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chibi-writings · 3 years

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Blood of the Lilies 2/?

AO3 Link

Character(s): Vernon Roche, Ves

Pairing: Roche/Ves

Words: 3,619

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.”

#vernon roche #witcher ves #vernon roche x ves #fanfiction

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chibi-writings · 4 years

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Writing Commissions

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 Original Fiction (as long as enough information is provided) Angst Fluff Crossovers (If I know the series) Headcanons Torture/Gore Omegaverse AUs Rape/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!

#commissions #writing commissions #commissions open

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chibi-writings · 4 years

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Blood of the Lilies

AO3 Link

Characters: Vernon Roche, Ves

Pairing: Vernon Roche/Ves

Words: 1,916

"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.

#fanfiction #witcher fanfiction #vernon roche #ves #vernon roche x ves

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chibi-writings · 6 years

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A capriccio

AO3 Link

Characters: Manwë, Ingwë

Pairing: Manwë/Ingwë

Words: 2,268

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?

#manwe #ingwe #fanfic #I had this laying around for a long time and decided to finally finish it #there's simply not enough manwe in the world

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chibi-writings · 6 years

Text

The Maia’s Scribe

A get well soon gift for @uvasapphira :)

AO3 Link

Characters: Sauron, Maedhros

Words: 1,085

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…”

The quill continued to scratch away.

#fanfic #fic #sauron #maedhros

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chibi-writings · 6 years

Text

His Light

AO3 Link

Pairing: Annatar/Celebrimbor

Characters: Annatar, Celebrimbor

Words: 1,381

A gift for @uvasapphira ;)

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.

#fanfic #silvergifting #annatar #celebrimbor

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chibi-writings · 6 years

Text

Enough

AO3 link

Character(s): Melkor, Námo

Pairing: Melkor/Namo

Words: 1,540

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.

#fanfic #melkor #namo #mandos #i'm so lazy with posting stories here sometimes

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chibi-writings · 6 years

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Tattered Dreams

AO3 Link

Pairing(s): Maedhros/Sauron, Maedhros/Fingon

Character(s): Maedhros, Sauron, Fingon

Warnings: Mild blood, physical & psychological torture

Words: 1,236

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.”

#maedhros #sauron #fingon #fanfic #russingon #apparently that's the pairing name #i should put my other stories here when I'm less lazy

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chibi-writings · 6 years

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Writing Commissions

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 (not Andromeda), Disney, Transformers, Les Miserables, Historical fiction, Harry Potter, Twilight, Silent Hill, Supernatural, ATLA, Pokemon, Star Trek, MLP (absolutely nothing sexual), 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 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!

#commissions #writing commissions #supernatural #furry #omegaverse #hp #disney #mlp #time to reblog this again!

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chibi-writings · 6 years

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Mairon’s Solo

Pairing: Melkor/Mairon

Summary: After his master is first defeated by the Valar and brought to their lands for judgement, Mairon is left behind to rebuild in Melkor's absence and wait for his eventual return.

And when he does make his return, Mairon proves once more why he is the Dark Lord's most faithful and devoted servant.

Everything was so much quieter in Angband with Melkor gone. In nearly three hundred years Mairon had still not quite gotten used to it yet. Back in Utumno the wind howled ceaselessly for days and days on end, liable to drive someone mad if they didn't learn to tune the noise out. When he commanded Angband before the War for the Sake of Elves he only felt a fraction of the winds, but he could always tell when his master was approaching because they would become steadily louder as time passed, as if Melkor brought the maelstrom with him wherever he went. At first it had irritated Mairon, one could barely think with all of that shrieking going on outside, his only refuge was his forge nestled deep in the heart of the fortress, far enough that no sounds from the outside could penetrate its thick walls.

And now, with his master gone and the wind with him, Mairon had nothing but time to think and silence to think in.

He would have given anything, anything to have Melkor back with him. He missed the deep timber of his voice that would make the walls tremble with each syllable, missed the quake of his footsteps hunting for him, missed those eyes staring down at him shining with silver fire. He missed every single tiny thing Melkor did just to infuriate him; surprise him in the forge while he was working, mess with his tools and put them back in improper places until Mairon found them again, endlessly bother him with increasingly wild and unrealistic schemes of grandeur, drag him into an empty room where his hand would fist into Mairon's hair and his tongue would force its way past his lips...

He buried his face into his hands, his hair falling across all sides of his face like curtains of fire, and tried not to scream. He wanted it all back, Melkor, his touch, his taste, his annoying hovering, even the wind. He wanted the Vala back so much that it created an ache that gnawed endlessly at his heart, no matter how hard he tried to fight it off by immersing himself in work. Mairon bred the orcs, tended the forges and even began smithing himself, countless armors and blades pouring from his forge. He repaired the fortress and took care of Draugluin, fixed all of the rooms and bedchambers.

All under the pretense of getting everything back in order, he told himself. Except for that one, wakened part of himself that whispered he was only doing this in the hopes that Melkor would come back and everything would go back to normal.

In the silences between his work, his heart ached with its wounds.

Before Melkor had been dragged away in chains, Mairon had occasionally commanded Angband with his physical presence, leaving the Vala behind in Utumno. They were never separate for long, and Mairon could have easily had his master right there with him by lifting his voice into song like he did when he created the world with the Ainur. The voice of the Maia would roll over the northern plains of Middle-earth, unfurling like clouds of smoke and light as he sang for a duet and waited hopefully for his master to answer. When the Dark Lord's own song reached back to him, oily and rolling across the air like poison, it always filled his heart.

But now...Melkor was silent. Melkor had been silent for three hundreds years, but that never stopped Mairon's feet from finding their way to the top of the fortress to overlook their icy surroundings that stretched as far as the eye could see. And he would still lift up his voice and sing, sing desperately, every note tinged with misery as he called and called for a lord that would not answer.

All of northern Middle-earth could hear his lamentations on the rocks. The air was tinged with notes of his suffering. And yet he sang again and again, hoping beyond hope his master would one day join in and recreate their duet anew. The years dragged on and on, dragging Mairon's hope with it on days which seemed the darkest, only to be burned away by the Maia's pure devotion to his absent master each time, his spirits rising and dying and rising again like a phoenix from its ashes. Each time his voice would become louder, more bold to reach Aman and reveal his presence, more desolate as if it could draw Melkor to him like a beacon. But the world was empty, the sky hollow, and Melkor's voice was silent. The Vala did not return.

Until one day, he did.

Sauron had not even been expecting it. He had been nowhere near the roof or window where he usually sang, instead preoccupied with some other altogether trivial task that was nonetheless vital to keeping Angband running. Busy work to keep his heart and mind from gnawing themselves to pieces and away from the thought that Melkor was not here with him.

It hit then, a sound more terrible and overwhelming than anything Mairon could have ever even dreamed of, tearing through the air like a forgotten echo coming back to its origin a hundredfold stronger. It shook the bones of the earth and nearly threw him flat on his face with the force of it, the walls cracking under the strain of the noise, and filled his heart with fear. He knew that voice; he had never, ever heard it so loud in anything other than a shout of rage, but the timber and pitch were utterly unmistakable.

Melkor. Melkor was free, he had returned. But something terrible was happening, something incomprehensibly terrible. That was no cry of victory, or of summons, or of wrath, or of any of the things Mairon was familiar with from his master. It was pain, it was a terror so deep that it sank into the heart of every stone of the land. Melkor was in grave danger.

The Valar? Elves? It did not matter, Mairon barely gave it more than a momentary thought, his master was in trouble and he would sooner see himself destroyed defending him than to live with the rest of his short life knowing he had failed to do everything in his power to protect him.

The echoes of Melkor's scream were still racing across the fortress when he shoved himself to his feet, his light and brilliance blazing forth from his body in a way that had not been lit for the past three hundred years. It scorched the hall, blackening the stones and leaving the scent of ash in the air. Fury propelled him and he reached out his thoughts, burrowing his will and awareness into the tunnels deep below Angband where the balrogs slumbered, awaiting their master's return. They were awake now, roused into action by the scream they heard as well.

They would fly to help, but Sauron would not stand idle when they could move faster. "Useless whelps!" he screamed with both his mind and his voice, adding a counterpoint of trembling to Angband with Melkor's scream still an undertone. "Do you not hear our master is in danger?! Do you not hear him call? WHY ARE YOU STILL HERE?!"

The ground beneath his feet shook and he threw himself from the window, his form shifting into a strange being of light and flame that soared above the fortress on blazing wings. Taking on a specific form would require too much time and thought and Mairon found that much more vague forms did a far better job of inspiring awe and fear than anything else. Below he saw flame belch from the doors and entrances to Angband as the balrogs poured from its depths, smoke and angered fire that took flight on dreaded wings, leaving smoldering ashes in their wake. And Mairon turned, leading the charge, and propelled himself in the direction he had felt the scream coming from: west.

He saw the thing long before he actually came close enough to touch it. A horrid, bloated evil that oozed such a darkness that not even Mairon could see into its depths, all of it taking the shape of a spider. It could easily crush half of Angband if it wanted too, but its attention seemed focused on something in particular. Mairon followed it with his eyes as he approached, sharper, smaller details coming to his attention, such as the ink-black webs the spider spun and the tiny, writhing thing she was busy wrapping in them. He could see a light, a brilliant speck that even from this distance hurt his eyes, and the black fingers clutched around it. He followed the fingers up to an arm, to a form so wrapped in armor and webs he could not see clearly, but the flash of dark hair, the color of a stormy night ocean, he could recognize anywhere.

A scream of rage erupted from him and he dove down, a speck taking on a mountain, but he did not care. It had his master, he was in pain and—heat rushed by him from the whip of a balrog as the beasts descended upon the spider, hoardes of their smoke and fire choking the air as they surrounded the creature, lashing it with their whips until it screamed in pain and reared. Mairon knew they would handle the thing, only the Valar could stand up to an army of balrogs and survive. Instead he flew down in a blaze of glory, taking his normal shape only when the ground came rushing to meet him, stumbling forward on unsteady, half-formed legs as he rushed to Melkor's side.

"Master!" his voice came out far too hoarse and quiet as he beheld the sight of his Vala, so trapped in webs and unable to move, the darkness strangling him. "Hold on, my Lord, I shall free you." He drew his sword, hands barely trembling, and set it aflame with a thought. Then he cut the webs around Melkor's throat, taking the greatest care not to accidentally strike his master.

Thankfully the webs burned and parted at the touch of his blade, for Mairon had absolutely no clue what he had been going to do if they provided to be resilient to such measures. The moment he heard Melkor gasp in the air that had been robbed from his lungs he went to work on the rest of him, hacking away the other restraints on his body and ripping away leftover strands that dissolved into soot in his hands. The spider was retreating, he was dimly aware, fleeing from the balrogs and their burning flame and the light that the flames brought. Perhaps they could kill it before it got too far? It would make a spectacular trophy—

"To me, my balrogs," he felt the air shake again from Melkor's voice, its bass reaching deep into his bones and shaking him to his core in that way he missed with all of his soul. Mairon closed his eyes and savored the feeling, holding it close to him and letting the thought sink into him: everything was alright now.

A moment later he understood Melkor's words and his eyes flew open in shock. "Master?" he whispered. "Do you not wish the evil to be slain and brought to your feet?"

His master's gaze turned to him, so missed, so fierce and all at once Mairon felt that empty place inside of him fill with light once more. "Mairon," Melkor whispered, his uninjured hand coming up to touch his face, as if checking if he was real. "Help me up, Mairon," came the next order, his imperious tone back from the nuance that had taken over it earlier. "Before they come back."

Mairon leaped to obey, taking his master's hand and pulling him up, worrying gnawing at his heart that Melkor needed assistance. Had the spider truly injured him so greatly? "The spider—"

"Leave her," Melkor said, taking his hand away once he was on his feet and drawing himself up, appearing as regal and dignified as ever while the balrogs landed amongst them, waiting for orders. "Angband, is it close, Mairon?"

"Yes, my Lord. It is just this way," Mairon said, eager to take his master back so he could make sure his injuries were not severe.

His heart blazed and his voice wanted to burst forth from his throat into a glorious, victorious song to announce to the world that he had won. Melkor was back, his master was home again.

A/N: I know Tolkien doesn't mention Sauron rescuing Melkor with the balrogs, but honestly? Considering he had been repairing Angband in the meantime and just waiting for Melkor to return in general, I don't see why he wouldn't be there helping them since he has absolutely no reason not to.

#mairon #melkor #morgoth #sauron #fanfiction #silmarillion #silmarillion fanfic

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chibi-writings · 6 years

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Gentle Fire

Characters: Duncan/Riordan

A sleepy story of two Wardens.

The fire was getting low, Duncan mused as he watched the dancing flames winding down, now about half the height they had been half an hour ago. Not that the warmth was important, it was quite a nice night, but he didn’t like the absence of light with the forest surrounding them. It made his fingers play with the pommel of his dagger nonstop, ready to yank it out at a moment’s notice and leap upon any perceived intruder to their small circle of safety. He really should have been getting up to throw more logs on, but he was currently indisposed with no method of untangling himself that he particularly liked.

Said current disposer watched him with half-lidded eyes from the depths of his lap, amusement sparkling in the flickers of light that the fire threw their way. Riordan did not speak, but to be fair that was something he did on occasion. There were times he was so silent and still that it was easy to forget he was even there, but Duncan never forgot. A part of his brain was always aware of the other Warden’s presence when he was nearby, just like he did not have to look at the moon to know that it was still in the sky. There were words swimming around in that gaze, though, Duncan was more than aware of that. Even if Riordan did not speak he always had something to say.

His companion nursed a cup between both hands, some dark liquid he had poured out of his vint bottle that had Duncan wrinkling his nose from the hint of vinegar that wafted to his senses. Riordan was pure Orlesian down to his bones, nevermind his Ferelden part, only taking wine to add to his bottle despite how quickly it could go sour, yet when he had taken a sip of the offered cup from earlier the fire went down surprisingly smooth. A pleasant one, to say the least, much like Riordan himself.

Riordan, on the other hand, had taken one mouthful of Duncan’s creation and sputtered, sending him into a coughing fit that lasted nearly five whole minutes before Duncan was finally able to make him drink some cold water to wash the burn away.

“Maker’s breath, Duncan! You could blind someone if you tossed that into their eyes.”

A laugh. “You exaggerate. Your Orlesian tongue is far too familiar with wine to get used to the hotter spirits. This is what keeps me from freezing to death in Ferelden every year.”

“Pah, what is in there anyway? There’s something else burning in there that isn’t alcohol. It’s...sweet?”

“I always said a fiery vint is nothing that a spoonful of honey and cinnamon can’t fix.”

That was a while ago, long enough when the fire had been roaring and he could see the rosy color bloom across Riordan’s face from the effects of the alcohol. His skin had always been too pale in Duncan’s opinion, too drawn, and when some life was finally breathed into it the change was stunning. Not that Riordan was not plenty handsome on a regular basis, but he was a man who excelled in a red complexion.

The fire. It was still going down and Riordan’s face was mostly in shadow at this point, half buried into Duncan’s lap as he was, and he felt a rather irrational sting of annoyance that he could no longer see the Orlesian so clearly. But getting up meant moving and Riordan would have to be moved as well, their peaceful balance disrupted—

A hand gently brushing his own made him pause, and he looked down to see Riordan’s eyes staring at him intently. Most might have been at the very least unsettled with how hard Riordan could make his gaze, but Duncan was not one of them. Carefully, Riordan pried his hand from the pommel of his dagger and brought it to him instead, placing it at his side and nuzzling into the new position. “Don’t be so fidgety,” Riordan muttered, taking a sip from his cup. “If anyone is out there waiting to strike they will wait for us to go to sleep before making their move.”

Duncan very much wanted his dagger back in his grip, but feeling the curve of Riordan’s ribs under his fingers was a much more powerful draw. There was something strange and incredibly intimate about it; these were the bones that held him together yet it would be so easy to slip a dagger between them and end Riordan’s life right there. And the other knew it, but he put Duncan’s hand there anyway.

“We still need to put more wood on,” Duncan protested, his voice a soft murmur as he traced the hard curves with his fingers to where they joined at the sternum. There he could feel the first faint drumming of Riordan’s heart, calmly and yet powerfully beating behind the safety of flesh and bone. It was what kept him alive.

There were few things Duncan found more amazing and precious than the fact that Riordan was merely alive at all, a living and breathing person right here in front of him.

“It can wait a moment,” Riordan answered to the reply he had almost forgotten he had said. His hand was suddenly cupping Duncan’s face, trailing idly through the hairs of his beard and insistently turning the Rivaini to face him. Just then he sat up, arranging himself and setting down his cup before taking Duncan’s face in both of his hands and kissing him.

Duncan was surprised at the action, but welcomed it wholeheartedly, returning it without hesitation. Riordan always had the softest, yet most insistent kisses that Duncan never grew tired of; if anything his fellow Warden had him wanting more. He tasted faintly of his wine, but distilled with Riordan’s natural flavor had Duncan wondering why in the world he ever drank that burning stuff from his own bottle and why he didn’t spend every moment of his day stealing kisses from Riordan’s wine-touched lips.

One more thing he loved about Riordan, the other loved to indulge. Long past the point anyone else would have pushed away, sated with what they had received, Riordan kept giving and sharing, the minutes crawling by as they stayed locked together, speaking but without words. It was enough to make his head spin in the most delightful way until they finally, belatedly, broke apart.

Riordan was glowing again, even in the faint light that was obvious and it was just as beautiful as it was the first time. “See? Nothing to worry about,” he murmured, settling himself back down again, except his posture much more relaxed and showing that he had every intention of falling asleep like this.

“Oh no no,” Duncan said with a chuckle, holding the Orlesian back while he leaned out and grabbed a log they had cut earlier. Except he wasn’t so focused on leaving Riordan to actually stand up, so with a twist of his wrist he deftly tossed the wood onto the fire. Then another, then another.

Gentle laughter caressed his ears and as he settled himself back down Riordan claimed his spot again, the amusement back tenfold. “You are unstoppable,” he teased, yet there was clear admiration there. One of his hands picked at the patterns in the fabric above Duncan’s hip, tracing the swirls there.

Duncan threaded his fingers in Riordan’s hair, playing with the long strands much to the other’s delight. “They didn’t make me senior Warden for my age,” was all he remarked, watching as the growing light brought out new, sharper details that he could go back to observing in peace.

#dragon age #da:o #fanfiction #grey wardens #da duncan #da riordan

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chibi-writings · 6 years

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Writing Commissions

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.

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!

#writing commissions #commissions #dragon age #mass effect #supernatural #nsfw #fanfiction commissions

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chibi-writings · 6 years

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Ink 6/?

Characters: Frollo, Esmeralda

Warning: torture (whipping, stretching on the rack), mentions of denailing, sexual acts

Submission

"You shall break them with a rod of iron. You shall shatter them like earthenware." —Psalm 2:9.

Even if Frollo had no idea how to get to the dungeons, he could have easily found his way by following the noise Esmeralda was making. She was still yelling at him, for him, even though he was far enough behind them that he couldn't be seen. It was as if she simply sensed his presence shadowing her as they went down the halls, down the stairs, and down, down.

The air changed within the stone stairwells as they plunged deeper into the bowels of the Palace of Justice. It was warmer, definitely, bearing an eternal heat that the torches in their brackets simply added to, and heavier. The weight only came from water and Frollo could feel the dampness in the air every time he inhaled, sticking to his throat and lungs and bringing the myriad of smells with it.

Rust, smoke, mildew, the scent of unwashed bodies, blood. Fresh and old, it was an inescapable part of the dungeons that seemed soaked into the very stones and mortar. It clung to the mouth, bringing the taste of iron with it.

Frollo had long gotten used to the scent by now. But Esmeralda...her sudden silence was more telling than anything she could have ever spoken.

But of course she could have never stayed silent for long. He heard her start up again just before he came to the landing, followed by a heavy door opening. He had just enough time to see a flash of white flicker in one of the doorways and then she was gone again, taken into an empty room. Frollo's smile never left his face, even when he heard her voice rising in panic, all to an oblivious, uncaring world around her. The only responses she would hear, if she could hear them, would be the moans of fellow prisoners in their own cells. A figure all but materializing out of one of the shadowy alcoves gave the minister pause. His dark clothes and hood hid most of his features, but Frollo recognized him after a glance. "Jaquet," he said with a dip of his head. The man saluted him with a grin, showing off a few blackened teeth as a result. "My Lord," he said with a glint in his eye. "That's a very pretty one you brought down just now, sir. It'll be a shame to ruin it all." Despite his words, Jaquet didn't sound very upset at the idea. On the contrary his breathing seemed to be coming faster and he was gripping the whip in his other hand far too tightly. Frollo's eyes narrowed at him until the man was squirming under his gaze and trying his best not to look away. "Quite," Frollo finally said, the simple snap of the syllables against his teeth clacking like the jaws of a wolf. Jaquet flinched. "Your services will not be required for her, Jaquet. I shall attend to her myself." The unrestrained shock spread across Jaquet's face, so obvious and rude that Frollo found himself gritting his teeth ever so slightly to keep his temper in check. Well what did he expect from such low people as a man who would take a position as a torturer? Of course it was a nasty, necessary business that someone had to do, but in all his years Frollo had never once met a torturer who hated his job. "Yourself, sir?" Jaquet repeatedly dumbly before realizing his mistake and composing himself. "Yes, of course, my Lord! Anything you want!" "Your whip, Jaquet." He held out his hand, palm up, eyes never leaving Jaquet's. For a moment Jaquet stared incredulously, but again he caught himself and stretched out his other hand to give the instrument to Frollo. It was a warm, smooth leather that could only come from years of handling and caressed his skin like silk. Frollo nodded and gave it a perfunctory glance, noting that the knotted cords were free of blood (fresh anyway) and untangled, hanging in neat, straight lines. It had not been used today, then. He held the whip in both hands and looked back up. "Leave us," he ordered. "And tell the guards they are not to disturb me unless I call for them. If all goes well I will not be needing any of you." "I—Sir? I mean, yes sir." Jaquet gave a deep bow, but it did not hide the expression of utter confusion that Frollo glimpsed upon his face. "I shall make the preparations immediately, my Lord."

"Then go," Frollo answered, dismissing him with a wave of his hand. He did not look to see what Jaquet did next and merely brushed by him, heading down the hall to the door that he saw Esmeralda dragged into. All the cells here had thick, heavy wooden doors that were designed to keep the noise inside like how a cork kept wine in the barrel. The only connection to the outside world were little doors that could be opened to slide the prisoners food and water, and that was it.

She would be his, and his alone. No one to bother them or interfere. After that little stunt she pulled, he would enjoy this.

The guards were now stationed outside her door and they saluted him as he approached. He nodded, but he was in no mood to have them, or anyone, hovering nearby while he worked. "Wait by the stairs," he said. "If I need you I will call you."

They bowed, the same as Jaquet, and obeyed. When their clanking steps had retreated almost halfway down the hall Frollo opened the door. He paused in the archway, his attention arrested by what the light spilling into the room had revealed. A rack, the centerpiece of the chamber, and tied to it was Esmeralda.

Her arms were stretched high above her head, her legs pulled straight and rigid by the chains. One could almost imagine she was caught frozen in the middle of one of her dances, where her body pointed as straight as a spear but was far, far more flexible. Even from her position, bound, exposed upon the rack which left nothing to hide and everything to shame, she still glared at him. Frollo saw the fear there most definitely, but it was gone quickly when she realized who was staring at her.

"You?" she asked, her voice laced with sarcasm and disbelief. "You must be joking."

Frollo ignored her jibes, but the spell was broken and he could move again. He stepped inside the room and shut the door behind him with a heavy, resounding thud. Now that it was closed, darkness descended in the room. The space was only lit by a few candles and the coals in the brazier, barely enough to chase away the shadows, and most of the room remained in a perpetual gloom because of it. Frollo moved forward, letting his eyes adjust to the dark as he made his way over to a table that rested against one of the walls.

"This is your plan? You can't handle rejection so you take it all out on me?" Her voice was harsh, mocking, but underneath all the bravado it quivered. She probably hated that, knowing her. "You know who does that? A child. A spoiled child throwing a tantrum because he didn't get what he wanted!"

He supposed that she was trying to rile him up, to make him angry and prove in some petty way that she was correct about him and inhabiting some sort of moral high ground because of it. Did she think such ridiculous insults were enough to provoke him? It did not matter what she said, she was still the one tied to the rack, not he, and whatever she had to say would soon be reduced to the meaningless babble that it truly was. The rack always brought people crashing down, no matter how high they were flying before.

There were various instruments strewn neatly across the table, and Frollo pretended to examine them with care. A large pair of forceps caught his attention and he reached over to pick them up, testing the weight in his hands and clicking them a few times. They would easily tear out nails, but for now he didn't want to disfigure her. There was no reason to. Torture was as much of an act and it was true action, both the mind and the body needed to suffer for it to have any effect.

He turned it a little in the light, as if to examine it further, knowing that Esmeralda could easily see him from her current position.

The pause in her words was noticeable. "And what was the point of saving me anyway if you were just going to bring me down here? What was all the nonsense about redemption, then? I always knew you were a liar but why the whole ruse?" She still growled and from what he could hear she was struggling against the restraints. Unsettled, then.

Frollo set the forceps down, making sure they made a loud clank. His eyes darted around, looking and looking, until they landed upon a wicked pair of thumbscrews. He scooped them up and tested their weight in his palm. Pure, heavy iron that seemed all the more menacing with how much they dragged at his hand. Ah, but maybe she did not know what these were? He held one up and wiggled his thumb into the crevice, as if to test its size.

"Do you know how long it takes for nails to grow back after they have been ripped out?" he finally broke the silence, his voice soft and calm as he held out his thumb for her to see. He did not turn around but held his hand in its position.

There was a handful of long, thick seconds of silence. He longed to turn around and see her face, to read the expressions painted across it, but he restrained himself. He would not look at her just yet, he would not let her see him.

When she spoke again, her voice was much softer. "What's the point of all this? You should have just tortured me earlier."

"Usually, around eight to nine months." He answered his question for her, ignoring whatever she had to say. "These, however, do more than that. Your nail would crack from the pressure and fall out later. A few more turns of the screw and your bone would break afterwards. But that would heal much more quickly." He removed the thumbscrew and set it back down. "It doesn't take that much, and these are so very easy to turn."

"Frollo."

A thrill passed through his body, licking down his spine and shooting to the tips of his fingers and toes. She said his name! She said it so... He shivered slightly, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. He wanted her to always whisper it like that, no one could ever affect him so deeply just with his own name.

Finally, he turned around. He didn't even need to search for her eyes, he locked upon them instantly. It must have been uncomfortable to Esmeralda to crane her head like that to look at his face, but it did not deter her. Her eyes were huge, staring at him with outright fear, but now that he was looking at her she scowled and tried to hide it. Honestly, Frollo admired her spirit. He had seen grown, older men break down long before this.

Of course, she could never make it last. Esmeralda could never keep her mouth shut. "You're sick. A sick, twisted man with no soul."

The words were a slap to the face and jolted him out of his reverie. He felt a snarl coming across his face, anger blazing to life in him, his fire burning through the water she tried to throw upon him. To question his immortal soul! "Be silent," he said, his voice far too calm and collected for his anger.

What would have sent Quasimodo into the most placating of bows flew completely over Esmeralda's head. Of course it did, she was so unobservant sometimes. "Oh, touched a nerve, didn't I? You know that too, you know how cruel you are and how God will punish you—"

His hand lashed out, the tails of the whip flying through the air before landing across her stomach and thighs with a loud crack. The rest of Esmeralda's words were drowned out by her scream and she twisted in her restraints as if to escape from the pain. He didn't let her recover, though, there was no escape. Again he let the whip fly, again, and again, striking her flesh unrepentantly and listening to her renewed screams each time.

Five, six, she writhed and clenched her teeth, trying to hold back her cries against the whip. But Frollo knew better. No one could stay silent forever.

Seven, and her lips parted to scream again, and Frollo stopped. He could see red welts already forming along her skin, her chemise would have taken some of the blow away but it was only a thin fabric, at best it would stop her from bleeding. It had to feel like fire along her skin, inescapable fire that could only be dulled but never numbed. He came forward and Esmeralda's eyes fluttered open at the sound of his footsteps, gazing up at him angrily. "You shall speak no more, witch," Frollo snapped at her before she could say anything. "I will no longer hear your treacherous, deceitful words which Satan puts into your mouth."

Her chest heaved, struggling for breath and fighting to regain control of herself. "Y-you mean you jus-just don't want to hear the truth!" she spat, her teeth snarling at him like an animal.

He felt his anger growing, bubbling under his lips and filling his face with a heat that had nothing to do with the stifling air of the dungeon. His hand reached out and grabbed the lever of the rack, gripping it so hard that his knuckles turned white. "This can tear the limbs from your body, gypsy," he said in a low voice. "Now be quiet."

Esmeralda's eyes darted to his hand, uncertain, and back to his face. Their gaze hardened, driven by some deeper determination that he had not touched yet. "You're pathetic."

The words hung in the air between them and he watched Esmeralda tense, waiting for some immediate punishment, and that more than anything was what stalled him. When no pain was forthcoming, her gaze found his face again, confusion loosening her muscles and opening her expression. And Frollo smiled at her.

Too late she realized her mistake. He wouldn't give her enough time to recover, and in that instant he shoved on the lever, its clicking nearly drowned out by the shrieks of the gypsy as the rack stretched and pulled her arms and legs farther and farther. She tried to curl up, to fight it, but it was useless and he only stopped when she was stretched as taunt as a bowstring across the wooden frame, barely able to even twitch held in her position as she was. Tears streamed down her face as she fought it, harsh, sobbing gasps tearing out of her throat as she tried, and failed to get a hold of the pain.

Frollo leaned over her, inspecting his work. It would take only a few more clicks of the lever for the dislocation to begin. Being in his position for decades, one simply gained an instinct for such things. He reached out and grazed his knuckles tenderly against her cheek, wiping away a tear as he did. She jerked her face away, more sobs coming from her throat at the contact. Frollo let her and simply moved his hand to her hair, running his fingers through it once more, letting it slide between them and tease his skin. He leaned down, placing his lips right against her ear and admiring the sensation for a moment before whispering: "Do you denounce Satan, witch?"

She jerked a little. "W-what?" she gasped.

In a moment he was gone, leaping to his feet and raising the whip again. The thongs cracked along her skin again and he relished in her new scream, all the louder as the whip hit right over the old marks. Esmeralda thrashed, at least tried to as best as she could, but her restraints barely let her move and Frollo was relentless as he lashed the whip. "I said, do you denounce Satan?!" he said, raising his voice over the whip and Esmeralda's screaming.

"Why, why?! I didn't do anything! I'm not a witch!" She was crying to him, each slap of leather against her skin producing another small scream that had her trying to run and hide.

Oh, wrong answer. A very wrong answer indeed, even if delivered under such pain. He would have to persuade her more then. After all, demons could stand pain no more than the humans whose bodies they were inhabiting. "Do not lie to me! I know what you are!" Another crack across her as he spoke. "Denounce your master, Satan, and be redeemed in God's eyes!"

She was screaming loud enough to hurt his ears as her echoes bounced around the room, but through them he could hear her words. "I do! I denounce him, I denounce him! Stop, please!!"

And stop he did. Frollo waited and listened to her sob, her body sagging against the ropes by centimeters. Stretched like a rag now, wrung out and beginning to fray. He came forward, watching her. She was trembling. Her body shook with the force of her crying, her face turned against her arm to hide her tears. Was this truly a demon who lay in front of him now? By denouncing Satan did the demon flee and leave her alone with her pain? She looked so vulnerable now, nothing like the witch who put a spell on him and tried to make his soul dance to her music.

Now that he thought about it, he didn't feel like it either. It felt as if he was in control now, not the other way around.

His hand reached out to trace her face, and this time she did not move. He bent down again and whispered into her ear, "You chose me, Esmeralda. A part of you, no matter how small that part is, is still a stronger voice than all of these defiant games." Drawn by her smell, by her gentle, sweet cries, he kissed her temple.

Esmeralda shivered and nodded slightly. "I-I did," she said through her gasps.

"You want to be redeemed, Esmeralda, I know it. Some part of you knows that I am right and what I am saying rings true." Frollo's hand wandered, tracing the edges of her face, then down her neck, feeling how soft her skin was underneath his fingertips. God how she scorched him, but she did not control him, he still burned but the fire was his.

He couldn't stop himself, he turned her face to look at him and kissed her once more.

The wound on his lip blazed to life, causing his hands to curl a little against her, but he refused to stop. Then, to his surprise and infinite pleasure, her lips moved against his, kissing him back. Just like that all of his pain was forgotten, its memory buried under the onslaught of her lips alone. It was like plunging into a blizzard, except instead of the harsh cold bringing his senses to life it was a shock that anchored him in place. He pressed closer, suddenly aware of how her body was splayed out beneath him, a banquet upon the feast table, and his hand seemed to move of its own volition. It trailed lower, following the center, dipping between the valley of her breasts to reach her navel—

A moan came from his throat, deep and desperate and his hand paused, feeling Esmeralda quiver under him. And she pushed back, arching into his hand with a moan of her own echoing in her throat, but then shied away as much as the restraints would allow her to go. He followed her every movement, tracing patterns into her skin through the chemise, his mind afire with the sensations it brought, so dark and previously hidden from his sight. She was all his.

He broke away from her kiss, his head falling helplessly into the crook of her neck afterwards, burying himself into the net of her hair and skin. They wove around him, trapping him effortlessly in their embrace, binding the both of them together with chains that were insubstantial yet stronger than the hardest steel. He could still hear her gasping, feel her trembling against him, and his hand was drawn inevitably lower, to the hem of her gown and underneath.

Esmeralda gave a mighty gasp that nearly came at the same time as Frollo's. She tried to jerk away but she could not move, and yet Frollo found himself locked in place even though a part of him screamed at him to flee. She was so hot, so burning under her dress, he could never have imagined such a heat! Truly the gateway to hell was through women, and yet what a tempting, sweet gate it was! A helpless groan was torn from him and he pressed harder, exploring her desire under his gentle and quite suddenly hesitant fingers. So this is what such indulgences were like, then? This warmth, wetness, exquisite and smooth feeling was what he had given up when he had taken his vows?

His mouth was parched, his heart beating far too fast in his chest. Frightened by the depth of emotion and sensation that welled in him, that his body compelled him to mindlessly obey, he took his hand away, reaching up instead to trace the curves of her body once more.

A noise of confusion reached him, laced through with pain, and that made him raise his head. Esmeralda turned to look at him, her expression a mixture of emotions so profound that he found himself staring in awe. Fear, sorrow, yet also a strange sort of innocence, a vulnerability that was dragged out of her by the pain, a pure openness that begged him for mercy. He knew the look well. Had she ever been caught by the guards, he wondered? Had she ever been beaten or assaulted in her whole life? How lucky she must have been to avoid the fate of so many other gypsies!

"Please..." her quavering voice reached him, unable to form anything else, it seemed.

Pain and suffering was the great tool that broke so many. And to one so inexperienced, the shattering was quick indeed. Too far and the damage would be too deep. He glanced at his hand as it trailed over the curve of her breast, the mere sensation sending fire skittering along his veins, and he could see in the dim light how his fingers glistened. Esmeralda shivered under him again, another noise breaking from her, and he made his decision.

He stood up straight, the effort taking more out of him than it should have a right to. His head swam and he steadied himself for a moment before reaching for the lever and releasing it, snapping the tension back to normal and letting Esmeralda's arms fall down in place. Her sob of utter relief was almost joyous to hear and he set about untying her, undoing the knots in the ropes holding her wrists, and then moving to her ankles. He had the keys for the manacles, being master of the palace, and they sprang open as if glad to be rid of her.

Esmeralda was too busy shaking to stand up, and the hissing noises of pain she made between her teeth when she moved also told of a different reason for her inactivity. She merely lay there and rubbed her wrists, the skin red and inflamed and even bleeding in some places, and Frollo took pity on her again.

She flinched as he put his arm under her legs and her chest, but when she realized what he was doing she held onto him as if afraid he was going to drop her. Frollo was by no means as athletic as some of his soldiers, but his thin frame belied the strength underneath and he picked her up easily and set her down on her feet. All of which proved fruitless as she nearly collapsed against him, hiding her face and sobbing into his shoulder, clinging to handfuls of his robes as if they could protect her from what she had just endured.

Frollo stumbled under her weight slightly, but when he recovered he smiled and drew her closer to him, holding her and running a gentle hand through her hair. "Hush now, gypsy," he whispered and fished around her his handkerchief. "It is all over now, you will be just fine." He tried to clean her face as best as he could, with her hiding it and all, and managed to at least somewhat succeed. "Here, dry your tears with this and let us go."

That, at last, seemed to have an effect on her. She pulled away from him slightly and took the handkerchief that he pushed into her hands, and looked up at him. "W-what do you mean?" she managed to say through her hitching breaths.

"Exactly what I said, gypsy. Now wipe your tears." He watched as she clumsily obeyed, trying her best to clean herself of the tears that were insistent upon refreshing themselves every time her face was cleared. "Come, let us take you to a bath. After that it will be most refreshing for you."

She looked stunned, as if unable to comprehend what he was saying. "A bath?" she said, her voice small.

He knew his sudden change in treatment would confuse her, and he tried not to smile wider at it. Let her be confused, perhaps she would learn better this way. "Try to listen to what I say, Esmeralda. I assume you know what a bath is?" He turned and pulled away from her for just a moment to open the door and call for the guard at the foot of the stairs. "You will go and—"

The judge turned back around in just enough time to see her wobble on her feet, and he dove to catch her as she fell. She sagged into his arms, a dead weight, although she still moved and mumbled something like a slurred apology. He tried to stand her up again and while he did succeed, he knew that without something to hold onto she would just fall again.

"Sir?" the bewildered voice of a guard asked him from the doorway.

He snapped his fingers. "Come here, you fool. Take her to the servants and tell them to give her a bath." He handed her over to the guard, glaring as the man tried to awkwardly pick her up without making her chemise flutter and show anything too revealing. "They will wash her thoroughly, you understand? And treat her pain." Now that he thought about it for more than a second, she was probably filthy. She hadn't had a bath after she came here, after all. "Burn that rag she is wearing and find her a new one. And the servants will bring her back to her room when they are done. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

The guard nodded swiftly, if looking a little overwhelmed by the flurry of commands Frollo had given him. "Yes sir, right away Minister." He performed a small bow, as much of one as he could do with the weight in his arms, and carried Esmeralda out of the room.

Frollo listened to his steps fade away, then he lifted his hand to examine it again. He still smelled like her, except it was a hundred times more potent than before. Slowly, pulled by a force deep in his gut, he touched his lips. A shudder wracked his frame and he could taste her on his tongue, the most careful of sips he could take from such a chalice, placing his trembling, unsure mouth against the wine and letting it invade his entire being with but a single drop.

He took a step back and shook his head, and then belatedly followed the path of his guard. He needed to be out of this place, where the air was fresh and clear...and where Esmeralda was.

#Fresme #judge claude frollo #frollo #hunchback of notre dame #disney #disney hunchback of notre dame #torture #esmeralda

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