tobylix-blog

[tobylix-blog]

If all late updates were as good as Dana's, we would live in a perfect world...

The language is enough to put one to shame. The description is oh so wonderfully soft. And the set up- hehe, juts read it, y'know

P.S. Now I really regret not going to any Halloween parties

Love Spells and Fang-tastic Kisses (A Hauntingly Romantic Tale) | hobbit

pairing: Thranduil x fem!reader 👑🦇

You're invited to Thranduil's halloween party; a fangtastic opportunity to get closer to the man you've been harbouring a crush on

tags/ warnings: none, modern!au, Thranduil in a hot vampire costume

word count: 8,2k

an: hello!! happy Halloween! This is totally not a month late!! We shall ignore and celebrate Halloween!

+ masterlist + rules +🌿 reposts and comments are much appreciated, they motivate me a lot and keep me writing <3

You're invited to a Night of Haunting Delights!

Dearly Departed,

As the brisk winds of autumn carry the faint whispers of otherworldly echoes, and the luminous full moon bathes the night in an unsettling glow, we extend a chilling invitation for you to join us at a Halloween gathering that guarantees to send shivers down your spine!

Attire: Elegantly Eerie or Ghoulishly Glamorous

“Tilda if you want your braid to be straight you have to hold still for a second!”

The girl in front of you nods obediently but a few seconds later the wobbling of her head starts again as she grows impatient. Five minutes ago, after she kept reaching back with her hands when the braiding pinched a little, you had asked her to sit on her hands. What you didn't count on was that this would give the girl the wonderful opportunity to swing forward and backward, using the height difference that her hands gave her to the usually flat surface of the kitchen stool. 

You allow yourself another quick glance at the clock above the fridge and immediately regret it again when you see the time. 

It was already just after four, and while on any other Friday afternoon that was just the kickoff to the weekend, today didn't offer you much more time to have three children – four if you counted Bard – ready with costumes and makeup. 

Your eyes flitted from the clock to the invitation pinned to the fridge, surrounded by all kinds of paintings; the animals were Tildas, the planes had been drawn by Bain and there were a few more advanced watercolor sceneries that Sigrid had done, hung up with different shapes of magnets and while there was so much color the silver paper with the beautiful handwriting stood out in elegant monochromy.

Now, with the current time coming up closer to the one on the invitation, more than ever since the kids had brought it home from school a few weeks ago. 

The girl in front of you wiggles again and you bite down on the hair tie that you had to take away from her (she had offered to hold them while you braided but with her nervousness, she had dropped them two times until you had taken them again). 

“Tilly,” you groan out between clenched teeth, just barely catching the last centimetres of hair you had left before they slipped away and you could start from the beginning.

“Sorry Auntie,” the girl giggles, the sound so pure and full of excitement that the annoyance and stress disappear in a pink cloud full of love for her. “Are you done soon?” Tilda asks, already moving her head again to look back at you but you react fast and turn with the movement.

“One second–,” You hold the hair in one hand and grab the hair tie with the other, quickly securing the braid. When it falls down, you reach for the small mirror placed on the kitchen counter, holding it out so that Tilda can get a look at herself. Watching over her shoulder, you see the red-painted lips curve in a smile. 

“I look so pretty!” she exclaims, her eyes wide and sparkling, not just because of the glitter she wanted you to put on her eyelids. 

You laugh, tapping her red nose with one finger, “Yes you do! The prettiest scarecrow in the whole wide world”

She scrunches her nose, and takes one last look in the mirror before she hops down the stool with such speed that you nearly drop the mirror in order to catch her. But she lands safely on the floor, running off into the hallway, where you can hear her stomping up the stairs.

You hope she will only grab her stuff and be ready in ten minutes when you had planned to leave. 

Knowing her, you would need to send Sigrid to get her sister.

Halloween had been a lot easier a few years ago, when it had been just you and a bottle of wine alone on the couch, watching scary movies or the few times you'd gone out with work colleagues. Halloween at the Bowman's house, no, scratch that, Halloween in Esgaroth in general was incomparable to that.

Not that you would want to trade your life now for those years, not for any amount of money. 

When you moved from the bustling city of Gondor to the quiet seaside town of Esgaroth there hadn't been any more lonely nights, alone yes, you needed them from time to time, but never lonely. How could you be lonely if you had Tilda, Bain, and Sigrid in the neighbourhood? They were responsible for the move, including the change of apartment as well as job, if only indirectly. 

After their mother, and Bard's wife, had passed away, your brother had overworked himself trying to feed all four of them, taking on a second and third job next to his handyman one, which in itself had already taken up too much time. It had taken you too much to listen to how tired and completely exhausted he had sounded on the phone calls between you, which had diminished in their regularity. 

He didn't have to explicitly ask for your help, he was too stubborn for that, which is why you didn't let him know that you had quit your job (it had been unbearable and much too boring anyway) and your apartment (please, who wants to live in a multistoried building with a hundred tenants?!). You had just left one day with all your stuff in the car, rented a small vacation apartment in Esgaroth and rang the doorbell.

You had chosen a Sunday morning, the only morning of the week when he was not at work and far too tired to object much.

One week after that, Bard helped you move into the guest room. 

Not that you weren't extremely happy with the life you now lived, much cosier and full of laughter, family movie nights and stickers everywhere on your clothes, but right now you wished you could have imprinted your organized lifestyle from before on your brother.

“Bard? We should leave in like–” You watch the clock, debating on whether you should lie to give all of you enough time to finally get out the door. Hearing nothing but what sounded like chaos from upstairs, the answer was clear, “–in five minutes!”

Eh, close enough to the truth. 

A door slams somewhere, followed by the sound of boots on the carpeted stairs that barely muffle the steel soles. “Coming!” you hear Bard's grave voice getting louder the closer he gets, “Have you seen my hat? I swear I left it here..”

“On the sofa.”

“What? Who put it there?”

You would have laughed if you didn't hear a loud crash from upstairs at that moment.

“Everything's fine!” Sigrid yells just as you and Bard nearly run into each other on the way to check whatever happened and if someone is hurt. The edge of Bard's cowboy hat, now safely placed on his curly mess of hair, slams into your forehead, not enough to really hurt but it slows you down abruptly. 

“Sorry, sorry!” Bard takes a step back and adjusts his hat. “What are you doing up there?” he yells, casting an apologetic glance at you as he steps back onto the first step. “I'll be right back down.”

Another glimpse at the clock. 

“Tell the little monsters they'd best come straight with you or I'll tell all the neighbours to give their candy to Legolas!” you raise your voice enough that it would travel all the way to the three children's rooms. Immediately there is an indignant shout, a proclamation of “You wouldn't dare!” (Bain), “Legolas would never do that to us!” (Tilda) and “I can't get my dress zipped, Da!” (Sigrid).

It's a miracle how you and Bard manage to be out the door relatively on time with all the kids both costumed and ready with makeup, and equipped with bags for their candy. 

You don't question it any further, happy that you finally made it and with few incidents. You had already been out with one foot when Bain ran in again because he had forgotten his proton pack for his Ghostbuster costume. After that Sigrid had to go to the bathroom and last but not least under the laughter of the others you went in again to exchange the cape that had come with your witch costume against a far warmer black coat. 

You are glad that you did, even if it cost you time that you truly didn't have.

October has made itself comfortable in the small town, decorating the trees on the side of the road scarlet red, pumpkin orange and a sulfurous yellow and the cold winds that swirl through the colourful trees are biting at your legs, despite the tights you wear under the dress. 

“Shit, I hope they have a warm punch,” Bard leans towards you, careful that the curse doesn't reach his kids that are walking a few meters in front of you, awing at the town's Halloween decorations.

You look from them to your brother. “Have you met them? Of course, they will have warm punch, jeez, I am sure we will have mulled wine served to us in barrels.”

It wasn't an understatement, last year the hosts of what must be the biggest Halloween party in the area (not just in Esgaroth, it was bigger than the ones in most cities on the coast) had shipped in the most expensive bottles of cider and even the simplest choices of drinks like water or coke had been served in crystal flutes. 

Bard grins, clearly remembering the cider as well, or the effect it had. By the third glass, when all the kids had been tucked into their beds in the mansion and the adults had gathered outside again, there had been one too many drinking contests with the result of a shared hangover. 

“I can't wait to see what Thranduil has planned for this year,” Bard muses, raising a hand to scratch the stubble of his beard. He turns his head slightly in question. “He didn't tell you anything?”

“What?” you ask in what was probably a much higher note than usual because Sigrid whips her head around alarmed. You wave her off with a tight smile and lower your voice, “Why–  why should he tell me anything?”

Bard's eyebrows wander so high up his forehead that they should disappear under his stetson any second. “No, don't do that. Don't deflect and worm your way out of this. He comes into the coffee shop daily and I know he stays for a chat.” At your incredulous look, he shrugs his shoulders, “What? The kids talk.. and before you tell them off for snitching–” his lips curve into a smirk “Thranduil mentioned himself that he enjoys staying for his cup of tea.”

“I wouldn't tell them off!” you protest, completely overrun by the sudden emotions cursing through your body like it's a goddamn rollercoaster.

“No, you are too nice for that,” Bard says, drawing a roll of your eyes as a reaction from you, “–and far too flustered that you would speak to them right now.”

Any objection dies on your tongue as another particularly cold breath of wind hits your face and the heat in your cheeks burns indisputable; your denial is no match to it. Your stubbornness, however, steps into the fight with her hands raised, ready to at least try and defend yourself in any way she knows how.

“So what?” you attempt to sound nonchalant. “There are many customers that do not want to leave immediately. They say they like the atmosphere. It's cosy and comfortable.”

When you think of the coffee shop that hired you a few years ago, those adjectives were not the only ones coming to mind- the moss-green facade made it special, tugged in between a white hairdresser and a grey washing saloon, the plants ranging from honeysuckle growing on the walls to seasonal potted plants littering every window sill and the steps up to the dark blue door made it colourful and alive. 

It was however very cosy and comfortable as well once you stepped inside, with cushioned stools and wooden tables decorated with candles in coloured glasses. There were benches under the windows, and a leather couch tugged away in one corner of the room with two giant armchairs where students would hang out during their break you truly love the warm feeling that just thinking about the shop brings to you but you can't help it; your thoughts trail to the man that would come into the coffee shop every morning and sit at the few bar stools at the counter. 

Right where you worked, and waited for him.

Before, your mind would only conjure the big windows, the sound, and smell of coffee getting crushed in the machine and the chatter of the customers but now, and damn that man for messing with you with that, you think about golden sunlight filtering through the window and falling on silver hair, about tea steaming and the flowery scent of it, about the low hums of appreciation when Thranduil would slowly sip his tea, the cup looking tiny cradled between his big and yet slender hands. 

“Yeah sure,” Bard laughs and the familiar sound of it leads you back, out of the coffee shop into the night; Halloween night. “That's what keeps the customers there, right.” He earns himself a well-deserved nudge in the side from your elbow “Ow!” he yelps dramatically, rubbing the spot that you slightly grazed.

“What was that supposed to mean?” you glare at him, eyebrows pinched together, “And I hope for your own well being that you're gonna tell me it is because of the coffee and the delicious pastries.”

“–or the woman smiling at everybody like she gets paid for it.”

“I get paid for it!”

“Not enough to be that happy every morning, sunshine coming out your–”, Bard stops himself before the crude word slips out his mouth but the sentence finishes itself in both your minds and that's enough for you to hit him again. It doesn't do anything, your flat hand catches just his upper arm and not forcefully, you two were never really ones for the whole wrestling siblings act.

His upper body shakes with laughter as you shake your head, clicking your tongue against your teeth like that would help the smile fight its way up in the corners of your mouth. “Obviously I am nice to the customers, they pay good money for a good cup of coffee.”

“Or tea.”

“Or tea,” you roll your eyes again because of course, Bard has to throw in another hit with the fence about Thranduil. “Just because you are mister grumpy, grumbling while you work and avoiding talking to your customers doesn't mean I have to do that as well.”

That you bring up the subject of his work is normally enough for him to change the topic, not that he hates working as a handyman, going around town fixing leaky pipes and sinks or straightening up shelves and letter boxes, but his boss wasn't as nice as yours and that left him working far too much for (what you think) is far too less money. On any other day he would quickly move on to another topic but tonight he has his teeth dug into what was in his mind, the relationship between you and Thranduil Greenleaf. 

The truth is that you don't know what Thranduil thinks of you, you on the other side are completely and utterly swooned by him. Hell, when you moved to Esgaroth the last thing you had on your mind was falling in love and then, a few weeks into the new job, in comes this tall, beautiful man with shoulders that you want to lean into and cerulean eyes that pierce their way into your soul and he orders a fucking tea.

In a coffee shop. 

At first, you thought you hadn't heard him right, then he'd cocked one dark eyebrow, his manicured nails tapped against the wooden counter and his deep voice had repeated the order for “His tea”.

Thankfully, your coworker Feren had jumped into the conversation before you'd started crying out of pure confusion about who the man was and why he would order tea in the middle of the midday rush when you weren't even sure if and where the shop stored tea.

The next day the man was back, this time with an apology about his rushed behaviour the day before and when he ordered his tea, a flowery combination of what smelled like roses, cherry and green tea, you told him off for behaving far too entitled for someone who wanted something from you. 

After that Thranduil came back every day, ordering his tea and sitting on the barstool, chatting with you while you prepared coffee, wrapped up pastries and tried not to glance over at the beautiful man giving you his whole attention.

Well, not that often. Once in a while, you allowed yourself a sneak and were gifted a small smile and sometimes a wink. 

“Yes, let's come back to Thran for a second.”

You groan.

Bard laughs. 

“Did he or didn't he tell you about the party?”

“He told me nothing,” you say, fingers crossed inside the pocket of your coat. It's not entirely true, he really hadn't told you anything but he had asked you some things. What you would want to drink, what you think is a better activity for the children, apple bobbing or pumpkin bowling? 

The lie, half-lie, half-truth, comes out sure enough and Bard huffs, white clouds escaping his nose and disappearing into the rosy evening light of the lowering sun. He stuffs his hands into his pockets as well and you can see the second-guessing of his outfits happening on his face. It's a nice costume, the nearly all-black outfit except for a leather belt with a golden buckle, some silver decorations on his stetson and the jacket that he is wearing. He probably would have chosen another, slightly warmer costume if it hadn't been for Tilda who wanted her dad to wear the golden star that she had made him in school and that's now proudly shining on his chest. 

You smile and link your arms, pulling your brother with you as you catch up with the kids that already started trick-or-treating at the houses on the way.

When you arrive at the mansion its heavy iron gates are wide open, pumpkins with what probably were supposed to be scary faces cut into them by a wobbly kids hand sit on the ivy covered pillars. They stare down at you as you turn onto the gravelly road adorned with orange-glowing lanterns, the kids sprinting and kicking up dirt and gravel with the warm boots that Bard made them wear no matter the costume. You can hear them awing and gasping, and when Bard and you turn another corner and the tall pines make way for the mansion sitting on the end of the road, even your mouth falls open.

The fountain in the circle in front of the stairs is coloured an eerie red, illuminated by the lights inside the lower bowl, and the texture looks easily mistaken for blood from far away. Instead of the usual birds using the fountain as their water source, fake bats are hanging from the upper bowl, their glowing red eyes shining through the water rushing in front of them. 

The whole garden is decorated accordingly for the festivities; spiderwebs cover the trees and bushes, skeletons sit on the benches, gravestones are splattered here and there on the lawn and everywhere are little ghost fairy lights strung from tree to tree. 

The house itself screams Halloween as well, with flickering lights in the windows, more cobwebs stretching over the dark roof tiles of the front porch, and the small tower where Thranduil's son and the children's friend Legolas has his room. The ivy that grows outside at the gate grows on the white brick of the house itself as well, climbing up the walls and when you get closer you can see the (hopefully) fake spiders nested inside the green vines. The door to the house is wide open, letting a pool of golden light fall onto the porch but instead of going inside Bard tugs you along with him towards the small group of adults milling around on the lawn around a small campfire. 

“Good evening!” he proclaims and tips his hat. 

You give everyone a small wave, eyes scurrying over everyone in search of a particular someone who doesn't seem to be there at the moment. Though you don't know if it's a relief or disappointment, your heart leaps in your throat at the realization. Arm still linked with Bards, you stop at the fire pit. 

It's the same constellation of people as most years, mostly parents from the children's friends who got together in the ways that parents always make acquaintances. Elrond (dressed as a pirate with a ridiculously big hat and a fake pirate sitting on his slim shoulders) and his wife Celebrían who matches his costume with a puffy blouse, leather trousers and a sword dangling next to her leg were the first parents you met when you started bringing the kids to school. Their daughter, Arwen, waited for Sigrid and Bain and her parents had roped you into a conversation while they wandered into the school, Arwens hand finding Sigrids naturally. 

Then there are Thorin and his husband Bilbo, Thorin who seems to be dressed the warmest in a werewolf suit, and Bilbo, who wears a green overall with flowers pinned all over it (“I am a gardener!” he could be heard multiple times throughout the night and every time Thorin would lean into the other part of the conversation and whisper loudly “He is secretly a garden fairy, you simply can't see his wings” and watch him so lovingly when Bilbo glared at him that you got jealous.)

Those two you met because Bain was in one class with Thorin's nephews Fíli and Kíli who he basically adopted as his sons at this point. Five years ago they came over for a school project and stayed because “Bilbo is trying out vegetarian recipes and we need meat if we want to become real strong men” (their words, mumbled with mouths full of the spaghetti and meatballs you had cooked that day). 

You really met them on a stroll through the park with Tilda, who decided that walking around and gossiping was much more fun than sliding and swinging on the playground, and you exchanged numbers so at least one person would inform them about the boy's whereabouts. Fíli and Kíli, as it seemed, sometimes just forgot to call home, and now you would ring them and chat when Bain and the two boys would huddle up around the living room table, their textbooks buried under snacks and instead of their pens they held controllers of Bain's game console in their hands. 

There were some other people around the garden, work colleagues of Elrond and Thranduils or parents that you never got as close with as these four, neighbours and friends of friends. 

However…

“Where did the children go?” you ask, head turning back to the parents after sweeping over the whole garden, resultless.

“Maybe the evil witch got them,” Thorin's joke about your costume goes right over your head, your eyes still wandering and meeting Bards in confusion. They weren't your kids but you felt the same chilling drop of your heart whenever you couldn't find them as if they were your own.

Elrond steps closer, nudging his chin toward the house. “Thranduil gathered them inside the house,” he explains with a comforting smile that eases all the worry. Of course, you didn't have to worry, this party is always safe and it's not like you let them loose in the woods for the wild animals (Ha Thorin, take that!).

“He wanted them to get some warm tea before we go out trick-or-treating,” Celebrían adds, uncrossing her arms in front of her chest when Elrond takes one hand in his. 

“That's good,” you feel and hear Bard exhale a deep breath, even he gets nervous when he doesn't know about Tilda's whereabouts despite the fact you are with his dearest friends right now. “So who drew the short straw and will go with them this year?”

The groan that leaves Thorin at the question is an answer in itself. 

Bilbo playfully pushes his hip against his husband. “We–” there was most definitely a bigger I in that word– “decided that Thorin should definitely go to keep an eye out for the boys. Kíli got into some trouble with another boy at the school and his house in on our route.”

“Yes,” Thorins mouth twitches into a smile “And judging by how dented the boys' pockets looked, I'm sure I'll find the eggs that mysteriously disappeared from the kitchen in them.” He gets another push from Bilbo and rolls his eyes “I won't do anything stupid, love.”

“Throwing eggs with them will count as stupid.”

“Then I will maybe do something stupid.”

“Don't you dare,” the smaller one shakes his head, wavy locks flying with the movement, “I really have no desire to deal with the parents tomorrow about why their windows are smudged.”

Thorin laughs, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to Bilbo's temple while throwing a wink in Bard's direction. “No worries, they won't know who it was. Bain is a smart one and will figure that one out.”

“Oh, I am sure about that,” Bard nods, pride oozing out of the smile that grew when Thorin called Bain ‘smart’. 

You want to reply, step into the conversation to tell them that Bain will not partake in any egg throwing at all because of his smartness, thank you very much, when the children storm out of the house, loudly cackling and yelling, long and short feet trampling over to you fast enough that you get nearly crushed by a small fury of a straw scarecrow who crashes into your legs. Following her is Arwen, Elrond's girl, who is wearing a costume that must be snow-white, because hot on her trails is Thranduil's daughter Tauriel with a red-riding-hood cloak a fiery red like her hair, fluttering in the wind like a wild flag in a storm. Behind them comes Legolas, who, despite his braided hair and green Robin Hood outfit, bears such a resemblance to his father Thranduil that you falter for a moment. He seems to have had a growth spurt every time you meet him, slowly growing as tall as his dreams, his head ever closer to the clouds.

“We are going now!” Tilda yells up to you, her voice uncontrolled by all the excitement that has the girl bouncing up and down your side and tugging at your coat. “Are you coming with us, auntie? Are you? Or are you Da? Pleasee–”

Thorin, who steps away from the fire to Fíli and Kíli (both of them wear a Ghostbuster costume like Bain) rubs his hands through their hair, earning himself an outraged grumbling, “Aren't you two going to ask me nicely to join you?”

“I would beg you to stay here,” Fíli barks out, fixing his long blond hair by throwing it dramatically over his shoulder. “But your head is too thick for that to go through.”

“That and you are such a fool for Bilbo. He probably asked you to keep us in check,” Kíli adds, mimicking his brother with his own, brown hair. Even though they are not twins, their behaviour is so similar you could mistake them as such. 

“You–,” Thorin starts but Elrond jumps in: “Celebrían will be there as well and now.. you know not to anger her.” His sharp eyes bore into the boys, even without any real edge or warning in the sentence Kíli and Fíli shrink under the gaze, nodding fast enough that their heads must hurt, Elrond's stern, thin eyebrows surely help with that.

His wife and you share a smirk.

You turn back to Tilda and Bard, the latter is wiping away some crumbs of what must have been cookies out of the corner of her mouth, careful that he doesn't smear the lipstick the younger one is so proud to be wearing. 

“Tilly–,” you tug at the collar of the sweater she's wearing under her costume.

You don't get to finish the sentence, right as you open your mouth to tell her that you would love to come with her, you are abruptly silenced by the resonant sound of approaching boots from behind. The arrival of a newcomer, his voice a mellifluous, baritone timbre and a sonorous blend of charisma, sends a tantalizing shiver down your spine. “I had dared to hope she might grace me with her presence, as you delightful rascals torment the hapless neighbours.”

Tilda's eyes grow bigger as she looks up at the man standing behind you, the dark brown shining with admiration, and her mouth falls open in the tiniest ‘o’. 

It's not that difficult to impress her, she is an eight-year-old girl, all you had to do to win her heart was to tell her a story about the fairies and elves that supposedly lived in the forest next to your house, but that look in her eyes, awe in its purest form and you are sure that she would be singing praised about whatever she is seeing right now if there wasn't absolute shock mixed into her emotions as well. 

There are only few that get that reaction out of Tilda though and you slowly twist around. First, your shoes turn, squelching softly on the grass covered in leaves, then your legs, your upper body following the movement and finally, awfully cautiously, your head turns.

Your eyes land on a pair of boots.

Black. Leather. Boots.

And they don't seem to end as you lift your chin.

You know the man is tall, like really, really tall. Even Bard, who got luckier than you with the height genes, is a few inches shorter than Thranduil. If you stand next to Thranduil, it always requires you to look up.

Right now, as your legs buckle and you casually (it surely is anything but) drop one knee into the grass for more balance, the striking figure of Thranduil is looming over you. Your eyes travel upwards, up those damn boots on his endless legs, to the silvery corset that hugs his small waist tight, higher up over a ruffled white blouse with far to many buttons undone to be considered decent, and when you reach his face, your tongue lays heavy in your suddenly dry mouth. 

The smirk hiding in the corner of his mouth and the crowfeet next to icy blue eyes twinkling with mirk tell you that the asshole knows the effect the costume has on you.

“Good evening,”  Thranduil greets everyone but his gaze is locked on you. “I didn't know it’s witching hour already,” His lips curve more, flashing a row of pearly white teeth and if the black cape swaying around his body isn't expressive enough, the smile reveals two extraordinarily sharp canines, pointing down at you almost predatory.

You swallow hard enough that your throat protests. When you speak there is still a roughness to your voice that surely anyone around you must be able to detect: “Aren't you supposed to lay in some dirt until the sun sets? I wouldn't want anyone to clean up your ashes,” and when you can't fight the smile that threatens to break out on your lips anymore, you add a cheeky, “Count Greenleaf."

Next to you Thorin snorts and Bard groans.

“If you two would pause the flirting for just a second,” your brother's voice cuts through whatever had been building up there because your eyes snap to him.

“We weren't flirting!” you say at the same time as Thranduil nonchalantly shrugs his shoulders: “One second should be fine.”

The look you send him is supposed to be threatening but all it archives is another smirk from the tall blonde man. 

“Back to the question,” Bard sends you a wink that has you fletching your teeth in his direction “I think Thorin, Celebrían and me will go with you, Tilly-bear.”

“Yes, and I think Bilbo wanted to help me prepare the games for when you come back,” the man addressed nodded dutifully, not an ounce of not a bit of malice in his face and yet you resist the urge to roll your eyes. Here stood probably the smartest people you knew and they didn't even try to hide what they were up to. 

Of course, you could have seen it coming, in the last few years it had always happened that you and Thranduil were suddenly left alone. At Sigrid's birthday party, Bard sent you off to buy more garlands, only for you to run into Thranduil at the supermarket, whom Bard had asked about the very same thing. Another time, Elrond and Celebrían both had to cancel a breakfast out of the blue, so it ended up being just you and Thranduil sitting together. It seemed like everyone was conspiring behind your back to force something into existence that was growing so beautifully slowly.

Now all you can do is smile and nod, while you kiss Tilda on the cheek (“I will try to ask Lady Galadriel if she has your favourite chocolate,” she whispers into your ear like a secret promise), ruffle Bain's hair despite the fact that he always shakes the care you put into styling the short brown mop away as soon as your hand leaves his head, help Sigrid with the zipper of her Mary Shelley dress and let her pull you into a hug (“If you want me to abandon Da somewhere on his own, you just have to say the word,” she mumbles and nods into Thranduil's direction. “I will be fine,” you assure her. When you want to let her go, she smiles encouragingly: “Don't let us be the reason you hold back from going after what you want. I'm pretty sure Bain wouldn't mind having another boy his age around the house.”

You hug her just a tiny bit tighter, wondering when the hell she grew up.)

Bard only gets another light shove, as well as a threatening warning that you would hide all of his work tools if he steals the kids' candy, and then they are off, disappearing down the gravely path winding through the trees and you watch until the laughter and howling grow quiet. 

Someone, and you know exactly who it is by the crunching sound of leaves under heavy boots, the scent of a rich perfume hitting your nose without having to turn around, steps next to you. “They are not very subtle, are they?” Thranduil hums, and your cheeks go up in flames again.

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” you deny, forcing a calm tone into your voice. 

“Come,” Thranduil says. He holds out an arm, an invitation you gladly take. The sight of him, all dressed up in this costume with fangs and silvery blond hair flowing down his back, is enough for your legs to consider giving up under you; you appreciate the arm not just for the gesture but for the feeling of his muscles underneath your palm as well.

“Where to?” you ask, yet you know that no matter the answer, you will follow wherever. Sigrids words have made themselves comfortable in your mind, and the night, coming upon you on the slow walk to the mansion in beautiful tones of pink and purple in the sky, feels magical. 

“I did not lie before, even though I was tempted,” Thranduil says “There are a few more things to be done and I was a little bit selfish in wanting your help especially.”

This time, you don't ignore the warmth settling in your stomach that his words cause, instead you embrace it, use it. “Well, I am sure that while the others are maybe capable, this witch here” – and you point to yourself with the free hand – “has a touch of magic that will surely be better than anyone else.”

He chuckles, seemingly agreeing in the form of a low hum. “Witch, you truly are captivating, making me wonder if being wicked has ever looked so irresistibly appealing,” he flirts right back, as openly as he never did before. Or maybe he did. Maybe all those times he complimented you in the coffee shop or asked for a smile to sweeten up his tea were not just niceties (it was what you told yourself every time, a reassuring 'He doesn't mean it like that' to hold yourself back and not kiss him senseless), maybe he really did like you.

Motivated by a sudden rush of adrenaline and giddiness, you tug at his arm, beaming up at him. “Count Dracula would be envious of the charisma you bring to that costume, Count Greenleaf,” you giggle, nearly shocking yourself with the sound.

You reach the steps up to the front porch of the mansion just that moment. You take the first step, Thranduil though, stops and while it's not the biggest difference in height, when you turn around to ask him why he stopped, you have a direct line of sight with the fangs biting down on his lip. 

“I don't know who this Dracula is or what you mean with a costume,” he leans closer, finally taking that step and growing taller before you. “But I will take the compliment nonetheless. It's not every night that an enchanting woman compliments me.”

He grins an uncharacteristically lopsided grin, boyish and far from the snobby, rich persona he sometimes falls into and the laugh bursts out of your chest. His statement was far from the truth, he must be the most lusted-after man in Esgaroth (it didn't help that he was a stupidly rich single father, drop dead gorgeous with soft features, strong shoulders and a voice that made a woman's heart tremble). More than enough times you had become a witness to a poor soul making their way up to Thranduil when he was sitting on his spot at the counter. Their faces were sometimes nervous, sometimes determined but no matter in what way they came onto him he never accepted a number or agreed to a date.

He did however accept the compliments that rained onto him. 

Walking into the mansion, you are confronted with what can only be described as the target Halloween decoration section. The dimly lit hall is illuminated primarily by the soft, flickering glow of antique chandeliers that have been fitted with blood-red candles. Their warm, dancing flames cast haunting shadows on the cream-colored wallpaper, adorned with intricate, spiderweb-like patterns that seem to writhe in the low light.

Upon entering, you can't help but notice the intricately carved mahogany staircases that rise on either side, their ornate bannisters entwined with artificial cobwebs, and the steps littered with pumpkins and more candles. The velvet drapes on the large windows are heavy and dark, adding an air of foreboding mystery to the space.

Throughout the hall, life-sized, macabre figures dressed in costumes stand at attention, like sentinels of the night. Skeletons in tuxedos and gowns, ghouls with outstretched hands, and statuesque vampires adorn the corners, exuding an unsettling realism.

The air is heavy with the scent of incense and dried herbs, giving the impression of an ancient, mystical ritual underway. A wrought-iron candelabrum hangs from the ceiling, holding a cluster of flickering black candles that fill the air with an enchanting, spicy aroma.

Turning in a circle in the middle of the hall, your mouth falls wide open. 

“Thranduil,” you breathe out “How.. what.. don't tell me the whole house looks like this! No wonder I couldn't find any decorations,” you turn, throwing your hands in a wide gesture into the air and an airy laugh follows, “–you bought it all!”

Thranduil quirks an eyebrow and shakes his head, his hands neatly tucked behind his back. “No,” he starts, then corrects himself. “Well yes, the whole house looks like this, you would be surprised to see I fully committed myself as I now have a coffin instead of my bed upstairs. Legolas and Tauriel inspired me with their fantasies of a haunted mansion, they picked out the majority of what you see, though I shipped most of it into the country from a friend.”

“Because that is so much more reasonable,” you shoot back, skipping over that one part of his answer, still gazing around in wonder, “Where did this friend get these things? They look so real.”

You reach out to one of the skeletons in a fancy suit, barely hearing the: “Wait!” when a loud cackling booms through the hall, a ghostly and eerily sound. The squeak that you nearly scream bounces off the walls in the same way, rounding corners and expanding in reverberation. 

Thranduil is at your side in seconds. He extends his hand just a moment too late to prevent you from approaching the sensor. However, the shock coursing through your body, combined with the warmth of his presence so near, sends your hormones into a frenzy. 

Laughing uncontrollably, you fall into his chest, grasping for your own racing heart while feeling the irregular beat of his through the thin blouse. His cape drapes around you, as he joins in the laughter and lets his chin brush against your shoulder, folding himself across your back.

“I should probably adjust the sound settings,” his breath hits your neck and the thought of his lips (the fangs!!) this close to the delicate and sensible part of you sends a thrill to your body. 

“Maybe,” you answer, sounding very much as flustered as you are. “Or you could hide it somewhere you don't want any guest to wander and use it as an alarm system.”

Thranduil's hand, still holding yours, comes to your waist, guiding your own fingers over the tulle fabric of the skirt and it evokes a delicate and ethereal sensation as your fingers gently graze its surface. “Maybe,” he sounds rough, voice low and raspy, similar to boots sinking into gravel. When you take a deep breath and relax into his touch, let him stretch the flat and warm palm of his hand over yours, the tips of his fingers sinking into the fabric of the dress right on the curve of your hips, his voice evens out:

“I think it has found its purpose right here.”

“And that would be?”

“Luring alluring witches into my arms.”

“Do you plan to use that move on anyone else?” you ask, and suddenly feel his lips ghost over the soft skin on your shoulder.

The lips turn into a smile. “Why should I?” The words feel like they are spoken directly into your skin and the grin with which they are said leaves a heavy and burning imprint in your mind. Your eyes dart toward the ceiling, to the flickering candles as if you would pray to the gods in the heavens above even though the devil is standing right behind you- ready for your command. 

“It has worked once and I find myself quite satisfied with the results it has yielded,” Thranduil's voice becomes even lower, his timbre taking hold on your heart while rattling your bones. One boot shuffles closer, tapping the outside of your shoe gently and teasingly, and you are sure that if you look down you would faint at the sight of the leather boots reaching as high as your hips.

He raises his other hand as well, lets it descend slowly on the other side of your hips and without your hand under it, his touch burns through the fabric. You wishfully hope they will stay there forever, holding you to him and moulding your forms together perfectly.

“Do you know how you can best a vampire?” the question shouldn't cloud your mind over as much as it does, but how could you continue thinking clearly when Thranduil decides to graze the tips of the damn fangs over your neck?

Not at all, as proven by the lack of an answer.

Thranduil continues, either unbothered by the silence on your part or spurred on to unravel you even further.  “There is sunlight, an unfair opponent if one considers that you emit light even brighter. And though I know the consequences, I would gladly burn to ashes for one second in the golden rays of your smile.”

A gasp echoes through the hall, wavering with emotions, and your hand flies to your mouth to bite down on a finger, stifling any sound. 

“Most theories revolve around a stake through the heart. I doubt that would do any good since I lost mine when you came to this town and served me that awful cup of tea.”

You want to laugh but the true meaning of what he is telling you hits you hard enough to press all the air out of you in a shaky exhalation. 

“Then there is holy water,” Thranduil's lips ghost over the juncture of your neck once again, not once really touching skin. The anticipation of what is about to be said, about what he is about to do, tears at your resolve to stand still, to wait and let it happen. There is no one rushing you, no one trapping you in conversation or leading you into awkward fumbling around with words while the others are staring. 

This is exactly what you yearned for. 

There is a cold blow of air as Thranduil takes a breath and then his teeth scrape the skin, digging slightly into the flesh (not to break it, he would never hurt you) and-

his lips touch you, finally. They press down onto the spot where the fangs have been, gently and not moving at all. Just the soft weight of them. 

“I would drown myself in it if I could taste your lips.”

Oh..

Your eyelashes flutter down, brushing the heated skin of the apple of your cheek. A soft: “I wish for nothing else than a kiss” is said into the room, raising the electricity sizzling and crackling.

Before you can even blink, Thranduil's hand caresses your cheek, tilting your head to the side. The difference in your heights grants him the perfect angle to lean in, capturing your lips in an ardent kiss, despite the awkward positions of your bodies, twisted into each other. Any illusions of gentleness from the previous kiss on your shoulder fade, as Thranduil's lips now meet yours with an intense, passionate fervor.

You might have expected that your first kiss would leave you breathless, but the desire and hunger within him not only steals the air from your lungs but also clears your mind, immersing you in a captivating void. He doesn't break away, his lips maintaining their press against yours, and with the hand curling over yours on your waist, Thranduil tugs at you to turn you. The sensation is head-spinning, and if you weren't already descending into the depths of Thranduil, you'd surely have stumbled.

With Thranduil no longer towering over you and no need for you to twist to meet him, he confidently takes a step forward. It's like a well-practised dance, where he leads with precision. Uncertain of where he's guiding you, you surrender to his direction. A step back, a pause as your hands intertwine behind his neck, though it tugs at your arms, and then the next step. Another kiss follows, fervent and insatiable, a hunger that defies comparison.

In the distance, a cheer breaks through the pounding of your heart and the rush in your ears. Realizing it's the children, you manage to disentangle yourself from Thranduil. Even though you long to return to his lips, he, too, wears an apologetic look in his cerulean eyes.

“We should–”

“The children–”

Both of you speak simultaneously, still in such harmony that your words tumble over each other. You gaze at each other, and a burst of laughter escapes your lips, hearty, uncontainable laughter that you attempt to muffle with a hand, though Thranduil still holds you close.

“We should head outside,” he murmurs, a touch of nostalgia in his voice, longing in his gaze, which traces a path from your well-kissed mouth to your eyes.

“That would probably be the wisest choice,” you agree, but your body seems to resist the logic, leaning in closer to him. “Strange, I appear to be unable to detach myself from you,” you jest. Your arms wrap around his waist, seeking the comfort of his embrace.

“I will blame it on you, you captivating witch.”

[tobylix-blog]

First time at sea - Boromir x Reader

Content&Warnings: everyone-lives AU, platonic, mention of death

Word count: 2.6k

Summary: Boromir is a man of land through and through. But fate and state matters get him on board of an Umbar ship - a whole whirlwind of different life and customs.

A/N: this was equally a torment for me and the text, two whole months of struggling with getting this right. the degree of success is up to you to determine

Ramp creaked unpleasantly under Boromir's feet, adding more tension to an already nerve-wracking moment. He had never stepped upon a ship's deck before, and was determined to not trust the wooden vessel with his life. To the point of refusing the opportunity of boarding with the others in Osgiliath and riding on horseback all the way to Pelargir. He would gladly dismiss the prospect of the voyage altogether if travelling to the City of Corsairs by land didn't take a solid month longer than sailing. However, Aragorn promised the team to be the best, and Boromir reluctantly agreed.

The captain, indeed, was a pleasant person, clearly knowledgeable of their job and hospitable to passengers. From their explanation Boromir learned that the crew mostly consisted of sailors that served on the trading ships rather than pirate ones. The news gave the man some much needed reassurance before the long journey. Even though the line between the merchants and pirates was quite vague in Umbar.

A day later the ship left the river mouth and took off into the sea. It didn't go too far from shore. The dark line of land was visible in the distance most of the time, but the constant rise and fall of the waves was no less unsettling than in the first moment. Sons of Gondor felt way out of their place without steady ground beneath. And Boromir even more than others. He leaned against the bulwarks and sighed heavily, hoping that he didn't look as green as he felt.

A cheerful voice called out to him, "First time on board? It'll get better."

He looked to the side, noticing a sailor tightening ropes and knots. You glanced back at him, fixing the last one in place. "It always gets."

"Does not seem this way to me. I have spent the whole day here and nothing changed," Boromir retorted, knitting his brows.

You smiled. "Don't rush it. The ship is like a timid town lady. She takes time getting close with a man."

Boromir shook his head and glanced over the dancing whitecaps. The sight of the ever moving water caused another spasm in his stomach.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Even sleep betrayed Boromir once he left solid land. The morning was young and chilly, when he sneaked out of the cabin, careful not to wake any of his companions. The endless blue of the sea mirrored the depths of the sky. Right between them was the ship's prow that you walked down ensuring tightness of all ropes. From the centre of the deck you seemed to be walking a narrow bridge between the horizon and the boards with ease of a practised acrobat. Boromir involuntarily froze in place, half hidden from your view by the mast and multiple barrels placed on deck. His eyes glued to your light steps against the boards and fingers curling around each length and knot. There was something very personal in watching you do some mundane tasks when you thought to be alone, save for the helmsman, who couldn't be less interested in whatever happened on board.

Bare feet against the ever wet wood – what a strange habit – and yet you still managed to move quietly. Or maybe the ever-mumbling sea silenced your steps enough for Boromir to not catch a sound. He stepped to the side to get a better view, unobscured by the spars. The world shifted slightly – and then turned with a loud thud. Dull pain of the collision with the hard deck in his side made the man curse under breath.

You turned at the sound and watched him retreat back to the cabin. An expression of dissatisfaction with the means of travel was clearly showing on his face.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Sailing is a strange job," Boromir stated firmly.

After three nights on board without a single incident in the calm waters of the bay of Belfalas he seemed more confident. The broad daylight showed more colour in his face and less insecurity in his eyes. And his steps appeared steady.

"Is it though?" you threw a questioning look back at him.

The man crossed arms on his chest. "I understand swimming and fishing in the boat, but staying away from the shore for weeks and months is against human nature."

"There is truth in your words, but think of it this way - replace 'shore' with 'house' and you will get the description of being a soldier. You don't find that strange, do you?" you chuckled. "The main difference is that we fight sea rather than other people and use ships instead of swords."

Unconvinced Boromir only shrugged in response.

“Your people even call you their captain,” you smiled, looking at his pressed lips, “is that not a happy enough coincidence?”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sharing their pints of beer, sailors hustled and bustled in the eternal evening dusk of the lower deck. Rumbling laughter thundered through the still air along with clattering of dishes and creaking of wood. They made bets over weather and luck with beer and meat as well as with coins – mostly copper jingling in empty pockets. And someone started singing, a heavy accent draping from the melody known since times before they had learned walking.

Cutting through the moving crowd, like he often did in barracks or taverns full of celebrating soldiers, Boromir made way to the bench where you just shook hands with another crew-mate betting on a good catch. You stood up greeting him and motioned to the corner, where bales were piled up in the shadow.

“It’s much better than being packed like sardines.”

Dropping down on the soft sacks without spilling a droplet from the full glass, you caused Boromir to raise an eyebrow in amusement before sitting down beside. He glanced over to the crew and then back to you. “This does resemble how the army can be at times.”

You contentedly nodded and took a generous sip, allowing him to continue. He took the hint, but hesitated to elaborate on whatever thought brought him to the lower deck, boiling with life in the dim light of oil lamps and candles, after a solid week of travelling in comfort of the cabin.

“I found myself in need of an apology,” he said at last, clasping hands together.

“Did I somehow offend you, my lord?” you sat up concerned.

A burst of laughter, low and deep at the same time, was his first response. “No, not in the slightest. I mean quite the opposite. Since the first day of this voyage I have expressed a great deal of unsavoury opinions. For that I seek your forgiveness.”

You waved off his words. “I don’t hold a grudge against one’s lack of experience.”

“And still,” Boromir insisted, “you were gracious enough to bear continuous insults. Not a single time have you turned away or raised your voice to silence the irritating noise. Your actions speak of your character differently from your words.”

“That’s the art of trade in the way I’ve learned it – be soft with people and hard with actions. In that manner one climbs up the ladder of success,” you shrugged.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A day before arrival, when the ship entered the narrowing pass to Umbar, the movement became very cautious and unhurried. Even the wind and waves seemed to find delight in leisurely licking the wooden side of the vessel.

"Why did we slow down?" Boromir asked the captain.

"The gulf is tricky to navigate. We must go on short sails to get past all the rocks and cliffs," they replied, leaning on the helm.

Gondorian nodded and looked up front. Steep banks were rising before his eyes. At that moment two of the crewmen rushed by his side. He turned too late to express his indignation at the accidental push, but just in time to watch your white shirt pass by like a cloud of smoke in the wind. You didn't even bother to take the steps down to the deck, simply jumping over the small staircase in one leap. Like another fish joins the shoal, you pushed through the crowd and disappeared among fellows.

"What are they doing?" Boromir furrowed his brows, pointing at the gathered crew.

"Ah, choosing the fortune diver. Seems like they've spotted something nice this time. Folks are so eager, they’re down to three already," they explained with a nonchalant yawn. Though by the time the sentence was finished, the choosing was already over. The crowd parted, demonstrating your triumphant smile and two unlucky souls that lost their chance in the final draw. "Y/N, again? Cheating, aren't you?"

"Nah, the tides just like to blow my way," you responded, throwing off the outer shirt and rolling up the wide pants slightly.

Some indescribable trepidation washed over Boromir as you did so. He didn't know for sure if there even was something to worry about, but his gut was all but against it. There was no time to find out, though, and neither was there time to object. You took a few steps of run up and leaped right overboard in a swift arc. The crew blew up in a round of laughter and clapping as the fountain of splashes rose into the air.

As if woken up by that sound, Boromir tore his seemingly glued feet from the deck. He hurried to the bulwarks and bent over the board, watching your flexible form descend to the shadowed depth of the gulf as if it was the most natural of ways to move. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the curve of your body as you reached the bottom and swam to your goal. Each stroke was strong and precise – clear evidence of years spent at sea.

His gentle heart, that only seemed to have been encased in strong armour, skipped a beat when you let out a few air bubbles, trying to pull the gilded candelabrum from the grey sand. The precious trinket was positively stuck and very unwilling to budge. It took  you a few more tugs along with an eloquently layered silent curse before the metal slid out of the sand trap. That last pull kicked the rest of the air out of your lungs. Heavy coldness began to spread from the centre of your chest. You pushed from the bottom and began rapidly rising. Racing against the last air bubbles, you were losing tragically. The heavy candelabrum was weighing down one hand, slowing down your painfully long rise. You felt that everything was getting slower, darker...

The surface shattered into a million glowing splashes, reflecting sunlight and dark boards of the ship, as you broke through to the air. The first moment over the water was deafening and blinding. The dull monotonous rustling of the waves was replaced with an eruption of shouts and laughter. The first deep inhale nearly pushed you back down. You rubbed salty water away from your eyes until you could see a rope dropped from the deck right in front of you. By some miracle, it was just an arm length away. You only got up by a couple of feet before feeling the rope being pulled up, lifting you easily. In a few moments you were already grabbed by an unfamiliar pair of arms.

The candelabrum slipped out of your hands and landed on the boards with a loud metallic rattle, nearly hitting someone’s feet. Your fingers curled in the thick fabric of someone’s shirt. Pressing your forehead to soft fabric, you were catching your breath one gulp of air at a time. The warmth of the hands against your freezing back was revitalising. Hitched breaths, almost as faltering as your own, came in soft gusts over your shoulder. Despite the tight embrace getting most of your attention, you slowly began to recognize the colour of those locks, tickling your cheek, the wide belt made of expensive leather and the boots he refused to take off on board. You couldn't see that yet, but your mind easily painted the image of his eyebrows drawn together.

Boromir’s heavy sigh gusted against your wet hair. He probably said something. You lifted your head and noticed a massive wet stain on his shirt. Some crew-mate’s words suddenly came to your mind about that shirt, which “probably costs like our yearly payment”. A panicked thought rushed through your mind. You pushed away, nearly tripping over the damned candelabrum.

“-sorry, deepest apologies. I didn’t mean to get it wet,” you breathed out hastily, adding a weak chuckle, before a human wave of crewmen washed you from the deck to below the boards.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Considering your dive a sign of bravery and fortune, fellow sailors left you with no work to be done upon arrival to Umbar. It seemed nearly alien to sit idly on a barrel with the gilded trophy in your lap, while they were busy carrying the cargo ashore. So much life happening around and you were out there like a ghost. Invisible and long forgotten.

“Why would you risk your life for that trinket?” the wind asked.

You shuddered and turned around. Boromir stood just a few feet away. On solid ground he seemed taller. With his hand on the hilt of the sword, he would look threatening, if it wasn’t for his gaze. There was genuine confusion and concern. Almost as if he was looking at a child, who regularly acts against all advice and gets hurt.

You clutched the ‘trinket’. “It’s how one gets their fortune – through daring and courageous acts.”

“Or loses everything,” he stepped in. “You could have died! Taking such chances... It is not worth a handful of coins. If silver or gold is what you wish for, you could have begun selling fish in the market, saving up for a better life-”

“No!” you jumped off the barrel, momentarily getting nearly face-to-face with him. “I- Not a single soul has built their fortune, putting away a bronze at a time. It is known no merchant gets off well if their first pouch isn’t full. That is how life is. That is why the tradition exists.”

You let out an exasperated sigh. “Until...the catch is good enough, our lives are worth so little, my lord. We gamble less than you do in a single game of cards.”

Boromir opened his mouth to say something, but not a sound rang. His eyes filled up with painful understanding and fear. For a moment you dreaded to see the pity in them, but instead there was pure terror of recognition. His entire spirit was shattered by this simple thought that you lived with for years. His hand rose to grip your shoulder. The touch was feather-light.

Someone called out for Boromir. He looked back for a moment before returning to you. His grip tightened just a bit.

“Come with me. Find me here tonight. And, I promise, you will never have to put your life on the line for coin. It can be so different from now on.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Nothing scandalous, I assure you,” he turned again, hearing another question coming his way from afar. “Just be my guest. There in Gondor your life could be started anew.”

His hand finally left your shoulder and he quickly regained his posture, stepping away. Once again he looked as a noble lord of the great kingdom. But his eyes still betrayed the fear of a young boy, who couldn’t bear to see you willingly putting your life at stake. He bowed his head, and in a moment – was gone.

[tobylix-blog]

As an author (of sorts) and a reader I often have questions to fellow readers. Might as well try to seek some answers here. What do you look for in fanfiction and in original works? Are your expectations different in those cases?

[tobylix-blog]

Love for this piece

I saw you opened requests and thought if you were inspired could you do a little sequel to "I Didn't Know That I Was Starving Till I Tasted You". I absolutely adore that story it is SO good!

Midnight Meetings in our Kitchen | hobbit

pairing: Thranduil x fem!reader👑

The night before the reopening of his restaurant, Thranduil is feeling antsy - you try your best to coax him back into bed.

warnings/tags: none

word count: 2,7k

an: This has taken me months to write and I apologize for the delay! My mind was just as frazzled as Thranduil's.

requests: please check pinned post

+ masterlist + rules +🌿 reposts and comments are much appreciated, they motivate me a lot and keep me writing <3

You woke up alone and to the faint metallic sound of pots clanking in the kitchen. The hand you blindly reach over to the other side of the bed comes in contact with a cold mattress and rumbled sheets, no residue warmth of the person that held you until you fell asleep nor any sign that he actually slept and not gotten back up immediately as soon as you had closed your eyes to his even breathing.

This is not the first time Thranduil snuck out of bed – in the weeks you now shared one it has become all the clearer how often he actually strayed through the apartment while you were deep in a slumber – but it is the first time he did it after he promised to stay. 

It would be easy to let the anger and frustration fester, let it grow either in a thoughtless fight or in weeks of unspoken feelings, and if this was anyone else you would holster these moments like munition. Keeping them close to your heart like ivy holding on to cracked walls. 

Thranduil however, is not anyone else. 

The blanket is pushed aside, your feet step into the slippers by the bedside and in passing of the desk by the door, you grab a cardigan to throw over your shorts and the top you slept in. The moment you open the bedroom door, the sounds from the kitchen grow louder. You quietly creep around the corner, passing by the room where you hardly ever sleep, and find your boyfriend in a familiar stance – leaning over the stove, a spoon in his hand and one in the mess of long hair bundled up in the nape of his neck, barely holding it together; your boyfriend as well as the spoon.

He doesn’t seem to realize you are there, your shoes did a good job silencing the steps, so it is no wonder Thranduil flinches as you wrap your arms around his stomach from behind and press your face against his back. He catches on quickly, snaps out of the murmuring of ingredients and a “Oh,” escapes him in a sigh. “I’ve woken you up, haven’t I?”

“No,” you mumble into the loose shirt. Thranduil is comfortably warm, not by nature – his hands are a blessing in the summer and he made it a sport to tickle you awake with his icey tips as soon as you spent the nights under mountains of blankets – but by the heated kitchen and the many pots boiling in front of him. Lips against the soft fabric, you continue: “But you said you wouldn’t do this. Not tonight, Thran.”

You feel his spine curve as Thranduil sacks into himself slightly, as he stops holding himself up on the counter and instead hugs your arms closer to his chest. His whole body rumbles at another sigh. “I know,” he is tired, his voice drips sleep more than he realizes, “I know, Darling. I will come to bed soon, let me just finish this recipe.”

You lurk past his right side into what you think is a pot of soup? 

“Do you plan on serving it later?” you ask and let your fingers trail over the bunched-up shirt, over the soft hairs on his lean stomach. 

“I’m not sure. It lacks something and I can’t figure out what exactly. Spices I used plenty, the broth is perfection and the vegetables have been in harmony every other time I thought of them.” – Thranduil is the only person in the world who you know can taste a dish without even cooking it, all that happens in his brain is a mysterium – “I need to find.. whatever it is that’s missing before I could serve it.”

“So, you will cook dozens of portions with a tiny thing changed?”

It is meant to be a joke though Thranduil nods. 

He could be unreadable and stubborn, especially these last few weeks. His restaurant ‘The Green Leaf’, is known as the best spot for fine-dining vegan food, praised high and above by the critics for excellent taste, extravagant and beyond thinking of known dishes taken to another level in ways you couldn’t even begin to fathom. Thranduil is precise, cutting dishes that fail his standards and not adding new ones till he reaches perfection only known to him. 

The turn to autumn brought not only harsher winds but it took one of Thranduil’s suppliers to sell out to ‘Oakenshields’, another star restaurant across the street and a thorn in Thranduil’s eyes ever since the press fueled heavy competition between two restaurants that are no were near the same category. They have close to nothing in common, except for two petty as fuck owners with their heads stuck that far up their arses, that they couldn’t see further than their rage. 

Thranduil, mature as he is, reacted to the news of his supplier changing sides – literally and metaphorically – as any normal person would, and decided on a night similar to this one, that he would change every meal that he had previously cooked with the ingredients of ‘the traitor’. Out with entrés made with apples, gone are the burgers simply because the cucumbers are no longer accessible. You realized quickly that going with the flow meant outings to farmer's markets testing fruits and vegetables, negotiating deals with you hanging on his arm, and new recipes he cooks for you to try. The work and effort of many nights waking up to find him in the kitchen all lead to tomorrow, the first day after the restaurant’s summer-closing and the presentation of a completely new constructed menu. 

To say Thranduil is spun tight is an understatement.

“Thranduil –” you sigh, your hot breath slightly wetting his shirt and your lips move against his spine. “This is nonsense and I don’t say this to be mean. You’ve been up the whole day, going through recipes you’ve been sure about and that you know by heart. Trying this won’t do no good; it will only exhaust you.” The tips of your fingers trail through the hair, higher up to lay a flat palm against the firm skin, feeling his intake of breath. You let your touch be gentle if he misunderstands your words. 

Communication between you had never been the problem – well, except for the obvious misunderstanding of the feelings you both had harbored for each other in complete ignorance that the other packaged them up in love languages such as cooking a meal or throwing out flowers of your dates – and you two had gotten even better at speaking your mind to avoid confrontations that could have been cleared up by a simple discussion at dinner or before going to bed. You never went to bed mad at each other, that is the rule you agreed on. You would talk it out and then make up. You have learned that Thranduil’s cold demeanor came on the second he felt vulnerable and alone which is exactly why you lean into the subject with your hands holding on to him.

“I get that this is important for you,” you continue and your knees nudge the muscles of his calves, “but you need sleep. Your greatest weapon is your brain, so, let it rest. I’m sure this will work out without a new dish.”

For a while, there is the boiling of water, the steam of carrots and celeriac drifting through the air. Thranduil’s hands continue to hold onto you, drawing figures onto your wrists to signal you that he did hear you and is thinking of an answer, not ignoring you. Then, he lets go with one hand. The stove clicks off, and the gas flame disappears, dipping the kitchen into more darkness now that the blue flickering light is gone. 

Other than that movement, Thranduil stands still. 

You opt for another lighthearted joke to break the tension that is obvious in his shoulders, the wings of them have the shirt stretched tighter at his hunch. You take the spoon out of his hands and fish in the soup, yes definitely soup, carefully balancing it around his stiff body and closing your lips around it.

“Mhmm, what excellent boiled potatoes,” you hum.

Thranduil's expression shifts ever so slightly, as if your words have finally pierced through the mental blockade, where he’s no doubt been sifting through countless possible events. An amused snort escapes him, his spine curving closer against you as he chuckles softly. “Did you have another Pride and Prejudice marathon this week?”

“What?” Your voice jumps an octave, betraying you instantly. “No! Of course not! Me? Nev–er. I don't even know that movie.” The words tumble out in a frantic cascade, and in the middle of your denial, Thranduil abruptly turns to face you, his sudden movement drawing a helpless grin from your lips.

One eyebrow arches in quiet amusement as he begins to crowd you against the kitchen island and leaves you to stare up at him. “If you didn’t watch it – and I certainly didn’t – how do you explain the ‘continue watching’ notification I saw at the restaurant?”

“Wow, uhm,” you fumble for an excuse, fingers toying with the strings of his silken pajama pants. “Maybe your brother decided to give my recommendations a shot?”

Thranduil lets out a scoff, his disbelief evident. “Las? When has he ever taken our advice on anything?”

True, his brother is going down the full teenager-who-listens-to-no-one-route like he’s doing a marathon but you are just as determined. Coyly you flutter your lashes up at Thranduil, pulling at the strings and twirling them around a finger. “Maybe that’s a sign of the universe, then. That you should stop banging pots and start bang– showing attention to your girlfriend.” 

Thranduil laughs so low in his throat, that you feel it swooshing straight into your stomach, the vibrato of his voice and the rasp of the few hours of sleep undoing every thought of getting him back to bed because this, Thranduil in just a loose shirt standing in the silver light of the moon in the middle of the kitchen and staring down at you might be the most attractive thing you have ever witnessed. 

His hands wander from your waist up to your shoulders, sliding up further to cup your neck in his large palms and gently tilt your chin up further. Your breath comes to a full stop, instead, your heart takes on the job of pulsing twice as fast at the gentle touch of his thumb moving over the underline of your jaw. The day you realized he cradles you just as gently as his favorite knives was surely one to process but now you lean into the lingering taps of his fingertips, the pad of his thumb pressing slightly into the plushness of your lower lip. 

Thranduil slots one leg between yours, casually and with an ease that you wouldn’t believed him to be able to when you first met him. “Have I recently told you how thankful I am that you’re you?” he asks and you shake your head slightly. His lips curve downward, as do his eyebrows. “I may have gotten lost in my work again, haven’t I?” 

You nod, never one to pour a lie into this intimacy. “But that’s fine. I know this is important to you. The restaurant opening and all can’t be easy.”

“That’s no reason to push away the one person that makes this journey bearable. You shouldn’t have to put up with my nightly disappearance out of bed simply because the restaurant is a large focus on my mind right now.” 

“It has become quite the habit of yours,” you agree quietly and slip one hand under his shirt again. 

There’s nothing sexual about the way you hold onto his waist, tracing the bones and muscles, all breathing softly and singing under your touch. Being this close to him grounds you the same way he needs physical touch as a reminder that he is still important in arguments and fights. That no matter how far apart your opinions are at that moment, your bond is still there. 

“I am truly sorry for this habit. I will work on it and I think once we have gotten through the worst of the press and critics I can rest easier but it’s nothing I can one hundred percent promise. The last time we closed for a month I slept barely after reopening.”

You tilt your head. “Is there anything I can do to help you?”

“No, everything you do makes me a better person already,” Thranduil says and leans down to finally catch your lips in a soft kiss into which you melt like butter on a hot pan. Every nerve ending is sizzling and burning, sighing as he holds your face close and kisses the breath out of you. “Or would you do me the favor and never watch your movie again?”

You laugh and bite down on his lip, “Never. Try something more realistic.”

He agrees with a huff of laughter, “Of course not,”  and pulls you back into another kiss. 

“Can we go back to bed?” you mumble against his lips. As much as you enjoy the loving kisses, the slow and languid draw of his tongue, the playful nip of his teeth in the lull of the night, his full body cornering you against the counter – oh, there’s this low sound of his throat again – but unlike Thranduil, you had a few hours of sleep already and you can feel the urge to hop back under the covers in the cold around your bare ankles.  

Thranduil’s head swirls around, seemingly taking in the state of the kitchen without the haze of a restless man dreaming of the perfect dish clouding his judgment and he raises a hand to tap against his lips, loudly exhaling. “Shit. I can’t leave this lying around and while it’s no good for the restaurant, I can’t just throw it out.”

You shrug your shoulders, sneaking past him to open the drawer meticulously sorted with plastic boxes. There are certainly enough of them to store the soups and their different varieties. Once Thranduil starts working on a new recipe, his tendency to fill the kitchen and run tests leaves its traces in the way you now look out for good lunchbox offers and Tupperware parties, always being mindful of having enough of them to stack up the freezer. Thranduil may be opposed to frozen food – and not only storebought, he would not eat something he didn’t cook fresh even if the whole idea of freezing food he cooked meant that it was still good and full of vitamins – but you don’t mind popping them into the microwave on a long day at work and relishing the soul food of your boyfriend weeks after he abandoned the thought of that particular version.

“We could pack them up and bring them around to the shelter tomorrow. Ah, wait, no. You have to be at the restaurant early for the deliveries. I can drop them off then, get home to change and still be there on time for the opening, oh! Thran–,” you are interrupted by the warm weight of Thranduil hugging you close from behind, surprising you the same way you had earlier, only that the height difference allows him to mouth a kiss into your neck. 

“I love you,” Thranduil says, digging his fingers into the wool of your cardigan. “All I’m doing is keeping you up at night and you’re still here, thinking about bringing the food to the shelter and my schedule. You’re brilliant, my love.”

The compliment goes through your heart like molten honey, sticking in all the slowly healing cracks that Thranduil mends each day he is there for you. The change from being roommates to best friends brings the risk of disrupting the carefully built balance yet Thranduil and you made it work and in times like this, standing in the darkness of your shared kitchen in the night before the re-opening of what Thranduil loves third-most in the world, every effort is worth the risk.

You smile, resting your head against his chest and looking up at him. His grey eyes are already on you, framed by long lashes and the strands of hair shining silver. “Love you too, most ardently,” you stand up on your tiptoes for a quick kiss upside down. “Soups can wait, let’s go to bed.”

[tobylix-blog]

LotR Week (6/7): Songs and tales - Aragorn x Reader

Content & Warnings: fluff, mention of alcohol Word count: 0.5k Summary: During the celebration in Edoras you find enough courage to sing in front of the strangers. But some familiar eyes watch you too A/N: couldn't bring myself to put poor poetry in our king's mouth, so this is for reader to bear with. Penultimate submission for @lotrweek

The wind had once caught a banner, And carried it on ever since In cheerful, careless manner Over the mountains and seas.

It waved it all over the cities And forests - those bursting with life. Over blue lakes and white lilies, Brighter than mithril dwarves mine.

The wind had blown on through summers And never had tried to stop. But one day it suddenly faltered, And banner threatened to drop

For beautiful lady watched it From weathered and sheer cliffs. Her dress was of highest merit And so was the shawl she knit.

The wind crawled closer and bargained, “Give me your shawl. In return, I will chase off the clouds And let all your fires burn.”

The lady refused and asked for A single thing in exchange. “Please, give me back the banner From days of the passing age.

This banner I still remember – My love has ridden with it On day that I will forever Have written across my lips.”

The tight circle around you exploded in cheers and clapping. The smell of ale wafted over you as the foam splashed from the mugs. Unfamiliar hands patted your back with encouragement and approval. Someone toasted to your name and your song and more voices joined in. You smiled uncertainly and slowly made way through the crowd to the further end of the table, where it seemed calmer.

A few feet of distance didn’t make much difference in volume, but you found yourself breathing easier while not being surrounded by a living wall of bodies. In fact, it was rather nice to get away and watch the celebration from the sidelines. You looked around the room, noticing familiar faces here and there, but your eyes couldn’t catch a glimpse of the one that mattered the most. Not until a hand covered yours resting on the table and a mixture of smells filled your lungs. Leather and tobacco, and, which surprised you the most, foliage. Even here in Edoras, where everything was but coarse grass and horses, and occasional drink, he still smelled like he just walked out of a forest. You asked him about it a few times, though he simply shrugged it off as a consequence of living in Rivendell for too long.

Aragorn’s voice was low, but with his lips pressed against your ear there was no chance of missing his words. “It was a sight to behold. I thought there was a sun shining in the middle of the night, and a merry rain accompanied it. I must admit it’s a shame that your voice has never rung through the Hall of Fire, that would bring joy to many.”

“You flatter me. Elves have unnumbered songs and tales much more beautiful than this one.”

“But none of them is yours,” he whispered again and added softly, “meleth.”

The last part made you give up the dispute, it always did. And Aragorn, as if in gratitude for your compliance, embraced you. You felt several gentle kisses tracing the side of your face before he pulled you back and down until you were conveniently seated on his lap. His breath tickled your neck as he spoke, "Now, tell me. What is the tale behind your wonderful song?"

[tobylix-blog]

LotR Week (5/7): Here with me - Frodo x elf!Reader

Content & Warnings: mild bitterness of any parting Word count: 0.3k Summary: Winters come and go, but Lothlorien remains the same. Only more memories find shelter under the old trees. So does Frodo A/N: mid-lecture drafts find their way to @lotrweek

“Fear not to set foot out of our woods. You will always be here with me. Under these trees our memories are not just images of the past, but living dreams. Maybe even more alive than those walking the green earth.”

Frodo turned around at the sound of your voice, his eyes wide with surprise. At the very bottom of the blue orbs there was pain and fear greater than those known by most immortals. Your heart responded with a loud thud.

“The world is changing both fast and slow in our eyes, but here,” you gestured at the lace canopy of trees above and around, “everything will remain the same.”

He nodded shakily. “I wish I was brave enough to carry on with no doubt. But I can’t forget about the dangers and losses waiting ahead.”

And you wished he was fearful enough to stay behind, to choose safety, to let others catch the banner and go on until the end. But he wasn’t. No, that little hobbit had a heart of gold and a will of steel. And you did whatever was possible to not chain him to the eternal hills against the decision which he had made, even if he was still unsuspecting of it.

You placed your hand on his head and ruffled his dark curls affectionately. “It isn’t bravery that you need, dear Frodo. Your vision and mind are clear of illusions, you are aware of what the future might hold for you. Do not resent it.”

Tiny gems of tears glistened in his eyes as he looked up, but they never spilled. “I found more gifts in Lothlorien than I wished for, and I’m afraid of losing them.”

His words were a low blow. It took all of your willpower to not sway. “Each of them will you bring along on your journey. But not all of them may be lost,” you assured, raising a hand to your chest. “I will wait for you.”

______________________________________________________________ Frodo was walking away, but somewhere in the corner of his eye he could see himself standing beside you, and your hand was still in his hair, bringing waves of warmth to his heart. He must return and he will.

[tobylix-blog]

LotR Week (4/7): Gifts, burdens and choices - Boromir x Reader

Content & Warnings: angst, mentions of death Word count: 0.7k Summary: The weight of the gift, once a symbol of your love and hope, now pressed down on you as an unbearable burden A/N: this had taken my soul out just to finish the piece. Running to catch up with @lotrweek

You had been preparing the gift for a long time. Staying awake at night and thinking over and over what could be worthy of his status and practical in use, spending hours on drawing poor sketches and then throwing them into the hearth, until finally they turned out good enough to bring them over to Cobbled Street and explain your request to the craftsmen before entrusting the process to their skilled hands. It wasn't until months later that you could finally hold it in your hands.

The horn, crafted of polished walnut wood and adorned with intricate gilded filigree. Cold and real, it was even more beautiful than you imagined it. Each leaf and branch, each tower and spire, etched onto its surface by the artisans, had your heart and thought poured in it. It was for Boromir, a token of your affection, a symbol of your unspoken dreams. 

______________________________________________________________ The weight of a horn, heavy in your hand and cold even through the cloth wrapped around it, seemed only to make the pounding of your heart worse as you rushed through the echoing halls. Your steps quickened each time you jumped over the last stair, as if you tried to outrun the rising whirlwind of thrill and apprehension. You followed the trail of news, the whispered rumours. "Lord Denethor holds the audience, the wizard came from the North. They speak of Boromir." Your heart was sinking, but the hopes arose.

Your hold tightened on the horn, keeping it against your chest like a shield from the creeping fears, as you silently entered the grand hall through the side door, keeping in the shadow of columns and out of sight.

Denethor, sat upon his throne, his eyes fixed upon the figure of Gandalf, clad in white.  The hobbit, small and seemingly unassuming, stood beside the wizard, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and fascination. 

Gandalf cleared his throat. “Boromir,” he began, his voice a low rumble, stirring fear mixed with hope in your chest, “fought bravely, valiantly. He fell defending the Fellowship, facing a horde of orcs.” 

The walls crashed around you like bread crumbles in the shaking hands of the ill. The white stones fell with thundering rumble, burying you beneath and filling your lungs with dust. Or so you felt as the words swept you off your feet like a storm.

Your hands trembled. The horn slipped from grasp. Loud rattle reverberated off the walls and gathered in the centre of the hall in an ugly blot of terror. Boromir, dead? The image of him, tall and strong, his dark hair crowned by the sunlight, filled your mind. His laughter, his stories, his gentle teasing. Everything vanished with a single sentence. 

“What a mockery,” Denethor hissed. “Pick up that trinket and get out!”. You heard his words, but they were lost in the deafening roar of your own grief, of the howling ache blowing through the gaping hole in your chest.

One of the servants, who remained hidden behind another column, hurried to get the horn and push it into your shaking hands. You stumbled back, vision clouded and obscure. A pair of warm palms, burning hot against your shoulders, shoved you forward. Stone floors responded to your unsteady steps with freezing firmness, and you broke into a run.

The weight of the gift, once a symbol of your love and hope, now pressed down on you as an unbearable burden. The intricate filigree, meant for the hero you loved dearly, now truly was but a mockery. 

______________________________________________________________ Boromir always made the right choices. For his soldiers, for the people of the White City, for himself. It was as if he had some impeccable compass in his chest, that always showed him the right direction, and followed its guidance without second thoughts. 

He had chosen you, though. Despite the whispers, the disapproval. He had seen past the expectations that dictated your lives. The world said that you were not meant for each other – such is the order of things. But you had chosen otherwise. 

______________________________________________________________ And now, he was gone. As if due to some cruel repayment for his only mistake — you. The world was going on, the pace of life unchanged, but in your eyes everything had stopped, faded, died. The horn was a silent testament to your love, never meant to come alive with the sound again.

[tobylix-blog]

LotR Week (3/7): The green earth in the daylight - Legolas x Reader x Gimli

Content & Warnings: polyamory, fluff Word count: 0.5k Summary: Fangorn forest seemed all the same from the outside, but once you crossed the edge it seemed like you fell into a different realm without even noticing. A/N: running late for @lotrweek, but how could i deny the pleasure of writing gigolas x reader

“Certainly, we wandered into the wrong forest,” Gimli mumbled, stepping over an anthill. A few busy inhabitants of the bustling tiny queendom took the opportunity to climb his heavy boots and travel further away than any insect before them dared to. “What brings on the clouds of doubt, meleth nín?” Legolas wondered, walking around a tree with a dreamy expression. “Do you not recognize the old Fangorn?” “I was convinced that we followed the right road and entered the same woods,” the dwarf squinted, watching a couple of birds dancing in the branches above, “however the further we go the less assured my eyes leave me.”

“I must admit I agree. This place looks nothing like the forest where we met Gandalf,” you announced, glancing down to the ground warily, but unlike the last time grass didn’t catch onto your ankles, only softly grazing the leather of your boots.

It wasn’t just the grass, in fact quite a lot had changed. From the lively sounds tinkling in the air to the gentle touch of summer breeze. From the roots calmly buried in the soft ground instead of standing up and threatening to trip an idle traveller to the soft rustle of leaves singing a hymn of the peaceful afternoon. And not only the material aspects, it was as if the very grim mood of this forest was gone. “Do your hearts agree to call all of us lost wanderers? I would never accuse either of you of lack of belief, yet you leave me little other choice,” Legolas smiled amusedly.

His hands landed weightlessly on both Gimli’s back and yours, and pushed forward with surprising force. He guided you further through a gap in some thick currant bushes adorned with red berries and into a clearing flooded with sunshine.

“Here,” Legolas breathed out. “Watch it closely. Listen to the woods’ whispers. Feel the warmth and life. Smell the blossoms and the ripe fruits. What was once lethargic and gloom is now reborn to its former glory,” the elf took a few dancing steps forward and settled down gracefully in the tall grass. “The earth is green in the daylight again. Calad i nî dadwen*.” [The light that was comes back]

He intoned the last part like some line from an old romantic ballade, which almost made you chuckle. The sight of him joyful and lighthearted, sitting in the grass, forgetting about everything but the forest, brought easiness and a hint of mischief to your heart.

You moved closer to Gimli and hugged him from behind. Pressing your lips to the crown of his head. “I know the sun has already kissed you, love, but you wouldn’t decline me, right? Especially not when our little star is so busy being in love with nature.”

The dwarf chuckled contentedly and covered your hands with his own, tilting his head to the side to let you kiss his temple and beard covered cheek. Legolas paid the action no mind, leaning back on his elbows and letting the wind catch in his hair.

“It must be truly a significant change that occurred in this place, if he is still so serene instead of being green with envy,” you whispered with a smirk.

“An elf growing blind in broad daylight, what a miracle,” Gimli agreed and you couldn’t hold in the gay laugh.

______________________________________________________________

* - Very poor Sindarin translation made with dictionaries and even poorer linguistic knowledge

[tobylix-blog]

"passenger princess" | chapter one

the hobbit | a modern!AU by itsonlydana

❱ pairing: Thranduil x fem!reader

❱ wordcount: 2,9k

❱ summary: the chaotic mess of playing monopoly drunk with your best friends

❱ warnings: alcohol

❱ an: the first chapter.. excited for you to read this! This has been heavily edited from my ao3 post soo have fun <3

general m.list + series m.list

🌿 reposts and comments are appreciated, they motivate me a lot - especially with longer projects <3

CHAPTER ONE: MONOPOLY

"Oh, would you look at that; you landed on my street. Again."

"What? No fucking way."

"Legolas"

"Gimli"

"Blondie, if I don't see my money in ten seconds I'm cutting your hair while you have your beauty sleep."

"No, you wouldn't dare!"

Across from Legolas, Gimli just flashed him a toothy grin, so wide and full of mischief, before leaning over the multitude of cards in front of him with a challenging tip of his head.

"Try me."

"Fine." Legolas drummed his fingers on the table, breaking the staring contest and waving it off like it had never bothered him. "Don't drag it out any further, Gimli, tell me what I owe you, and let me go my way."

For a moment Gimli pretended he had to look for them, but everyone at the table had noticed how his fingers had twitched for the green card as soon as Legolas had rolled the dice.

"You ended up on Oxford Street, which normally would've only cost you $26, but since I have not one, not two, but three houses, you now owe me a wonderful 900!"

And as in previous rounds, Legolas now quite unemotionally pulled two orange paper bills from his carefully sorted, rather tall, stack and received an already slightly worn 100 in exchange, which he accepted with a bitter grumble.

This exchange had happened so many times this evening that you now only rolled your eyes with a smile at the banter, sipping on your bottle of beer to avoid being drawn into the discussion in the first place.

The rivalry between Legolas and Gimli, playful in its purest form and with not an ounce of real bad blood, had become a permanent part of your life after you befriended the two of them.

Although it had slightly thrown you off at first how they went from harmless conversation to competition in seconds, you couldn't imagine your life without it.

In such a fast-paced modern world as this, you sometimes found it hard to hold on to friendships and avoid losing your grip in the swift whirl of time; in the case of many friendships that were strong at the time, you couldn't even remember if there had been a real goodbye, or if they had simply... disappeared - left behind or run ahead, who knew?

With Legolas and Gimli, however, it was different.

You met both of them on the first day of college, had run into both of them, literally, when you tried to get to your first class on time.

A class with a professor you'd only heard bad things about Visitor's Day. The hushed whispers of scared students, their eyes telling you more than what they actually dared to say on campus.

You were close to being punctual, wouldn't it have been for Legolas and Gimli. The duo stood in front of the closed lecture door, simply staring through the tiny window and looking like they would rather perish than actually open it.

Their looks of fear mirrored yours and it was clear that all three of you had heard the stories of students getting their heads ripped of by Professor Sauron. That man had strong feelings about tardiness– and it was only your first day.

You of course rushed to apologize, babbling that you hadn't seen Gimli, and no, it wasn't because of his size but rather due to your lack of attention, and please could they stay on your side when you go into the hell of public humiliation?

By some wonder the Professor had his back turned to the auditorium to fill the blackboard with the required reading list, as you snuck along the stairs and miraculously dropped into the last three empty seats without getting caught.

And when you had breathed a sigh of relief, the brunette who sat on your right passed you the attendance list he had kept with him a little while longer, as if he had suspected that someone else would be late.

That's how you met Aragorn. The ruggedly handsome brunette added to your trio and was conveniently organized enough to lend you and Gimli a pen for the first week.

From day one, you formed an inseparable unit, whether on campus, in the numerous bars you frequented, or in the parks where you often spent your free time - rarely were any of you seen without the others and you would never hear the others utter one single bad word about the other.

You practically did everything together, from classes, many of which you shared – often to the annoyance of professors and fellow students due to the vibrant and occasionally noisy atmosphere you created– to lunches lounging under the campus's shady trees, with Aragorn reading poems from his literature class, and you occupied with braiding Gimli's long-grown beard while Legolas dozed in the longing stares of bypassers, gossiping and flirting.

On weekdays before exams, you either barricaded yourselves in your tiny dorm room, for it was the closest to the library, quizzing each other up and down the subjects, writing flashcards, most of which you wrote, to give to Legolas and Gimli afterward, and after exams, you forced your way into bar after bar, leaving your marks in benches and stools, squeezing into cramped photo booths in brightly lit clubs.

The first trimester passed swiftly, much like the initial semesters of the second, which you were presently struggling to handle.

It was the college life that everyone probably dreamed of, that every movie romanticized, and even you sometimes couldn't believe how perfect everything was.

Certainly, not every exam resulted in a perfect score and not every day was adorned with rose-colored glasses of happiness perched on your nose.

Yet, be it a poorly performed test, a date lacking sparks, or a random low point, your boys stood steadfastly by your side, offering unwavering support.

Today was no different.

The day had started with you waking to the sun and not your alarm clock and getting your ass handed by Professor Sauron.

It continued with some pretty demotivating feedback on an essay you'd worked many late nights by your Herbology Professor Baggins.

He did offer you a pat on the back that probably meant to cheer you up but felt condescending considering the amount of red ink staining the essay you'd crumbled in sweaty hands.

Adding that to Professor Sauron's embarrassment of you in front of the entire class sank your already low spirits to the basement.

Not even Aragorn's consoling hand, which remained steadfastly by your side throughout the day, guiding you from one class to the next, mumbling soft words and trying to cheer you up with soft kisses to your forehead, could lift you out of this emotional abyss.

How you survived that day was a mystery but after eight hours of you pouring out bad energy like radioactive waves, Legolas must've had enough of your moping and the grim expressions you fired at anyone who shouldered you in the hallway.

With a determined, "We're going to my place," the blonde had put his pep talk plan consisting of a trip to the liquor section of the supermarket and an order from the delivery guy into action.

It was this very plan that had gotten you into your current situation.

Slightly drunk at the kitchen table of the House of Oropherion.

A Monopoly board in front of your nose, around it several empty beer bottles. Pizza boxes scattered on the countertops and bags of all sorts of sweet stuff that Legolas had sweepingly pushed from the shelves into the shopping cart, blowing pink bubble gum bubbles.

The guy seriously had a snack-problem and a spending habit that surely made for a good intervention.

Within a few hours, you had turned the otherwise pristine and tidy kitchen into a battlefield that looked a lot like the one in your dorm.

Whereas the one in the dorm was used by twenty young women and many of their partners, and this one just by four.

Just as in the dorm, loud laughter echoed through the entire house, accompanied by your shared playlist.

Legolas had set it playing on the expensive stereo while preparing his snack bowl.

It was a chaotic mix, Legolas pop music, Gimlis folk metal and Aragorns indie rock while you sprinkled in a few classical songs or added whatever else was missing.

Quietly, you hummed along to the hottest chart song of this summer.

Your spirits had risen by now, thanks to your best friends, even if it did look like they were about to go for each other's throats over a denied exchange of a road.

"My Lady," Aragorn interrupted the rising argument between Legolas and Gimli and held out his hand with the dice to you, "Please stop this madness and continue the round so we can finish this eventually.. hopefully today"

Grinning, you accepted the dice, "I will do my best, my lord," while Gimli muttered into his beard, "Not my fault Barbie isn't giving me what's rightfully mine."

As expected, the idiots fell silent as soon as you gave the dice a quick shake in your closed hands and then tossed them across the table with a clatter.

Of course, in the face of eventual earnings, everyone immediately calculated where you would end up and who might rip off what little money was left in front of you.

Two threes.

And everyone groaned in annoyance.

Only you grinned as you dragged your silver dog figure across the Park Lane and Mayfair field decorated with a few of Legolas hotels, right over GO and landed on your own field.

Another round where you survived on the 200 notes from pulling over GO, anxious not to land on one of the hotel fields from the others.

Because, unlike the others, greedy little hoarders who acquired your properties, swindling you with meager donations, you possessed only the two modest brown streets, yielding little profit.

With each move of yours, the others hoped you would finally end up on one of their plots and finally be eliminated, but as if fate would have it, you seemed to be avoiding it just fine.

"And she lives another round," Aragorn raised his beer bottle in your direction and winked "Any bets on how many more you'll survive?"

You snorted as you shook the dice in your hand again. "You're not getting rid of me that fast."

The dice clattered across the board, two ones and loud rumbling from the boys, you moved to the community chest square laughing.

Reaching across the board, you grabbed the top card of the cards and dramatically pulled it up to your chest.

To your left, Legolas drummed his fingers impatiently on the table, and even though Aragorn has so far stayed away from the competition between Legolas and Gimli, he too now nodded his chin questioningly at the card.

At an almost agonizingly slow pace, you turned it over, keeping eye contact with your boys for a while, though, before looking down, skimming the printed text, and laughing out loud.

"What does it say?" Legolas inquired, trying to lean toward you, dark eyebrows raised questioningly.

"Geez, tell me it's a bad card."

"You can decide that for yourself, Gimli," chuckling, you held out your card in such a way that the three of them almost bumped heads, so fast were they bending to the center.

"You've got to be kidding me," Aragorn slumped back in his chair with a moan, and Gimli slammed his hands flat on his thighs, cursing a string of words that in their pure filthy form would make anyone else blush.

You were only spurred on by them, and laughter burst out of you, loud and full of glee.

"I'd like a hundred from each of you right now, it's my birthday after all," you smirked, holding out your hand.

Aragorn was the first to put a bill on it, and even Gimli, though he stressed that he would get it back before you ran out of laughter, handed over something from his well-guarded account.

"Laaas, what am I waiting for? A birthday song?" you asked.

Legolas raised a perfect eyebrow and slid you a bill looking so bored that you almost bought it, "You can wait a long time for a song."

"For the chance to hear your voice dedicate a song to me, I'd wait a thousand years," you sang, winking with a sugary smile on your lips.

"Or I'd just watch the recordings from last night's karaoke, I'd even get a love song from you as a gift," dramatically you grabbed your chest with both hands and threw your head back

"And wouldn't that be oh so romantic?"

"Please," he scoffed, "If I'd really tried you'd be on your knees in seconds. Babe, I have charm."

For a moment you manage to pulled yourself together, looking into Legolas' eyes, holding his challenging gaze from which you didn't know to interpret if he truly believed his statements himself.

Then you heard Gimli's dirty laugh.

The redhead hands hit the table so hard that several of the hotels flew in all directions, and with them your composure.

With a rather unfeminine snort, you threw yourself backward in your chair, your head craned back and your arms folded in front of your stomach; there was no saving you from the laughter that bubbled out of you like hot water on a stove.

"Your charm?" you gasped, trying to blink away the tears in your eyes.

Unsuccessfully, because when you saw Legolas stand up indignantly and toss his blond hair over his shoulder, the tears flew unstoppably down your cheeks.

Sure, you were aware of what a charming man Legolas could be; you were teasing, not blind.

It took nothing to perceive him for what he was, and that was a flawless beauty. That angelic face, long blond-gold hair flowing over his shoulder, and eyes ever so gentle, marked him a natural beauty and unfortunately, you couldn't deny that what came out of his mouth most of the time made most men and women's hearts swell.

You were friends with him, though, and the idea of being even remotely touched by his charm made you laugh beyond control.

And you heard all the bullshit the guy yapped about when there was no one around he wanted to impress.

"What?" Legolas asked, and in his voice, a challenge that, voiced by the beer, didn't bode well, "I don't want to sound too arrogant" –snickering from the three of you– "go fuck yourselves, I'm charming! I'm sure, oh I bet, that you would fall for it!"

And before you would have objected much, he took a big swig from his bottle and slid down from his chair.

Right in front of you.

Onto his knees.

It was the look of firm conviction in his eyes, the way he reached for your hand and gently held it like it was made of cracked glass against his chest, that made your laughter turn into a silly giggle.

Legolas, even though he was swaying a bit and his words were no longer flowing too loosely from his tongue, was a sight you wouldn't any time soon. "My darling friend, whose attention I do not deserve–"

"Now that's what I call true words," grunted Gimli, who had also leaned back in the meantime and received a punishing look from Legolas before the blond turned back to you.

"–whose attention I don't deserve and that yet has me blossoming, like the first flowers reaching out to the sun, for you are the light in my life. Everything that connects us tugs at my heart, it cries out for more and I'm afraid I can no longer remain silent about my feelings"

Ironically, at that very moment, he paused, seemed lost in thought and stroked the back of your hand with his thumb.

Not that it helped him really.

But you waited patiently nonetheless, letting Legolas continue to play the role of the poet.

He looked back at you from the far distance in which his gaze had become playfully entangled, and you saw the twitch of his lips, the sign of a cheeky grin he tried to keep down.

It didn't matter what words made him fight the grin, though, Legolas didn't get to say them.

Thanks to the music, which had faded into the background but still sounded through the sound system, as well as your group's silly fooling around and never-ending laughter, you hadn't heard the front door unlock, or the footsteps in the hallway.

It wasn't until an amused-sounding "Oh, am I interrupting?" rang out in a very familiar voice behind you that you became aware of the new presence in the room.

Immediately, the hairs on the back of your neck stood up, the deep voice rolling over your entire body like sweet honey.

You heard Aragorn laugh, a murmured, "You've lost your girl, Las," and the blonde in front of you groaned as he struggled to his feet.

"Great, wow, I was literally so close to getting her around. Thank you so much, Ada," Legolas scoffed.

You followed his gaze, eyes falling onto the man casually leaning against the kitchen counter.

And your heart jumped inside your chest.

taglist: @mushroomemeralds @mssuguru @solartoge

[tobylix-blog]

LotR Week (2/7): Histories and legacies - Eowyn x Reader

Content & Warnings: fluff Word count: 0.5k Summary: Tales of the old age come off the walls under your gaze, leaving their gobelins empty. Their voices remain foreign though, until a much familiar one takes the turn to tell the story. A/N: Going on strong with @lotrweek

Eowyn timidly leaned into your side, as if you would suddenly recoil from her touch and flee like a wild animal. Even her breath was quiet and measured to not disturb your running thoughts. Well, if they were not all about her before, now you had no other choice but to get completely enveloped in her proximity. Your arm lifted and then draped carefully around her shoulders, pulling her closer ever so slightly. Smell of the wildflowers and linen was coming from her unbraided hair. Which seemed to transfer you from the candlelit halls to the open steppe. Endless fields and hills of coarse grass and sparse colour standing before your eyes.

"What troubles your mind?" she spoke, resting her head on your shoulder.

"Apart from you?"

She shifted in your embrace discontentedly and another wave of her gentle scent tickled your senses.

"I know, I know. My apologies," you smiled into the golden crown of her hair, placing a chaste kiss to the soft locks. You tried to recollect what had your attention prior to her arrival. Throwing a glance across the ceiling beams and down the walls, your eyes finally came to rest onto the tapestries. There were several in the hall and they caught your attention so fully, that you left behind the plans just to sit down on a hard bench across from one of them. "This in fact," you pointed with your free hand. "There are no words to read, but they all tell their stories anyway. I can hardly understand, what those are about, though."

Your gaze wandered from one embroidered figure to another, unable to quite make out the plotline. Abundance of horses and opulence of clothing led to a conclusion that this was either a historical or legendary tale about Rohirrim and their kings, but the meaning was slipping from your grasp.

Eowyn followed your gaze, her brow furrowing slightly as she took in the intricate details, well-known to her eyes. "All of these tapestries are tales of the Riddermark. This one tells of Helm, called Hammerhand. When the Dunlendings waged war against our kin, and our ancestors seeked protection in the fortress Suthburg, which lays among the mountains, he defeated an entire army with bare hands. The invaders feared the very sound of his horn and fled once the spring had come."

"The Helm's Deep is named after him then?" you inquired, tilting your head to the side and squinting trying to find and match the embroidery to the tale.

"It is, indeed," Eowyn nodded and pulled away from you, standing up to face the tapestry. "Each thread here weaves a part of our history - legacy as old as the land that we walk on. Time makes the strings grey in shade and bereft of colour, just the same as our hair, but the stories remain as bright as the day they were first told."

She then turned her radiant grey eyes to you. They were full of lively trepidation. From the glowing halo of hair to the clasped hands pressed against her chest, she was the reflection of thoughts swarming in her head.

"I dare to wish our tales will be honoured and remembered all the same, for we put our hearts bare to the scales of destiny. And I hope dearly..." she trailed off as she took a step closer, the hem of her skirt brushing against your knees. "That ours are woven onto the same gobelins."

[tobylix-blog]

LotR Week (1/7): The road goes ever on - Gandalf x Reader

Content & Warnings: angst, platonic Word count: 0.6k Summary: When lights fade away, one is left to find their path in the dark or be lost forever. You must learn faster than anyone, for the times turn darker before your own eyes. A/N: @lotrweek entry for day one before it's too late

It was always Gandalf that showed you the many paths of Middle-Earth. In one way or another, but it always was him. His grey robes raising clouds of road dust as he was walking beside you across the vast plains and hills. Or the smoke rings flowing from his pipe as he was telling you unnumbered stories and legends. Or the lonely light of his staff guiding you through the labyrinths of Moria.

He led you through the numerous dangers of Khazad-Dûm, filling your heart with expectations of the open world lying ahead, but his own path was cut short there. Fire and darkness from the bottomless abyss was defeated with the price beyond wildest imagination. Fate played the most cruel of all jokes, giving you hope and then taking it away in one swift motion of a whip.

Gandalf fell down into the depths along with the enemy silently, like silver snowflakes that cover the mountain. And you cried in his stead. Hopelessly and helplessly you struggled in Aragorn’s arms, while the pain was burning its way through your body. From the stinging in the heels that pushed you forward to the crumbling edge of the bridge to the heavy chains clasping your heart in cold misery.

When the sunlight reached your skin again, the anguish didn’t melt away, instead freezing itself deeper into your bones. You were back on your feet, but you had nowhere to direct your steps to. There was no more sight of the white beard and the grey cloak, no sound of his voice calling for thoughts or for action, no smell of the pipeweed measuring the finale of another adventure, no sensation of the guiding thread that his presence always brought to your mind. You couldn’t feel him the way you used to. There was nothing to rely on anymore. Nothing to follow.

You felt blind. And yet Aragorn pushed you on and on, downhill and forward, away from the growing threat of orcs. Not that you could still comprehend the danger of such sort. Still you moved. At first it was just you, shoulders slumped, drowning in the sea of sorrow and grief shared with the rest of the fellowship, while your feet pushed against the hard rocks step after step. Then the first trees began to block off the sun once every few dozen painful heartbeats, which somehow slowly made it possible to see again. Like the shadows were the new light since your own began to fade. Your steps were quieter and softer against the yellowing grass. Then, once you crossed the edge of the forest, the vast world was shut off by the trees and shattered into narrow pathways between the thick trunks. And surprisingly you found yourself taking one of those paths as if pulled by an invisible rope.

You stopped dead in your tracks from the wild guess. But it wasn’t the same guiding line that your imagination drew in the past. There was no sign, nowhere in your aching soul, of Gandalf. It wasn’t his light that shone upon the trail. Instead it was something that came from the parts of your conscience that you hardly ever knew about and the more steps you took the stronger your conviction became. It was as if the path was choosing you, rather than the opposite. Moreover, it was as if each yard passed took away the tiniest crumble of your grief.

The wind of fate blew out the lantern that you followed in the darkness of times, but the road was still there. The road went on. You only had to learn to walk it.

[tobylix-blog]

Pain: invigorating and paralysing - headcanons

They’re injured while in battle, so you take it upon yourself to protect them. That’s when you get wounded as well. When they see your pain they… A/N: first time writing headcanons, it's not really my cup of tea after all

They’re furious. How dare anyone lay a finger on you, let alone cut through your flesh with steel. The sight brings them back on their feet and into the fight. The head of your assailant falls from the shoulders before you fully understand what happened to you. Before long they bring you back to safety, ensuring that your wounds are tended to by them or someone else. Either way they stay by your side for the whole time: Aragorn, Gandalf, Gimli, Merry They’re broken through and through. They were supposed to be the one protecting you. Yet they didn’t have enough strength to keep you safe even once. The blade you take for them cuts right through their heart with a brute force of a guillotine. They don’t drop to their knees, but they can’t move an inch. Their whole world shrinks to the point in space and time where you cry out in pain. They feel no wind blowing around, no sun diving below the horizon, no friends speaking to them until the darkness mercifully takes them: Frodo, Pippin, Elrond They’re blinded by anger. In a heartbeat they get to your side, weapon back in their hands. No sooner they get back to senses than your offender pays tenfold the price of your wound. Once they do though, everything changes. So much unlike the initial rage they feel lost and helpless faced by your pain that they cannot soothe. They don’t know a way to fight what is hurting you, and the knowledge weighs down like a mountain on their shoulders as they freeze in place: Boromir, Legolas, Sam, Eowyn

[tobylix-blog]

“Did you just call my ass massive enough to break a bench?” Thranduil and you lean both back at the same time to eye it in silent agreement. 

Confession: little pieces like this are what makes me fall in love with writers and their works

P.S. Barduil x reader fluff is a remedy we didn't know we needed

can we get some barduil x reader fluff?

(preferably in the same modern au typa thing you've been doing, but beggars can't be choosers)

Golden Memories | hobbit

pairing: Thranduil x fem!reader x Bard 👑 [king's special]

An invitation to a garden party leads to Bard and Thranduil introducing you to their group of friends and prove that they are the rock you can always hold onto.

warnings/tags: [modern!au], fluff, appearances of multiple hobbit characters, lots of pda (they can't keep their hands from each other), and the softest of softest barduil

word count: 4,4k

an: Thank you for this request! Summer is fading but their love is ever-warm and golden.

requests: please check pinned post

+ masterlist + rules + 🌿 reposts and comments are much appreciated, they motivate me a lot and keep me writing <3

The house stands in front of you like something straight out of a movie. An exterior of white walls and huge windows adorned with cobalt blue wooden shutters and terracotta clay pots hanging next to them; pinkish and lilac flower buds breaking up the monochromic white. A balcony on the second floor nestled right under the sloping roof of dark blue shimmering shingles, curves around into the back and is lit up all the way by colorful lanterns placed on tables and chairs. Music plays in the garden on the other side, too far away to make out any words or instruments but the beat floats through the air like the soft breeze and twirls around your head dreamily and weightless. 

You can sense the sea that's just behind the house, the salt in wind and water on the tip of your tongue, the seagulls and waves in your ears, and the sand that lingers on shoes and naked feet as people walk up from the beach on the pathway, leaving golden memories.

“It’s a sight, isn’t it?” 

You flinch as a hand is placed on your hip and pulls you out of the admiration into the familiar side that smells like fresh laundry detergent and rich perfume. Bourbon-vanilla, honey, lavender – Thranduil. In the months you’ve known him, the note of vanilla became what you associated with him the most. That and the adoring look in his gray eyes, that rest on you now and are completely in ignorance of the house that captures your attention. 

“It’s –,” you dig in your frazzled mind for an appropriate word, “dreamy.” Not as eloquent as Thranduil could describe it if he went into it, but eh, considering the circumstances it should be enough.

Thranduil gently squeezes your hand, drawing you closer to press a quick kiss to your temple. 

“And, remember: it’s just a house. A few walls, windows, probably doors, and most definitely locks and keys.” There’s a playful yet meaningful wink that’s just for you and a soft crinkle in his eyes. 

“Wow,” another voice chimes in and Bard slides up to your other side, “You know the secret doors and windows? Should I be worried that you’re going to steal my job?” Under his arm is the sweater he’d run back to get from his truck. The one you said you wouldn’t need and which he brought nevertheless. The sweater you always borrow from him.

Thranduil rolls his eyes at you before arching his dark eyebrows at the brunette. “Considering you stole my girlfriend? I should go for more than just your job. Let me take over that whole construction firm and maybe then you have some reason to complain.”

Wearing the sweater on his arm and a smirk on his face, Bard leans into Thranduil for a kiss on his cheek. “She surrendered to my charme willingly,” he says first to him, then he turns to you: “There was no stealing whatsoever. Even if she’s some good treasure. “A wave of Bard’s tart aftershave – leather, musk, cedarwood – clouds you in much more happiness than the playful interaction that rings much more truth than the joking tone leads on.

You had met Thranduil before Bard. 

When it was just Thranduil, the writer who worked on his novel in a corner booth at the bar you worked in and who, one day, asked if he could throw a glass of red wine over the tablecloth. He wanted his novel to be authentic and whenever you brought him another drink, that was the only thing he could think about. It was such a strange request that you fulfilled it at the end of your shift, when the last patrons had found their way outside and you and Thranduil were the last once there; tipping one glass after the other of old wine and coloring throw-away tablecloths the same red that your cheeks blushed in. 

He told you that he was poly and in another relationship before he asked you out for the first date. Six dates later you asked if you could meet Bard, simply because you wanted to know more about Thranduil and what he liked and loved and if that was the other relationship, then so be it. You knew that there were no obligations for you and Bard, that much had been discussed and until you actually met Bard, you yourself hadn’t touched the thought of a polyamorous relationship. 

That went out of the window the second Bard arrived at the scheduled coffee date straight after work. His hands rough and large in yours, his cheeky grin silver like the few strands of hair, sawdust on his black boots, and that damn scent of musk and sweat clinging to his unbuttoned chest like he knew that would send your stomach into loopings and your brain into overdrive.

Ever since then, it had been Thranduil and Bard and you. 

For their friends, you had been a part of conversations and surely pictures but there hadn’t been a chance to meet them in person; thus the invitation to a relaxed – their words, most definitely not yours – summer evening barbeque at one of their houses. A chance to be introduced in the comfort of a home rather than a public space. 

The day has been a fixed spot in the shared Google calendar for a while now, a careful drop in conversations at the dinner table or a gentle reminder when you cuddled on the couch or ended a phone call. 

That doesn’t necessarily mean that you are ready though. 

“Come on,” Thranduil’s voice is even deeper and lower as a whisper in your ear and you catch his gaze, “You’ve nothing to worry about, mon amour. They’re excited to finally meet you.”

“Exactly,” Bard leans in to gently nudge his nose against your temple from the other side. “We’re there the whole time.”

“And if you should meet a minute, we can find a quiet spot,” Thranduil says.

A raspy chuckle bubbles up Bard’s throat and you can feel the vibrations of it fight against the wild flutter of your hummingbird heart, “I mean, we heard from the expert that this house has some doors and locks and keys,” – Thranduil huffs, loud and clearly after this quip – “Tell us when you want to disappear for a bit. It’s more than manageable.”

“Thank you, guys,” you sigh and lean slightly back to look up at both of them, “This already helped a lot – you already helped a lot.” And raising to your tiptoes, you express your love and gratitude with a kiss on their lips, sighing at the grounding smile that’s on Thranduil’s and the soft and playful bite of Bard’s teeth.

Despite their presence on your side, your hands shake around the basket you bring, a tight white-knuckle grip around the woven straw, the ends leaving imprints on your soft skin. Glued to Thranduil’s side and thankful for his hand loosening your grip to intertwine your fingers with his, you follow Bard not to the porch with the pretty stained window in the front door, but around the side through a wooden arch. 

Bard flips open the rusty lock with one smooth grab over the door, holding it open for you and Thranduil to pass him. 

The garden is just as pretty as the front of the house, a curving stone path on wild sprouting ankle-high grass, raised and signed flower and vegetable beds on one side, lilac wisteria climbing up the walls of the house on the other. When you round a corner, you nearly stop dead in your tracks. You don’t, Thranduil continues to pull you with him, but your jaw does fall open at the sight of the glittering ocean greeting you over a low hedge. It didn’t look that close from the front, the raised garden, however, makes it seem like it’s just a simple dive. 

A long table is set up in the middle of the lawn, already loaded up with plates, bowls full of salads, baskets with bread, and honestly, it seems like they made sure everyone will be accommodated and find something to eat.

“Thranduil! Hii– you’re here!” A woman springs up the second the three of you come into view of the small group of people sitting on the stairs to the veranda, long red hair flying past her as she dashes forward. 

Thranduil hugs her first with one arm, leaving the other hand to hold onto you, and then he nudges you. “May I introduce you to Tauriel, mon amour. She’s one of my oldest friends and this–” 

“Is the famous barkeeper,” Tauriel finishes and grins at you. Before you can actually respond, she pulls you into a short hug as well. “I’ve heard lots about you! We need to sit down later and have a proper chat where you can tell me the secret to Thranduil’s hair,” she shoots your partner a sharp look, though it turns into a smile again when her head turns back to you, “Now, I won’t hog you anymore. Bard, finally got out of work, I see?”

The second Tauriel pounces on Bard you take a deep breath, your eyes unconsciously flitting up to Thranduil to find his on you already. 

“Don’t worry,” he kisses your temple, and his nose brushes through fine hairs, “just tell her about Bard’s 3 in 1 and she’ll be off your back for a while.”

With that Thranduil leads you to the others who slowly got up as well, leaving wine glasses in different states of empty on the staircase and greeting you one after the other.

There are the twins, Fíli and Kíli, who you know from various disastrous tellings of nights out in Bard’s young adulthood spanning from climbing fences to public pools at night to losing a bearded dragon in their University and chasing it around for half the night only to find it cozied up under a heater. You always thought Bard exaggerates in those stories; you’re no longer sure after meeting the twins. Then Legolas comes forward, a young blonde in skinny jeans that he must be the only one to pull off like that, and of course, the owners of the house: Bilbo and Thorin – auburn and raven-black locks, a strand of the other braided behind each right ear. 

While the Bilbo gushes over the basket you hand over shyly – “Uhm, I brought a salad, some wine, and there also flower seeds in there and some sweets. Chocolate and gummies, I didn’t know what you liked exactly.” – Thorin smirks and shakes your hand in his much larger.

“Finally Bard introduces a partner that ain’t an asshole,” he says, ignorant of the puff of air that Thranduil exhales. 

“Oh,” you blush, unsure of what to say.

“Pleasure to see you as well, Oakenshield,” Thranduil cuts in for you, and his grin is sharp, “How’s the beer coming along?”

“Ale,” Thorin corrects, gritting his teeth. His broad arms are crossed in front of his chest, showing off an impressive swell of muscles; he looks like he could throw Thranduil over the fence into the ocean. “And if you hadn’t convinced Legolas to post your wine on his Instagram first, we could’ve had a fair competition.”

“Mhm, there’s fair competition and then there’s no competition; and well, only one of those brings in much more profit.” Thranduil shrugs his shoulders, hiding his joy as well as Thorin masks his annoyance tinted with the slightest respect of a businessman – not at all.

When you meet Bilbo’s eyes, he rolls them with a huff, muttering something along the lines of “Cocky bastards” while you bite down on laughter. 

 “Now,” Thranduil’s thumb draws a gentle circle over your hand, his smile soft again as he dedicates it to you, “shall we grab a bite and sit down?” 

You’re glad about the offer, without the basket in your hands you are left to fiddle on Thranduil’s hand or the seam of his sweater; both make fantastic distractions but your stomach swoops at the smell of all the food stacked high on the table.

The benches wobble slightly on the natural growing lawn as you sit down next to Thranduil, the sun-warmed wooden planks radiating through your pants. A sea breeze swirls through your lover's hair, blowing the strands forward so you gather the light blonde hair in between your fingers and loop the pink hair tie you always carry on your wrist around it, pulling it into a loose ponytail that falls over Thranduil’s chest. It’s a coordinated action, one born in your notorious habit of always having something to twirl and pull, and Bard's and Thranduil's tendency to forget that the wind was the biggest enemy to their longer hair. 

You catch Bard’s perfume before he steps up behind you, wrapping an arm around your waist and nuzzling a kiss into the delicate skin of your neck. “Hello darling,” he greets you as if you have been apart for hours, not minutes, and your heart flutters. His kisses wander to the spot behind your ear. “Hope the spot next to you is not taken yet.” 

“No,” you giggle at the delicate scratch of his stubble and sigh when his hands leave your body.

The whole bench shakes when he falls down onto it, rattling enough for Thranduil to nearly drop the plate he holds. “Oops,” Bard says. “Awful construction.” 

“Or just not made for muscle-man to crash his arse through it,” Legolas comments and – gracefully – sits down next to Tauriel on the other side of the table. 

“Did you just call my ass massive enough to break a bench?” 

Thranduil and you lean both back at the same time to eye it in silent agreement. 

“As much as I love that you’re checking me out,” Bard says and takes a plate full of cut bread, “let’s do this after dinner. I’m starving.”

“Me too,” Kíli wanders past you, sneaking a quick reach to the bottles of beer in front of you. “Thorin had us running down to the cellar to bring up more and more drinks –”

“And we couldn’t take one break,” his brother adds, coming up from your other side to grab a bottle as well. They take a seat on the other bench as well. 

“If you worked half as much as you complained you would’ve finished all this in no time.” Thorin’s voice shuts their rambling up immediately, though you guess it’s less for respect and rather because the twins took the chance that everyone finally sits down to start ravaging the table and piling up their plates.

Voices reach over voices to chat and talk as much as hands reach over hands in an effort to grab bowls and glasses and bottles, the ‘clinks’ and ‘clunks’ accompanying the “How’s life?”, “Is that co-worker still a pain?” and in the middle of all the conversations held over and around the table, Thranduil and Bard find corners and open spots to bring you or your work up. It’s adoring, how much they care that you’re never left out – even if that’s not possible with Legolas and Tauriel opposite of you, arguing over this, telling that, and asking you for your opinion – and you find the anxiety that left cold shivers down your spine a stranger you would recognize in passing, not a fourth person in your relationship to take you down whenever you felt unsure. 

You’re sipping on a glass filled with sparkly wine and pierce your fork through the pasta salad left on your plate when Bilbo forces Fíli to swatch places and gleams at you, his cheeks rosy in the golden light of the late afternoon sun. “Soo,” he points his glass into your – general – direction, “Tell me, how? This?”

Tauriel’s eyes have a hungry glitter in them and she raises her eyebrows. “Yes, I’m in dire need of your side of the story. These boys kept you their secret for so long and then never gave a proper explanation.”

Surprised you turn your head to Thranduil, whose arm is once again draped behind your back. “Seriously?” you ask.

“We wanted to wait until you’re comfortable enough to bring you up,” Bard’s hand takes its place on your thigh pressed against his. He’s close enough that you can rest your chin on his shoulder without slipping out of Thranduil’s open embrace. 

You nudge the warm curve of Bard’s throat with your nose, mouthing a kiss against his pulse, hidden behind the faint stubble of hair. “Thank you,” you mumble and feel his rumble of an answer against your lips and where your chest hugs his side. 

“Always, princess.”

A wistful sigh draws you away from Bard, your cheeks colored the same deep rosé as your wine at Bilbo’s wink. You quickly cough, hoping it will clear your voice from the sap and dripping love that tints the words and silent conversations you have with your partners. “So, the story is quite simple. Thranduil came into the bar one night to work on his novel, whyever he thinks that would be a better location than his office is wondrous, nevermind though. He came in, and I think I fell in love the same day.” 

“What?” Thranduil’s hand tightens in a loving squeeze, “You never told me that.”

“I’m sure I did.” You blush hot and take a sip of your wine – swallowing the lie with a rush of sweetened grapes. 

“No, I can’t remember such a chat. I do know that you fell for Bard like a puppet with its strings snapped –” he clicks his tongue and snaps his finger, “And there I was, sitting in that booth and coming home, complaining how you never flirted back.” Thranduil frowns, his grey eyes finding amusement in the color of your cheeks and the way you squirm between him and Bard. His teasing ends in a kiss to where the flames in your face feel the hottest, a calming balm for the rush of blood. 

You lick over your lips, drawing the bottom one between your teeth. “Anyway, yes, I took one glance at them and never looked back.” 

“Ain’t that the cutest,” Bilbo claps his hands together in delight. “I felt the same about Thorin! I know he doesn’t look it, but he sweetened me up with poetry and candlelight dinners and I knew he was the one.”

Next to you, Thranduil does a poor job hiding his snort behind a cough. 

Thorin does an even poorer one hiding the kick aimed at Thranduil’s chins which he misses and nearly tumbles over. 

You have just the slightest grasp on their feud, anger that’s long forgotten over something long clarified, the residues of what happened tightly knitted into their friendship and sticking out like pieces of threat coming loose. Frays, those tender, feathered edges where fabric has gently unraveled, revealing a soft halo of fibers, and for them it’s their history refurbished in jokes and hot-headed discussions, competitions about ale and wine, lovers and music, the passions of life that they share from different sides on the same coin.

The evening goes on after dinner when most of the bowls and platters are cleared up and snacks are brought out with more bottles of wine, and beer, and ale, and you offer your help, stacking up empty glasses to bring them into the house. You leave behind the loud yelling and screaming over a card game for the quiet kitchen overlooking the sea, silent except for the water rushing into the sink and Tauriel’s soft humming as her hands dip into the foam and bubbles to meticulously clean the dishes. 

Her red hair, half of it pinned up, glows in the sunset and her smile radiates the same warmth. “Place them right there,” she waves one soapy hand.

The glasses clatter and rattle against each other. You grab a red and white checkered towel and take a wet plate.

For a while you work in perfect harmony; Tauriel cleans up and you dry off what she hands you, listening to the men outside and their cheers. The lights in the house are turned down, bathing you in the rest of the light streaming in from the outside and its reflection on the glistening bubbles. 

Tauriel is the first to speak up, after a soft exhale that has the loose strands of hair fluttering. “Thranduil came to me and Legolas after you helped him with his writing project,” she starts and you pause, a warm plate in the wet towel, “He crashed at our apartment, drops of red wine on his favorite shirt and all he could talk about was the girl whose laughter got him drunker than anything you could have served him. The whole night he sat on our flour, candles lit – he refused to turn on our lamps, dear heaven – and wrote his book. On our floor. A man possessed by a muse.”

“He said I inspired him to write, I haven’t realized the depth of that statement.” You absentmindedly lean your back against the counter, the towel threated between your fingers.

Tauriel hums in agreement. She reaches elbow-deep into the sink and loosens the plug, letting the gurgling water slip down the drain. “Oh and Bard, that man lost all words when he saw a picture of you. You tipped their brains over.”

“They’re everything to me,” you say, slow, meaning every single syllable and word. 

“I see that,” Tauriel takes the towel from your hands and spreads it on the counter to dry. “And you mean the same for you. Otherwise, they wouldn't have brought you here to the coyotes and wolf.”

There’s more clattering as Thorin pushes the door open with his foot and steps into the dark kitchen. “Are you comparing me to a fucking wolf again, Tauriel? I told you, that costume was one Halloween and I only did it because Bilbo had that fucking red coat lying around.”

Behind him, you can make out a pair of howling and quick feet rushing up the stairs, the twins, if you had to guess. 

Chaos erupts in seconds, Bilbo and Tauriel fight over who gets to clean the new dirty dishes and Thorin tries to get a word in, apologizing that he truly loved the costume and would rather be called a wolf by Bilbo than Tauriel – neither of the two listen to him, much to engrossed in the wish to be the one washing up – and you offer a condescending shrug before ducking out.

The floorboards groan under your steps, in tune with the crickets sitting in the bushes and the sound of waves lapping up the shore underneath the hill. You jump the last step, landing in the gravel and grass and listen to the crunch as you skip to the Hollywood swing where you can make out two silhouettes against the backdrop of a red sun. 

“Hello, mon amour,” Thranduil lifts his head from Bard’s chest, sitting back up. They look peaceful, their faces relaxed even though their lips are plush enough that you can conclude to have missed nothing but making out like wild teenagers; hidden in the bushes or rather, the trees that line the back of the swing. You stop in front of them, taking in their content postures, their long legs pushing the swing slowly back and forth.

“‘Hope it was fine with you to be alone in there for a minute. Thranduil would’ve headed into another wild discussion that surely led to Thorin throwing us out.” Bard’s laughter is husky, tinted with red wine and a full stomach. 

Thranduil rolls his eyes and swats his hand against Bard’s hip. “Stop it. You were the one to bring up the Christmas party and I –” 

“I did no such thing!” Bard laughs, winking in your direction and mouthing “I did.” You stifle a giggle.

Thranduil scoffs, drilling his pointer finger into the strong muscle of Bard’s biceps. “You are a menace, Bard Bowman. Thorin may be thick-headed and bites into every opportunity but you’re throwing them at him like you’re feeding wild cats at the zoo.” After a theatrical sigh at Bard’s and your snickering, he shakes his head knowing there’s no way this will end in his favor, and makes room on the swing. “C’mon, love, hop on.” 

There is no need for him to tell you twice. While you are sitting down, a shiver slivers up your spine, the wind coming from the sea bringing forth the specific rush of coldness from the dark waters glistening in the last rays of the sun and the rough edges of the sand it washes over. You roll your shoulders back and bring up a hand to smooth down the fine hairs standing up on your arms. 

Bard’s eyes soften, crowfeet appearing in the corner of them. “Arms up,” he instructs you and the world goes dark and warm. 

Your nose brushes the fabric of his sweater and the pine and cedarwood are a perfect duo of scents for you to concentrate on, as you lie down, head down in Thranduil’s lap and your feet across Bard’s thighs. Intertwining your hands with the rougher and larger one of Bard, your fingers disappear in his palms. He holds onto you, while Thranduil cups your cheek, following the tired smile on your face with his slender writer-fingers, tracing the lines from the curve of your nose to the bow of your lips; collecting the bits and pieces that made you smile, reading your face like on of his stories. 

Thranduil’s finger repeats the same motion, the tip of his pointer stroking down your nose and up again where he smoothes his finger down, loosening the slightest of frowns on your forehead. 

You take a deep breath full of Bourbon-vanilla, honey, and lavender, catching the faint scent of his rose hand cream. You can feel the muscles in Bard’s legs working underneath your thighs, the flex and push as he brings the swing in motion again. A gentle rocking, the wood creaking softly and when you open your eyes again, Thranduil’s head leans against Bard’s; the golden sunset catching in their hair and the lush leaves of the trees above you all. 

Their love seeps through your body like the sun stretches over the sea, endlessly going into the horizon. 

Bard spreads your hands underneath his, his fingers covering yours easily on top of your stomach fluttering happily. 

From the house comes the yells of the twins, followed by Legolas loud laughter. Bottles clink and sizzle, the caps flying into the air to land on the tables or the grass. Bilbo calls over, asking if you want to join them for a game of Uno. 

“In a minute!” Thranduil answers without turning away from Bard. 

“Or two,” you mumble into the seam of the sweater, perfectly content where you are right now.

[tobylix-blog]

I love how relatable this post is on all levels

me forcing my followers to look at my newest obsession

[tobylix-blog]

Braid bickering — Legolas x Reader x Gimli

Content & Warnings: fluff

Word count: 0.5k

Summary: Legolas and Gimli get into a heated argument about braids that suit you the most. You have to intevene

A/N: I came to love them as a duo even more than separately

"Fishtails!" Gimli stomped his foot in exasperation.

"Dragonscales," Legolas retorted equally as stubbornly.

They weren't even providing reasons anymore, just stating their options. The argument had been going on for a good hour, after all. The reason though was simple and in fact rather immature — they couldn't agree which type of braids suited you more.

Gimli was set on fishtails. In his opinion they did a great job of accentuating your features just right.

Legolas opposed him with his own personal favorite, dragonscales. He fancied their weaving ornament and the way you pulled your hair out into a pretty pattern.

When you returned to the camp, they were practically gritting teeth, unable to harm each other but frustrated to the depth of their hearts. Gimli huffed angrily, while Legolas explained the problem to you, not skipping a bit saying something along the lines of "though it saddens me to acknowledge that Dwarven culture does not bear recognition of the undoubted elegance of dragonscale plaits". It took you a few moments after the elf finished speaking to understand the issue in it's fullness.

And you doubled over from laughter. The sound rang loudly across the field and river, travelling for many dozen feet from your camp and clinging to grass. You went on for a good few minutes, tearing up from the suffocating fits of laughter. Catching breath in a brief pause between spasms, you began cracking up again and again. In the end you were barely alive, holding your aching stomach and forcefully inhaling and exhaling on count.

"Fishtails and dragonscales," you began chuckling erratically once more, but quickly bit down on your lip, "are the same. Different names of one braid."

You looked up at the shocked faces of your lovely companions and wheezed, losing balance and continuing your laughing on the ground. As different as they were, in the deepest beliefs they seemed to be on the same page. Even when they didn't expect to.

Their reaction was diametrically different, though. Legolas was wide-eyed and quiet, while Gimli started mumbling something undecypherable under his nose. Seeing that, you calmed down soon enough and gave the dwarf a hug from behind, washing away his grumpiness with the soft touch. You rested your chin on his head as a playful yet affectionate gesture.

"Oh, love, I wasn't laughing at you, but at the whole exchange. Just imagine how it sounded to me," you murmured. "I'm sorry."

"So am I," intervened Legolas. "I should have expected that our cultures attach different names to the same phenomena."

As he moved closer you motioned him to join in the hug. The elf readily stepped in and embraced both of you from the front, effectively sandwiching Gimli in between.

"I'm an adult dwarf! I don't need no consolations!" he protested. But neither of you paid that exclamation any mind.

"There's no reason for such arguments. You could always simply ask me. And I would settle the issue," you spoke, gently brushing your fingertips against dwarf's shoulders. "Besides, I prefer wheat braid anyway," you remarked casually, putting the end to the pointless discussion.

"Turns out we both were wrong, after all," Gimli sighed, pressing his forehead to Legolas' chest. The elf sighed in response. His mind was busy picturing you with the wheat braids and comparing that to his favorite dragonscales, until...

"Wait, sunshine, but are those not the same- Oh, you..!"

You couldn't help the giggles, pushing away from them both and running for dear life.

[tobylix-blog]

This has just made my vacation twice as good. Also kinda got me shivering with the sound descriptions in Bard's part

Totally recommend

Sleeping In Their Clothes | hobbit / lotr

how they would react to finding you asleep in their clothes

characters: Thranduil, Bard, Aragorn, Legolas x fem!reader

warnings/tags: mentions of Boromir's death (Aragorn), age gap (Bard), romantic shipping

word count: 5,7k

an: trying something new! Have been struggling to write after some personal issues so please excuse the slow updates on this blog

+ masterlist + rules + 🌿 reposts and comments are much appreciated, they motivate me a lot and keep me writing <3

Thranduil:

Thranduil’s mood darkens the halls, clouds the air around him bitter and ashen. The elves he passes lower their heads at his strides, at his cloak billowing behind him as thunder rolls over the skies. No one dares to speak, no one dares to whisper or raise their voice at any volume below the hushed glances they share after he disappears behind a corner. The foul stench of anger and frustration traces his path, starting right in front of the doors he slammed after another day of negotiations and down the direct route to his chambers. 

He grits his teeth at the servants hurrying toward him and bellows a low: “Get out!” as hands reach forward and there’s enough fury in his eyes for the servants to scatter away like a heap of leaves blown apart by a particularly harsh wind. 

Even the thought of skin touching him when he is burning up… he shudders. 

There’s only one who he wants close to him right now.

He reaches out for you long before he’s in the bedroom, feeling for your fëa entangled with his in an inseparable union and he makes sure to be gentle, brushing you with his love rather than the anger bubbling hot inside him. 

The calling stays unanswered – a deep wave of security and comfort labs over him but by the tenderness of it rather than your usual playfulness, and by the time Thranduil sees the seethrough white curtains around the bed, he knows exactly what state you will be in.

And never one to disappoint him, your unconscious yet dreamy smile is all Thranduil needs to forget about the anger he yielded like a sharp sword; used to cut down any and all offers from the dwarfs and their stubborn and unreasonable trading offers. 

Instead of ripping apart conversations and insults, Thranduil’s hands are gentle as he parts the curtains and kneels on the feathery mattress with your shapes ingrained in it. All those nights spent close together and his warrior-heart will never fail to skip a beat at the sight of you wrapped in his robes. It’s one of the older, worn ones as well. Fabric that thins out at the cuffs – not that this would be a problem; you’re not close to reaching them –, a few cuts and holes in places twigs and branches bore themselves into the crimson, featherlight velvet. 

Thranduil sees your skin flashing through some of them. The one above your knee, drawn up, another one below your biceps, relaxed because you know nothing can hurt you here, and some more all over your chest, hinting that you are not wearing much else. 

He knows you well enough that you won’t be bitter if woken up and so he leans in closer from behind. One hand finds your head, cradling it into his large palm until you, still in dreams comfortable embrace, roll to the side and bury your face inside it, nose pressed right against his steady pulse while his fingers gently trace the curve of your ear. 

No time spent together will ever sicken him of this, your complete surrender into his care, the doubtless trust that wherever you laid down to rest, he would sit by and be there. The oath of protection is one Thranduil promised his folk the day he was crowned their King as well, not once has he doubted he would abandon it all for the vow he gave you the night you offered your heart and he gifted you his; you above all.

His thumb just brushes over your temple and the fine hairs that come loose of your braid when your lashes flutter, leaving him to readily dive into the pools filled with love and sleep.

While he maneuvers with cunning, a master of actions and power, playing a game of chess on a board he alone commands, you stand unrivaled with the art of words. Your tongue, sharp and precise, weaves wit and wisdom into every phrase. Whenever he acts rationally and leads by his heart, you would listen first, hearing out heart as well as brain, and come to a conclusion serving everyone. 

Your voice has the power to sway wars and balance the scales of battle. When you speak, your tone, thick with the remnants of sleep yet razor-sharp in purpose, reduces him to nothing more than a mere soldier—helpless in the face of your command, whether in war or love:

“I dreamt we were air.”

“Invisible?” Thranduil's voice is laced with a touch of curiosity as he revels in the warmth of your laughter, the puff of hot breath meeting his wrist like a secret kiss. Your presence is a balm, a reminder of everything that is tender and true.

“You, my love, know that this is not true.”

“It is not?” 

“No,” you whisper and press a kiss to the tender skin, lingering with your lips over the pulse and the veins rushing blood to the heart, your heart, inside his chest. A puppeteer of words. Even the silent ones. 

“I agree,” Thranduil muses, enticed by this playful exchange, “that the wind is what we notice, a fleeting glimpse of nature’s breath. But air – air is the unseen force that dances around us, invisible yet ever-present, until our souls merge with the very fabric of the universe.” He glides his other hand to your legs, slipping underneath his warmed robe. 

You squeak as he anchors his arm around your thigh and tugs you over to face him in a swift movement. Faced to lie underneath his larger figure, you shoot him a crooked grin. 

“You can see the air just as much as you can see the wind it turns into,” you start and get comfortable in his lap. Thranduil immediately jumps the chance to idly with the robe that’s draped all over your body. 

“In the particles that dance in the sunlight,” you continue, your voice soft and thoughtful, “in the flags that hiss and flutter. In the vapor rising from steaming ponds, and in the mist that clings to the earth in the morning fog.” He watches, entranced, as your palm flattens against him, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath beneath your touch. “I see it here,” you whisper, your voice barely more than a breath, and he follows your gaze as you watch your hand rise with each of his inhales and fall with each exhale.

Your fingertips, soft and gentle, curl slightly into the fabric of his current robe – soon, undoubtedly, those same fingers will find comfort in the folds of this robe, curling into it as you slip into sleep.

And in that quiet, intimate moment, he will see the air too, in the way your breath mingles with his, in the way your presence fills every space around him, making the invisible tangible, making the unseen profoundly felt.

The air catches in his throat and he sees your eyes twinkle.

Then, not looking away from you, he lies down as well. He has no need for the blanket crumpled underneath you both, the sight of you facing him, drawing your knees back to your chest and skin flashing whenever the fabric of his robes part to allow him these glimpses, is warmth enough. He loves you, even if you have a habit of taking what is his. A spray of his scents to drive him crazy, a feather that you take between your teeth as you write, or his robes but all of those mean nothing and all since you have him as well, fully and completely. 

So he will request ten new robes, in colors that you like, and await the day he gets to your bedroom and finds you sleeping in them.

“So,” Thranduil repeats slowly. His hand drifts to your face, trailing lines over the smile you give him. “You dreamt we were air?”

“Yes,” the corner of your lips quirk into a quick smirk, one that fades quickly yet leaves traces all over, “and we were invisible –”

“Oh, you little minx!”

“Ahhh – Thran, stop, oh I beg you, stop tickling me!”

Bard:

The brittle stairs heave and sigh, creak and groan under Bard’s boots, once honeyed planks now gray from the flow time, heavy rain and the dampness of the lake coloring the edges mossy green, and with the days passing by, the steps taken as he rushes down to work or tiredly drags himself up, one hand curved around the splintered railing, he wonders how many steps these stairs will endure before his house comes crashing down into the murky lake. 

This winter seems to be harsher than the ones before, with the wind howling loud at night and rattling on the walls that he wakes to frames shattered on the ground and the curtains ruffled even if the windows are closed. This winter, he swears the ice is thicker, a nearly impenetrable obstacle for his boat and his clothes are never warm enough but then, in the end, he knows the next winter will be worse and he doesn’t dare to complain out loud, doesn’t think it’s right to curse for hands shaking and feet aching and his nose running. 

As exhausted as he is, and Bard is, so exhausted, so tired, so drained, he’s mindful enough to skip the last plank of the stairs. He lifts his feet higher, ignores how the muscles in his thighs complain, and steps over the plank that always sounds like it’s waiting to break through, always moans the loudest when he needs to be quiet as if his state isn’t mockery enough. 

Bard slips through the door, opening it barely to keep the cold outside, and when he turns around, finally, warmth takes over. 

It starts in his hands, in the tips of his reddened fingers, exposed to nature's icy companions the moment he sneaks out to work before the sun rises. It creeps higher, up his arms and to his shoulders strong enough to carry his family more than he can hold himself, parting ways to fill his cheeks in the softest of glow, a simmering fire that colors his skin an ember-red and travels down through his swooping stomach, lightening a hunger he knows food will not sate, and when the heat reaches his feet, Bard releases a small sigh. 

There, in the low and flickering light of a candle burned down to a hardened wax puddle, his eyes immediately find you resting underneath the only window whose curtains are drawn open. Most of you is covered by a dark blanket, hiding your face but that doesn’t matter to Bard; he has every inch, every freckle, every crinkle of laughter and wrinkle of pain memorized. 

Not that he should; you’re kind enough to look after his children while he works, accepting no money and hearing no ‘buts’, and here Bard stands, a decade older, widowed and tired, and knows exactly that your mouth will be slightly opened and that your lashes will fan over the rosy apples of your cheeks and that your shoulders will ache because you rather sleep on the bench under the window than take away Bard’s pillow. 

Stubborn girl.

Bard crosses the cluttered floor, avoiding Tilda's drawings hung up to dry on the wooden ceiling beams and Sigrid's books and tomorrow, he will tut over Bain’s clothes left hanging on chairs and stools, but tonight he walks past them and their sight burns in his chest. 

As Bard gets closer to you, he nearly trips. 

That’s not a blanket that you hide your face in, that keeps away the winds creeping through the gaps in the wood behind you, that you use as a shield against the cold yet the greatest thing it fights are the walls Bard pulls up around his heart.

That’s his coat. 

The dark blue coat he left to dry over the oven after last night's rain. 

You must’ve taken it and that dismantles Bard into millions of pieces, chips away on his walls like nature takes layer after layer away from the stairs outside. 

While he can’t know when exactly the latter will be too much to take on any more pressure, he feels the heavy weight of his coat around your sleeping body, and just like the stairs, his personal defenses creak and groan, heave and sigh and crumble down around him in a thumping echo in his ears, that Bard fears his choked breath will wake you up.

He is helpless. 

He doesn’t dare to touch you directly, as much as he yearns to brush away the strands of hair fluttering in your even breaths. Bard’s hands are rough from his work and your soft skin deserves better than the callouses and scars he bears, so Bard gently lays his hand on your shoulder, covered by his coat – his coat, Lord how ever will he survive knowing the fabric kissed your body?

“Darlin’,” he whispers in a voice that’s horse and gravely, though it softens as he speaks your name, daring to follow it up fast enough there’s no room for a pause between the term of affection to be separated from your name.

You stir in your sleep, shift to reveal your face some more and the crease between your eyebrows and the effort it takes Bard to hold back from smoothing it out with his thump could have moved mountains. Bard ignores to notice how your nose is buried deep into the coat and that no washing could’ve ever cleaned the heavy fabric of his smell; he swallows hard. 

A low sigh blows away the hair and Bard’s eyes fall on the plushness of your lips. You wake up slowly, closing your mouth and you pull the coat tighter around you, holding onto it, while Bard lets go of his restraints.

“Darlin’,” he repeats, and this time you hear him enough to evoke a tired smile.

When you open your eyes and turn towards Bard, the candle flickers in the reflection of them. “You’re back,” you mumble into his coat, “I didn’t hear you come in.”

I know, Bard wants to say, I skip the last stair so the noise does not take away my chance to wake you up.

Instead, he shakes his head: “You shouldn’ be sleeping on this bench, it’s too hard and uncomfortable.”

“Eh,” you push yourself up into a sitting position, the coat still far too large around your frame and you don’t make any attempt to part from it, “This bench is sufficient enough for a short nap, and I–,” a yawn interrupts and you grin sheepishly, “What I wanted to say is that I wasn’t that tired anyway.”

“Sure,” Bard's laughter is quiet but fills the entirety of his lungs and his own lips mirror yours in a grin. 

The look you share in the darkness makes him feel like he’s young again, filled with infinite love for a limited body, bursting through his cells and flooding every vein, rushing blood that burns hot for you up to his battered heart. Bard can see your eyes wandering over his face and he wonders if you can tell that this smile is only for you and that he fights a lost battle in telling himself he can stop what’s tugging you closer. 

He leans in further and lets his hand fall from your shoulders to run his fingertips over his coat. His knees brush against yours, and Bard tells himself it's only the late hour that makes him tender, that his weary, overburdened mind is surrendering to the forbidden's allure in the quiet moments when no one else is watching. Yet, deep down, he knows this is merely the rationalization of a lost man, drawn to the woman who cares for his children who are not her own in some ways and are in others, who sleeps wrapped in his coat, and who gazes at him as though he could reach up and give her the stars he can see through the hole in his roof. 

“C’mon,” Bard nods his head toward the back of the house, an offer he speaks out every night, “I won’t let you go home all alone this late.” 

All other nights you shrugged his offer off, had him walk you home over the planks and gurgling water until you kissed his cheek goodnight and Bard snuck back to his home, falling into bed to fall asleep to an aching heart. He prepares for it now, the apologetic smile that usually takes over your face, the tilt of your head to hide your eyes, all of it is memorized to his memory and even though they’re always quiet he hears your “I can’t, I must go home,” like the drums of war that shoot the heart that beats for you.

He awaits it. He will ask again and again, no matter how desperate it makes him seem and how the hurt will take over and push him through the day only for the night to repeat itself.

“Okay,” you whisper.

Bard freezes.

You blink up at him, eyes full of sleep and dreams that shouldn’t have the image of an old man and his children in them, but you’re never one to listen to what’s expected from you. 

There’s no ache in his bones as he gathers you up in his arms, your head resting against his beating heart.

There’s no groan in his muscles as he carries you through his house and over the threshold to the little corner where he lays you on his bed, blue coat pooling over you as you smile and pat the small free space next to you. 

He doesn’t feel the pain of work, the exhaustion of days of darkness and the fear of surviving the night to get through the week.

Bard kicks off his shoes, discards his dirt-stained pants, and shrugs off the shirt dampened by water, ice, and snow. He vows that tonight, you won’t feel the cold. As he climbs onto the bed, the mattress dips under the weight of his trembling legs. You lift the blankets without hesitation, inviting him closer, and he accepts, silently aching for the warmth you offer. Your body radiates heat as you nestle in beside him, your smooth skin brushing against his legs. Almost timidly, you curl into him, your smaller form pressing against his chest and stomach. His arms wrap around you and when he allows himself to breathe a featherlight kiss onto your shoulder, he catches his musky scent left behind by his coat. 

“Sleep well,” he whispers into the crown of your head, feeling the fast beat of your heart under his hand, “my love.”

Aragorn:

Aragorn has been familiar with the pain of war ever since his father was murdered by orks when he was two. He knows how it flits through the body like lightning through water, cracking into all the ends of a being to render them helpless, burning through whatever energy and fight is left, and killing easily and efficiently. 

And yes, he has felt the pain of war on himself before, in the years he spent fighting as Thorongil under the hands of Lords and Kings in the West. Aragorn saw good men fall, saw better men than him die to the growing threat of Sauron and there has been a cloud of thunderstorm in his heart from there on.

Nothing hurts as much as the pain that took over your lovely eyes the moment you saw Boromir lying on the ground in colorful dried crunching leaves, pierced by arrows that had been aimed at you too, though that didn’t matter – to you – then. The scream that came next pierced through Aragorn blindingly white and he could do nothing but try to grab you, as you fell to the ground, scrambling away from his strong arms to get closer to Boromir, your weak efforts nothing but agony for him. You had cried bitterly, hitting Aragorn with curled-up fists and he took every punch, pulling you closer instead of pushing you away.

It only got worse when you realized the Hobbits were gone too. 

Aragorn saw the flame of hope flickering inside your eyes, a darkness of grief and pain behind them that he knew and yet he had no idea how to help you. 

He still doesn’t. 

The sun rose hours ago, red bleeding into gold, Boromir waving a last goodbye in the clouds, and the rustle of the wind brings shivers to the four of the Fellowship who are left. You’re setting up camp for the day; Legolas and Aragorn have not much need for speed but exhaustion can be a much crueler enemy combined with death and grief. Aragorn’s gaze wanders to you ever so often as you stand in front of the burning skies, staring at the pack that was once Boromirs and he casts his eyes downwards to where his heart aches. 

You suffer, obviously, and Aragorn, who fought for more years in his life than not, doesn’t know how he can battle your demons. 

If he could he would draw his sword and head into the fight, only return bloody-knuckled, the shadows wrapped between his tight fingers. He can’t though, and that may be what pains him more than the obvious heavy weight of witnessing Boromir’s last moments; his inability to take on your emotional baggage. It tears through his heart in aggressive jibes and stings like liquor on an open wound. 

This is why he’s the first volunteer when Legolas suggests splitting up. 

Aragorn nods at Gimli and they disappear into the forest, leaving Legolas who rests even less than Aragorn, and you, the walking example of why avoiding sleep after such traumatic events should be mandatory: your eyes drop, your hands shake and no amount of effort on your side is enough to hide the sacking of your shoulders. Every day that you walked further away from when you were nine – Mithrandir’s absence not accounted for – you distance yourself more, most likely to hide your suffering yet all that this behavior accomplishes is that Aragorn notices it all. 

How could he not?

He cares for you, most ardently, and these feelings brought forth a vulnerability, an open spot in his heart for love to slip in and make itself at home.

Aragorn leaves you in Legolas' care; the trust he places in the elf to protect you in your fragile state is grander than the one he has in himself. One soft whimper as you hide your face in your shoulder and stumble over feet that won’t listen and Aragorn might do something naive as pack his sack back up and hunt the orcs that took the Hobbits, the one coated in Boromir’s blood, on his own. 

It would be reckless, ignorant, a troubled journey without Legolas or Gimli or even you.

So Aragorn goes against his heart's urges and patrols – clearing the forest and trying not to think about your frail form, hugging yourself out of desperation and grief.

Gimli and he return hours later, under the warm rays of the sun – the gentle strings far too bright and calming for the last day's events, the wind a breeze swirling through the leaves crunching under his light feet and Legolas lifts a finger to his lips as soon as Aragorn makes eye contact.

He assures his steps are as silent as possible, avoiding the logs and twigs they would collect later for a fire to warm them, and walks past the elf, nodding his head and quietly thanking Legolas for keeping an eye on you. 

A hand lands on Aragorn’s shoulder, stopping him in his movement. 

“She’s asleep,” Legolas says quietly, leaning in closer, “We shall move forward when she awakes, rested.”

“No sooner,” Aragorn agrees and lets out a relieved breath that had been lodged deep inside his chest. He looks to the elf, then to the bundle of a small human shape underneath a tree. “Thank you, my friend.” 

“Aragorn, we need your focus as much as we need hers.” The grip on his shoulder loosens, and the weight stays in Legolas’ eyes and Aragorn almost winces, would he not know his friend only means well. 

His voice is gravel, his words soft and exhausted: “I know.” He didn’t know his heart had been such an open show but then, Legolas knows him like no other, a companion that found him and a friend that he can always count on, a partner in battle and nowadays, Legolas seems to have taken on the role of fates worst messenger – reminding Aragorn that this, you, the differences, the looming war and the ones that never end… 

When Aragorn approaches you, the pain he carries with him dims, a candle dying out in refreshing winds. Bending his knees, he carefully sits down, resting his back against the tree's rough bark covering your gentle face in dancing shadows and flickering golden spots of sunlight that kiss your closed eyelids. Around your shoulders and over most of your body, Aragorn recognizes the cloak he’d asked Legolas to stow away when Gimli and him took off. Now that he sees you, finally asleep, he is glad the cloak found a better use than being shoved inside a bag where it would have never touched your skin. 

He reaches out, soft and slowly, making sure his movements will not wake you and pulls off his leather coat as well, placing it across the uncovered part of your boots and legs.

Aragorn is tired but he will keep watch, protecting you to sleep safely.

He is weak but only for you, so he will fight harder than ever before to ensure the Hobbits return to see the smile he loves so much on your face again.

There is a possibility this will all change faster than any of you could realize, these times are unpredictable and there is a taste of danger on his tongue and in the air. The journey of the Fellowship has barely begun and already the sun bleeds into the horizon in colors that mark the grounds of battlefields awaiting you.

Aragorn clenches his jaw and only unclenches it when he hears the smallest of sighs. Looking down at you, he dares to smooth away some strands of hair, leaving a streak of dirt on your sunkissed temple. 

In the grand scheme of things, there is of course the need for the bigger picture and the importance of all that connects to this journey, but in this moment, surrounded by the sounds of the forests and your breathing, Aragorn takes comfort in knowing he has this moment with you to remember all the small things count just as much. 

A cloak to sleep in.

The shadow of a tree.

Even the pain seems to have fallen into a slumber, resting to surely come back and hit him square in the chest like it has never left him but Aragorn has never felt this free as in the pain’s short-lived absence. 

And he can hear it in the silence and in the way you keep his cloak close to you.

War brings pain but you bring love.

Legolas:

Legolas may agree that abandoning his father's task of informing Lord Elrond of the disappearance of their captive to travel through the lands and destroy a ring in Mordor – whether the Fellowship will make it this far is still unknown – but then Aragorn brought you to the Council and suddenly Legolas finds himself months away from his home, listening to your laughter as you flip rocks over the lake you’re standing in front of. 

He can not remember the last time he saw someone be this amused by the ripple of water and the stones skipping across the otherwise calm reflection of the skies that cause the growing disturbance. Then again, Legolas never met anyone like you in general and every aspect of your personality that he gets to watch unfold like the meadows you ride across, the hills you climb up, the more eager he feels to find out what makes you laugh.

Stones, apparently. 

“No, not this one!” you chime in and take the stone he picked up out of his hand, your skin brushing his and sending ripples over his skin. 

“No?” he inquires and tilts his head in genuine confusion. “This one seems perfectly adequate for this, no different to the ones you chose.” 

You scoff, giddy giggling followed. “That’s outrageous! Calling this one adequate when it's clearly in no shape to even compare to these –” you lift your hand to his face and present the collection of rocks that you seem to keep in the pockets of your vest, a grin blooming across your face, “Look! They’re thinner, perfect to hop.. hopefully, four times?”

Legolas smiles, one that’s more tugged into his cheeks and corners of his eyes to really be called one. “I will leave you to find what you think–”

“I don’t think,” you interrupt him and roll your eyes, already turning your back to him again and bending your knee slightly. You turn your head over your shoulder and the sun reflects beautifully in your cheeky gaze, “I know. I feel. Look!” Then you twist your arm, pulling it into your chest at an angle before flicking the stone across the lake.

Five times.

You cackle loudly. 

And Legolas picks up the stone you thought not to be perfect and slides it into his pockets, ignoring how his heart skips five times.

The day flies by like the stones dance over water, fast, too fast for Legolas' liking yet by the time the sun burns low on the horizon, he is glad for the calmness that settles over the little camp they’d set up earlier. The others are scattered around the fire crackling behind Legolas, the warmth creeping into his bones and settling high in his cheeks, as he turns his head slightly and catches you staring out onto the water; the red fire and golden sunset basking you in a glow that pulls him into you like busy bees to the sweetest of flowers.

He can’t help but stare, even if it’s everything but appropriate. Your face is lit up, not only by the embers fluttering to you and the last of the sun's rays caressing the fullness of your cheeks but ever since you decided to tag along on this journey, nature bathes you in an aphrodisiac of wind-swept hair that Legolas wants to braid, rosy fingertips that he wants to hold and kiss each one of them. Whenever he looks at you – he could not tell how much, time is a rush of emotions, a whirlwind of hair and laughter, hands playfully slapping him and he counts the days by how often you blink up tiredly after waking up rather than the sun sets and rises – he is astounded of the beauty someone could possess and carry it out freely like it sits in your heart and not in your face. 

The sun sets and your eyes are full of wonder and molten gold, an open letter of your adoration for the nature that equally loves you back. 

Behind him, Legolas hears Merry and Pippin sing, hears the low chuckles of Aragorn, and lips that curve around a pipe, teeth clacking against shaped and glazed wood filled with smoke. He also hears your intake of breath as the wind swipes over you, gliding over the lapping water first, over the croaking frogs and wreathes around your naked arms. He hears the sound of your hand smoothing over the fine hairs that stand up on your prickled skin. 

He hears himself talk, before he thinks: “Here, this cloak will keep some of the cold away.”

Your eyes widen.

His heart skips five times on each breath taken in the moment of silence.

Legolas is sure that you would take the offer one way, but then you nod, lower lip pulled between your teeth as if that could stop the shy smile from tugging up the corners of your mouth, and you scoot closer, lifting yourself up by your hands and leaning in, until your shoulders brush his side.

He almost freezes, not because of the cold – this he can not feel, for multiple reasons, and mostly the advantages of being an elf though the warmth radiating from your body, suddenly so close to yours and the blush that he must blame on the fire – but because the way you slid into his side as he holds up one side of the green cloak leaves only the option to drape the fabric over your shoulder and awkwardly pull his arm away or–

There must be some of his father's braveness in Legolas for he lowers his arm around you, shaking ever so slightly. 

You sigh, contentedly, and draw your legs up to your chest. “Much better at this than skipping stones,” you mumble and a tired yawn accompanies your huff of laughter. 

Despite the teasing tone, Legolas can’t stop his smile. “Is this.. perfectly adequate?”

“No,” your head drops and maybe you don’t notice but you rest it on the arm, oblivious to the halt this causes to every single thought Legolas has ever had. “This,” you whisper and he can hear the flutter of your lashes trying to stay open, “is just perfect.”

All Legolas can do is hum in agreement, and even this sounds as shaky as his words would have been had he any of them readily and not swallowed up by the swarm of butterflies swooping through his stomach.

The sun disappears behind the line of trees on the other side of the lake, throwing one last wink of gold over you both before the silver light of the moon laps over you like the waves onto the shore. By the time your hair twinkles like the stars you seem to have lost the fight of keeping your head up; it rests against Legolas, just like most of your upper body that followed one last yawn. He sits still, not daring to move much now that you’re this close to him, your nose against his chest, the bones of your knees resting against his thigh, and all of you enveloped in his cloak.

The fabric rustles slightly as his arm slips from your shoulders to your middle, tugging you closer to keep the heat encased in this cloak and moment you’re sharing.

Legolas's other hand glides into his pockets, finding the stone hidden inside. His hand wraps around it, pressing the smooth surface against his palm.

“Perfect,” he repeats.

[tobylix-blog]

Beautiful — Elrond x Reader

Content & Warnings: drabble

Word count: 0.5k

Summary: Eavesdropping during the council of Elrond does not go unnoticed

A/N: nothing much, just me sublimating my crush on Elrond in writing

You press into the cold marble of a column, holding in breath every time another voice sounds. Lord Elrond of Rivendell has summoned a council to discuss the matter of the Ring. You weren't invited. So naturally you should eavesdrop, right?

It's difficult to keep a good eye on everyone while hiding behind the pillar, but your spot is perfect for observing Elrond himself. How he greets the guests, how he smooths out his garb after sitting down, how his circlet glimmers in the sunlight. Merry, Pippin and Sam have a better view on the others, but you can't complain.

It might be due to the fact that you've never seen elves before, but the elven lord caught your eye from the first day. You couldn't place what it was. Maybe, his wise words or long luscious hair, or his bright eyes, or calm demeanor, or his tall built, finer than those of human scholars. The best you could say was that everything felt right about him. And now here you are, watching him hold the secret council.

Elrond is no king, but he feels like one. Regal are his posture and manners as he brings forth the matter. Although, you know that learning more about the Ring problem was the primary reason for sneaking around Rivendell like thieves, you can't help but gape at the lord of this place. Imladris — that's what they call it in their tongue — you remind yourself. They're so different, that elvish folk, speaking another language, living as long as the sky stays blue, not eating meat. They're indeed different. Some even say weird, but you prefer unusual, peculiar or even otherworldly.

After all, those who say that elves are weirdos have probably never met them. Because how else would they still be able to call them all these unpleasant names, when elves are such perfect creatures, eye pleasing, strong and smart beyond measure. All this characteristics merge into one word that rolls off your tongue without notice.

"Beautiful."

You say it in Quenya out of habit. Nobody around you ever understood your mumbling when it was in Quenya, an old language, practically a dead one. So you soon got used to voicing the nagging thoughts in it, knowing full well no one would pay it any attention.

Well, until those bright eyes of the elven lord turned to you at the sound of it. And a few more heads turned your way as well. You couldn't see them all from your place behind the pillar, but the shuffling was enough to give away the common motion.

They heard you. And they understood it perfectly well. Damn elvish ears.

Under no less perceptive elvish eyes your skin heats up with the speed of tobacco in the pipe. Before you manage to retreat behind the column, your face is bright crimson against the white marble.

When you finally hide away from the glances, Elrond's voice reaches you, "Perhaps, I ought to decide the fate of the trespasser before returning their compliment."