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doodle-pops · 6 months

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Let Me Indulge In Your Fantasies

Thingol x reader

Kinktober 2023: Fingering

A/N: This turned out to be a fetish for Thingol’s hands instead lol. Also, I know you wanted the settings to be in the gardens, however, I originally used this fic as a template to set a scene for a Turgon fic and ended up using this for Thingol instead.

Warnings: fem!reader, power dynamics, fingering, semi–public, nudity, a slight asphyxiation, titty sucking

Words: 4.9k

Synopsis: Dressed resplendently as always, Thingol’s affinity for lavish decor becomes your motivation for being enticed by the beauty of his finest creations. What better way to display your devotedness towards his instruments than by enchanting him to use them upon you.

List of Requests

Your gaze was unwavering and fixated on its target without hesitation, revealing an intensity that bordered on the erotic. A slight lick of your lips accompanied your unabashed focus, disregarding any potential oppositions that might arise. Your determination remained steadfast. You allowed your eyes to explore every contour, every rise and fall, as they delighted in the intricate accompaniments bestowed upon your target. The King, in his generosity, had adorned your view with luxurious decorations and indulgent treats, a kaleidoscope of visual pleasure that soothed and excited your senses.

However, mere observation no longer sufficed; your fingers ached to close the gap between sight and touch. Every fissure and hollow, every curve and turn, captured your attention. The strengths on his biceps, prominent as he shifted upon his throne, conveyed his superiority. Yet, it was not these components that captivated you. Instead, it was the finale of his arms, extending gracefully into the long and strong fingers adorned with silver, gold, and gemstones. They wrapped themselves elegantly around the throne’s armrests or tightly grasped his staff during moments of boredom.

For an eternity, your eyes were fixated on his hands, drawn irresistibly to his fingers, their beauty captivating and entrancing you. His hands, the object of your yearning, were not the ultimate destination; not until they embraced the purpose you envisioned for them. Those long digits were meant to explore the places they were destined to touch, to hold, to treasure. Such was the purpose of your King’s hands, dedicated to that single mission. Until they fulfilled this calling, his hands remained an incomplete instrument, incapable of realising their rightful potential since their creation. If only he would grant you that chance, you could reveal to him the possibilities his hands were capable of and the power they wielded.

All it required was for him to relinquish that mantle of authority and entrust it to you.

The resplendent robes of silver that enveloped him, crowned by a matching circlet, veiled his beauty while accentuating it. You alone were privileged to witness both the marvellous and the wicked façades concealed within those robes. The King was not just a benevolent visage with a charming smile; in concert with his fingers, he emanated a sinister appeal that defied comprehension. Powers beyond immortal perception left you entranced and yearning for more, dancing on the brink of sanity, addicted to the intoxication he provided. He was an imperishable flame, uncontrollable yet subduable, and you found pleasure in the searing burn he delivered.

But had he not initiated this? A three–hour court meeting, an unconventional form of togetherness, orchestrated by the King himself. Did he not realize the impact of his actions? Perhaps he revelled in the monotony, relishing the shared boredom. This was his version of bonding, though it seemed an unessential venture compared to the unholy activities you both engaged in privately. Or perhaps he feigned innocence, knowingly toying with your emotions, leveraging the power his hands held over you. His palms, always adorned in gold and silver, were instruments of seduction, tantalizingly displayed for your longing eyes on a diamond platter.

He must have sensed your unwavering gaze, the intensity that escalated with every heartbeat. Your feminine prowess had surged, and it was a matter of time before he realized the depth of your scrutiny. Your eyes betrayed your secret intentions; anyone glancing your way would perceive the unrestrained desire in their depths.

Perhaps, though, his intentions were unconscious, and his actions arose naturally. Regardless, you teetered on the edge, every moment inching closer to an abyss of desire.

Impatience coursed through you; a desire too potent to be ignored. The weight of his court’s trivial matters seemed to grate on him, a sharp glance around the room driving a spike of frustration through his demeanour. Fingers curling around his staff and throne’s armrest, a pained smirk crossed his lips. A command, sharp and concise, emptied the court with an efficiency that spoke of his authority. His advisors and attendants retreated without protest, leaving only him and you.

You remained nestled in the shadows, the room’s architecture interweaving with your concealment. His crystalline blue eyes are fixed on your smaller form, positioned near the pillar. Gracefully, he rose from his throne, setting aside his staff with deliberate care. Descending the three steps, he stood before his table, his stance relaxed yet commanding. A subtle tilt of his chin, and a curl of his fingers, beckoned you to meet his position.

“Step out of the shadows, my rose,” Thingol’s voice, rich and dripping with honey, requested. “Do not conceal your desires from your King. I can see them swimming in the depths of your eyes. Indulge with me, meleth–nîn.”

Emerging from the shadows where you had lingered, your body surged forward with a composed blend of precision and power, harnessed from the unfathomable depths of the unknown. The yearning to materialize your long-held fantasy summoned a latent goddess, whispering tales of how to wield your seductive prowess to claim both desire and fulfilment. With this newfound confidence, you were a force unyielding, ready to harness any resource required to transform your visions into reality. His hands, the embodiment of your cravings, were the centrepiece of your desire.

Your King would inevitably yield to your demands; resistance would crumble before your pursuit of happiness and pleasure. In matters concerning your own satisfaction, you stood predominant; there was no compromise.

Approaching the ageless figure that stood before his imposing throne, a coy smirk played upon your lips while your hands remained discreetly clasped behind your back. The room itself seemed to hold its breath; every sound was stifled, and the profound tension between us hung thick in the air. And yet, your actions were limited to a gaze of deep respect, mingled with an unmistakable undercurrent of longing. The irony of it all struck you, a silent chuckle echoing through your thoughts.

Before him, you stood, still compelled to tilt your head upward to meet the gaze of his majestic and towering nine-foot presence. With an air of deference, you extended your greetings, your voice laced with polite courtesy. “Your Majesty, you summoned me. How may I be of service in these desperate times?”

In the depths of your mind, you sensed a chuckle resonates, an acknowledgement of the intricate dance we were engaged in. He recognized your game, just as you were aware of his awareness. It was a delicate balance, a matter of coaxing him to acquiesce for the promise of greater, boundless gains.

“Cease your playful charades, little one; your tricks are laid bare before me,” he declared with an aura of dominance, his voice carrying an air of command. “Tell what lurks in your heart, or rather, your thoughts.”

His left hand ascended, cradling your chin in a firm yet oddly tender grip, tilting your head to align our gazes. The chill in his crystalline irises bore into your very being, sending a delightful shiver down your spine. The paradox of his actions was a symphony of allure; a soul of unholy flame juxtaposed with a gaze of icy resolve. These exquisite contrasts held an enchantment unbeknownst to him.

Drawing a laboured breath, you peered intently into those arresting eyes, determined to keep your façade intact; victory in this game was essential. Concealing any trace of being affected, you offered a subtle smile, your eyelids lowering in a measured blink that concluded in a sly, knowing smirk. Your lips curled upward, eliciting a sinful glint within your eyes, a deadly allure dancing in their depths. In a hushed, almost innocent tone, you began, “Your Majesty, is it not my entitlement as your devoted courtesan to stand in devoutness before you? Am I not permitted the privilege to gaze upon your majestic form, to marvel at its grandeur perfection?”

“Gaze upon my magnificence, you say?” His lips curved upward in an enigmatic smile, his head tilting intriguingly to the side. “Tell me, has there ever been a moment when your eyes weren’t fixed upon my splendour?”

His fingers gracefully withdrew from beneath your chin, their languid path tracing along your throat with an almost hypnotic touch, pausing at its base. As they curled inwards, a subtle tremor seemed to quiver through them, an unmistakable desire radiating from his touch. A yearning lingered, aching to encircle your throat, to savour the comparison of his rings’ icy chill against the warmth of your skin. In that imagined moment, he would watch, a silent observer of your shiver-induced delight. The supremacy he wielded in this instance was a perilous dance, though intriguingly, he remained unaware of how masterfully you had drawn him into your web.

A dark chuckle spilt from your lips, the passage of time morphing seconds into elongated minutes as his fingers retained their poised stance, aching to close around your neck and explore its textures. With every passing moment, the inevitability of his surrender became clearer. A spark was needed, the catalyst to ignite the blaze that would consume him, rendering his resistance futile. All that remained was for your King to succumb to your intricate trap, fulfilling your desires as you will.

“My unwavering gaze is consistently drawn to your splendour, Your Majesty,” you whispered, your voice a seductive murmur that didn’t fail to elicit a shiver in response to the address. “Yet, amid the equivalence of appealing qualities, some hold a special appeal. We all possess our favourites, do we not? I found myself unable to resist the enchantment of your...hands. Such a wondrous creation, capable of such myriad marvels. And yet, their display is often held back...”

You had him ensnared.

The realization hit him, and you could see the satisfaction ripple across his features as if your words had stolen the very breath from his lungs. His eyes flitted, a momentary dance between your gaze and the hands poised against your clavicle. A fleeting smirk curved his lips, vanishing as curiosity overtook his expression. It was as though you held knowledge about his hands’ capabilities that he himself was unaware of. What enigmatic power did you possess, concealed within your understanding of his hands?

A slow exhalation filled the air as thoughts swirled within his mind. His fingers, once frozen at your neck, embarked on their intended path, gracefully encircling your throat with a cautious embrace. Giving a tender squeeze to your elongated neck at first, careful to maintain the flow of air, he then tightened his grip and marvelled in the lull of your eyes. The inhaling and parting of your lips as he stole your air had his knees buckling. The sight of his pale hand adorned with an array of silver, gold, and gemstones, against the canvas of your skin, was a mesmerizing contrast that elevated the allure of your flesh. A low, distinct groan escaped his lips, its clarity and intent sending a ripple of awareness through you, laying bare the ramifications of your declaration.

“What secrets have you uncovered about my hands? Pray, enlighten me on the true purpose they serve, meleth–nîn,” he breathed into your ear, a sinful whisper laden with promises of discovery. With a deliberate shift in his stance, he descended to meet your height, his proximity a compelling intoxicant, a heady blend of power and allure that was impossible to ignore. Though, his hand, not once moved or shifted its grip around your throat as it squeezed your throat delightfully.

“Your hands are meant to fulfil exactly what they are presently doing and even more,” you provocatively lured him deeper into the enticement. “Have you not recognized their formidable structure? Their length, their size, their shape? What do you suppose they are exquisitely crafted for, my King? Is it not to cater to your future Queen’s desires?”

Wetting your lips in an inviting gesture, you extended your hand to capture his, enveloping it within your grasp. His hand, large enough to almost cover your face, sprawled before you, its fingers extending like an elegant tapestry, adorned with rings capable of providing heightened pleasures. Raising his hand to your lips, you bestowed a kiss upon each finger, mirroring the passion of a courtesan greeting her beloved monarch. Each gesture showered his hands in an unspoken devotion, an explicit invitation for him to heed my call, to yield to your desires.

When you finished, you turned away from him without the slightest hint of bashfulness or hesitation, and strolled to his throne, a seat reserved for none but him. A swift glance to the side confirmed his silent, parted-lip gaze fixed upon you, anticipating your next move. With purposeful intent, you reached for the laces that held your intricately designed dress in place—his gift to you—and skilfully undid them, allowing the material to cascade gracefully to the floor.

Perhaps it was your imagination, but you could almost hear his jaw figuratively drop, in symphony with the dress. Now fully exposed, you held no pretence of modesty, no intention of conforming to propriety when in the presence of the King who had a predisposition for cornering you out of his uncontrollable desires whenever it pleased him.

With an assertive stride, you ascended the three steps, coming to rest before the polished marble throne, an artful representation of nature’s complexity elegantly interwoven into the seat’s design. Your bare skin met the cool touch of the marble, a stark juxtaposition against the warmth you radiated. If the audacious act did not secure a cascade of verbal praises from your lover, it succeeded in evoking a symphony of inhales and stolen breaths. His response, akin to someone witnessing a new, profound revelation, betrayed a captivating mix of awe and desire. It was as though the sheer audacity you had displayed momentarily robbed him of his breath, rendering him wordless in the face of your boldness.

A Cheshire cat grin adorned his lips, his eyes tracing every contour of your exquisite, nude form as you lounged upon his throne. Your chest rose and fell with heightened arousal, compelling you to subtly part your legs, granting him an unobstructed view of the hidden treasures nestled between. Thingol found himself torn between the attraction of your perky breasts and the sight of your cunt, a shred of glistening evidence of your arousal, moistening his throne. Both scenes ignited a primal hunger within him, a longing he couldn’t deny. A delicate lick of his lips signalled your triumph; your calculated plan had succeeded, pleasing him immensely. If only he had known that this meeting would culminate in such an outcome, he would have kept you secluded, forsaking other affairs to spend the entire day ensnared by your allure.

His focus, now firmly fixated on your glistening core, compelled his feet to carry him forward, drawn by an irresistible external force. The three steps were traversed in a single, purposeful stride, bringing him to kneel before your throne, his hands resting tenderly upon your knees as he subtly widened your legs, granting him a more enticing view. Words and rational thought seemed to desert him, replaced by an unquenchable hunger to satisfy, a determination to demonstrate the boundless wonders his hands could orchestrate. His resolve was unyielding—to mould your insides, having them yearning for his touch, your return a foregone conclusion.

“Allow me to unveil the intricate craftsmanship of my hands, my Queen,” his stance was rigid, yet his words flowed like silk, brushing against your skin like a lover’s caress. His hands embarked on an exploration, ascending your legs with a deliberate purpose, moving inward toward your dripping entrance. The honey-like nectar oozed out your core enticing his fingers to twitch in anticipation.

You remained silent as his hands drew nearer to your core, a shiver coursing through you as the frigid touch of his rings brushed against your heated skin. His silver hair was all that filled your view, cascading like a shimmering waterfall as he leaned closer, mirroring the path of his hands. His expression conveyed a blend of awe and anticipation, lips parted in readiness to showcase his skills, to pleasure you as you moaned his name, singing praises of his masterful craftsmanship. Swiftly, he grasped your thighs with firm determination, leaving his mark as he pulled you toward him, your body almost dangling off the seat.

Kneeling before you, he stood as tall as you were seated, his face aligning with yours, and he seized the opportunity to close the gap, capturing your lips in a fervent kiss. The initial tenderness escalated swiftly into an aggressive clash, a primal contest of tongues and teeth, a battle for dominance. His fingers inched ever closer to your entrance, the sensation of keenness coiling in your belly. A low groan resonated from him, merging with the kiss, as his fingers brushed against your slickness. He withdrew his left hand from your thigh, allowing his right to roam freely, exploring your folds and persuading you closer as if to consume you whole.

The instant his finger trailed over your lips, parting them to expose your honey-dripping entrance, you tore your mouth away from his, determined to observe his every move. His middle finger sought out your moist heat, collecting your essence on its journey, swirling around your clit in sensual circles—a first touch that left you quivering. The rumble in his chest accompanied each motion, his lips descending to your neck, marking it with fervent bites and nibbles. Focus wavered, torn between the sensations coursing through your body and the torturous spectacle before your eyes.

“Thingol—”

The cry of his name parted from your lips, a breathy mewl that trailed off when he intervened, his tone holding a warning. “Not so fast, meleth–nîn. To you, it’s ‘My King’,” he corrected, his voice laced with authority. “Remember who holds control. Use the title or I’ll withdraw.”

Opening your mouth to protest his demand, your words were stifled as his middle finger breached your entrance, its chill contrasting starkly with the warmth enveloping it. The sensation trembled through you as his finger embarked on a deliberate, unhurried exploration of your inner walls, relishing the contractions and tugs of your muscles. The girth of his finger was perfect, a consequence of his elven heritage, enhanced further by the presence of his thick rings, polished gemstones adding an intriguing texture. Each languid movement sent waves of pleasure rippling through you, your senses reeling as his lips found your neck once more, a plethora of nibbles and bites that marked you as his. The choice between closing your eyes and losing yourself in the sensations or fixating on his tantalizing actions left you torn, suspended in a haze of torment and ecstasy.

Thingol had no intention of hastening the rhythm of his finger’s thrusts within your core; he relished every moment, savouring the sensation of your velvety walls clamping down around his finger, fighting to retain the connection. Each pulse of heat your arousal radiated with every plunge made him smile into the curve of your neck, leaving his mark in a series of hickey-laden imprints along your collarbones.

Your body trembled under the onslaught of his single finger accompanied by the cool touch of his rings, a testament to the potency of his touch. He contemplated the impact of introducing another finger into the mix, curious about the effect it would have on your quivering form. Without the slightest hesitation, he slipped in a second finger, immediately curving it upwards in a “come here” motion that elicited an arched response from your body. The gasp that escaped your lips echoed through the halls, your vocalization of pleasure a proclamation he had no qualms about.

“Oh fuck!” you wailed into the chilled air.

Loudness was encouraged; he wanted to hear your pleasure, to know that his exquisitely crafted fingers were performing their artistry to perfection. Moans, cries, screams, and shouts—all were welcomed, as long as they emanated from your pleasure-soaked lips. In the face of his expertise, he urged you to release any inhibition, urging your desire to be vocal and unrestrained. Even the obscene sounds of his fingers thrusting in and out of your cunt echoed and sung throughout the courthouse. Its lewd melody harmonised with your breathy and high-pitched moans.

“Do you feel how gifted my fingers are, meleth–nîn?” he whispered, his voice carrying a devilish edge as he pressed against your collarbones. His lips curled back in a grin, a dark chuckle reverberating within his chest. “My little Queen, you revel in the prowess of my fingers, craving more at every plunge. Do you desire more?”

His voice held a dangerous appeal, drawing you further into his tempting web, a stark contrast to the reign of power you initially summoned. The lure of his tone proved irresistible, subtly undoing your initial resolve. The game had already shifted, your plans thwarted by his mesmeric authority. Despite your inclination to assert yourself, you found yourself succumbing to the magnetic pull he exerted, an acknowledgement of his innate dominance. Frustration mingled with desire, a complex blend of emotions you struggled to navigate. His words compelled you to consider yielding, a temptation to relinquish control and embrace the power he offered. You longed for your guidance to lead him, for your desires to be catered to, yet he had adeptly reversed the roles, offering to assume responsibility.

“I can see your struggle, my Queen. Surrender to the moment, let me guide you. Allow me to demonstrate the extent of your King’s mastery, the influence I wield in the palm of my hand,” he murmured as his actions quickened, his fingers curling and twisting with each plunge. The rings adorning his fingers tugged against your yielding walls, their coolness contrasting with the warmth that enveloped them. The rhythmic clenching of your muscles in a futile attempt to imprison his fingers was met with his unyielding control.

Your arousal drenched his wrist as he intensified the rhythm, the lewd sounds of your slickness meeting his intrusion filled the air. Your fluids squirted with every thrust, a display that might have embarrassed you, but that Thingol found intoxicating. Unable to resist, his thumb found its way to your clit, circling it with practised expertise that left you gasping for air, your legs instinctively clamping shut. His left hand slid from your neck, encircling your waist to anchor you in place, preventing your body from escaping the throne’s embrace. A glance at his face would have revealed a devilish grin, a haunting expression that hinted at his sadistic pleasure in this potent moment. You felt your lung's capacity to withhold air decreasing with each languid stroke of his fingers and thumb.

Gliding his lips down from your collarbones to your chest, Thingol’s plump lips found your nipples, and he suckled on them as though he were savouring ambrosial nectar, an otherworldly delight. Each moan that resonated deep within his chest was a testament to the intoxicating pleasure he derived from the taste of your essence, your body’s response fuelling his growing ardour. The sensations coursing through him were intense, pushing his own desires to the background—your pleasure was his utmost goal. His erection strained within his leggings, an indication of the effectiveness of the moment, yet he resisted the urge to satisfy his own needs prematurely. In this instance, his focus was unwaveringly on your satisfaction, a tribute to the mastery of his exquisitely designed fingers.

Sucking and nibbling at your nipples, alternating between them, his fingers maintained their rhythm, thrusting faster and deeper into your core. Sinful circles were drawn around your clit with practised precision, igniting a whirlwind of sensations that sent your head spinning. Goosebumps adorned your skin as his cold rings ventured deeper, the temperature contrast heightening the experience. It was as though he were delving for a hidden treasure, sculpting your inner walls to perfectly accommodate his fingers, weaving a spell of enthrallment with each deliberate movement.

“M–More, p–…please. Ngghh, oh Eru, more please…” you breathily demanded as his fingers curled off the bat to strike expertly at your sweet spot. And your King’s insatiable appetite for control and pleasure humbled itself to accept your request. A third finger stealthily joined the others, slipping in alongside them and wriggling its way into your depths to curl alongside its companions, each digit finding its place at your sweet spot.

“Humph! Oh fuck! Yes, right there!” you screamed into the open air, adding your chorus of pleasure and satisfaction into the mix of lewd sounds.

The pleasure surging through your body was becoming almost overwhelming. With his lips drawing exquisite sensations from your nipples and his fingers deftly moulding your innermost reaches, you were on the brink of sensory overload. The rhythm of his fingers didn’t waver; they pursued your impending orgasm with relentless determination, seeking the climax that would leave you utterly undone. His fingers drove you toward the precipice, his name and pleas for more spilling from your lips in high-pitched, desperate cries that sent shivers of ecstasy down his spine.

His manipulation of your clit became a hypnotic dance, every movement coaxing quivers from the sensitive nub and causing your walls to contract around his fingers. The sensation of his three fingers stretching you was a delightful burn, his size always pushing you beyond your limits. No matter how many times you had taken him—his girthier cock than his fingers—you still struggled to fully accommodate the digits he wielded. Your pleas for more were met with his benevolence, a testament to his deep affection for you.

“You’re doing remarkably well, my rose. See how beautifully your sweet cunt takes me in, hungry for more,” he purred, a taunting tone lacing his words. His chuckle danced along your skin like a tantalizing caress. “Don’t worry, I have something else in mind for her after I’m done here.”

Breaking his oral embrace from your nipples, a glistening string of saliva connected his lips to your bud before he leaned down to pepper your thigh with soft kisses. Your body quivered at the touch of his wet lips against your skin, the sensation jolting through you. Returning to your breasts, his arms coiled around your waist, arching your back to meet his lips in an electrifying kiss. His lips moved over your flesh, suckling your breast with fervour, while his thumb persisted in its skilful caresses around your clit. The rhythmic motion of his thumb mirrored the swirls and flicks of his tongue around your nipple, intensifying the symphony of pleasure that engulfed your senses.

A torrent of moans and whimpers tumbled from your lips as your body quivered in the throes of ecstasy. “Oh, fuck! I’m close, I–I’m close…c-close…” Your voice trembled with the impending release as your body teetered on the edge. Yet, Thingol showed no signs of relenting, maintaining the intensity of his ministrations. Your arousal surged, your wetness dripping unabated onto his wrist and sleeves, your scent filling the air. Your essence pooled on the floor beneath the throne, a testament to the unrivalled pleasure he was drawing from you. Unperturbed by the mess, Thingol was driven by the allure of your arousal, the desire to see you completely consumed by pleasure. He would continue until every last drop was wrung from you.

Muttering unintelligible words against your breast, Thingol continued to twirl his tongue skilfully, feeling your walls spasming around his fingers and the crescendo of heat building within you. Just in time, he withdrew his mouth, his senses heightened to witness the spectacle unfolding before him. Your body convulsed in the throes of your orgasm, an ungodly wave of pleasure washing over you and leaving you momentarily breathless.

Thingol had no intention of withdrawing his fingers as your orgasm claimed you, his digits maintained their relentless thrusting, driving you deeper into the abyss of oversensitivity. Your arousal surged in greater volume, drenching his hand and wrist as your body slumped against the throne. Your legs twitched and tightened around his hand, your silent plea for respite evident in the clamping of your muscles. The intensity of the moment left you trembling, your body exquisitely sensitive to even the slightest touch, each sensation amplified to dizzying heights.

You whimpered, pleading with him to ease the stimulation that bordered on overwhelming. “My King, please…too much, too much,” you managed to protest, your attempts to push his hand away driven by a desperate need for relief. Curled into the seat, every inch of your being vibrated with the aftermath of your climax, even the gentlest breeze causing your skin to tingle.

Remaining on his knees at the base of the throne, Thingol’s lips were swollen from his intense ministrations. He lifted his right hand to his mouth, slipping his fingers inside to taste the remnants of your essence. The gleam in his eyes as your flavour danced on his taste buds sent a shiver down his spine, a predator basking in his successful hunt. His gaze held a possessive hunger as he caged you with his predatory grin.

“You have a divine taste, my rose. Our little session has been truly delightful, but I suggest we continue in a more private setting,” he declared with a hint of compassion in his gaze. “Come with me. I have much more to show you, to explore with my skilled hands.”

Masterlist

Taglist: @eunoiaastralwings @lilmelily @koyunsoncizeri @ranhanabi777 @rain-on-my-umbrella @aconstructofamind @someoneinthestars @mysticmoomin @the-phantom-of-arda @wandererindreams @singleteapot @silverose365 @ilu-stripes @asianbutnotjapanese @batsyforyou @bunson-burner

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