#fotfics fictober

[i-did-not-mean-to]

October 26th

Cuddles

Ah...@mismaeve, here we have my own - very tame - version of Thranduil.

He's a favourite with anon requesters and so, I thought I'd include him in the line-up.

Lots of love from me...

Words: 452

Warnings: innuendo

“Oh great Elvenking,” you sniggered, “mighty scion of the noble blood of the ancient Sindar.”

Thranduil groaned loudly from under the covers.

“Venerated king of the Silvan Elves,” you went on, choking with laughter, “ruler of the beautiful Woodland Realm, what wouldst thou ask of me?”

Leaning against the sturdy door you had just opened to exit his bedchamber, you watched his lean, powerful form unfold like a late-blooming blossom amidst the pristine sheets woven of a thread so soft it had felt like the river’s water beneath your heated skin.

“Come back to bed,” he demanded in a booming, authoritative voice that left you entirely unfazed for you had known him for too long to be deceived by the regal airs he liked to swathe himself in as if to disguise his tender heart.

“To what purpose, my liege?” you teased mercilessly.

“Enough!” he roared, flopping back onto his strong back and extending both arms in a wordless plea.

What choice did you have?

Slamming the door shut again, you returned to the oasis of calm and safety and fell into his embrace as into a ravine of pure delight.

“Doth His Majesty yearn for sweet blandishments?” you asked softly, trailing your fingers lightly along the expanse of the dimly glistening skin stretching enchantingly over his sharp clavicles. 

“I requisition generous cuddles,” he acquiesced in a dignified tone that belied the frivolity of his order, “by royal decree!”

Only too happy to oblige, you slipped your arms around his elegant body and pulled him closer to you and pressed eager kisses onto every patch of silken skin you could reach without letting go of him; finally, the tension, that was so much a part of him that it was inscribed into his very muscles, started to drain away under the fluttering caresses of your fingers wandering over his back and of your lips worshipping his form relentlessly.

A happy hum resounded as he slung his long legs around you as if to cage you, engulfing your cool body in the welcome warmth of his own, and tilted your head up by a gentle tap against your chin to capture your roving mouth in a passionate kiss.

“A gracious and generous king indeed,” you panted; your voice was laced with sunlight and indescribable bliss painted every word a different hue of the rainbow of your love. 

“Indeed,” he agreed as he rolled you around to firmly pin you against the soft mattress. “And I shall have need of you for the rest of the morn. Deny not your ruler!”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Sire,” you giggled and let him exert his royal prerogatives over your body and soul only too gladly.

@fellowshipofthefics It's almost the end. We're almost through...

Lots of love from me, I hope you still enjoy those...

-> Masterlist

[i-did-not-mean-to]

October 6th

Sweet treats

This one is for all the Dwalin, Dwori, Dwhorin and other Dwalin-pairing enjoyers.

He's a dear little old grump haha...

Words: 693

Warnings: None

The door banging against the wall made you jump, and, in an act of pure instinct, you flung whatever was in your hands in that moment at the surmised intruder.

“Hmmm, thanks,” Dwalin grumbled, holding aloft a sieve as if it was exactly what he had been looking for all his life. “What a nice sight to be coming home to!”

A hand pressed against your heaving chest covered in flour and spices, you managed to conjure up a wavering smile of welcome; you had not expected him to be home quite so soon and hence you had been greatly startled by his unannounced arrival.

“’Weather didn’t hold,” he explained while shrugging out of his coat and toeing off his heavy boots, “we made haste.”

Your eyes swept over the chaos in your kitchen quickly; you had thought that you’d have at least another evening and night before your beloved returned from his caravan-guarding duties. Consequently, you were considerably dismayed to be caught not only unawares but also in the middle of your preparations of what you had intended to be a surprise for the gruff warrior.

“What’s that?” he ambled over eagerly, letting the sieve clatter onto the table carelessly to wrap his huge hands around your hips and pull you in for a passionate kiss that conveyed how much he had missed you during your time apart much better than any of his rumbling words ever could have.

“It was meant as a ‘Welcome home’ surprise,” you gasped into his mouth when his hold on you didn’t subside as the seconds ticked by. 

It was common knowledge – even though nobody dared confront him on the matter – that your beloved Dwalin had a major sweet tooth; in your attempts to keep your mind off the terrible absence of his bulky body in your house and bed, you had spent many an afternoon out of doors, picking fruit and trading spices with the merchants passing through the settlement.

After several meticulously documented trial runs, you thought that you had finally perfected the recipe for the spiced pear cookies that – there was no doubt about that – your taciturn lover would devour eagerly.

Words were often difficult between the two of you as he was at times very reserved and this made you nervous to the point where you fumbled to find the right thing to say, squirming under his unyielding and unwavering gaze.

Hence why you liked doing things for him that showed him just how much you cared for him.

A rough thumb scraped along the corner of your mouth, and you looked up just in time to see him put it into his own, his brows furrowed in concentration.

“Is that jam? Did ye make that?” he asked, his eyes alight with pleasure and curiosity as they scanned the room in search of the source of the delicious taste he had stolen from your very lips.

“There’s none left,” you chuckled, “it’s all in the dough already.”

“Dough?” he echoed slowly. His gaze returned to you, questing, and he gave you a little shake. “Beloved! Are you withholding sweets from me?” 

Unable to resist, you broke into resounding laughter at the sight of his evident distress; immediately, he started to list the bad weather, the blistering cold, his sore feet, and his undying love for you as the incontrovertible reasons why you had to hand over whatever sugary treats you were so heartlessly hiding from him.

“If you had not interrupted me,” you chided, “those would already sit in the oven.”

Instantly, he stepped back, slipping ever so slightly in his woollen socks on the polished floor, and lifted his hands defensively.

“Good,” you praised, “go grab yourself a tankard of ale, there should be a cask in the cellar, and in a little while, you may have a cookie or two, fresh from the oven.”

As you watched him stomp down the stairs, you already knew that he’d eat the whole batch, burn the roof of his mouth in the process, and then carry you to bed to make you feel just how much he had yearned for you as well.

In hopes that you've also liked this one, I remain your most devoted servant and friend.

@fellowshipofthefics Number 6 (?) Losing count here haha...

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[i-did-not-mean-to]

October 31st

Author's choice : Halloween

Okkkkk here we go with the last one...In honour of the first character who's drawn me in and made me write fanfiction: Thorin II

A special thanks to @lathalea, @legolasbadass, @fizzyxcustard, @middleearthpixie, @linasofia and @laurfilijames who have been with me for long months since.

Also @lordoftherazzles, @frosticenow, and many many others who enjoy Thorin :D

If you like this premise, @middleearthpixie has a whole fic about canon-Thorin falling into the Modern World. It's really good...check it out! -> Where I Belong

Here we go for the last story in October. Thank you for having been with me; I love you all.

Words: 750

Warnings: innuendo

“I don’t see why I cannot wear my own clothes,” Thorin grumbled, “as they are apparently so ludicrous.”

You wrinkled your nose as you sought a good retort to this for he was not entirely wrong; upon finding a disoriented and considerably sour-faced stranger wandering around in your neighbourhood last spring, you had not hesitated to point out how incongruous and absurd his heavy coat and sharp-looking sword were in this part of town. 

If only you had known then what you knew now, but there was no use in crying over spilt milk or careless comments carried away by the nightly mists.

It had only been after several drinks and many a confusing hour that you had found out that he had found himself indeed not only in the wrong locality or city but in the wrong universe entirely. 

Since that confusing night – there had been talk of a dragon, a hoard of gold, and other rather fantastical things – Thorin, who imagined himself to be the long-lost heir of some imaginary kingdom, had been your guest and lover in the small one-bedroom-apartment you called your own realm.

Weeks bled into months and, as he seemed rather interested in the customs and habits of the inhabitants of your world, you had decided to take him to a Halloween party.

Unfortunately, Thorin did neither understand nor like the idea of dressing up as someone or something else and had turned rather petulant when you had presented him with a fluffy wolf-jumpsuit.

He was bulky and broad and, short of letting him leave bare-chested in nothing but a loincloth, you had not come up with any better ideas as most costumes that were for sale in the tiny shop down the street would not have accommodated his prodigiously broad shoulders and sturdy thighs.

“Come on,” you coaxed, wrapping your arms around his midriff tenderly and resting your head on his shoulder gently, “you’ll look fierce.”

“What is that even supposed to be?” he asked with a hint of humour in his voice as he took the costume from you and fingered the cheap fabric disapprovingly.

“It’s a wolf,” you explained, even though you had to admit that the likeness was not a very good one.

Before Thorin could launch into a long description of birds and beasts in his world, you held up your hand and swirled it suggestively to signify that you’d be willing to listen to him while he was putting on the costume.

The red cape draped around your own shoulders billowed as you walked over to the mirror to check your Red Riding Hood costume one last time.

“Why are you a little girl?” Thorin asked while tugging off his boots to step into his own disguise.

“It’s a long story,” you laughed, “but suffice it to say that the little girl will be eaten by the wolf!”

“I’d eat you all right!” 

His words made a shiver race down your spine and so you forewent the pleasure of letting him know how the story ended for the wolf; you had already proven that you could rewrite a story and you were not about to stop now.

It was not entirely clear to you why it mattered so much to you that he’d accompany you to the small gathering in an abandoned warehouse, but – after so many years of heartbreak and loneliness – you finally felt like yourself again and you desperately yearned to take the little miracle that had been granted to you into the world.

A part of you was afraid that Thorin and all his tender love and unyielding support would just dissolve and vanish once the clock struck midnight but another, stronger and more adventurous, part needed to check whether the magic that had painted your grey and drab life in rainbow colours again would withstand the cold gleam of the moon and the pounding bass of bad music.

“As my lady commands,” Thorin groaned and stepped into the monstrosity as if into battle.

“You know,” he added slyly as he pressed a quick, possessive kiss onto your lips, “where I come from, our foes ride wolf-like creatures.”

Giggling, you allowed him to lift you onto his back, slinging your arms around his thick neck and breathing in the warm, seductive fragrance of his long, wavy hair.

“Carry me away, my noble steed,” you cheered, deciding that an approximation of a wolf was a thousand times better and more promising than an enchanted pumpkin anyway.

@fellowshipofthefics: Here we are...the very last of the month. Thank you for the lovely prompts and sorry for the spam!

Thank you again for everyone having read any of these stories...

Lots of love from me ❤️‍🔥

-> Masterlist

[i-did-not-mean-to]

October 9th

Rainstorms

This one goes out to all the Men-enjoyers out there.

@scyllas-revenge and of course the OG horse-girl @laurfilijames

Have some suggestive Éomer (and there will be explicit porn for him later in the month!)

Words: 594

Warnings: suggestive...but nothing happens

A look out of the window let you know that the storm had broken like the wrath of old-forgotten gods and you sighed deeply; you loveda good rainstorm, especially when you were sitting – warm and safe – in your little cottage on the edge of the dark forest, staring at the violence of nature in fascination without being in any real danger.

The song of the drops clattering against the roof and the wooden shutters waving to and fro in the gales was enchanting and you started feeling drowsy with sleepiness, ready to let yourself be rocked into slumber by the symphony of the unleashed tempest.

Just as you were about to blow out your candle though, a glimpse of something unexpected cleft through the fascinating panorama like a flash of lightning itself and you sat up straighter; a man – leading his bucking, terrified horse by the reins – was just stepping out from the shelter of the dense trees, shading his eyes against the onslaught of water pouring down on him and slipping in the treacherous mud.

“Oh my,” you cried out under your breath; he should not be out in that weather! Without thinking about it overmuch, you hastily wrapped a woollen shawl around your shoulders and burst through your door to guide him back to the shelter of your home.

You were soaked to the bone, your tunic clinging to your skin disgustingly, before you had even reached him; his full, beautiful lips moved but you could not make out his words on account of the insistent howling of the wind.

Waving frantically, you motioned for him to follow you and took the reins of his horse from him, leading the poor beast safely to the small shed in which your own trusty steed was neighing in apprehension as the door was torn from your hand and slammed into the old, wooden wall.

“Milady,” a hoarse, gentle voice resounded behind you, and you turned around to recognise your king; you paled in shock.

“Milady,” he started again, lifting a broad hand as if to gentle you like one of his horses, “I owe you my gratitude. Would it be permissible for me to remain here – sheltered – and wait out the wrath of the weather in your comfortable stables?”

“My liege,” you stammered, “it may not be much, but I beg you to accept the hospitality of my home rather than my barn. Let me rub down your mount while you warm yourself by the fire.”

He was shivering now and – noble and honourable as he might be – he could not, in good conscience, reject an offer that was so very welcome and so freely given. 

“Let’s do that together for we are both drenched and weary,” he replied gently, grabbing a handful of straw and starting to dry his horse; after a moment of stunned silence, you joined him.

When you finally returned to your rooms, the merrily blazing and crackling fire almost making you cry with relief, you handed King Éomer your best linen towels – set aside by your mother for your wedding day – and retreated into the privacy of the small chamber in which you slept to peel off your wet clothes.

After braiding your hair hastily and donning your best gown, you returned confidently into the main room only to discover that your king was crouching by the hearth, kindling the fire distractedly. His light armour and tunic were spread out by his feet to dry though and his leggings hugged his muscular thighs indecently. 

Your mouth ran dry.

@fellowshipofthefics here we go again :D

That's it from me for today...Lots of love <3

-> Masterlist

[i-did-not-mean-to]

October 13th

Baking

This one is clearly dedicated to the amazing mods of the @fellowshipofthefics server.

@lordoftherazzles thanks for being a true friend ❤️‍🔥 So, here we go with innocent shenanigans...

Words: 653

Warnings: None

“Thorin, I swear,” Bilbo huffed in annoyance; as much as he loved the dwarven king presently trying fitfully to swallow a handful of blueberries without chewing them for fear of giving himself away.

Which was entirely unnecessary as Bilbo had clearly seen him stuff the fruit into his voracious mouth.

“You are a menace in the kitchen,” he went on griping as he stirred the muffin batter with a tad more vehemence than strictly necessary.

“I am helping,” Thorin protested, his ponderous air seriously undermined by the heroic but futile effort to keep blueberry juices from running into his beard as he opened his mouth to speak.

“You are eating our ingredients,” Bilbo shot back with a vicious glare from warningly narrowed eyes, “and we’ve promised the little ones that we’d bake blueberry muffins…which should have blueberries, as they’re in the name. Don’t you think?”

“They should be glad they get any kind of muffin.” Thorin had swallowed dramatically, pretending that he was swallowing down thoughtless words rather than testaments to his crime, before making this self-important declaration.

Bilbo merely cocked an eyebrow; he knew that the dwarf was devoted to the collection of stray nephews – as hungry as wolf pups and as fond of sweets as their notorious uncles – and that he’d never deny them anything that could make them happy.

“Hmmmm.” Thorin’s brow furrowed. “I guess, blueberry muffins do sound rather nice. I shall refrain from now on. What can I do to actually be of any assistance then?”

Bilbo’s ears perked up and – under messy curls full of flour because Thorin had misunderstood the term “dusting” – his hazel eyes flashed with wicked glee. “Why don’t you go get more wood for the oven?”

He had enough wood, Bilbo was absolutely sure of that, but he quite liked the way his husband’s muscles bulged when he was carrying in an arm full of heavy, dirty logs. 

Furthermore, the batter was about ready, and he wanted to pour it into the little moulds fashioned lovingly by Thorin’s kin without having any long, curly, black hairs or brazen, stumpy, dwarven fingers in it, thank you very much.

Shaking his head in fond impatience, he made quick work of the last step so that he was holding the tray in thick mittens – a much cherished Yule gift from Ori – when Thorin came back into the kitchen in a gust of cold, fragrant air and shook himself like a dog on account of the rain pouring down in buckets outside.

“If you could be so good as to open the oven for me?” Bilbo prompted and smiled when Thorin hastened to his side eagerly, pulling open the door fearlessly – as a dwarf and a smith, he was entirely unfazed by the blazing heat shooting out of the stove – and eyed the pools of delicious dough longingly.

“The first one is for you,” Bilbo promised with an indulgent smile and a small pat on the invitingly muscular behind of his beloved king. “Now go and put on the kettle. They should be here soon.”

As Thorin made to obey, Bilbo nudged him none too gently in the shoulder with his head.

“Kiss me first,” he demanded, knowing that he was being a proper brat this morning, but not feeling too bad about it when he saw the radiant, affectionate smile spread on Thorin’s face.

As soon as his lips met the coarse beard and the surprisingly soft mouth of the King under the Mountain though, he cried out in mock outrage, “Why, Thorin, you taste like blueberries and sugar! You fiend!”

The resonating, carefree, slightly mischievous bellow of laughter escaping one who had suffered so much made heat – love, relief, and unadulterated joy – pool in the pit of Bilbo’s stomach. 

What were a few stolen blueberries and a batch of wonky, over-stirred muffins in comparison to the life and the happiness of the one he adored?

@fellowshipofthefics here's another one (especially for you)

Lots of love to all the Bagginshielders out there from the middle of the divide haha (Yes, Thorin x OC is also on the list, what can I say? I like both)

-> Masterlist

[i-did-not-mean-to]

October 16th

Feast

This one is dedicated to all the Thorin and dwarf enjoyers out there.

@legolasbadass and @lathalea for the mention of Dís, @middleearthpixie, @linasofia, @xxbyimm, @fizzyxcustard, @frosticenow for the mention of Thorin and the dwarves :D

I hope you'll enjoy this tiny slice of mischief and family fluff.

Words: 670

Warnings: none

Dís would have laughed if she hadn’t been so touched by Thorin’s fretting; there had been a mishap in the kitchens and the food was delayed. 

This was a common enough occurrence and – despite many other talents – Bombur was neither the hastiest nor the fastest dwarf in the settlement; therefore, she surmised that it might well be another hour before the heavily laden trays would be brought out.

She also knew that her dear brother had indulged in stolen cookies with his crony Dwalin only a short while ago, so it was not hungerthat made him scowl so impressively.

“Maybe we should,” Thorin started but was interrupted by the indulgent and fond smile of his sister.

“They are okay,” Dís tried to pacify him quietly, “Dori has raised his own little brother without a problem and he’ll take good care of the lads.”

In her own gut, nervousness and longing were roiling in sickening waves that made her loathe the mere thought of indulging in the lavish feast that had been organised in celebration of another autumn going to an end; winter was almost upon them, and their preparations were on track. 

Her two young sons were probably sleeping peacefully in their beds, no doubt having had more than their fill of sweets and having whispered themselves into drowsiness while taking advantage of the more lenient babysitter; nonetheless, she was terrified that they’d be unhappy, ill, or frightened.

An echo of her own misgivings and doubts rippled over the stately face of her brother – so much like her own – and she forced herself to smile soothingly as she might have at the very boys she was thinking of so desperately.

“Dori would have sent someone down if anything was amiss,” she reassured the both of them in her best “I am the reasonable one here”-voice. “Do not fret, brother mine, your darling heir is safe.”

Anger flared in his icy blue eyes at her words.

“My heir?” Thorin growled, thinking of the two boys whom he had been picking apples with, who slept cuddled against his ribs as if he was the safest place on earth, whom he loved more than his own life. “I love them, Dís, in all the ways…”

She covered his massive paw with her own – slightly narrower and definitely better entertained – hand and sighed, “I know, Thorin, I know. They are safe.”

The ghost of their brother lingered in the air like a childhood smell in a cold kitchen; they both felt the heart-wrenching memory drift in the stillness between them. Frerin, sunny, beloved Frerin, had fallen long ago and yet, every night of celebration and of feasting, reverberations of his booming laughter rang in their ears still.

How he had loved those! Many a time, they had all been punished for sneaking down past their bedtime to see the lights dance on the tankards and reflect from the jewels hanging from sturdy necks.

Despite the reprimands and the impatient reactions from their elders, they had always been sent back to bed with a honeyed cake or two and they too would whisper about the things they had but glimpsed until fatigue made them slur their words. 

Looking up sharply as she remembered, Dís saw three little heads bob up from under a distant table: one golden, one dark, and one pale red. She grinned as she understood that those three devils had given poor, old Dori the slip.

Nudging her brother, she laughed, “Go down, prince Thorin, and shoo your nephews and their little friend back into their warm beds. You are no longer the miscreant caught where he has no business to be; you are now the sour-faced grump who must bar them from all the fun.”

Grumbling ostentatiously, Thorin lumbered away but Dís clearly saw that – as he advanced through the brightly lit hall – he was stuffing his pockets with many a treat to give the misbehaving youngsters once they had cleared the room and had escaped her own disapproving glare. 

@fellowshipofthefics so this is my daily input for today ☺️

I hope you enjoyed this :D

Lots of love from me

-> Masterlist

[i-did-not-mean-to]

October 11th

Cinnamon

So, this one goes out to @lordoftherazzles, @maalezzo, @middleearthpixie, @myselfandfantasy and all the other enjoyers of the Ris (and Ori specifically)

A bit of innocent family fluff :D

Words: 671

Warnings: None

Ori felt miserable; he had spent the day with his friends and despite the deep bond of love and trust they shared, he couldn’t help but feel so woefully inferior that the shame chilled him to the bone.

Fíli and Kíli were of course princes; they had indeed been born to the sister of the king in exile. Thorin forbade the term “king” for he hoped that his father was alive still, but – behind his back – people nonetheless insisted on calling him that, for they did not share his blind faith.

Moreover, they were all poor on account of being far away from their home and their riches, but there was a difference between the young dwarrows, nonetheless. 

Squirming and shimmying, Ori had tried his best to hide the worn patches on his threadbare clothes and had adamantly refused when Lady Dís had offered to pack some food for him, for later. 

It was not exactly arrogance or pride, at least – in his youthful confusion – he didn’t think it was; what held Ori back from accepting the charitable support of the king’s sister was the fear that his actions might otherwise be read as an accusation of incompetence laid at his brothers’ feet.

Despite their differences, Dori and Nori had worked themselves to the bone to make sure that Ori would want for nothing; more often than he could count, either one of them or both had gone to bed a little hungry in order to make sure that the “growing pebble” ate more than his fill.

He owed them more than his life and he loved them desperately, so he’d never risk offending or saddening them for something as inconsequential as a warm meal, no matter how delicious it would have been and with what good grace and generosity the offer had been made.

As he slunk back into their small cottage at the edge of the settlement, shoulders hunched and lips drawn in a despondent frown, Ori decided that he’d have to pretend better than that lest his brothers get worried about him having had a falling out with the princes.

“Ori, my dear boy,” Dori called from the kitchen and that was when the smell hit his younger brother like a sensory ghost: cinnamon.

It was a rare spice that had been Ori’s favourite for years; he knew neither measure nor good sense when it came to it and the pinches Nori would bring home to liven up their thin hot beverages were luxurious memories dearly cherished by the youngest of the family.

Ori crept into the kitchen and found his brother waving a tea towel at a rack of oven-warm cookies.

“I thought you might want to take some of these up to your friends, no? The weather is still fine and you could have tea in the garden?” Dori smiled broadly and handed one of the delicacies to his eager-eyed sibling. “They’re your favourites.”

Of course, Ori thought, Nori had remembered his preference and Dori had spent his day in the kitchen to make sure his baby brother would have a tasty treat to offer his friends.

No matter how dire the circumstances, generosity was a synonym for honour in this house and he had often been compared to cinnamon himself: sweet but discreetly spicy, warm and warming, comforting and homely. Ori was proud of the simile and embraced it fully; one day, he knew, he’d be someone’s cinnamon bun – just like Fíli and Kíli were treat and delight to some dams – and, at the mere thought, his cheeks warmed in anticipation.

As he briskly walked back to his friends’ house with a basket full of fresh cookies, Ori’s misery had been replaced by a deep sense of pride and joy; yes, it was for these moments of defiant triumph that he clenched his jaw and raised his chin in the face of deprivation and doubt.

His brothers did so much for him and he would do them proud, no matter the sacrifices it would take.

@fellowshipofthefics here's another one.

I am hoping you've enjoyed this! Lots of love from me ❤️‍🔥

-> Masterlist

[i-did-not-mean-to]

October 5th

Hand holding

So, this one definitely is for @sorisooyaa who is my beloved baby and one of the people who mean so very much to me. She's been a friend, a supporter, and a steady encouragement that I cannot even describe with words.

I love you baby <3

Words: 600

Warnings: danger, harassment

At the beginning of the semester, the walk to the old, dignified school building had been a pleasant stroll bathed in golden sunlight and accompanied by the soft, whispering rustling of the dying leaves.

Once October had arrived though – the morose sister, cloaked in grey mists, of burnished August – the small alley you had to cut through to get to your class on time, on account of the questionable timetable of the only available bus, suddenly seemed somewhat gloomy and vaguely threatening to you.

Every day, the same man got off the bus at the same time and stop as you and proceeded to walk just a few steps behind you, never getting any closer and adamantly trying to avoid meeting your gaze. 

Oftentimes, some delinquent youths were loitering in dark corners, but the imposing presence of the tall stranger was enough to keep them at bay; he was so luminous even in the chiaroscuro of the early autumn mornings that he somehow managed to chase away the shadows around you.

Once you set foot on campus, he nodded curtly at you in what you surmised was supposed to be a friendly manner and turned sharply to his right.

It was very clear to you that he would arrive at his destination faster by just going in the opposite direction but – as the weeks went by – you grew used to his stern face and his light, almost colourless hair vaguely visible on the edge of your field of vision.

In the beginning, you had been slightly put off by his presence, but you soon came to see him as a silent sentinel who protected you without ever having exchanged a single word with you.

On a particularly overcast and dark morning, the bus had been five minutes late and this made you hasten your steps through the now distinctly uncomfortable alley; when you slipped on the wet pavement, his hand shot out and, wrapping lightly around your wrist, the stranger steadied you effortlessly.

“Oi Missus,” a youthful voice suddenly came from behind; there was something jeering and impatient in the tone of it that drove shivers down your spine, “where are you running to, pretty thing?”

You were a woman, alone, in a dark side street, and your class had already started; there would be nobody on campus waiting or even looking for you. You were caught.

Just as you were about to embrace the risk of breaking all your bones on the slimy pavement, the steady warmth of that hand, still gently encasing your wrist, broke through the panicked haze of your muddled thoughts. You were not alone after all.

“Just walk,” a calm, melodious voice spoke right beside your ear and then those long, pale fingers moved downwards until your hand was clasped gingerly in a broad palm.

“Thank you, Sir,” you whispered, tightening the grip of your icy fingers around the welcome heat radiating from that stalwart companion who held your hand as if it was made of glass and stardust. 

He walked you all the way to your building, standing around sheepishly until you had made it to the heavy glass doors.

“I could wait in the library for you? Later, I mean? If you’d be interested in a cup of tea or something? As a thank you for your double-rescue?” you stammered, surprisingly unwilling to let him go.

Wordlessly, he nodded. You smiled to yourself, knowing already that – if he were to show up later – you’d slip your hand into his on your way to the coffee shop at the corner; maybe, you fervently hoped, you could make this a thing between the two of you.

My darling (and everyone else) I hope you liked this...

@fellowshipofthefics: here's number 5

Lots of love from me

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[i-did-not-mean-to]

October 3rd

Warm beverages

This one is clearly dedicated to @laurfilijames, my dear friend, @blairsanne, @medusas-hairband and all the other lovely people in the Dean server.

Keep the love for my favourite Cameo-star up!

Words: 500

Warnings: none

“You shouldn’t be out here like that,” Fíli declared decidedly just as he let his warm, heavy coat settle around your shoulders. “You’ll catch a chill.”

Laughing softly, you looked up into his face, illuminated by the starlight raining down on the two of you in silver showers. If you were completely honest, you had been feeling under the weather anyway lately and sitting on the peaceful hill at night could hardly make it any worse.

“Don’t move,” he commanded with all the authority of a crown prince and knelt by your side to tighten his garment – retaining the heat and the tantalising scent of his body – around you diligently. “I shall be right back.”

The quick kiss he pressed onto your lips imbued you with that particular warmth that was entirely his own; it seemed to bloom like a sunflower in your heart and spread in golden tendrils through your bloodstream.

Suspended in the utterly bewitching silence of the wind still night, you lost track of the moments passing you by until slow steps alerted you to his careful return.

Holding out a heavy earthen mug to you, Fíli very cautiously settled down by your side, blowing upon the steaming surface of the hot beverage in his own hand absent-mindedly.

“Do you remember the day we went apple picking?” he asked you in a hushed voice and nodded at the drinking vessel firmly clasped between your cold fingers. “Bombur mashed the ugly ones and made cider from them.”

You took a small sip; the tartness of the fruit was the baseline – the theme – of the liquid delicacy, but there were notes of brown sugar and accents of different spices you clearly noticed but couldn’t definitively identify now.

“This is delicious,” you cried out, leaning over to kiss a drop of hot cider from his moustache; the familiar and yet ever-enticing taste of his love complemented the complex nuances of the drink beautifully and your head started swimming comfortably. “You’ll have to give me the recipe.”

Chuckling mischievously, he returned your kisses with more passion, running a rough thumb down the side of your throat and grinning: “It’s a family secret; I am sorry, but I’d have to kill you if I told you.”

You nodded dejectedly, feeling foolish and insolent for having even asked.

“Or…” he said as he nudged your jaw with his nose to get your attention, “I could make you part of my family?”

“Is this the cider talking?” you asked warily, desperate hope flaring – hot and prickling like the spiced drink – in your stomach.

“No, we are talking about the cider,” he chortled, “the drink itself has no voice.”

You hummed vaguely; as far as you were concerned, this potion of love and care sang hymns and symphonies within you, but before you could find the words, the moment had passed.

Hence the two of you sat in silence, sipping hot cider and dreaming of a future about to begin.

@fellowshipofthefics this was my entry for day 3 :D

I hope you liked this as well (you see we've switched fandoms here haha)...

Let me know <3

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[i-did-not-mean-to]

October 1st

Apple picking

This first ficlet is dedicated to my e-husband @the-girl-with-the-algebra-book, @sortumavaara's beautiful art, @eunoiaastralwings and @maglor-my-beloved's TRSB fic pertaining to Erestor's parentage.

Poooo, rather nervous to be opening with a pairing I've never written before...😅😅😅

Words: 550

Warnings: None

Erestor looked up in outrage as something cold and hard hit his forehead with considerable force as he sat bent over an old tome.

“What is this?” he cried out angrily.

“Why, Erestor, my dearest, it’s an apple!” Glorfindel leaned cockily against a bookshelf much too old and valuable to be treated this callously and seemed only minimally distressed by his bad aim.

Or had he done that on purpose?

“Pray tell, dearest,” the seated victim of this vicious attack hissed, “why would you pelt me with fruit?”

“It’s good for your health…the apple, I mean, not the pelting!”

Erestor’s brows drew together further until they looked like slim caterpillars about to lean in for a coy kiss. “Is that so? It seems quite a marvel then that I’ve lived through so many ages unscathed without the invaluable counsel of one who – as far as memory serves – has died and been spit out again for being too annoying even for the Valar to withstand.”

The radiant light of Glorfindel’s countenance flickered for a heartbeat or two before he caught the fond gleam of indulgence in the forbidding librarian’s gaze. 

“Moreover,” Erestor declared after inspecting the missile critically for a moment, “this apple is quite subpar. Is this the measure of your affection for me?”

With a dramatic groan, the bold and beautiful Lord melted onto the desk to bat his golden lashes seductively at his still graciously sedentary lover glowering down impressively at him.

“Oh, you’re his son and there’s no doubt about it; it is good to see the old blood heating up as it ever has,” Glorfindel mused, stricken with a heart-wrenching pang of nostalgia and longing. “I’d see it sustained for a while longer yet, is that really so devious?”

“By throwing bruised fruit at a skull that shall soon be equally as damaged?” Erestor shot back with a glint of sharp humour, holding the truly rather unfortunate-looking fruit aloft by the stem.

Unable to resist the pull, Glorfindel touched a warm hand to that tense jaw and caressed his lover tenderly; he had been roaming the fields all morning and, overcome with the desire to spend the afternoon with the one he had known for longer than his whole present life, he might just have been swept away by his own ebullient enthusiasm. Charm always worked better on Erestor than brute force, he well knew, and so – quickly and elegantly – he changed his tactics.

“Might I avail myself of your guidance and sweet company in the orchard then?” he purred softly, biting back a grin as he saw the dour expression progressively drain from that beloved face tilted down at him with fond forbearance now. “You may point out the most beautiful specimens to me and it will be my honour to retrieve them for you.”

“You just want to jump around in the trees like the savage you are,” Erestor grumbled, but – his papers having been thoroughly crumpled and set awry by Glorfindel’s antics – he shrugged into his previously discarded overcoat with a sigh, nonetheless.

“Let’s go apple picking then,” he chuckled, “sweet love of mine.”

“I knew I’d convince you,” Glorfindel hooted and leapt ahead, evidently very pleased with himself and his successful scheme to draw Erestor out of the dusty library on such a golden autumn day.

So this is the first entry for my October ficlet run.

@fellowshipofthefics thank you for this amazing prompt sheet.

If you liked this, please let me know, I am sincerely struggling with my writing, my person, and my life in general at the moment and I would very much welcome any sign that I am not just a massive waste of space on this planet.

Thank you 🥲

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[i-did-not-mean-to]

October 28th

Pumpkins

This one is dedicated to @purpleprosaist...Please know that you're cherished, friend!

Words: 560

Warnings: none...there's a knife?

Sam frowned at the last pumpkins left of the bountiful harvest; after the cakes, the cookies, the soups, and the various sauces and fillings, nobody wanted to see them show up – no matter how sneaky the form – on the menu anymore.

His first idea had been to carve them, but now he was not sure anymore whether it would be judicious to hand a knife to Mister Frodo and ask him to plunge it into anything; there had been enough stabbing and carving in their shared history and maybe, it would be better to leave all of this behind for good.

“Are you in conference with the pumpkins, my dear Sam?” 

As he whirled around, Sam saw the warm smile of the one he had followed to hell and back; there were still persistent signs of weakness in his movements and a wavering, lingering shadow dimming the radiance of a once so overwhelmingly bright smile, but Frodo looked relaxed and cheery on this bright autumn day.

“No, Mister Frodo,” he stammered, hiding the knife he had been twirling and twisting meditatively in his hands behind his back quickly.

“What is it you’re hiding from me?” Frodo strolled closer, blowing a stray lock of hair out of his face absent-mindedly as he looked upon the perfectly shaped vegetables on the worn kitchen table and waited for Sam to reveal the tremendous crime he had been about to commit if his guilty expression was any indication.

“T’is just,” Sam started softly, cleared his throat and then tried again, “I thought mayhap you wanted to carve something nice into the remaining pumpkins? We could put candles in them and place them on the porch so the nights don’t seem quite so dark?”

Colour rose into his cheeks that had regained their healthy glow and embonpoint when Frodo simply stared at him in wonder; it was so comfortingly like Sam to come up with a mundane task – borrowed and adapted from childhood days and their inherent bliss – and turn it into something quietly monumental. 

“Forget it,” Sam exclaimed hastily, “it was a dumb idea; of course, you wouldn’t want anything more to do with knives after...”

“No,” Frodo interrupted him kindly, “no, I would love that. Let’s carve something merry, no spiders, no rings, no deserts. Let’s celebrate the Shire and the strong light that guides us through our darkest days.”

For a time, they sat in companionable silence, absorbed in the calming effect the crafting had on their minds while their nimble fingers worked tirelessly; Frodo could but admire the careful precision with which Sam handled the pumpkins and, while he tried to reproduce the valley of Imladris on the bright orange canvas himself, he thought fondly of his uncle Bilbo and his marvellous drawings.

When Sam smiled and held his creation aloft, pride shining brightly from his tender eyes, Frodo was once again reminded of all the goodness and pure beauty they had saved.

It had all been worth it, he thought as a sense of peace, intermingled with a strange longing, washed over him; the candles had been lit and flickered rhythmically in the cool draft of the chill night air, and he was sitting – huddled in a blanket and Sam’s arms – on the porch looking out on a home he had much missed and yet had never truly returned to.

@fellowshipofthefics here's a LOTR one...

Lots of love from me; tell me if I completely missed the mark 🥹

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[i-did-not-mean-to]

October 23rd 

Candlelight

Dear @scyllas-revenge, this one is for you and our other Boromir-fans in the server :D

I love you dearly and I will never be able to express how much your friendship means to me 💖 You are delightful!!

Oc is from this story.

Words: 731

Warnings: nothing, bad soup...

The groan Boromir uttered as the lights flashed and then died held all the frustrations of a man foiled by nature and aware of his helplessness.

Decided to prove to Aubrey that he was not the pampered, indolent royal she might have expected – and to redeem himself for the truly abysmal speech he had prepared and that she had been good enough to amend in long hours of meticulous work – he had invited her to dinner. 

The small cottage he had been granted – for security and privacy reasons – by the gracious government whose esteemed guest he was had the cutest, little kitchen he had ever seen, and he had been eager to make use of it.

When they had been but lads, Faramir and he would sneak down to the kitchens and learn how to make a proper roast and the best potato dishes at old cook’s side; a pang of nostalgic longing overcame him at the thought of a woman long dead and buried now for he had been very fond of the patient, kind woman who had taught him many a good trick and an easy dish that he had devotedly recreated and adapted over the years.

The storm was spewing rain against the windowpanes as if it tried to tear them asunder, eager to hammer down on tender flesh and delicate skin; illuminated by the bleak light of lightning slashing through the darkened sky, Aubrey’s eyes looked huge and unfathomable, but her smile was generous and cheery.

“Candles?” she asked in a soft tone, feeling her way along the kitchen counter; Boromir’s hand brushed hers as he made to open the same drawer she had already started pulling out and she shrunk back in surprise.

“I had a roast in the oven,” he lamented, only minimally pacified by the feeling of cold wax underneath his fingertips as he pulled out half-burned-down candle stumps and a nearly empty matchbox from the messy pile of lost buttons and stray keys.

“And I am sure it would have been marvellous,” Aubrey appeased him without the slightest hint of disbelief or irony in her voice. In the wavering light of the flickering tapers, she looked like the ghostly apparition of a much yearned-for soulmate, Boromir found, akin to the visions the servant girls were seeking in antique mirrors when they stood – in their nightdresses – in dark corridors, holding hallowed lights in their trembling hands.

As she grinned though and nodded at two cans of tomato soup, he had to amend his assessment; Aubrey was beautiful in a vivacious, winning way that could barely be captured by a reflection or even a picture. One had to see her move, smile, speak, or laugh to truly be able to even fathom how painfully alive she was.

“You deserve better,” he moaned, but – remembering his training and evenings in much less hospitable circumstances – he resigned himself to serving a woman he desperately wanted to impress lukewarm soup from a tin can and stale bread from the previous day.

He had half-expected her enthusiastic reaction but was still charmed by the way she ladled the bland fare – only barely heightened by the old spices they had unearthed in a cupboard – as if it was an award-winning dish presented to her on a golden plate by a three-star chef. 

“You are marvellous,” he breathed as he watched her wipe up the last drops of her soup with a handful of bread, smiling mischievously at him and motioning for him to do the same.

Her face went expressionless with stunned surprise upon seeing him so intensely moved by an emotion that she could not easily identify or name.

“How about you tell me more about that?” she then prompted with a wink, ambling over – candle in hand – to the fridge and giving a small shout of cheer when she opened the heavy door. “We shall be here for quite some time as these have to be taken care of before they go bad.”

Boromir doubted that the few bottles of beer and wine would turn sour and become undrinkable within a night, but the idea of keeping this miracle by his side – sleepy and slightly tipsy – was too good for him to resist.

He was a good, honourable man, but – at the end of the day, in a deluge of biblical proportions – he was still only a man.

@fellowshipofthefics some Boromir for your nerves!!!

Lots of love from me (as always)...

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[i-did-not-mean-to]

October 18th

Blood Moon

This one is for all my anons who request Legolas for many a challenge and event. I hope you're doing well and I love you dearly.

Have some tense Legolas (where he never appears haha)

Words: 466

Warnings: mention of blood and violence

You looked up in sorrow and worry; the moon looked as if it had been dipped in blood and every ray of light pouring muddily from it was soiled by the eery russet tinge clinging to them stubbornly.

“Find him,” the words of your king echoed in your ears, straining to catch the whispers of the old, sleepy forest around you. “Find my son and keep watch over him.”

Far from being a warrior yourself, you had been surprised that you had been chosen for this perilous journey; a tree-whisperer more than a lethal combatant, you had trusted the soil and the trees to dissimulate and shield you from the enemies crawling through the land like vermin.

Sending your spirit out into the earth that rippled in soft ridges around your immobile form, you quested for news from Legolas and his companions. 

For a moment you felt bad about how little you cared about the others – even though their role in this quest was just as important as your prince’s if not much more – but you couldn’t help the crazed yearning of your heart. 

There had been a moment of irrational optimism when you had hoped that the handsome royal would consider courting you; it was not the crown and the title that had enthralled your heart and soul though, it had been the singular, gentle, sensitive beauty of a being so noble he radiated with a light nowadays long-lost and buried in the merciless sands of time.

Now, after everything that had happened and in the shadow of the ever-encroaching darkness, you could barely recall what it had felt like to have faith in life and hope for the future.

Nevertheless, dreams were wily things and yours was far from dead.

The garish moonlight bleeding down upon your frozen limbs spoke of crimes unimaginable and dire desolation though; you shivered and redoubled your efforts to read the memories of the trunks and leaves groaning and rustling in their eagerness to tell the compelling tale of a company passing them by, hastening through the underbrush in the desperate pursuit of friendship and an impossible victory.

“My love,” you sighed, allowing yourself that moment of honesty in a clearing where nobody but the trees could witness your weakness, “I am on my way.”

You knew not what perils your prince had found himself in, but the voices of the woods whispered urgently now, encouraging you to move swiftly and unseen through the red night if you wanted to find and help the one your heart still belonged to.

“Elbereth be with me,” you whispered as you stood, brushing off the dead leaves and flecks of moss from your wet knees, and preparing for a long, noiseless run through the crimson haze of blood shed under hooded skies.

@fellowshipofthefics here's one of two for today!

I hope you have enjoyed this; it's hard to send out a love letter to anons, but I hope this reaches you in the depths of the WWW and you'll know how much you mean to me!

Lots of love!!!

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[i-did-not-mean-to]

October 30th

Trick-or-treat

Ah, well...@aeonianarchives and @heilith, here is the entry for Lindir. He was my entry point into writing elves and I'll be forever grateful to him for that :D

We're almost at the end now...

Enjoy!

Words: 629

Warnings: None

“Come on,” you grinned, nudging Lindir in the ribs, much to his visible discomfort, “it will be fun.”

He raised the paper moon headdress at the same time as his elegant eyebrows arched upwards questioningly; despite being neither arrogant nor particularly vain, Lindir was exceedingly reticent to ever present himself in an unfavourable light.

Spinning in your raiment – the twins had decided that you were to be the sun while they would impersonate twinkling stars as a homage to their dear father – you winked at Lindir cheerily. 

Their plan – complete with a map of Imladris – was to pester and beg until the esteemed councillors and residents would either bribe them with treats or become the victims of their wicked practical jokes; they had been looking forward to this night for weeks. 

Neither one of you would have been able to deny the little ones with their pleading eyes and quivering lips anyway, but you had to admit that you loved your costume – shimmering and sparkling in the fading autumn light – and that you felt beautiful in it.

“You’ll look great,” you assured Lindir and stepped closer to him to affix the last part of his own disguise to his shapely head before he could tear the twins’ lovingly crafted creation to shreds by fiddling with it nervously.

“You only say that because you don’t want to disappoint the kids,” he mumbled but froze into a statue of marble under your careful hands. “You don’t actually mean it.”

“But I do!” you cried out vehemently. “I’ve helped embroider this overcoat for you. You look incredibly handsome and the moon suits your calm, mysterious, and enchanting aura so well.”

It was true that he looked stunning in the fruit of your painstaking labours; the silver threads and moonstone beads complimented his pale complexion and depthless eyes just how you had imagined them to do when – dreaming about Lindir’s sweet, quiet nature that warmed your heart without ever burning your skin – your fingers had embellished the fabric in reverence of his subdued but nonetheless pervasive beauty.

Averting his face bashfully, Lindir blushed to the roots of his dark hair – now held back not only by his neat braids but also by the silver-threaded headdress – and fingered the sleeves of the richly decorated garment those he loved so had fashioned for him.

He was painfully aware that his colleagues and friends would get to see him outfitted thus as they were the cornerstones of tonight’s entertainment; he probably already imagined Glorfindel’s smirk and Erestor’s scowl and hence, he shrunk back into a corner as if trying to vanish.

“Are we ready?” The twins burst into the room in a puff of glitter and carefree laughter, dressed as little, twinkling stars; their eyes shone so brightly that, for a moment, you truly believed there would never be darkness in these lands again.

“Almost,” you cooed. “What do you think of our beloved Lindir? Won’t he make a fantastic moon?”

“Oh, he’s the master of mooning,” Lord Elrond commented slyly, leaning against the doorframe and winking discreetly at you; even though he was the very definition of gravitas and neutrality, he sometimes couldn’t resist a small jibe when the occasion arose. 

It was all in good fun though and when he asked you to stand, all together, on the balcony so he could commit this picture to his eternal and infallibly faithful memory, you couldn’t fight the radiant smile – quite worthy of the sun you were meant to represent – rising on your face like a new day.

Dutiful as ever, Lord Elrond dug his hands into his coat pockets and produced the twins’ favourite treats. “Go and terrorise my peaceful sanctuary,” he whispered and watched his sons barrel down the corridor with an enthusiastic war-cry.

@fellowshipofthefics Only one more to go and you'll be rid of me!

As ever, lots of love from me!

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[i-did-not-mean-to]

October 4th

Family

This one is dedicated to the various servers I am in & to the many people who have done their best to encourage me in my exploration of that hot mess of a family.

Special shoutout to @maglorslostsilmaril who was one of my TRSB partners and helped me see the drama from a more humorous point of view.

In this ficlet, we'll have references to a good many pairings and ships I've read and adored; if your OTP is hinted at, it's probably because I loved your writing 🤣

Words: 695 (oops)

Warnings: Chaos and a tinge of sadness

It didn’t matter, Finwë decided, he didn’t care that neither Írissë nor Turkafinwë had changed for dinner, he didn’t mind that his oldest son was glaring at his younger ones in annoyance and impatience, he didn’t even object to the little ones having fallen asleep during his monumentally important and very eloquent speech, all but drowning in the soup that was probably growing cold by now.

They were all here and they were beautiful – each and every one of them – radiating like miniature stars, moons, and suns around a table heavily laden with food. 

Every step, every drop of blood shed, every tear spilt, every sacrifice ripped from his chafed hands had been worth it in the end for now, after the perilous journey and the years of painful settling, he could gaze upon those luminous faces he had never even dared dream about in the darkness following his awakening.

So much had happened since that he would never have been able to foresee.

The scandal of his second nuptials had left a bitter aftertaste and poisoned ripples of strife in its wake, it was true, but how could he have regretted his faithlessness – deeper and more grievous yet than anyone alive other than Olwë even knew – if it had led to such indisputable glory and wonder?

“This is delicious,” Nelyafinwë praised in that thin but resolute voice of a young man yet to come into his own, Findekáno’s eyes riveted on his pale lips as they moved around the polite phrase.

Before he could thank his grandson though, Finwë’s own courtesy was interrupted by the unfortunate fact that Morifinwë had started kicking Angaráto under the table which then quickly led to considerable generalised discontentment and shoving; in the process, Curufinwë’s – the grandson’s, not the wayward firstborn’s – rickety construction of a makeshift ballista out of cutlery was pushed over, effectively destroying the tower of empty bowls behind which Turukáno had hitherto been avoiding social pleasantries.

Chaos broke out. Ever caring, Findaráto did his best to somewhat pacify both rightfully disgruntled, oddly precocious builders with sweet words and caresses while Kanafinwë intonated an unnecessarily bawdy song.

In a display of instinctive and shameless savagery Indis had never allowed herself to indulge in, the usually so placid matrons of the unleashed brood hissed and growled at their progeny warningly while – to Finwë’s embarrassment – his own sons blinked owlishly for a moment too long; by the time they had mobilised their punitive stares, the commotion had been settled by the baring of the children’s mothers’ white teeth and a few guttural sounds.

Despite their shocking display of questionable manners and open hostility, Finwë found his descendants to be magnificent and valiant and so he was proud to be their patriarch; little did he know then that, upon leaving the place of his awakening, he had brought – stowed away safely in the intimate corners of this stalwart heart – all-consuming darkness to these blessed shores and that it had been passed down as surely as his courage and his wisdom to the flourishing branches of which he was the origin and the roots.

Later, those who had never been to any of his messy but deeply amusing family feasts would say – in hushed whispers or acrimonious accusation – that he had been woefully neglectful in ignoring the warning signs; they claimed that he had either grown indolent or had been seduced into ludicrous optimism after the hardship he had endured in his younger years.

They knew nothing of the hope and promise presiding at those meetings of course, how could they have? They were blissfully ignorant of the love Finwë’s old heart was brimming with whenever he gathered all his descendants in the same room. 

On this particular festive evening indeed, Finwë was entertained and charmed by his children and grandchildren who – before long – would go down in history as the first and the most redoubtable of murderers of their kind. 

He would be dead by then and his most cherished dream would have perished with him; it would be long years before he learned the whole truth that would manage what neither Elwë nor Míriel had achieved: break his heart.

That concludes Day 4.

@fellowshipofthefics I am still on track :D

As always, lots of love from me. Say a prayer for Finwë who was so happy and proud...once upon a time.

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[i-did-not-mean-to]

October 14th

Superstitions

This one is a nod to my favourite Gigolas fic Gold Coin by AlexFlex & a homage to all the amazingly beautiful and talented Gigolas writers on this platform.

Words: 545

Warnings: None

Legolas knelt on the damp forest floor, breathing in the fresh, clean air around him eagerly as he harkened to the voices of the woods.

“Come closer,” he called softly when he sensed another presence behind him, “friend of mine.”

Gimli ambled over carefully, placing each of his boots with great circumspection to avoid treading on any of the delicate flowers that waved like a living, verdant sea around the ethereal creature sitting motionless amongst them.

The spirits – old as time and wary of intruders – of every living thing recoiled as the resounding steps of a foe fell like steel hammers onto the fertile ground, but Legolas sent out his own mind to pacify his surroundings.

“Touch your forehead to the grass so the forest may know you,” he bade Gimli softly, his eyes alight with the strange and frightening magic of his timeless people. 

Nonetheless, Gimli did as he was told, taking off his helmet and putting it reverently onto a pillow of moss; his hair and beard were precious to him and hence, he’d offer them to the living soil as a token of honesty. May whatever powers Legolas was in communion with recognise his loyal heart and good intentions, he thought peacefully as the wind brushed through his braids and the smell of wet earth permeated his thick beard.

“This is my friend, Gimli,” Legolas prayed in a language Gimli could not understand in his mind and yet the words flowed through his heart like a river of truth. “Humbly, I ask of you to shield him from danger and nourish him when he is weary. The love I bear him I throw into the balance of his kind’s crimes against root and leaf, in hopes that you’ll find clemency blooming where bitterness thrives.”

He as well touched his brow to the ground, bowing deeply before a might that had witnessed and sustained his people’s efforts, fights, and victories throughout ages dark and terrible.

When they rose, silently, Gimli dared grasp Legolas’ hand and led him to a small rocky outcrop at the edge of the clearing; there, he laid down two votive stones he must have been carrying all the while and – placing both his broad, callused, strong hands onto the sun-warmed stone – he closed his eyes in silent prayer to Mahal, his maker.

He as well invoked whatever grace and goodwill invested in his steadfast courage and sturdy nature so that the Smith might look kindly upon one wrought of elegant and graceful willows and dreams instead of unyielding metal.

“Lend him strength,” Gimli rumbled frantically within his head, “and steel his slender body against the onslaught of evil forces seeking to cut what should never be frayed. Stone who is root to this world, I beg of you to lead his light steps to better days.”

Tucking one of his stones back into a secret pocket in his armour, Gimli handed the other to Legolas with a hacked-off snort.

You are mine, this stone declared brazenly, your life and mine are intertwined.

Superstitions, the dark as much as the more hopeful ones, when shared thus passed over into the realm of faith and the world they so loved listened to their fervent pleas and – in time – would grant them.

@fellowshipofthefics here's my latest entry. Still on track :D

Lots of love from me :)

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