.

“Aaravos,” you say again, getting even less of a response from the elf. 

For all the years to his life, in this one little moment he seems little more like a child, deeply focused on something that interests him and without hope to be pulled away. You watch him from the bed for a few moments, but your mind cannot take the silence for long. You stand with a surprising grace and step over to his desk, gently leaning over his shoulder to try and get a look at what he’s reading.

“What book is that?” 

“A collection of poems,” Aaravos says, not turning his eyes from the pages, his voice sounding warm. “I’m hoping to find a couple for something.”

“What sort of something?”

You gently throw your arms over his shoulders, leaning against his back in a moment of simple bliss--even the smallest physical touch is nice when it’s shared with him, a man who’s defining trait is that you can so rarely touch him.

Aaravos makes a noise that you’ve come to know is amusement; it sounds something between a hum and a purr, rumbling deep within his chest.

“For a project,” he finally says, cryptic as always. “You’re not allowed to know anymore of it until the time is right.”

You quirk your brow and peer at the page he’s on, taking note of the delicate way he holds the old, crinkled pages. The words are in a language you can’t understand, the script swirling and fanciful--some sort of elven language, most likely.

Maybe it’s the closeness, or perhaps it’s even the enigmatic tone of his voice, the soft mischief tantalizing in every word--you want to kiss him regardless, to pull his attention away from the book for even a moment so that you can feel that smug smile melt away into vulnerable pleasure.

You shift your body and sink your hands into the soft, flowing locks of his silvery hair. Before Aaravos can even ask what you’re doing you wrap your fingers around the base of his horns, gentle but firm, and tug his head and face around so that he has to look at you, has to look away from the book eating up so much of his attention--

You kiss him eagerly and, after but a moment of shock, he kisses you in equal passion. By both the position of your bodies and the grip of your fingers around the shape of his horns, you are able to control the kiss--it’s but a small flip of power between the two of you, but one that he doesn’t argue in the slightest. 

You even hear a soft moan behind his lips and in your mouth, the noise muffled by needy kisses in a moment of impulsive desire.

And just like that, the kiss is broken. You’re leaning against Aaravos’ back and playing your fingers through his hair, feeling him take in a long breath with his head still turned, eyes flicked to the side if only to keep a glimpse of you in his field of view.

“It’s not polite to touch an elf’s horns without permission,” he murmurs, a touch of something deeper in his words. “Dare I say you didn’t ask for mine.”

You act shocked for only a moment, a fake worry in your words as you follow the unspoken trail of the conversation.

“Oh how rude of me,” you press a quick kiss into his hair, then let your lips graze against the shell of his ear. “May I do it again?”

And then an exhale, a shake, a genuine shiver of delight down his spine that you can almost feel against your chest.

“Oh by all means,” You hear and feel the chair squeak as Aaravos pushes himself back to turn properly towards you, a look of barely-contained heat smoldering behind his sharp eyes. “Kiss me like that again.”