Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Bard x Reader
— You boop his nose and accidentally make him smile.
You do it without thinking.
He’s crouched by the fire, mending an arrow with careful, practiced movements—hands rough, scarred, steady. The lines of his face are drawn tight, as they so often are, burdened with things he never speaks aloud. Lake-town rests on his shoulders even now, in the quiet.
You lean in and press a single finger to his nose.
A soft boop.
For a heartbeat, Bard freezes.
He blinks once. Then again.
Slowly, he looks up at you, brows knit—not angry, not startled exactly, just… caught off guard. As if you’ve struck somewhere unarmored. You’re already smiling, half-expecting a rebuke, an exhausted sigh, a reminder that there are more important things than foolish affection.
You shrug, unapologetic. He exhales—a quiet sound, something easing out of him—and reaches out, thumb brushing your wrist. A small thing. A grounding thing.
For a moment, the fire crackles. The night holds. And Bard of Lake-town lets himself smile, just a little, because you are here and because you dared to remind him he is human.
– A mortal toy softens the Mirkwood king, though he would never admit such a thing.
The toy rests on the table.
Carved wood, polished smooth by careful hands—an elk, its antlers delicately etched, its legs jointed to move when nudged. Simple. Mortal. Entirely out of place in the halls of Mirkwood.
Thranduil stands before it in silence.
“You brought this… into my realm,” he says at last.
You fold your hands behind your back, bracing yourself. “It’s a gift.”
“For whom?”
“For the children in the lower halls,” you answer. “Winter is long. They miss home.”
His gaze sharpens—not at you, but at the toy. As if it has dared to remind him of something inconvenient.
“Elven children do not require such things,” he says coolly.
“No,” you agree softly. “But human ones do.”
That gives him pause.
He steps closer, long fingers reaching out to touch the carved antlers. The elk shifts slightly beneath his hand. He watches it move, expression unreadable.
“You made this,” he says.
“Yes.”
“For children not of your blood,” he adds.
“Yes.”
A long silence stretches between you—heavy, thoughtful.
“You humans,” Thranduil murmurs, “have an odd habit of leaving pieces of yourselves behind.”
He straightens, withdrawing his hand.
“Joy. Comfort. Noise.”
You smile faintly. “Someone has to.”
His eyes lift to meet yours—cool, piercing, searching.
“Do you know what happens when such things take root?” he asks.
“They grow,” you say simply.
Another pause.
Then—unexpectedly—he turns and gestures toward the table.
“Leave it,” he says.
A beat.
“And… bring more.”
Your eyes widen. “More?”
“For the children,” he says crisply, already turning away. “If winter insists on staying, then it will not find them wanting.”
He stops at the doorway, voice lower, almost reluctant.
“…See that they are well made.”
You smile, heart warming.
“They will be.”
Thranduil does not look back.
But later—long after you’ve gone—you hear laughter echo faintly through the hall and on a high shelf in the king’s private chambers, far from curious eyes, rests a small wooden elk— carefully placed.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Boromir x Reader
— The two of you are caught under the mistletoe.
You notice it too late.
A sprig of green, tied with red thread, hangs from the archway just beyond the training yard—fresh mistletoe, clearly placed there with intent. Someone has been feeling festive… or mischievous.
You stop short.
“Oh no.”
Behind you, boots crunch against frost-dusted stone.
“Something wrong?”
You turn to find Boromir, sword slung over his shoulder, cheeks flushed from training, hair damp with sweat and winter air. He follows your gaze upward—and then freezes.
The corners of his mouth twitch.
“Mistletoe,” he says, brows lifting. “Is that… a northern custom?”
You nod, already embarrassed. “Yes. If two people stand beneath it, they’re supposed to—”
“Kiss,” he finishes, far too easily.
You stare. “You know about it?”
He shrugs, suddenly sheepish in a way that does not suit a Captain of Gondor at all. “I have sisters. They enjoy traditions that cause discomfort.”
Silence stretches between you. The mistletoe sways gently above, utterly pleased with itself.
“Well,” you say, stepping back, “I can just—”
Boromir moves at the same moment, blocking your retreat without quite meaning to. He stops, startled by his own instinct, then clears his throat.
“You don’t have to,” he says quickly. “I mean—I would never presume—”
You smile despite yourself. “Boromir, it’s only a custom.”
He studies your face, searching for hesitation. Finding none—only warmth.
“Only,” he repeats softly. Then, quieter, “Unless you wish it to be more.”
Your heart stumbles.
The mistletoe rustles.
Boromir exhales, steadying himself like a man facing battle—not with bravado, but honesty.
“If you would rather walk away,” he says, “I will respect it. Truly.”
You don’t move.
Instead, you tilt your head slightly upward.
“Well,” you say, “it would be a shame to waste tradition.”
For a moment, Boromir looks stunned.
Then he smiles—slow, bright, unguarded.
“Then,” he murmurs, stepping closer, “allow me.”
His hands come up gently—carefully—as if afraid to startle you. He leans in, forehead brushing yours first, giving you every chance to pull away.
You don’t.
The kiss is warm and brief and unmistakably Boromir—earnest, sincere, full of a feeling he never hides well. When he pulls back, his cheeks are flushed deeper than the cold could manage.
“Well,” he says, grinning like a victorious fool, “I see why this tradition endures.”
You laugh softly. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”
He straightens, all mock-serious again. “I endured great peril for Gondor. I believe I have earned one kiss.”
As you step away together, the mistletoe sways above and Boromir glances back at it once more, smiling to himself, already hoping someone else has placed another sprig somewhere nearby.
– Silver moonlight softens the forest, but Legolas’s gaze warms you far more deeply.
Night in Mirkwood is never truly dark.
Even in winter, when the forest sleeps in frost and shadow, the moon filters through the bare branches like liquid silver, pooling softly across the forest floor.
You stand outside the palace, breath forming little clouds in the cold air, wrapped in a cloak as moonlight spills over everything—softening, brightening, blessing.
“Could not sleep?”
His voice is a whisper of starlight behind you.
You turn to see Legolas, pale hair glimmering as though it stores the moon’s glow. He stands with the ease of someone born of forests and winter light, his presence quiet but powerful.
“I didn’t want to waste a night like this,” you admit. “The moon is beautiful.”
He steps closer, gaze lifting to the sky—or perhaps to the way the moonlight touches your face.
“Elbereth herself would envy such a night,” he murmurs.
You blink, surprised. “Is that an Elven compliment?”
He tilts his head. “It is a truth.”
Your heart stirs, unsure whether he meant the moon or you.
Legolas moves until he stands beside you beneath the bare branches. The light catches the fine angles of his face, making him look almost too ethereal to be real. You watch the soft silver glow curve along his cheekbone, the faint shimmer where frost dusts the ends of his hair.
The moment feels suspended—quiet, endless, fragile.
“You humans,” Legolas says softly, “feel moonlight more deeply than Elves do.”
You glance at him. “Is that a bad thing?”
He shakes his head. “No. It is… curious.”
He pauses, searching for the right words.
“You cherish what is fleeting. It makes every winter night precious.”
His eyes drift back to you, lingering.
“I find myself cherishing it as well,” he adds quietly.
Your breath catches. “Because of the moonlight?”
“Because of the person standing within it.”
The forest seems to hold its breath. Even the wind stops its wandering to listen.
Legolas steps a fraction closer. Not quite touching, but close enough that you feel the warmth radiating from him despite the cold. The moonlight spills across both of you, and for a moment, it feels like the world has shrunk to this—silver light, quiet breath, and the soft steadiness in his gaze.
“You shine beneath the moon,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “Did you know?”
“I don’t,” you murmur, “but you do.”
A subtle smile touches his lips—rare, sincere.
“Come,” he says, offering his hand in that gentle, courtly way. “Walk with me. The forest is peaceful tonight.”
You place your hand in his.
His fingers curl around yours—light, sure, reverent.
Beneath the moonlight, Legolas leads you into the quiet silver forest as though he is guiding you into something more than a winter night— something deeper, softer, beginning.
andulkaphoto
prguitarman
titsay
stormborns
jbbartram-illu
jacobvanloon
blakekathryn