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pearlwithgirl · 5 days

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As the Nightingale Calls

Simon Riley x gn!reader

SFW fluff - 612 words

The first of many tender musings

It’s quiet. The dingy room holds a jarring tranquility, lowering inhibitions, washing away the chaos of the day.

His tongue darts out over dusky pink lips to collect the last of tonight’s ration. Pound cake.

Vanilla soaked crumbs are cleared from the seam of his mouth and licked away from the jagged line cleaved from nose to neck.

A flash of anger zaps across your visage. It only lasts a moment - his opponent has already paid his price, resting deeply. Communing with roots and fragrant earth.

Raising a scarred hand to the corner of your mouth, he swipes away a smear of rosy jam. He suckles at the skin of his thumb, savouring the mellow tartness, eyes still glued to your lips.

He raises his gaze to meet yours. The same cogs are turning, the same thoughts being mulled over in your own brain.

Should you give in to the insistent tug?

The well-established, scarcely-acknowledged tether between yourselves?

Certainly not. It’s ill-advised, a dangerous game rife with bureaucratic hurdles and the looming threat of eternal separation.

Will you do it anyway?

The answer lies somewhere just below the surface. You are drawn to chase it, to dig calloused fingers into the damaged terrain and nick yourself on colluvial shards in pursuit of the warm loam below. To have your wounds licked clean by your Herculean comrade.

Your breaths are shallow, catching on a sharp, long-held craving. The scene lulls on, wordless.

He leans in.

You meet him in the middle, eyes fluttering shut, lips brushing softly, heads spinning in tandem.

Over and over, chapped lips unite, tongues lick and flick.

Sugary confection and tobacco.

The moment drips, saccharine, pasted by sticky sweetness onto the surface of your mind - it’s placed in a special spot reserved for the most treasured relics.

It wafts its way through you, filling hollows you’ve long kept barren. It yellows the walls - not in a shade of sickly flax, no. It’s sunny and safe and warm.

You share the same breath, the same need, the same profound emotions - it’s nearly overwhelming.

*Nearly* - but it’s just right. A resounding equilibrium come to fruition.

It makes you shiver, stuttering exhalations and soft sighs proclaiming feelings unspoken.

You don’t part for lack of want or gratification, but you do need to breathe at some point.

Camouflaged lids open. He blinks slowly back at you in a shade of soft amber, gaze cutting right through the fog, radiant beacons in a sea of blotchy noir.

Again, you sense the same thoughts racing through his mind - it’s like peering into a looking glass. You’re used to constant risks and uncertainties - it’s a fickle life, but tonight? You have no doubts.

You can feel it in the feather-light graze of his broad hands, glean it from the sprawling wingspan that enfolds you, drawing you impossibly close.

The longing to flee an albatrossean curse, deserting the inky eye masks, the storms, the psychological burdens.

You’d like to slip the plumage and slither between battered ribs, finding rest under a comfortable thrum, steady and strong.

A nightingale calls out in the dark. It’s a welcome accompaniment to a tender, glowing moment, but it barely breaches the fringes of your mind.

Though tomorrow will be another story, nothing beyond this room is more pressing than the languid sequence playing out, the gentle knock of his forehead on yours, the soft glow of a tender revelation.

You bask in it, growing pliant, baring your throat to beckon gnashing teeth over a delicate pulse point.

You aren’t afraid - they won’t hurt. Blunted solely for you, worn down by shared time, trust, and trauma.

He leans in again.

You will.

#Pearl muses #pretend albatrossean is a word #simon riley x reader #simon riley x gn reader #simon riley x you #ghost x reader #ghost x gn reader #ghost x you #cod x reader #call of duty #cod mw2 #mw2 #cod mwii #mwii #ghost mw2 #ghost mwii #simon ghost riley #banner from cafekitsune

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seronsalk · 3 months

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A pretty little nightingale...

Part 1

Alastor x female reader (sorry gents and non-binary pals, I'll do you next!)

Masterlist AN: An idea I've been obsessed with recently...sorry if it's bad. Dividers from our lovely @saradika-graphics Warnings: Mention of Violence

"Sometimes I stare at my ceiling for so long that I forget where I am. I forget I am in a fiery pit where at any moment a knife could be jabbed into my shoulders or back and twisted. At any moment I could be killed, kidnapped, tortured, or even feasted upon. Would I taste good? Would my killers be satisfied with my death or would they too be disappointed in what I could have been for them? And even now as my alarm goes off, I wonder where my soul would go if I did one night, not wake up."

The morning in hell was pretty normal to the morning's you were alive. Wake up, get ready, go downstairs to the club, dance and sing. That beautiful structure, belting one's heart to an audience every day with no worry.

Until you found yourself doing the same thing, but in your afterlife. In hell. You will forever curse yourself because who else would you blame for your eternal damnation?

As you walked down the stairs to the dark empty club, the other performers were there already practicing.

"Look who rolled out of bed! And how is our princessa this morning?" Dante spoke, he was an insufferable demon to be around this early in the morning, and that Spanish accent rolled off his tongue right into his trumpet. He was a beautiful demon; all the musicians were. It made you wonder why such pretty boys were stuck down here with you.

You smiled at him before speaking, "doing just fine til you opened your mouth, save your air for the horn." Another musician whose name was Hernando, forced everyone to refer to him as Sir Pesci for some weird reason then spoke with a laugh in his voice. "As if saving his air would help him sound better!"-"Hey Hernando, did your mom get the flores I sent her?" Dante suddenly spoke. "Ahhh, vaffanculo," the Italian man cursed back as he waved his hands dismissively at Dante.

You laughed at the scene as the other band members didn't understand a word being said under the accents before they all turned to you. It was warm-up time and it would go on for at least three hours.

By the time the jazz club was about to open you had dolled yourself up. The servers and bartenders had finally rolled in.

Throughout your shift many older sinners had trotted in at the sound of the music. But as you went to take a break in-between songs Dante came up to you. "Y/N, apparently some big shot wants to talk to you backstage."

You looked at him curiously, "Why m-" but you were cut off by your boss. He was an arrogant man who cared less for what others thought of him unless they were giving him money or popularity. One time just to get him to hear you when you complained about fixing the door in your dressing room, you had to pay him twenty bucks. He was built like a bull and like a bull, he sometimes charged in without thought or reason.

"Y/n let's go, got a big customer who wants to meet you!" he dragged you away with his bulky hands. Dante gave you a shrug as he walked off.

Alastor's POV:

It was a normal day in hell, he strutted down the road cane in hand. He was on his way to the cannibal colony to meet with Rosie.

When demons saw him they would jump into traffic or even through windows to avoid his gaze. His devilish constant smile sent even the tougher, bigger demons groveling.

As he was walking though, his ears twitched. The sound of jazz, but more prominent, a beautiful voice. He could recognize the song immediately, Heatwaves, by Ethel Waters. He followed the voice around the corner of the street and saw some demons trickling into a club. He twirled his cane in interest and his smile became wider.

He walked towards the bouncers, two of the biggest mobsters stood strong and firm, but one look at Alastor made them sweat. "Good'ay my good gents, tell me what is this fine establishment about then?" A little hint of Alastors transatlantic southern accent sprung like cattails in a bayou.

One of the bouncers spoke in an almost whisper, "It's The Spotted Fawn jazz club, sir." Alastor's smile widened in interest again. "Well, pay me no mind gentleman, I simply will be taking a look around." And with that, he walked past them and a second later one of the bouncers told the big boss.

He walked in, it smelled of rye and smoke. He loved the atmosphere, it was like he was in New Orleans all over again.

Then your voice struck his ears like lightning. He looked over towards the stage, jazz musicians playing behind you as you sang. Your h/l h/c hair bouncing as you swayed your hips to your own song.

Your boss had interrupted his train of thoughts, "Why I wouldn't have expected the radio demon to be in my club-welcome sir." He offered his hand to shake and Alastor's smile twisted as he ignored his hand. "Charming establishment you have here sir! I appreciate people who are still following the more traditional...ways." Alastor spoke his eyes wandering back to you as you danced on stage with one of the musicians.

"Say, my good man, who is that lovely dame singing?" Alastor inquired as he twirled his cane. "That'd be y/n sir, one of my finer performers." Y/n....your name twirled circles in his mind. You were gorgeous, as was your voice.

And for the first time in a while, since his mother and Rosie, he felt admiration for a woman. He spoke again, "Well I would love to meet h-" he was cut off. "2k upfront," was all the bull-built man said. Alastor's neck basically snapped as he looked at him, "Excuse me?" he said. "I don't trust any of you overlords and the last thing my performers need is the attention from one of you causing them, or me, problems. You wanna talk to her? Pay me or strike a deal sir." This bull had no class it made Alastor cackle. "Normally I'd kill you where you stand, but because I'm feeling generous about how lovely this establishment I'll let you off with a warning. Talk like that again towards me and I'll pull your guts out and serve them to your customers." His radio static backed his voice like a snarling panther. "Now about this deal, tell me what do you desire?" "Follow me we talk business in the back." The bull led Alastor away.

The bull brought her into his office, where Alastor was sitting. Her eyes widened a little, but she quickly sat down. "I was told you wanted to speak with me?" she asked. They were alone now.

EN: Hi guys so I like this idea, I was gonna make a part two, but let me know what you think!

#alastor the radio demon #hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #x reader #hellaverse #alastor altruist #radio demon #alastor hazbin hotel #alastor x reader

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avocado-writing · 10 months

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Your wrintings are so yum!!!!! How are you able to write them so good!!! I read and feel, easily visualizing everything you describe!!! (if you're up for it, I'd love to read about Aziraphale being smothered with love, pampered, adored, worshipped by reader(or both of his lovers!)(sfw or nsfw, whatever you're inspired to do!) Thanks for sharing your works!

notes: this is absolute filth. i'm so sorry (no im not).

pairing: aziraphale x reader x crowley

rating: E, minors dni

tags: TLTDATSIB-verse; cum play; light praise-kink; dirty talk

There are many things to love about Aziraphale.

His soft body. His pretty eyes. His little breaths of ecstasy as you pleasure him. No wonder you and Crowley have committed every part of him to memory. After all, why wouldn’t you want to remember a perfect thing down to its finest detail?

The three of you are in bed. It’s a rainy Friday evening, and at the moment the two of you are playing one of your favourite games with him: who can get the angel to blush the hardest? You’re pretty equal at the moment, and with your hands all over him, Aziraphale is utterly at your mercy.

“I love his hair,” you mutter, carding your fingers through his soft blond curls. You make sure to snag them a little, pull them in that way he loves. Aziraphale moans and keens into your touch, his cheeks a rosy pink.

“I love his chest,” Crowley counters. The demon dips down to snare one of Aziraphale’s pretty pink nipples between his teeth, half biting, half sucking, and in turn you reach to take a handful of soft pectoral and squeeze. He goes from blushing to a bright red.

“Oh… oh my…”

You and Crowley look at each other and grin. Individually you can get Aziraphale hot and bothered, but together? You’re a force majeure on your poor husband.

“You know what else I love, Crowley?”

“Go on, nightingale.”

“I love the sounds he makes when he wants to come.”

“Oh, me too.”

Aziraphale whimpers, actually whimpers, and as Crowley snares his lips in a kiss you bend over to take his cock in your mouth. You swallow him down until you feel him hit the back of your throat, making him languish there for a moment as Crowley steals the sounds of lust straight from the source. Going further, you press your nose against the fair curls at the base of his shaft before pulling back all the way to the tip to tongue his slit, letting the taste of his angelic precome flood you. Your eyes roll back in your head.

You’d fuck these two forever if you could. Really. You’ve never become bored of each other’s bodies, in fact to know them as intimately as the three of you do only means you know the ways to drive each other wild. Crowley buries his hand in your hair, knowing Aziraphale is far too polite to do it, and begins to help you move up and down his length, smearing him with spit as you keep trying to take him deeper.

“Go on, nightingale. That’s it. Fuck, you look good doing that.”

“I’m… I’m going to…” Aziraphale breathes, breaking Crowley’s kisses just long enough to stammer out a warning.

“Come, angel,” Crowley says with a grin, encouraging you to go faster, “we want you to.”

With a moan that you’re sure is loud enough for the whole street to hear, Aziraphale orgasms in your mouth. Usually you’d swallow him straight down but you don’t have a chance, because when his hips stop their little ruts upwards while he spends, Crowley takes your face in his hands and guides you up to kiss him.

You unhurriedly entwine your tongue with your husband’s, making sure he knows he’s just as appreciated, and the two of you hum in pleasure as you share the taste of Aziraphale’s come.

“Oh,” Aziraphale manages, because it’s all he’s capable of at this sight of abject lust. To be adored is a wonderful thing, and by the two of you? It floods him with a pride he isn’t accustomed to.

You and Crowley both swallow before turning to look at him.

“Not done yet, are you angel? We’re just getting started.”

Aziraphale moans.

taglist: @angiestopit @dazed-soul @foolishprincipalitee @smile-eywa @staygoldsquatchling02 @underratedboogeyman @specter-soltare @candlewitch-cryptic @cool-ontherun-world @emilynissangtr @willbedecided @bdffkierenwalker @cool-iguana @ilyatan @civil-groupie @willyoubethepookietomypookster @lxsm2 @clarina04 @wtfhasmy-lifecometo @mrgatotortuga @wereallbrokenangels @night-affiliate @silcosmoke @kimqueenofhell @chewbrry

#crowley x reader x aziraphale #ineffable husbands x reader #good omens x reader #request #fic: the light the dark and the spaces inbetween

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multifandoms27-blog · 11 months

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Bucky Barnes Relationship HC's

It was my birthday this past weekend, and this is my birthday gift to myself. Hope y'all enjoy!

Content: (mostly) Post CW Bucky x Fem! Reader

Warnings: Talk about PTSD, (minimal) couple fights, cheesy Bucky lol

Notes: Bucky is working with the Avengers in this

• ───────────────── •

Something everybody seems to agree on, is that Bucky is clingy.

When he's away on missions, he tries to call you every night so he can hear you before bed. When you're away on missions, he can't sleep until you call him. You forget one night? Oh well, he's not sleeping. He's worried about you but he won't mention it to anyone else. He'll silently freak out by himself until you call.

He has nightmares, he likely always will. This makes him kind of a bad bedmate, but he doesn't mean to move so much. I would suggest taking melatonin so you can get some actual sleep.

Speaking of his nightmares, when he wakes up from them, he never wants to wake you. 9/10 times though, you've been awake for a little bit before him. He feels bad, and sometimes he'll run from you, or he'll seek out comfort.

If he runs from you, it's because he can't handle human interaction in that moment. PTSD reactions or waking up from nightmares make people feel very vulnerable, and some don't like feeling that way, and run somewhere they know is safe for them to hide until they calm down. Think of a turtle hiding in it's shell.

If he seeks out comfort, it'll go something like this;

Bucky yells as he shoots up, eyes wide and glossy. His body feels too cold despite being under the blanket with you, like he's overexposed. He looks around the room as he breathes heavily, trying to slow his heart rate. Nobody else is in here. Nobody but him and you. That's right, he...he got away.

His gaze shoots over to you as you stir and look up at him. You two stare at each other for a moment before you speak. "Nightmare?"

Bucky swallows his spit and nods. You adjust a little before lifting up the blanket. "Want some cuddles, Bucky?"

Bucky nods wordlessly, quickly settling next to you. He can feel your warm arms sliding around his body, encasing it with a certain weight that comforts him. He's here, next to you, safe and sound. No injuries. No fighting. No more being cold.

"Wanna talk about it?" You mumble against his skin.

"Don' feel like it right now, doll." Bucky wraps his arms around you, pulling you impossibly closer. "But...thank you."

"Yeah, of course." You nod, yawning. "Love you, Buck."

"Love you too, (Y/n)."

Normally, Bucky is pretty playful with you. He'll be flirty with you, share jokes, tell you anything and everything that's on his mind, and sometimes will just take your hand and start dancing around with you. He'll teach you how to waltz if you don't know how already.

He likes to learn about newer century stuff with you, but be patient with him if he doesn't understand something.

Although sometimes, he likes to learn different pieces of media and surprise you with his knowledge later (like in FATWS when he knows about the Hobbit)

It's also no secret that he's such a romantic. You cannot tell me this man wouldn't keep track of your anniversaries and birthdays every year.

You were making yourself a snack in the kitchen when Bucky walked in with a smirk. You looked up and gave him a smile. "Hey handsome, how you doing today?"

"Very well, now that I've seen you." Bucky strides to you.

"Oh? You weren't doing well before?"

"I'm at my best when my best girl is here." Bucky gently brings your hand to his lips, giving it a kiss.

You feel your face heat up, and Bucky chuckles. He loves when your face gets all rosy. He then turns your body to face him fully, your left hand going on his shoulder and your right hand staying in his own. His free hand goes to your waist, and he opens his mouth to speak again. "FRIDAY, play A Nightingale Sang In Berkeley Square by Glenn Miller."

FRIDAY made a small beep before answering, "Certainly."

You heard the old 40's crackle in the song as the man sang, and Bucky led the waltz around the kitchen island. No matter how many times you two have waltzed, neither of you can pry your eyes away from each other. As the song ended, Bucky stopped your movement, and just swayed in place. You moved your arms up to his neck, and his other hand went to your waist. Bucky gave you a soft, sweet kiss as the last musical note ended.

"Happy anniversary, doll."

"Oh Buck, you romantic." You grinned. "Happy anniversary, my love."

He'll also write you love letters if he's away on a mission for a while. He's not quite the poet, but he tries, lol. It's one of the only things left of him you have after the snap. That also means on birthday cards and stuff, you'll find his love notes for your eyes only, detailing how you make him feel, his favorite things you did that day, how you illuminate his life, it's all very cheesy. I love him.

Gets you bouquets of flowers because he saw them and thought of you (cause the flowers were pretty).

If you're into LOTR/Hobbit and show him the movies, he'd be ecstatic. He really liked the Hobbit when it came out, and to see it in movie form with you makes it so much better.

He'd want to be into your interests too. He wants to watch your favorite movies, see your favorite shows, know/read your favorite books, etc. He wants to connect with you on every level. He's stuck to you like glue.

Fights with him rarely happen, but it happens if he's already in a bad mood or is tired from a mission. The arguments can turn nasty, and he really doesn't mean to, but the person he loves and trusts the most is angry at him right now - so it's only fair he's the same way, right? Wrong, that's just the PTSD talking.

You two don't tend to stay mad at each other for very long. The most he has managed to stay mad at you was two days, before he was trying to find a way to apologize, unless you apologized first (depending on the situation). He likes being able to talk through the problem with you, it makes him smile the brightest smile after the issue is resolved, no matter how small. Not even Tony could break his stride.

He's not too fond of extreme PDA, but he'll keep his arm around your shoulders and give you a peck on the cheek here and there. Although, to annoy Tony or Sam, he might just grab you and give you a big, wet, passionate kiss on the lips. But what he'll never do is smack your ass or make any sexual remark or gesture in front of the others. He wants to keep your dignity and whatever is left of his.

Also expect random compliments here and there. Even if you're doing the most menial tasks, or on your lazier days.

You were texting Wanda while waiting for your toast to be done, yawning. You were in baggy lounge wear, and you hadn't done your morning routine yet. Bucky walked in, his hair already brushed and clearly ready for the day. He stops and looks you up and down before leaning against the doorframe, letting out a whistle.

The whistle makes you look up and give him a smile. "Morning, Buck."

"Morning sweetheart." Bucky flashed you a grin.

You just chuckled, then turned to grab your toast as it popped out. Bucky came up behind you and put his hands on your hips, leaning down to kiss your shoulder. "Why're you so cute, huh?"

"I'm not a mirror, Buck."

"Oh, you're mistaken. I'm very clearly looking at my wonderful girlfriend." Bucky laid his head on your shoulder, giggling at his own remark.

Your face heats up, even though he's said this to you multiple times before. "Aw, Buck..."

He kisses your shoulder again, moving his arms so they fully wrap around you. You take a bite of your toast, then move it to him to offer a bite. He bites into the toast and hums, satisfied.

When you guys go to bed, he's almost always big spoon. He likes holding you and protecting you. What better way to do that than holding you close while you both sleep? It's also a soothing way to get him to sleep. He feels your body move as you breathe - it's like the calmest sleep asmr for him, haha.

But that means if you get up to go to the bathroom or get a glass of water, he's waking up too. In his dreams he can feel something moving against him, and that causes him to wake up and make sure you're okay. Sometimes he'll wait for you to get back and pretend he was asleep, other times he'll follow cause he doesn't want to be alone.

If he has a nightmare though, he moves in his sleep. So his body will pry himself away from you, but it gives him a better chance to run and recover by himself if he needs to.

Definitely feels like you're the girl he's gonna settle down with. He just hopes you like the ring he picked out.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x female reader #captain america civil war #bucky with long hair #bucky with the good hair #winter soldier #james buchanan barnes #james bucky barnes #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes fanfiction

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ask-luciavampire · 2 months

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2 commissin that BE-C-Bloom Flare by PrincessMoonSilver on DeviantArt did for my twins ocs on this blog and she said i can post them on here

#ask luciavampire #art commissions #commission art #mlp commission #valentines #vampire #vampony #bloom flare #rosie nightingale #unicorns

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madwomansapologist · 6 months

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Autumn Thunderstorm | Chapter 8 - A nightingale sang

Pinterest Board | Series Masterlist | Spotify Playlist

series synopsis: Thranduil thought the recent attack of spiders on a periphery village was the only thing deserving of his attencion. If he could've imagined what he would found there, who he would found there, the Elvenking would wait a millenia in front of that river so he could see her sooner. Or: how Gandalf managed to keep a secret for 14 months.

eigth chapter synopsis: A surprising invitation made you discover a different, incredible place hidden in Greenwood. You were glad that Thranduil showed you such a special place. But probably you were even more glad that he was there with you. [3K]

warnings: female!reader. pre-Smaug. cried writing this but this is apparently something that will happens with every chapter so... go hear a nightingale sang in berkeley square. look i am just a sensitive girl in a difficult world, this is straight up murdering you with love.

glossary: Idril: Treasure, sweetheart┆Ellon: Male elf┆

Forests are secrets in themselves. They hide things. That is what they do, their primordial essense. A forest without a secret is a human without a soul, a planet without a star, a mother without her child. That is the real language of the woods.

You knew all the meadow’s secrets in Rivendell. You knew where the sprouts flourished, where the clearing started, where the trees fall after storms. You knew all its secrets, until you did not.

Because in kind places a forest hides wisteria and sage sprouts. In cruel ones it hides wargs and warm blood. And for those who are lucky enough it hides suspended gardens.

Stone pillars, embedded on gold, supported all seven floors. It would already be a beautiful sight, light reflecting in waves of warmth through Greenwood, but the ascending series of tiered gardens above each floor turned it into a paradise. Each specimen from the wide variet of trees, flowers and vines were part of this mountain constructed of golden bricks.

“I got goosebumps,” you whispered. Even the air was different there. It smelled like honey and daisies. If Thranduil told you that daylight comes from that place, you would have believed him. “Why did you hide this place from me!?”

Strangers had been born and buried and their lifetime would be nothing compared to all the time the Elvenking spend on the suspended gardens. And still, looking into your moist eyes, Thranduil discovered a new sort of beauty in this place.

The green of the vines, more verdant. The gold of the pillars, more golden. The pink of the flowers, more rosy. The whole world was brighter. Wind whispering against the autumn leaves, birds flocking, river crashing against stones: the world became a song. Such a beautiful, intricate symphony. One that he never noticed before.

It must be fate. That was meant to be. Since the world was first created and the stars were put into place. For what other reason did he survived this far, if not to admire you admiring the world his ancestors build? For what reason did Thranduil endure this far, if not to be alone in this world with you?

Your eyes glowed, and Thranduil wondered if Varda put her light into them. Into you.

The Elvenking gestured towards the gardens. “Shall we, idril?”

Thranduil watched as you prepared a raspberry pie in silence, which was better than when he tried to make you let someone else finish it. As if it was offensive for you to get your hands dirty. Your last job was to take care of horses. What is a pie compared to that?

Cleaning your hands, you almost could not believe your ears when the invitation came. It was strange of him to have free time during the day. He never had before, not once since you first got in his realm. But you were not the one to remind a king of his duties.

Not when that can take him away from you.

So this time, when Thranduil suggest you to let someone else bake it, you accept it.

“You really should stop doing that,” you continued along the paved way, and Thranduil followed your eager steps. Turning to look at him instead of facing the path, a delicate smile showed you did not meant what you were saying. “Calling me words I do not know.”

“Yet,” Thranduil completed. “Do not know yet.”

On the first floor, you understood that the construction did not matter. Its halls were simple, with long open arches and practically empty except for the occasional sculptures. Anyone there would only have eyes for the gardens, and whoever built it knew that no amount of gold or jewels would ever compete with nature.

Quince flowers draped over the walls, pears were almost to the point of crop. Thranduil showed you almond flowers, his long fingers brushing against the tiny buds. You did not even knew almonds came from flowers.

Climbing the stairs to the second floor, you brushed your hands against the rough trunk of a pistachio tree. “Do you fear birds?” Thranduil looked concerned.

“Definitely no.”

Following throught the halls, you could see the garden suspended over the first floor. Butterflies and bees flew around the almond flowers, which made you speed up the pace. You heard Thranduil laughing, and he only did not heard you complaining because you were too scared that maybe a bee would enter your mouth.

A swallow landed on your hair, and you tried your best to not move so Thranduil would see it too. When he stopped in front of you, Thranduil’s eyes seemed so… calm.

You knew he was tired and worried. That he had much to do, to understand, to protect. In Rivendell people believe that Sauron is gone, but here they have more than faith to prove the contrary. But now Thranduil look so peaceful.

As if nothing bad had ever happened to him.

“A little one mistook you by a tree,” Thranduil stretched a finger towards your hair. You felt the swallow moving, pulling your hair along, and saw it on his ring finger. Such a small thing, with greenish down.

Your smile went wider when you looked into his face.

“And you by a flower.” In his wood crown, butterflies found a new home. “If you pay attention, you really look like a sunflower kind of person,” you used your hands to cover your laugh. “Always smiling, never yelling at anyone.”

Thranduil’s response was to roll his eyes.

On the third floor, you passed through ebony, cedar and rosewood. You told Thranduil how most of the trees surrounding Aerin’s inn are ash trees, and how sad it is that most of the stories you read use them as metaphor for dead things. Thranduil shared a poem about a willow tree.

It surprised you how he recited it from memory.

Junipers were new for you. Never before you heard about them. But myrrh was not. You told Thranduil that Luthien gave you a bottle of its oil and practically ordered you to use it on your shoulder. His peacefulness oscilated for a second, but it appeared again.

The floor with fruits were your favorite one. Thranduil split open a pomegranate, revealing clusters of seeds inside it. You both shared it, eating slowly while watching the sun reflecting upon Greenwood. You took a tangerine from its branch, and gave him half of it. With half of a fresh fig on your hands, you were more interest on plum flowers than on its fruit.

There is something about sharing a fruit with someone that just makes it feel holy. The way Thranduil cut the fig in half. How you cleaned the tangerine. Your fingers brushing against one another to take another seed. It just felt better than eating one alone.

You brushed your fingers against ferns and orchids. Cherry blossoms floated, washing you both upon pink petals. A few got stucked on your hair. A few that Thranduil did not warned you about.

On the last floor, there were tables and chairs made of wood, but what really mattered to you was the view. From up there, you could see everything. Greenwood, every floor and its suspended garden, a flowing river on distance. Once again, goosebumps explored your body.

“A step back,” said Thranduil when he saw you too close from the edge. It may have been a warning, it may have been an order, but you took one either. He sat, observing carefully. “Your fall is not worth the landscape.”

“Do not be affraid. That will not happen,” your eyes locked on a bird flying away. You think it was a nightingale. He was so small, and yet he knew a type of freedom you would never. How must it be to fly? It happened for you to fall from places that made you feel like you were flying, until you met the ground. Does it works the other way around? You imagine so. “You do not need to worry about me.”

“How could I not?” replied Thranduil. “You reign in my mind. It is my duty to worry about your safety and happiness.”

Your mouth went dry. “It was never my intention to make you worry about my safety or my happiness,” your voice was barely a whisper. “Or about me, at all.”

Words, when commonly used, tend to lose their initial meaning. It dissolves, disappears with each repetition, until the word is just a ghost of what it once was. Of what their meaning once was. So many man use love almost as a greeting, but not a ellon. Never a ellon.

Love for a elve is more than just a word. It is not something that happens several times. It happens once in a lifetime, and it last forever and evermore. Only one person can own a elve’s heart, just their half, and they will never trust it to someone else.

Thranduil never thought of himself as someone lucky, but now he knows he is. In such a dangerous world, Thranduil found you. His friend, his confidant, his love. His one and only. Your heart belong with his. Thranduil can wait however long it takes for you to believe in that too.

“I never said it was.”

The silence pierced your mind. His words… Why Thranduil keep on doing this? Why he keep on saying those sweet, toothaching sweet things? Thranduil is so beautiful, and everytime he opens his mouth you get more sure that his heart is just as pretty. If you could open his skull and study his brain, you would.

“Still,” you licked your lips. “I am not falling.”

Thranduil nodded. You came back to watch the sky, mostly because you did not knew what else to do. It was rosy. A breeze made chills go down your spine, and a petal fell from your hair right into your hands. Your caressed it, and moved it closer to your nose.

“Who created this place?” You sniffed it. “They must be so proud.”

Lost on you, Thranduil did not saw a reason to lie. “It was my father.”

That warm feeling spreading into you faded away. He never talked to you about his father before, but you knew that there was only one way for a prince to become a king. What you do not know is how much does it hurt. It must be a lot. Usually things that we love hurt way too much.

Without a ounce of shame, you walked towards Thranduil. The way he made your thoughts hazy did not matter anymore. You pulled yourself a chair, and dragged it until it was right beside him. Thranduil chuckled at the act.

“He must have been really creative,” you told him. “How was he?”

That surprised Thranduil. People never ask things about his father. They only say that they are sorry, that they feel so much, that it must be so difficult. They never talk about Oropher. They always remind Thranduil that he is dead, but they never talk about him.

“Wise,” said Thranduil. With just one word, he already felt that it was so easier to breath. Sometimes it feels like Oropher only lives on his memory. Like there is this unsurmountable weight on his shoulders, one that none can see or help to carry. It felt nice to share. “And ruthless. He was the strongest until the very end.”

You tried to picture Oropher. The king who died too soon. The warrior that led his people against Sauron, and saw his knights falling down. You picture someone that knew the weight of a sword dipped in blood, the sound of a last breath, the rotteness of a dying land. You pictured this person, and then imagined him daydreaming about suspended gardens. Architecting a palace, designing irrigation, choosing seeds.

Oropher sounds like someone that was worth knowing.

Your fingers dipped into your watery dress, and you bit back a smile. You imagine that Thranduil have the same effect on people. That they will heard how he protect his land and his people, and then get amazed about how he can recite poems about a willow tree. At least he has that effect on you.

“And how was him to you? Was he good?”

“Not ruthless,” Thranduil smiled at the memories in hindsight. You could not help but to do the same. “He was gentle and… When I was just a little ellon, I used to not understand when it was time to shut up. Now I see how awful I was, but he always listened to me. He never made me feel like I should remain silent.”

You held his hand, it was so cold. Stroking his delicate skin, you felt a warmth inside you. Something different from anything you ever felt. You felt… not alone.

“I bet Oropher would be proud of you,” the words escaped your mouth. “I know I am. You are good. You are also great, but you are good.”

Somehow, Thranduil understood exactly what you meant. There are so many great people in this world. So many great poets, great warriors, great rulers. But good… Oh, it appears that the world is always lacking people that are good.

People who will discuss with dragons because their friends deserve their home back. People that will cross a continent to destroy a ring simply because someone needs to. People that will lit beacons without permission, that will use helmets to hide the fact that they are a woman, that will fight even as arrows pierce their chest.

“You think I am good?” Thranduil felt his eyes burning. “You really do?”

“Of course, my king.” You intertwined his fingers with yours. It felt right. Like they were made to complement eachother. A sly smirk replaced your genuine smile. “You think I would put up with you if I did not?

Thranduil looked at the horizon, hoping you would not notice the redness of his eyes. He reciprocated your touch, squeezing your hand lightly. Maybe it was the sunset, maybe it was the autumn leaves, but everything felt golden.

Everything felt just fine.

“You are good,” murmured Thranduil. “Is it because of your parents?”

You let go of his hand, and Thranduil felt the sky getting darker. Your colors also faded, as if it was robbed from your skin. “It is getting late,” you told him. You were quick to get up. Quick to lie. Badly. “I should come back.”

“I am sorry. I really am,” Thranduil ignored everything you said. There was no need for him to pretend to fall for your bad lies. He stand, just as fast as you. “But you are not a good liar, idril. I will not force you to say the truth, nor do I wish for you to speak when you do not want to, but you do not need to lie. Not to me. We are friends. You do not need to perform around me.”

You threw yourself onto the chair, without any energy to argue. You watched the horizon, the changing colors of the sky, and tried to ignore the pressure on your chest. “I am sorry.”

“No need to,” Thranduil sat too. He tried to be silent, but something told him that maybe you also had a unsurmountable weight on your shoulders. That maybe you also needed to share it. “Were they not good?”

“Maybe yes, maybe not,” you huffled. You responded right away, so Thranduil assumd he made the right decision. “That is the problem.”

With your eyelids closed, you turned your head to Thranduil. When courage made its way into your chest, you looked at him. Was he going to judge you? To see you as too much of a problem? A part of you feared that he would. The other half thought it was mean to think of him that way.

“I have no memories of them.”

He let you talk. About how you have no memories of parents, of any family, of growing or sharing meals or going to school or learning to read. About how for you it is like you were born during a thunderstorm, then wandered until you found Aerin. You told him everything.

After you rant, his silence came. He breathe in, and you could feel his body getting tense. “No one ever looked for you?” Thranduil finally said something.

You denied. “Do you think I am crazy?”

“I think…”

For Thranduil, now everything makes sense. The way you tend to pretend not to see when Aerin treated you badly. Or how people insisted on not calling you by your name. Why you would have felt bad if you did nothing. The gentleness of your heart. How your intelligence have a touch of naivety.

But it also made him even more intrigued about why you and Gandalf are friends. Does he have any interest on your memories coming back? Is he the reason why they faded? Can you really see him as a friend?

Thranduil never liked those pilgrim wizards, and Gandalf tend to be the one creating more problems for him. If he is right about who betrayed the free people, then maybe you have something to do with it.

He is glad you are away from him. Thranduil does not trust him.

Thranduil licked his lips. “I think you are so unlucky.”

That made you burst into laugh. For a whole minute. You belly hurt, your cheeks burned, your head spin. It was loud and ugly and true. “I… I agree.”

When silence came, it was natural. It was welcomed. You stared into his watery eyes, and decided that you would never try to hide things from Thranduil. It is just not worth the effort, now when he reacts this way. Not when he is so sweet.

“You still want to go back home?” Thranduil whispered. There was simply no need to, but he wanted to. It felt right to.

You inhale. “Not really,” you admitted. You turned your gaze to the sky, and it was on that marvelous moment when it is not day and it is not night. Thranduil did the same as you. “This place feels like a summer dream.”

A nightingale sang that night. Not that you both heard it, since your voices were louder. But it sang, and it still mattered.

AUTUMN THUNDERSTORM: @ferns-fics @notanalienindisguiseblink @rayrlupin @elvyshiarieko @graniairish @whore-of-many-hot-men @h0ly-fire

if you enjoyed, please reblog! i promise it makes a difference ♡

@ madwomansapologist.tumblr.

#madwomansapologist #autumn thunderstorm #thranduil fanfiction #thranduil x reader #thranduil #thranduil fanfic #thrandaddy #thranduil oropherion #thranduil headcanon #thranduil of mirkwood #oropher #mirkwood #middle earth #the hobbit x you #the hobbit x reader #the hobbit fanfiction #the hobbit #gandalf

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whirlwindflux · 2 months

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(Bloom flare and Rosie Nightingale ask) makeover!

Vert: Where’s my bow? This is not helpful in the wasteland…

#mlp oc pony #vertical hold #tmi tuesday

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frodothefair · 1 month

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Frodo and Rosie?

So, someone on Ao3 brought up the notion that I could've written Flowers of Mordor also as an OT3, perhaps involving Rosie instead of Marigold. Of course, it wasn't a suggestion or concrit, just an observation, and I said that the way I imagined Rosie, I could not see her with Frodo in any romantic or sexual way -- they are simply not right for each other.

But then, ever since I have been thinking... why not Rosie and Frodo? Granted, this would be a case of heartbreak rather than an OT3, because poly in any capacity is not my cup of tea, but hear me out...

To begin with, here's my view of Rosie, based on what little we know of her in canon:

She's assertive, direct, and has a sharp wit. She basically got Sam to marry her by giving him a tongue-in-cheek ultimatum.

She is feisty and brave, even contrary. When her mother warned her there are "ruffians about," she still broke into song.

She probably brims with endless energy. Having thirteen children, you pretty much have to be that sort of person.

She has several brothers, and no sisters. Every woman I know who has grown up in this environment is not necessarily more masculine, but more self-assured and independent.

She has no known (direct) trauma from the Scouring -- that is, she wasn't in the Lockholes, wasn't kidnapped or violated. If she had trauma like that, Tolkien probably would have mentioned it. Though that's not to say that she was not deeply affected.

In fact, as a result of all of the above, in FoM I've conceptualized Rosie as a bit of a firecracker. She is a natural leader, loves to be the center of attention, and is fiercely protective of her friends. She knows what she wants, and she often gets it. We first "meet" her standing in the middle of the kitchen, telling a "hilarious" story and waving a ladle around as a prop. Sam may even be a little bit afraid of her, and swears that she can read his mind. She is also a little bit manipulative with Marigold, but not in a bad way -- she simply knows which emotional strings to pull. In good time, she will have her own emotional reckoning and her own vulnerable moments, but I won't spoil those yet.

Now, a person like Rosie is perfect as a wife of a pillar of the community, which is what Sam eventually becomes, but can a person like Rosie be with Frodo? Maybe, especially pre-quest Frodo who is more active, but pre-quest Rosie, who is a farmer's daughter, would not have been remotely in the running as a match for Frodo until the War of the Ring (much like WWI) erased many a social boundary.

But more than that, I ultimately felt that Frodo is too head-in-the-clouds, too nerdy and too weird for Rosie. Unlike Marigold, Rosie probably has little interest in books or faraway places. She is more prosaic and maybe altogether "too much" with her love of the spotlight, whereas Frodo, especially post-quest, needs plenty of time to rest to think and feel things that others have no idea about. Marigold, being more introverted and a deep thinker, and also traumatized in her own way, is the delicate flower whose company he needs.

Anyway. Let's say all of the above is true.

And yet, just because two people don't seem to "work" on paper doesn't mean that they can't fall in love, against all odds and logic.

So hear me out...

What if... what IF Rosie marries Sam, and then they move into Bag End, and slowly, ever so slowly as she takes care of Frodo, and listens to his tale, she gains an understanding and a compassion for him that she never thought possible? What if his trauma and courage win her fiery heart, and pity turns to devotion, and then to more, and then Rosie realizes one day, with horror, that she married the wrong hobbit?

And then there's more... Perhaps... Perhaps Frodo could easily feel the same, and succumb to the Florence Nightingale effect, but on account of his illness, he would feel unable to be a partner to anyone, and would be forced to reject her. And then Sam, upon guessing, or perhaps finding out for a fact, would volunteer to step aside, and Frodo would refuse to accept it.

And then what if... what if THIS is the real reason Frodo leaves for Valinor?!

Wouldn't that be trippy??????!!

@konartiste @emmanuellececchi

#lotr #lord of the rings #frodo baggins #samwise gamgee #rosie cotton

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drchenquill · 1 month

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Since you've taken the liberty to ask me about my title, I have to admit, I've been curious about yours too. But I've been really preoccupied with personal stuff so I got a bit late. And I have ALOT. Hope you don't mind me bombarding you.

Desire Is The Purest Of Sins

Life Can Be a Bitch

Elite

The Fairy And The Man

The Nightingale

Pas De Deux

The Secrets Of The Sea

Veangeance Is The Meal Of The Powerless

The Memories Of The Future

Foliè

I can't help it 😭 the titles were pulling me in 😭😭😭.

Oh gosh!!! Thank you so much for the interest!!! I'm overwhelmed (in a good way)!! I'm always happy to talk about my stories, so don't even worry about bombarding me!! I welcome it!

Let's begin, shall we?

Desire Is The Purest Of Sins

This story talks about a young woman named Rosie the goes through life with metaphorical blinders. Nothing can change her world view, until she lands a job as a barwoman. There she'll meet a man she first gets to know as "Gin". He is a charming man, flirtious, knows his way around the ladies, but Rosie won't let herself be swooned or brought off track, until she sees something she shouldn't have. Her "blinders" get ripped off and now she is forced to see the world in a whole new light. (spoiler: it's a fantasy story~)

Life Can Be a Bitch

This is a rather tame, non-fantasy high school romance story. Eighteen year old Hannah moves into a new city with her mother and has to attend a new school. To her surprise, she fits in quite well, making friends pretty fast. She meets Dylan, a wannabe bad boy that gets beat up on a regular basis, and they get along like a cat and a dog (not) , but they gradually get used to each other and something starts to bloom~

Elite

This is quite tricky to explain, but I'll try my best. I've come up with a race of creatures who inherited their luck bringing powers from "Lady Luck". Their task is to prevent a vitium. A vitium is what happens when a world is in such a bad streak of bad luck that it fades from existence. This usually happens when the world has to go through something that affects its history. If for some reason that doesn't happen, then the world is gone because its story hasn't been continued. Now, the main character of this story is part of the elite, the best of the best. She gets send down on earth to investigate the disappearance of some of her collegues that had previously send down to safe the world from the incoming vitium.

The Fairy And The Man

This one is about soulmates, or better, the wish of having one. Moira, the main character, is a fairy woman, locked up with other fairy women to prevent the extinction of their race. You must know, my kind of fairies, are very, very, sensitive to emotions. A fairy could literally explode from happiness or die out of fear, so they lock them up and give them a pill to surpress any kind of emotion. But Moira hates being locked up, she wants to go outside, to find out who she could be if those walls wouldn't be trapping her. She suddenly gets a roommate, sixteen year old Felicity. A young fairy that is everything that withered away inside the now twenty year old Moira. Felicity is full of exictment and joy, awaiting the arrival of someone that could sweep her off her feet. Sadly, that person does come and manages to coax young Felicity out of those protective walls, leading her into an unknown world. Moira follows without a second thought, but everything goes downhill from that point on.

The Nightingale

A young woman forced to either marry a wealthy man or to work under a wealthy woman. She chooses the latter, of course, because with that one, she will at least get paid to do the housework. Madeline Templeton starts working under a noblewoman as one of many other maids. She is eager to please (to not get kicked out) and follows all the rules. At least some of them. She is very curious and sticks her nose into things the lady of the house might want to keep hidden. One of the biggest rules is to not enter the white door that she will eagerly open anyway. In there she will find something that will change her life forever... or maybe someone?

Pas De Deux

Another non-fantasy story. Ellie is a ballett dancer with a weird sort of problem. She hates being touched. Only the people she knows her entire life long are able to touch her without getting snapped at or even hit. She can't help it, she herself doesn't understand why. Everything goes to shit when her train and dance partner ditches her. At least he has the decency to present her wih a solution: his older brother. Joshua Reed is a boxer with a nasty reputation and a shitty personality. She begrudgingly gives in to let Joshua help her with the training, which is the worst idea she could ever have.

The Secrets Of The Sea

Pirates, wohoooo!!! Maire is the daughter of a pirate captain and the sea is the only think she knows. She was born on it and will die on it. One day, her father decides to visit an old friend, explaining that he still owned him a favor. Without doubting her father one bit, she and the rest of the crew agree to this favor. As she will find out, the favor included trafficking of a creature she long thought a myth: a siren.

Veangeance Is The Meal Of The Powerless

Its' a vampire murder mysterty and it's sort of a sequel of a finished book of mine "Who's to judge?". We follow Thana, Talon, Valerio and Leroy as they get called to assist in a murder case with a vampire as primary suspect. The evidence was clear as day, they only needed to find which vampire took their anger out on the victim. But the more they dig, the more intricate the case becomes. What if the murderer is the actual victim? What if this wasn't an act of meaningless killing, but an act of veangeance? Our four vampires will need to question thei own morals and world views to get to the bottom of this.

The Memories Of The Future

Picture this, a young girl lives with her aunt and her border collie in an old town where nothing intersting ever happens. This young girl, Sophie, is as chaotic and skittish as a squirrel, and just as forgetful. She leaves notes for herself around the house to remind her of stuff she has to do, which she still forgets. But as she soon will find out, those notes and those confusing visions she has, are acutally snippets from the future, and it turns out, some people might want to kindnap her because of it.

Foliè

My newest baby. This is the first story I planned out the numbers of chapters (let's see how well that will go). It's set in a world where the air has been polluted by something the humans call "The Madness". It's a gas that slowly makes you lose the grip on reality. Once you inhale it, there's no turning back. You'll hear a womans voice, whispering to you your deepest, darkest wishes. She will not stop until you act upon it. Some scientists succeeded in building a machine that filters the air, but since it's still in its early stage, it needs a lot of maintrnance, that's where the main character comes in. They are in charge of checking every crook of the machine, which goes well until, one day, they start hearing the womans voice.

That was a wild ride! Again, thank you so so so much for asking and I hope you have a wonderful evening/day!!!

#asks #wip ask #writing #writeblr #writers #writers on tumblr #writerscommunity #wip

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