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a-world-of-whimsy-5 · 1 year

Note

I am hereby adding my own request into the Spicy spring fling lot💖

Being a notorious Bottom Melkor lover I would very much want to see our dear dark Lord have a lovely first time with his most trusted balrog Gothmog in the times of Utumno before Mairon was seduced💖💖

I possible I'd want to see these prompts/dialogues used: 29&12 from the first time list, "I like being close to you, you're warm"&"Don'tmind me, just enjoying the view" from the vanilla list and lastly number 23 "say my name" from the spicy list.

For the spiciness the hotter the better so bring on the INFERNO!🔥🔥🔥

I brought the inferno. I think.

“Take the reins”

Prompts: "I like being close to you, you're warm" & "Don't mind me, just enjoying the view" & "say my name"

Pairing: Melkor x Gothmog

Themes: Slowburn | Smut | Soft

Word count: 3k words

Summary: Melkor finally understands the freedom that comes with letting someone else take control. (Or, the one where Bottom Melkor realizes he enjoys being Bottom Melkor.)

Rating: 🔥🔥🔥 | Minors DNI | 18+

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

The stream of silver light rose higher and higher, first cresting over the peaks of nearby mountains before spreading out all over the darkened sky. The silver light belonged to the tree many called Telperion, and the gold light that would come later belonged to the one called Laurelin. Gothmog cared not one whit what the others called either tree. His eyes saw no beauty in them and he decided to leave the ramparts. As High Captain of Utumno, he had other duties to see to.

As he descended deeper into the fortress, the noises from within grew louder. The sounds of artificers hard at work, the roar of furnaces, the shouts of orcs and goblins, and, beneath it all, the screams of new prisoners. Gothmog easily turned a deaf ear to the latter. He thought the Eldar were fools. If they had only recognized Melkor’s authority over them instead of resisting, they would have been among those like him instead of suffering unending torment.

Gothmog’s thoughts went back to the new lights. His lord had been wroth when his attempt to destroy the Lamps resulted in the two Trees. When they told him of the trees and the light they shed, Melkor’s fury had been a fearsome thing to behold. Oh, he had calmed, but only after he had taken his anger out on the first lot of prisoners that had caught his attention. And now he was in his private chambers, brooding as always. This was how Gothmog found him—seated by a table filled with food, staring into his goblet of wine.

They did not need to eat, drink, or even sleep, for that matter. None of the Ainur required such things, but they liked to indulge. Not just food and drink and sleep, but in other, more pleasurable pursuits as well. Oh, Gothmog eagerly partook, but from what he heard from the others, Melkor rarely did.

He found it all very interesting.

"What news?" Melkor continued to stare into his wine. After his attempts to destroy the Lamps only resulted in the creation of the Trees, Melkor found that what little he had indulged in had lost all flavour.

Gothmog stood to attention by the door, lest his lord turns and find him showing any sign of disrespect. "Many and more Ainur are joining your cause, sire. I received word Aulë’s favourite has been listening and is intrigued."

"Mairon. The artificer without peer."

"So they say, sire."

"So they say. What do you say, High Captain?"

Gothmog swallowed and considered his words. Melkor had never sought his counsel in such a manner and he had to tread very carefully. One wrong turn of phrase and he would be joining those rotting in cells deep within the bowels of the fortress.

"He is quite skilled; I have seen some evidence of it myself." He kept standing at attention, his eyes fixed firmly on the wall before him. "As for him being without peer, I would think the firstborn son of Finwë may have something to say about that."

"Fëanor," Melkor spat and slammed his goblet on the table, spilling wine all over. He rose from his chair and started pacing the room like an angry beast. "He shut the door to me, the fucking fool."

He had gone and said the wrong thing. Gothmog thought frantically and settled on playing to Melkor’s ego. "He is, sire," he said quickly, "A fool. You are wise to see it. Truth be told, I think most of them are."

Melkor stopped his pacing and studied his High Captain Keenly. As the leader of the Valaraukar he very much looked the part, all tall and terrifying with those leathery wings and curved horns of his. But there was a strange beauty to him, with his elf-like ears and elegant features. Melkor felt his very fëa stir by the image. He quickly found something else to look at, in case he gave himself away.

"Perhaps you are correct," He did not notice his captain’s jaw drop in absolute shock when he sat back down again. "The Eldar are all fools."

It was the first time Melkor had spoken so casually. Gothmog did not know what to make of it.

"So many burdens," Melkor sighed without even realizing it. "All of them growing heavier by the day. And my foes grow thick like weeds. Every time I rip them out more spring up in their place."

Such an exchange would never have happened before. More at ease, Gothmog felt a strange sense of courage surge through him, making him bolder. "You take too much onto your shoulders, sire."

"Perhaps," Melkor shrugged.

"Perhaps you should let someone else take the reins," Gothmog could not seem to stop himself. Something wicked and daring took root, something that seemed determined to take control of his tongue. "In some capacity at least."

Melkor turned his head. "What did you say?"

"What I meant is," the words stumbled out before Gothmog could even think them through. "It could be very liberating to hand over control to someone else and for you not to have to burden yourself, sire. Even for a little while."

He quickly bit his tongue. Melkor glared, his inky black eyes as cold as the winters that ravaged the region. His countenance was a mask, one that gave nothing away. Oh, but he was thinking, even if he did not wish to show it.

To let someone else take control for once. Melkor would not even dream of relinquishing control of his rule. That would never happen. But to let someone else hold the reins in other aspects...

His High Captain was one of those who partook in as many physical pleasures as possible. He had experience in ways Melkor could not even begin to fathom.

He looked at the table, at the rich food, and at what was left of his wine. Nothing appealed to him and he was starting to understand why. There had been another hunger within him, one he had neglected for as long as he had existed. It had to be satisfied, he knew that, but he had no inkling of how to do it. His gaze slowly cut to Gothmog again.

It would be very liberating to hand over control to someone else, Gothmog had said. Perhaps this should be put to the test.

"Would you like to do it?" Melkor said lightly, "Take the reins?"

Gothmog turned and stared. "Sire?"

"Take control," Melkor said with a casual air even as anticipation grew. "Not when it comes to the ruling, of course, but in an intimate fashion."

There was that wicked and daring feeling again. This time it had grown stronger and Gothmog caught on to what Melkor was hinting at. Still, he wanted to hear the words spoken out loud. "Take control in what way, sire?"

"The way you said, with me allowing you to take control. Of me." Melkor looked over his shoulder and found Gothmog locking the doors to his chambers. He faced forward again, a rare smile on his face. "What do you think, High Captain? Is this possible?"

"Perhaps," Gothmog made his way towards the table, ready to turn and leave at a moment’s notice. And behave as if their entire exchange never took place. "But that would mean submitting completely. Can you do it?"

Melkor swallowed, feeling oddly bashful for the first time ever. Submitting completely. It may hurt his pride to do so, but the notion of submitting completely to another felt rather enticing at the same time.

"I think I can," he said and pushed his chair back. Melkor rose, not knowing what else to say or do or expect. All of this was completely new to him. "But how?"

"Leave it to me." Gothmog took his lord’s hand, giddy with anticipation. Until they were done he would be the master and Melkor the obedient servant, something he could not have imagined even in his wildest dreams. "Now, show me where the bed is."

It was not far, and it was surprisingly elegant. Gothmog expected something sparse and rather somber, but the large bed with its silk sheets, the polished stood floor and the exquisite furniture were all unexpected. And that bed gave him ideas.

"Your garments are too much," Gothmog said. "Relieve yourself of them."

Melkor complied. It was all oddly thrilling, letting someone else issue the orders and him obeying in return. His armour had to be undone, then his clothes, his boots. When his fana was fully exposed he found himself flushing.

"What now?" He mumbled under his breath.

"In bed." Having already gotten a taste for commanding his superior, Gothmog fully intended on making the most of it. Besides, he had to admit that Melkor was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He almost felt bad about the notion of wanting to ruin that beauty a little. Almost. That feeling went away quickly when he came up with his next order. "And keep your hands over your head."

The urge to submit grew easier now and made his very fana tingle. Melkor did as he was bid, watching Gothmog strip.

His second-in-command had skin like beaten copper. Eyes that were afire. Silky black hair that gleamed and his nails... Melkor found himself aching to feel those nails rake over his skin. When Gothmog came over, it was with his whip in hand. Melkor obediently lifted his arms and watched once more while his hands were bound at the wrists before they were secured to a bedpost. He tried to move them and found that he could not. It made him feel vulnerable. He loved it. When he looked around, he found Gothmog by the side of the bed again, his sash in hand.

"Do not mind me," his second-in-command said in a voice that had already gone rough. "I am just enjoying the view. Now. Keep still."

Melkor nodded, wondering what he was up to. Gothmog surprised him by coming over and blindfolding him with the same sash. It was soft and thick. Melkor could not see anything, could not anticipate what was going to happen next. It excited him even more. "What happens now?"

"You no longer get to ask such things of me," Gothmog was very much the one in charge now. "Not until I am done with you. Until then, you must obey."

Obey. Melkor never had it in him to obey. His every instinct was to go against the urge. "I cannot do it," he whined despite himself, all eager thoughts of submission forgotten. "Not complete..."

A slap stung his thigh, and he gasped. A second quickly followed on the heels of the first. "You do not speak unless you are spoken to." Gothmog's words had a steely edge to them. It made Melkor hard. "Is that understood?"

"Yes," Melkor whimpered weakly, even as he gave in to Gothmog's authority.

"Will you obey?"

"Yes."

"Fucking pathetic," Gothmog grinned wickedly, eyeing Melkor like a predator sizing up its prey. The greatest of them all was yielding to him, a mere Maia, and he could not get enough of it. "The greatest amongst the Ainur yielding so easily."

Bound and unable to leave the bed, Melkor could do nothing but agree. Truth be told, he liked being degraded in such a manner.

Another slap stung his thigh and Melkor moaned. Gothmog eyed his whip, feeling sorry that he had to use it to bind Melkor’s hands. It did not matter. There were other things he could do. Melkor, on the other hand, could do nothing but wait. His restraints and lack of sight meant he had to rely on what remained to him—touch, sound, and scent mostly. And the scent of iron and flames and the chill from the world outside clung to Gothmog’s skin like perfume. He wanted to say something about it, about how good it was, but then he remembered the role he undertook.

He had to submit. And obey. And only speak when spoken to, lest he ruin everything. With a frustrated groan, he bit his tongue.

Gothmog heard it and grinned. He got in bed, his large frame making the bedding sink even more from the weight. Melkor took a deep breath, readying himself for what could happen next. Gothmog said nothing and gave nothing away. He moved between Melkor’s legs and spread them apart. His hands were hot, not that Melkor felt any discomfort in them. His fana could tolerate far more than that.

A fourth slap made him moan Gothmog’s name. The sound was like sweet music to the Balrog’s ears.

"Say my name," he commanded before making Melkor’s thigh sting again. "Say it!"

The pain and pleasure and heat that came from the flat of Gothmog’s hand rendered him lightheaded and dizzy and willing to do anything. His High Captain’s name fell off his lips repeatedly, and Gothmog laughed triumphantly.

"Listen to you," he growled. "Crying out for me like a needy little slut already. I should make you do it more often."

He dipped his head to taste, running his lips over the insides of Melkor’s thighs and belly, his sharp teeth leaving bruises wherever they marked, his growls muffled against Melkor’s skin. Melkor writhed beneath him as Gothmog kissed and marked his way higher and higher, stopping at the crook of his neck.

"Kiss me," he craved one desperately and was willing to go against their rules to beg for it if need be. "Please."

Gothmog’s growl was low in his throat. Once, he decided. He would indulge Melkor’s request just once. His kiss was demanding, hungry, and far from tender. He gripped Melkor’s face with his hand while they kissed, his teeth leaving his lord’s lips swollen and bruised, his nails digging into soft flesh. When his tongue slipped past Melkor’s lips the latter nearly sobbed.

How could a being that dealt out death and torment arouse such a fiery need? One that grew only stronger with each passing moment? Melkor did not know the answer. All he did know was that he was going to look forward to more of such encounters.

Nails started to rake down his torso, his thighs, making him arch his back. "By the time you walk out of these chambers," Gothmog hissed in his ear, "Everyone will know who you belong to."

"Yes," Melkor could not help but agree. Gothmog's nipping at his throat and making him moan with pleasure rendered him unable to do anything else. "All will see."

The spikes that went down the length of his spine right up to the tip of his tail grew heated; their veins of fiery red, yellow, orange, and gold slowly sparked to life, the air around them smoldering. Gothmog felt his wings shake and his need for more grow. He spread Melkor’s legs further apart, his hand gripping at his lord hip and lifting his back off the mattress. Melkor braced himself.

A slick finger penetrated his hole, slowly opening him up with careful thrusts. "Such an obedient slut you are," Gothmog groaned deeply when Melkor rolled his hips. "Taking me without complaint."

"Yes," Melkor responded eagerly as jolts of pleasure washed all over him. "I am an obedient slut."

"My slut, yes?"

"Yes!" Melkor’s back arched as a second finger joined the first. "Your slut!"

Gothmog growled again, his entire fana trembling when he pulled out and held onto Melkor’s hip tight this time. Holding his erection with his free hand he entered Melkor again, carefully, hesitantly, before finally pushing through. He was in him, felt him, all of him. He barely heard his name come out in half-moan, half-whimper.

His name. Just his. Gothmog savoured it and kept still for a moment, letting Melkor get used to having his cock inside him. He ran his hands over Melkor’s thighs, his flesh now scorching against Melkor’s own. Greed and lust soon became too much to bear and he started to move. Melkor felt his fana being pushed higher up the bed repeatedly. He could see nothing, all he could do was feel.

And he felt so much, from the heat radiating from Gothmog’s body, to hips slapping against the insides of his thighs, the nails that marred his fana every time they raked over his skin. The sensations that came with it all—the pain and the pleasure, especially the pleasure—were unlike anything Melkor had ever experienced. He thought he could easily become intoxicated by this.

Gothmog moved his hand over Melkor’s throat, applying gentle pressure every time he pushed back in. His grip would tighten and release, tighten and release. His own thrusts grew erratic, his fana tensing like bowstring, his moans matching Melkor’s. Soon. It was going to happen soon. His fana shivered and jolted. One last thrust was all it took. One last thrust, one deep, satisfying grunt as his orgasm ripped through him. His nails dug into Melkor’s silver-grey skin, leaving little gouges as he spilled his seed.

The weight in the bed shifted as Gothmog slowly pulled away. Melkor was still bound, his own needs unmet. "Please," he begged. "Do not make me wait any longer."

If not for the blindfold Melkor could have easily seen Gothmog’s wolfish grin. "I like you begging," he said. "Do it again."

Melkor pleaded without shame. "Please, please, please. Just finish me off. Make me come. Please."

"Needy sluts should not be rewarded so easily," Gothmog dipped his head and ran his tongue up Melkor’s shaft. The moan that followed was the most guttural he had ever heard. "But I suppose I can give you what you desire so desperately."

Melkor struggled against his restraints when Gothmog took all of him into his wet mouth. He groaned when Gothmog lay a hand over his stomach, to stop him from moving so much. It did not take very long; Melkor could not hold on for much longer. His fana shuddered violently as he climaxed, his warmth filling Gothmog’s mouth.

The haze he found himself in slowly lifted when Gothmog undid his whip and removed the blindfold. Melkor blinked his eyes as clarity slowly came to him.

Words could not describe what happened or how Gothmog made him feel. Words would not be enough, and he was unsure how he could even begin explaining. He looked up at his captain, utterly satisfied, and came up with one final request.

"Stay with me. I like being close to you, you are warm."

Tags: @cilil @edensrose @asianbutnotjapanese @fictionfordays

#angbang #melkor x gothmog #melkor smut #gothmog smut #melkor #gothmog #tw: smut #tw: mentions of torture #the silm #the silm smut #🔥 spicy spring fling 🔥#💫a world of whimsy writes #writeblr

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coloursfalllikesnow · 1 year

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Here is a Bane I used recently in one of my chronicles that perhaps others might be interested in using - it’s free to use for your chrons.

Coalmouth An ancient spirit that has been changed by the modern day, Coalmouth was created for use in a chronicle in the Appalachian mountains, but is suitable for any location that coal mining is or was common.

Rage 10, Gnosis 8, Willpower 6, Essence 60 Charms: Airt Sense, Materialize (which grants 12 health levels), Realm Sense, Re-form, Blast, Warp Reality*

(*Functions as the Nexus Crawler Warp reality charm in W20 Core, though Coalmouth is limited to affecting the surrounding landscape, such as raising or lowering temperatures or changing patches of earth to pitch, and so on.)

Materialized Stats: Attributes: Strength 5, Dexterity 6, Stamina 5, Perception 4, Intelligence 1, Wits 2 Abilities: Alertness 4, Athletics 4, Brawl 5, Intimidation 4, Primal-Urge 4, Stealth 3

Bans: Coalmouth cannot abide the singing of the domestic canary, and it causes it great pain to be in the vicinity. As well, Coalmouth is weakened by direct sunlight; its Essence is treated as half if led into the sun.

Image: Coalmouth resembles a long, pitch-black serpent as big around as a small car, though several dozen pairs of pointed legs extend down its body like a centipede. Its head is blunt and has three slit-shaped eyes arranged an equal distance apart on the top that glow orange in dim light. Its mouth is a jagged maw of sharp teeth, and when open appears to lead into the depths of a furnace. Its roars are layered over many other noises to an unsettling effect - fire crackling, and the screams of dying miners. It gives off small amounts of smoke and ash when it moves, and radiates heat.

Background: Coalmouth has been known by a number of names by many different people, though the current one is an approximation of the Garou tongue name given to it (represented by the glyphs for "fire", "earth/stone", "poison/disease", and "tooth") in the mid-late 1900s. In days long past, Coalmouth was a remnant of a great and terrible brood of ancient plant-spirits, sealed deep under the earth by parties unknown in the time before the Garou remember. It managed to eventually slip its binds and threaten to escape into the material once again, though the local Pure Tribes sealed it once more under the earth, in a small but twisting series of caverns. And that was that... At least until the coal boom in the Appalachian region, when the rich seams of coal were discovered and dug deep into by the coal companies.

The greed of the coal companies and the suffering of the miners as they toiled all around the coal veins it was sealed into fed Coalmouth better than it could have ever dreamed. The small but slippery spirit grew stronger and stronger, eventually cracking its bindings enough to start roaming around the mine in the Umbra. Following the closure of the mine when the coal boom died down, the bane contented itself will collecting the remains of former mine workers when it could, and attacking any unfortunate kinfolk who would wander near. While its binds were cracked and weak, it was still tethered to the mine, and couldn't roam too far, unfortunately for the beast, and so bides its time.

The weakening of the binds and the lack of upkeep by any Banetenders is likely due to a long-running conflict between two local septs, the feud causing both sides to neglect duties they should otherwise be keeping tabs on. Coalmouth is unaware of these interpersonal conflicts, but benefits from them greatly anyway. The spirit is too powerful to be completely destroyed without great effort, but perhaps if relations could be mended, the bane could be sealed completely once more, or even destroyed by a joint effort.

Storytelling Notes: Coalmouth has an intense hatred of the Changing Breeds but especially their kinfolk, and will attack any it becomes aware of, preferring them to normal humans or other spirits, though it will still attack Garou and Fera if presented with them. The spirit is old and crafty in a primordial, instinctual way, and when not in the presence of any of its Bans will prefer to slither through disused passages of its mine or tunnels of its own making to avoid attackers. It is well aware of the effect sunlight has on it, and will refuse to exit the mine during the day to avoid it, unless bidden to by a greater force.

#werewolf the apocalypse #old world of darkness #world of darkness #TTRPGs #WtA #long post

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lustbile · 2 years

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Not really a blurb but I would like to hear your thoughts on this tho – so obv ppl keep saying that jeno got a samoyed smile but doberman body, then if he were a hybrid (sh!t, ive been religiously stalking ur blog for this ever since you announced your hybrid brain rot) which of the two dog breed would he be?

And would it affect his whole behavior? As example, one of the reasons samoyeds were bred originally was to keep the owners warm in the cold northern weathers and Dobermans are known well for being good guard dogs. Idk, the contrast is quite big soo 👀 (Up to u if u want to keep it sfw or not lol)

Samoyed-doberman anon here again ++ just lil personal thoughts that have been circling in my mind++ like the difference would be either oversized knit sweater Samoyed jeno that constantly follows u around (bc they r a breed that thrives on interactions with humans n also other dogs) and smothers you to the point of almost passing out not knowing that he's basically a walking furnace;

Or Doberman jeno that plays a bit too much into the territorial/guard instinct and gets silently jealous (bc he is a taurus man too) after catching whiff of another hybrid on you

—————————————————

This….. is plaguing me.

Can I say both? Like am I allowed to say both? Mixed breeds exist so I can say both right?

BECAUSE BOTH

Like both personalities you’re giving me are so Jeno and it’s making my head spin. Like yes he’s all cute and cuddly and I’m thinking of when he had white hair. He’s such a companion and he loves to cling and he’s all warm. Just like, aside from his face, he’s giving big samoyed energy and I just want to grab him and cling

But!!! The doberman. Fuck I love dobermans and I can see him definitely being that way as well. Like yes he’s cute and cuddly. But maybe sometimes he gets a little rough around the edges. He’s made it clear on more than one occasion that he does not know his own strength. And I can also see him as being a big cuddle monster one second and then flipping and becoming so territorial and protective the next. And that thing he does with his eyes when he performs,,,, god like him doing that when he sees both other humans and hybrids looking at you because god forbid you go anywhere without him trailing close behind.

And i think I might get in trouble if I keep it sfw so let me also say. Maybe something happens. Maybe another hybrid sniffs at you or someone human hits on you even though Jeno is standing right there. And he just gets silently livid. Just brooding and frowning and scaring the person/hybrid off because big scary dog privilege™

So when you get home he looks clearly relieved, and for a second you chalk it up to him just preferring to be in his territory and his space. But it’s when he jumps on you, ripping your clothes off to drench you in his smell, that you realize no, he’s just happy to have you to himself.

And he’s insatiable, and that strength he’s unaware of is back. And he has you face down on the couch crying out before you can even blink. He’s growling and nipping at your neck. And he’s just overall trying to show you that you belong to each other and to show the same thing to anyone you see ever again.

But of course when it’s all over, it’s a like a switch. He’s big and cuddly and warm again, curling around you and laying on you. Not giving two fucks about how warm his skin is as he’s just happily lapping at your neck. Because JENO!! That’s why

#sorry I feel like I’m yelling #but I am unwell #nct smut #nct dream smut #jeno smut #ask

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ilmarin · 2 years

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Alatairë

characters: Galadriel, Sauron / Mairon / Halbrand

content notes: warning for implied/referenced suicide, but no explicit violence, sauron being deceptive as always. shipping-wise, there is definitely a Galadriel/Sauron | Mairon dynamic in this fic, but it’s on the lighter side. set after the storm, but before Elendil rescues them at the end of episode 2, 1.8k words.

summary: Mairon and Galadriel talk, as night falls on the Sundering Seas.

Read on AO3

She is sitting upright, the long fall of her golden hair now a silvery tinge under the moonlight, her left hand stiffly clutching one of the wooden beams protruding from their pitiful makeshift raft, as it bobs along, small and insignificant amidst the vastness of Ulmo’s domain.

“Didn’t you think it futile?" He asks idly, breaking the silence that had befallen them with the twilight. "Or perhaps, you were not thinking at all.”

The tumult of the earlier storm has mercifully abated, but the flimsy, ragged tunic he is in remains drenched, and the flesh of this mortal raiment he has donned feels the sharp, biting chill of the sea-winds. It is not enough to disable him of course, but it is just a little more uncomfortable than he would prefer. He is a being at home with the blazing heat of a furnace, with flame and the hard strike of iron, not the treacherous fluidity of the waters of Arda. It both draws in and repulses him; for it is where the echo of the Music of the Ainur lives, but is also fundamentally at odds with his nature.

She starts, turning to face him over the curve of her shoulder, but her countenance is still, as cool and stiff as marble. “I am afraid I do not take your meaning.”

“In your words, rather than rest in glory—you wanted to return to Middle Earth,” Mairon replies. “Your kind ostensibly has far greater endurance than mine.” Internally, he cannot help a flicker of amusement at the irony—but he will give nothing away, that he is anything other than this battered mortal guise. “But surely, given how far out we are, it must have occurred to you that swimming the length of the great seas would still be nigh impossible, even before you leapt from your ship. So, was it a rash choice you made, moving before thought?”

Her blue eyes flick away from his gaze, towards the brooding dark of the seas beyond. She lifts her chin. “I do not think this is a question to which I owe you an answer.”

The moment she had named herself, he had known, of course. Galadriel, or Artanis, as she had been in Valinor. Kin to Fëanor, that same Noldorin pride burning in their veins, except that her hair is as bright and shining as Fëanor's had been night-dark. Bright, like her brother's had been, even in the dungeons of Tol-in-Gaurhoth, as were all who hailed from the Golden House of Finarfin.

“A curious thing to say Elf, given that I saved your life—and at considerable risk to myself,” He replies nonchalantly. Above, the stars are rising, now and then obscured by the passing clouds. “And would not have had to, if you had not deserted your ship.”

It is not all a lie. The waters of the Sundering Seas are Ulmo’s to command, and he is not so prideful to presume that this humble, rougher mortal body that he has constructed for himself has perfectly hidden the brilliant majesty that is an Ainu’s true being from their kin, from the far-reaching senses of Ossë and Uinen.

Something in her expression shifts. She has some skill at concealing her innermost thoughts, but not even the eyes and intuition of the Eldar are keener than that of the Ainur.

“I am in your debt for that.” It is something like a mixture of guilt and shame, he thinks, that is in the line of her eyes and jaw. Then, “It was my duty to return to Middle Earth. The ship would not turn back.” She pushes a wet lock of hair out of her eyes. “That is all.”

Even now, with the clouds partially obscuring Tilion’s passage across the heavens above, her hair shines, silvery-gold like the dews in the long-gone wells of Varda. Up close, he can understand why Fëanor had been lost in obsessive fascination, why the Eldar had proclaimed that her tresses had ensnared within them the light of the Two Trees of Valinor. Why Fëanor had been inspired to wrought the very Silmarils that his old master had sought with such fervour.

“That is not much of an answer, Elf.” In other ages, he has unravelled and charmed the minds of others to get them to divulge their innermost thoughts, but it would be unwise and a waste of an opportunity here, with one of the Eldar. And with one who had pursued him for centuries, at that. All the same, he cannot help it, goading her. The Children of Ilúvatar have always frustrated him, in their fickle-mindedness, irrationality and refusal to submit themselves to the order of powers greater than themselves. “Perhaps, you truly wished to die. To let the waters take you, before my companions and I came across you. To be at ease in oblivion."

It would not after all, be unprecedented in the self-destructiveness of her close kin. Vows sworn in madness, vows unable to be fulfilled—and the bright, shining light of a Silmaril hurled into a fiery chasm alongside its vow-taker.

“Do not ascribe to me such cowardice,” Galadriel hisses, at once soft and furious. Her hair is disheveled, a shining golden-silver tangle that he cannot tear his eyes away from, the white of her robe limp against the firm strength of her lean form, and the flash of anger that has risen up seems to have temporarily driven away what weariness she felt. “I leapt from my ship because duty demanded I do so. But nor am I so arrogant to think that I am one to defy the will of the powers that govern the world. I accepted it. That either I would reach land—or, if my actions were truly folly as the Valar saw it—then, by Ulmo’s hand I would be delivered to the Halls of Mandos to be judged as all are.”

The ferocity of her righteousness, her bold claim of fearlessness in the face of judgment, the impudent likeness of the light of Laurelin and Telperion in her hair—it stirs something sharp and mocking within him. Stirs up the distasteful memory of Eönwë and his unmoved pronouncement to return across the sea, that the only absolution lay in debasing himself at the feet of Manwë.

The still-gathering power regenerating under his borrowed skin trembles. With the urge to make itself known, to make her realise exactly what he is. But he restrains it with a firm hand. He has woven this disguise well, suppressed his power within it to conceal it as best as he can from the ever-seeing gaze of Manwë and Varda after fleeing from the wastes of the north—and he will not waste it.

"'If the Valar judged it', you say. Then, what do you make of our meeting?” He allows a note of mockery to enter his tone. Being rougher in speech and manners would be perfectly in keeping with the current form of a low man that he wears. “The will of the so-called gods too?”

It is what Men would call the Valar. But all the same, it feels strange referring to them as such, when he can remember the breaking of the very first silence, of his own part in the melody that had sung the world into existence, of the time where he had simply been one of the Ainur in the Timeless Halls, existing in the light of The One. On another level, it is not a question merely asked for the sake of appearances, either. Even now, he wonders if he is being watched by the Valar and their servants, and what designs they might be weaving.

She stares at him in silence for a moment, her gaze unblinking, one hand absent-mindedly tracing the hilt of the all-too familiar dagger at her waist. “I have not yet decided.” Something in her expression softens. “But I will apologise for my earlier curtness. You saved me, and to be two is better than to be alone. I will not forget it, when we make landfall. Nor will I forget what you have told me, of what has become of your home.”

“Optimistic, are you?" There is something fascinating about it all, her lack of wariness simply because he wears the face of a mortal man. That she has sought him with a burning rage as hot as the furnaces of Aulë, but truly does not recognise the majesty and dread of his true being that he has temporarily cloaked in flesh and bone, even when it is right next to her. “As far as I can see, we are marooned out here, at the mercy of the currents, with neither food nor freshwater, passing time before our likely impending deaths. A little premature to look beyond that, isn't it?”

“There is always hope yet."

He shrugs. It is easy, after a while, to play the role of an embittered low man, to channel his own bitterness and allow her to read into it what she presumes. "Well, not in my experience, Elf."

"Be that as it may, what would it serve us now, to believe otherwise? You may not feel it, but you have survived, have you not?"

She is certainly an intriguing mix, burning with a hot, destructive fury—yet, with glimmers of calm wisdom in her being. Perhaps that is what has set her apart from Fëanor and his sons, why she has not yet been consumed by her own fire. Or perhaps it is still up in the air; perhaps she still will.

"Alright. You may have a point." He raises a brow. "So, what are we to do now?"

"You should rest,” she says, with a calm generosity that is genuine, the earlier tempest within her now somehow restrained— and all the more amusing to him, for she knows not what he truly is. “I will keep watch. I do not tire as easily, and I will be able to discern any passing ships more easily.”

“Very well.” He leans back. The inky darkness of the night sky and its constellations stare down.

He does not really need to sleep, in truth, not even in this form. The day’s ordeal has not tired him, not truly. But it would a mortal man—and so, he feigns it.

Closes his eyes, allows himself to sink into and embrace the imagined reality of the mortal body he has constructed, allows himself to drift off with the rocking of the ocean, the smell of salt and rough finish of wood underneath his fingers, under the watchful gaze of the enemy who knows him not.

Notes:

1. Alatairë: The Quenya name for the Sundering Seas.

2. Mairon: Sauron’s original name, when he was a maia of Aulë, meaning ‘the Admirable’. Quite a difference from Sauron / ‘The Abhorred’, huh? I reckon that’s how he’d think of himself at this point in Rings of Power—Mairon, the skilled maia and smith, who loved order and who could heal the world— especially if he has decided he is in a semi-repentant state, even if only in a possibly self-serving way. I definitely like the ambiguity we get in the show in that it’s hard for us to read his intentions for sure.

#galadriel #sauron #halbrand #rings of power #haladriel #the rings of power #writing #fanfic #long post #?#uhhhh is that their ship name #rings of power spoilers

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dude1818 · 1 year

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Been on a kick of making Phyrexian versions of existing characters this week, in the style of Furnace Queen Ayara and Heliod, the Eclipse we’ve seen so far

Krenko got compleated by the Machine Orthodoxy, so now he makes tokens in the style of the white faction. Very close to working the exact same as the original Krenko, but needed some sort of mechanical indicator of the color bend, plus the original probably should’ve had a mana gate anyway

Mazirek is also a very close parallel to the original card. Triggering off life payments particularly synergizes with phyrexian mana, and being a sac outlet grants backwards compatibility. He got killed in War of the Spark, but that probably wouldn’t stop Sheoldred from making him a vat priest

Fblthp is no longer lost. Vorinclex made him swol and dropped him in the Hunter’s Maze, and he’s doing great. Not much to lean on from his previous design, since the “library matters” stuff represented him being lost. Kept the card draw and gave him a way to get big

Brisela was already a horrifying monster, so didn’t take much to compleat her (them?). The eldrazi mutants in SOI block weren’t actually extensions of Emrakul, like all the brood in the Zendikar blocks were, so this doesn’t raise the question of how you can compleat an extraplanar entity

The Unblemished Corpse is not a new character, but this would be her first card. This is the Nameless Angel from the titular Children of the Nameless. Still a beautiful corpse that hasn’t rotted or corrupted, but now strapped to a phyrexian walker like Venser. Shoutout to @balverine for the mechanical inspiration

Finally, Will and Rowan got Brisela’ed. Norn’s not a fan of the division between individuals, and they share a spark anyway, so why not a body too. And with their parents out of the way, they get to rule Eldraine in Phyrexia’s name

#mtg #magic the gathering #phyrexia #custom mtg

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bigbelsammy · 1 year

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He slides his cock across your rather AMPLE behind, then down between your legs, teasing it across your slit. Running the head down under and then parting it to stroke the dorsal surface across your clit. He takes his time teasing you, despite your pleas to just get going already. Then he just slides it between your thighs so he can use both hands to reach up the MASSIVE curve of your belly at your flanks. Sloooowly up the sides of your prodigiously baby-distended tummy, feeling the taut skin and the unceasing kicking of your tremendous brood. And then up to the full curves of your breasts, feeling the plump, jiggling heaviness of them before reaching to the maximum extent to again tease your nipples. The languid drawing out of the act just makes your overheated furnace of a pussy need him all the more! You do what you can already on tiptoe to buck your pussy against his shaft. You manage to slide your wet, hungry lips across the length of his rod, but you can't QUITE catch the head between them to impale yourself on it!

J-just fuck me already!! 🥵

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crossoverquest · 2 years

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Furnace: Neon J’s the perfect one, Gabriel’s the brooding bad boy, Johnny’s the clown, and Kiriko, well, she’s the girl, so what are you supposed to be?

Top Grunge: I’m Scottish!

#incorrect quotes #incorrect no straight roads quotes #incorrect power rangers quotes #incorrect mortal kombat quotes #incorrect sonic quotes #incorrect carmen sandiego quotes #furnace fnf #furnace #where in the world is carmen sandiego #carmen sandiego #nsr neon j #overwatch reaper #johnny cage #overwatch kiriko #sonic the hedgehog #source: Power Rangers RPM

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akystaracer22 · 1 year

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Here’s Tang from Jade Furnace! Featuring some little golden cicada’s that make up only the tiniest fraction of the brood. Tang is a little more serious and violence prone than his canon counterpart, though it is very, very rare that he’ll actually go through with any threats. He’s also multilingual! Fluent in English as well as both modern and ancient Chinese.

There’s a lot more to him that you’ll all see as the story progresses, and more ref’s will come out as I figure out how to draw each character.

#jade furnace au #lego monkie kid #lego monkie kid au #tang lego monkie kid #journey to the west #fanfic #reference #reference sheet

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ukdamo · 2 years

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Chicago Poem

Lew Welch

I lived here nearly 5 years before I could

meet the middle western day with anything approaching

Dignity. It’s a place that lets you

understand why the Bible is the way it is:

Proud people cannot live here.

The land’s too flat. Ugly sullen and big it

pounds men down past humbleness. They

Stoop at 35 possibly cringing from the heavy and

terrible sky. In country like this there

Can be no God but Jahweh.

In the mills and refineries of its south side Chicago

passes its natural gas in flames

Bouncing like bunsens from stacks a hundred feet high.

The stench stabs at your eyeballs.

The whole sky green and yellow backdrop for the skeleton

steel of a bombed-out town.

Remember the movies in grammar school? The goggled men

doing strong things in

Showers of steel-spark? The dark screen cracking light

and the furnace door opening with a

Blast of orange like a sunset? Or an orange?

It was photographed by a fairy, thrilled as a girl, or

a Nazi who wished there were people

Behind that door (hence the remote beauty), but Sievers,

whose old man spent most of his life in there,

Remembers a “nigger in a red T-shirt pissing into the

black sand.”

It was 5 years until I could afford to recognize the ferocity.

Friends helped me. Then I put some

Love into my house. Finally I found some quiet lakes

and a farm where they let me shoot pheasant.

Standing in the boat one night I watched the lake go

absolutely flat. Smaller than raindrops, and only

Here and there, the feeding rings of fish were visible a hundred

yards away — and the Blue Gill caught that afternoon

Lifted from its northern lake like a tropical! Jewel at its ear

Belly gold so bright you’d swear he had a

Light in there. His color faded with his life. A small

green fish . . .

All things considered, it’s a gentle and undemanding

planet, even here. Far gentler

Here than any of a dozen other places. The trouble is

always and only with what we build on top of it.

There’s nobody else to blame. You can’t fix it and you

can’t make it go away. It does no good appealing

To some ill-invented Thunderer

Brooding above some unimaginable crag . . .

It’s ours. Right down to the last small hinge it

all depends for its existence

Only and utterly upon our sufferance.

Driving back I saw Chicago rising in its gases and I

knew again that never will the

Man be made to stand against this pitiless, unparalleled

monstrocity. It

Snuffles on the beach of its Great Lake like a

blind, red, rhinoceros.

It’s already running us down.

You can’t fix it. You can’t make it go away.

I don’t know what you’re going to do about it,

But I know what I’m going to do about it. I’m just

going to walk away from it. Maybe

A small part of it will die if I’m not around

feeding it anymore.

#poetry #Chicago #lew welch #city #urban #pollution #grind #fondness #affection #character #alienation

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helenaheissner · 6 days

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A Dream of Summer Rain: Chapter 26

Fifty Years Ago

Alistair laid in the dungeon, ankle chained to the floor, playing with fire. He gathered it in his hands, a spherical pyre, and then divided it into smaller orbs, rotated them around him like planets. He made them dance, like he’d seen the Stars doing, until he heard the door to the dungeon unlocking.

Alistair extinguished the fire, laid down, and pretended to be asleep. He pretended to snap awake at the same time his father unlocked the door at the top of the stairs. Amadeous Albrecht stood in the pale morning light, looking down on Alistair with a solemn brooding.

“Have you learned your lesson?” Father asked.

Alistair bit his tongue for a moment. “Yes, Father,” he lied.

“You won’t provoke your older sister again?”

“I won’t, father,” Alistair lied again.

“Very good. You must overcome your temper- it is a weakness. You have many weaknesses, and as my son you must have none. You’ll do well to remember that. Now. Come upstairs, have some breakfast.”

“Thank you, father,” Alistair said, rising from the floor and ascending the stairs.

He entered the castle’s ground floor, awash with heated air from the central furnace. He accompanied his father through the main building into the dining room, where a stone table stood with a tray of fruit and bread draped across it. His younger sister, Addison, ran over to embrace him. He took the hug affectionately, brushed an errant strand of hair from his sister’s face and revealed the bruise still on her forehead. The bruise that Amelia had put there.

Across the table, Amelia glared at him. Both her eyes were still black.

Alistair smirked, and then gave Amelia the middle finger. He’d seen it in one of the comic books Aunt Elleanor had brought on her last trip up from their school in Colorado. His older sister’s eyes widened and her forehead vein throbbed.

Alistair’s mother, Penelope, smiled at her son. “How was your night?”

“Educational,” he said, and felt terribly pleased with his own cleverness.

“Ah. Well that’s good to hear.” Mother’s lack of ability to pick up on sarcasm was something to behold. They ate breakfast in silence. Same as they always did. Every day was the same: breakfast, lessons, fight with Amelia, get in trouble for it… Maybe it wasn’t worth it. Maybe he should just take it when she disciplined him. That was always what she said she was doing. Disciplining him. Disciplining Addison.

She’d crossed a line with that one. It was one thing to do that to him, but to Addison…

Alistair couldn’t wait to leave home, head to school in Colorado with their aunt. She’d take Addison with them, hopefully. Get her away from this lunacy wherein Amelia could hit them as much as she liked but if either of them raised a voice or Godforbid a hand in response they were the ones in all the trouble.

“Are you ready, my son?” his father asked.

“Ready for what?”

“For your trial.”

Alistair’s eyes went wide. This was exactly what he’d been waiting for- if he passed his trial he’d be allowed to leave, to go to school in actual civilization. Amelia hadn’t passed hers’, so he’d be able to rub it in. That would settle it once and for all: she was weak, and he was strong. “Yes, father,” Alistair said. “I’m ready to face the world.”

***

Present Day

Gwen woke up at the bottom of a pit ash, her body screaming at her not to move ever again. She twitched her fingers, curled her toes, just to reassure herself everything still worked. A thick coat of ash covered her; she wiped her forearm across her forehead only to leave a pile of powder above her eyes.

Her father loomed over her at the top of the pit, barely resembling a human. He crawled down on all fours, the powder dispersing into the air with each step. “Impressive, Guinevere. Truly impressive.” His voice was a chainsaw cutting into dead, dry wood.

Gwen wished she had enough energy to at least spit at him.

“I should kill you,” Alistair continued, “For what you’ve done to our family. For what you’re doing to the world, resisting your mother and I. But I won’t. Because I want you to keep going, to be able to see the full-extent of your mistakes. You will never learn if you’re not given the time in which to see everything you’ve wrought. We will see each other again, daughter, and when we do,” he said, his monstrous face contorting into the most hideous smile she’d ever seen in her life, “Perhaps then you shall finally see the light.”

He stalked away into the night. Gwen wanted to follow him, to call out to him, to send her zombies at him, but she was at her limit. She tried to reach for Starlight, and it only burned her. All the Dust for miles and miles had been spent that evening, burnt through in a futile attempt at resistance. The pain and exhaustion and humiliation consumed her once again, and unconsciousness claimed her.

***

“Gwen!” Quentin called out from behind the darkness.

She woke before she opened her eyes. She could feel her entire body, and almost wished she couldn’t. It would be easier, now and perhaps more generally, to be numb. But that wasn’t where she was, wasn’t who she was, wasn’t what she was.

God, I need a drink, she thought.

“Gwen!” Quentin said, his hands on her body, shaking her.

She opened her eyes, and looked up once more at the world she’d covered in ashes.

“Oh thank God,” Quentin exclaimed, putting his hands over his mouth when he realized what he’d said. She chuckled at that. Good old Quentin. He was a mess: a gash on his forehead, an eye swelling up, his torn vestments revealing myriad scrapes and bloody wounds.

Joshua stood atop the crater, his Hawaiian shirt a collection of loosely-bound rags, his massive eyebrows singed, and cuts and burns running up his limbs. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“Ffffrh,” Gwen grunted.

Before she knew it, she was lifted off the ground- Quentin carried her in his arms. Bridal-carried, no less. She’d dreamt of this. Wished the circumstances were better. She always forgot how wonderful he was. She didn’t deserve him. She’d never deserved him.

He brought her to the top of the crater, and she asked in a low whisper to be put down. He obliged, and when she tried to stand she found that she couldn’t just yet. She sat on the ground above her garden of ashes.

She looked around, and saw it didn’t end there: the streets had decayed into ash and dust; buildings had fallen and dispersed into the wind, leaving only skeletons behind; odd car parts stuck out of the powdery ground alongside the bones.

She’d done this.

“Where’s Lacy?” Gwen asked, draping her dirty hand over her dirty forehead.

“We haven’t been able to find her,” Quentin said.

“And Percival?” Gwen asked. “Danny- I mean Danny.”

“We haven’t found him either.”

“Isabella?”

They both looked at the ground.

Gwen covered her face with her hands, spread her fingers so that her bulging eyes could look upon all that she’d wrought. The city reeked of blood and sulfur and rotting flesh, and the sounds of pyres and screams and sirens swirled around her. “FUCK!!”

Quentin and Joshua said nothing, did nothing.

The night sky was a bruised skin over the world, the city lights and the fires blotting out the moon and stars. Downtown Peoria was… Gone. Nothing but ash remained. Gwen sat there a while longer, drinking it in, until Alice Carmichael came thrashing forward over the ash-ground, shotgun in hand. She plodded through like she was running on a beach in sandals.

Quentin and Joshua formed a barrier in front of Gwen. Gwen didn’t move, didn’t speak.

Alice aimed her gun with both hands. “Explain. Now. It better be good.”

“Put down the gun, Alice,” Joshua said.

She cocked the gun.

“Ms. Carmichael,” Quentin cautioned. “I wouldn’t-”

“Not that I think you’ll believe me,” Gwen said, her throat dry, her voice scratchy, “But this wasn’t my doing. I had no idea this was going to happen.”

“Someone told the Sovereignty we were all going to be here. They had to know that in order to plan an attack on this scale,” Alice said. “And you’re the one with the most obvious connection to them. So logic would indicate-”

“It was my little brother,” Gwen said. My baby brother is still alive, she thought.

Both Joshua and Quentin looked back at her in shock.

“You told me you were the last of the Albrecht brats,” Alice said, lowering the gun. “You mean to tell me there’s another one of you out there, working for your family.”

“Yes.” He’s alive. He’s been right here the whole time. Just like Elaine was.

“And how do you know this?” Alice asked.

“Because my father told me when we fought.”

“And you believed him?”

“It… Made sense. Due to the circumstances. And, uh, who he said it was.”

“Whom?”

“Ffffff do you remember how there was a young man traveling with us, alongside Isabella and my student Lacy? Early twenties, brown hair, blue eyes, around my height?”

“The pretty boy who smelled like my dad at the end of a long weekend?”Alice’s thin eyebrows twitched. She raised the gun and aimed. “Do you mean to tell me that you not only had a long-lost brother working for your parents, but that he’s been traveling with you for over a month, and you completely failed to recognize him?!”

He’s alive, and his allegiance is to the family. To the Sovereignty. They’ve got their claws in him. “I hadn’t seen him since he was six. And even then, he doesn’t look much like the rest of us- we all got our dad’s hair and eyes and cheekbones. Percy, even as a baby, looked more like Mom. Guess he still looks more like her. I… God, I’d forgotten what she looks like. I hadn’t seen a picture of her in over fifteen years-”

“This is still your fault,” Alice said.

Mom is still alive… And I have to kill her again.

“That’s not fair,” Quentin said. “She didn’t know-”

Alice continued, “Yeah. I’m sure she didn’t. I’m sure that in spite of all this evidence-”

“Circumstantial,” Joshua said.

“-She had nothing to do with this catastrophic fucking failure we’ve suffered here today. Do you know how many of us I’ve watched die in the past two hours!? Probably close to a hundred. And that’s without even getting into the astronomical civilian casualties! People have died, lives have been FUCKING DESTROYED, because of your fucking family, and you don’t think you deserve to be held even a little accountable for that?!”

“I never said that,” Gwen said. He’s alive, and he betrayed you, and he betrayed Lacy. He’s working with Mom and Dad, and that means he’s betrayed the whole world.

Police sirens rang through the air.

“Even if I believe you, which I haven’t decided yet,” Alice said, “How do I know you’re not gonna waver? How do I know you’ll be able to go up against him? Against your family?”

“Because I know I can’t save him,” Gwen said. She realized it as she said it, as the words dropped out her mouth and shattered on the ground. “I don’t want to save him. He’s too far gone. I’m going to save Lacy, though. If it’s the last thing I do, I’m going to save her.”

‘Your Destiny is to mentor the Dark Lord’- that was what her mother had told her when she’d asked what the Star meant, what the dreams meant. She’d been afraid of it, she’d run from it, but it was time for her to own up and do her job.

Silence hung over the four of them, in spite of all the noise elsewhere. The police were nearly upon them.

“We should probably get moving,” Joshua said.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Gwen said. “I don’t know about you guys, but I’m giving myself up to them.”

“What?!” Alice said.

“We can’t do this on our own,” Gwen said. “This past evening has proven that. There aren’t enough of us. We don’t have as many mages as the Sovereignty, and we definitely don’t have an army of ghouls- we can’t win in a fair fight. We need help.”

“You’re breaking the highest of the Guild Codes if you do this,” Alice said. “We handle things on our own. The government- no government- is ever going to be trustworthy. Not with knowledge of magic and monsters. They can’t handle it.”

“We can’t fucking handle it!” Gwen found her legs, found the strength to stand up straight and rigid. “For fuck’s sake- if we stay the course, not only are we dead, the world is dead. My father wins. You can’t seriously be telling me that that’s less important than Guild regulations!”

Alice did not lower her gun.

Gwen drew a deep, cleansing breath. “You also can’t possibly be telling me that you think shooting three people dead right before the fuzz arrives is in any way a good idea.”

Alice lowered her gun, finally. “Alright. Fine. We try it your way. But when this goes tits-up, it’s on your head, Gwen. I guess it’s fitting, though, that the end of the Damocles Guild be brought about by House Albrecht.”

The squad cars came into view behind Alice, driving slowly and carefully over the rotted streets. Alice dropped her gun and put her hands up, turned around to face them. Gwen did the same. She was surprised to find not squad cars labeled with ‘Peoria Police’, but simple black SUV’s. From out of the car emerged lawmen adorned in jackets labeled ‘FBI.’

***

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Track List: "Flying Whales" by Gojira

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