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blackscales) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
westwhere2022-02-25 09:50 pm
blackscales) wrote in westwhere2022-02-25 09:50 pm
Entry tags:
[ CLOSED ]
WHO: Wrathion, Anduin
WHEN: Late Feb - Early March
WHERE: Ke-Waihu, the house of the old village wise man
WHAT: Curses, scratches, and aches
WARNINGS: Wrathion will likely scandalously take his shirt off so Anduin can see what he's healing. Or not healing, as the case may be. There may be disgusting hand contact. There is definitely UST.
In Ke-Waihu, the darkness at night is thick, the silence as heavy as a blanket muffling everything around them.
Wrathion finds it both reassuring and a source of unease. He hears nothing coming, yet neither is there a gentle hum of activity to mask his own movements.
In truth, he should not be out in the dark at all. He should be in his own assigned home, sticking to their cover story. Yet he has grown... accustomed to Anduin's close company, and the scratches that recently appeared on his skin have begun to bother him.
He simply wants him to examine them. As a healer. That's all it is. He isn't thinking about anything else. Not the union ceremony Anduin got swept up in, not the prospect of the Beastmaster being here, not the sick unease he feels wondering if he should leave in case something happens. If he should leave Anduin behind, for his own safety.
Not Anduin's gentle sympathy as they traversed the forest, chased by fleeting visions of Azeroth taunting them with something they could not have.
Not the reminder of how he had faced down Fahrad, devoid of a way to save him as the whispers twisted his mind.
Wrathion feels... strange. He cannot say he has ever particularly been troubled to only have himself for company, yet in the inky darkness here his own thoughts feel... loud somehow. The rooms he stands in feel big, and he feels uncommonly ill at ease.
He sends Anduin a simple message:
I'm outside.
Then waits to be let in, a ghost lurking around the window of Anduin's room in the wiseman's old abode. It seems fitting Anduin has been placed here, since he seems well suited to resolving disputes and giving advice. Then again, he'd likely been enjoying the respite -- or what limited respite he had.
WHEN: Late Feb - Early March
WHERE: Ke-Waihu, the house of the old village wise man
WHAT: Curses, scratches, and aches
WARNINGS: Wrathion will likely scandalously take his shirt off so Anduin can see what he's healing. Or not healing, as the case may be. There may be disgusting hand contact. There is definitely UST.
In Ke-Waihu, the darkness at night is thick, the silence as heavy as a blanket muffling everything around them.
Wrathion finds it both reassuring and a source of unease. He hears nothing coming, yet neither is there a gentle hum of activity to mask his own movements.
In truth, he should not be out in the dark at all. He should be in his own assigned home, sticking to their cover story. Yet he has grown... accustomed to Anduin's close company, and the scratches that recently appeared on his skin have begun to bother him.
He simply wants him to examine them. As a healer. That's all it is. He isn't thinking about anything else. Not the union ceremony Anduin got swept up in, not the prospect of the Beastmaster being here, not the sick unease he feels wondering if he should leave in case something happens. If he should leave Anduin behind, for his own safety.
Not Anduin's gentle sympathy as they traversed the forest, chased by fleeting visions of Azeroth taunting them with something they could not have.
Not the reminder of how he had faced down Fahrad, devoid of a way to save him as the whispers twisted his mind.
Wrathion feels... strange. He cannot say he has ever particularly been troubled to only have himself for company, yet in the inky darkness here his own thoughts feel... loud somehow. The rooms he stands in feel big, and he feels uncommonly ill at ease.
He sends Anduin a simple message:
I'm outside.
Then waits to be let in, a ghost lurking around the window of Anduin's room in the wiseman's old abode. It seems fitting Anduin has been placed here, since he seems well suited to resolving disputes and giving advice. Then again, he'd likely been enjoying the respite -- or what limited respite he had.
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Stimulating, in a way he hadn't expected. He goes tense briefly, a tingle running over his skin at the contact, then slowly settles as the thread of fingers through his hair repeats. This won't let him sleep, he expects, but it is enjoyable.
"Beyond Dreamless Sleep potions?"
Which is the most practical, direct way to handle things. He doesn't much like having to use them, but sometimes it has been necessary.
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He had known that Wrathion's sleep had been... Troubled. He supposes he had not realized quite how much so, until just now. Had he not paid enough attention, he wonders? Or had Wrathion hid it that well?
Either way, he does not much like the idea of Wrathion having to drug himself to get a good night's sleep. Not that his opinion has much weight in any of this, of course. But Anduin is a healer, and he has failed to mend Wrathion once already this night. Nightmares are far from a physical wound that he can call forth the Light to cast from Wrathion's mind. He must find some other way to banish Wrathion's demons.
"Sometimes," Anduin says, after a moment's thought, "I have tea, myself. I cannot say I would even drink it half the time, but the smell of it. The warmth. It is a comfort."
Softly, he continues the motion of his fingers, combing them gently through Wrathion's curls where he has laid himself across his lap.
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The process of getting up and making it, something else to focus on.
The same way Anduin's fingers are currently distracting, stroking through his hair slowly. The initial sensitivity he had to the touch appears to be... easing somewhat, at least, leaving it with a low soothing quality. Perhaps it's the repetition, giving his mind something to lull itself to rest on? He couldn't say for certain, but it's certainly... pleasant.
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"It can," he replies. He thinks about offering to rise and make some for them now, although... He wonders if tea is just what Wrathion needs right now when he has come to him like this, laying his head in his lap for comfort and support.
Anduin continues the motion of his fingers through Wrathion's curls. He seems to like it. At least, the tension in him seems to be easing, which is a good sign. Wrathion's hair itself is soft, and a little bit tangled from the day -- and a restless night's sleep for that matter. Anduin absent-mindedly wonders if Wrathion would object to having him attempt to comb it out, some time.
He does not want to ruin this peace that Wrathion has settled into. All the same, he feels as though he must pose the question...
"Would you like to talk about it?" he asks, softly. The nightmare he had had, just now. The nightmares that have plagued him in the past. Anything at all that is troubling him, really. Anduin is here to listen. Here for him, as he had said before.
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Not especially.
Talking about such things is not something that Wrathion is... used to. This contact in and of itself is already a little... much. It's soothing but equally something his mind keeps latching onto, a warm comfort he feels he must commit to memory.
"You were in it," he admits. "In a less than pleasant way, I'm afraid."
He'd much rather be having nice dreams about Anduin instead of... this. Unfortunate, then, that Wrathion's subconscious apparently has other ideas.
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In a less than pleasant way.
He'd like to hope that he'd not played any part in the torments Wrathion had suffered, in his dreams or otherwise. He supposes that is too much to ask either way.
Anduin repeats the movement of his fingers through Wrathion's hair, soft and gentle. "I am sorry for that, for what it is worth," he replies quietly. Perhaps it is strange to apologize for whatever happened in a dream he did not experience, but he feels that he must regardless.
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Anduin didn't cause it, after all. He just happened to appear in it.
The warm scent of the priest is... soothing, regardless. Wrathion can feel his eyelids starting to droop, his nerves starting to settle under the persistent play of fingers through his hair.
There he'd been, thinking he'd never sleep with this stimulation. It seems he's wrong about that. He'll likely wake up again, but he might at least sleep someone.
"Don't let me keep you awake," he murmurs, "I can move if you need me to."
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"I'll be alright," he reassures, softly, stroking his fingers again through Wrathion's hair as he does.
Anduin is comfortable enough where he is right now, and Wrathion seems to be fairly settled himself. An easiness is settling into the tension Wrathion had been holding before, his nerves settling into something more relaxed and easy, which is a relief. If he is able to grant Wrathion at least a few more hours of uninterrupted sleep before the night is over, then Anduin will be glad of it.
"It is late," he prompts, gently.
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"For you as well," he points out. A solid reason Anduin should settle back down properly with him. There is no reason he cannot continue this soothing gesture as they lay down, after all.
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"If I am being honest with myself," Anduin says, softly, "there is a part of me that still cannot quite believe you are here with me."
He moves his hand to stroke the side of Wrathion's face.
"Perhaps this is the real dream."
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"Do you dream of me often?"
Is this an image Anduin is familiar with, Wrathion laid out in his bed embracing him? If so, he would quite like to hear about it. There could be some very enlightening details there, after all.
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"And what if I said that I did?"
His words are a gentle tease, but that is not to say that he doesn't -- quite the opposite, really. Wrathion features quite prominently, in Anduin's daydreams. In some of his more private fantasies as well, if he's being entirely honest with himself.
He thinks back to the hand massage that Wrathion had offered him earlier that night and his flush deepens slightly, for a moment.
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Unlike Wrathion's nightmares that Anduin feature in, all too recently mentioned. All too recently relived by Wrathion, until he startled awake from them.
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"They are," he answers, softly.
Anduin's nightmares have far more fodder to choose from these days than Wrathion's betrayal. His libido on the other hand... Anduin isn't really sure whether Wrathion would be comfortable with him detailing such things though, given how new this is to both of them, so he decides not to elaborate on the thought any further than that.
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He could do with some more pleasant dreams himself. Turning his face into Anduins hair, Wrathion lets out a slow sigh of contentment. His heart is still pounding, but its as much from proximity now as the lingering unease of the nightmare.
"I dreamed of Stormwind frequently," he admits, voice dropped to something quieter. "N'Zoth showed me visions of it, shadows coiled around its heart, void creatures walking its streets."
A vision of a future the Old God wanted, one Wrathion was desperate to prevent.
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Shadows coiled around the heart of Stormwind? There could be only one way for such a thing to happen, for void creatures to be walking its streets -- if it had fallen. If N'Zoth had shown him visions... Anduin cannot blame him for having nightmares of such things. He can only imagine how he might have factored in such a thing for that matter as well.
"I am sorry that you had to experience such things," Anduin says, softly. "I hope that it does give you some comfort that it was thanks to your efforts such a thing never happened."
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"It is a comfort that you are here, safe."
That they are together, and that he can see for himself nothing terrible has happened to Anduin. That they can lay together and he can take comfort in their tangle of shared limbs, in soft way the priest touches him.
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Anduin supposes he has taken this for granted since then. Until now, when it might be taken away.
Anduin turns his face into Wrathions shoulder, rubbing his face against the fabric of his shirt.
"I only wish for you to be safe as well," he murmurs, softly.
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Wrathion doesn't know what it is. It's a gentleness he is unused to, a level of care that is... difficult to process. He doesn't know that anyone has ever cared for him so wholly as Anduin Wrynn does.
He swallows, shuffles his grip on Anduin to squeeze him a little tighter.
"Well," he allows, "right now I am feeling sufficiently well guarded."
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Therefore, when Wrathion shifts his grip and squeezes him close -- perhaps a little bit tighter than is comfortable -- Anduin makes no comment. Instead he moves his own hand on Wrathion's back, rubbing slightly, breathing in the warmth of his skin through the fabric of his shirt.
"Good," he replies. "Because should anyone appear through that door just now, I am prepared to fight them for you." Mostly.
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Wrathion huffs in amusement, imagining this. Anduin Wrynn, leaping out of bed to defend him half dressed. He thinks he wouldn't mind watching that.
"I should put up a sign," he murmurs, "like they do for dangerous dogs. Beware of the priest."
Feral priest on the loose. What would the Church of the Holy Light say about such a thing? Then again, he's not entirely sure what they'd say about laying down with a black dragon to begin with. No doubt it is at least frowned upon to some degree.
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"A sign on my own door?" he asks, trying to imagine what his housemates might think of such a thing and smiling at the thought. "Well... I suppose it would only be right to give them a fair warning."
Anduin shifts slightly against Wrathion's chest, rubbing his cheek against the fabric of Wrathion's shirt as he considers it.
"Your guard priest?" he muses, obviously amused by the idea of it himself.
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It's hardly seen a lot of use here, after all. Perhaps this would give him something to do with it, if he was so inclined. Stand around outside whatever room Wrathion chose to be in, playing at being a guard.
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"Shalamayne would help me look quite threatening," he agrees. "Surely only someone who is truly fearsome would be able to wield such an impressive weapon, yes?"
In truth, Anduin is no master of Shalamayne himself. But he's trained with it enough to be able to wield the greatsword in battle, which must count for something.
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Such a legend? A blade passed down from father to son? Heavy, battle-forged, used in several memorable battles? Surely this is it, yes?
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