#tangle of elderflower

[murkshade]

stares at you stares at you

[beloveds-embrace]

(more of fae poly 141 x human queen reader || Masterlist)

It begins, as all fae things do, with something half-whispered and half-willed into being.

The Queen Mother watches from her high balcony, swathed in robes stitched from starlight and spider-silk, a goblet of elderflower wine in hand, and eyes like knives turned on her sons- indeed, only John may be her son of her own blood, but the other three have been married to him long enough she sees them all the same. Now, she is not subtle in her disappointment, but subtlety is not what’s needed now.

She wants a grandchild.

You are the wife, thus you are the womb. You are also- unfortunately- entirely unconvinced.

Which is a problem.

So the court changes. Just a little. Just enough- and all by the Queen Mother’s hand.

You notice it in the morning, when your tea no longer arrives lukewarm but steaming gently in a mug carved with delicate runes for comfort and staying warm. In the way the wind, once cruel and clawing, now stirs only to brush your hair back like a mother’s hand.

You find moss blooming along the path you take to the greenhouse- soft, lush, easier on your feet when you leave your shoes behind, as you often do. Glowy flits at your shoulder, a small sun in a kingdom that loves its shadows. Thrain trails behind with his antlers lowered, his hooves never once clicking on the stone, for the castle shifts beneath him now. Quiet, respectful for the being its Queen finds comfort in.

You don’t understand the change. You assume it’s the Queen Mother’s doing, for it certainly could not be your husbands’.

And you are not wrong- but you do not see the rest of it, nor do you understand why.

You do not see Johnny kneeling in your study after you’ve gone to sleep, trying to decipher the new system you’ve carved into court documentation like sacred text. He is muttering under his breath, muttering your name, because he can’t figure out how the taxes flow this smoothly without magic.

“Bloody hell,” he mutters, frowning at a sheet full of overlapping glyphs and sigils. “How does she even- ?”

He runs a hand through his hair and exhales, defeated. “Nae way queenie’s human. No way.”

He cannot do what you do, and it terrifies him as much as it excites him.

You do not see Simon standing outside your window at dusk, his silhouette caught in the trembling light of a fae firefly swarm. He doesn’t knock. Just watches. He thinks about the way your shoulders sag when no one’s looking. He doesn’t know how to help without breaking something, yet he doesn’t acknowledge that his inaction might be just as cruel.

“She’s always tired,” he says quietly, to no one but the trees that stare at him in silent judgement and accusation. “Don’t think we’ve ever asked why.”

You do not see Kyle trimming the hedge maze into gentler curves he’s the one who shapes the new garden path into a spiral, the human symbol of devotion. You won’t recognize it, not right away, but he hopes that someday you’ll walk it barefoot and feel safe, and the thorns will no longer prick your fingers or get tangled in your dresses.

“Be nice,” he murmurs to the leaves. “If she had something made for her. Not for show. Just… hers.”

And John… he leaves you a book. Not a weapon, nor a command, but a book; a soft, leather-bound thing from the human realm, tucked into your pillow. One you’d spoken about months ago in passing when you were trying to strike up small talk, the kind of memory no one was supposed to hold on to.

But he remembered, and he knows well enough not to tell you it was him who got that book for you, because he knows you wouldn’t believe it the same way you don’t believe any of them.

“She won’t believe it’s from me,” he says to the mothlight above your bed, and Glowy sharpens its light at him, unimpressed. “But maybe she’ll enjoy the story anyways.”

Their attempts feel like guilt wrapped in ribbons, like pity painted gold, so you wear your silence like armor. Your glamours grow sharper and darker, and become even more of what they always wanted you to be: untouchable, mysterious, other. Anything except human.

Not because you want to, but because it is safer.

And they- gods, they don’t know how to undo it.

They, the fearsome four. Masters of strategy, of illusion, of war. A beloved, respected King and his beloved, respected advisors.

They are helpless in the face of your doubt. Fools, all four of them.

Which is why the Queen Mother begins to meddle in earnest.

She speaks in circles at court dinners, drops names of fertility rites and lucky moons. She gives you gowns lined with moonstone and roses that only bloom when kissed by love. She leaves baby shoes- handwoven from frost-leaves- on your writing desk like a curse you make no mention of because acknowledging it is terrifying.

And still, she does not pressure you. Not directly, anyways.

Only… makes space. Opens doors. Makes them walk through them until one by one, they begin showing up.

Johnny brings pastries he says were “extra” but are clearly from the bakery in the fae city you once mentioned yoy liked. He never stays long, just drops them off, scratches Thrain’s fur for the five seconds the great stag lets him before it tries to bite his hand and head cleanly off, and mumbles about going.

“Don’t read into it,” he says, ears flushed, hands in his pockets and away from Thrain’s hungry maw. “Jus’ thought you’d like the wee apple ones. You always looked happier w’ apple.”

Kyle hums near your bath, not entering, but talking idly through the steam about human songs you’d once sung with the will-o-wisps. He doesn’t ask to join. He just exists nearby- even less than the time Johnny had kept you company.

“Remember the one with the moon and the river?” he asks, softly. “They still echo it down the west wing.”

Simon sits on the couch of your office and watches you. Never interrupts. Just… listens. Like he’s learning you all over again, but this time he is paying attention.

“You breathe differently when you’re upset,” he murmurs one day, not looking at you. “Didn’t know that before. I do now. Let me look at that ledger.”

John brings Glowy closer to your chair when you read. Doesn’t speak. Just adjusts the wings so the glow warms your feet, and then he watches in amusement as Glowy hisses at him for his audacity to reposition it like that- yet it eagerly stays in that spot to provide warmth for you.

You glance up, and his eyes catch yours.

“Light-… Glowy was too far,” he says simply. “Can’t have you freezing.”

It is not much- but it is more than nothing.

And still, you do not trust it; love should not come only after loss; love should not bloom only when you have nothing left to give.

But the court begins to whisper. Softer now. Not prey, not little queen.

Yours, perhaps, after all.

And when you wake one morning to find your glamours replaced by simple fabric, soft and real- no magic, no sharpness, no enchanted jewellery, just skin and breath and linen- and none of them flinch, none of them turn away, not even when you catch their stares and look back, unadorned…

You wonder, just a little, if something has begun to change.

You wonder if they see you now.

Thrain noses your wrist, grumbling deep from his belly, the sound happy. Glowy settles into your collar with a delicate fwmp of its wings. The wind, the fae wind, brings you petals instead of thorns.

And beside your pillow- tucked gently against the spine of your beloved book- is a letter, penned in four distinct hands, tied with gold thread and sealed with wax.

You open it with trembling fingers, and inside it reads:

We’d like to take you to dinner. No court. No masks. Just us. At the gazebo. Say yes, and wear whatever you like. We’ll be waiting.

Yours- if you’ll still have us.

[breelandwalker]

Magical Oil Recipes - Baneful Blends Edition

For anyone looking to brew up a potion with a less-than-friendly bent, here are some recipes I've created that you might find useful.

To prepare them, blend the ingredients in such proportions as feels correct for your purposes (or as supplies allow). Use dried material except where indicated. Place a few spoonfuls in a mason jar with a screwtop lid and fill the jar with a bland oil of your choice. (Vegetable oil of the sort you would buy for cooking works fine.) Screw the lid on tightly and shake well to combine, then leave the jar in a dark dry place for 2-4 weeks to steep.

Once steeped, prepare a clean storage bottle (also with a secure lid) and label with the type of oil and the bottling date. Strain the oil through paper towels or cheesecloth to remove the plant material, then bottle immediately. Store away from sunlight and heat for up to one year. Use for spellwork as you see fit.

(Please note that NONE of these potions are meant to be taken internally by any means. Observe all proper safety measures related to glass, fire, and potentially harmful plants as necessary during preparation.)

*- Ingredient is potentially harmful if inhaled or ingested. **- Ingredient should not be used or handled if you are pregnant or nursing.

All-Purpose Hexing Oil For general hexing, cursing, and baneful magic.

Dried Chili Pepper

Fresh Lime Peel

Lemongrass (dried or fresh)

Rusted Nail (place in bottle with finished oil)

All-Purpose Hexbreaking Oil For general negation of baneful spells cast by oneself or others.

Agrimony**

Cinquefoil

Fennel

Vervain

Solomon's Seal Root (place in bottle with finished oil)

Backhanded Blessing Oil For blessings that are anything but benevolent.

Burnt Cinquefoil

Bay Leaf

Pine Needles

Bayberry Root NOTE: Prepare as you would a blessing oil, then twist the blessing into a curse, i.e. May You Get Everything You Deserve.

Done in the Dark Concealment Oil For secrecy, confidentiality, and general deception.

Juniper Berries

Licorice Root

Black Hemp (Dogbane)

Ferns or Dried Seaweed Note: For the final ingredient, use whichever is easier to obtain. Both bracken and seaweed work well for basic concealment spells.

Eye of Newt Disruption Oil For disrupting and confounding magical efforts against you.

Black Mustard Seeds

Bloodroot**

Nettle Leaf

Garlic (1 clove, bruised)

No Rest For The Wicked Hexing Oil For punishing one's enemies.

Chili Pepper (any)

Horseradish Root

Cramp Bark

Bayberry Root

On Your Own Head Retribution Oil For counter magic and revenge hexes.

Elderberries*

Bloodroot**

Devil's Shoestring**

Vetiver

Tangled Shoelaces Binding Oil To impede someone's ability to move or act against you.

Pine Needles

Devil's Shoestring**

Scullcap**

Coffee Grounds

Iron Nail in master bottle

Wicked Witch Heavy-Duty Cursing Oil For occasions when a regular-strength hex just won't do.

Wormwood* **

Ghost Chili Pepper (or the hottest chili you can get)

Lemon Seeds

Lobelia* Note: Use With Extreme Caution And Cover Your Ass.

Witchbane Warding Oil For repelling and countering harmful spells.

Bay Leaves

Elderflower

Star Anise

Birch Bark

Should the reader require supplies, I recommend the following:

Penn Herb Company

Starwest Botanicals

Bulk Apothecary

Mountain Rose Herbs

Specialty Bottle

Image Credit - Shaiith

All recipes are (c) 2017 Bree NicGarran, published in Pestlework: A Book of Magical Powders & Oils. Please check out the book if you would like more recipes.

If you’re enjoying my content, please feel free to drop a little something in the tip jar, tune in to my podcast Hex Positive, or check out my published works on Amazon or in the Willow Wings Witch Shop.

[outofangband]

Gardens in Doriath

Telerin garden headcanons

Collection of garden headcanons for Doriath! More in the Doriath tag! Let me know if there are more aspects here I should cover!

In the chambers within the caves, basins of hewn marble house both aquatic and non aquatic plants, structures allow for ivy and creepers to grow along the walls and many grow from the grounds themselves.

Outside the caves, there is a formal garden located a few minutes away from the only entrance and the stone bridge. It is secluded and quiet with covered and open areas, each designed to accommodate the plants within them, (the Ilkorin language of Doriath has several words for plant woven roofs)

Butterflies and moths are the primary pollinators for the outdoor gardens with honeybees, carpenter bees and jeweled wasps also contributing. Certain species of birds and small mammals are also pollinators of the woodland gardens. (Butterflies and moths of Doriath)

Honeysuckle, elderflower and other fragrant flowers are used in the production of liquors

Melian first created the gardens and brought a number of seeds to cultivate from her Wanderings and from Valinor.

The gardens within Menengroth are not simply for their beauty though they are very much admired for that. They are also a source of connection to the outside world and the forests that the residents of Menengroth so love. It is not easy to live away from the world and the structure, decorations, and layout of Menengroth reflects this. The layout is largely modeled after a system of roots and wherever plants can be displayed, they are.

Chambers on the higher levels have access to sunlight, after of course the sun exists.

Outside Menengroth there are few formal gardens, rather, the woods themselves are cultivated though sometimes with species introduced or altered. To non elves and even to many elves outside Doriath, it is nearly impossible to tell the difference between the woodland gardens and the original forests.

Daylily, arrowhead, parsley, black elderberry, red huckleberry, wild carrot, and ground ivy are among the most common plants that are cultivated but there are over a hundred others.

The girdle of Melian itself is a tangled maze that is closer to a garden than natural wilderness; though it appears overgrown and chaotic, it is in fact perfectly organized under Melian’s design with each species of flora serving a specific purpose

Personal note: I got suddenly called into work while finishing this post so it’s not as polished as I’d like but I want to make a second part with more specific examples of species!

[not-glorfindel-stop-asking]

Hey Lindir!!!

Sorry to bother you, I, a mere mortal, find myself wondering... Do you have a skincare routine or haircare routine amongst the Elves? You all look FABULOUS, you can tell me if it's magic or some products you know!

Elven Skincare EXPOSED: 10 Secrets to Looking Immortal (Even If You’re Not)

Ah, my dear mortal friend, you are most wise to inquire about such matters! For truly, what is the point of immortality if not to remain devastatingly flawless while enduring the endless nonsense of Rivendell? 💅✨

Now, let me tell you the truth of Elven beauty. You suspect magic? Well, yes. Of course, there is magic. But it is not some mystical spell whispered to the moon—it is the magic of discipline, dedication, and a deep respect for nature. Also, sometimes sheer spite. Glorfindel may think he shines naturally, but let me tell you, I have SEEN the imported oils in his chambers. I KNOW THE TRUTH. ��

And now, because I am gracious (and because I take pity on mortals who age like fruit left in the sun), I shall share with you the sacred wisdom of Elven skincare and haircare.

LINDIR’S GUIDE TO ELVEN BEAUTY: LOOK ETHEREAL OR DIE TRYING

1. WATER. WATER. MORE WATER. 💧💦 Do you think we sip delicate elven wine all day? No! Hydration is key! I drink water constantly, and if I see a single mortal claim “I forgot to drink water today,” I will appear in your home personally to scold you. Dehydrated skin? Couldn’t be me.

2. CLEANSE LIKE YOUR IMMORTALITY DEPENDS ON IT. 🛁🌿 Every night, I cleanse my face with a mixture of spring water, crushed elf-willow bark, and a whisper of regret. (The regret is optional, but it adds flavor.) And NO, we do NOT use harsh soaps! That is barbarism. Instead, we use gentle botanical oils. Speaking of which…

3. OIL IS YOUR FRIEND, NOT YOUR ENEMY. 🌿✨ Mortal beauty regimens are full of tragedy. You strip your skin, you fear oils, and then you wonder why your face retaliates. Stop this madness. A little elanor blossom oil? Divine. A touch of miruvor essence? Rejuvenating. Do not fear the natural oils—fear dryness, for it is the true enemy.

4. HAIRCARE: BRUSH IT LIKE YOU MEAN IT. 🏹🦁 Elven hair flows like silk woven by the stars, and it is because we respect it. Every morning and night, I brush mine with a comb carved from mallorn wood, infused with elderberry oil. Does this take time? Yes. But perfection demands patience. Also, if I go outside and the wind dares to tangle it, I declare vengeance upon the elements.

5. MASKS: YOUR FACE DESERVES LUXURY. 🏺✨ Do you want a glow that makes the moon jealous? Then you must use a mask. I mix crushed lembas grains, a drizzle of honey, and a single tear of frustration every fortnight. (Do not ask why I am frustrated. The answer is always Glorfindel.)

6. ELVES SMELL LIKE A FOREST BREEZE AND YOU CAN TOO. 🌲💨 Scent is part of beauty, my dear mortal. You must smell fresh, like a dawn-kissed meadow. Mortals have soaps full of chemicals (why do you do this?), but elves use sandalwood, lavender, and wild rosemary. If you do not smell like a gentle memory from a dream, are you even trying?

7. SUN PROTECTION: YES, EVEN ELVES DO IT. ☀️🛡️ Do you think we just stand in golden light with no consequences? NO. Even elves respect the sun. We wear cloaks. We seek shade. We use protective balms made from sage and elderflower. If you roast like a human sausage at a summer feast, that is your fault.

8. NIGHTTIME ROUTINE: REGENERATE LIKE AN ELF, NOT A GOBLIN. 🌙✨ Before bed, I do the following:

A final cleanse (see Step 2)

A light mist of moonblossom water

A whispered complaint about my day (essential)

A prayer to the Valar that my hair does not tangle overnight

9. PLANT-BASED DIET: YOUR FACE IS WHAT YOU EAT. 🥗🌿 Yes, we eat fresh, wholesome, natural food. If you consume nothing but salted meats and questionable bread, your skin will weep. Eat like an elf! Berries, greens, nuts, things that do not look like battlefield rations.

10. STRESS? DON’T. 😌🍵 Do you know what ruins beauty? Worry. But what if you, like me, are surrounded by stressful people who insist on breaking your lute? (Yes, Glorfindel, I am talking about you.) Then you must meditate. Breathe deeply. Think of a serene forest, untouched by chaos. If that fails? A glass of wine and an aggressively long bath.

There you have it, dear mortal. The sacred elven wisdom of skincare and haircare. Use it well. And if you ever doubt me—just look at Glorfindel. He may shine like the sun, but I?

I glow like the moon, with superior hydration. ✨

Now, my dear mortal friend, you seek the wisdom of the Eldar? Very well. I shall grant you peace for your dry skin, strength for your weary hair, and perhaps—just perhaps—hope for your mortal complexion. 🌿✨ But beware! With great beauty comes great responsibility. If you follow these secrets, do not be surprised if strangers mistake you for a being of legend.

1. The “I Have Not Slept Since the Second Age” Face Mask ☕🌿

For when life (and bad decisions) have left you looking like you wandered out of Mirkwood.

You shall require:

1 tbsp coffee grounds (for that resurrected-by-Valar glow)

1 tbsp honey (because even your face deserves a little sweetness)

1 tbsp yogurt (to soothe your tragic, battle-worn visage)

Mix, apply for 10 minutes, and rinse with lukewarm water. This will leave your skin looking refreshed, as though you haven’t been suffering through yet another sleepless age.

2. The “Elves Do Not Get Split Ends” Hair Elixir 🍃🌿

A secret passed down through the ages, because no elf has ever been seen with frizz. Ever.

You shall require:

1 cup water (preferably from an enchanted spring, but mortal tap water may suffice)

2 sprigs fresh rosemary (for strength, endurance, and possibly elven wisdom)

5 drops lavender oil (to smell like Rivendell and not a battlefield)

5 drops argan oil (for that Lórien shine)

Boil the water, add the rosemary, and let it steep until cool. Strain, add oils, and pour into a spray bottle. Mist onto your hair daily for strength, shine, and the satisfaction of knowing you now possess a superior beauty routine.

3. The “I Must Not Look Like I Have Fought Orcs Today” Under-Eye Treatment 🌙

For when the weight of the world—and possibly the weight of bad decisions—rests upon your face.

You shall require:

2 green tea bags (to erase all evidence of your suffering)

1 tbsp aloe vera gel (for that ethereal under-eye glow)

Steep the tea bags, let them cool, then place them over your eyes for 10 minutes. Follow with a dab of aloe vera. Congratulations! You are now less haunted-looking.

4. The “I Must Smell Like an Elf, Not a Tavern” Body Mist 🌿✨

Because nothing says immortal beauty like smelling faintly of enchanted forests.

You shall require:

½ cup witch hazel (for a crisp, magical base)

½ cup rose water (to make you feel like an elf from a tragic ballad)

10 drops cedarwood oil (to smell mysterious and ancient)

5 drops vanilla extract (because elves are just a little indulgent)

Mix, pour into a spray bottle, and mist yourself liberally. People will wonder if you have just stepped out of Lothlórien. You will simply smile and disappear into the mist.

Now go forth, my luminous mortal! May your hair be sleek, your skin be radiant, and your scent be as intoxicating as the golden woods of Lórien. And should anyone ask how you achieved such ethereal beauty? Simply say:

"An elf never reveals their secrets." ✨🌿

[ophelia-writes-things]

Beltane with Thranduil and Faelwen

The Greenwood. A night of fire and bloom. A kiss that dares to summon the sun.

---

The forest pulsed with Beltane's fever—green-gold and blooming, alight with the scent of wild jasmine and newly unfurled oak. The air shimmered with heat and enchantment, the veil between worlds thinned to gossamer. Bonfires blazed in sacred clearings, casting flickering shadows that danced like spirits, and the stars above watched like silent witnesses, ancient and knowing.

But deeper in the woods, where no revelers dared wander, where moss grew thick over stone and the trees stood in close, reverent ranks, Faelwen stood barefoot on the forest floor, crowned with woven violet and fern. Her eyes glinted like moonlight over water—feral, longing, alive. She waited, her breath shallow, heart thundering like hoofbeats against the earth.

Thranduil came to her as the forest king, but more than that—wreathed in silvery green, eyes glowing like starlit fire, hair loose like flowing silk. His steps were soundless, but the trees seemed to lean toward him, recognizing something primordial. Beltane had ignited something old in him, something that burned hotter than any fire.

“You summoned the sun,” he said, his voice a low rasp, reverent and trembling, “and dared it to watch you burn.”

She smiled—a challenge and a promise. “Only if you burn with me.”

He did not hesitate. Their mouths met like the clash of thunder and tide. His hands cradled her jaw, then slid down, possessive over the curve of her waist, drawing her against him as though to bind her with ivy and flame. Her fingers tangled in his hair, dragging him deeper into the kiss, into her. He tasted of elderflower and firewine, of longing banked too long.

Their kiss became a storm—consuming, breathless, as though they had forgotten the shape of air and needed only each other. Beltane heat curled around them, embers caught in her hair as if even the fire desired her. The forest hummed with life, with lust, as the Greenwood itself seemed to ache with ancient memory.

“Every year,” he murmured, lips brushing her throat, voice strained. “You undo me. I have ruled for centuries and yet here I am, on my knees before you in the dark.”

“And still,” she whispered against his ear, “you haven’t truly begged.”

Tension crackled—thunder before the lightning. He growled, low and reverent, and pressed her back against a tree older than the Elves’ first songs, bark cool against her spine. The night answered with wind and petals, with starlight caught in trembling leaves. He kissed her like he was drowning, desperate, starved. She matched him, biting down on his lip, nails raking his back through his robe.

Above them, firelight flickered. Below, earth shifted in rhythm with their bodies. Around them, the world fell away.

Their bodies were fire and shadow, gold and moss, bound by roots older than memory. The world narrowed to the rise and fall of breath, the slow, worshipful drag of silk robes undone, the way Faelwen’s skin glowed beneath the moonlight like something conjured, not born.

Thranduil lowered to his knees, not as a king, but as a man unraveled. The crown of leaves in her hair slipped askew, and he righted it with trembling hands before placing a kiss to her hip—a kiss not of conquest, but of reverence. His fingers traced the curve of her thigh, the hollow of her knee, like a cartographer charting holy ground.

“Do you feel it?” he asked, voice raw. “The Greenwood listening?”

Faelwen arched into his touch, her voice a whisper of thunder. “Let it. Let the trees hear what I do to you.”

A low growl rumbled in his throat as he stood again, lifting her as though she weighed nothing, pressing her back to the mossy stone, his hair cascading like a veil around their joined shadows. The night turned thick and alive—filled with the scent of earth, crushed blossoms, and the heat of skin.

Around them, the Beltane fire cast long golden arms through the trees. Sparks danced like will-o’-the-wisps, and something in the shadows watched, not in threat, but in solemn witness. The magic of the ritual was older than names. This was no mere celebration of spring, but a rite of creation and destruction—of lust, of life, of power reborn in flesh.

Faelwen’s voice, low and breathless, carried through the trees like the call of some wild, mourning creature. “Thranduil.”

He answered with his mouth on her throat, his body pressed against hers, claiming and claimed in the same heartbeat. “Mine,” he said, again and again, as though the word alone could anchor him.

“Always,” she answered, nails raking his spine, her magic sparking through her skin where it met his.

The climax of the ritual came like a storm breaking—lightning behind the eyes, thunder in the blood. They didn’t cry out so much as breathe each other in, as though exhalation could be shared, as though their bodies were twin vessels poured into one shape beneath starlight.

After, they lay in the moss, limbs tangled, the fire reflecting in their eyes like a second sun. Her fingers toyed with the ends of his hair, his hand curved protectively over her stomach as though sensing the life she might carry one day.

The air shifted. Softer now. No longer fevered, but hushed.

Still, the desire lingered. Still, his kisses tasted of hunger.

“I would burn the forest for you,” he said, voice no longer the king’s, but the lover’s.

“You are the forest,” she whispered, pressing her lips to his chest. “And I would burn with you.”

-----

They did not return to the revelers.

The night belonged to them.

The forest, generous and wild, gave them shelter in a hollow glade where silvered ferns curled around them like witnesses and guardians. The moon drifted across the sky, slow and watchful, casting Faelwen in pale luminance that made her look unearthly. As if the night itself had carved her from shadow and starlight and offered her to him in offering.

And Thranduil—unbound, undone—worshipped.

Not as a king, but as a man possessed.

He kissed every part of her as though it bore some sacred name he must learn by heart—her collarbone, her ribs, the inside of her wrist. His lips mapped constellations on her skin, reverent and desperate, whispering old words in his native tongue, syllables long lost to any ear but hers.

Faelwen gave just as fiercely. Her hands in his hair, her mouth at his throat, teeth grazing the scars only she knew were there. She pulled cries from him that no battle ever had, soft sounds that were not weakness but surrender. She traced the shape of his soul with her mouth, his power with her fingers, his devotion with her breath.

Hours passed like dreams. Time curled and unfurled around them, slow as smoke. The Greenwood pulsed with Beltane’s heartbeat, but their rhythm was older still—elemental, intimate, infinite.

He lay on his back, her straddling him, her hips a slow, teasing roll that made him groan as though pain and pleasure had become indistinguishable. She leaned over him, her hair falling like a curtain around their faces, and kissed him until he forgot language. Until there was nothing left but her.

“You belong to me tonight,” she whispered, her voice the promise of fire, of bloom, of deathless love.

“Tonight,” he rasped, eyes locked with hers, “and every night after. I am yours. Let the stars record it.”

He entered her again, and they moved with aching slowness, as though drawing out the divine. There was no frenzy now—only worship. Each movement was a prayer. Each gasp, a vow. She touched his face as though to memorize him anew, and he held her as if she might vanish into the mist if he let go.

When the first light of dawn broke through the canopy, Faelwen was curled into his side, her breath warm against his chest, her legs tangled with his. Thranduil pressed his lips to her temple, then to her pulse point—still fluttering, still alive with magic and heat.

“I would give up my crown for you,” he whispered into her hair.

She stirred, her voice rough with love and night and too many kisses. “You don’t have to. Just wear it for me.”

He smiled, closing his eyes against the warmth of morning. “Then I shall. And you shall be my queen—not in ceremony, but in fire and flesh and forever.”

They slept then, the Beltane sun rising over them slowly—blessing what it found.

[the-king-and-the-druidess]

MORMOR FAIRYTALE

A noble knight-druid creeps into the cave. He expects the wicked witch to strike him with a spell, but she sleeps on a bed of elderflowers. Her lips bloodless, her skin pale, her raven curls tangled. He has finally found her. Mordred draws his dagger. "I am so sorry. Once you meant everything to me. But I have to do this." He looks bitterly at who Morgana has turned into. He leans down, and then she opens her eyes. She was not sleeping, as he expected; she heard him. Mordred cuts the blade into her heart.

And he believes that at that moment, the shroud of darkness has fallen away, and Morgana is back to her old self. His princess was always there somewhere. Mordred throws the dagger away, and falls on his knees before the bed that became the coffin. A tear slides down. Just one kiss of true love could have saved her, but it is too late. The plot has succeeded after all.

[am-1-ty]

I had a dream about you. We kissed in my dream. You and I, my dear. I say that I had a dream about you and I leave it at that, because despite not knowing how your lips feel on mine I know that they tasted like sunlight in my mind. They tasted like a spring morning, fields of flowers and cherry blossoms and elderflower wine. I had a dream about you, that your lips touched mine and I can still feel the way that you held me in your arms, so delicate and soft with every ounce of confidence I wish I could give you. Your hair tangled in my fingers and your eyes like ocean storms, uttering every word that we yet cannot say. I had a dream about you, my dear.

[elementofangst]

The sun dips low over Canterlot Castle as lavender light bathes the marble spires. Inside the Grand Solarium, soft classical music swells. Elegant streamers woven with enchanted stars spiral from the ceiling. The scent of rosewater and lemon drizzle fills the air.

Regal Quill stands tall in deep indigo formalwear—his sash embroidered with ancient symbols of diplomacy and justice. Next to him, Lumen Quill wears a silver-threaded gown that shimmers like moonlight over parchment. Magical runes drift lazily around their horn, spinning delicate illusions of light.

They exchange vows—Regal’s voice confident, Lumen’s soft but glowing with love. Everypony applauds. Even Twilight claps, expression unreadable.

As the ballroom transitions into the reception, guests flood in.

Sundae Surprise, already in her fourth outfit change, twirls in a mint-chocolate-sundae-themed gown and launches the first performance: a flash-mob style musical number with dancing milkshakes and levitating banana splits.

Dawn Sentry watches her from the dessert table, eyes practically sparkling.

“Is she even real?” he murmurs, caramel mousse untouched.
“She’s Sundae,” says Cocoa Crumb, smiling softly. “She’s always more than real.”

From a marble balcony overlooking the ballroom, Twilight Sparkle watches Lumen and Regal dance their first waltz. Her expression shifts—something between longing, disappointment, and bitterness.

Flash Sentry approaches.

“You could go speak to her, Twi. To Lumen.”
Twilight scoffs softly. “I have nothing to say she hasn’t already read in a book.”
Flash frowns. “She’s not a book, Twilight. She’s your daughter.”

Twilight doesn’t respond. Her eyes flick to Cocoa Crumb, now talking softly with Tangle Root near the chocolate fountain. Her gaze narrows.

Cocoa Crumb stands beside Tangle Root, who, like always, stays close to the wall, half-shielded by a curling fern.
“I made chocolate tulip cups for your family’s table,” Cocoa says shyly. “I tried using elderflower glaze like you suggested.”

Tangle nods, blushing. “They’re… amazing.”

But his eyes dart. He doesn’t touch her hoof. Cocoa notices.

“You know my parents think we’re together,” she says, smile thinning. “So do yours.”
Tangle stares into his cup. “We are. Sort of.”
Cocoa sets down her plate. “I think you know I love you.”
Tangle flinches.

Just then, Discord appears behind them in a shimmer of cotton candy mist.
He doesn’t smile.

“Son,” he says, voice calm but dangerously so, “If you keep pretending you don’t see her heart breaking, I might just rearrange your limbs alphabetically.”

Cocoa’s eyes widen. Tangle doesn’t speak.

“Don’t worry, Cocoa dear,” Discord adds, turning sweetly to her. “Somepony will love you like you deserve. My son? Clearly isn’t ready for dessert.”
He disappears in a pop.

Cocoa’s lower lip trembles. She walks away before Tangle can say anything.

Meanwhile, Blue Gemstone is arguing with Rarity near the gift table.

“Mother, I didn’t mean to make the cake frosting explode! I was trying a levitation hex and—”
Rarity frowns, clearly strained. “Darling, for once, could you try not embarrassing me in public?”
“It was just frosting! Not like it’s the first time—”
“Exactly,” Rarity snaps. “It’s never the first time.”

Dusty Gale trots in mid-way. “Hey, Blue, your new frosting cannon was awesome. Guests by the cake table loved it.”

Blue's eyes flicker with gratitude—but she turns back to Rarity.

“You know what? I don’t care if I’m not like you. I’m not supposed to be.”

She storms off. Dusty follows, gently bumping her flank with his.

“Want to hoofboard down the palace ramp?” he offers.
She grins tearfully. “You always know what I need.”

Lumen and Regal share a quiet dance on the starlit terrace. Guests cheer them on. Then Pinkie Pie, slightly tipsy on sugar-cider, raises her glass.

“To Regal and Lumen! The best egghead couple ever—who didn’t let their emotionally constipated moms get in the way of true love!”

The ballroom falls silent.

Twilight freezes.

Fluttershy gasps, “Oh dear.”
Rainbow Dash snorts her drink.
Rarity nearly drops her champagne flute.

Twilight marches forward.

“Excuse me? Pinkie, just because you survive on cupcakes and chaos doesn’t mean you understand serious magic.”

Lumen steps forward, soft but clear:

“Mother. Stop.”

Twilight blinks.

“You loved magic more than me. That’s fine. I understand now. But don’t act like I’m the problem. You didn’t even look at my vows.”

Regal steps beside them. “She didn’t have to. I heard them. And that was enough.”

Twilight is quiet for a long time. Then:

“You’re right.”

She turns, walks away into the castle corridors.

Flash follows, but only after mouthing “I’m proud of you” to Lumen.

Part 1/?

[alistairsprayerwarrior]

When poor Evelyn reminds Cullen of Meredith and the shit she put him through... 🥺🥺 (just a wip, not sure if it'll be included in the actual fic, but I must share some of the feels.) 😔

He'd been avoiding her for several days.

"Have I… done something to offend?" she asked, catching up with him in the early morning as he was hastily en route to Adan's cabin for some elderflower tea.

"Ah, no, n-not at all," he finally managed, caught off guard and halting in his step to meet her gaze - albeit with a struggle. Her striking blue eyes bore into his, and for a moment, he was reminded of Meredith. That uncanny resemblance had been unsettling him for weeks, making avoidance seem like the lesser evil when compared to confronting his tangled feelings.

"Then- why have you been avoiding me?" Evelyn pressed.

"I… Maker's breath, this is difficult," he admitted, shifting uncomfortably. "It's not you, Evelyn. It's just… well, you bear a striking resemblance to someone from my past. Someone who… had a significant impact on me, for better or worse."

Her breath hitched at his words. They stood in silence for a moment as he allowed her to contemplate his words. She was hesitant to probe for further details, but decided against it. And yet, she didn't want to continue this dance of avoidance, especially when it meant having to work alongside one another for the foreseeable future.

"Can I do anything? I mean, that is, something to help with that? Perhaps to convince you I'm not… that person?" Her words were failing her, unable to convey to him, or prove to him rather, that she was her own person and certainly not someone who would have an impact on him - preferably not for the worst.

Cullen took a moment to process her question, his brow furrowed in deep thought. He was genuinely touched by her concern and the openness of her question, which didn't help with his already complex feelings for her. "I— I appreciate that, Evelyn. It's not something you need to change; it's- something I have to come to terms with."

He took a steadying breath then, his eyes finally meeting hers. "The resemblance is… unfortunate, but it's my issue to resolve, not yours," he added softly. "You're not her. You're you. And I— Andraste's grace, I'm very fond of who you are…"

[sanguineteetotaler]

For his part, Regis had no fear of the other tasting blood, once Geralt's tongue slipped in to tangle with his own. He hadn't broken his oath with even a drop since voluntarily doing so during that tragic mess in Toussaint. Circumstances permitting, he hoped to never do it again. There were only hints of the mint and elderflower tea he'd brewed, and of the honey he'd eaten directly from the comb that afternoon.

Geralt's taste differed, but neither was it unpleasant. In fact, it was more than enough to get a little lost in. Regis pulled the other man even closer, nails of one hand skimming in gentle repeated lines on Geralt's scalp, in answer to the touch on his cheek.

Tempting as it was, Regis didn't yet give chase when their deeper kiss broke. His eyes remained closed at first as foreheads met, then opened partway at Geralt's words. That matching admission sparked a fond smile. "You have it now; as do I." The shift in his head's angle was slight, only enough to press slim lips to the heel of the Witcher's palm still upon his cheek. "Geralt, my dearest wolf... A hundred thousand ways to adore you would not be enough."

A bit of earnest, almost mischievous, anticipation gleamed in black eyes. "Would you like to try a few nonetheless?"

Regis caught that shudder in Geralt's breath, how it rippled out into the minute tells of the Witcher's body. A reminder of how rare gentle touch was for the other, and thus more impetus to lavish him in tenderness. Humans could be so odd, believing that one's build, profession, or capabilities somehow dictated what one deserved and desired. As if the leathers and blades of a Witcher could ever wholly embody the caring soul shining out from cat-like eyes.

But for now, Regis would let them believe it. For now, this moment was for him and Geralt alone.

There was only time for his small smile to broaden, before the space between them closed. Regis released Geralt's hand without complaint, instead burying fingers in moonlight strands as their mouths met at last. The sweep of every breath, the flustered thrum of life warming lips and pounding against ribs, the gentle touch to one cheek with that coy reassurance... oh, how Geralt was perfect. Cradling the back of the Witcher's head, Regis slid his other hand around to splay between the man's shoulderblades. No reason to hide how much he was affected either, when Geralt was the one to start all this.

Regis pulled back eventually, guessing at when his favorite Witcher might need a proper breath. He didn't move far, nor did he loosen his hold. "How I've wanted this..." he confessed on a soft sigh, before a longer kiss. This time, Regis' tongue did join in, hoping to meet Geralt's as it brushed the other man's lips.

[murkshade]

[inquisimer]

Gonna be the most predictable Cullen trash Anastasia friend and ask for: Cullen x Trevelyan (non-Inquisitor) + "far away, long ago, glowing dim as an ember // things my heart used to know, things it yearns to remember (anastasia)" from your musical lyrics prompts. KILL ME SOFTLY plz

HA I bet you thought I forgot about this one, didn't you? Wrong, I've simply been waiting for the right angst to strike 😌

And HERE IT IS

for @dadrunkwriting

~~~

It had been an age since her mind knew sorrow and longing, but her heart had not forgotten how to break.

In the earliest dredges of dawn, when the sky had only just begun to fade from black to navy, Acacia collected her clothes from about Cullen’s loft and fastened her cloak about her neck. She took the trinkets and pleasantries she’d taken to leaving behind—it was simply more convenient, to have a spare shirt or hair pins there, to prevent the awkward questions around wrinkled blouses or hastily fastened braids when she stayed the night

He said the words in the throes of passion, as his pleasure crested and she brought him to his knees with little more than her touch. She would have brushed them off as nothing more than a rush of serotonin—as she had with to many others—if not for the way he’d pressed his forehead to hers in the afterglow and said them again, with more sincerity and conviction than he had at first.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

Not I think I love you. Not I’m falling in love with you. Just I love you, like it was already a forgone conclusion, like she couldn’t do anything to save him the inevitable tragedy and trouble.

Such drastic certainty could only be countered with drastic compensation on her part.

When she’d finished, the only trace of her history in his room was the faint, lingering odor of sex that would dissipate in the morning light and the hints of elderflower in her hair. Those would fade with the first application of the Ambassador’s Orlesian shampoos, and it would be as if this dalliance never occurred. In theory, anyway.

Acacia slung her satchel over one shoulder, looking much as she had when she rode up to the gates at Haven, though her heart and mind were both healed and cracked in greater measures than they had been then. She stood on the precipice of Cullen’s loft, boots nudging the hooks of the ladder, when a sudden hiss drew her attention back to the bed.

For half a breath, she thought he’d woken and caught her mid-flight. But a different memory chased that idea away just as quickly, and she couldn’t help but retrace her steps, perching on the edge of the mattress and just barely cupping his sweat-soaked neck with one hand.

The nightmares were constant; worse without lyrium, or so he said, but he dealt with them far too casually for the ones he’d experienced before quitting to be anything gentle. 

Acacia dipped a cloth in the basin by the side of the bed and brought it up to swipe at the sweat beading on his brow. It caught at the curls that were torn loose by his tossing and turning and a sob caught in her throat. Her eyes dropped to his lips, parted in a gasp at whatever image his subconscious had conjured, and she fought the urge to drop her head to his chest and weep.

We had a good thing, she thought silently instead. We had a good thing and you had to go and open your mouth and ruin it.

Every muscle in his body tensed and Acacia froze, because sometimes that heralded his waking. But after a few beats, he relaxed back against the mattress, rolling away from her ministrations and tugging her pillow into his arms. He pressed his face into it and sighed.

She couldn’t help it, then: silent tears spilled over her control and trailed down her cheeks like a river flooded by a storm. That should be her in his embrace; she should be snuggling closer to his warmth, feeling his scruff against her forehead, his fingers in her half-tangled hair. She gave her satchel a look of loathing that would have melted it if she were a mage.

It is better this way. Better a broken heart than a broken spirit—or worse.

Drew needed her at her best. That was why she’d come—in theory—and tripping over complicated emotions never accomplished that. And on top of that was Lewis and his agenda. It was one thing to throw herself into an arrangement that might get her killed or indentured for life. She refused to do that to Cullen.

Selfish it might be, but she desperately wanted him to stay…him. And what had become her world had a way of thwarting that.

She draped the cloth over the edge of the basin and stood once more. There were no more noises from the bed as she hefted her pack and descended the ladder. With one last swipe, she retrieved her gloves from Cullen’s desk and left her key to his office in their place. Surely they wouldn’t need any words after he saw that.

She really hoped, at least. If he looked at her with those big brown eyes and asked why, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to maintain the necessary resistance. Swallowing the grief in her throat, she swiped at her face with her cloak and forced a presentable facade before braving the battlements.

Her heart wasn’t breaking, because she wasn’t in love. Love had been a stranger since she was six years old.

She wouldn’t let it destroy either of them now.

[valberryy]

oh, eurydice (it's an awful sound). — venti

de l'autre côté de l'eau, comme un écho. / tu dis que c'est la fin du monde, c'est ton silence mon eau profonde.

um,, idk what to say cause i dont want this to b my venti summoning post but. anyways. also tagging @starfell-traveler look i finished it!!!! b proud of me /hj

pairing: venti x gn!reader

content warnings: mentions/descriptions of alcohol & blood/injuries, major character death, it's just heavy angst i'm sorry

one.

Venti still remembers the first time he heard you laugh, warm and clear and bright, like the chiming of cathedral-bells.

In those golden days when he was getting used to his new face, he often found himself wandering—much to the chagrin of his friends. If he wasn't in one of the many taverns of the newly-built Mondstadt, he was wandering these new, free lands.

And that was how he met you, the spritely scion of house Gunnhildr, who had strayed away from your envoy with a bottle of wine and leaves in your hair. He noted the mischief dancing in your eyes, the sunlight dappling on your skin, the way your mouth formed a small "o" when you saw you were not alone.

Your eyes had lit up when you caught sight of him. "Oh, my lord!" you called, "Fancy a cup and a chat, perhaps?"

Venti stood still for a moment to ponder your request, but at the sound of you popping the cork off the bottle and pouring it into a cup you had brought, he found his resolve weakening. He took a seat next to you as you pulled a stray leaf from your hair, taking a sip from your cup before passing it to him.

How brazen of you, he mused.

While cherry wine, in his opinion, could never hold a candle to the dandelion wine he had grown fond of, it tasted all the sweeter coming from you.

You had laughed at this sentiment of his, clear as the water from the lake nearby. "Is that so?" you asked. "Perhaps I'll bring some more of this kind especially for you, dearest bard."

Venti responded with a playful pluck at his lyre-strings. "I'd prefer if you called me by my name, young master Gunnhildr."

"And what would that be?"

Just as he was about to respond, the two of you caught wind of voices yelling out your name, and you flinched. "That must be for me," you said. "I shouldn't have expected to be able to hide forever."

He helped you stand, stretching out his arm to pull you up—your hand was soft and warm against his own, and the "thank you," that rolled from your lips made his heart flutter in a way he wasn't used to.

"I'd love to see you again," you said, and he smiled.

"You talk as if this is goodbye forever!" Venti joked. "We can meet here again, if you so wish."

"Then it is done," you said, and squeezed his hand as if in confirmation of your new arrangement.

And with the lightest press of your wine-stained lips to his cheek, you had run off without another word—only the sound of your distant laughter and, "Sorry, sorry! I'm back now, mother!" left in your wake.

two.

That promise had soon become habit, and habit a new way of life—one wherein you would sneak away from the rest of your family to rendezvous with Venti in the forest, to share wine and song and sweet, honeyed words alike.

(And as time wore on, you pressed your wine-stained lips to more places than just his cheek, and the cheeky bastard would have you do it again, and again, and again.)

"What d'you reckon your family would say if they figured out you were sneaking away for this?" Venti mused, "Like a hero in a romance novel."

With a laugh, you lay your head over his lap and smiled when his hand came to rest in your hair, his fingers gently playing with the strands. "Scold me, I suppose," you said. "There are worse fates than not being allowed outside for a month, my love." 

You plucked a stray dandelion out of his hair, blowing the seeds to the wind. 

"Hmm? And what would those be, I wonder?"

"...You're so infuriating, Venti," you grumbled, and he simply laughed and took another sip of wine—elderflower this time, tasting like spring upon his tongue. "I can't even dare imply that I want to be with you forever without you teasing me for it—what kind of lover are you? Hmph."

He paused, a teasing grin growing on his lips despite your previous words. "Are you asking me to marry you?"

An odd noise left your throat. "I mean," you said, "unless you want me to take your surname instead? ...Now that I think about it, Venti Gunnhildr doesn't quite sound the best."

A laugh, first from him, soon followed by one of your own. "Your family won't allow it, would they? But if the fates allow…there's nothing I'd love more than to be with you," he said. Gently he untangled his fingers from your hair, weaving his fingers between your own instead. "That is, if you want it too?"

A world of just you and him, a life where he would never have to stray far from your side—perhaps this was what Amos so desperately craved for, in those days. Venti watched as you removed the signet ring from your pointer finger and fit it snugly on his own, admiring your handiwork and smiling up at him.

"I wouldn't have it any other way."

three.

Somehow it felt odd to see you in clothes other than the casual attire he had always seen you in. When you were seated upon your horse like this, dressed in richly-dyed leathers and embroidered silks with your family crest hanging proudly from your breast pocket, you seemed much less like the cheeky [Name] that would pluck his lyre from his hands to play your own tune, and more like the young scion of house Gunnhildr that the rest of the world saw you as.

"I'm sorry, dearest," you said, your voice thick with regret. "They only told me about this last night, so I've had no time to tell you… And father wouldn't let me refuse, so—"

Venti laughed, "When did you become such a worrywart? It's only one round of hunting, right? I'll be waiting for you back here."

You huffed, leaning down to press a kiss to the corner of his lips. "Then I'll be sure to hurry on back to you."

He pulled you back down for another kiss, square on the lips this time, before letting you go. "Don't miss!" he said, calling after your horse, to which you turned and yelled back at him,

"If I do, it's your fault!"

He laughed, settling down beneath a tree and closing his eyes. You'd be there to wake him when you returned.

When Venti awoke, it was not to your hand shaking his shoulder but to a thud and the worried whinnying of a horse. His eyes snapped open as you groaned, one hand clutching your stomach and the other propping you up. When you caught his gaze you smiled weakly, too much blood in your teeth and not enough light in your eyes.

"I'm back, dearest," you said, and he had stumbled over to catch you before your arm gave out.

He pressed down on your torso, where three large gashes ran down from your chest down to your stomach, large and jagged as if from the claws of a bear. You groaned in pain and he pressed a kiss to your hand in apology, your skin pale and clammy in a way that reminded him too much of harsh, cold winds and a boy with his lyre. 

"You should've seen me, Venti," you breathed, "I shot it right in the throat…are you proud of me?"

"Very," he said. "I'll always be proud of you."

You laughed, broken and pained and sad. "Good," you said, "good." Then you looked up at him, the tears welling in his eyes, the reality of his fate—your fate—finally looming upon him. "Don't look at me like that, love," you cooed. "Please, smile for me, okay? Sing for me…can you spare me at least that much?"

His grip on your hand tightened. "All of that and so much more, dandelion," he said. "Please…"

"So much more, huh…" you mused. "Then, how about one last kiss before I go?"

"...You talk as if this is goodbye," he says, but doesn't protest when you pull him down by the collar, your red-stained lips pressing weakly against his—

—But instead of the sweetness of wine, there was only the sharp bitterness of your blood in his mouth.

four.

"How far would you go for me?" was something Venti had thrown around a lot, never expecting you to give him a straight answer—not with how you shoved his shoulder and said, "Just because there wasn't a ceremony doesn't mean I'm not your spouse, Venti. Wouldn't the answer be obvious?"

But he still recalled the first time he had asked you and the first time you answered, your fingers tangled with his and your head buried in the crook of his neck. Your voice had been softer, gentler, lacking the playful edge but just as genuine as always, "From the deepest depths of the ocean to the highest to the highest peaks in the sky," you said, "Until my hands wither away into dust."

"Maybe you're the bard instead of me, love," he had said, then.

In this new world without you he found himself clinging to whatever remnants of you he could—the dappled sunlight in the forest, the slightest sting of alcohol going down, the glint of your family crest on the ring that adorned his finger.

One of his many laments was how he could never mourn you in the way he felt you deserved—he had not the power to turn back time, lacked the dominion over anything static and permanent to immortalise you with. He only had his lyre and his voice and his winds, and all he could do was paint the skies grey in his grief, have the gales sing requiems that you would never hear.

From the deepest depths of the ocean to the highest peaks in the sky he would go for you and back—and if the darkest depths of this world contained the secret to getting you back, perhaps even a mere spirit on the wind could bear the trek through the dark. 

(After all, Venti knew in his heart of hearts that you would have done the same for him.)

The heart of the Abyss wasn't a land of mindless bloodshed and fire—it was cold and calculating, like a predator lying in wait. It was this place, in the depths of Teyvat and in the winding depths of their palace, that he knew could somehow bring you back to him. 

"Are you the one for whom the skies wept, bard?"

Venti swallowed down the lump in his throat. "I am," he said. "I want a deal."

The person before him raised an eyebrow, canting their head to the side. 

"One life," they said, "and no second chances."

Cold, and calculating, and inevitable—but still he would try. Venti owed you at least that much, no?

five.

He squeezed your hand as you trailed behind him, muttering to himself: don't look back, don't look back, don't look back. No matter how much he longed to hold you, to see your face and feel your skin beneath his, he kept his gaze to his feet as you both moved onwards into the dark.

(When he saw you again, just as beautiful as the day he lost you, he dropped his lyre to run into your arms, burying his face in the crook of your neck and surrounding himself with only you, you, you. 

"Venti," you said, and he nearly wept at the way his name rolled from your tongue. "Let's go home.")

You squeezed his hand back, so gently that he almost couldn't believe you were really there. "Why don't you sing me a song, dearest?" you quipped. "Anything you like."

In spite of himself, in spite of the cold around him and behind him and in his own hand, he smiled. "Have I ever sung you the one with the mist flower and the sparrow?"

He heard you huff behind him. "That one again? You know how bad I am at hitting the notes in that!"

"Hmm, sure, sounds like an excuse to me…"

"Venti!"

He laughed and squeezed your hand again, as if to remind himself—you were here, and he was taking you home, and you would be able to feel the sun on your skin and taste wine from his cup in the way you had always loved. He would be able to write you songs and guide your hands across his lyre, and he need never stray far from your side.

You need never go somewhere where he couldn't follow.

"We're almost there," he said, resisting the urge to turn around to smile at you. "There's a bottle of wine waiting for us. It wouldn't do us any good to leave it for too long, you know?"

He squeezed your hand again, but you didn't respond.

He swallowed down the lump in his throat. His footsteps hastened, quicker and quicker until he was near-running towards where he knew the surface lay. Had he been tricked? Were you never there all along? Had you gotten lost, or fallen, or left, and left some other person in your stead?

Anxiety clutched at his heart like brambles, and Venti found his mind wandering back to those days with the wintery winds and the friends he had lost to the storms. Not again, he prayed, please, never again.

He ran until his legs ached, ran until the first drop of sunlight finally kissed his skin, and he let go of your hand to turn around—

—to see your face still shrouded in darkness, your eyes wide, your hand still reaching out for him.

"What?" he breathed, "No, please, I can't lose you again—"

You smiled, and though your teeth weren't coated in blood and your body was free from any wounds, Venti's heart had sunk even further than when he had caught you that day. 

"No, love, please, I'm sorry—"

"Venti," you said, "I'll see you again soon, okay?"

"Please—"

"I love you." 

With whatever time you had left, you reached out further to brush the tips of your fingers against his cheek. "Smile for me, okay? Sing me one last song…" 

And before he could reach out to you again, you had once again gone somewhere he couldn't reach. 

(Yours was a song he sang without end, even when all of Mondstadt had forgotten your name—and even when he felt like he didn't deserve to bear your memory. 

On days when he uncorked a bottle of cherry wine or caught the Acting Grandmaster's eye, Venti found himself staring down at the ring you had placed on his finger in those golden days—and if he closed his eyes and pressed his lips to it the way you had done to him, he swears he can still hear your laugh, warm and clear and bright.)

[willpowerbutch]

Willpower Butch and the Son of God

By the Reverend Willpower Butch

We found ourselves in a dour, tangled wood, having strode excellently to the north of the ruins of London. We were safeguarding ourselves from the Homosexual by burning his nail polish and thrusting our pelvises as we walked – I, by virtue of my untrammeled virility, and Timpani Gayparade because I was repeatedly kicking his ass – for this display of breedful lumber-hauling intimidates even the most unhyperbolic Gay into hours of aesthetic crying. My un-non-sodomized companion, Paragon Shag, halted us before a gully, grimacing as he did at its detestable and wet resemblance.

“Quite Anti-Rimbauded Stoics,” spake he into the gap in the David’s pants, “were you capable of womanly regard for your environment, I should caution you now to take protective hold of your erections. For I scent among the pungent mosses a grievous concoction of defensive sarcasm, elderflower, and fear of guns.”

“No!” shouted Top-a-mée Christopherhitchens tremulously at Shag’s injunction. “That odor could only announce one thing: an Anglophilia of Transgendereds!”

No sooner had the flaccid, strawberry-incensed brat danced this were we come upon by these self-same Transgendereds. They were crudely crayoning beards and boobs onto the yearbook photos of children while singing the “Internationale” in Esperanto. And they were, without exception, slathered in a gloopy, glittery sludge.

“Alas, they have fornicated with Boy George,” Shag supposed.

“Nay,” I overruled him, speaking the truth because I am a Man, “they are the undead. See how they rise from the ground like a Gay asshole thrashing up toward Papalism. See how they have returned from Tim Curry’s House to torment their enemies.”

For, in the center of that discoing mass, there stood the trifecta of swallowing come at somebody else’s orgy and then complaining about the taste: Graham “transplanted his ass onto his face” Linehan, Germaine “spectacularly missed the point of her own life’s work” Greer, and JK “spent the nineties roleplaying a little boy and is desperately trying to deflect” Rowling.

The trifecta hailed our entourage, noting that we were not party to the Transgenders’ Dostoevskian lower bureaucrat fetish. “Help us!” they cried.

Marzipan Dostoevsky, friend of Vladimir Purina and King Gay of Sierra del Fuego. His infamous bent nose is the result of giving too much head.

Forthwith, we left them and continued on our way, crossing the border into Scotland.

As we plowed further into the wilds, we encountered a strange portal carved into the rockface of a proud spire. Drawing closer, Michael Sheen exclaimed, “This is it! The secret cavern where Franc’n’o has kidnapped God. But how may we come inside?”

There was, indeed, no discernible way through, for the doorway was a mere carving on stone. Near the top, there was a message scrawled in Scotlandenisishlatin.

The David stepped forward, the arches of his hips and back as sturdy and graceful as a yew, and his mouth as red-pink, as inviting, as absolutely forbidden as yew berries, gyrating as he read the words to himself.

“Read homo in the face of Man, and enter,” he translated for us. Turning toward me, his expression was puzzled. “Homo in the face of Man?”

“Shag,” I said frowningly, “what do you make of this?”

“Perhaps it’s a riddle. Omo represents the eyes, the ridges of the brow, and the nose in the face of Man, for facial hair is too powerful to render in this Nancy language,” Shag considered. “What we do not know is the symbolism of the ‘h.’ What could that be?”

“A cowlick?” suggested Gayparade.

“One ear?” ventured Michael Sheen.

“The tongue, sticking out?” lilted the David.

“The tongue, sticking out,” I murmured, repeating him. “Why else would Franc’n’o construct such an opening? He means for us to enact something that no Man would ever do, for the genital of the Gay is magnetized to the tongue of the Straight Man.”

My companions were much astonished at this, but also greatly impressed that I had retained so many facts about the Gay from only one drunken viewing of their episode on the Discovery Channel.

Looking between them, I could perceive the fear in their rapid flacciding. “Nay!” I shouted, mustering all my strength, “MEN!” And thus, I kicked through the doorway, sending out a shockwave that turned every blushing, pristine flower for miles into beer-soaked charcoal, scented with entitlement. And we were through.

Treading into the dark, it was several minutes before we came upon a peculiar thing. At the end of the hall was a garish, stadium-lit roller-skating rink, but unlike any we may see in the world above, for this rink was tiled with a material smoother than any quality of marble or varnished wood: twinks. Our metal-toed boots clanged as we approached, and upon this clamor, the twinks rolled around, alarmed, and like cats puffing their tails, they sprang their stiffnesses at us.

“Gentlewomen!” exclaimed the vile Franc’n’o from his throne of unsexiness. “You think that I’m greeting you to your faces, but in fact, I’m admiring your thighs!”

It was in this moment I knew that Franc’n’o had succeeded in becoming a Gay at last. And I mourned, my lords. I mourned the children unborn because Ben Whishaw and his cohort have made western Europe into a writhing accumulation of sexually ambiguous style magazine cover-shoots. I mourned that the poppy fields of yesteryear are become the pansy fields of today. And most of all, I sprayed three-in-one shampoo/conditioner/bodywash into Franc’n’o’s eyes, for this confuses the radar of the Homosexual.

Notwithstanding this, Franc’n’o pounced. And, like a quietly imposing youth who always sits alone at the bar and vanquishes toxic masculinity by making engaged straight men curious about bottoming, his fierce countenance froze me to the spot. But just when all hope seemed lost, there emerged a shot a pearly white from behind him, disintegrating the villain into innumerable molecules of coming-of-age movie nosebleeds.

At first, I could not make out the source of this blast through the shimmering dust of a thousand twinks vanishing back into the realm of the fae. But as they dissipated in the air, I saw him directly. He was a titan of a Man, impossibly contoured, possessing flawless bronze skin and a statuesque comportment. He had hair that no beauty appliance had homosexed, and yet it was both as firm and as silken as victory garlands. He beckoned Shag and me to him, and when he spoke in his engorging baritone, it was a language otherworldly and supreme, far too masculine to pass the lips of any mortal man.

Gesturing to me, he boomed, “У него толко серп, но у меня большой молот.” And then, he turned toward a large set of doors, and we could only infer that he meant for us to follow. We passed into another long, dark hallway, which culminated in a yet larger portal which emitted an indescribable glow. “Зови меня капитаном подлодки, потому что я углубляюсь,” he spoke again and urged us inside.

We were blinded altogether, so bright was that interior. Droplets rose to Shag’s eyes and to my hardness. A voice still deeper, still richer, still more impossible accosted us. “Do not fear, my good Men,” it said. “This is my Son, whom mortals have met before. He returns to you rebranded as his true form, and his name is Panzer Dzheesaskrist.”

Dimly, I made out the irresistible figure who had addressed us. At once, all was clear. Such a vision met me, my indomitable brothers with extreme personal space, that I shall remember and love forever: it was God, the Manliest Man of all.

About the Author

The Reverend Admiral Willpower Butch, who recently topped the human race by releasing God from a pervert’s Scottish underground fetish athletic studio, is hard at work on his petition to remove fruit from public markets on the basis that it is gay propaganda. Paragon Shag, his brave correspondent and roommate, is coming out with a line of deconstructed cars to raise money for Brothers In The Comintern Have Enlarged Scrota, an anti-communist mission. Their secretary and Russian fairytale character who gets no dialogue, Dead Summer Days, is treading on thin f*cking ice with his decision to start wearing sweatpants.

[lighthouseinabelljar]

Eurus

It goes like this.

There are two girls wandering through the countryside. We are as different as night and day, yet we are inseparable. We are like sun and moon; one cannot make sense without the other. Where she goes, I am sure to follow.

She leads me, giggling, through a gap in the bramble bush – the nip of thorns and the stain of berries going unnoticed. She has something to show me – something I cannot miss. She’s found a little nook by the river, shaded from the heat of the day by the emerald canopy of willow trees. There are stones of every shape at our feet, worn smooth by the endless running of the water. She picks one up and skips it across the mirror-calm surface. It bounces once, twice, three times before sinking down into the depths. I cheer as she curtsies, proud of her well-practised skill. I have a go, but only succeed at sending my champion straight to the riverbed. She laughs at my failure, but resolves to show me how. Standing by the river, and she poises me perfectly. I fight back a blush as her hands brush against my arms. I succeed with one skip, which pleases the two of us well enough.

With this activity spent, we climb the hill – collapsing in a heap once we reach the summit. From here, we have an unrivalled view of the sky. We lie in the grass, side-by-side, not caring for the stains on our clothes. Our fingers tangle together. She weaves stories for me out of the shape of the clouds – of warriors, of fierce beasts, of far-off lands. I swear that I could sit for hours and listen to her tales until the sun is set and the celestial hieroglyphs are our only witnesses.

We return home in time for the garden party, a village affair. A string of fairy lights swing above our heads and the taste of pink lemonade is sweet on my tongue. She is the life and soul of the party, chattering to anyone and everyone. I hang back like a wallflower, unable to compete with the streams of pretty people that hurry her way. But she comes and sits next to me anyway, and coaxes laughter from my lips until the fear is forgotten. She finishes her cake and takes a bite of mine.

The two of us stay in the garden long after the guests are gone, content in the task of making flower-crowns for one another; pink hawthorn for her and red campion for me. We coronate one another and agree that we are as beautiful as queens – and decide that elderflower is the only drink fit for royalty of our stature. The sun sinks low over the horizon as we sip our drinks and trade our favourite Sappho quotes.

She surprises me with a question.

“Have you ever found love?”

“I think I have,” I confess, “but where it wasn’t supposed to be.”

She turns away.

I move a little closer and ask, “What about you? Have you found love?”

“Yes.”

“Where was it?”

She turns to me and smiles, leans in. My eyes flutter shut. Her lips are soft against mine, and taste of elderflower. We break apart, both breathless for a moment. Her hand is on my face – brushing icing sugar off my cheek.

“I found it,” she whispers, “under the red campions.”

Prompt from my writer’s group: I found it in the red campions. Inspired by the Oh Hellos EP, Eurus - some of the imagery comes from there.