Otis sighed heavily, craning his head this way and that. Behind him he could hear Lyza humming softly, wiping her axe blade clean. She must have caught sight of his fussing, however, as she spoke up.
"Sore dear?" She soothed, clinking quietly with motion. He snorted audibly.
"It’s nothing important, love."
"Ahh, but how sore you must get, with horns so heavy…" She murmured, and he felt the cool press of her hands across the back of his neck. He stiffened momentarily before relaxing under her touch.
He purred by way of reply to her compliment, shifting his head so she could palm at his sore muscles.
Not that he’d been sore over it for a while. When your horns get bigger and heavier as you grow, you become more accustomed to them. It’s not like they just appear on your head out of nowhere, he mused. Though Lyza’s rack (he snorted internally) was almost as hefty as his own, so he supposed she would understand more than most.
"I must have thrown it out." He murmured quietly, leaning back until he felt his horns rest against soft flesh, "Turned too quickly, tilted something wrong…"
Mallets stands still - anticipating, waiting, breathing, flaming. She has not acted yet, and she will hold for as long as possible. She can feel All of them.
The heat from the sword (hericonheressenceherstrength) coursing up her arm, hot and tense and powerful. Eager.
It whorls up ever muscle, bunches in every cord of her being.
Though not a breath moves through this dimension made of a thousand thousand threads, she imagines she can feel a breeze caress her face, soft and shorn.
Tense, twenty gods stand facing an extra planar deity. Sharp wits, dark threats, struck deals. Everyone is ready to fight, and She fights with all of them.
Lady Mallets, Mother Mallets, Balinda Lisa Dorine Yolanda. Yoyo.
She has been mortal for a very long time. Waiting, preparing. Feeling the heat spread between her shoulder blades.
Now the heat is her, and she has come.
The Mother of War is waiting.
Your name is Lothlorin, and you live on a farmstead in the World Above. You are at the high edge of your teenage years. Your House abandoned their Name and Honour and left the Underdark a few generations ago, though you’ve never been told why. Apparently they killed the original owners of the farmstead and set up camp.
You live with your Mother, a beautiful woman with thick, long stark white hair all bundled down her back. She is strong and proud, and leads you household with a firm hand. You love and respect her with all your heart. She’s the one that loves the World Above, often getting up while the sun is still in the sky to lay on the lawn in the waning light. She’s the reason you get up once the high sun is starting to sink rather than once the dark has already taken the world.
You have a younger sister who barely comes to your waist. Her hair has touches of blonde, and she wears it straight and long. She wears cute white dresses your mother makes for her, and she is the light of your life. You adore your sister, and want nothing more than to protect her from everything that would bring her harm. She likes cats and flowers and the sunshine, even though if she goes out early in the day it burns her eyes. Like you and your Mother ad your Aunt, they’re yellow.
You don’t get along well with your father. He has shoulder-length hair and red eyes. He doesn’t like being in the World Above, and tries to get your Mother to go back underground. He dislikes the way she challenged the House system and runs the family structure in a more human way, but doesn’t say it to her face. You think hes a coward.
Your Aunt is agreeable enough. You don’t know her as well so you don’t speak to her much. Her hair has a silvery sheen to it, and she likes to carve spiders even though Mother abandoned Lolth when she came to the surface. Your mother gets angry at her for it when she gets caught.
Drabble for these characters.
Lothlorin has been trying to teach you Drowish. The first time he spoke his native language in front of you, you had visibly paled. The sounds were potentially the most foreign thing you’ve ever heard. He made small hissing clicks in the middle of his speech, sounds you didn’t know humanoids were capable of making.
You had just stared at him dumbly as he spoke angry gibberish at you. After your lack of response he had sighed and started trying to teach you to understand the basics. There’s no way you can contort your mouth to make many of the sounds, so instead he taught you to recognize the words, then tries to get you to pick up the corresponding sign language.
It’s extremely hard for you to get your head around, (you’re really not the smartest kid) but you’ll admit it’s nice having him speak so intently to you, sometimes bringing his deceptively delicate looking fingers to yours to correct your forms.
It slowly becomes part of your nightly routine with him. You head out to the wading pool at about an hour after dinner with your family, wait for him to get up and join you, all squints and sleepy eyes. You figure he comes out to see you as soon as he rolls out of bed, which you find unbearably flattering.
Then sometimes you two swim in the pool, or wrestle. Sometimes you hunt - generally the most energetic things are done while you can still see in the setting sun. Once the dark of night engulfs the wading pool and it’s occupants, you like to stay closer to him, sitting and talking and not wandering away. Sometimes he works on his scrimshaw, sometimes he tries to teach you his native tongue and it’s secret dialect.
While you love splashing around and fighting with him (you’re so much bigger that if you get his wrists fast enough he can’t do anything but struggle beneath you), it’s the quiet times when he’s working his fingers around the bones, or when he’s making fierce yellow eye contact, speaking slowly and deliberately that you enjoy the most.
Even when he speaks in common, his voice retains the accent, clipped and formal. Unless he’s upset, you note grimly. Then he’s either all hissing and teeth and screeching frustration as he fights against you, or the much, much more unsettling velvet venom.
The first time he dropped his voice that way was when you had come to the pool with a cut cheek and a bruise that flowered across your cheekbone and pulsed uncomfortably even when you weren’t touching it. He had met you with an intense deadpan stare when you showed up later than him, a small hiss escaping between his teeth as he scraped his eyes across the bruise.
"Who did this thing." he had stated, cold and hard. It hadn’t felt anything even related to a question.
You explained you’d gotten into a fight with your father after dinner, that’s why you were a bit later than usual, no big deal, these things happen.
He had asked if you would like him to kill your father.
'He would not even see me coming before I plunged my dirk into the soft of his belly.' He had stated matter-of-factly, only the set of his shoulders giving his anger away.
'If he raises his hand against me, I will remove this from his arm as well.'
You had told him wow, no, no hurting your family that’s not ok at all. It had taken a bit, but eventually he dropped the subject, though his mood remained dark. You caught him glaring at the wound when he thought you weren’t looking.
Though he was your best friend, Lothlorin still scared the fuck out of you. You don’t doubt for a second that if you had said yes he would have followed you back to your farm that night and killed your father in his sleep without a second thought.
You guessed Drow just didn’t have any reservations against that sort of thing. That’s probably why the race is so readily prosecuted when uncovered on the surface world. At least it wasn’t for no reason, you supposed.
Drabble for these chars.
One of your favorite things about the human you spend your time with is what he calls ‘freckles’. You’ve never seen them before you met him, as your own black complexion lacks such irregularity. You’ve found yourself fascinated with them. They cover every part of his body you’ve seen - heaviest on his cheeks and the backs of his arms, but they also spatter across his nose, down the lower parts of his legs, across the tops of his feet. When you go swimming they’re painted across the tops of his shoulders sprinkling downwards - you figure the parts that get the most sun are covered the most.
You’d never say it because it’s creepy, but you like them a lot. At first you thought it was some sort of disease. Relieved of that thought, you found them comical, and when you said as much Ilsen got visibly shy, trying to cover his arms feebly. Now that you’ve gotten used to them, you think they’re quite an endearing quality.
You ask if all humans have freckles, and he says no - they can get them through sunburn sometimes, but it’s usually a genetic trait. You let it slip that you are glad he has that trait.
art by the beautiful sanjista
Another off branch of Ribbon, set before - also based of the asphyxiation headcanon set by Hands Off. Also posted here.
I don’t write /ever/, so it’s all kinds of not good, but it was a gift for a friend who was egging me on as I wrote for her.
- - -
Read more …
Dave choking himself with a thick band of purple silk turns me the fuck on.
A fanfic of this fanfic. Also posted here.
Bro/Dave Asphyxiation smut
Read more …