#shelf life of elf bars

[black-dhalias]

hiii!!! I saw your request were opened and got really excited lol

can I request a Legolas x reader having an angry love confession with a happy ending? U can add as much angst or fluff wanted !

I hope your day goes well <3

Until Dawn

Legolas X half-elf!half-human!Reader

The clatter of hooves and voices cut through the stillness of the late afternoon. You glanced up from behind the bar, pausing mid-wipe of a glass, your fingers tightening around its rim. Travelers were common in this stretch of the woods, but not ones with such purposeful strides or cloaks woven with the threads of old legends.

The door creaked open, and a gust of wind swept in with the first of them. A tall figure stepped through—and your breath caught.

Silver-blond hair. Eyes like starlight through a winter sky. Legolas.

You didn’t realize you’d frozen until he looked at you, recognition flickering across his face like sunlight on rippling water.

“You,” he said softly, a smile ghosting over his lips. “I had wondered if the stories were true.”

“What stories?” you asked, setting down the glass carefully.

“That the half-elf who once sang Dwarvish drinking songs and shot arrows through the dark of Mirkwood now runs an inn... and claims to be done with the road.”

You huffed a laugh, masking the sudden twist in your chest. “I made a promise to myself. No more goblins, no more dragons, no more running for my life. Just quiet, warm beds and decent ale.”

The rest of the Fellowship trickled in—Aragorn with his wary grace, Gimli grumbling about the cold, and a pair of curious Hobbits looking like they’d never seen such a place before.

“I never thought I’d see you again,” you admitted, voice softer now, carrying only to him. “I thought you stayed in the Woodland Realm.”

“I left,” he said. “There are greater shadows moving now. The kind that threaten all lands, even quiet glades like this one.”

You met his gaze, the old bond between you sparking back to life as though no years had passed.

“I’m not the same as I was,” you said quietly.

“No,” he agreed. “You’re stronger now. But the world still needs you.”

You turned your back, pretending to straighten a bottle on the shelf. "The road nearly broke me, Legolas. I don't know if I have it in me again."

A pause. Then his voice, low and sure: “You don’t have to decide tonight. Just share a meal with us. Rest. Then listen to what the world is asking.”

You closed your eyes for a moment, then turned back to face him. “One night,” you said. “No promises.”

He smiled. “That’s all I ask.”

And somewhere, in the quiet beneath your ribs, something old and restless stirred.

As the last of the Fellowship settled into the great hall, shedding cloaks and weariness like autumn leaves, you quietly made your way to the front door. The bell above gave a faint chime as you opened it and stepped into the dusky twilight

You looked out at the fading sun, your jaw tightening as you reached up and flipped the wooden sign to closed. The familiar scrape of it swinging into place felt heavier tonight. You didn’t want your usuals wandering in, recognizing faces from stories they'd only half-believed, or—worse—asking questions you’d buried under hearth and routine.

When you returned inside, your two staff members were waiting by the counter, mid-laugh over something. You didn’t smile.

“Here,” you said, pressing coin into their palms, “Head home early. Lock the back on your way out.”

They exchanged glances. One opened her mouth to protest—you never sent them off this abruptly—but you shook your head with a tone that brooked no argument. “Not tonight.”

A beat of silence passed. Then, with hesitant nods, they slipped away. As their footsteps faded, the inn fell into a deeper quiet. It was just you and the Fellowship now.

You lit the hearth anew and began preparing a meal: roasted root vegetables, venison stew, fresh loaves warmed over coals. The motions were old, soothing—until a familiar footfall approached behind you.

“I remember when you could barely cook a rabbit over a fire,” Legolas said lightly.

You didn’t turn. “And I remember when you were insufferable.”

“That cannot be true,” he said with a faint laugh.

Your hands stilled over the chopping board. You breathed in through your nose.

“I was not the one who kept dwarves as company.”

You exhaled slowly. The knife in your hand trembled.

“Don’t.”

His grin faded instantly.

“Don’t bring them into this,” you said, voice hoarse. “I live with their ghosts every day.”

Legolas was silent for a long moment. You resumed chopping, though your cuts were no longer even. Each thunk of the blade echoed too loudly in the warm space between you.

“I thought you might want to remember them,” he said softly.

“I do remember them. Every night. Every time I close my eyes. Kili, grinning as he handed me his last dried pear. Thorin, bloody and dying in the mud, telling me—” Your voice cracked, and you pressed your fist to your mouth. “You don’t get to walk in here and open that door, Legolas. Not like this.”

A long silence stretched. You kept your back to him.

Finally, he said, “I am sorry. Truly. I didn’t come to wound you.”

You swallowed, forcing the knot in your throat down, back into the place where you kept it buried.

“I know,” you said at last.

He didn’t leave. But he didn’t press. You felt him step closer, and for a moment his presence was a comfort—but still a dangerous one. A reminder of who you were. Of what the road takes.

And still… it stirred something in you. Something old. Something that had once burned with purpose.

You set the knife down and stared into the hearth.

The inn was warm now, the fire casting golden light over old wood and tired faces. The Fellowship ate in relative quiet, grateful for the food and for the brief peace. You worked behind the bar, polishing mugs and pretending not to watch them.

But you felt it. The way some of them looked at you with curiosity, as if trying to place you—not just as an innkeeper, but as someone... else.

Frodo was the one who finally broke the silence.

“You were in Bilbo’s journal,” he said gently.

You looked up, a mug still in your hand. “Was I?”

He nodded, setting down his spoon. “There was a drawing—almost like a sketch from memory. A half-elf woman with a braid down her back, and a scar across her temple.” His eyes flicked to the faint mark just beneath your hairline, still visible in the flicker of firelight. “He said you moved like moonlight with a blade. That you fought like someone trying to outrun the end of the world.”

You didn’t speak at first. You returned to your task, cloth circling the rim of the mug, slower now.

“Aye,” you murmured at last, “That was a long time ago.”

Aragorn watched you then, thoughtful, but said nothing. The room held a breath.

Frodo’s voice was quiet. “He wrote about how you fought in the Battle of the Five Armies. Said you moved with the grace of the Eldar—but when you struck, there was something in it... a fury, raw and burning. Like the world had wronged you.”

You paused again. Set the mug down.

“He wasn’t wrong,” you said, your voice steady, though your eyes flicked to the fire. “I lost my brothers that day. Kili... and Thorin. Perhaps not by blood, but in every way that matters.”

“I’m sorry,” Frodo said, with the quiet sincerity only someone still young in the world can offer.

You nodded once. “We all carry ghosts. Mine just sit closer to the skin.”

Legolas, across the room, didn’t look at you, but his hand rested lightly on the hilt of his blade—as though remembering the same battle. The same blood.

“I remember that journal,” he said quietly. “Bilbo called you Eluneth—Moon-blessed. Said you were the only one who could outdrink Bofur and outrun a Warg in the same night.”

That pulled the faintest smile from you. “He embellished.”

“No,” Gimli grunted, lifting his mug, “He didn’t. Bofur still complains about it.”

A small ripple of laughter lightened the air, but your smile didn’t reach your eyes. Your fingers curled around the bar’s edge.

Frodo tilted his head, studying you. “If you were part of Thorin’s Company… why did you stop?”

You looked at him, really looked. At the way his shoulders tensed with questions and quiet burden.

“Because I gave enough to the road,” you said simply. “It took my youth, my friends, and my peace. I thought if I built something steady, something safe… maybe the world would leave me be.”

“And has it?” Aragorn asked, his voice low.

You met his gaze. “You tell me. You’re sitting in my hall with war on your heels.”

The silence that followed was heavier than before.

You picked up the next mug and began to polish again. “Eat while the food’s warm. Sleep while the roof holds. Tomorrow, the world finds you again.”

And as you turned away, your voice softened to a whisper meant only for yourself.

“It always does.”

The inn had gone still. The fire burned low, its glow casting soft shadows across the stone hearth. The mugs were cleaned, the food cleared away. The Fellowship had long since retreated to their rooms or bedrolls, lulled by warmth and weariness.

But you sat alone in a worn chair near the fire, half-empty bottle of mead at your side, boots kicked off, legs curled beneath you. One hand rested on your knee, the other held a cup you hadn’t taken a sip from in a while. You stared into the flames, jaw slack, thoughts thick with the weight of old wounds.

The softest creak of floorboards stirred your awareness, but you didn’t look up. You knew who it would be.

Legolas appeared like a memory made flesh, moving without sound until he stood just beyond the firelight, arms loose at his sides, hair unbound from travel.

“You always drank honey-mead when you were thinking too much,” he said, a half-smile on his lips.

You raised the cup, but still didn’t drink. “And you always appear when I least want company.”

He tilted his head, undeterred. “Then I’m exactly where I need to be.”

You sighed, glancing sideways as he stepped closer and took the seat opposite you. For a moment, he just watched the fire with you, like you were back in some forgotten camp beneath the stars.

“I was thinking,” he began, tone light, “about the first time I saw you. You were being dragged into Thranduil’s halls, soaked to the skin, shouting at Glóin for getting you caught.”

You snorted softly. “He did get us caught. He sneezed. Loudly.”

“I remember.” He smiled wider now. “And you, snapping at the guards in three different languages before turning that fury on me.”

“I didn’t know who you were.”

“You called me a pompous tree-weasel.”

You choked on a laugh and finally sipped your drink. “Sounds like me.”

He leaned back slightly, eyes gleaming with some old, private amusement. “But I watched you. Even then. I couldn’t place what you were—elf and human both, but more than either. You didn’t carry yourself like someone trapped. You watched the halls like a soldier would. Like you were already planning how to get out.”

You didn’t answer. The fire cracked softly between you.

“When you escaped with the dwarves,” he continued, voice lowering, “I told my father I saw you leap into a barrel like it was a warhorse. And later, in the woods—when you fired into the trees to cover their retreat—your arrows flew like mine. No hesitation. No fear.”

Your jaw clenched. “You don’t have to say these things.”

“I’m not saying them to flatter you.” He leaned forward slightly, hands resting on his knees. “I’ve met warriors across all the ages. Elves, men, even the proudest Dwarves. But I never forgot the look on your face that day. You weren’t fighting to win. You were fighting not to lose anyone else.”

A beat passed. You looked into the fire, and for the first time that night, your voice wavered.

“I loved them. Not all of them—but enough to bleed for. To die for.”

“I know.”

“I would have taken Thorin’s place in that final charge,” you said quietly. “I would have stood before Azog myself if I thought it would’ve bought him another breath.”

Silence wrapped the room again.

“I think that’s why I watched you,” he said. “Because I knew—if I blinked, I’d miss you burning.”

You met his gaze now. And there it was: the truth of it, sitting between you like a long-unspoken vow.

“I’m tired, Legolas,” you whispered. “And I don’t know what I have left to give.”

He reached out, not touching, just resting his hand close to yours on the armrest. “Then don’t give anything. Not tonight. Just sit with me. Let the ghosts rest for a while.”

You looked down at his hand, then at the fire. And though you didn’t say it, you didn’t pull away either.

In the silence that followed, there was no war, no crown, no past. Just you, and the elf who never stopped watching.

The fire had burned low, now little more than glowing embers nestled in ash. The bottle beside you was empty, your cup untouched for hours. Legolas had fallen asleep in the chair across from you, arms folded, head tilted slightly to the side, his expression softer than you’d ever seen it in battle or daylight.

You watched him for a while, feeling a strange pull of comfort and sorrow. He always looked younger in sleep. Less of a prince, more of the curious elf who had once tried to understand why you, a half-blood stranger, would ever choose to walk with dwarves into death.

But sleep didn’t come for you—not anymore.

The silence wrapped itself around you like a too-tight cloak, and slowly, the weight of memory began to stir.

There’s a flicker in the fire and suddenly you were laughing again. The clamor of a camp at the edge of Mirkwood, Bofur’s wild song about mountain goats and bad ale ringing in your ears. Kili throwing a twig at you because you said he couldn’t grow a real beard yet. You’d thrown it back, striking him square in the forehead.

“Tell me I’m not the prettiest one in this company,” he had said once, arms spread dramatically. “Go on, say it. You can’t, can you?”

You had smirked, braid half-undone, fingers calloused from the bowstring. “You’re lucky you’re not my type.”

He’d clutched his heart as if you’d shot him, then winked and walked off into the trees.

The warmth twisted.

Another flicker—and you were in Erebor.

Blood in your mouth. Thorin’s hand in yours, his grip weak, eyes clouded with too much pain.

“I was wrong,” he said, voice rasping like wind through broken stone. “I see it now. I see you.”

You had begged him to hold on. Promised him that the sun would rise, and that he would see the mountain whole again. But his breath had rattled in his chest—and stilled.

You had sat there for a long time, knuckles white around the hilt of your blade. Kili lay not far. Fili, already taken.

Only silence answered you.

You pressed your fingers to your eyes, willing the sting away, but it clung, thick as smoke.

“I should’ve stayed,” you whispered, barely audible. “I should’ve done more.”

The ghosts didn’t answer. They never did. But the ache of their absence filled the room all the same.

And yet...

There were other memories too. Softer ones. Bifur teaching you Dwarvish insults you were far too proud of. Balin telling stories until sleep took him mid-sentence. Bombur slipping you extra rations when you looked pale. Thorin, once, catching you singing in Elvish to calm your nerves and saying nothing—just sitting beside you, silent, as though listening to a memory he couldn’t name.

And Legolas. Always watching from the edge. Distant at first. Then fascinated. Then something else.

The present curled around your shoulders again, and you looked over at him, still fast asleep in the chair, the rise and fall of his chest steady.

You reached for the blanket draped over the nearby bench, quietly laying it across him. He stirred but didn’t wake.

As you sat back down, hands loose in your lap, you whispered into the dim room:

“I don't know if I can face another war. But maybe… I don't want to be the last of us, either.”

You didn’t sleep that night. But for the first time in years, you didn’t feel completely alone in the dark.

Dawn crept in slowly, brushing the sky in pale blue and soft gold. Birds sang tentative notes outside your shuttered windows, but the inn remained hushed.

The hearth was cold now. The chairs had been returned to their places. Tables were wiped clean, mugs polished and shelved, the rooms above emptied of guest linens. The scent of firewood and rosemary lingered, but your inn—the life you had built to keep the world out—was closed.

Literally.

The sign on the door now read “Gone traveling. Indefinitely."

When the Fellowship awoke, one by one, they descended the stairs expecting breakfast and soft beds to still be theirs. Instead, they found you standing near the door, your pack slung over one shoulder, traveling leathers worn like a second skin, bow strapped to your back, and a dagger resting easily at your hip.

Sam blinked in confusion. “Are you… going somewhere, miss?”

You gave a nod, small but sure. “Aye. With you.”

Frodo froze mid-step. “You’re—what?”

“I packed light,” you said, adjusting the strap on your shoulder. “Can’t say I’m thrilled about sleeping under stars again, but…” You trailed off, eyes briefly scanning the group before settling on Legolas.

He was already watching you.

There was no surprise in his face. No shock like the others. Only a quiet calm. Like a note held long and true finally finding its resolution.

“I knew it,” he said, lips tugging into a faint smile.

Aragorn stepped forward, brows knit. “What changed your mind?”

You met his gaze evenly. “Nothing. Everything. I remembered that the world doesn’t stop turning just because I pretend it has. And if it falls while I sit behind a bar, what did I survive for?”

Even Gimli seemed speechless for a moment. “Hmph. Well. If you’re coming along, I hope you still remember how to march.”

“Better than you remember how to bathe,” you quipped.

That drew a snort from Boromir and a laugh from Merry and Pippin, breaking the stunned silence.

As they gathered their things, still murmuring about your choice, Legolas stepped closer, his voice low for only you.

“You were never going to stay behind,” he said, almost gently.

You looked up at him, your voice steady. “No. But I had to believe I would, until I didn’t.”

He nodded once. “Then let us walk forward. Together this time.”

You studied him a long moment, then gave a small, wry smile.

“Try to keep up, princeling.”

You pushed open the door, letting in the crisp morning air. The road waited, as it always had.

But this time, you didn’t face it alone.

The quiet had ended.

The road to Moria had been long and steep, but nothing compared to the cold weight that settled on your chest the moment you passed through the threshold of the once-great dwarven realm.

Darkness clung to the air like dust, and even your elven blood couldn’t soothe the dread coiling in your gut. These were not halls of glory now, not the shining marvel Gimli had spoken of with such pride.

They were tombs.

Your steps echoed too loudly as you walked. The Fellowship moved in a hush, each bootfall and breath drawing the stone’s attention like an unwanted guest.

Gimli had fallen silent long ago.

You watched him, the way he held his axe tight to his chest like a lifeline, eyes wide as he passed shattered archways and collapsed pillars. His gaze darted toward dark corners, as if hoping—aching—for a familiar face to emerge.

But none came.

And then you reached the Chamber of Records.

The skeletons lay still where they had fallen. Weapons rusted. Dust thick on old shields. It was not war that filled the space now, but mourning.

Gimli moved to the tomb at the center like a man in a dream. You followed without meaning to.

He brushed aside what little remained of a helm and whispered a name: “Balin.”

You froze.

Balin.

Old, kind, sharp-eyed Balin—who once told you riddles on long rides and always made you take the last bit of stew. Balin, who had held your hand when Thorin died, his voice cracking as he promised to carry the king’s memory home.

Your throat closed.

“He was the best of us,” you murmured.

Gimli’s shoulders shook. “He was our hope. Our history. And now—he is dust.”

You stepped forward, placing a hand gently on his arm.

“He believed in this place,” you said. “And if he had known it would take him, I think he would have come anyway. That was the kind of dwarf he was.”

Gimli didn’t speak, but he nodded once, tightly.

“I thought the ghosts I carried were mine alone,” you continued, voice softer. “But grief… it finds us all. And when it does, it binds us.”

He turned to you, eyes wet and fierce. “Do they ever stop speaking to you? The ones you lost?”

You hesitated, your gaze falling to Balin’s tomb.

“No,” you said. “But sometimes, they stop screaming.”

A long moment passed between you—two remnants of the Company, survivors of a story carved in blood and stone. Then Gimli nodded again, slower this time, and placed a rough hand over yours.

“Thank you,” he said.

You squeezed back. “We’ll carry them forward. As we always have.”

Behind you, the Fellowship waited in silence. Even Legolas, usually still and watchful, looked at you now not with curiosity, but understanding.

The grief had found you both. And for this moment, you bore it together.

They came like shadows with blades—goblins pouring from the walls, the ceilings, the dark. The tomb of Balin was barely behind you when the Fellowship was forced into motion, swords drawn, feet pounding over cold stone.

You loosed arrows until your fingers ached, each one flying true—some finding skulls, others throats—but they kept coming.

“RUN!” Gandalf’s voice cracked through the chaos, ancient and fierce.

The Fellowship fled, boots striking the echoing halls of Moria. Behind you, the goblins shrieked, relentless, swarming like ants through the cracks in the stone.

The drums of war pounded.

Dum. Dum. DUM.

You passed dark pits and crumbling bridges, pillars shattered by time. You didn’t dare slow. You barely breathed.

And then came the heat.

A low rumble.

A deeper shadow.

The Balrog.

It wasn’t just fire. It was rage made flesh, born from the ancient pits of a forgotten world. You stopped when you saw it—just for a heartbeat—but Gandalf didn’t.

He turned on the Bridge of Khazad-dûm, staff in hand, sword gleaming like starlight in the dark.

“This foe is beyond any of you. Run!”

You didn’t want to leave. Every part of you screamed to stay.

But Aragorn pulled Frodo. Boromir shielded the hobbits. Legolas grabbed your arm as you hesitated, your eyes locked on the wizard’s back.

“Go,” he said. “Now.”

You stumbled forward, breath ragged, until you stood with the others at the far end of the bridge. Just in time to see the Balrog crash forward—flames licking the stone as it advanced.

And Gandalf—brave, maddening, kind Gandalf—stood alone.

“You shall not pass!”

The blast of light from his staff shattered the dark for one blinding moment. The Balrog faltered—then fell, crashing into the abyss.

Relief struck—until the whip lashed back, curling around Gandalf’s ankles.

You saw his eyes then. Not fear, not regret.

Resolve.

“Fly, you fools—!”

And then he was gone.

Silence fell.

And it screamed.

You didn’t remember how you escaped the mountain. Only that your feet moved and the world blurred and somehow, sunlight burned your eyes when you emerged from the tunnel.

The Fellowship collapsed to the grass and stone. Frodo sobbed quietly. Sam sat staring at the dirt. Gimli hung his head in shaking silence.

You stood apart from them.

Legolas approached, hesitant. “We must move on—”

“Don’t,” you snapped, voice sharp.

He paused, his expression faltering.

You turned to him, and for the first time in years, your grief burned through the surface like wildfire through dry wood.

“I have already lost Balin in this cursed mountain. And now I’ve lost Gandalf too.” Your voice cracked. “And it’s only just begun.”

Legolas reached for you—slowly, gently—but you stepped back.

“I don’t know how much grief I have left to carry,” you whispered. “And I don’t know what’s left of me when it runs out.”

He didn’t speak.

You looked down at your hands—scarred, steady, stained by years of blood—and saw the ghosts rise behind your eyes.

Balin, laughing over a campfire.

“You’ll never beat a dwarf at riddles, lass, but I’ll enjoy watching you try.”

His eyes always twinkled like he saw more than he said.

Gandalf, placing a steadying hand on your shoulder as you trembled in Erebor’s aftermath.

“Even the fiercest fire cools, child. But your spirit—it will forge something new from these ashes.”

You had believed him then.

But now… now the fire only took.

You sat down hard in the grass, legs finally giving out, and stared at the distant sky. The others were quiet. No one had words left.

Even the sun, warm as it was, couldn’t thaw what had been lost.

The Golden Wood greeted you in silence.

The moment you crossed into Lothlórien, it was as if the weight of the world loosened, only slightly, from your shoulders. The air shimmered faintly with magic—ageless, slow, and watching. Sunlight pierced the canopy in golden beams, illuminating the green and gold leaves like fire frozen mid-dance.

The others seemed to feel it too. Their steps grew quieter, breath deeper. The grief from Moria still clung, but here… it was dimmed.

Muted.

You stayed near the back of the Fellowship, your presence quiet and inward. Even Legolas, who normally hovered close, let you be—watching you with unreadable eyes.

Then came the soft sound of approaching boots across leaf-laden ground.

You turned at once, bow half-lifted—then lowered it instantly.

“Haldir,” you breathed.

The elf smiled, and it was like watching a tree in spring—still, serene, but warm beneath the surface.

“I thought the wind smelled of old fire and bowstring,” he said. “I dared not believe it.”

You stepped forward without thought, and for the first time in what felt like days—maybe longer—your posture softened. Haldir’s hand found your shoulder, and yours settled on his forearm, a brief clasp of warriors, friends, kin.

“I did not think I’d see you again,” you murmured.

“I often think the same,” he replied. “And yet, here we are.”

There was laughter in his voice—gentle, low. It stirred something in you that had been buried under stone and blood: memory. Of laughing beneath moonlight. Of shared patrols. Of long talks in old trees about the stars and the silence between them.

With Haldir, there was no past to bleed from. Only stillness. Understanding.

Legolas watched from a few paces away.

He did not speak. But his jaw tightened slightly as your laugh, soft and fleeting, reached his ears—something he hadn’t heard in days. Not since Moria. Not since Gandalf’s fall.

You barely noticed him at first. Only when Haldir led the Fellowship toward the inner woods did you catch the way Legolas lingered back, gaze not on the trees—but on you.

Later, as you stood beneath the trees, hands brushing bark that had seen centuries pass, Legolas finally approached. You didn’t turn.

“I didn’t know you were close with Haldir,” he said.

“He was my first real friend,” you replied, voice distant. “Before the Company. Before Erebor. When I didn’t know which world I belonged to.”

Legolas was quiet for a beat. Then: “You laugh more easily with him.”

You turned to him slowly. “Because he doesn’t ask me how I feel. He knows.”

There was a sharpness in your tone—not cruel, but edged by truth. Legolas flinched, just barely.

“I have tried to be patient,” he said. “To understand.”

“I know,” you said. “And I… I don’t fault you for it.”

You looked away, gaze lost in the gold-lit forest.

“But everything hurts, Legolas. I can’t breathe for the weight of it. Balin, Thorin, Kíli, Fíli—Gandalf.” You shook your head. “I don’t know how to laugh with you. Not yet.”

He said nothing, only studied you with eyes full of sea and silence.

You stepped away. “Give me time. I still want to be near the light. I just don’t know how to stand in it.”

And you left him there, beneath a barren tree—where even the sun seemed reluctant to intrude.

•••

The sky over Helm’s Deep was heavy, dark with the promise of death. Rain lashed the stone walls and wind howled through the crevices like a warning too late to heed.

The keep bustled with urgency—armor strapped on, arrows sorted, blades handed out with shaking hands. You moved among the chaos with steady steps, your cloak already damp, your bow newly strung. You had prepared in silence, your choice already made long before the gates had shut.

Legolas found you as you stepped out from the inner keep, near the passage leading to the women and children. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the sword at your hip, the set of your jaw, the steel in your eyes.

“You’re not going,” he said, water running down his cheeks like tears he would never let fall.

“No,” you replied simply.

“You’re meant to be with the others—”

“With the helpless?” you cut in sharply. “You forget who I am, Legolas.”

“I forget nothing,” he hissed, stepping forward. “But you were supposed to survive this. Do you not understand what’s coming?”

“I do,” you said. “And I’ll face it.”

He looked at you, truly looked at you, as if seeing the shadow of every battle you’d ever survived and fearing this one would be your last.

“I’ve already watched you fall once,” he said, voice low, taut. “When you lost them. Kíli, Thorin, Gandalf. You say you don’t know how much grief you have left—but do you know how much I have? How much more I can bear if you fall too?”

You looked away, breath catching.

“I’m not a memory to protect, Legolas. I’m not something fragile to lock away.”

“No,” he said. “You’re not fragile. But you are—” he stopped, jaw clenched, the words fighting their way out. “You are important. To me.”

That gave you pause.

The rain softened. For a moment, the world blurred around you, only his face in focus—his pain, his fear, his heart laid bare in the spaces between sentences.

“I’m still going,” you said, more gently this time.

He nodded, slowly. “Then I stay with you. On the wall. Not a step behind.”

You gave a quiet breath of what might have been a laugh, or a sigh. “Then try to keep up, princeling.”

He almost smiled—but it didn’t reach his eyes.

As the horns of war blew in the distance and the thunder of Uruk-hai boots echoed closer, you stood together on the ramparts. He watched the enemy. But sometimes, you felt his gaze shift to you—sharp, quick, as though checking you were still there.

Still standing.

Still his.

The night deepened. The sky wept.

Beneath the thunder and screams of wind, the walls of Helm’s Deep trembled. The Uruk-hai approached like a black sea, endless, armored, merciless.

You stood on the battlement beside Legolas, scanning the dark, arrow ready. His expression was unreadable, though his hand never strayed far from his quiver. Every so often, his eyes flicked to you—not in doubt, but in worry worn raw.

Then came the horns.

Not the harsh blares of the enemy—but something ancient. High. Clear.

Hope.

The gates creaked open and light spilled in—silver cloaks, golden armor, moonlit helms gleaming beneath the rain.

Elves.

And at their head—Haldir.

You froze, a breath caught in your throat, disbelieving.

He moved like moonlight through mist, every step purposeful, calm amidst the storm. And when he saw you on the wall, his smile broke through the rain like dawn.

You descended the stone steps as he approached. The moment you reached him, you embraced—not as warriors, but as those who had feared they'd never meet again.

“I hoped,” you whispered. “But I didn’t dare believe it.”

“Lothlórien does not forget its own,” he said. “We came as soon as Galadriel sent word.”

You pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes. “You always arrive when I need you most.”

A flicker of amusement touched his features. “Isn’t that what friends are for?”

Nearby, Legolas stood still as stone. His gaze hadn’t left you.

He watched the ease in your voice, the soft warmth you rarely showed. The way Haldir touched your arm when he spoke, the familiarity in your closeness. A part of him hated it—hated that Haldir saw a version of you he feared he no longer could reach.

Later, as the elves took positions and soldiers prepared for the siege, you and Haldir stood beneath the battlements, heads bowed close in quiet conversation.

He looked at you, studying your face. “There is pain in you.”

You nodded. “There always is.”

“But there is strength too,” he said. “Even when you forget it.”

You offered him a tired smile. “That’s why I keep you around. To remind me.”

Haldir placed a hand over yours. “And I always will.”

Above, Legolas stood watching, eyes narrowing just slightly.

He had never been jealous of Haldir’s grace, his skill, his rank. But this—the effortless way Haldir stood beside you, anchored you—this unsettled something in his chest.

Not because Haldir had it.

Because he used to.

The horns sounded again—closer now. The enemy was nearly upon you.

And still, you stood beside Haldir. And Legolas waited, bow in hand, fire in his heart.

The night would be long. Blood would fall like rain.

But not before Legolas promised himself: Whatever the morning held—he would be the one standing beside you when it came.

The sun rose, but it did not warm you.

The battlefield stretched beneath it like a scar—black blood soaked into the mud, bodies sprawled across the ruined stone and grass. The air reeked of smoke, steel, and silence.

You stood where Haldir had fallen.

His body had already been taken, wrapped in elven cloth and carried with reverence by the survivors of Lothlórien. But you had stayed behind, rooted, staring at the bloodstained spot where he had died defending the wall at your side.

He had smiled at you, even as the blade struck true.

And you had screamed—only once—but it had broken something in your throat.

You hadn’t spoken since.

You didn’t hear Legolas approaching until his hand wrapped gently around your arm.

“You should rest.”

You didn’t move.

He stepped in front of you, his face pale beneath the dirt and ash, his eyes rimmed red—not with tears, but restraint. “You fought with honor. He did too.”

Your voice was a rasp. “You pulled me back.”

A beat of silence.

“Yes,” he said. “You would have died.”

“I was ready to,” you snapped, stepping back from him. “We were overrun. I was going to cover the retreat and you—” your voice broke, rage surging into the hollow place grief had carved—“You should have let me go!”

Legolas flinched as if struck.

“I could have died beside him. I should have—” your voice cracked, your fists clenched, “—instead you dragged me back, again, and I’ve lost another piece of myself—”

“Because I can’t lose you too!” he shouted, voice sharp and cutting through the morning like an arrow loosed in fury.

You froze.

He stood there, eyes wild, chest heaving, all the composure of an elven prince burned away by the fire of emotion long held back.

“I watched you grieve them all,” he said, voice quieter now but trembling. “Thorin. Kíli. Fíli. Balin. Gandalf. Haldir—gods, even Haldir. And every time, I saw something break in you.”

He stepped forward, unflinching. “And I stayed quiet. I stayed patient. I gave you space because I thought it’s what you needed—but I—” he faltered, then whispered, “I love you.”

The words hung between you like a war cry stilled in the air.

“I have loved you from the moment you argued with me in the Woodland Realm, stubborn and wild and brave. I watched you fight beside Kíli and Thorin. I watched you mourn them, one by one. And still, I loved you.”

Tears had slipped down your cheeks before you realized they’d come.

“I couldn’t let you go,” he said. “Not when I’ve already watched you die in pieces.”

You stared at him, all the fury ebbing into pain.

“I don’t know how to be what I was,” you whispered.

“You don’t have to be,” he said, stepping closer. “Just be with me. Whatever pieces you have left—I’ll carry them too.”

You let out a shuddering breath.

And finally, your forehead dropped to his chest, the storm within you breaking. His arms wrapped around you, steady and warm.

There were no promises. No healing words.

But in that moment, grief found company. And that was enough.

The final battle was chaos.

Fire lit the sky in sickening hues—red, orange, and gold twisting like dragons of ruin above the field. Screams tore through the clamor of clashing steel. The very earth trembled beneath the weight of death.

You had lost sight of Legolas.

Not for long—barely minutes—but it felt like a lifetime in the heart of war.

You fought like instinct made flesh, your blade slick with blood, arrows gone. The battlefield blurred around you, faces unrecognizable, only movement and threat. But when you spotted the flash of silver-blond hair through the smoke, something within you slammed into place.

Legolas.

He was on the rise of a broken wall, drawing his bow, loose and precise—until the enemy swarmed behind him. You screamed his name—he didn’t hear it—and your legs moved before your mind did.

A troll's iron mace came down, fast and merciless.

You hit him hard in the side, sending you both tumbling behind a shattered wall of stone as the blow cracked the earth where he’d stood. You rolled, breathless, until you landed hard, half atop him, body shielding his.

There was silence.

Then—

“I’m fine,” he rasped, blinking at you, winded.

“Don’t say that,” you breathed.

Your hands were braced on his chest, blood—thankfully—was not his. But the fear was.

You were shaking.

“You could’ve died,” you whispered. “You should have—”

“But I didn’t.”

You stared down at him, and for one unguarded moment, you let the horror in your chest bloom. “I can’t—I can’t lose you too.”

His breath caught. His hands came up to gently hold your wrists. “You won’t.”

Tears stung your eyes—hot, unwelcome. You pressed your forehead to his, trying to steady your breathing as the sounds of war surged around you once more.

“Still here,” he whispered. “I’m still here.”

You closed your eyes.

You hadn’t made him any promises. You still weren’t sure if you could. But you could hold him close for now. You could fight for his life like he had fought for yours.

For once, it was not about loss.

It was about not letting go.

The White City gleamed beneath the morning sun, banners fluttering high above the citadel. Flowers carpeted the stone, thrown by joyful hands, the scent of hope and new beginnings thick in the air.

Aragorn stood crowned and robed in light, the roar of the crowd still echoing down the mountainside.

You watched from the edge of the crowd, quiet.

For the first time in an age, there was no battle ahead. No blood under your fingernails. No grief hiding behind your teeth.

Just stillness.

And you didn’t quite know what to do with it.

You lingered until the sun began to lower, until the crowd thinned, until the laughter dimmed to celebration-song in distant halls.

And then he found you.

Legolas.

He approached without armor, dressed in white and silver that caught the dying light, golden hair gleaming. He looked like he’d stepped out of a song—ageless, beautiful, unreal. But when he smiled at you, tired and small, he looked only like himself.

“I didn’t think you’d stay this long,” he said gently.

“I didn’t think I would either,” you admitted.

You stood side by side in the garden, the flowers beneath your boots crushed underfoot, the sounds of merriment muffled by trees and stone.

“It’s over,” he said. “And we’re still standing.”

You let out a soft breath. “Somehow.”

You looked at him then—really looked. And for the first time, there was no fog of war, no heavy grief veiling your gaze. You were just… you. Bruised. Whole. Tired. Alive.

“I thought if we made it here, I’d know what to say,” you murmured.

Legolas turned to face you, head tilted. “And do you?”

“No,” you said honestly. “But I know what I feel.”

His eyes searched yours, and you saw it there—hope, held back so long it looked like sorrow.

“You pulled me from the edge,” you whispered. “Again and again. Even when I didn’t want you to.”

“Because I love you,” he said, quiet and sure, no hesitation now.

You reached up, fingers brushing his jaw. “Then you should know... I’m not whole. I may never be.”

“I don’t need you whole,” he said, leaning in so your foreheads touched. “I only need you *with me*.”

You closed your eyes, the warmth of his skin grounding you. Your hand found his, fingers threading between his own, and this time—you didn’t pull away.

No promises.

But something stronger.

A beginning.

[icanhearcolors]

Close Encounter

Summary: A conversation between my Tav and Astarion inspired me to write a short one-shot (I lied it's a series) reader insert about what I think would happen if they met before they were taken by the mind flayers

pt 2 | pt 3

This is pretty much my first attempt at reader insert so be nice to me pls ;-;

Lemme know if I made any grammar or spelling errors

Word count: 2.9k

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

“I’ll take the most you can give me of whatever has the most alcohol in it” 

You announce, slapping some gold coins down on the scuffed wooden bar. The barkeep who probably hasn’t had any business for the past hour startles out of his daydream and glances at you in surprise. He’s a dwarf, with a braided beard and kind eyes, and if it weren’t for the creaky wooden step stool he climbs up on to take orders he would barely be able to see over the bar top.

“Bit early in the night for that wouldn’t you say?” He asks as he climbs a ladder to retrieve a glass from the shelf above his head. You glance out the window as the last few rays of the setting sun color the night a deep reddish purple before it fades into a comforting black. 

You slide another gold coin across the bar. The barkeep smiles,

“Perfect time for some chultun fireswill if I say so myself miss.” He winks, slides the hefty glass full of orange liquid your way, and swipes up the coins before turning to another customer making their way into the tavern. You hold the glass up to your nose and sniff its contents. The fumes coming off the heavily spiced spirit has your nose burning and your eyes watering- perfect. 

You tap the glass on the counter and knock it back. You manage to get a few swallows in before your brain catches up to you and the fireswill burns a searing path from your throat into your stomach, settling there and warming you from the inside out. You slam the glass down and cover your mouth with your hand, trying and failing to hold in a fit of coughs. 

“Easy now.”

A cold hand lands on your shoulder, cooling your heated skin, and you turn, bleary eyed, unprepared for what you find.

He’s an elf, a very very pale elf- but not sickly pale. He just looks like he hasn’t seen the sun in a century or two. His hair catches your eye, a shocking shade of pure white that makes his skin seem tan in comparison. It’s shorter than most elves keep their hair, and it curls in every direction, framing his face beautifully. Once you recover from your initial dazed attraction to him you attempt to level him with your meanest glare that you hope says piss off. He raises his hands in playful surrender and smiles disarmingly at you.

“Rough day?” He asks in a drawling voice. You take him in. He’s wearing a clean white shirt under a set of padded leather armor, and spotless black leather boots. He looks every bit a spoiled noble that has never seen a day of work in his life, but his hands are calloused, and his eyes look haunted. Speaking of his eyes, they’re quite an alluring shade of red. What an odd color for an elf-

His eyes narrow perceptively, as if he’s reading your thoughts as they flit across your face. He turns away, gesturing at your drink and turning your gaze away from his unique appearance.

“Most Baldurians don’t even touch that stuff until well past midnight, are we celebrating or forgetting?”

You turn your body away from the charming elf and stare into the last few sips of your drink. 

“We aren’t doing anything. I’m here to drink, not to talk.”

“Forgetting it is then. Excellent.”

From the corner of his eye you see him grin roguishly, the flash of his white teeth sending a curious spark of adrenaline through your system. Before you can discern why you suddenly went from warm and buzzed to fight or flight, he turns away, tossing a blue coin purse onto the bar and calling for the barkeep, allowing the alcohol to calm your frazzled nerves once more.

“Excuse me Lydon, I’d like to buy our grumpy friend here a drink that won’t burn a hole through her stomach,” He leans over the bar and drops his voice to a low murmur as if he were sharing a secret, “got anything good for me?” he practically purrs.

The dwarf, Lydon, flushes a deep red and grins coyly at the mysterious patron, “Maybe. But I don’t have enough for everyone Astarion, what if someone comes asking me how she got the good stuff and all I’m willing to sell them is stale ale and swill?”

Astarion’s answering grin is downright lethal. 

“It’ll be our little secret,” He winks. “I’ll take it to my grave.”

Lydon blushes even darker if that were possible and mumbles something about having a type before trodding off toward the old wooden door behind the bar. You’d never related to anything more. Astarion turns toward you and raises an expectant eyebrow.

“Waiting for a thank you?” You ask, wrestling with the instinct ingrained in you to be polite. Your tendency to people please is what landed you in this run down tavern in the first place. You don’t know this elf, and you don’t owe him anything.

“Well I wouldn’t say no to a little gratitude darling- especially not from you” his eyes trace a path from the top of your head to your scuffed leather boots and back up again, stopping at the blush on your cheeks, he smirks, and meets your eyes again. He steps closer to bump your shoulder with his teasingly, and stays there, close enough that your arm brushes his.

“But no my dear, I’m not waiting for a thank you. I’m waiting for a story.” 

“Oh yeah? Keep waiting.” You growl, and he tosses his head back, a genuine laugh bursting out of him. The sound of it is contagious, and you fight the urge to grin yourself. You nearly manage it, save for a slight twitch of your lips that he of course notices.

He tsks, shaking his head at you “I saw that. No use hiding that smile from me, love. The damage is already done.” 

You glare, this time with much less hostility. 

“Who are you? I’m morose and drunk on purpose, elf, and I will not let you wrestle me from it.”

“My name is Astarion” he says with a wink and a mock bow before he leans in, so close you can feel his breath on your skin, “and I’ll wager you’ll let me do a lot worse than that before the end of the night.”

Your breath catches, your pulse picks up, and you’re about to lose yourself in those strange eyes of his when a loud creeeeeaaak and a crash causes both of you to leap away from one another. The dwarven barkeep’s old step stool seems to have finally given in. He lay sprawled on the floor behind the bar, his foot caught in between the split wood.

“GODS DAMMIT” He howls, kicking off the stool. He sighs and hobbles up to you and your new… companion. You can see nothing but his angry eyes and the flushed red tips of his ears as he pours your drink and reaches up to hand it to you. When you grab for it he pulls it out of your grasp and stares at you with a threat in his eyes.

“You didn’t see that.” He snarls at both of you.

“See what?” Astarion feigns ignorance, looking around the room dramatically for whatever the dwarf could possibly be talking about. The barkeep rolls his eyes and hands the drink to you before limping off to find a chair to stand on.

You breathe slowly through your nose.

In.

Out.

In.

You will not laugh.

You have self control.

You take one glance at the pinched “I’m trying not to laugh” look on Astarions face, one that probably mirrors your own, and you explode in a fit of giggles so intense they make your stomach ache.

Astarion can’t hold it in either and slaps the table in his silent gasping laughter, the two of you making quite a scene, but somehow you really don’t care. 

You wipe tears from your eyes and sigh once your laughing fit subsides, your sour mood a distant memory despite your best efforts to cling to it.

“How dare you,” You whine half-heartedly. “I was so committed to my bad mood and you had to go and ruin it.”

Astarion’s eyebrows lower in confused amusement.

“Awww you poor sad little thing. I’d apologize, really I would, but unfortunately for you I’m not sorry.”

You take a swig of the drink he bought for you. It tastes of cherry and currant, and you have never had something so delicious from such a tiny little tavern.

“You should be” you murmur, hanging your head, the humor fading as you’re reminded of why you’re here in the first place.

Astarion notices your shift in demeanor and reaches down, lifting your chin with a cool finger and bringing your gaze to his.

“About that story,” He smiles encouragingly, and you give in.

The alcohol must really be getting to you now, there was no other explanation for the warm, safe feeling that hummed under your skin. Astarion was sweet, and attractive. His attention felt good, and before you could even make the decision to trust him you were already talking. You told him how you were a magistrate in the lower city, complained how the court system was broken and corrupt, and how the judge only appoints magistrates that unthinkingly obey his preferences, never allowing them to make their own judgements. You had tried for months to get on his good side but you think all you did was obliterate any meager scrap of respect he did have for you, and now every interaction you have with him he barks orders at you like you’re his dog and then dismisses you. You were thinking of finding a new profession altogether, but the lower city was plagued with crime, good people died every day because of it, and you had the power to help at least a little if only your boss wasn’t such an asshole. To your embarrassment you began to tear up as you finished your story.

Astarion for his part never interrupts you. He listens with rapt attention to your woeful tale, an indiscernible look on his handsome face. You try to turn your head away as a tear escapes your eye but his grip on your chin tightens, forcing you to stay right where you are. He wipes it away with his other hand and stares at you for a moment, seemingly deciding something.

He reaches up and drags a hand through his hair, releases a held breath, and plucks the glass from your hand, drinking what was left of its contents in two gulps. He brings the glass back down to the counter, a drop of the crimson wine dripping down his chin. The image gives you an odd feeling, like you’re missing a revelation that is only just out of your grasp. He glances behind you, and you turn and follow his gaze to another rather pale looking elf, this one with darker hair but similarly colored eyes watching the two of you with rapt attention. Goosebumps rise on your skin and that fight or flight instinct is back in full force. Your heart begins to pound against your chest, understanding the danger that you’re in even if you do not. 

“Smart girl” Astarion murmurs, and you whip back around to face him.

He wipes his face with his sleeve and grabs you by the hand, pulling you off the bar stool.

“W-what are you-” He places a hand on your lower back and begins deftly guiding you through the raucous crowd of drunk Baldurians. One stumbling wizard in the crowd pats his pockets down and cries,

“Has anyone seen my coin purse? It’s blue!”

“Walk faster” Astarion says into your ear, his warm breath whispering across your neck. You do as he says.

After what feels like a lifetime of dodging drunk elbows and slipping through temporary openings in the crowd you reach the exit, and Astarion rushes you soberingly into the cold night air. 

“You stole that guy's money didn’t you?” You accuse.

He doesn’t even have the decency to deny it,

“What are you going to do darling? Arrest me?” is his reply.

He doesn’t slow down for a single second, ushering you into a dark alley near the tavern.

“Astarion what are we doing? You can’t just wander into abandoned alleyways at night! This is how people get kidnapped.”

His startled gaze clashes with yours in the dim light for a moment before he laughs. Not an amused genuine laugh, but a pained, choked sound that claws its way out of his throat involuntarily. He runs a hand through his hair once again and then turns away from you, shaking his head in disbelief. 

“It is indeed, darling,” He whispers so quietly you have to lean towards him to hear it. 

“You have no idea.”

You don’t have time to react, the alcohol slowing your reflexes, before his hand is around your throat and your back is against the brick wall of whatever building is behind you. You reach up and grab his wrist, eyes widening in panic. For a flash you see in your mind your body lying asphyxiated in the revealing light of morning, another victim to the merciless city of Baldur’s gate, and you prepare to fight like hell, when Astarion lunges for you and…

Kisses you?

Your brain short circuits, all thoughts drifting away with the sensation of Astarion’s mouth on yours. His hand around your throat gentles, his long fingers drifting over your skin until they press into your pulse point, feeling your racing heartbeat. 

You fist his shirt sleeve in your hand. Maybe it's because you’re smashed, maybe it’s because you can’t remember the last time someone kissed you, maybe it’s because you know no one that’s ever kissed you has been as good at it as this man- whatever the reason may be, you kiss him back. 

He tilts his head and deepens the kiss, stepping closer until his body is pressed against yours. You reach up to do what you’ve been dying to do since you first saw him and feel the soft strands of his hair.

He leans into your touch and it emboldens you to kiss him deeper, your tongue scraping against something… sharp?

He gasps and pulls back, just a few inches, staring into your eyes. He seems to be searching for something, almost desperately.

You stare back, equal parts terrified of and enraptured by this beautiful stranger.

Finally, he drops his hand from your neck and steps back, the cold air assaulting you once more as you crash back down to reality. You gaze at Astarion, confusion written all over your features.

“I can’t do this” He laughs. It sounds just as pained as the last one.

“Can’t do what?”

“I can’t bring you to him”

His head snaps up to the sky, studying the stars.

“I still have time to find another. Petras saw me with you, he’ll tell Cazador if I come back with someone else. But I can lie. I can say you knew what I was, escaped before I could lure you back. Maybe he won't question it. I’d spend a few weeks in the kennels but it could be worse. I can’t tell him I changed my mind, I can’t spend another year in that tomb.” He’s rambling now, not to you but to himself. 

He rubs his face in his hands and takes another stumbling step back.

“Go” Is all he says.

“Go? Go where?” You mumble, feeling cold and strangely a little hurt by his retreat into the shadows.

You don’t have dark vision, in the dim torch light much of his face is now hidden from you, but his eerily red eyes seem to glow like a cat’s now in the dark. The sight fills you with dread. Pieces begin to connect, the hundreds of unsolved missing person cases, the handful of eyewitness accounts claiming they saw the missing leave with someone. The descriptions varied, but a few details remained constant. The unknown person was always charming, flirtatious even, they tried to get their victims intoxicated in some way, and they always had a pallid complexion, red eyes, and sharp canines. Sifting sluggishly through your muddled memories you can even recall a couple of accounts of victims leaving taverns on the arm of a white haired pale elven man.

Astarion was a vampire.

“Go back to the courts,” He begins, “and never apologize to Judge Eruien. Stand up to him when he’s being an ass, he’ll never respect you otherwise. Go back home and lock your doors safely behind you. Never invite anyone in unless you trust them implicitly. Go back to your life in the sun, make Baldur’s gate a little better just by being in it, and if you ever-” He leans toward you, his face inches from yours once more. Now that you know what to look for, you catch glimpses of his uncomfortably long canines with every word that he speaks. 

“See anyone with eyes like mine again… run.”

With that he steps back into the shadows. They seem to swallow him whole, and you do run, a small voice in the back of your mind reminding you that you never told Astarion the name of that judge you were lamenting about.

In the years that follow you take his advice, and your work life drastically improves. Enough so that you feel comfortable asking the old elven judge about his former magistrates, a tear dripping down your cheek as he tells you what he can recall about a white haired elf with golden eyes and a promising future that was ripped away when he was murdered almost two centuries ago by a gang of Gur that didn’t appreciate his final ruling.

A month later you wake up in a nautiloid.

[rocknrollsalad]

rating: G cw: creepy christmas ornaments, pranking each other tags: steddie, platonic stobin, Buckingham, everyone lives together in this apartment, sometime in the future, a cursed version of elf on the shelf word count: 999

written for @steddieholidaydrabbles prompt "ornament"

ornament inspiration here

“What the hell is that!?!”

“Santa,” Eddie responded, annoyed Steve would dare to ask.

“No, Santa is a jolly, fat man. That is…I don’t know, stuff of nightmares.”

Eddie turned the face of his pipe cleaner St. Nick to face him as he reassured the ornament it wasn’t a nightmare. The painted-on face and sad eyes made it look like the ornament disagreed.

“Do you often dream about old men?” Eddie asked and shared a silent laugh with the ornament.

The thing looked terrifying enough but Eddie interacting with it like it was real made it worse. Steve would take a demogorgon over this thing any day. At least he knew how to get rid of a demogorgon.

Ignoring the question meant to bait him, Steve addressed the real problem. “That’s not going there. Not in our tree.”

“He’s the centerpiece, Steven. This is his holiday,” Eddie scoffed.

“Fine,” he said, stomping off to take a shower. Eddie could enjoy the few hours he had with it because the instant his back was turned, Steve was going to bury that thing in the woods. Perhaps learn a few things about vampires or demons to prevent it from coming back to life.

No one talks about this when they make a big fuss over moving in together. It’s always “get used to snoring” or “you’ll never have any private time” like they weren’t piling four people into this cramped apartment. No person, magazine, or advice column said anything about dealing with someone’s terrifying holiday decor.

They also don’t talk about what to do when that same bit of decor is on your pillow, tucked in and cozy.

“Eddie!” Steve bellowed.

Robin popped into the doorway, “He went out to get some candy canes to hang on the tree, said it was real important to the holiday look. Chris went with him.”

“Great. You up for planning a murder,” Steve motioned to the creepy Santa “sleeping” on his pillow.

“Murder wouldn’t be enough, we need to burn the bed,” Robin shuddered and walked back out of the room.

Steve followed, thankful someone was on his side here. “Wanna go to the library and look up what to do with it?”

“Please. Chrissy wants to make him reindeer friends and a wife.”

“Oh god, not her too.”

“If anyone was on Eddie's side here, it’d be her.”

It didn’t take them long to hatch the groundbreaking plan of hiding the Santa. They’d lie and say they put it back. Steve would make vague threats about it going in the garbage disposal if it was in his bed again and everyone would move on. Eddie didn’t believe the lie and dismantled the whole tree.

When Steve went to bed that night he felt a bit guilty but if Eddie wouldn’t listen to reason, this was the only course of action. Steve could not have that thing haunting him from the Christmas tree for a whole month. This was what had to be done.

The next morning, feeling a bit too safe, Steve trudged to the bathroom to get ready for work. Going through the motions, he opened the cabinet to get his toothbrush only to find it in the arms of the stupid, awful Santa. Forcing Steve to touch it and the decades of dust caked into it's bristles. He hated every part of it. Time to do something bigger.

So Steve took it to work with him, left it there on purpose, and refused to answer questions about it. The next day it was buckled into the driver’s seat of his car with broken candy cane bits all around. The hook of a candy cane had been sucked into a point and left in Santa’s hand. Steve wasn't the only one raising the bar.

For their next move, Robin went to three different stores to find red pipe cleaners. They chopped them to bits and left them on the dinner table. A few cotton balls were also sacrificed for Santa's beard and it looked like they'd ended things once and for all. Something Steve wished he could have done for real but Eddie came with so few things. Ruining one, regardless of how terrifying it was, seemed like a step too far. Just hide it until Eddie forgot it existed, that was better, right?

Two nights later dinner was the little bits Robin had staged and the actual Santa. Steve was sure the delay in reveal was so Eddie could try and find one of those silver domes to put over this “meal”.

Steve walked the plate into the “office” they’d created in the dining room to give nerds space for their hobbies. Eddie sat smug at the head of the table, the “I’ve been expecting you” was loud but not spoken.

“I’ve come to call a truce,” Steve said, putting the plate down on the table, suddenly wishing Eddie had found the dome so he could hide the awful face.

“You forgot the white flag,” he said with an arched eyebrow.

“Don’t push it.”

“What’s the deal, then? Santa gets prime spot in the tree? Right at eye level? Oh! No, he's the star on top!”

“Counter offer; I let Robin chop the real thing up.”

“Okay. What if, like the real Santa, we put him up Christmas Eve before bed and he stays until the new year?”

Steve thought the offer over, he didn’t like it but if they were coming to a mutually beneficial agreement then he’d have to give a little. For all his people-pleasing ways, Steve was in a safe space so he dragged out the internal debate.

“Fine but he has to go on the side, I don’t want that to be the first thing I see when I come home.”

Eddie didn’t debate, he showed his cards immediately and lit up like the very tree they were talking about. He jumped out of this chair and grabbed Santa, cradling it like a precious animal. “Deal!”

[crabs-with-sticks]

Happy Friday! How about: "You think you know me, but the truth is, you don't." For your Rook and Varric?

So I started writing this, intending to do a serious piece diving into Kytharia's mental health problems/imposter syndrome/generally not knowing what to do with her life after growing up enslaved. Unfortunately, I've been listening to Indira Varma (Vivienne's VA) read Discworld books, so it turned out a lot more pratchettian than I was expecting.

(Shout out to Brandy Sandy for the first 'wise words' I could think of)

@dadrunkwriting - veilguard spoilers

They were crammed into the table at the very back corner of the room, right where the light was struggling to reach, like a circle mage faced with a very large and heavy box needing to be stored on a high shelf. Usually Kytharia would be chatting away to Varric, and Varric in turn would be grumbling about how, given the environs, they should ‘really be more mysterious’ and that ‘Broody would have done it right’.

But they had both been drinking, and while Kytharia was normally a happy, if horny, drunk, flirting her way around the bar then out the bar to somebody else’s bed. This time though, she had had just one too many which had tipped her over into melancholy. So she was sat with Varric, head on the table, just one ‘I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed’ away from tears.

He honestly wasn’t sure which was worse- in the sense of him having to deal with it, and for the elf’s rather non-existent mental health.

“Maker, how many of those have you had?” Varric asked, eyeing her up, “I’d cut you off if I didn’t think you’d burst into tears.”

“You probably should anyway…” Kytharia responded morosely.

His eyebrows shot up, “damn, if I knew it took this many drinks to get you making sensible decisions, I would have encouraged your alcoholism much earlier. This really isn’t like you,” he said, nudging her in the ribs.

“You think you know me Varric, but you really don’t.”

“Oh and here we go…” Varric muttered under his breath at a level that sober Kytharia would have been able to hear. Luckily for them all, drunk Kytharia was less perceptive.

“You think I’m this… brave and adventurous hero… but I’m really not you know.”

“Oh,” he said, humouring her, “and why is that, kid?”

“Because I’m a mess. I don’t even know who I am, or what I’m doing, or why I’m doing the things I don’t know I’m doing, or why I’m the who-” she frowned, the ‘whos’ and the ‘whats’ and the ‘whys’ all getting mixed up in her head. She practically slammed her head down onto the table instead. “I just don’t want to go home Varric… I don’t even know where that is…”

“Ah, kid…” Varric said, frantically flicking through books in his head to find some kind of wise mentor line that would help out a drunk, 20-something year old elf who came as a set with a whole range of mental health issues. “You know the most important step a person can take, kid?”

She sniffled and looked up at him, “no?” She paused, “its the first one isn’t it?”

“Now you see that’s where you’re wrong,” he said, clapping her on the shoulder, “its the next step kid. Always the next step.”

“But… but what if its the wrong one? What if I fuck it all up again?”

“That's the secret kid, there is no wrong next step. Its just about moving forwards.”

The elf frowned, “but what if I decided the next step was murder?”

Varric sighed, just about ready to put his head in his hands and write to Hawke (who at least had younger siblings) how to deal with the youth. But, the response time would be too long, so instead he just asked hopelessly, “I mean… were you planning on murdering anybody?”

“I mean, maybe, if they were venatori.”

“Well, you’ve got a point there,” Varric muttered under his breath, suddenly glad Hawke and Merrill had never asked him to babysit for them. Or rather, never caught him. Somehow, drunk Kytharia was even worse to impart important life lessons on than sober Kytharia was. At least, if it was any consolation, she’d forget this by the morning. He hoped.

[riaayumirza]

Soft Daydreams: Bookshop Mischief After Hours

Episode 3: Bookshop Mischief After Hours

The city buzzed faintly as you stepped out of your favorite bar, still laughing at the silly inside jokes you’d built over the past hour. The cool night air sobered you slightly, but not enough to dull the playful edge in your voices.

“It’s barely 8 PM. What now?” you asked, swaying a little.

He glanced up the street and spotted a glowing sign. “How about there?”

You followed his gaze to a quaint bookshop tucked between two buildings, its warm lights and rustic charm inviting. “You want to go to a bookshop?” you teased, raising an eyebrow.

He smirked. “What? I can appreciate books. Besides, you love them.”

Moments later, you were wandering the aisles, the faint scent of paper and coffee surrounding you. Picking up random books, you giggled over ridiculous covers and dramatic synopses.

“I swear,” you said, holding up a thriller with a brooding man on the cover, “this guy is probably an assassin with a tragic past who secretly wants to adopt a dog.”

He snorted. “And this one,” he said, waving a fantasy novel with a shirtless elf, “is definitely about someone saving the world with the power of their abs.”

Eventually, your tipsy wanderings led to the adult romance section. You grabbed a subtly steamy cover and began flipping through the pages, your smirk growing as you stopped at a particularly descriptive paragraph.

“What are you doing?” he asked, leaning closer.

“Hold on,” you muttered, handing him the book. “Can you read this out loud? My eyes are blurry.”

He shrugged, unaware of the trap. His voice started steady, but as the words got steamier, his pace slowed. He faltered, then froze, his cheeks turning bright red.

“What kind of book is this?!” he hissed, snapping it shut as a few customers glanced your way.

You burst out laughing, clutching the shelf for support. “You’re too innocent for this section!”

Dragging you out of the aisle, his embarrassment was palpable. “We’re leaving now,” he said, though his lips twitched with suppressed laughter.

Later, you sat in the café corner, sipping hot milk and still giggling over the chaos.

“You really planned that, didn’t you?” he asked, his smirk playful but his eyes narrowing as he leaned closer.

“Maybe,” you said with a grin.

He shook his head, laughing softly before pulling you into his arms, your head resting against his shoulder. “You’re so sneaky,” he teased.

You were about to retort, but his hand slid under your chin, tilting your face to meet his amused gaze. “You made me so embarrassed back there. You’re going to pay for that.”

“How?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper as your cheeks heated.

His smirk deepened. “We should try what I read… when we’re home.”

Your face turned crimson. “What?!” you stammered, completely flustered.

He burst out laughing, pulling you tighter into his embrace. “See? That’s how I felt earlier!”

“You’re impossible,” you muttered, burying your face into his chest to hide your blush.

He cupped your face gently, lifting it just enough to kiss your forehead. “Okay, I’ll stop. But you really do make life fun, you know?”

You looked up, your flustered expression softening into a smile. “I’m glad you came with me tonight.”

His smile matched yours as he brushed a stray strand of hair from your face. “Me too. Even if you’re a sneaky troublemaker.”

Laughter filled the air again, wrapping around you like a blanket. Outside, the world faded into the background—just the soft glow of the lights, the quiet hum of the café, and the feeling of being completely safe in each other’s presence.

[automatismoateo]

I am not just an atheist I loath religion it is the worst thing for humanity - a rant via /r/atheism

I am not just an atheist I loath religion it is the worst thing for humanity - a rant Religion is about control, hate, and judgement. People say “but where do you get your morals from” Answer - From your sense of self and from the government law. Is that perfect? Nope but it’s way more better than any laws based on religion. Any and all religious based laws are harmful, forced marriage, killing dogs, justifying abusing children, dehumanizing women, dehumanizing literally everyone but like them, abusing women, mental and emotional abuse. Every horrific thing in the world - some religion some where encourages it. In my new Christian country the church penalises the priests who help the animals because they say animals have no soul so don’t waste your recourses. How can you walk by a creature that is suffering and not help it? In the Islamic world (my old life) it was dogs that were hated. They were abused mutilated and tortured for fun and because our prophet was scared of them this was allowed and justified and encouraged as Allah’s will. And abusing animals was such a low bar for the abuse encouraged and celebrated by my religion it was so normalised. Nothing normalise and encourages abuse of everything like religion. Religion is created by con men to abuse, manipulate, and enslave the masses. Their is not one religion in the world that I know off that is actually based on love. They sure as fuck talk about if a lot. But hate by another name is still just hate. In my native language the worst insults are graphic sexual abuse acts against your mother, wife, sister, or daughter followed by going to hell. Would a good moral religion influence a language so much that the worst insults are rape and hell against women and children??? The idea of hell, as if it is an actual thing is so ludicrous. But yet religious con men (all religious individuals are con people) use it to terrify children but never tell them it’s fake and used to control them like America’s elf on the shelf. The amount of fear people have because of hell is idiotic. You’re fearing the fake monster in your head not reality. So many people are tormented by the idea of hell, the near possibility, that they make the only life they actually have a living hell. I’m the opposite I wish there was actually a hell so all these abusive religious con people can go enjoy the abuse they unleash onto other’s. But there is not, that’s a fantasy and the truth is horrible people live and die peacefully every day and their victims will never get justice. And that sucks but that doesn’t make hell or heaven anything but a cage someone else establish and put you in your own mind. Submitted January 17, 2025 at 07:56AM by WarDog1983 (From Reddit https://ift.tt/qa6U0yD)

[wildwaxshows]

Cancelled

Fr., 2.2.2024, 21:00 Uhr: MINT MIND (HH) + KNUD VOSS (HH) Komet Musik Bar, Hamburg

MINT MIND

"Heavy music for nerdy people", that's how someone once described the music of Mint Mind. "For" or "from"? Both, of course. After the first "VG+" songs, you get a feeling of what the world of Mint Mind looks like: instruments and amplifiers from several decades loosely piled and organized. In front of, next to and between are synthesizers and effects, some as big as microwave ovens. On the crooked record shelf are handfuls of comics, albums by New Order, Devo, the B52s, almost the entire SST catalog, as well as Krautrock classics by Can and Faust. "VG+", Mint Mind's third album, has become a great, cross-generational indie rock album. Mint Mind are sitting in the Upper Room Studio, a separate area of Rick McPhail's small industrial loft in Hamburg-Altona. This is where the new Mint Mind album VG+ was created. Rick, who grew up in Maine, USA, looks to his fellow musicians. They are a little younger than him. Christian Klindworth (Fluppe) is 40, Friedel Viegener is 22. Rick grins and says, "I'm a polite and cheerful person but I need moments to vent and that's what I do in my music. I usually get angry about the same things as young people. A lot of the things that suck today sucked in the 80s and it wasn't easier to fight them back then.” The album is about anger, optimism, a politician with little fingers or influencers who secretly lead a normal life. Some lyrics are funny, others serious: "Glow" is about love and appreciating good moments in difficult times. "Youth And I" deals with the question of why different generations with the same ideas on topics such as the environment, women's and LGBTQIA+ rights or even the economy do not manage to form a unity, but instead allow themselves to be disturbed by something as silly as age differences. The sound of Mint Mind combines sweet and sour, fuzzy riffs with the freedom and sentiment of 80’s post-punk/indie. Synthesizers have become a more central instrument this time. From playful and strange sounds to the eerie and dark, the album is littered with textures and ear candy to discover. The album title is well chosen. "VG+" is taken from the Goldmine Grading Standard for the evaluation of used vinyl records and means "Very Good +" - background noise can occur occasionally, but not always. Older folks might certainly feel reminded of Dinosaur Jr. or The Cure, the younger ones of Diiv, Wavves or Gurr. And for a moment, the world is Very Good + (with background noise) for everyone. Speaking of background noise: When Rick is not swinging his self-made Lego guitar at Mint Mind, he takes care of the technic, roadies and lead guitar in Tocotronic or spins records. In the Hamburger bar Mutter he plays Album/Adult Oriented Rock under the motto "AOR-Alles Klar?". He moderates the songs and with a telephone receiver converted to a microphone the guests can also make requests. As the morning dawns over Hamburg, Rick packs up his Billy Joel, Chicago and Steely Dan albums, grabs his skateboard and rides back to his studio with the rising sun at his back.

KNUD VOSS

Die Haare sitzen, kein Mundgeruch. Das ist schon ziemlich nice! Nachdem sich der Vierer von der schleswig-holsteinischen Westcoast mit seinem DIY-Debüt "Capristube" (2020) mal eben selbst seine eigene kleine Nische geschaffen hat, legen sie nun 2023 mit "Mono" nach und liefern damit ein großartiges Album ab, das mit jedem Durchlauf wächst und nun live präsentiert werden will. Elf Stücke mündiger Punkrock ohne Genregrenzen und jeder Menge norddeutschem Charme in denen „Gang of Four“-Gitarren auf eine knallende Schießbude, walzende Basshooks, Synthie-Einlagen und dem sehr prägnanten Gesangsstil von Frontlerche André treffen. KNUD VOSS verwursten unsern alten Kumpel Punkrock mit viel Post im Punk, hypnotischen Kraut- und dancy Elektropop-Elementen auf ihre ganz eigene, smarte Weise. "mono" funktioniert einfach – egal ob auf Platte oder live - und das verdammt gut!

[vapehk1]

Do Disposable Vapes Expire? 4 Signs Of Expired Vape Juices

The e-juice in disposable vapes should last long enough to run out, but if you buy too many or find some lying around, the e-juice may have gone wrong. To prevent a bad experience, it's crucial to understand the symptoms of expired vape juice. Do Disposable Vapes Expire Or Not? Yes, disposable vapes like Elf Bars, and even separate e-juice bottles such as Elf Bar Elfliq nic salts, can expire and go bad like most consumer goods. However, the timing of their expiry will differ based on elements such as temperature, batteries, draw duration, and correct storage. Most disposable vapes last one to two years after creation, depending on the brand and type. Always check the package's expiration date to see whether it may be used safely.   Pre-filled disposable vape pens such as Elf Bars and e-juice bottles like Elf bar Wholesale contain ingredients like Propylene Glycol (PG) and Vegetable Glycerin (VG), organic substances with a shelf life. They progressively lose their effectiveness as they pass away. Although the outcome won't harm your health, it might give you a bad taste. How Long Do Disposable Vapes Last? Most disposable vape pens provide 500–600 puffs, equivalent to one pack of cigarettes. Or, you might assume that most disposable vapes will last three to five days. Elements including e-juice tank size, frequency of use, and others influence longevity. Some manufacturers offer higher capacity disposables, which may last up to 7000-8000 puffs or around ten days. Do Disposable Vapes Run Out Of Battery? Yes, the disposable vaporiser's battery can die and cause it to cease working. Sometimes, your device won't work because the battery dies before the e-liquid does. There are some rechargeable disposables.   You can recharge them once the batteries have completed a cycle. The lifespan of the e-juice, which will have a significantly longer shelf-life, is not the same as the battery cycle. Often indicator lights on disposable vape pens show you how much battery life is left. The battery has died if you see a red light or one that rapidly flashes. 4 Factors That Affect How Long Disposable Vapes Will Last: How long your disposable vape will last depends on various factors. Knowing them will enable you to use them longer, giving you enough to go through the day. Also, purchasing from a reliable Vape Shop UK is also recommended for best usage. 1. Batteries: As was already said, battery lifespan is influenced by total capacity. It will last longer if it is high enough to power your device, but if it is declining and is insufficient for the appropriate puff count, the vape pen will soon stop working. 2. Temperatures: The e-liquid is heated by the atomiser coil and converted to vapour. The process of vapourisation moves more quickly as the temperature rises. The oil burns more quickly when the temperature of your device is set higher, which reduces how long your disposable vape will last.   Make sure the temperature is always appropriate for breathing. To prevent problems with overheating, some devices will incorporate over-voltage protection. 3. Draw Length: Your draw's longevity depends on the length and frequency of your draws. The more e-liquid the device uses, the longer you inhale on it. Your disposable vape will only last briefly if you draw harder and longer. 4. Vape Storage: It matters where you keep the device. In severely cold settings, the device will need more power to heat the e-juice. However, you shouldn't put it in direct sunlight because the battery could overheat and explode. Store the device at or below room temperature to maximise battery life. 4 Signs That Your Vape Juice Is Going Bad: Nothing compares to the flavour and aroma of a fresh bottle of vape juice, such as Elf Bar Elfliq nic salts. It gradually loses its freshness until it completely spoils. A bad experience can be avoided by knowing your E-juice's expiration date. ● Discolouration: An e-liquid's hue will gradually darken, mainly if it includes nicotine. This is because the vape juice's more profound colour results from oxidation, a chemical interaction between oxygen and nicotine. Oxidation is expected.   However, an excessively oxidised tint may indicate that something is becoming rotten. If the e-juice has turned into another colour that isn’t yellow or brown or has turned too dark, it’s time to dispose of it. ● Change In Its Thickness: As the Elf Bar Elfliq nic salts e-juice becomes old, the juice’s thickness increases. If you notice that the solution is much thicker than when you first bought it, it’s a sign that it has gone wrong. Vaping when the e-liquid is thick can be detrimental since it can cause breakage in the coils, which leads to leaks in your tank. ● Bad Smell And Flavour: New bottles of your Elf Bar Elfliq nic salts vape juice usually have a pleasant smell and taste. As the liquid gets older, it can degenerate. Once e-liquids have degraded, they tend to release a foul odour. A rotten smell is one of the quickest ways to determine whether it’s gone wrong. If you taste-test the drink, exercise caution and limit your intake. E-juices that have gone bad will taste unpleasant. Therefore you should discard the device immediately. ● The Components: E-juice comes in bottles with a variety of components. While some separation is expected, they should reunite if you shake the bottle. The components can be too old if they don't combine well, even after a good shake. Since the flavours have crystallised, mixing and heating them is challenging. It is, therefore, advisable to dispose of it because the risk of inhaling it is not worth it. Conclusion: Knowing the warning signs of expired vape juice allows you to store it properly and limit how long you keep it, preventing an unpleasant experience. Moreover, make sure to purchase them from an authentic online vape shop in the UK to have a high-quality product with a longer shelf life. Read the full article

[fangsanddaggers]

The teasing doesn't go over as well as it might for most things. Pointed ears tilt down as his fingers retreat from the stones, as if ready to redirect them and agree that this was stupid they should leave.

But large hands still pick at the stones, earning a wary gaze following them as they poke and prod. The red one offered was carved to look like a turtle, earning a gentle smile from the elf. The marbled looking one was in the shape of a small orb. It was endearing, reminding him of the spherical piece he'd fed Gale once to save his life from the brink of death.

The last was a round flat disk, on one side, a shallow dish-like shape, the perfect shape and size for one to run their thumb across it over and over. When it's proclaimed as his own, he hesitates, something deeper feeling warm under his skin at this.

Finally, he begins to look for his own.

At first, he's claimed by a shimmering blue-white stone in the shape of a crescent, the color reminding him deeply of the moon he'd come to both love and hate for two hundred years. Now, he only knew a deep respect for the time, where the world is at it's quietest (or most maddening near bars and questionable districts). Next, a milky stone cut to resemble a lotus. This white tinted stone was cut with what looked like pieces of nature, deep greens like strands of moss, but when his thumb brushed over, he was met with the smooth surface of a stone.

Finally, he was drawn to a shimmering orange stone. Deep within it, as he turned the little pointed pillar, he was surprised to see what looked to be an insect. Something akin to a moth, wings all tucked up as if asleep inside the stone. A fragment of a time unknown. This one, he curled into his palm, a firm detrmination in his eyes.

He wasn't leaving this one behind, even if Roberto didn't like it. Something... Something called for him to claim this piece, a reminder of the ancient, of things long before the human life behind him.

Things older than even himself.

"Seems I have my own." He pauses, one last stone catching his attention. A raw piece, unlike their carved ones thus far. Fingers collect it from the shelf, offering it to Roberto to inspect.

"Something.... Something about this one calls for me to offer it to you." The blue-white stone happily arced up in little lumpy pillars from the rough rock edge at it's base. "I know it's silly, but this means a lot to me, Roberto. Thank you, for even just humoring me over my 'shiny rocks'." There was a hint of hurt in there, letting the other know this was not a place to tease him within.

With the stones added to the basket he slips from the human then, drifting off to the bundled herbs section, leaving him with the basket filled with dead things and stones. This was important to the elf, each item he'd placed within the basket to buy a piece of himself he'd lost and forgotten, that he'd been forced to give up by cruel masters.

Pieces he was scared to claim and sensitive over. Pieces he'd never dared to share with anyone before, and may never openly share again.

The importance of this place akin to that of his hair.

"Yeah, those sound alright. Just not much a fan of the ones that look like they're for some scientific display or study or whatever." He grimaces a little at the shadowboxes, though those are too horrible. Just enough to make him want to wrinkle his nose a bit. Uncomfortable, but not overwhelming. The ones in a display that's meant to look like a habitat are much more appealing.

His face softens at the quickly stolen kiss before his lover is slipping around him to go look at things again. A chuckle escapes as he's quite literally pulled along, Astarion forgetting for a moment how much stronger he is then Roberto in order to pull him into his excitement.

"Ooo, shiny rocks," Roberto teases, leaning over to press a kiss to his temple before peering at the pile. He's not overly impressed, there were plenty of smooth polished stones to be found on Noman's Land after all, but the variety is interesting. He hums and picks up a brown one that shimmers like an eye when he tilts it.

"Alright, let's see..." He sets the first one back and picks through the offerings thoughtfully, trying to figure out what he's looking for other then pretty rocks. The ones he picks out are fairly plain, really, a deep red stone broken up by little bits of white and black and a white, marbled looking stone. Then he picks out a soft blue stone and hands it to Astarion.

"There, I've got some rocks now too. And that one's for you."

[miammey]

Chapter 2 of my Elf/Fae and Sorcerer AU

(Basically chapter 1 but in Tecchou’s pov)

Tecchou awoke early in the morning to sounds of crashing potion bottles, he groaned awake, already knowing the cause.

He slumped downstairs to find his young apprentice, Tachihara, who was standing beside a cluttered of broken glass, like a deer in the headlights. Tachihara was a quiet yet blunt young adult, Tecchou took him in after his parents had kicked him out, and been teaching him how to work with potions every sense. Tachihara wasn’t a sorcerer, so he couldn’t do actual magic, but that never bothered him, he appreciated Tecchou’s guidance and teachings.

So it was quite the predicament how he even got in this situation.

Not that Tecchou cared, he had plenty potion bottles to go around, considering he was the one that made them. And Tachihara had only knocked down a small small shelf worth of them.

Tecchou said nothing has walked towards the supply closet, and took two brooms, throwing them to Tachihara, which he caught. As began to sweep up the glass into a tray, Tecchou decided to make some conversation.

Tecchou- want to tell me what happened

(Tachihara grumbled)

Tachihara- I’d rather not talk about it

(Tecchou just gave a simple nod)

When they got done, Tecchou took his cloak, and headed towards the door.

Tecchou- I’m going go by the stream to see if I catch some fish, wanna come

(Tachihara shook his head)

Tachihara- nah, I’m meeting up with Gin and Hirotsu, we’re going to the bar on the other side of the village

(Tecchou raised an eyebrow at him, before Tachihara sighed)

Tachihara- don’t worry, it’s not to drink, at least not on me and Gin’s end, we’re just going to hang and catch up, that’s all

Tecchou feeing fine with that answer, gave a simple nod, before he turned and walked out the door.

When he made it to the stream, he began searching the water for fish, when spotted someone further down the river, on the other side.

It was a back with shoulder length white hair, with red streaks in it. He has a bell tied to a red ribbon hanging from one ear. Those ears, they were pointed, which that woman was and elf/fae! Tecchou never saw an elf so up close before, let alone see one in person. But god did they, or at the very least this one, look nothing how they are described in the archives.

In the archives, they were described to be these ugly monstrous creatures with green lumpy skin, like a toad, and gaged, yellowish-brown, pointy teeth. With frizzled gray hair, and have eyes that looked like pools of back tar.

However, this was not what he was looking at. This elf/fae, had fair pale skin, and his eyes weren’t even opened. He had on white poet shirt, with a red corset, along with brown pants and darker brown boots.

He was absolutely stunning.

Suddenly he looked up, and seemed to be searching for something, when his eyes landed in him.

Both of them froze. Tecchou wasn’t sure what to do, let alone know if he should say something. Suddenly the elf got up, with his eyes still on him.

And god were his eyes beautiful, they were a bright cherry red, with patches of gold that sparkled like glitter, in them.

The elf soon disappeared into the forest, leaving Tecchou alone to think.

He just saw an elf, a real elf, he never thought in his life time that he was ever able to see them.

Excitement filled Tecchou’s body, as he turned and rushed home, forgetting all about the fish catching he was going to do.

He just had to tell Tachihara about this.

ANDNANXNA PLEASE THIS IS SO GOOD!!!

[mouthfulloftoothpasterry]

Elf on Finnleys shelf

Summary: blind!Harry and y/n set up Finnleys elf. Happy blurbmas!

Warnings: language

“Shush baby, We can’t wake up Finnley. He will be scarred for life learning that his parents are actually Santa at one years old.” Harry chuckles, pulling her in and pecking her lips while he holds Finnleys elf on the shelf, Turtle. Finnley named him all by himself. “We can never tell him I can’t deal with that.” Harry gives a small pout before ever so gently opening the door to Finnley nursery.

“Do you have it?” Harry whispers as quietly as he can. Y/n nods, “yeah.” She whispers, holding the chocolate that was for Finnley, taken out of their advent calendar they fill every year.

They had the idea of wrapping Turtle around one of the bars of Finley's crib and having the elf deliver his daily chocolate treat. Harry tiptoes in his fuzzy socks, squatting down to wrap the elf around the boy's crib bar. Finnley softly stirs making both of that scared and quickly pulling the elf and chocolate behind their backs,

Finnley rubs his face into his sheets before yawning and looking up, blinking his sleepy eyes. “Dada?” He asks, standing up and wrapping his hands around the bars. He shoves the stuffed elf into his wife’s hands before clicking on his side table lamp. “I’m sorry for waking you, my love. Daddy just wanted to check on you.” Harry coos, pulling his baby up and kissing his forehead gently.

“Did I scare you?“ he asks, rubbing his thumb over Finnley's cheek. Finnley grabs his hand and tries to move it to his back so he will softly scratch at his like he always does when he’s rocking him to sleep. “Daddy will scratch your back.” He chuckles, kissing the top of his curly haired head.

“Milk?” He asks, glancing up at his father. Harry nods and kisses his head, grabbing his walking stick that he left in the hallway earlier that day before jogging down the stairs and warming up a bottle for him. He bumps into Y/n in the hallways, giving her a short peck as an apology. “He won’t see it, I shut off the light. He will notice it once we wake him up in the morning.”

“You did it without me?” Harry pouts, his hand on the bottom of the bottle that Finnley is holding to his mouth. “I saved the chocolate for you.” She laughs, sitting it in his hand, a little blue sticky tack on the back so it will stay in the elf’s arms.

Harry smiles and pecks her lips. “You’re the best.”

“Duh.” She jokes, watching him take Finnley back in his room and tuck him in sticking the chocolate on. He walks back out with the bottle in his hand, drinking some of it to annoy his wife. She told her eyes and softly giggled. “We really are those parents.”

“I’ll buy him a real fucking elf as long as he’s happy.” Harry jokes, rubbing her plump baby belly before walking to their room to go to bed.

[fcrox]

If there was something within which Leta held pride it was her designs, the way her styles could alter the life of a person simply because the items in question were crafted to perfection and designed with something in mind. They held meaning. Curiosity danced across her face as she turned toward the page, her mind already altering whatever he noted needed adjusting before his words caught her attention, drew away her eyes to meet his. Had she ever had a true duel? No, sadly not. The witch knew the basics, but something told her she had no idea just how big a difference his duels were. Still, his words caused another thought to pop up. This wasn’t all that different from the robes of Death Eaters, was it? “I can’t say that I have, no.” Leta chuckled, though it wasn’t the sound of an amused person. Rather the sound of someone who understood that this was another person dealing with an art that held consequences if not taken seriously. There was a certain charm in that.

When he made his move, she allowed him to, eyes brimming with curiosity and a certain hint of gratefulness simply because this person in front of her seemed to finally hold the challenge she’d been looking for, for quite a while. “Are you offering me duelling lessons Mr. Dolohov? I’ll take the compliment all the same.” A part of her may have just said yes if that had been the case, blue orbs observing his every move before her eye shot up again. Without so much as a second move her other hand darted out to the side, two snaps of her fingers. “Tea.” The French flew off her tongue so easily as she ordered the elf to brew some. If there was someone requiring her attention, they’d have all of it.

“Whatever craft happens within this shop, rest assured that only the Hogwarts robes are part of the one you called mass production and even those are made by hand, to a degree.” Leta’s voice held a certain bitterness. “The right people get the right treatment. Every single design in that booklet you were browsing was made by me, with my own two hands and the addition of magic to strengthen the thread and fabric. Not a single duellist that has worn my designs has had to deal with the breakdown of either.” There it was again, that pride. Leta Rosier held herself to a higher standard, perhaps at times setting the bar just that much higher than needed.

She gave a huff, bored with the idea of having to deal with more school robes. “Most of the standard variant of robes for students of Hogwarts are made with magic. In fact, that poor damsel you terrified out of her boots in the show room is one of the ones that does that. Most of the robes I design are for those who require more quality.” That was all she had to say, not doubting he’d understood the meaning. “If you’d prefer, we can move this to the atelier at Rosier manor. You can browse fabrics there. And test for yourself if my craftsmanship is to your liking.” Yet she couldn’t help herself, too much in favor of a challenge. A few steps taken away from him toward a shelf only to pull out a binder of fabrics. For a moment she busied herself scanning through the samples before she found what she was looking for. A black fabric, a sample nothing more yet she wasted no time on the actual item. Instead, her wand was pointed at the cloth, a small blasting curse thrown its way back before she tossed it toward the wizard in the room. “Does that satisfy your needs, or do you need an even stronger level of protection?” Not a scratch to be seen. Not when she was aware of the things her own brother got up to. No, Leta had perfected her craft. - @xantoninxdolohovx

Antonin waved a hand as he looked over the designs. "Of course, if it is worth having." He leafed through until he found something to his liking and pressed his finger to the page. “This one though take out the flare for more of a dueling sleeve every second counts and I don’t need the tricks to hide my gestures.” He shifted looking her over for a moment. “Have you ever had one, a duel, a true duel? Not a thing for sport, but where your life may be on the line, it is very different, no judge, no audience and rarely do people fight fairly.” He took in a breath. “Nothing is quite like it.” He got closer to her gently taking her wand hand and looking it over. “Your hands are skilled I can tell devoted to your craft, you aren’t a weak witch, but perhaps under practiced, though compared to me anyone would be under practiced at least to a degree.” He squeezed her hand in both of his before releasing her to presumably make the pot of tea. “Yes, I think you will do, but tell me do you use magic when you mend and sew or do you do the work by hand, or do you more often use magic. I don’t mind it but I need to know that a certain level of focus, blood, and sweat will go into the making of this garment a sole focus would be ideal, and I can pay a premium, but I understand if you must split your focus between ‘several projects’.”

He said the last words with a dripping disdain. He needed to find out whether this was some kind of mass production shop for children’s robes or if he could trust the project to this woman. Would it be better if it was something indistinct, each weak link, but no, he demanded perfection from himself and would from anyone in service to him even temporarily.

“Do you have any questions for me, I have asked a lot of you, I”m sure we’ll settle on price and mundane things like that. Color I think black though a dark green or gray could work just as well, accouterments some pockets, a hood, proofed against tearing and the elements, spells as much as you can, though tearing would be enough I’m sure you could mend something too large but would like to keep the garment whole as long as possible. Something tied to the wand to avoid being disarmed easily. I want to keep my own altering of the garment to a minimum, so the more you can do in its creation the better.”

[footballerimaginess]

Christmas Team Dinner

31 DAYS OF HAYMAS  Ben Chilwell 

For the christmas thing: you organise like a christmas dinner and part at yours and Bens house for his friends/teammates and their families and everyone is impressed with how you handled the whole decoration and stuff as the house has been amazingly dressed in christmas themes Word Count: 411 “How have you managed to do this all while I have been out? It is crazy how much you have done” Ben asked you. “Well I guess I just got on with it.” you smirked.  “This looks great though, you have done so much decorating. It looks fantastic baby. I am so happy you have different themes. How did I get you in my life” you blushed.  “Because I met you at a bar and the rest is history” you kissed him on the cheek before the doorbell rudely interrupted you.  “Hello everyone” he shouted as everyone walked through the house. “Ahhh y/n, hello darling” you heard her shout as you waved and gave them a cuddle to them all.  “This house looks incredible. How have you done this all? Wait that sweet table for the kids is crazy. You have taken so much detail here and I am so pleased with how you have done everything” you grinned. “Ahh thank you so much” “Elf on the shelf table, this is insane. I love it, you have done so much. I just cannot believe it. Guessing Ben didn’t help you” you laughed. “No he didn’t, but that is fine. I don’t expect him too. I have a babysitter looking after all the kids if they wanted to head off” you told them.  The children ran off and headed off to go to play.  The dinner was about to the done by the chef that you had hired for the evening. “Everyone dinner is here” you shouted as they all took their seats.  “What is the theme for this meal?” Mason asked. “Well I decided I would mix it up a little and do different nationalities of food for you all. I hope you don’t mind, I know some aren’t at home for Christmas. So I kind of brought Christmas to you” you smiled.  “Y/N, that is so sweet. Thank you so much, I am so happy with how you have done this” you smiled at Belle’s comment. “Yay, glad you liked it” you grinned.  The rest of the evening was perfect, it went really well. “You really are amazing and I am so glad that everyone now knows how incredible you are. You deserve all of the love tonight” Ben cuddled you as you finally had some alone time.  “Oh Ben, thank you angel. I am so glad you told everyone to come” you laughed as he pulled you in closer.  Taglist: @footballffbarbiex @sanchos-dream @meteora-fc @footballxixstars @football-rambles​ @hollandsmount​ @mountchilly​ @penguintransporter​ @football-and-fanfics​ @kingneyney​

[djbunnie]

Raven celebrates her 21st birthday alone at the Northampton bar, mourning the death of her father John Constantine.

"Another one," Raven asks the blue-skinned bartender for a refill on her empty beer glass.

"Look lady, I think you've had enough.” Said the bartender.

"I'm half demon, it takes more than eight glasses of bourbon to fuck me up," Raven said sarcastically, rolling her amethyst eyes. The bartender shrugged and refilled her glass. And went on his way.

A red tiefling approached Raven occupying the stool next to her, "good afternoon ma'am, it breaks my heart to see that a woman as beautiful as you holds so much sadness in her heart".

Raven just stared angrily at the humanoid creature and continued drinking, hoping he got the message to not to disturb her, but the tiefling did not.

"It must really hurt to lose a fellow warrior" the tiefling pulled out his lute.

Raven pounded her fist on the table in frustration "I didn't lose a f****** hero, I lost my father! He willingly sacrificed his life to save humanity from another world destroying God. and no one would know of it!"

"please ma'am share your story" tiefling male the question began to play a soft melody from his lute.

Raven scolded at the foolish request. "I am many things. a broken soul, a demon, even a weapon of mass destruction. but I am not a singer."

"Perhaps not! It would, however, ease the pain in your heart" said the tiefling.

Raven was a little tipsy, all sense of logical reason disappeared. The amethyst eye beauty stood up and started singing.

~When a humble bard

Graced a ride along

With Geralt of Rivia

Along came this song

From when the gold Wolf fought

A silver-tongued devil

His army of elves

At his hooves did they revel

They came after me

With masterful deceit

Broke down my lute

And they kicked in my teeth

While the devil's horns

Minced our tender meat

And so cried the hellblazer

He can't be bleat

Toss a coin to your hellblazer

O' Valley of Plenty

O' Valley of Plenty,

oh Toss a coin to your hellblazer

O' Valley of Plenty

At the edge of the world

Fight the mighty horde

That bashes and breaks you

And brings you to mourn

He thrust every elf

Far back on the shelf

High up on the mountain

From whence it came

He wiped out your pest

Got kicked in his chest

He's a friend of humanity

So give him the rest

That's my epic tale

Our champion prevailed

Defeated the villain

Now pour him some ale

Toss a coin to your hellblazer

O' Valley of Plenty

O' Valley of Plenty, oh

Toss a coin to your hellblazer

A friend of humanity

Toss a coin to your hellblazer

O' Valley of Plenty

O' Valley of Plenty, oh

Toss a coin to your hellblazer

A friend of humanity

Toss a coin to your hellblazer

O' Valley of Plenty

O' Valley of Plenty, a-oh

Toss a coin to your hellblazer

A friend of humanity~

"Hellblazer? Who are you?" asked the red tiefling.

"Raven."

"No, my dear, you are no longer Raven. That was the old you."

Raven scoffed. "Ah, and who should I be, lady black, sorceress supreme or better yet Maleficent?"Raven replied sarcastically.

The red tiefling smirked. "No ma'am, I think you know...."

Raven let out a sad sigh, she could no longer deny it. " Azarath Metrion Zinthos " she muttered a chant. The young beauty snapped her finger and black smoke surrounded her small figure.

once the black smoke faded, revealing a new hero. no longer Raven from titans, no longer Ravens from azarath, no longer the sidekick of John Constantine. instead stood Hellblazer.

(this is what I imagine Raven would wear if she took the mantle of John Constantine and her bag of goodies)

[mistymark]

rating nct based on what type of mall employee they’d be

thank you to @starrymikrokosmos for the idea xx

taeil: 9/10. florist. always happy to go to work, and brings tea with him to every shift. loves taking orders and arranging flowers. when its quiet, he plays music from his phone as he works. talks to himself sometimes when he needs to remember specific orders but people think he’s talking to the plants.

Johnny: 10/10. works at a photo development pop-up store. puts up some of his own photos and will happily chat to you about what camera, model and lens he used. incredibly knowledgable. helps people pick out good gifts and recommends cheaper alternatives to expensive products.

taeyong: 10/10. works at the body shop. always smells amazing. loves helping customers pick out gifts and can gift wrap like a god. knows everything there is to know about all the products. just so happy to work there tbh. becomes a store manager after his first year working there.

yuta: 6/10. works as a waiter at one of restaurants. has a resting bitch face so people think he’s got an attitude. makes sure customers can’t see him roll his eyes when they send their food back. loves hanging out in the kitchens.

ten: 8/10. works at a clothing store. all his colleagues love him - his boss not so much. works fitting rooms and hates hanging the clothes but loves helping customers decide whether to buy something. -2 points because sometimes he’s a little too honest.

kun: 10/10. works at the kids play centre. i have no reasoning i just know he’d be the best employee ever. all the mothers probably have a crush on him.

doyoung: 8/10. barista at starbucks. very good at his job and knows the orders of regular customers off by heart. prefers the early morning shift to the afternoon. stays working the coffee machine when someone attractive walks in. -2 points because when he's in a bad mood he can be a lil passive aggressive.

winwin: 9/10. works at a bakery/cake shop. when he started he was just supposed to work on the register and serving customers, but he’s actually really good at decorating the cakes and other desserts. often leaves at the end of his shift with his clothes dusted in sugar and flour. smells like heaven.

jaehyun: 8/10. works at an ice cream bar. likes making the more expensive desserts but always gets stationed on the door with samples. it’s probably because he’s so beautiful but that’s never crossed his mind. somehow makes the uniform look good. knows the regular customers really well.

jungwoo: 10/10. works at the smoothie/juice shop. loves wearing the little bandana headband thing around his head. sometimes winks when he catches someone’s eye. every teenage girl who goes in there thinks he’s the hottest guy they’ve ever seen. likes working the late shift and packing up.

lucas: 9/10. works at the pet store. gets very excited when people bring their dogs in with them. excellent at customer service. offers to help get things down from the top shelf. -1 point because he sometimes gets distracted by the dogs and doesn’t do his job.

hendery: 5/10. works at the movie theatre. used to work the ticket booth but would stand and chat to customers about the movies for ten minutes, often strangers. accidentally takes long breaks. uses cinema-themed pick up lines on his coworkers.

xiaojun: 4/10. works at the bookstore. gets distracted by reading the blurbs of books he’s supposed to be putting away. mostly keeps to himself and forgets to ask customers if they need anything. when hes behind the register, he’s either texting his friends or writing.

mark: 7/10. works at a tech store, in the instruments/music section. worked there for ages but if someone asks about phone plans or laptops, he’s absolutely clueless and has to ask someone else for help. can answer any question about the instruments, though. always covers his colleagues’ shifts. gets a lil nervous when serving customers his own age.

renjun: 8/10. works at the boba shop. makes orders perfectly but hates being on the register and actually interacting with customers. likes that there are only a few people who work there, but it took him a while to come out of his shell and talk to them a lot. is personally offended when someone doesn’t like a drink they ordered.

jeno: 6/10. works at a huge toy store. usually the one to put the bikes together before they go on display or after people buy them. accidentally intimidates kids, but once they see him smile, they love him. -4 points because he never checks his schedule and has missed a few of his shifts by accident.

jaemin: 7/10. works at the arcade. smiles 24/7. loves helping the kids pick their prizes and happily chats up the parents that came along. flirts with anyone his own age. used to go to the same arcade as a kid and knows all the ins and outs. -3 points because when a machine stuffs up his general tactic to solve the issue to just, kick it.

donghyuck: 5/10. works at a shoe store. loves when no one comes in because that means he can just spend his entire shift talking to the other staff and looking at the shoes. gets along really well with all his colleagues. happy to help customers but usually doesn’t even notice they’re there so someone has to tell him to go over every time.

yangyang: 6/10. works at an outdoor activities/camping store. doesn’t mind his job but he’s never been camping in his life. took him a while to learn everything. loves working in the sports department. when there aren’t any customers, he’s usually kicking balls around with his friends.

chenle: 8/10. okay hear me out. chenles a holiday hire. only works around december because he’s hired as an elf in santa’s workshop (for photos). gets super excited to help take good photos. usually just stands at the front of the line and asks kids what they want for christmas. -2 points because one time he spilt hot chocolate on his costume and couldn’t get it dry cleaned for two weeks.

jisung: 9/10. works at mcdonald’s. looks super cute in the uniform but blushes whenever anyone compliments him about it. usually works on the registers. takes home whatever food is left over at the end of the night. gets a promotion after working there for a year.