#it does take foresight to say ‘hm I should keep an eye out for some clothes that will fit different situations’

[professorupdog]

let it be known that I am pro dress coded events and establishments

I like the idea that we all decided to play a little dress up game to go to a restaurant or to a wedding

and if someone’s not in the suggested dress code it’s not the end of the world but it’s like showing up to a costume party without a costume. there’s nothing wrong with it per se but everyone else here has agreed to contribute to a specific atmosphere and vibe and it’s kind of a bummer that you decided not to do that.

[lesserfandomappreciation]

Hello! I saw you wrote for Toriko and nearly went wild. Can I request headcanons for Coco dating a blind, semi-feral chef who’s just not scared of him? Kinda like the “extrovert adopts introvert” thing. SFW and NSFW please! (Coco is a bottom and no one can convince me otherwise)

“Kinda”? This is absolutely an extrovert adopting an introvert. Always glad for Toriko!

Also this wound up being a partial scenario - the feral chef demanded a short story.

Coco and the blind, feral chef with 0 self-preservation skills (Toriko)

The 4 Heavenly Kings. Throughout the world of gourmet, there are no finer Gourmet Hunters to partner with. For years Chefs from around the world have been unable to do so. The walls around the 4 Heavenly Kings were tall and strong - those that didn’t live in self-imposed isolation were in jail. It was a tragedy Chefs had to accept - some partnering with lesser Gourmet Hunters in an attempt to cover the wound, others refusing partnership in it’s entirety. 

Then. Toriko, one of the Heavenly Kings, Gourmet Hunter Extraordinaire, self-isolated due to boredom. Befriends a chef. 

A world of opportunities opened. 

“There’s a thousand things I want to cook. Everyone wants to cook safe, little things - who the hell wants that?! We live in a world where there’s a mountain giant made of sugar rocks - why would you settle for some fruit when that’s right there?!” S/o threw hands up in the air, aggravation etched onto their face. “But there’s a problem - I’m a chef. Not a Hunter. Half the stuff I wanna cook is too dangerous to hunt on my own! Sure, it’s not done much to stop me so far but the very nice Government agent was pretty firm about me attempting to break in again instead of hiring a Gourmet Hunter would mean getting arrested, and like, there’s nothing in prison worth cooking?! Ya’ know?!”

Coco nodded along at their explanation with a blank look on his face, not getting any of this. At all. They’re going to spill the tea he poured for them if they keep gesturing so wildly. Should he stop them?

Frankly he had no idea how they got up here. Well, he does but he has no idea what logic was driving them. The sun usually woke him up first thing in the morning. A cheery chef grinning ear to ear, dirt under their nails from scaling up his mountain, demanding to speak to him about ‘a hell of a deal that you’re lucky to be getting’ was a new alarm clock he wasn’t aiming at getting. Especially one that went around knocking on self-imposed hermits minding their own business’ doors at 4:00 AM in the gods-damned morning. 

S/o slammed down more tea before clacking the cup against the table. “That got me to thinkin’ - every sissy Gourmet Hunters run for the damn hills when I mention some of the weaker stuff I wanna cook. The Government Agents insist I get one every time they send me a notice-” Coco closed his eyes, quietly offering a prayer of patience for those poor souls. “-everybody says they’re not strong enough. SO! Why not go for a Gourmet Hunter who is known for being stupid strong? It only makes sense! I got a ticket, got directions, realized you had no stairs -very rude by the way, at least make in handicap accessible you ass - and here I am! What do you think?”

“I think you certainly are a very determined spirit.” He smiled at them grinning at the compliment. Their passion was to be commended. As... strangely as it manifested in their actions. “You want to hire me as a Gourmet Hunter then?”

“As my Gourmet Hunter.”

He chuckled. “Ah. Of course. Your Gourmet Hunter.” He drummed his fingers against his cup. He let out a pensive hum. “Certainly a tempting offer. I imagine my brothers have received a similar offer?”

“Fuck no.” Coco caught his dropped cup. “Why the fuck would I ask for their help?”

Coco coughed to keep the tea inside. “Forg- guh, -forgive me, I choked on my tea,” why the ...what they said.. wouldn’t they ask for their help?! “Why would you not? They are equally talented hunters.” If not more so - said his inner voice. A poison Gourmet Hunter was not exactly popular - though he did have his fair share of requests, Coco’s abilities made him a difficult Gourmet Hunter to request. And the others (two of the others, anyways) were more amiable to the idea of requests from such a unique character as the one in front of him. “They would certainly be able to do the same as myself-”

“But they’re not YOU!” S/o’s hands slammed against the table, their face dangerously close when they leaned forward. “...I know I look like a mess of a chef. People act like I’m either too wild or too unable to take me seriously. I’ve never met anyone able to keep up with me. BUT!” They stuck out their hand, pointing at his chest. “You can! You’re amazing - you do amazing shit as if it was nothing, you’re humble, you understand how tough it is out here. And I know you can be more amazing when we work together.”

With a huff they leaned back, stretching out their hand to him. “I want to work with you. Got a problem with that?”

Coco blinked blankly at them. At the dirt-covered hands that had clawed their way to be there. And smiled. 

“No,” he said, clasping their hand with his own. “None at all. Where do we start?”

SFW

Coco is mostly in awe of their extroverted nature. This is a person who has likely faced extra challenges (due to both their blindness and their... unique approach to life) to get in their profession on top of the standard tests every chef must face and still, still keeps themselves entirely up-beat and unafraid of the world. They remind him a bit of a younger Toriko, only somehow more wild than him (what a frightening thought..). He can’t help but enjoy some of their crazier antics.

He does however have the foresight to pick them up by the back of the shirt in several instances. S/o is a feral kitten, and Coco is a resigned mother cat stuck getting them out of trouble.

This is a couple that talks a lot. S/o is certainly a talker just out of their very nature of being, happily ranting about new recipes, ideas, what they experienced that day, or even the must random question out there. Coco is just as much a talker, only with certain people. Once their connection is established they have a lot of long-winding conversations. Some of them get to be pretty deep! 

He does however wish they would save the deep questions for when there’s sunlight rather than 3 minutes after minutes when he wants to sleep.

“Do animals hunt Gourmet Hunters? Are there Gourmet Hunters Hunters? Hm? Coco why do I hear your sleeping bag being dragged away?”

Coco falls for them first. He already likes them from their straight-forward nature, but their continued (much-neeed) positivity in his life just cements that into romantic affection. He pines for a while about it - it’s up to s/o to figure out he likes them.

...Which granted is a little hard since he doesn’t act on it and when he talks about it he’s incredibly cryptic about his feelings. Good luck!

When they do get together, touch is something they’re going to have to be patient with. Because of his powers he is wary of letting his emotions get the best of him in the wrong time, so slowly adjusting to getting more affection is a requirement. 

Once he is used to it, any affection S/o has given him will be returned 10 fold. Not in public but they will be dragged into his lap when he’s reading something. 

NSFW

You’re not wrong about him being a bottom, though I will say he’s also a service top. He wants to please them so so so badly. 

He does however prefer for them to take the lead. Coco does not strike me as someone experienced. Makes sense, considering his abilities - I too wouldn’t be confident enough to even hold a hand, much less have sex, if my touch could wilt a mammoth. Having his partner on top of his, breathing into his ear sweet teasing words while their hands wander around his body. Gently dom him and he’s like puddy in one’s hand.

If his partner wants him on top, they can order him to please them by any means necessary - drive them crazy the way they know he can. Coco will be undone by this, and while he adores the gentleness of lovemaking, these orders will bring out a more rugged side of sexual appetite. 

Coco has a very low sex drive so it is rare he wants sex. That said, all his s/o has to do is tell him they “want something special” from him and he’s down to serve their needs. Just because he’s not hard for sex at that moment doesn’t mean his hands and tongue are unable to get the job done. 

Fingering master. His oral/blow techniques are fine, but his fingers- holy shit are they dexterous little bastards. There is no sight lovelier to Coco than his partner ordering him to keep going as his fingers make them lose their mind. 

[the-shy-shrimp]

Well, hello! I am one of your readers from the AO3 and I just wanted to say that I enjoy your lotr related works very much! And since you allow asking for commission, there is one thing I would love to see if you ever felt inspired and that is Elrond Peredhel being hurt in a fight.

Adding in the rest of the ask because this came to me in three parts:

It seems that since he is a healer in most stories it is quite rare for him to get physically hurt – which is understandable of course... But I would love to see that written by you, as you are quite good at portraying this amazing hurt/comfort stories.

The floor is all yours, but maybe it would be nice to see how his family would react to that? Or any Imladris inhabitants. But you know, it’s just an idea, no pressure. Thank you very much! And whether you decide to use this idea or not I hope we will meet in some lotr-related work. Have a nice day! :D (And sorry for sending three asks - I am not used to Tumblr :c)

So here you go! Sorry it took forever, but I made a bad decision (very, very bad) when scheduling an exam that my entire career relied on me passing, so I was pretty brain dead for the two weeks after I got this ask... But here it is! Enjoy!

...

Pain is the first thing that registers when Elrond wakes, pain and the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that comes from fighting for one’s life.

Strange, he can’t remember being in a fight, not recently. Yet here he lays, sprawled out on the floor of his study, exhausted and aching for no clear reason. Attempting to move proves to be unwise, bringing dizziness and nausea with each shift, but the alternative of lying prone until someone finds him seems even more unsavory.

He goes slowly, first turning onto his side as he tries to deduce what has happened. His face and his jaw hurt the most by far, though the rest of his body is not far behind. But his jaw had been tightly clenched for several days now, likely the result of stressing over his third child’s imminent arrival, and so he finds it difficult to relate that symptom with the rest of what he feels. His hands wander over his body in a search for injuries. While he does not discover anything new, he does find his shoulder to be red and hot, the small puncture wound he sustained in a skirmish over a week ago now open and weeping. He groans internally at the finding.

It should have healed long before now, and that knowledge fills his gut with dread. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.

The simple act of using the corner of his desk to pull himself upright leaves him shaking, and the idea of forcing himself to walk down the hallway to find Erestor is daunting to say the least. But it must be done. He presses onward, putting one foot in front of the other, desperately clutching whatever furniture seems sturdy enough to lend some support as he shuffles toward the door. Once out in the corridor there would be little to hold onto, unfortunately, but it was only a few yards between the doors to each of their workspaces. He would have to manage.

After fumbling with the doorknob for a moment, he breathes a sigh of relief upon finding the hallway to be entirely empty. The last thing he needs to be gawked at in his present state.

His movements are slow, but determined, as he makes his way along the wall, eventually coming to a stop in front of Erestor’s door. He attempts to knock before entering, but the sound is weak and piteous, barely heard over the sound of his own breathing. He has better luck with the doorknob this time around, and with minimal struggling, he tentatively steps into his friend’s space.

“Elrond? Is something the matter? You don’t look well.”

Erestor is at his desk, several papers in his hands and concern written across his face. He seems to be debating between getting up to rush over, and letting Elrond speak first.

The Peredhel swallows thickly, then gives an almost imperceptible nod, taking one, then two steps beyond the doorway. When he opens his mouth to speak, however, the ache that had thus far been sitting quietly in his jaw crescendos into a roar that races down his neck and back and into each of his limbs as pain engulfs his entire body.

A strangled cry is the only sound he makes, and Erestor’s cursing is the last thing he hears before the world goes dark.

-

“You really are the worst, you know.”

Erestor’s chiding is soft, lacking its usual barbed timbre, and is accompanied by the warm weight of a thick blanket settling over his body. The Peredhel gives him only a quiet sigh in return, blinking until the image of his friend comes into focus. He is not sprawled across the floor of Erestor’s office, as he halfway expected to be, but is instead tucked into a cot in the middle of an unfortunately familiar room. He groans, feeling even worse now than he did before, every muscle in his body wound tight as a bowstring, unable to relax no matter how much he ached.

It doesn’t take more than a minute before Elrond decides that he does not like being the one in the sickbed, and much prefers to stay within his role as a healer.

“Why didn’t you have the wound looked at when you returned? If one of your sons had pulled the same stunt you would have had their head on a platter.”

He can see the poorly veiled concern in Erestor’s expression, creeping through every time Elrond fails to suppress the violent shivers that come in waves almost too intense to bear.

“T-T-T’was only an, an, arrow…”

His voice is weaker, shakier than he would like it to be, stuttering as he tries to keep the shuddering at bay. His advisor only scowls down at him, looking more hurt than angry.

“Yes, only an arrow with a rusted head. If you were fully elven you might have been able to ignore such a detail, but you aren’t, Elrond! Now the poison is already in your blood, and it might just kill you. Andûnél says that it probably won’t, but there is still a chance.”

“I’m s-sure I’ll, I’ll be f-f-fine.”

Erestor leaps to his feet at that, sending the stool he had previously occupied flying back to clatter against the floor.

“Fine? You think this is fine? You cannot take risks with your life like this! What if you don’t make it, hm? Everyone in this valley depends on you, son of Eärendil. Your family depends on you. What if this is what does it? Would you leave your children to grow up fatherless, leave your people leaderless? You are all we have left, Elrond. They don’t have a high king to follow anymore, no one is going to step in and take care of things if you perish.”

He turns on his heel, disgust written on his face as he slams the door shut behind him.

Silence descends on the tiny room, and Elrond finds himself whimpering as the next wave of shivering hits him full force. He knows he isn’t alone, not truly. Someone will be around to check on him eventually. But for the moment he cannot help but feel abandoned. He wants Erestor to come back, but he will need time to sulk. He wants Celebrían, but he knows she won’t be back in Imladris for another week. Perhaps shamefully, he finds he wants Maglor most of all.

Maglor who had done his best in spite of circumstance, who made sure their needs were provided for. Maglor who held him when the tears didn’t seem to have an end. Maglor who sat with him late in the night when sleep wouldn’t come because of nightmares or insomnia or the disturbances that had come when his foresight finally began to manifest. Maglor who was the closest thing to a father he had ever really had.

It wasn’t until Andûnél knocked and entered that he realized there were tears in his eyes.

“Now, now, none of that.”

She sighs softly and dabs at the wet spots on his cheeks before anything else. He is grateful for the way her touches are nothing short of professional, devoid of the almost motherly tenderness they held when he and Elros were just young things being brought to her with scraped knees and sprains and broken bones. He already feels small and broken enough without being coddled.

Was it because Erestor had yelled at him? Probably. Being reminded of everything, everyone, that relied on him had left him feeling grossly inadequate. There was no high king. No one was around to supervise him and yank him out of his stupidity anymore. Ereinion couldn’t come to his rescue. Galadriel might, but not because she actually cared for him. She would come out of responsibility, and likely regret allowing her daughter to marry him as a result. Just a stupid, half-blooded fool who managed to survive long enough to reproduce in spite of his own idiocy—

“Elrond? Look at me, Elrond.”

He hiccups twice while trying to blink away the tears, and it takes several more minutes of dabbing at his eyes before he can actually see her face as more than just a wet blur.

“That’s better. Now, are you weeping because you are in pain, or because you are upset?”

“Pain.”

The single syllable is rasped out, barely louder than a whisper. The look in her eyes tells him that she knows he is lying, or at least telling only half the truth. Maybe the pain was a part of it, but Andûnél clearly knew it was just as likely a combination of the two.

“Alright. I can do something about that, at least.”

She leaves his line of sight immediately. If his neck didn’t ache so badly he might have tried to watch her, but he could barely move at all with how tense he was. He settles for staring at the ceiling and trying to breathe evenly. At least he could hear her moving about the room, and so he knew she hadn’t left him. Not like Erestor had.

Another whine escapes him at the thought.

“Hold on, I’m coming.”

He doesn’t get the chance to feel any more sorry for himself before she pries his lips apart and sticks a dropper full of bitter medicine in his mouth. It tastes foul, as all her tinctures do, but it works quickly, dulling the ache in a matter of only a few tense minutes, and for that he is grateful.

“Better?”

“Better.”

Elrond sighs, relaxing against the bed beneath him as the pain is driven back for the moment. He hadn’t noticed just how much the tension in his body was bothering him a moment ago, but with it now under control, its absence leaves him feeling weak and jittery.

“Unfortunately, there isn’t much we can do outside of managing the pain that comes with the muscle spasms.”

Andûnél’s voice feels far away, even if vaguely registers that she now sits beside him in the stool Erestor had previously discarded. She smiles down at him, looking tired above all else.

“There isn’t an antidote or any effective treatment for it. You’ll just have to wait it out until your body rids itself of the toxin.”

The idea sits poorly with him, although there isn’t anything he can do to change things, not now. The healer is quick to remind him, of course, that had he gotten the wound treated sooner, properly cleaned and bandaged as it should have been, he might have avoided this unpleasantness altogether. She says he ought to know better, and he knows she is right. But she takes his silence as exhaustion rather than the moping that it is, and mutters something about the two of them being the sole purpose someone came up with the adage that “healers make the worst patients” before tucking another blanket around him and getting up to leave.

“I will send Camaenor in to sit with you while I take care of some other things that need my attention. He will probably be so engrossed in whatever book he brings with him that you’ll hardly notice him, but at least he’ll be present if you need him.”

Elrond is asleep not long after Andûnél latches the door behind her, snatching up what sleep he can while he has the option. He’s seen this sickness before, in mortals wounded by pieces of old metal, and he knows that it is likely to get worse before it gets better.

When it does get worse, either Andûnél or her reedy apprentice are always present, ready and waiting with another draught for the pain and muscle spasms that make his limbs cramp and his back arch off the bed. The Peredhel is grateful that it is only the two of them who see him like this. Not that he doesn’t trust the discretion of the other healers, but he knows that Andûnél will not gossip, and Camaenor has been so absorbed in his studies that he is likely to follow his master’s trend.

The days all blend together, a cycle of sleeping until he is awoken by excruciating pain and downing more medicine until he can once again rest comfortably. More than once he wakes in the dead of night, due not to the constant muscle contractions, but instead because the apprentice perched nearby is struggling with his reading, stumbling over some new term or another and attempting to sound it out.

The first time this happens, it leaves Elrond confused and disoriented, wondering if the apprentice is trying to speak to him and his brain is simply failing to interpret the words. Eventually though, after hearing several similar sounding terms in a row, he realizes what is happening, and rasps out an answer.

“Parenchyma.”

Camaenor nearly jumps out of his skin when his charge suddenly speaks, but quickly recovers and nods his thanks before asking if he would like some water, or if he was in pain. Elrond decides then that the boy will make a good healer, someday, and resolves to help him study during his precious moments of wakefulness and clarity. It is the least he can do.

He loses track of how many days and nights he’s been bedridden, knowing only that it has been long enough for him to grow tired of it. The only break in routine comes when Erestor returns to his previous position, constructing a nest of bookwork at Elrond’s bedside to keep himself busy while he sits with him. He says nothing of the outburst that resulted in his several-days-long absence, but instead chatters on about all the things going on in the valley that he’s missed since this all started. Profit margins for new trade routes. Personal correspondences that need attention. Setbacks in planting a new section of the orchard.

His chief advisor says nothing of Celebrían’s whereabouts, and so he assumes that she has either not been informed of his current state or has chosen to remain with her parents until this has all blown over. Part of him hopes for the former. This pregnancy has already been hard enough for her, and it has only just begun. She doesn’t need the added stress.

It comes as a surprise, then, when the soft morning light brings him toward wakefulness and he is assailed not by the whole-body ache he has come to expect, but by the soft velvet of her lips on his. He sighs, thinking it must only be the remnants of some very pleasant dream, but the gentle brush of her fingertips over his eyelids tells him otherwise.

“Wake up, my love.”

A weak smile finds its way to his face, the first in days, as he slowly pries his eyes open. His silver queen is waiting for him, her soft expression framed by the wild platinum curls of her unbound hair. She kisses him again, more fiercely this time, and though his attempts at reciprocating are sloppy at best, it still fills his heart with joy.

They still cling to each other, even after Celebrían finally stops nibbling at his lower lip and stretches out on the bed beside her husband. Neither of them says a word about what happened, about what Elrond has suffered through in the past week, or about the fact that they are celebrating their reunion here instead of the quiet intimacy of their bedroom. None of it matters, though, at least not to the Peredhel.

The presence of his beloved is like a balm on his aching soul, and in her strong arms he is reminded of what it feels like to belong and be loved. He sighs, burying his nose in the tangled nest of her hair and breathing in the scent that is undeniably hers, causing her to giggle and throw her arm over his bared chest and drag him closer.

“I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too.”

[guardianofrivendell]

PERFECT SECRETS - CHAPTER 4

Legolas x OC

Requested: Nope

Summary:  Mira. A short and unusual name for a short and unusual Elf. After an audience with Galadriel goes sideways, she leaves her birthplace Lóthlorien and the Elves for good.  That is until a certain Gandalf asks for a favor. Come along on her journey, as she reluctantly agrees to accompany Gandalf on the quest to destroy the One Ring.  She befriends every Fellowship member, except one. Legolas and Mira are water and fire from the very first moment they laid eyes on each other. Will this be an obstacle during the quest or is it going to make everything just a little more interesting?

Warnings: none in this chapter, just a stubborn Elf 

Masterlist Perfect Secrets

Guardianofrivendell’s Masterlist

Everyone started to leave after the remaining Council Members had wished them a safe trip. Mira was still trying to wrap her head around it all. It slowly started to dawn on her that she was going to Mordor. Mordor.  It’s not that she was afraid. She was brave enough, she had killed her fair share of Orcs. But this quest was nothing like she had ever done before. She had mostly been on her own, and now had to travel with nine others. Two of them being major dickheads.

“What is clouding your thoughts, my dear?” Gandalf’s voice sounded behind her. 

“Why, Gandalf?” She immediately shot back. 

“Because I was hungry, because I felt like it, it was the right time and because you wanted to. All answers to questions, but none to the one you just asked me. Let me ask you a question in return, Mira. Why not?”

Mira sighed, looking at the other members of the newly founded fellowship. Even though they had volunteered only a few moments before, they all looked so… prepared. 

“Because I’m not ready. This is nothing like the quests we’ve done in the past, Gandalf. I’m sure they all have something to contribute like strength and skills. Filled to the brink with courage, all of them…”

She paused before she added, “Well, of one of them I’m quite certain it’s more stupidity and arrogance than courage but that’s not the point right now. Remember that I did not volunteer myself. You dragged me into this.” She poked his chest to back up her words.  Gandalf wanted to say something, but she interrupted him immediately. “Don’t even think about bringing Galadriel’s words into this!”  He raised his hands in defeat, chuckling lightly. “I was not planning to. Come, child, join me on a walk around the gardens.”

Legolas was talking to Aragorn, briefing him of the escape of Gollum. The reason he came to Rivendell in the first place. Not that he regretted his decision to join the Fellowship, it was the right thing to do and he would do anything in his power to protect the little Hobbit and help destroy the Ring. 

He saw Gandalf talking to the hooded lady. Mira, was it? Everyone could see that she didn’t want to go, and he could hear her complaining about it to the Grey Wizard. Why was Gandalf so keen on bringing her along? What was so special about her? Legolas didn’t like her and that was nothing like him. Somehow she annoyed him terribly. 

“Legolas?” Aragorn repeated. He looked at him in surprise. 

“Welcome back, mellon nin. You were deep in thought! What troubles you?” (My friend)

“Lady Mira. I can not help but have a bad feeling about her,” he stated. 

“And why is that?” 

Legolas watched them descend the stairs, Gandalf a few steps ahead and Mira trudging after him. Even now she still kept her hood up.

“She is constantly hiding underneath her hood. Clearly she does not want to join us. Yet Gandalf insists. I can’t help but wonder why.”

Aragorn smiled. “It’s Gandalf. He always has his reasons.”

“I hope you’re right,” Legolas sighed. He was going to keep an eye on her, until she proved him wrong. 

Mira walked alongside Gandalf through the many little garden paths of Rivendell. She had to admit it was very beautiful and it brought a certain peace to her. She felt almost comfortable being here. Almost. 

“You have skills that will be very useful during our journey, my dear. Do not belittle yourself,” Gandalf began. “Your visions are growing stronger.”

She nodded. “They are, but I can’t control them. I’m vulnerable when I have them, they’re blocking my sight. It’s not something you want to happen mid-fight.”

“There are nine others including myself who can keep an eye on you if that were to happen. You have excellent fighting skills. I cannot see a reason for you not to join.”

She looked at the old Wizard, studying the many wrinkles across his kind face. They went through a lot together, and she suddenly felt the need to protect him overcome her. She thought about all the times she saved him and when he returned the favor. Maybe it was for the best she went with him, if only to keep an eye on him. 

But then she noticed the twinkle in his eyes. 

“Gandalf?”

“Hm?”

“What are you not telling me?”

“These gardens are extraordinary, don’t you think? Let us find Lord Elrond so I can compliment him,” he said with a knowing smile and walked away. Mira stood with her hands down, lost for words. He only did this when he tried to hide something. 

“Gandalf!” she yelled before running after him.

*

Gandalf never told her what he was hiding and after a few days she gave up trying.

He did give her the advice to start getting to know the others before their journey began. Mira agreed, although reluctantly. She didn’t like talking all that much, afraid she would say something that would give her away. But then she realised they probably weren’t even alive back then - well, maybe the Elf was - and she started to feel more comfortable around them. 

She slowly warmed up to Aragorn and Gimli, making her feel a little more at ease. She hadn’t lowered her hood, and they didn’t ask her about it. Yet. 

During meals she preferred to sit with the Hobbits. Their kind and animated personalities made them ideal companions. She especially got along with Merry and Pippin, since Frodo kept mostly to himself and Sam was too busy worrying about Frodo’s wellbeing. It was nice to see how strong their friendship was.  The only two members she tried to avoid as much as she could were Boromir and Legolas and she had the impression they were doing the same. 

She sometimes caught them staring at her during meals, but it wasn’t out of curiosity or even boredom. She knew both men didn’t trust her. Legolas’ electric blue eyes turned cold and distant every time they met hers. If looks could kill, Mira would be slaughtered at least twice a day. 

So to say the fellowship was one tight big family when they left a few weeks later… that would be part truth, and part lies.

Gandalf kept himself close to Frodo so Mira chose to walk with Merry and Pippin instead, sometimes accompanied by Gimli. The Dwarf took a particular liking towards her humor and sarcasm and sometimes the others could hear his booming laughter echoing over the fields.

Legolas kept walking around the group, sometimes going ahead to scout and report to Gandalf and Aragorn on his return. He never stayed with the group and for some reason that irritated Mira immensely. 

She could hear and see everything just as well from her spot in the group, he had no reason to hop around like he was doing right now. He was just showing off. 

When they came to their stop for the night on the 6th day, the Hobbits were exhausted. Gandalf and Aragorn hadn’t allowed them to stop during the day, not even for a meal. The days of constant walking without breaks started to take their toll. And she suspected they finally realized this wasn’t just some fun trip to Mordor and back in a few days. They hadn’t spoken a word for hours.

Sam unpacked his trusty pan and started cooking, but not even the foresight of food could lift the other Hobbit’s spirits up. 

She let herself drop between Merry and Pippin. They hardly acknowledged her presence.

“Hey, it’s okay to be a little scared you know,” she whispered to them. 

“We’re not scared,” Merry said proudly. 

“Course not, and Gimli’s beard isn’t even real!” she laughed. When their eyes widened, she assured them that it was only a joke and she begged them not to go test the authenticity of his beard. 

“I only said that to let you know that I know you’re lying, Merry. But like I said, it’s okay to be scared. I used to be scared all the time.”

She put her hand in her pocket. “Until I got this…”

She opened her palm and showed them what was inside: a blue-green gem stone, shaped like a small rock.

“What is that, my lady?” Merry asked her, looking at the stone in her hand. 

She showed it to them, the blue-green shine reflecting in their eyes. 

“It’s my good luck charm. It was a gift from my father when I was only a child. When I have this with me, I know it will all be okay.” 

“Does it help you win fights?” Pippin wondered.

“It always does, I never lost one since,” she smiled at him. Pippin’s smile grew wider and it warmed her heart, glad to see her trick had helped. 

She took his little hand and placed the stone in it. “Keep this with you,” she whispered to him.  It wasn’t easy for her to part with the gemstone, it was the last thing she had that reminded her of her parents. But when she saw his face light up she knew she’d done the right thing.

“Luck has nothing to do with it, only courage, skills and experience can help you win a fight,” Legolas said to Pippin, before he headed towards the other side of the camp. 

Mira saw Pippin’s smile falter and it made her angry. Who the hell did he think he was?

She stood up and went his way. Legolas stood tall on the top of a large boulder, scanning the surroundings for possible threats. He didn’t even look down when she reached him. 

“What is your problem?”

His eyes met hers briefly, before he continued staring in the distance. 

“You should not give them false hope.”

Mira scoffed. “I’m not giving them false hope! They’re capable of a lot more than you give them credit for!”

He didn’t react to that. In fact, he ignored her completely, his eyes locked to a point somewhere in the distance. Completely fed up with his attitude, she climbed the rock he was standing on and stood right in front of him. 

“Hey, I’m talking to you,” she snapped, poking his chest. 

“I heard you,” he answered.

“They joined the fellowship to help us destroy the Ring, the least you could do is help them in return. Yes, they aren’t warriors or experienced fighters like you and me.” He snorted at that, but she let it slide. “But they want to learn. And you talking them down like that is not helping!”

She turned around, leaving a confused Legolas behind, not sure how he should react. 

When she wanted to jump off the rock, her foot slipped and she would’ve hit her head or made a nasty fall if Legolas hadn’t grabbed her under her arms. 

“It seems like your luck has run out,” he challenged, easily slipping back in his previous attitude. “You might want to ask your stone back.”

“You’re impossible!” she grunted, pulling her arm out of his grasp. 

When she stomped back to Merry and Pippin, she failed to notice the twinkles in Gandalf’s eyes had returned and the suppressed snickers from the others who had watched their interaction with mirth...

A/N: Let me know what you think! Or if you want to take a guess on what will happen next, be my guest :) 

Taglist  @ayo-cowbelly​ @fried-potato-balloon @galileostyles 

[summer-jay]

Forfeit (Tommy/Alfie fic)

Ao3 Link

Summary: “What do you want, Alfie?”

The only reason Alfie glances at Tommy’s mouth that moment is because he brings the cigarette up again and wraps his lips around it, hollowing his cheeks as he takes the final deep drag. He probably lingers a second too long, because Tommy’s eyes snap down momentarily, and when they land on Alfie again, it’s a completely different expression Tommy’s wearing.

In which Tommy has to deal with his men's fuck-up and discovers many things about himself in the process. At some point, Alfie thinks it's about bloody time.

Rating: Explicit

A/N: For some reason, I’m really struggling with this one, but all the rewriting seems to be paying off. First chapter’s finally up!

Chapter 1: Speak (3028 words)

The warehouse is in fucking shambles.

It’s charred from ground to ceiling—what’s left of it, at least—oozing the sickly concoction of foam, water and ash from every crack. Nasty fucking view to have, this early in the morning. On the far side, the roof was blown to shreds, and the newly formed gaping hole lets the bleak London sun illuminate the space with sinister greyness and spiky shadows of the jagged remnants of the carcass. It could be almost nice, this exterior. Spiritual and apocalyptic in a way. But now the damp blackened wood sucks any redeeming qualities right out of the building and leaves it cold, dead and hopeless.

Alfie takes one last look at it and grimaces, getting in the car.

“Back to the office, boss?” Ishmael asks, to which Alfie responds with a little more repetition and emphasis than strictly necessary.

He actually preferred the sight when it was all jolly and alight mere hours ago. There was a serene pocket of time then, while the firemen worked to preserve the area around more than the warehouse itself, since Alfie could do nothing but observe the chaotic nature of the world make yet another demonstration. He didn’t know a thing back then. But he does now. And it leaves the same taste in his mouth as the stale scent of rotting wood and smoke.

It’s barely past seven when he instructs Ollie to make the call. Tommy must’ve been up and about for some time now, because he picks up immediately, and Alfie tries his hardest not to get any more pissed off at the whole situation than he already is. He’ll have to fucking deal with it now then. Fucking brilliant.

“He said he’s on his way,” Ollie appears in the door, and Alfie tears his eyes away from the record book that he isn’t reading.

“Hm. Alright then. Go kick those brainless fuckers back into our world in an hour. Ollie-” he calls when Ollie starts to turn “-leave ‘em intact for now, yeah? And tell David whatever I see on them, before Tommy Shelby arrives, yeah, I paint right back on his fucking face. With my own hands.”

Ollie furrows his brow but nods. Smart lad when he wants to be.

The door closes, and Alfie throws the record book on the table and falls back on the chair, stroking his beard absently and watching the sun rise higher and higher in the small window. Wrong day in every fucking regard, except, it shouldn’t be. Some months ago, he would’ve sunk his teeth into such a glaring opportunity to squeeze something more out of Tommy, just to see how far he could bend him without breaking. It’s a goddamn mystery why things have changed, although Alfie’s not quite delusional enough to claim he doesn’t know what exactly has changed.

He decides to wait and see. There have not been many fuck-ups on Tommy’s part in the past—none, in fact—and it makes him curious, despite the simmering irritation, to see what Tommy will offer.

                                                         . . .

For all Alfie’s tendencies to run his mouth like hell, he’s quite good at giving instructions, and, even more importantly, he’s competent enough to get them obeyed. He reaps the fruits of this ability now, when Tommy strolls into his office, fuming with irritation and knowing absolutely bloody nothing.

“So. Where’s the fucking fire?” Tommy asks as a way of greeting, letting the frustration into his voice, and it’s not that he can’t keep it locked away—he chooses to let Alfie see exactly where the fault with such scandalous disruptions of his morning routine lies.

Yes, that was definitely the right call to forbid Ollie to tell him anything over the phone.

Alfie looks up from the document he’s been staring at, taking in the sight.

Despite the pointed lack of urgency in his movements and the spilling annoyance, Tommy came. He’s sitting in Alfie’s chair now, guarded and so utterly stripped of control it sends a rush down Alfie’s spine. It suits him, this vulnerability. Makes him all sharp and volatile, and Alfie couldn’t deny himself this even if he tried—he wants just another moment of it to roll in.

He holds up a finger, taking his sweet time marking completely random figures on the paper with the air of undivided concentration, and Tommy predictably huffs, taking out his cigarette pack.

It takes a few minutes of silence before Tommy’s irritation starts threatening to break out, another minute he takes to wrench it under control. Alfie feels an infuriating urge to grin. Yeah, that’s Tommy Shelby alright, from head to toe, and it was a rather long time going about without him; so long, in fact, that something angry and hot curls in Alfie’s stomach at the necessity to deal with this ridiculous fucking situation right now instead of talking with Tommy like civilized people over a nice set of tea. Not that they’ve ever done that. Not that they will.

Right. Time for fucking business.

Alfie gives the paper one last dramatic swipe of the pen and looks up, propping his elbows on the tabletop and lacing his fingers under his chin.

“Chalton Street, actually,” he says easily, and Tommy’s hand pauses briefly halfway between the armrest and his lips. Alfie nods. “Yeah yeah, ‘s funny you should ask, mate, right, all that unsettling gypo foresight. You should’ve been a bookmaker or something.”

“I prefer not to tempt fate,” Tommy deadpans.

Alfie realizes a tad too late his gaze still lingers on Tommy’s mouth and jerks it up. “Mm, gentlemanly of you. Well, it seems to me, right, that she’d been tempted long before your intervention, mate. Cause she’s supposed to watch over fools, don't she.”

Tommy exhales the smoke slowly. “That’d be God.”

There’s the thing about Tommy—he bounces Alfie’s bullshit right back at him. Alfie feels dangerously close to getting lost in the banter. Which, as an absolute and extremely vital rule, never happens to him. It doesn’t help that Tommy’s bristling demeanour is now gone and forgotten, switching the gears in his mind to prying, negotiating and doing all other kinds of wonderful things that Tommy manages all at once when he smells fire.

Fucking bloody hopeless, Alfie thinks with marginal disappointment directed at his very self and cuts to the chase.

“Right, those new arrivals you sent, yeah, two of ‘em, they blew up my fucking warehouse tonight, mate.” It sits in the air between them for a second, Tommy still and blank as a sheet. Technically, no explosion took place, but it’s the result that matters in these things, innit.

“They got drunk,” Alfie continues, punctuating every word, probably more to himself than to Tommy, and fixes Tommy with a gaze he calmly returns. “On duty. On their shift. And decided to ease the inexpressible burden of sitting on your arse doing nothing, right, by playing with matches like little boys.”

“Was there anyone else with them?” Tommy asks without missing a beat.

“No,” Alfie lies. “Who knew they needed fucking grownups for supervision, fuckin’ hell, Tommy.”

It’s almost cruel, this satisfaction, when Tommy’s face hardens momentarily. He isn’t buying a word of it, and frankly, Alfie’d be fucking insulted if he did, but there is suddenly an infuriating void of retorts at his disposal, that is if he doesn’t want to dig this hole deeper. Tommy knows this. And he looks at Alfie in a way that very clearly conveys that he knows.

Alfie watches him flick his thumb across the edge of the cigarette for a while. Probably contemplating if he should push, if he has any leverage and, if he does, what it would cost him to use it.

“The insurance-” he starts saying after a moment, and that won’t do at all, that is not where Alfie wants the balance to reside for now.

“Fuck the insurance,” he scoffs. “It’s just un-fucking-acceptable. You send me men, right, Tom, and I put them to work, right,” he gestures helpfully, “and now I’ll need to attach my man to each your man like some fucking queer Russian doll, is that it?”

Tommy quirks an eyebrow. “Your men are not without vices.”

“My men, mate, those I find logistically more difficult to lay off.”

It’s an empty threat that Alfie half-heartedly expects to elicit a response. It doesn’t. Tommy blinks at the wall, unaffected and unimpressed to the whole world, except for how he clenches his teeth. It makes his jawline even more acute, and that, well, that might set Alfie on edge a little. How others fall for Tommy’s submissive charade is a goddamn mystery, because he seems utterly incapable of doing a thing with that cold piercing gaze that now ventures back to Alfie, not exactly shooting daggers but cutting alright. Alfie’s tempted to scold him a little more, figures that’s what drives him up the wall the most, just to draw a reaction. To see that fire spill over. He’s tempted to do many fucking things.

“Well, mate, what I tell you? No man is without vices, yeah.” He brings his hands back on the table, watching Tommy’s eyes track the motion automatically. It’s somehow getting the wrong sort of heated, this little domestic drama. Alfie resolves to ignore it for now. Needs to get to the fucking point. “Now, mate, can’t say I understand a thing about your lot in that town, batshit crazy stuff you do, yeah. But for the sake of our shared human nature, right, flawed and all, I might be inclined to let it rest, so to speak, in the ashes.”

“How fucking kind of you,” Tommy says evenly. He resolutely maintains eye contact, and fucking hell, if that’s his negotiations look, Alfie will blow his own bakery and find early retirement somewhere on the seaside.

That’s a kiss-with-a-blade-under-your-chin kind of look. It’s as if Tommy knows Alfie’s provoking him and absolutely can’t help it anyway.

Alfie realizes he got a little sidetracked and stopped talking altogether only when Tommy speaks up, on the exhale, a couple of long seconds later.

“What do you want, Alfie?”

The only reason Alfie glances at Tommy’s mouth that moment is because he brings the cigarette up again and wraps his lips around it, hollowing his cheeks as he takes the final deep drag.

It’d be a fleeting look, if it were any other fucking day under the sun. But now Alfie finds himself strangely fixated on the picture. He probably lingers a second too long, because Tommy’s eyes snap down momentarily, and when they land on Alfie again, it’s a completely different expression Tommy’s wearing.

Confusion. Inhale. Decision.

Then Tommy leans back on the chair and tips his head back slightly, suddenly almost bored.

Alfie normally prides himself on being a professional reader of men’s minds—never women’s but who the fuck is—and it still takes his powers a second to comprehend the sudden shift in the air.

“Well?” Tommy says, voice going lower than the intonation dictates, and deposits the cigarette stub on the edge of Alfie’s desk. “Let’s get it done.”

Let’s get what done, Alfie wonders, what the hell has Tommy got into his head this time, until, in a blazing, surreal moment, it hits him.

He realizes two things, to be precise, which would be three things if he chose to lie to himself about being oblivious to the very first one all this time.

He wants Tommy Shelby. He’s wanted Tommy fucking Shelby for a rather inconveniently long time, rather desperately at that, and he’s getting hard just sitting across the table from the arrogant fucker, because Tommy’s irritated, Alfie’s no better, and this whole thing suddenly looks much more appealing when he imagines it culminating in fucking rather than shooting. It’s not a problem worth freaking out over, in Alfie’s mind.

But the fucking, though, Tommy here thinks it to be the payment. That is the second thing.

What do you want, Alfie?

Alfie starts moving before reasoning manages to stop him—and not like it’s a rare occurrence. He circles the table, led by a sudden angry impulse to push, see if Tommy would actually go through with it, cause that, right, that wasn’t what Alfie meant by that fucking stray gaze at all. But it’s burning right through him, now that it’s on the table.

Tommy looks up at him through his long dark lashes and stays just like he is, open and tense. Tenser still as Alfie shuffles into his space, squeezes between him and the table, legs touching. For a second, he’s so stiff it feels like he’ll shatter, like a fucking ice statue, from the mere touch.

But Tommy doesn’t move. He blinks slowly and breathes heavily in the sudden silence, solidifying Alfie’s third insight.

Tommy Shelby would let him.

Alfie’s heart is pumping molten lead through his veins, and it’s simultaneously heavy and unconscious when he brings his hand down and strokes Tommy’s cheek, taking a hold of his jaw to tip his head even further back.

To shock him out of this glazed state he seems to be sinking into. To touch him. To push him until he does break, because this is just a stupid fucking assumption to make that Tommy would whore himself out for business, not to another man.

But Tommy doesn’t move at all. He seems to be falling in the precise opposite direction of Alfie’s whirling thoughts, going more wide eyed and responsive, and, by the looks of it, almost fucking surprised. At what exactly, Alfie can’t begin to contemplate.

Tommy lets him maneuver his head up and stares back, unblinking, pupils blown like spilled gunpowder against the bright blue. Alfie swipes a finger along his cheekbone. Tommy doesn’t bolt. Alfie steps closer, kicking Tommy’s knees apart, watching every muscle twitch on his face, waiting, nearly fucking snapping-

But Tommy doesn’t bolt.

He draws a shaky breath instead and says, with what sounds miles away from cold indifference, “I don’t have all day. Get a fucking move on.”

Alfie barely holds himself back from slapping him, because what in all circles of hell does that boy think of him. Tommy’s not a complete fucking idiot, after all. He must understand Alfie, among all the things that he is, is not that kind of a man. But here they are.

Alfie suddenly becomes acutely aware of his fingers on Tommy’s skin. Funny how this particular setting—Tommy under his hands, under him, with eyes burning and lips parted so prettily—would put him in a much less conflicted and a much more aroused state just a day ago. Just a fucking hour ago.

Which is not to say he’s not aroused. He’s fucking aching. But Tommy doesn’t want it now, except as a retribution for the cock-up Alfie can’t even clearly recall at the moment.

Alfie drops his hand so quickly, Tommy’s head bounces slightly before he catches himself. More confusion. Darting eyes, calculating what he’s done wrong. It’s not particularly difficult to return behind the desk, although Alfie’s body is screaming at him to come back, pull Tommy to his feet, tear that coat off and make Tommy come so hard he’ll be only able to see complete fucking darkness for minutes.

But as Alfie sinks into the chair, the picture of the guarded, enduring void in Tommy’s eyes makes him shudder with disgust.

Jesus Christ.

“What-” Tommy begins and stops when his voice fails him. He clears his throat, miles and miles away, composed and distant once again, and Alfie doesn’t even want to look at him now, isn’t sure it won’t shower from his eyes or something.

“Reckon a bakery in Birmingham would be fine,” he blurts out, inevitably turning to watch Tommy as he draws his eyebrows together. “Fine location, innit, secluded, far from any semblance of law or morality, yeah?”

“A bakery.” Tommy swallows, clearly trying to be inconspicuous about it and failing.

“Right, a small one, from your pocket and all. Would serve your men well, to learn some bloody discipline. Could relocate those two excuses for workforce of yours there, spare us all the necessity to behold their fucking faces.”

Alfie doesn’t need a bakery in Birmingham. Hell, of all the things he hoped to get out of this whole ordeal, this wasn’t even remotely close to the list.

He fumbles with his rings absently while Tommy gets busy picking himself up and straightening his coat.

He considers saying something. Easy and dismissive, something along the lines of ‘nah, you misread it, mate,’ which would be simple enough and also absolutely fucking ballistic, because admitting anything out loud at this point feels like a death sentence in neat handwriting—very tiny and very lethal.

By the mortified look gliding across Tommy’s face for a second as he swipes a hand over his face, he knows damn well he misread it.

“Right,” Alfie mutters to himself and then repeats, loudly enough to shake the whole damn building, “Right. So it’s settled then, yeah, no hard feelings. With the bakery, that is.”

“Right,” Tommy echoes. He sounds strange, almost lost, although it would’ve been impossible to notice if Alfie’d known him any less.

When Tommy goes to leave, Alfie doesn’t stop him, although the impulse, for some fucking reason, is there.

He slumps down in the chair, draws a long, deep breath and tries to process what has just transpired. In particular, what that look on Tommy was, right before he gracefully stormed out of his own fucking shipwreck.

Alfie can’t seem to find a place for his hands; he keeps shifting around, the persistent sensation of rough stubbled skin under his fingertips unchanging despite the position, until he jolts upright and grabs the cigarette that witnessed all this chaos with dead silence.

Alfie’s powers are suddenly kicking back in to tell him the fucking look was one of disappointment. Which is complete and impossible bloody horseshit. Unless, of course, it isn’t. And in that case, opening a bakery in Birmingham is a bad, bad idea.

[theartofbeinganeldar]

The Art of Being an Eldar: Legolas x Reader Chapter 4

Summary: After discovering that you were stuck in the fantasy world you had no recollection of, your memory was jogged after weeks of depression: this land was Middle-Earth. A council of wizards and Elves was summoned, and Thranduil expressed his wishes of wanting you gone. Elrond agreed to take you in and Gandalf was excited to share in his adventures with someone who knew nothing of the world, quite like a Hobbit, but you wanted to stay in Mirkwood, with Legolas and Tauriel, of which you'd made friends with. Legolas leaves in three days to locate the orcs who enroach upon Mirkwood's northern flank, and the council sees this as a chance for you to prove your worth. If you fail, you are to leave Mirkwood...

Chapter No.: Chapter 4

Key: [Y/N]=Your Name [F/N]= Friend's Name [B/N]= Bro's Name [S/N]= Sis's Name [M/N]= Mom's Name [e/c]= eye color [h/c]= hair color [s/c]= skin color

Notes: I want to thank all my readers for their feedback, likes, and reblogs! I'm only on Chapter 4 and all of you combined have made me feel really good about my writing. I've gotta admit, I was a little scared of going through with this multi-chapter fic at first, because while a few people really liked and enjoyed my stories on DeviantArt, they never got the reception The Art of Being an Eldar has. I just thought my writing sucked for the most part. Thank you all so much!

Warnings: Fluff, angst, graphic depictions of gore and violence (Cuz of orc battles y'know?), more angst, slow burn, some light depression in the first few chapters, some amnesia about Middle-Earth because the Valar say you're not supposed to have foresight, hard-core language, feels, lots and lots of feels, mentions of NSFW content, maybe some eventual NSFW content, LGTBQ+ characters, Thranduil being a jackass at first because he's fabulous, Legolas being a hot edgy prince that nobody can handle, Kili being an innocent bean, Hobbits being smol innocent beans, except for Bilbo 'cause he's been through some tough shit, Bard being dad of the year, Thorin being one dumbass boi, The fucking Silmarillion, awesome dragons, awesome Nazgul, awesome scenery, awesome stuff in general, Elrond isn't listened to by anybody, confused Aragorn is confused,  Denethor's a bitch as always, brace yourself for creepy as fuck Cream of Wormtongue Grima Wormtongue, Boromir lives, Gandalf. (yes these are all legit warnings don't judge me.)

Pairings/Ships: Legolas x Reader, Legolas x you, Aragorn x Arwen, Faramir x Eowyn, Thranduil x Elvenqueen, Galadriel x Celery Celeborn, Boromir x OC, Thorin x OC, Fili x OC, etc. general LoTR standard shippings plus some of my own cuz I can't stand my boys being lonely

Word Count: I try to keep my chapters short, under 2000 words. Rating: Teen (14+) for now

"You what?"

Apparently Leggy didn't comprehend the concept of being accompanied by a suddenly Elvish human from another dimension.

With a sigh and a roll of your eyes, you repeated, "I said, I'm coming with you when you leave for your orc-hunting mission."

Legolas narrowed his eyes. "And who gave you permission to do this?"

"The council, that's who. So suck it up buttercup, I'm coming with your sorry ass."

Legolas rolled his eyes. "Very well. Tell me, aside from randomly swinging a sword, do you know anything about weaponry?"

You raised an eyebrow. Shit, you'd have to fight? "No, but I can say a mouthful of greetings in Elvish."

Legolas raised an eyebrow. "Nin ista, Sairen, but words are not mightier than fighting skill in battle."

You scoffed. "I can think of a pretty famous phrase from my world that totally contradicts that..."

Legolas shook his head as he sauntered past you, down the stairs of the bridge you'd found him on. The sounds of his bows and knife sheaths clanking together as he walked relaxed you. "Of course you do, mellon." He paused to look at you. "Are you not coming? We leave in three days. If you are intent on coming with me, surely you cannot believe I will let you go without even so much as learning the proper way to stab an opponent?"

You made a face, but followed him anyway. "I know how to stab."

"How, then?" He gestured to you pointedly and crossed his arms.

"Um..." You mimed the gesture you'd probably use while stabbing an orc in the guts. "Like... This? With a twist?"

"That may work if your enemy has the weak skin and flesh of a human, or even on an Elf," He pointed out, "But we are fighting orcs, Sairen. Their hide is as thick as that of a boar, and their flesh is equally so." With a flourish, he flipped out one of his long knives. He paused in handing it to you. "I am not letting you keep this, mellon. My mother gave them to me."

You froze in reaching for the weapon. "You have a mother?"

Legolas chuckled at your wide-eyed expression. "You thought I did not?"

You stiffened before hurriedly turning away. "No! Of course not! Why would you think that?!"

Legolas laughed as he followed you. "Well, I do have one. She has been away on the other end of the palace-city. I should introduce you to her."

"Is she as fabulous as your dad?" You ran the tip of your index finger along your eyebrows. "And maybe even with the same super dark eyebrows?"

Legolas smiled. "No, no. She is perfectly beautiful."

"So you're saying your dad's not?"

"What?"

"Nothing." You waved a hand. "Where's the training grounds again?"

Legolas grinned evilly. "Well, your training begins now, Sairen. See if you can actually get to said training grounds without killing yourself on that blade."

Your jaw fell. "Are you fucking kidding me?! That's child's play! Don't you think I already know how to not do that?!"

"That is a double negative sentence, but no, I do not believe you already know this skill." Blue-Eyes shot you another grin. "Besides, we are not taking the average path to the training grounds. They are outside of the palace, after all. We will go out and around, on the hardest path imaginable. For a human, they would be entirely impassable."

You stared up at him dumbly. "Uh... Do... Do you even realize I spent the last nineteen years of my life around people with the mindset of shit water I might die because I'm a-- I was a-- human? Also, I was never agile. I won't be able to make it over a log, if it's big enough."

Blue-Eyes gave you a disapproving look. "Do the humans of your world never traverse nature?"

You pretended to think about that

"Hm... Let me see... Uhm... Yeah, nope, pretty much never, unless you're one of those super outdoorsey kinds of people, and the true ones of those are rare. For instance, most usually wear really tight clothes and walk through parks with stone paths and everything primped to perfect condition so that nobody even gets grazed by a dandelion, and everything's sprayed to keep the bugs away and animals are limited to squirrels and bunnies, then they wanna act like they just walked the fuckin' Sahara Desert without water. Real outdoor people are rare. Steve Irwin? Real. Bear Grylls? Real. Josh Gates? Real. Hell, when I was a very tiny little girl I used to watch a kid's show with two brothers who pretty much lived in the jungle. But out of everybody, those are the ones I can think of right off the top of my head. Them, and the few tribal races still out there."

Blue-Eyes made a surprised face. "Well... I am glad you got a chance to experience what real life is like."

"Thank you, Blue-Eyes." You'd reached the front gates of the palace, which were opened by a couple of those ninja Elf guys. You and Legolas walked on through, and into the forest, with its pink and amber leaves, down here, nullified into black and gray, piling up in the muck of the forest floor.

You'd been surprised when you'd seen this part of Mirkwood. Apparently, only the northern half was unaffected, but the rest of the once-spectacular Greenwood the Great was now victim to a strange plague, orc attacks from the north, and giant spider infestations from the south, from an ancient ruin called Dol Goldur. Animals no longer lived here, the rivers had mostly gone thick with filth, and the trees rotted and groaned in agony. The forest would confuse you, threaten to swallow you up and make you lose your way...

If you weren't an Elf.

Luckily for you and ol' Leggy, the two of you were Elves, and he had been raised here. If you stuck close to him, you'd be fine, even if the forest did manage to confuse you. He could hardly remember a time when the slow-acting plague hadn't been part of some region of the forest, and Tauriel had told you that he was 2, 371 years old. That was a long time for a forest to be sick.

"What even caused Mirkwood to get sick? Do you even know?"

"It is a nameless malice," Blue-Eyes replied, stopping all show-offy on a thick, low-hanging bough that precariously hung over a small gorge. "The darkness stems from Dol Goldur. Now, there are rumors; rumors of a necromancer, who resides in the ruins of that ancient fort."

"Necromancer?" That hardly sounded good. In anything where it was used, necromancer usually meant one who raises dead. "That doesn't sound good. Have you investigated it?"

"Of course not," Blue-Eyes gave you an odd look, like you'd just suggested he drink out of the toilet or something. You struggled to get up the side of a log he'd just casually hopped onto. "Why should we? They are merely rumors, and the forest has been sick for a long, long while. Still... This darkness unsettles me, as it does to all Sindar whom reside here."

"Dude, then maybe you should check the fuckin ruins," You mumbled, but he ignored you and continued hopping around from flowertop to flowertop. You just trampled noisily and clumsily along behind him. "Don't you guys like, live for light? So shouldn't you see if the ruins really do have a necromancer now? Especially since this dark ooze comes from it?"

Blue-Eyes shook his head. "King Thranduil does not wish for time to be wasted on rumors when we have other matters to deal with."

"Oh, so you mean he's too busy having everybody vote on which crown of berries goes best with his eyebrows."

"What?"

"Nothing. You Elves are just stupid."

Legolas grinned. "Well, humans are equally intellectually challenged."

You paused in chasing after him, stunned. He turned to face you when he didn’t hear you following. "Did you seriously just do that?"

"Do what?"

"You literally just used big words to sound smart." You laughed theatrically. "Oh! Pardon me, fine companion, I meant to implicate that you utilize gargantuan idioms to fabricate intelligence."

He smiled slightly as you finally made it up beside him. "I suppose you are not so daft," He relented teasingly, "Otherwise you would not even have those words in your vocabulary."

You made a face and rolled your eyes. "Whatever, blondie."

The training grounds were closer than you remembered, even taking the roundabout route. Along the way, though, you'd fallen into a bog, got your face scratched up by evil tree branches, and tumbled head-over-heels down a steep ravine, getting battered and bruised all over your body.

Apparently Middle-Earth-- Mirkwood specifically-- was prone to give previously non-Elvish members of other worlds injuries.

You made quite a show; barreling through a thorn bush and landing flat on your face right on the edge of the training grounds. You heard all the Elves turn their weapons on you, in case you were an orc, but then they seen your sorry ass, and Leggy casually coming down the steep ridge as if it was just a flight of stairs.

"Mae govannen," Said Legolas cheerfully to the Elves. Casually, he picked up his knife, which you'd thrown away from you halfway down so you didn't impale yourself at any point during the fall. Still, it'd skittered down alongside you. "Sairen, it seems you've failed this test."

"I dropped it on the goddamn border..."

"Nevertheless," Blue-Eyes ignored your response. "We are here now, and forfeiting other forms of training for the sake of redoing one failed task is pointless. You will learn as much as you can here, until I say we stop."

You finally moved, trying to at least sit up on your elbows. "It's only noon. We've got till nightfall, yeah? I can do that. No problem."

Legolas grinned down at you. "Mellon, you are of the Eldar now. You are stronger than before and do not need sleep unless you wish to dream."

"I don't what?!"

"Elves do not sleep unless we have been injured and need to heal," He replied, and grabbed you by the underarms to help you up. "We are stronger and more resilient than the race of Men. You are no longer imprisoned by the necessities of the human body."

Instant headrush slammed into you. "Apparently not all human body shit..."

He raised an eyebrow. "What do you speak of?"

"Headrush, dammit."

"Oh," He grew amused. "Do you mean the Blackness? Unfortunately, that befalls us all."

You glared daggers at him.

Another Elf approached, with a slender face and long brown hair. "My lord, most of the training grounds are taken up. You may yet have mine, if you wish so."

Legolas smiled. "Ah, my thanks. [Y/N], this is one of the Elves that accompanied Lord Elrond here, Lindir."

You extended your hand. "Nice to meet you."

Both Blue-Eyes and Lindir looked at your hand in confusion. Lindir, with a glance to Legolas, slowly tried to hand you his bow. With a roll of your eyes and a shake of your head, you realized they didn't even understand what a handshake was. "No no no, sorry; that's called a handshake. It's what two people do when they meet each other where I come from. I didn't mean to confuse you. SO." You bowed in the Elvish way. "Mae govannen, Lindir of House Elrond."

Lindir and Blue-Eyes smiled. Lindir returned your bow. "Mae govannen, [Y/N] of House Thranduil."

"Lindir will be accompanying us to trace the orcs, and Erestor of Rivendell," Said Legolas, "As will another of our own house, Elros; I believe you have met him already. He was the Elf who lead you to the councilroom. From Lothlorien is a friend of mine, Haldir, and of course, with the other Elven Lords aiding us, Mithrandir feels he should send his own aid as well..."

Lindir's eyes widened. "Do not tell me..."

Blue-Eyes nodded seriously. "He is sending Naughrim to accompany us."

"Naughrim?" You asked. Of all names, that didn't sound familiar. "Who's that? Somebody not well-liked among Elves?"

Blue-Eyes fought a smile. Lindir answered you. "Mellon, Naughrim is our tongue for dwarves."

Your mouth formed an 'o' in recognition. "Ohhhh, now I get it. Elves and dwarves hate each other for no explainable reason. Got it. Who's he sending?"

Blue-Eyes shook his head in exasperation. "They are all of Erebor. Balin and Dwalin, two are named, and of the other, he is the most insufferable of dwarves; Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King Under the Mountain. Mithrandir believes that this will be a good experience for him as it is for us, but he refuses to come himself. He's all but forcing the situation."

You looked from Blue-Eyes to Lindir and back. "How can he force you? Dwarves and Elves are both stubborn beyond all reason, and none of you seem to take him seriously."

Legolas shook his head and pursed his lips. "Unfortunately, Dwalin is as good a tracker as any, and Ada  is not permitting many of the Sindar on this journey for the reason that we are merely meant to find where the yrch dwell, and go no further. We will need all the aide we can find, even if it is in the form of unwilling dwarves. As for them, he has promised treasure, the details of which I know not; I can only hope it is not any of ours he has promised them." He smiled at you. "Shall we?"

Before you could follow, he walked off; you glanced to Lindir questioningly. "...Ada? Who's that?"

Lindir smiled softly. "It means father. He is referring to King Thranduil."

"Oh. Now I feel stupid."

"Do not, mellon, for the language of the Elves is not easily learned unless you were born speaking the tongue."

With a roll of your shoulders, which ached, you followed Leggy.

***

"Ow, goddamn it, and goddamn you, you stupidly perfect Elf."

At the end of the day, you'd been cut, pricked, whipped by a bowstring, nicked, dinged, and all kinds of other small injuries that added up to one big mess of drying blood and bruises.

Blue-Eyes had had you train deep into the night, until the silvery waning moon had all but left the star-filled sky. Now, as the sunrise approached, you both sat on two convenient boulders, and he bandaged your bloodied hands. In the eerie half-dawn light, he looked ethereal, and his pale hands and silver tunic sleeves compared to your now dark-with-blood-and-mud-and-bruises hands and black sleeves was a huge contrast. Your hands shook slightly, aching and stinging and pained on various sorts of levels, while his were perfectly steady as he wrapped them in soft green leaves.

"Stop shaking, mellon," Legolas told you gently.

"What was that?" Your head snapped up. "Are you feeling sorry for me? Don't feel sorry for me! This is nothing! I've been shot in the calf by an orcish arr--OW!"

The leaves had drawn too tight and released some kind of juice that stung like hell. His hands hovered over yours. "My apologies, but it draws out the infection."

"What infection?!"

"You are not yet used to your Elven body yet," Blue-Eyes replied, looking into your eyes. "Since you are the equivalent of a newborn, I would say you are very susceptible to infections, sickness, and injuries."

You looked off dramatically into the distance. "That explains why I can't stop fucking getting hurt..."

"That it does," He smiled at you, and something pulsed in your chest. Da fuck... You fought a flush. He stood, then held out his hand to you. "Shall we return to the palace? You may rest until sunhigh, and then we will continue your training." You took his hand, and he helped you up; you stumbled into his chest, and backed up quickly. He took no notice, but patted your shoulder before going to retrieve his bow and quiver. "You did well today, Sairen, even if you frightened off half of the other Sindar and Silvan training here."

You made a face. "Pfft. They just can't handle my awesomeness."

"If you say so, mellon," He said, and started to take the easy way back, to your relief. You followed closely behind him.

You looked up at the stars as you walked in silence for awhile, until finally, you broke it. Of course, you broke anything, really... "Where I come from, they say there's a star for every soul that's passed away."

Legolas glanced to you, then followed your gaze wistfully. "That is something our two worlds have in common."

"Scientifically," You added, "They're spheres of hot air and gaseous materials wound up tight by gravity that glow and put off heat, but the idea always felt nice to me... But where I come from... You also can't see the stars."

Blue-Eyes halted in his tracks as if you'd just said someone murdered his mother. "I... What? You can't see the stars?!" He actually looked genuinely horrified by that idea.

You shook your head. "No. Humans... They've polluted the atmosphere too much. Filled it with trash, and man-made lights and even remnants of smoke... You can't see them."

He watched you even as you watched the stars. "I've never seen them like this... They're beautiful." You could see bands of galaxies and clouds of distant nebulae, and the small silver fires glittered in the billions, even as the pink-orange glow of the beginning of dawn was starting to show in the east. You were in awe.

You jumped when Legolas took your hand. "What?"

He smiled at you. "Come with me. I will show you one of the best stargazing places in all of Mirkwood."

"Thranduil's pavilion?"

"Better."

"Whoa. Dude, count me in."

He lead you off of the trail, deep into the woods, through the easiest ways that probably were a pain for him, but he did it anyway. Finally, you stopped at the base of a massive tree, stretching so far up you couldn't see its top. Its trunk was pockmarked with holes and vines, and after slinging his bow onto his back, he threw you a smile over his smile. "Come, Sairen."

You couldn't help but smile back. You climbed, quickly, all the way up, past the canopy, into the uppermost branches of the tree, where the copper-gold leaves thinned out to allow for one thick branch to get a view of the night sky. The branch was thick enough across to allow for two or three people to sit side-by-side against the trunk, and Blue-Eyes sat quickly as he helped you up.

Here, no branches obscured any part of your field of view. You got a perfect view of the sunrise, and the starry sky. "Holy shit..."

You felt him put an arm around you, and you stiffened, just before he breathed in your ear, "I will not let you fall from this tree, Sairen. You've only just arrived in this world, and should another portal be below that is activated by a beautiful sunrise, I am loathe to let you go, for there is so much I want to show you..." The sun burst over the distant mountains beyond Erebor, sending fiery orange and red across the sky. "Such as this. Your world does not sound as if it could have any sunrise as wonderful as this one."

A warm feeling blossomed in your chest as you watched the sunrise, jaw slack. "No... Not like this."

Legolas smiled, and finally turned his focus to it himself. Your eyes slowly dragged off of the beautiful scenery to look at the Elf beside you, and the warm feeling worsened; your heart started fluttering. Eldar only fall in love once... Galadriel had warned you.

...Shit.

A blush crawled up your face, and you tried your hardest to focus on the sky rather than the Elvish princeling pressed close against your side.

***

"Mae govannen, [Y/N] of the Woodland Realm," Greeted Lindir kindly as you approached the group of Elves gathering in front of the front gates.

"Mae govannen, Lindir of Rivendell," You replied with a smile. The Elvish greetings rolled off your tongue easily now. After the sunrise you and Blue-Eyes had watched together, you'd spent the last two days training at obscene hours and resting. Now, finally, the group of Elves leaving to track the orcs were gathering-- there were only about fifty in total, of which there were those wearing Woodland garments, the red-and-gold of Lothlorien, and the greens, purples, and browns of Rivendell. Apparently Galadriel, Celeborn, and Elrond didn't agree with Thranduil sending what would've only been a dozen to track some very dangerous orcs.

You heard several of them muttering to each other about Naughrim, something all of them had in common.

You swung your light traveling pack off of your shoulders and by your feet, scanning the crowd for a certain platinum-blonde head-- unfortunately, most of the Elves from Lothlorien had blonde hair. You looked at Lindir. "Where's Legolas?"

Lindir glanced around. "He is on his way, I am sure. After all, it is he and Haldir whom are leading this journey."

You nodded. "I've never packed for something like this before... I hope I didn't pack anything weird or forget something."

Lindir looked confused, then recognition flashed across his face. "Oh. Forgive me, I had forgotten you do not have this experience. Tell me, what did you pack?"

You shifted your weight nervously, and lowered your voice. "Uhh... Two extra pairs of clothes in case these get ruined, some extra food, even though I've noticed I don't have to eat as much as before, and some water. Then there's these," You gestured to your back, where a quiver and longbow hung from your back. You felt its weight all too strongly, and that of the sword on your hip and the knives on your thighs. "And some of those special leaves that're used for bandages."

Lindir smiled and placed a hand on your shoulder. "Mellon, you have packed what we all have, and lightly, as well."

You smiled. "Thanks. Just consider yourself lucky that I don't know how to read Elvish, or I would've packed a book or two to keep me company."

Lindir chuckled and stepped back. "Well, for now, I am glad of it. On this journey you will learn much, hopefully, and by the time we return, you may be able to speak more of Elvish. It is harder to learn to read it, I have heard, much harder."

You ran a finger over your chin in thought. "I wonder if Thranduil would let me go to Dale or Laketown to get some books in English..."

"Forgive me," Lindir looked confused. "I do not know what that is."

You realized what you'd said a second too late. "Oh! Sorry. Where I come from, Common is just referred to as English."

"Oh, I see now. I am sure he would, and if he does not yet, then perhaps one of the Woodland Elves could bring some back for you. What of Legolas? Are you not friends?"

You blushed. "Yeah, I hope so. I've never been very good at making friends, though. Nobody's ever really liked me." You realized Lindir was staring at you with an absolutely terrified expression. Your own eyes widened in alarm, and you frantically patted your face. "What?! Is there something on my face?!"

Lindir shook his head. "I-I am not sure. Your skin has suddenly gone red, as if burned. Are you ill?"

"Uhhh..."

You were spared the embarrassment of explaining blushing by all the Elves gathered suddenly gasping and bowing in the direction of the stairs. Lindir saw the cause before you did, and his jaw fell. "By all the Valar..." He bowed deeply, and you followed his motion, but not before catching a glimpse of who it was. Thranduil, of course, and Legolas, following a she-Elf in a tunic that looked as if it were made of starlight itself, with flowing white hair and alabaster skin.

"Ui!" Shouted Thranduil irritably. "Ni telima lume, autauva!"

You leaned closer to Lindir. "What did he say?"

"He is forbidding her to join us," He answered quickly.

The she-Elf whipped around, generating a power almost as strong as Galadriel's. Legolas stepped forward. "Amal... Mecin."

She shook her head. "Yon, venno, nin carindo ier nin indo. Alye uva pusta ni."

"What did she say about pasta?" You whispered.

"Sh!" Lindir said quickly.

The woman looked at Thranduil and Legolas lovingly, before approaching Thranduil and placing both hands on his face. Thranduil closed his eyes in regret, and the woman kissed him; you looked away, embarrassed. That was the Elvenqueen.

That was Legolas's mother.

"Melinyel, Thranduil, alye ista si."

Thranduil sighed. "Melinyel, mela... Mecin ea girthonwed."

With that, Legolas reluctantly took his mother's hand and lead her down the stairs. They disappeared in the crowd, until you heard the Elvenqueen's voice. "Rise, all of you." Unsure, the Elves rose one-by-one. "Which of you hail from far places, whom rescued my son Legolas Greenleaf from the fate of an early death?"

The Eldar glanced to one another, realized it wasn't their neighbor, and slowly, like somebody who'd gotten called out in class, you were being stared at, and a path was made between you and her majesty, while Legolas stood beside her.

You swallowed hard, suddenly terrified. Lindir patted your shoulder. "You have been summoned, mellon. Go, I will make sure your pack does not get swapped with someone else's."

You tried to look and walk confidently, but you were terrified. She was beautiful and indimidating, and you had to admit, you were definitely intimidated. When you reached her, you bowed as deeply and respectfully as you could, a fist over your heart. "Elen sila lumenn omentielvo, your majesty." You didn't know what else to say. What you'd said to Galadriel and Celeborn was the most respectful thing you knew in Elvish, and you'd never been in the presence of royalty.

"You come from another world," She looked down at you indifferently, and you suddenly felt very small and very weak with everybody's eyes on you. This was nothing like Thranduil's fabulously indifferent look. "Yet still, you saved my son's life. After, you make the presumption that you can live and walk among us as one of us, freely, unburdened, merely because you came here by happenstance and you were allowed the reward of living. Do you feel as if this is the correct course of action for you to take?"

You glanced to Legolas, absolutely horrified. "Y-your majesty..." Your hot-headed tongue, a lot more toned down, popped into existence. "I saved your son's life because he didn't deserve to die. I was given the freedom to live, and to repay that, I mean to make the most of my time here by helping in whatever ways that I can. King Thranduil has given me the chance to prove myself worthy of living here by allowing me to join in hunting for the orcs. If I fail, I will leave Mirkwood, and go with Lord Elrond to Rivendell."

Legolas's eyes widened a fraction of an inch, before going back to their normal selves; he looked to you with almost a sadness, but you couldn't figure out why. Elvenqueen smiled, as if proud. "Then you are not what the rumours of your world have made you out to be. You are humble and grateful, qualities I did not expect from one of this Earth. You possess a unique personality, [Y/N]. Tell me, who are your parents, so that I may refer to you properly?"

"I have no father," You said quickly, relieved that she was just trying to scare you. "None I care to speak about. But I do have a mother, who I love very much. Her name is [M/N]."

Elvenqueen smiled. "Very well, [Y/N], child of [M/N]. Here, we, all of us, have a secondary name, such as my son; Legolas Greenleaf. During this journey, you may earn your own."

You smiled back, relieved beyond relief that she'd decided not to kick your ass for existing. "My thanks, your majesty."

She sailed away regally, and Legolas shot you a glare. "Why did you not tell me you would be leaving us?" He demanded.

You balked. "I-I said if I failed..."

"And you are most likely to do so," He snapped, sending your heart and soul plummeting to roughly the center of Middle-Earth. Without another word, he followed his mother.

"Mellon?" Said Lindir from behind. You turned around; He held his bag and yours, which you gratefully took from him.

"Thanks," You said, but your eyes followed Legolas's back as he disappeared into the crowd.

"Is everything alright?"

"Just fine," You shrugged. You were used to being abandoned.

Lindir looked doubtful. "Very well, if you say so. May I introduce you to those you will be most judged by?"

"Sure."

He took you through the crowd, to the guy who helped you find the councilroom. "Ah, [Y/N]. Mae govannen."

You bowed your head and returned the greeting to Elros in a monotone voice. "So your name is Elros?"

"Yes," He replied. "Son of Elrond."

If you were taking a drink of water, you'd've spewed it everywhere. "Huh? But isn't Rivdendell like, waaay over the Misty Mountains?"

Elros chuckled. "Yes, but those of the Eldar cannot always remain in one place. We yearn for far places, and even farther shores. Long years I have spent in the halls of my father, but I left for Mirkwood when my sister, Arwen Evenstar, left for Lothlorien, to spend a time with our mother's mother, Galadriel."

Your eyes were wide. "Galadriel is a grandma?! Your grandma?!"

Lindir and Elros looked at each other in amusement. "Elves," Said Lindir, "Live forever, so long as we are not killed by injury, or the wounds of the heart."

"Wounds of the heart?" You echoed.

"When love remains unrequited, it is sometimes too much to bear," Replied Elros, "And the victim suffers long before dying of a broken heart. Oftentimes, it is when a wife perishes during childbirth, or when war or battle takes the life of a beloved, and their souls pass into the Halls of Mandos. I still worry for my father, even though my mother has long since passed due to child-sickness."

Your eyes widened. "I'm so sorry."

Elros raised a hand. "She is at peace now. She resides in the halls where her mother lives, and many of my kin who have long since passed on."

"Is Elrond gonna be okay?" Now you were worried. You didn't even know the guy (Even though you probably knew him before your amnesia.) but you didn't want him to die of heartbreak. He was being nice to you, and offering you a place to live if Thranduil decided to be more of an ass.

"He is strong," Lindir assured you, and partially Elros. "He is stout of heart and fierce of soul. He will live long yet, that I can assure you with the utmost certainty."

Together, Lindir and Elros took you to where another dark-haired Elf in the Rivendell attire spoke with a Lothlorien Elf in red-and-gold armor. White hair was braided away from his stern face. Elros said something in Elvish, getting their attention, and they both bowed to you. "[Y/N], child of [M/N], may I introduce you to Erestor, Chief Counselman of Elrond, and Haldir of Lothlorien."

"Mae govannen," They both said.

Haldir regarded you warily. "I have heard you come from far lands, one beyond even Arda."

You tried not to look stupid. "Arda?"

"This world upon which we live," Haldir clarified.

"Oh!" Now you knew what they were talking about. "You mean this whole planet? Mine never had a cool name; Earth, that's it, with a bunch of different countries on it. Are there countries besides Middle-Earth here?"

Erestor chuckled. "Yes. There is Beleriand, just the remains of it, to the farthest west. Also in the west lie the Gray Havens, and across the Sea are the Undying Lands of Aman, far from Endor-- that is to say, collectively, Middle-Earth and Beleriand."

"Oh, cool! Where I come from, nowhere has cool names anymore, except for maybe Dubai, Greece, and Rome. In the past, there were hardly ever cool places, except for Egypt and Babylon."

The four Elves around you glanced to each other in amusement, as if you were a child just learning new things; and you pretty much were...

"Haldir," Said a familiar voice, and you perked up as Blue-Eyes stepped through the crowd. Your heart sank as he completely avoided your gaze. Damn, you should be used to this kinda shit by now. One small thing and someone abandons you. "We go to meet the dwarves. You have told your party, yes?"

"Of course, mellon."

"As have I," Added Erestor as Blue-Eyes went to ask. "None of us may like this, but it the word of a Maiar, of which the Noldor still yet revere. Worry not, Legolas."

Blue-Eyes nodded, glanced to you, and walked back through the suddenly-departing crowd as the doors opened. You hefted up your bag further onto your shoulder. "Mmkay, Lindir?" You fell into step with the purple-clad Elf.

"What is it?"

"Questions. Lots of them. What the hell is a Mayan and a No-door?"

Lindir chuckled. "Maiar, and Noldor. The Noldor are the oldest of the Elves. The Maiar are wizards, servants of the Valar; such as Saruman, Mithrandir, and Radagast."

"They met gods?"

"Yes," Said Lindir doubtfully, eyeing you. "Do the people of your world not know of their gods?"

You scoffed dryly. "You kidding me? Almost everybody believes in some bearded guy in white floating through existence and pointing to a random spot, then saying 'Let there be light!' Bam, universe created. Others have much more gruesome stories; like in Norse, Odin and his two brothers cut up a giant to create the world. Then there was Egyptian, where two godly people representing the earth and sky consummated and BAM, universe created again. They all say the gods came from the sky, which others believe to be aliens-- people from other planets entirely-- but I've always been an atheist."

"And what does that mean?"

"That I don't believe a goddamn word of any of that 'god' shit."

"You should not speak of them so, for they hear all."

"Yuck. Let's hope they don't find somebody on their wedding night."

Lindir's eyes bugged out of his head. "That was... Sudden."

You grinned. "I'm like that. Get used to it, Lindy."

He frowned. "My name is Lindir."

"I know that," You laughed. "It's a nickname. It's a sign of friendship."

Lindir smiled. "Oh. Then we are friends, then?"

"Sure! I've never been friends with so many people before!" You looked ahead excitedly, waving when you seen Legolas glaring at you. So what if he was pissed? You'd make him un-pissed.

Lindir gave you a sad look. "But you have only befriended Legolas and myself."

"And Tauriel."

"Still, that is only three people." He looked genuinely confused. "Do the people of your world not believe in friendship either?"

You sighed. "Not really. They're more interested in betrayal. Me, personally, I've had it all. Betrayal, death, abandonment... I've gone through some shitty times, that's for sure. One catastrophe after the next. One painful step at a time through it. I've been through hell and back, been shattered like glass and looked death in the eye, and somehow, I'm still standing. Sometimes it feels like I've lived a thousand lifetimes in only nineteen years." You gave him a sideways smile before looking back ahead of you, trying to block all of the flashbacks...

Lindir regarded you with newfound admiration. "I can... See it, in your eyes. I believe all of us can. The things that you have endured are marked on your stride, and not many could recover from what you have recently gone through so quickly. A human with your strength is... Unheard of."

You laughed. "Yeah, 'cause now I'm an Elf!"

Lindir laughed too then, as did a few other Elves and she-Elves near to you-- as you walked out of the doors of Mirkwood's palace, you got this strange, tingly sensation in your core... The odd feeling of people laughing with you, not at you. The feeling of not being judged. Of people realizing you've been through hell. Of people not automatically striking you onto their enemy list because you're different.

As you moved into the north, the light filtering through the leaves was golden, and everything seemed at once surreal and ethereal. But aside from those two feelings, you felt one stronger than any other. You smiled as you looked around at your new friends in this new world, which still felt so familiar. You were happier than you'd ever been. Even though you'd miss your family, you were glad the portal had been closed.

And there are many paths to tread...

Through shadow, to the edge of night...

Until the stars are all alight...

You passed Blue-Eyes, who'd climbed a tree to scout, and when he seen your awestruck, childlike expression, even he, who was currently pissed at you, couldn't help but smile at down at you. You smiled back. That warm feeling returned.

Finally, I'm where I belong.

I'm...

I’m...home.

Tag List: @tesserphantom​ @thedragonghostofmordor​ @hauntedsiriel​ @reclusive-chicken-nugget​ @naryamirie​ @legolasdeserveslove​ @escapingthoughtsandsecrets​ @sagabriar​ @brushwood-souls​ @taurlel​

If anybody wants to be tagged, just let me know!

Extra Notes: Elvish is SO FUCKING HARD. And yes I put the Elvenqueen in this. And dwarves are inbound. Don't guess the plotline, just DON'T.

Fun Facts: In Old Nordic mythology, there was a forest known as Mirkwood. There was also a dwarf called Durin, who created the line of the most power dwarfs, some of which, just to name a few, were Thorin, Fili, Kili, Dvalin, Balin, Oin, Oakenshield, and Gandalf. There were also many types of Elves-- Ljosalfar were the Light Elves, and Dokkalfar were the Dark Elves. In general, Elves were known as Alfar, and they lived in Alfheimr, "The Land of the Elves." Supposedly, Alfheimr had shining trees of silver and gold, like Lothlorien. Also, there was a dragon called Fafnir, a cursed fire-drake, coppery-red, who laid atop a mound of gold and guarded his wrongfully-taken treasure with his life. The original owner of this treasure was a dwarf, reduced to a husk of his former self, called Andvari, who, out of all of this treasure, loved most a golden ring, inscribed with runes. He cursed this ring, so that all who wore it would soon come into misfortune...

[alexandriteobscuraarchive]

The Rose Circle (closed)

Mell’s mind; as it so often did in times of great stress, sought to escape. He sought to escape their pursuers, sought to escape the body that would soon be nothing more than a CORPSE, sought to escape the question revolving around in his mind: Why? Why was this happening to HIM them? Why were they being HUNTED chased? Why?

Why why why why wh---

A sharp branch tears its way across his soft cheek ending his circular rabbit thoughts in a sudden searing burst of pain. More branches followed suite, dragging and lashing across his unprotected skin as Mell tried in vain to duck his face away from further blows. As if measly branches could compare to the pain offered by the BEASTS behind them. The hunters were getting closer---their footsteps now punctuated by hard breathing and the unmistakable clang of metal. Soon those weapons would come to bear upon their flesh and bone.

The forest surrounding them---as if it weren’t keen on the imminent bloodshed amidst its verdant boughs---began to thin. The rush of green and brown as Hayden led his two grandchildren on their wild useless flight began to ease; weak sunlight now allowed to shine with less obstruction until a picturesque clearing took shape around them. And it’s there---in that beautiful, perhaps even HOLY place, that Hayden’s strength finally gives out. The ‘rabbits’ had stopped running and were left to cluster together, the old man tugged on the arm of Nellie who had been running between the two of them who, in turn, pulled upon Mell. Hayden’s face was grimly stoic, the firmness of it remaining unmarred by his harsh panting breath and dirty, trembling frame. Even when close to spent the man was still composed, still strong. Mell had always admired that about him.

“Grandfather, what should we do!? They’ll catch us---” Nellie’s voice is trembling harder than her body is---a remarkable display of courage for a girl so young---and Mell found himself asking a similar question. Why is this happening!?

“Grandfather we have to keep going! If we stop we’ll---”

“Hush, children.” Hayden’s voice is sharp but his gaze is sharper as he eyes the three men entering the clearing. “...There shall be no more running.” The old man draws his kin towards him so that they each stood to one side of him with one swift motion, his eyes never leaving the men standing in front of them. Nellie clung to her grandfather’s elbow while Mell seemed frozen in place at the opposite side, his gaze flicking rapidly between his grandfather and the three men. Hayden ignored them both. He had to if they wanted to have any hope of surviving this.

“Who bids you to hunt mere CHILDREN---surely not the church.” He had an idea who and this foresight hurt worse than any blade. Surely it wasn’t him. Surely this world wouldn’t be that cruel. His voice is strong and devoid of fatigue, drawing on a brashness he’d displayed his entire life. The weathered hand clapped around Mell’s shoulder releases him in order to point an accusatory, gnarled finger at the assembled men. “Does the church employ MINDLESS BEASTS to do their bidding now, hm!?”

“Grandfather---!”

“Hush I said! You men shall go no further lest your souls be damned for all eternity! I know those marks, those blades and arrows that you bear against us! You’re nothing but murderers! Mindless killing hounds that hunt what they’re told to hunt without thought, without qualm! You’d stoop so low to kill a defenseless old man and two whelps!!“ Oh, but this old man is far from DEFENSELESS---the air within the clearing suddenly seemed to constrict, the very molecules now burdened with heat reacting in kind to his fury---no, propelled by it. The feeling was heavy---ELECTRIC---and every single flaxen lock on Mell and Nellie’s head wanted to stand on end. And yet the old and wizened man didn’t stop, his voice growing louder with each word he uttered, the air surrounding them becoming thicker and thicker as it became a conduit for some unseen force.

Hayden had seen something---a flash of rose gold underneath one of the men’s tunics----a sign of their DEATH SENTENCE contracted by his son’s own hand. The signet brooch of the Rhodes family glinted out at him and so his fury increased tenfold, a hundredfold, a thousand. “You craven monsters would condemn those you know nothing about on orders from a man who deceives you utterly! You would kill----”

And in the next moment a shot rings out. It is clean---a thin, silver bolt---angel’s grace---cuts through the storm brewing in front of them to first pierce the old man’s throat and then tear straight through. The pressure building around them breaks in a torrent of blood as it sprays in an arc out of the man’s ravaged throat. Droplets of red shower down onto Nellie and Mell’s hair, clothes, their upturned faces. Nellie begins to SCREAM in an shrill ear splitting wail as she tries in vain to catch her grandfather as he plummets towards the ground between them. She drops immediately to her knees---and there’s a faintly muddy splashing sound as she lands bodily in her kin’s blood, the quickly spreading pool of red staining the ground black.

Mell stares transfixed at the body of their Grandfather lying at their feet. he stares at his sister as she leans over him wailing with her hands pressing uselessly against his throat. Mell stares dumbfounded until the click of another bolt being slid into place dominates his attention. He turns and sees the man in the middle of the trio readying to fire his own weapon, a look of reluctance? regret? discomfort upon his face. Mell watches as the tip of the bolt slides from him towards his right.

He was aiming at his sister! He was aiming at Nellie...!!

“NO!!!!” His shout disrupts birds from the nearby trees but the click---the FIRING---of the bolt was seared into his brain as if it’d been the only sound in the world. Mell lunges to the right with his teeth bared and right when he thought it useless, right when he expected to hear his sister’s anguished cries cut short, Mell feels a burst of SCALDING PAIN erupt from his shoulder and spread like fire from there. He lets out a shriek as the bolt---sticking out of his shoulder almost playfully---seems to punch forward of its own accord, some automated mechanism driving the blessed poison contained therein into his young body.

“MELL!!”

His sister’s voice is broken by a deafening ring, the colors of the forest clearing going from green and brown to gray and black as if night had descended. Mell’s body jerks to the side slightly, his legs buckling and straightening repeatedly as he tries to remain standing. He staggers forward a step as blood runs down his wound only to splash over his feet.

And yet within that darkness a light shined---just for a second---hidden within a fold of the hunter’s black clothing. That light took on a shape he recognized--one that had undoubtedly stopped his grandfather’s heart long before any bolt could. That brooch. He knew that design. He’d seen it every single day of his life...! That signet, it was----

The color came back to the world in an almost blinding rush as Mell lets out a wild roar, the brown eyes staring at the men now taking on a golden color. Nellie. He’d been aiming for Nellie...!

“I WON’T LET YOU, YOU BASTARDS!! I WON’T LET YOU KILL MY SISTER!!!”

And just as quickly as the world had righted itself it exploded. There’s a thunderous crash----the storm from before now touching down in an almost CATASTROPHIC way. The trees surrounding the two flaxen haired siblings suddenly tore upwards from the ground, the aged arbor propelled by a mighty wind---a devastating hurricane in an already enclosed space with the two in its epicenter. Rocks, branches and trees swirled around Mell in a mighty gale, the larger of the debris smashing into other trees and driving them along. He thought he could hear shouting---perhaps even screaming that wasn’t his own---and it only increased his fury. I won’t let them! I won’t let them I won’t let them I won’t let them---!!!

Another bolt pierces halfway through one of the revolving tree trunks which only makes it move faster and spread further outwards, Mell’s steps wet and sloppy with blood as he takes another step towards the men. The mark of the Rhodes’ house---the mark of his FATHER---still clear in his mind’s eye in spite of the wooded hurricane. He thought he could hear Nellie’s voice---shouting for him frantically, shouting for their dead grandfather---but Mell wasn’t sure. He was too consumed---consumed by the poison eating away at his system, consumed by the magic eating at the other half.

He could feel another bolt whizz by his ear; his skin burning faintly from its passage, but he couldn’t stop. He had to protect himself! He had to protect Nellie!! He had to stop these horrible men!!! If he could just---

The next bolt flies truer than the rest and soon its sting is felt, the metal projectile embedding itself into his leg with a bone splintering snap. Mell screams---his noises from just a moment ago mere whimpers in comparison to the howling ripped from his mouth now. The flaxen haired boy falls backwards and, as if on cue, all of the trees and various debris that had been whipping around him drop in unison creating multiple thunderous crashes like the footfalls of some long forgotten giant.

Mell screams again as his body is moved forcibly, his mind hardly able to register his sister as she drags him backwards. Her mouth is moving, she’s screaming, saying something, saying something over and over, but he can’t make it out. To Mell her normally sunny complexion now looked ashen, his sister now no more than a frantic corpse attempting to haul him into his own grave attempting to haul him to his feet.

“Me----l! M el---! We hav...!”

It was no good, he couldn’t make out a word. His head felt like it was full of blood---like someone had left the tap on over a bowl and it was running out endlessly. Was it pouring out of his eyes? His ears? His nose and mouth? His entire body is burning with stakes and lances of pain radiating through him with each movement. He has the sensation of being on his feet, his body swaying dangerously. He thought he saw his sister and felt her hands pulling and pushing and driving him forwards, pulling him up from the ground when he fell. God, his blood was so hot, so desperately hot--! It was BOILING....!

“N...Nnh...” Nellie. Nellie....where are we going...? Nell....ie..

Her voice is still imperceptible, her brightness overrun by crashing echoing all around them, by shots fired in the grass and the pounding of feet and angry, raised voices. They were moving---the rabbits were staggering and stumbling again, unable to run but DESPERATE to do so---and the wolves weren’t far behind.

“Ju s...t...”

“Sta y...wit...”

“Mell...!”

His sister’s voice became clearer and clearer as the din behind them grew louder. The gray foliage before Mell broke suddenly then; the myriad of ruined, dying colors giving way to a wide and formless BLACK. The clarity granted by impending death, no doubt.

“....Nel....l...ie...”

He has time to choke out one more word----perhaps his FINAL word---and then everything is stolen from him by a gigantic rush of air. He feels his sister's hands with perfect clarity in a single moment push and then Mell is falling. He can hear Nellie screaming as she goes down---perhaps he’s screaming too---but soon everything is stolen by the wind flying past them as gravity yanks them downwards.

Mell’s broken, dying body connects and leaves a spasm of violent ripples as it sinks into the water like a stone. His arms are floating above him and yet he has no energy to swim, not even seeing the body of his sister plummeting down alongside him can create that miracle. Blue quickly turns into black as he sinks further and further, steadily dropping towards what must be the bottom of the ocean--perhaps even the world itself. Bubbles leave his parted lips and pop before even reaching his limp, outstretched hands. He’s dying---he can feel it. Maybe Nellie is already dead. Maybe---

And as Mell finally loses consciousness his mind plays one last trick on him, one last glimpse of futile hope for a person who probably didn’t deserve it: a bubble---small and red like a bead of BLOOD---taps the center of his palm and as his fingers close weakly around it he feels something press against his back.

[suspendrs]

angst 11 please!!!

“Nobody’s seen you in days.”

“i think that’s the point, haz,” louis says. “it’s called social distancing for a reason.”

“louis,” harry says, unimpressed.

“seriously!” louis says. “how are you going to get mad at me for isolating myself when the government literally—“

“louis.”

louis sighs. “what?”

“are you okay?”

“i’m fine!” louis says. “why does everyone keep—“

“i know this sucks,” harry says, blatantly cutting him off. louis glares at the tiny image of him on his phone screen, but if harry notices, he doesn’t let on. “i know it sucks that you’re in london and i’m stuck here in LA. i hate it too.”

“i’m literally fine, harry,” louis says. “i’m all good.”

harry still doesn’t look convinced. “you’re alone,” he says. “you hate being alone.”

“thanks for pointing that out, hazza, cheers,” louis grumbles.

“it’s okay to be upset, louis,” harry says. “this fucking sucks.”

louis swallows, tilting his phone back so that harry can only see him from the eyes up. “i’m gonna hang up on you.”

“please don’t,” harry says. “i miss you.”

“i miss you, too,” louis says quietly.

“i’m trying really hard to find a flight home, but california is pretty much in lockdown,” harry says.

“it’s fine,” louis says. “i’m fine.”

“then why do you sound like you’re about to cry?” harry asks.

“because,” louis clears his throat, “i don’t know.”

“love,” harry says.

“this just fucking sucks,” louis says, voice breaking in the middle, despite how hard he tries to keep it from happening. “like, i finally get my album out and get out on tour, i get two fucking shows in, and the whole world goes to shit, and now you’re not even with me and i’m just alone in this house and no one can even come visit or hang out and—“

“lou,” harry says, voice soft.

“i hate this,” louis says, putting his phone flat on the kitchen table to rub at his eyes.

“don’t touch your face,” harry scolds. “have you disinfected your phone?”

“i’ve disinfected everything, harry,” louis grumbles.

“good,” harry says. “i’m gonna try and come home as soon as possible, okay? i swear.”

“it’s not safe,” louis says miserably. “just stay where you are, like they’re saying.”

“no, i don’t care,” harry says. “all i want in the world is to be home with you.”

“all i want in the world is for this not to be fucking happening,” louis says. “but we can’t always have what we want, hm?”

“i’m so sorry, baby,” harry sighs. “pick up your phone, i can’t see your face.”

louis sniffles a little, showing harry his forehead again. harry smiles, and louis lowers the camera a little more, showing harry his reddened eyes, his pink nose.

“love,” he coos. “what have you been up to? how’ve you been passing the time?”

“doing a whole lot of fucking nothing,” louis says. “i even downloaded that tiktok app for, like, ten seconds. i’ve really hit a low point.”

harry laughs, shaking his head at him. “hey, it’s getting late over there. you should get some sleep.”

louis sighs, tapping his screen so the time pops up just above harry’s head. “yeah, maybe.”

“listen, stop being so distant, okay? text me in the morning when you wake up, or so help me god, i’ll fly home just to break your legs,” harry says.

“alright, fine,” louis says. “i guess i can stop moping so much.”

“good,” harry grins. “hey, i love you.”

“i love you, too,” louis says, voice quiet, pulling the phone close to his face.

“you look like an egg,” harry giggles.

louis hangs up on him, smiling at the long string of heart emojis that harry texts him a few seconds later. he eyes the mess he’s made of the kitchen in the past few days since he’s been locked in his house alone, and he thinks about cleaning it up, but, then again, harry did tell him to go to bed, so…

he drags himself up the stairs alone, gets ready for bed alone, and tucks himself under the sheets, you guessed it, alone. he fucking hates this, hates not having anyone in the world to pay attention to him right now; he hates how much he craves having someone’s attention at all times, and he hates the fact that the one person whose attention he can never get enough of is halfway across the world right now, quarantined with friends, because he had the foresight to not be alone when the whole world went to shit.

it takes him a while to fall asleep, but eventually, he manages, dreaming of the day this entire nightmare will come to an end.

send me a sentence starter

[chuckling-chemist]

You Make It Feel Like 12th Perigee (14/14)

((Alright, and of those that were both planned and written, this is the last one! I’m gonna do one more at least on Saturday, but I have to wait for the King/Queen announcements for that one obviously, and while it’s gonna get counted offically as an extra, that’s only because it’s not getting written at the same times as these. Like I said before, if these actually get some traction I might write up some of the other extra scenes I cut to preserve my sanity. Much like the last piece too, this one’s song is very obvious. It’s a cover version of Something, originally by the Beatles. The specific one I mentioned is closer to Frank Sinatra’s cover, but not exactly. I took some liberties.

And for the final time: if you are not okay with unhealthy relationships, this is not the ficlet for you.))

Careen closed her eyes, letting her head rest upon the chest of her matesprit. What could she say about this night that hundreds of other trolls, be they esteemed singers or romantic poets of old, hadn’t already said better? She had her pitfalls, certainly. Her matesprit’s other friends, boorish landdwellers that they are, had a peculiar habit of causing problems anytime the two were together and encouraged him to act out for no good reason. The blueblood from earlier, the lovely and dutiful Skasol, left after the fight, citing a need to return to his own partner for the night. Careen assumed such was an easy way to escape from an uncomfortable situation without losing too much shame. Not that she needed him, anyway. When her matesprit returned from cooling off his degenerate of a moirail, he remained by her side as a good matesprit ought to. The only hiccup to an otherwise perfect night, and one she managed to resolve peacefully with him through being so generous as to spend some extra time with the rustblood.

On second thought, there was one more. She probably shouldn’t invite Siroet to come out with her next sweep. If nothing else, get her set up on a blind date to keep her wrangled in. Her friend was unfortunately incapable of stopping herself from inspiring black infidelity in scores. Which Careen would have less of an issue with if said (usually lowblood) partners weren’t also coming up to Careen and forcing her to explain that’s just how Siroet is and they shouldn’t think anything of it. While not one large issue, it was certainly several small issues that amounted to a consistent thorn in her side. Still better than the downer attitude Pothos put up, but not exactly by much.

And the music, despite the orchestra being less an orchestra and more a backing band for guest singers to appease the landdwellers, was still divine. Granted, Careen missed most of the earlier acts while she rested in the VIP room, but she couldn’t find a single flaw in their current musician: a sharp dressed tealblood in a black trilby crooning a gorgeous song about his matesprit. He kept the song slow, at a perfect tempo she could just curl up around her darling matesprit and just forget the world. Nothing fast. No blaring trumpets or honking saxophones to rip her out of her trance when a chorus of string instruments can sound so much more appropriate for this event. As it should be.

The only way such could be more flawless would be if he serenaded her while they danced. Maybe he was, just too quiet for her to hear over the singer? She hoped so. He might be on the shy side, but Careen knew he had that spark for romanticism. It’s part of why she wanted him so desperately after meeting him: he was so close to being an ideal prince for her, he only needed that push. Let go of all his lesser qualities to mold himself the way she wanted: the same way she managed to with Atenic and failed with awful little snake.

Plus Careen had to admit, she was a sucker for a fixer-upper.

Careen’s eyes fluttered open for a minute to gaze lovingly back up at her matesprit. His own eyes were closed, and his lips tightly shut. So he wasn’t singing. That's fine too, she supposed. Disappointing certainly, but….fine.

“Darling, can you sing?”

His eyes shot open to look at her quizzically. “Careen we have talked about this,” he said quietly.

She curled up further into his chest. “And what was the answer?”

“I ah...well, I cannot. Not well, at any rate.” He smiled sheepishly. “Unless one includes an ability to talk-sing? If so, I am adequate.”

“No, I don't,” she sighed. This is what she got for taking him as a quadrant long before he was ready. Almost five sweeps and he still couldn't sing? Every seadweller could sing in some capacity. The arts were always massively important, and no self-respecting noble ignored it.

But Careen was also patient, and considering how considerate he was tonight, she'd bring it up another day. For tonight, she simply rested her head back on his bony chest and made a mental note to talk to him later about it.

“You’re asking me, if my love grows. I say, I don’t know. I don’t know.”

She could hear the waver in the singer’s voice. Cover or not (Careen hadn’t bothered to commit whatever drabble he introduced his set with, but she thought he said his only performances would be covers), he had a matesprit whom he adored the same way she did her own. There was no other answer. One they must have anticipated as well, if the slowing instruments and break in vocals was any indication. She understood enough about the ins and outs of performance to know how likely that was.

He gave Careen the window for a slow release and twirl for the tempo change, one which she graciously accepted. There was no better way for them to properly slow down, no better way to truly showcase the sheer, sparkling overlay to her red velvet dress than letting her spin underneath the twinkling 12th Perigee lights around them. Or if there were, the host of the ball hadn’t thought of it. A pity, but to be expected. She can’t anticipate a landdwelling troll of any kind to have the same level of foresight she does, delusions of seadwelling grandeur or not.

Speaking of the host, shouldn’t the submissions for king and queen be in yet? She thought last sweep there had been some sort of announcement for submissions and votes. Yet tonight, she hadn’t heard anything. Not that Careen particularly cared for submitting herself, of course. She was kind enough to let some other troll feel like royalty for a single dance and prance around in an oversized, wiggler-worthy crown for the rest of the night. And her matesprit? Ignoring how such titles were largely won through popularity than anything else, and her matesprit’s refusal to socialize with those to gain the recognition necessary, he wasn’t exactly ball king material. Careen had done her research. The winners were celebrities. Charming. Artistic. Popular. All things he wasn’t, no matter how much she tried to change that. Thankfully for her, his asocial tendencies discouraged him from ultimately disappointing himself. No worrying he’d take losing personally and mope about for the rest of the night.

Then again, maybe he did care. Careen’s almost certain she had caught his eyes glance over toward one of the far tables, all the way in the back of the room away from the rest of the event, for notes. Her matesprit surprised her like that sometimes, cared about ideas and concepts that she’d never expect someone like him to care much about. He already expressed interest in dancing with another troll once, tonight. That only set up the beginning of what may be a worrying trend. Plus, she failed to see the point in not asking. It would be good to discourage him from making such an awful decision that could ruin tomorrow night.

“Dearie, I have a question.” She paused, and with a shake of her head added, “actually...two.”

Her matesprit slowed their dancing down again, letting the two of them talk easier. “Hm?”

“Do you know when they’ll announce the vote?” She dropped her face to the floor to better look up at him with her winning doe-eyes. “I’m afraid I forgot.”

“Ah...erm…” he blinked harshly in confusion as he trailed off uncertainty. “No? Afraid I hardly know what you are talking about, quite frankly.”

Here it was. The moment of truth. No going back from this question. “So...you don’t want to be the Ball King?”

The fingers that loosely kept hold of Careen tapped against her own skin. “The...the what?”

“Oh you know,” she said, freeing up a hand just long enough to push her hair back behind her fin, “the 12th Perigee Ball King and Queen. They had it last sweep. I’ve just noticed you eyeing the box at points in the night.”

“I was...I was eyeing it?” He sounded confused. Careen knew better. She knew he was trying to hide his interest.

“Well...yes.” She sighed. “If you really, truly want to nominate yourself, I suppose you can, but really I must advise against--”

She was interrupted by a sigh. “Careen, I assure you, if my lack of memory does not give it away, I am not one for schmoozing and politicking to win a dance with a total stranger.”

She had to resist letting out a huff. So he wasn’t interested in the nominations. That’s fine, too, she supposed. He couldn’t have sounded more rude toward her attempt at being helpful, but it was fine.

And anyway, she wasn’t interested in the Ball nominations to nominate him. Not even to nominate her friends. She only wanted to cast her vote she truly felt deserved it. Unlike last sweep, with the bottom of the bottom winning. Had they worked for it? Really worked? Impossible. Lowbloods didn’t work the way any other blood color did. They lacked the strength.

“Something in the way she knows, and all I have to do is think of her.”

Her matesprit sped back up to match with the song. She let her arms slide down, around the bottom of his waist. She felt him tense in surprise underneath the coarse tweed of his suit.

Careen frowned deeply, fins drooping. “It’s just me. No reason to freak out.”

He looked down at her with a confused expression. “I ah…my apologies.” He shook his head. “I erm...was un-unaware…”

“It’s fine, darling. It doesn’t upset me in the slightest. That being said,” her hands wandered down to his rear to rest. No grabbing. Not yet. But the night was young. “A healthy dose of fear is completely normal in our society, don’t you think?”

Her matesprit hummed. Not an answer, not really, but Careen loved the feelings of the sweet, soft vibrations the noise sent up her fins and down her spine. Moreso, anyway, than whenever he spoke with that posh voice of his. Not that she disliked it when he spoke of course. In fact, she very much loved hearing it when she wanted to. So long as the two weren’t physically close, she even preferred just hearing his voice. Undoubtedly, it was Careen’s favorite thing about him.

And even more than that, she loved the intimate silence that followed. The singer’s crooning quieted down to little more than a whisper into the microphone. The band played a few more bars, but they too needed to end the song eventually. Her matesprit gave her a final twirl and parted, bowing.

“Perfect gentleman as always, Dontoc,” she cooed.

He answered not with words, but with a smile. It looked somewhat forced, but that was okay. It was her night, after all, not his. He was here with her now, treating her just like the princess she actually was. A dutiful matesprit. Exactly what Careen, the rightful Heiress, always deserved.

[nanigma]

Takumi+F!Kamui - Japanese support

As promised, here is part one of the request. Notes below.

C-support

Takumi: …......

Kamui: … Takumi.

Takumi: Need something, sister?

Kamui: U- Um... I just thought we could talk for a bit.

Takumi: Ah, I see. But I am busy with my training right now,so...

Kamui: … You still haven't fully accepted me yet.

Takumi: … Exactly. As siblings who share the same blood, I can trust you when it comes to fighting alongside us on the battlefield. Still, immediately trusting someone who as been with the enemy for so long is difficult. … But don't worry. I will make sure it won't hinder me on the battlefield.

Kamui: Alright... but I really want us to get along better, Takumi. So please, can't we talk even for a little while?

Takumi: So you say, but... I have no idea what we could talk about.

Kamui: Th-that's... Right! Then would you mind teaching me how to use a bow?

Takumi: .. A bow?

Kamui: Yes. The bow is what you are most skilled at, right? That's why if you teach me, it would give us something to talk about. … Is that a bad idea?

Takumi: …. Well, if it's only that, I guess I can do it.

Kamui: Really?

Takumi: However, as my training partner you can't expect me to go easy on you, sister. Just remember that.

Kamui: Yes. I'll do my best. Let's do this together, Takumi!

Takumi: Hm.. alright. Then let's do this, sister.

B-support

Takumi: Hey, your arm is too low. Raise your right by one degree! Also, your right leg is unstable, so take on a broader stance! And make sure to keep your eyes on the target already!

Kamui: Y-yes! Holding the proper stance is pretty difficult. And.. keeping the bow ready for so long is really making my arm go numb.

Takumi: What? You asked me for this and now you complain?

Kamui: Ah... No! I will keep going! We are at war, so I have no right to complain!

Takumi: Hah. Guess it can't be helped. Let's take a break for now.

Kamui: Th-thank you. Hahh.. to think it would take so much endurance to keep a bow drawn.

Takumi: Isn't that obvious? A lot of muscle strength goes into drawing a bow. It might seem like you are just pulling at the string, but you need physical strength to draw it back and a strong will to keep it that way.

Kamui: T-that's right, all that training has really helped me see just how amazing you are Takumi.

Takumi: Wha- … what did you just say!?

Kamui: But it's true, isn't it? You always aim for perfection, and only once you correct my stance am I able to make an accurate shot. … Even then, it's still so difficult for me to keep my posture.

Takumi: Hm, it's the bow that makes the shot. Once you hold the proper stance, the arrow will hit the mark by itself. Well, just like you said, getting to that point can be quite difficult.

Kamui: Yes. And so that your teachings aren't wasted on me, I will keep doing my best!

Takumi: Hm, then go ahead. I think we've had enough rest already. Let's continue training so we can finish this up soon.

Kamui: Yes, understood! Um.. adjust my posture, calm my breath.. and then draw slowly... ! Ahh!

Takumi: Huh? What happened!?

Kamui: Ah, s-sorry. My hand slipped! .. Ow!

Takumi: Did you hurt your hand?

Kamui: Ah.. um, the string hit me there. I am a bit scratched, but it should be fine.

Takumi: … Then we are done for today.

Kamui: But you only just started teaching me. Let's train just a bit longer..

Takumi: I said we are done. You won't be able to hit anything with that wound anyway.

Kamui: If you say so... alright. Then I guess I'll be leaving now. Ah, Takumi! Once I am healed, will you train me again?

Takumi: … Yeah, alright.

Kamui: Thank you so much! Until next time.

(she leaves)

Takumi: ….hah. For her to injured like that. I might have been too strict with her.

A-support

Takumi: Hey, sister. What are you doing with that bow? Didn't I make it clear that I won't be teaching you anything until your hand is better?

Kamui: Ah, yes. I know that. It's just that I am still upset about not being able to train... I am doing some maintenance in order to distract myself.

Takumi: … Are you really so intent on training with me?

Kamui: Yes, you are already an amazing archer, but an even greater teacher! And.. spending time with you is so much fun, I can't help but look forward to it. Although I am probably just bothering you...

Takumi: Hm. … I don't think so anymore.

Kamui: Eh? Takumi?

Takumi: I already accepted you as my sister some time ago! Ever since we started training together.. I realized you were a kind person. I.. was just too scared to admit it.

Kamui: Takumi.. Thank you for accepting me. It makes me really happy.

Takumi: I just came by to tell you that. Now, please use this.

Kamui: What's that?

Takumi: It's a salve I use all the time. I wouldn't want you complaining about having a scar later, so go ahead and apply it.

Kamui: Th-thank you so much! I will use it with care!

Takumi: Once you're finished healing, I'll teach you some more tricks.

Kamui: Yes! Takumi.. let's support each other from now on!

Takumi: Yeah, let's support each other from now on, big sister. Don't expect me to say this again though.

S-support  

Kamui: I did it.. I hit the target! With all ten of my arrows even!

Takumi: Yeah, because you checked behind you properly this time. You don't have to tell me, sister.

Kamui: Ah.. I was so happy, I got overexcited.

Takumi: After all the time I spend on training you, I would have been worried if you still couldn't do it. You aren't entirely consistent yet, so for now I'll continue to be strict in training you.

Kamui: Really? Thank you so much, Takumi!

Takumi: ….. Hey. Since I'll keep teaching you archery, could you please listen to a request I have?

Kamui: Yes. I'll happily do whatever you ask.

Takumi: … Do you mean it? It's just... I spend a lot of time thinking about how to say this.. It looks like I have come to love you.

Kamui: Wah, thank you so much. You hated me so much in the beginning, and now we have finally grown close as siblings.

Takumi: That's not it! That isn't the kind of love I meant! Oh man.. I don't love you as a sister, but as a woman.

Kamui: T-Takumi!! But we are siblings. Don't we share the same blood?

Takumi: Yeah.. that's how it would seem. Sorry, but this is something I just have to tell you, sister.*

Kamui: Something you have to tell me?

Takumi: You are.. not connected to me and the others by blood.

Kamui: Eh? W-what do you mean?

Takumi: It's just like I said. We are not true siblings. If we really were.. I would never have said what I did.

Kamui: Th- that is.. I don't believe you. I know we have different mothers, but... You and the others.. you are all father's.. King Sumeragi's children!

Takumi: Yes.. we are. But you, sister.. you are not father's child.

Kamui: T-that's a lie... who told you that?

Takumi: Queen Mikoto did. On the day you returned to Hoshido.. the queen gave me a letter.

Kamui: Mother did!?

Takumi: Yes. And she told me to read it if I ever had problems with love. I didn't understand her back then.. Queen Mikoto had the power of foresight. She must have known I would eventually fall in love with you, sister.

Kamui: No way.. then I am really..

Takumi: The letter also explained what happened between father and the Queen. When Queen Mikoto came to Hoshido, she brought with her a baby that she had given birth to in her homeland. That baby was you, sister. Father knew you weren't his child. But you were the child of the woman he loved, so... he decided to raise you as his own.

Kamui: … Yes. King Sumeragi... father must have really loved me. Even knowing the truth.. I still think of King Sumeragi as my father. But.. who is my real father then?

Takumi: There was nothing written in the letter.

Kamui: I see....

Takumi: I am sorry, sister. I was really hesitant to tell you about this. Because it would mean we could never really go back to being siblings. But.. I couldn't bear pretending to be your brother my whole live. I would rather die.

Kamui: Takumi...

Takumi: Hey. Before.. I asked you to listen to my request. Will you.. forgive me for feeling this way?

Kamui: …. I won't accept your request, because I have also come to love you, Takumi.

Takumi: !!

Kamui: To tell the truth, I was incredibly happy when I heard you loved me. Since I thought we were siblings.. I tried not to show it.

Takumi: Sister...

Kamui: But you just straight out told me your feelings. And you taught me the truth that makes it alright for me to love you. Thank you so much, Takumi. I too want to be by your side.

Takumi: Sister!! I don't think anything could make me happier than hearing you feel the same. Then.. I'll swear on this ring. I will spend my whole life protecting you.

Kamui: I am so happy, Takumi. From now on... let's always be there for each other.

Takumi: Yes!

Confession scene

Takumi: Thank you, sister. I am incredibly happy. No matter what others think, my feelings won't change. I love you.

---

* Yes he really does keep calling her sister or カムイ姉さん throughout the S-support which makes things horribly awkward and was thankfully (yes I am using that word in this context) changed in the localization. It’s still quite awkward and clunky though. You can really feel the plot stretching itself to the limit to accomodate this factoid.

Otherwise I find this version a lot more detailed than the localization ended up being. I actually found myself liking it (until the S-support) since it showcased some of Takumi’s insecurities and even alluded to his “It’s the bow that’s great, not me.” mentality.