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itsonlydana · 1 month

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"passenger princess" | epilogue

the hobbit | a modern!AU by itsonlydana

❱ pairing: Thranduil x fem!reader

❱ wordcount: 4,8k

❱ summary: Dating Thranduil Oropherion and the PDA that comes with it

❱ warnings: none

❱ an: here we go, one last night in this story✨️ title once again taken from hoziers "abstract" // also: are any of you interested in a official hobbit/thranduil taglist?

general m.list + series m.list

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

THE MOMENT I KNEW I'D NO CHOICE BUT TO LOVE YOU

The evening welcomed you with a chilly embrace and whispered breezes danced through the coat you clung to, drawing it closer as you emerged from the car.

Your head lifted, attention drawn to the imposing building before you. Unbeknownst to you, your jaw subtly fell, lips parting in a muted "Oh" that almost escaped notice, barely reaching your own ears.

"It's quite a sight, isn't it?" Next to you, Thranduil closed the door to the passenger seat of his car after he had helped you out.

He handed the keys and a few notes of cash to a young valet, whose eyes widened as if he were to drive the Batmobile. The boy rushed to the driver's side of the car, the keys turning on the ignition, and the motor purred smooth like a cat.

You barely noticed it, only felt the vibrations of the car starting. Your eyes were glued to the building in front of you. "It's beautiful," you whispered in awe.

The Imladris Opera House lit up the sky's deep and endless midnight blue.

A washed-out white stone façade rose high up in front of you, its architectural features of multicolored marble friezes, columns, and lavish statuary were illuminated by what must have been hundreds of hidden lights. On either side of the left and right avant-corps two gilded angel figures reached their hands towards the center of the building where a glass dome made the highest point of the palace.

Frozen on the spot, you could not take a step on your own until you felt the gentle push of Thranduil's hand on the small of your back. Looking away for just a second, you glanced at him, shot him a bright smile, and let him guide you towards the building.

The weeks had swiftly slipped away, and it hardly felt like an entire season had passed since that fateful night spent cuddled together.

Late summer had given way to autumn, a season dedicated to delving deeper into each other's lives. Evenings were spent on his couch, sipping wine and sharing every detail about the paths you had walked before finding each other. The world transformed into a canvas of colors, with flaming red and orange leaves falling during your walks, and the glow of candlelight casting a warm ambiance as you lost yourselves between the covers.

Your friendship with Legolas grew impossibly stronger, too, with entire weeks now spent at their house. Clad in long sweaters that grazed your knees, you chatted day and night, studied from breakfast to dinner, enjoyed late evening snacks, and repeated the cycle the next day.

Time blurred into a mosaic of tender touches, lingering kisses, and laughter beneath the sheets.

Before you knew it, Thranduil had once again invited you to the Opera, and once again, you had gladly accepted.

As you got closer, the building grew and grew until you had to let your head fall into your neck trying to explore the intricate details you could only see up close, like the elaborate roses carved into the marble columns.

Thranduil caught your wandering looks and his hand slipped from your back to intertwine his gloved fingers with yours as he leaned down a bit.

"It is said that the architect only accepted the project in exchange for the hand of the king's one and only daughter- who was promised to a prince at the time." – Thranduil's voice reached a dramatic cadence, purely for effect – "No one else dared to take on the tasks of building this Opera, the king had ludicrous ideas of combining multiple styles into one that no other architect thought themselves sane enough to try."

You leaned into his side, your hands brushing against the expensive fabric of his knee-long, black woolen coat. When he started talking, explaining the history of this marvelous building you were so close to entering, his voice fell into the passion that you so adored to watch.

No building, even one as breathtaking as the Imladris Opera House, could be more fascinating than watching Thranduil explain something to you that he cared deeply about.

In the golden tones of the cast iron streetlamps flickering their lights, Thranduil's eyes had taken on a fascinated glitter. It disappeared when he noticed you staring up at him, a quick shadow passing over his usually composed face. "Excuse my rambling," he said and you pouted in disagreement.

"Don't apologize," you shook your head, "you know that I enjoy listening to you" And with a quick movement, you rose to your tiptoes, sneaking a peck onto his from the winter air cold lips. In a low and hushed voice, you murmured: "Talk architectural to me" and felt the blood rush into your cheeks when his eyebrows rose on his forehead.

His eyes crinkled at that, the corner of his mouth twitching in that tell-tale smirk that he reserved for those innuendos that passed between you two, ever since the slip of your tongue on the night he invited you to the Opera in the first place.

He planted a gentle kiss on your temple, his lips pausing briefly before he spoke again. "Okay, then, but feel free to interrupt if I start to bore you."

You nodded with enthusiasm. "Absolutely, don't worry. Although everything you say is interesting to me, you know that."

"I'll hold you to that when you start grumbling about your university papers and ask me to help you understand them," he teased.

"Uhmm– that has nothing to do with you," you rolled your eyes, not intending to mock him but to emphasize the sheer annoyance coursing through you at the thought of your coursework. "It's just that my brain ceases to function if I have to read another dull statement from some politician who kicked the bucket centuries ago and contributed nothing positive to society."

Thranduil chuckled and gently lifted your hands, placing another kiss on your knuckles. "I adore it when you're resolute about highlighting all their wrongdoings instead of doing what's required of you," his lips brushed against your skin, setting ablaze the areas he touched. "My firecracker."

You grinned and gave a playful tug on his hand. "Come on, then, enlighten me with the story behind this building."

Thranduil then began fulfilling your ask and since you had a few moments before you had to enter, he pulled you along the walls.

Whenever he talked about some fascinating architectural features ("There are multiple styles but the ones standing out the most are these elements of the Renaissance, Baroque and Neoclassical"), his long fingers pointed towards them, using statues to explain his statements.

You walked along the front façade until you could peek around the corner and he showed you one of the two pavilions- the other one was on the right side of the building, another mathematical symmetric design choice ("Which points to the architect's inspiration by the renaissance").

After that, you turned around again to walk towards the main entrance, where, feeding into your nervousness, a larger crowd had formed a line. Thranduil's hand in yours gripped you tighter as you approached those fashionable men and women who, in your mind, must have seen right through the smile you now wore more so as a mask than out of pure joy.

Despite all the dates planned leading up to this, starting with coffee dates turning into evening dinner outings at restaurants that you felt comfortable with until you let Thranduil choose some that he wanted to take you, you felt like a fish out of water.

Yes, Legolas had helped you select clothes that fitted the occasion, ones you already had because Thranduil would disapprove of you buying an outfit that served as a costume rather than what you felt comfortable with, but right now, staring at the elegant hats and lavish dresses, nothing seemed like the right choice.

Thranduil must have noticed that you grew quieter, answering what became a monologue rather than dialogue, with nods and "Hmms". He didn't say anything out loud, nor did he stop talking, probably relying on the whispered reassurance that you had given him one evening when he had fallen into a monologue such as this one, raving on about a book he had read when you'd admitted how much it calmed you to hear him speak.

You let him tug you under his arm, resting your cheek against his side while you slowly shuffled forward in the line.

Coming closer to the double doors opened wide enough to let golden light fall out into the night and bathe those entering into its nearly godlike shimmer, the storm inside you ebbed into a breeze, scarcely shuffling through some thoughts that your mind couldn't let go just yet.

Considering what you have gone through, this date shouldn't scare you. This was Thranduil beside you, the man who held your heart carefully in the palm of his hand as much as his arm secured you right now, he would make sure that this night would play out like you wanted.

"When we enter you will see–"

You interrupted Thranduil with a gentle nudge of your head against his chest. The smile that now graced your mouth was soft and real again, something Thranduil immediately caught onto.

"Thank you," you said without further explanation; it wasn't needed.

"You are welcome, my dear," Thranduil leaned down again, hovering over your lips as his eyes took you in as if to make sure to imprint your smile into his memory, before closing the gap between you.

There was no hesitation in the way he kissed you, his lips parted as soon as you lifted your chin higher to meet him and a barely audible but deep and sensual hum spilled into your mouth. One of his gloved hands cupped your cheek to angle your head and his thump stroked over your jaw. It fell open with the slight pressure performed from the finger, inviting him in to deepen the kiss.

Only the clearing of a throat behind you reminded you that you were for one in public, close to making out like teenagers, and second standing in line.

While you pulled away from Thranduil, your head flushed beet red, and muttering: "Sorry, I'm so sorry, yes, sorry, we will move", Thranduil looked awfully pleased with himself as he lifted his hand to wipe away some lipstick that had stained the corner of his mouth.

He shot you a wink as your eyes flittered over the deliberately slow movement of his thumb and you rolled your eyes, cheeks flaming hot.

You rushed to close the gap that had formed while you and Thranduil had been all over each other, giving the woman and her grinning husband another apologetic nod and smile. You pulled on the red scarf that Thranduil wore around his neck.

"You're impossible," you murmured, casting him a scornful glance, then burying your face in a cold hand, "Oh God, how embarrassing"

Thranduil's chuckle at your attempt to hide your heated cheeks and probably reddened lips only showed you how little he regretted the kiss.

"Darling," he began, still grinning widely and clearly proud of his talent for unraveling you in public like that, "If it bothers you too much, I'll restrain myself. However," – he leaned in, whispering the next words in your ear – "look how everyone looks at us. They envy me for standing beside you, for not having the most exquisite person in one of their arms."

You raised your head just in time to see a young man a few meters in front of you hastily jerk away and, promptly, dropped his ticket. When he stood up again after fishing for the paper on the ground, he looked back at you, then at Thranduil and oh, there really was something like envy in his eyes.

And because Thranduil was Thranduil, a cocky asshole at times, he smiled at the boy while his arm dropped to your waist provocatively.

You only rolled your eyes, yet this public display of affection and possessiveness had your heart flutter in your chest.

Heart pounding through your rib cage, his large hand holding you to him, you muttered something through your teeth.

Thranduil raised one eyebrow interested. "Could you maybe repeat that, I did not understand what you said."

"I said," you took a deep breath, huffing out air that dissolved into a white cloud, "–that I do not mind the kisses."

A grin filled with satisfaction spread across Thranduil's face at that, dimples carved out into porcelain skin. The hand on your waist held on tighter and it took a simple tug of him for your body to turn into his again, a simple twitch of his lips for you to kiss him.

This time though, you made sure to have it last no longer than a quick peck as the line moved and just when you separated, the crowd in front of you cleared.

"Good evening, Mister Oropherion! I haven't seen you in a while," a young woman greeted Thranduil, and overcome with shock you stared at your partner.

"Good to see you again, Sigrid", Thranduil winked at you, mouthing a "Later" when he noticed your bewilderment. Delving into the depths of his black coat, he retrieved a golden card – the Opera's emblem gleaming in the lantern light – as Sigrid waved her hand.

"Ohh, you know I don't need to check your card, Sir!"

Thranduil laughed and the card disappeared in the pocket of his coat again. "I know, I know. I also know that your boss wouldn't like you skipping formalities just because it is me" – his mouth curved into a smirk, "ah and I have someone to impress tonight"

Sigrid leaned forward, a hand next to her mouth, to faux a whisper: "He may seem like an arrogant ass, but I can tell you– he is secretly a softie"

"What?" you faked a gasp, turning to look up at Thranduil who, to your surprise, blushed…blushed!

He playfully swatted your hips and shot Sigrid a warning look: "What have I ever done to you that you must embarrass me in front of the lady?" He sighed, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him, "Was it the time that I thought Legolas invited you over to…what did you call it, my love?" as if in deep thought, Thranduil lifted a hand to scratch his perfect chin, "Netflix and chill?"

"Oh my god–"

"Thranduil!" you cried, laughter bubbling up your throat before you could stop it. Out of pure condolence for the girl, you started shoving him into the entrance hall, away from the girl whose face turned beetred as she fumbled to stamp the tickets of the next couple.

"It was nice to meet you!" you huffed out, wrangling with the tall body of Thranduil who was snickering to himself, making it not easier for you to handle him.

"We should chat some other time! Legolas, some boys and I have a movie night once every while, you could join"

The invitation was clearly not enough to help the poor woman, Thranduils high-pitched laughter (so unusual for his usually deep and honeyed voice, that pure sound of his laughter) would probably haunt her for the rest of the evening given the look on her face.

However, she nodded frantically. "Sure, I will have Legolas send you my number," then she smiled, "Have fun tonight! You as well, Sir!"

"I'm sure we will," you called back and there was a phrase like "If you could behave the rest of the night" on your tongue, at the sight of the entrance hall however, it slipped away.

The hand that you had used to direct Thranduil fell and he used the opportunity where your mind stopped working, to take it back into his. If you weren't so busy staring at the interior of the Opera House you would have teased him for being so touchy tonight, yet there was nothing leaving your lips of that sort.

"Wow," you breathed out.

The red carpet you stopped on trailed further into the hall, ending shortly before a large ceremonial staircase of white marble with a balustrade of red and dark blue marble, which divided into two divergent flights of stairs leading to the second floor which overlooked the foyer through wide open curved outward balconies. Golden candleholders with what must have been hundreds of candles decorated the columns, lulling you into a trance with the flicker of their flames.

A finger trailed over your temple, sliding down behind your ear and your neck, and it came to rest with the rest of the hand on your shoulder. "For years I have gone in and out of these halls, impressed by their beauty. Now, with you standing right here, all the gold pales." Thranduil's words sent a shiver up your spine and you tilted your head to stare at the ceiling.

"There is no need for flattery," you said, wide eyes wandering over the balconies on which women leaned onto the balustrades with sparkling glasses of wine, to the grand staircase where the crowd trailed upward without a hurry, "You already have this girl speechless."

Thranduil's lips delicately brushed against the shell of your ear, as his hands leisurely traced the contours of your side.

"What a shame, though I would hope you will find your voice again," his voice bore semblance to a velvety purr, "–for I am genuinely interested in garnering your perspective on the private balcony, affording an impeccable view of the orchestra, that I had readied for us."

As your head swiftly turned to fixate on him, his rosy lips formed, in a manner not surprising anyone, that typical smirk that left you marveling at the intriguing resilience you had maintained in resisting its captivating allure. Every time you saw it, especially now with his icy blue eyes waiting, provoking a response, you were contemplating how you had never fainted at the sight of it before.

And the worst part was, that he knew what he could do to you with one single smirk, or just, and it was embarrassing to admit but you couldn't help but fall for it every time, one strategically raise of an eyebrow.

No matter how bewitching his smirk was, however, you were much more hooked by what he said.

The questions toppled over themselves in your head, a "WHAT?" knocked down a "You are kidding, right?" and then there were the big "Why?!" and "How?" that you were hung on.

Most of these questions resolved themselves; there was no need to reiterate what had already been sufficiently explained. Thranduil was undeniably wealthy, almost absurdly so in his own estimation.

This fact had been glaringly apparent from the outset when you only knew him as Legolas' father, the owner of a law firm that represented politicians and celebrities, often requiring him to work late. He indulged in whiskey from opulent bottles and drove the most extravagant car you had ever sat in. The first time you visited Legolas at their home, a gathering of Thranduil's colleagues celebrated his ascension to CEO, filling the mansion with the strains of piano music and the gentle clinking of delicate crystal glass flutes.

If it hadn't been clear, Thranduil's habit of spending a lot of money with and for you (whether it was in the form of gifts such as books, a new coffee machine for your dorm, or simply the dates he took you on) was explanation enough.

The man had been greeted by name at the entrance and like a few people, all dressed in fine clothes like him, he didn't have a ticket, he had a member card.

So you swallowed your questions, took the arm he offered you and let yourself be led through the beautiful and tall halls of the opera.

Why not savor both this gift and the delightful company of the man you've fallen for?

If it wasn't obvious that Thranduil was showing off a bit, come on, he had kissed you right in the middle of the grand staircase and grinned at every man staring at you on your way, it became more than clear when you walked down the hallway to the private rooms. Another boy in uniform opened a door as soon as he saw Thranduil walk up to him, greeting him by name just like Sigrid did.

Behind the door, you let out the quietest "Holy shit" afraid that the swear would taint whatever holy atmosphere vibrated around you.

The air was filled with the low murmur of people talking, shuffling towards their seats and you, you looked down on all of them.

Literally.

Beneath you a sea of stools stretched onward, a moving mass of hats and pinned-up hair.

You took a careful step forward, coming up to the balustrade, you laid your hands on the red velvet that cushioned the balcony.

Just like the other balconies on your left and right, beautiful wooden panels were creating an archway under which you stood, with roses and delicate swirls painted golden.

You had a clear view of the stage, up on the fourth floor as you quickly counted in your head. The stage was covered by maroon curtains that draped over each other instead of just framing the sides and ended in gold ornaments at the seams.

The dome, which you had seen from the outside, was hidden behind a slightly curved ceiling, the only telling of what rose into the sky behind it. Nevertheless, the ceiling was a view all of its own.

A piece of art.

Up there, a dark sky had been painted, sprinkled with tiny golden dots of stars and hanging perfectly centered not just to the painting but to the whole room, hung an enormous chandelier, dripping with crystals that reflected the light of the lamps, honey golden liquid broken down into a thousand shards and bathing everything in a spectacle of imitations of stars.

Thranduil stepped up behind you again. He slung his arms around you, pressing his front against your back to rest his chin on your shoulder. Silver hair fell over you as he nuzzled your temple with his nose, brushing and tickling the sensitive skin of your neckline.

Slowly he took on to unbutton your coat, his nimble fingers pushing one button after the other through the holes.

"Is this the time to tell you that I practically own this balcony?" his voice rolled over your body, words spoken close enough that you felt his lips form them.

"Yeah," you breathed out "I figured."

"And do you know what that means?" he asked while opening the last button.

You shook your head slightly so as not to knock him away.

"It means," he unfolded himself from you to pull away your coat. You turned and watched as he hung it next to his own, it looked small in his large hands. Your fingers dug deep into the velvet behind you, eyes locked with his. "It means we can come here whenever we want as well as leave whenever we want"

It wasn't what you had expected to hear, yet you let out another deep breath, basking in the residue of tension and heat that had lapped at you both and transformed into something softer, much more meaningful than desire.

"You are the most fascinating man I have ever met," you mused, tilting your head to look at him. Thranduil was dressed up in smart black (and snug) pants and his white blouse wore a stark resemblance to the one a character you had gushed over in a movie had worn.

That he had maybe chosen the article for that exact reason made your heart flutter in your chest.

He sauntered closer to you again, hands clipped together in his back and when he leaned against one of the two chairs, the only furniture except for a small table, it was nothing but graceful. He regarded you through hooded eyes, an expression in them that was so full of infatuation it should be too much for a relationship this young, this fresh but you had been ready to plunge into this deep and far ever since you had met him.

"I promise this is just to impress you," Thranduil smiled, and lifted one corner of his mouth higher than the other and it made him look almost shy.

"Mhmm," you hummed, stepping closer to him and when you reached out to cup his cheek, he leaned into it. His eyes bore into yours, the ice-cold blue melting every bone in your body into a puddle. "I think," you whispered and looked from one eye to the other, "you don't need anything to impress me except for yourself." Raising to your tiptoes, you smiled against his mouth "Thank you, Thranduil. This is the best gift anyone has ever given to me"

As you looked up at him through hooded eyes, his gaze became soft. His lips met yours in a gentle but playful kiss, one where he nipped at your lower lip and throat and did that low purr of satisfaction. It made your head swim in the best way possible, let all thoughts come to rest.

When the lights dimmed a short while later, you found yourself cuddled against Thranduil's side, his arm around as natural as everything had become between you.

The music swelled- the tunes of a piano mixing with the violins and cellos, increasing into the playful introduction that you had come to listen to whenever Thranduil drove you anywhere.

You allowed your glance to flee from the orchestra to Thranduil, watching his side profile next to you.

"I am so lucky," you whispered. It should have been spoken far too quietly to be heard in a room that was filled with a dozen instruments orchestrating the most gorgeous music.

Thranduil however, turned his head as soon as you said the words.

"You say you are the lucky one yet here I sit, unable to believe you are truly with me," he said and reached out to trace a finger over your temple down to your cheek. "There are so many things I would like to tell you, my darling"

You watched him, silently inquiring him to continue.

He sighed and the corner of his eyes crinkled in soft delight. "It's just– I feel so much more ever since you came into my life and while it's close to overwhelming– well, and I do mean that truthfully and wholeheartedly positive, it made me realize how much more enjoyable life is when I can share it with someone I l–like"

"That doesn't sound like something that's 'just' anything," your wavering voice betrayed how collected you wanted to sound. Feelings as hard as the waves during a storm crashed inside you, lapping up your throat trying to break out of where you dammed them away to.

"No," Thranduil shook his head "No, I dare say it's not just anything. It seems to be everything. You, you wonderful girl, you are everything"

Your breath hitched, caught in the mix of emotions in your throat. Fingers carefully lifted to intertwine your hands, coming together in your lap. He waited, you figured, he waited for you. He always waited for you. The music faded into the background as you reached for him.

Reaching and waiting, daring and yearning, teasing and loving.

He was the fine threat that pulled on your heart, tugging on it in the same rhythm as it beat inside your chest.

"Thranduil?" you fiddled with his fingers, tugging on them to have an outlet for everything rushing through you, leaving you restless with the want to scream your feelings into the world.

"Yes?" He sounded hoarse, unusually so, and it urged you on further.

"The moment I met you I knew you would take my heart and whisk it away." Grappling with the challenge of expressing just how much of an impact he had on you, you thought back to every big movie scene, every lovesong that you finally understood the lyrics to.

All of them felt bland in contrast to the cocktail of feelings that he evoked in you, the emotions that came from loving this man.

However, he beat you to it, articulating what had occupied your contemplation.

"I love you," Thranduil's voice resonated, gaining a steady cadence. "I love you. I realize it might be soon, and time lies ahead of us, but I wish to spend every moment with you, fully aware of the depth of my feelings."

A violin's sigh, a cello's resonance, a gasp.

"I love you too, Thranduil. So much."

Thranduil inclined his head, a golden aura enveloping his silver-blonde locks that cascaded around you like the rich, heavy red curtains.

At that moment, he resembled the Swan, exuding grace and elegance. His long, fair eyelashes cast shadows on his high cheekbones, and as he leaned in to kiss you, a profound sense of being utterly cherished and loved enveloped you, much like the crescendo of the music all around.

taglist [closed]: @mushroomemeralds, @mssuguru, @solartoge, @12134z03, @fruitymoonbeams-blog, @lady-of-imladris @finallyforgotten , @123forgottherest @tomhockstetter7-111 @marshymallo @emily-roberts @howlerwolfmax @tigereyesf @seththetinydemon

#📁files: passenger princess #thranduil x reader #thranduil fanfiction #thranduil x you #thranduil oropherion #thranduil fluff #lotr x you #lord of the rings fanfiction #lord of the rings x you #lord of the rings x reader #the hobbit fanfiction #lotr x reader #the hobbit x reader

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justafairytailofinnocence · 17 days

Text

Modern Thranduil x anxious reader

Caged birds with broken wings

Chapter 1:

A Dance with tardiness

Synopsis: An antisocial, anxious writer in her early 20s attends a ballet class under the teachings of a mysterious, reserved, austere dance instructor. They form an unlikely within their solace and past.

Warnings: mentions of blood

Chapter 2

A/n: This fanfic doesn't follow along the lines of the hobbit but rather a loosely spin-off au that only uses some characters. I do not own the right to them as they are Tolkien's characters and I respect his creation. (even if the characters might be ooc). Feel free to comment, reblog and like. Let me know if you'd like a chapter 2.

I tended to daydream often, more so when I listened to the music. The tune and tone of the song that played one after the other sent me to the realms I immersed; typically, anyone would daydream into another realm far better than their own: a princess, pirate, elf, fae—anything. My imagination is my realm of comfort, a sealed bubble that I can freely roam however I wish. Unfortunately, within fantasy, we must face reality. Within my reality, I’m not much of an importance, at least not one to have a whole written memoir about. I’m more of one of those faces you’d pass by in the street or grocery store, not giving any second thought to. Though I’d prefer it that way, I’m not much of a talker but rather a writer; I’m more fluent in my words than my speaking. Every attempt I’ve made, I’ve stumbled or become still; my chest would rise heavily and lower deeply. I always asked how people can do it, how they can speak—talk—communicate like it’s a piece of cake. I’d rather shroud myself in my isolation than speak to another living being.

At my desk, in my somewhat clean apartment, I was planning my next latest story in a saga of 3 books. So far, I’ve managed to get in contact with a publishing company via email who were willing to get behind the idea of a feature-length young-adult romance novel, a romance novel about a pirate king and a fae queen. The first chapter was still relatively underdeveloped, yet I’m willing to spend an entire day finishing it. I had only five months to publish the entire chapters. I’ve been a fantasy fan ever since I was a child. To me, fantasy is what the word impossible turned into possible. For ten years, I’ve been writing, and never once has it stripped me of what I truly adore.

Whilst my fingers pressed against the keys on my keyboard, I received a text message on my phone from the side of my desk surrounded by papers. It was from my mom, who was wondering about my well-being. As always, I respond with the usual ‘everything’s going well—I’m pumping out new chapters for my new novel, ‘A Puncture in Time’, you know—the one with pirates and fantasy, new chapters soon to come ;)’. Even though she’s smart enough to see through my little façade, she writes back, ‘Hey listen, I know it’s hard right now, but I can assure you, things will get better; it just takes practice; I know you’ll meet someone you’ll find it easy to talk to’. I sighed heavily; within her words, I have faith, yet doubt. Should I choose to believe her, bite the bullet and try to speak up or wallow in a lie that can send her mind at ease? Before I wrote back, she sent a post with a link. I furrowed my brows as curiosity swelled my thoughts, my finger tapped the link. It was an ad. An ad for ballet classes. I thought it odd why she would send me something like this: I’m no dancer; I’m certainly no ballerina.

I replied with a question mark ‘?’.

A message bubble popped up: ‘…’ I awaited her reply.

As she was still typing, I took the liberty of glancing through the ad quickly. The tab loaded with a cursive font in bold ‘Les danseuses se réjouissent’. Scrolling past the stock images of ballet dancers, I came across a small section of different levels offered: beginner, Intermediate, and advanced. My mind raced with doubt; I had no experience in ballet, at least not since I was a young child. I wondered to myself, ‘Do I really want to take this? After all, I’m not exactly one for groups’. However, my mind was put at ease when my eyes came across an option for ‘one-on-one private lessons’. At least, I wouldn’t be with people who were far more experienced—let alone a group; the thought of many eyes staring at me—would have my heart sink. As I clicked the option, I was astounded; there were no reviews, pictures, or even a description of the instructor. I was sceptical. Surely, if you were to teach a class, you’d have at least a brief introduction of yourself. Even as an author, I have a concise introduction in my publications. I lightly sighed, weighing my options; on the one hand, it’ll please my mom, get me out of the apartment, and keep me fit; on the other hand, despite being private, I’m meeting someone I don’t know. Who knows what this person’s intention is, even if it’s for a class.

Finally, I heard a ‘ding’ as she replied, ‘Please try, at least for me; it’ll be good for your health, and you once mentioned you wanted to be a ballerina. I know the world isn’t always what we want it to be, but I know you can make it shine; I’ve seen it in your novels; give this a chance, give them a chance, to show them how you can shine, because I know you’ll be the brightest star there :).’

My eyes softened as I read every word; I couldn’t deny she had a way of getting through to me. She was always a caring woman, along with my dad. They were the only two people I could speak to without pressure or the weight in my chest.

I pressed back onto the tab with the private lessons. I clicked to see the booking dates—there’s an option to book for tomorrow, and the price is only $45 per lesson. For the price, it wasn’t too bad; yet still expensive. I filled in the details required to send the booking through, yet my finger hovered as I was about to press ‘confirm’. My mind came to a tussle of thoughts and hesitations; this would be the first time, in a long time, that I would speak face-to-face with an actual living being. However, I recalled Mom's words, ‘Because I know you’ll be the brightest star there’.

Breathing in—I pushed it, I pressed confirm.

I did it. I’m going to attend a ballet class. My head slowly lowers onto my desk, surrounded by papers. My hair dangled over my forehead. The adrenaline that reached the height of my mentality came crashing down. It’s like going on a rollercoaster you didn’t ask for, coming from the highest point of the rail down to the pit below. I start to feel light-headed. I want to sleep. I want to stay here. Perhaps I’ve made a mistake. What if this doesn’t work out?

I rose slowly from my desk chair, picked up my phone, and texted, ‘I’ve booked lessons for tomorrow…I hope you're right about this.’

I watched as once more, awaiting her response, ‘…’

‘Oh, I’m so happy, you’ll fit right in, I know it :)’ she texted.

I didn’t respond. She’s pleased, at least.

I decided to call it a night; I’ve had enough pressure for one day. I logged off, cleaned the papers on my desk, pushed them into a neat-ish pile and headed to the bathroom to shower. As I opened the door, I went inside to set down my pyjamas by the medium-small bathtub’s acrylic side rim. My bathroom isn’t big exactly, but neither is it small. It’s moderate for what it was: a bathtub, shower, toilet, sink, and a medium-sized mirror in the same room. It’s not precisely palace material, but it helps soothe my thoughts. I held my hand out as I turned on the shower, feeling the trickling water against my skin. The temperature quickly changed from cold to warm in just five seconds. Once I was satisfied, I stripped bare, sliding my long-sleeved green shirt off and sliding my darker tracksuit pants. I tossed my unmentionables inside the bathtub. I stepped inside the shower, allowing the warm water to run freely down my skin. I shut the shower enough to have a slit entrance still. I grabbed the soap, rubbing it over my skin, arms, legs, and body. I splashed water on my face as the water rinsed the suds away. I hovered my hands in my eyesight, glancing closer at my fingers. I could see the redness and patches from where I’d picked my skin; it’s a habit I developed since childhood. The habit would annoy Mom, often whispering or saying straight, “Stop picking”, even touching my hand to remind me. Unfortunately, this habit hasn’t subsided; I sometimes even look at my skin with little care, picking the cuticles or rough patches.

Once I finished scrubbing my body with soap, I turned off the water and opened the shower door to step onto the bathmat. I grabbed a towel from the single towel rack located beside the shower. I dried my body, running the towel over my skin. As I wrapped the towel around my body, I glanced at my face in the mirror above the sink. They say eyes are the most expressive in emotion. My narrowed, pinkish lips thinned.

I snapped out of my gaze, continuing to slip on my long blue pants decorated in owl prints, then, the next, a long-sleeve top with the basic purple on them topped with a giant owl embroidered in the front area. Owls have always resonated with me, whether it's their symbolism or captivating beauty. I placed the towel on the side of the bathtub’s rim. I picked up my previous clothes and took it into my bedroom. My bedroom was also medium sized, having a queen-sized bed and an oaken cupboard with a mirrored wardrobe. My room was decorated with tiny figurines I’d collect overtime, albeit from movies I’ve fancied or books. I placed the clothes in my hamper basket behind my door. My body relaxed when my eyes lingered toward my bed, the messy, deep blue sheets draped to the left side. I dismissed the thought of tucking them in for the time being, only plonking myself onto the mattress and wrapping myself within the single cotton sheets and doona drifting off.

Dreaming is the easy part, letting what visions came to my mind run wild. Sometimes, it’s suitable for inspiration, but other times, it's nightmares. The imagination is still enchanting, although, this time, it was peculiar. I was in a birdcage decorated with gold; the entrance was bolted shut; my hands gripped the golden rods holding the cage together. I tried to scream but to no avail. I tried to shake the cage, yet I was too small to provoke movement. My body lowered, feeling the coldness of the metal plate below. I had nothing but rosy ribbon pointe shoes. I suddenly felt myself, in no control, rise as though my limbs were attached to strings. I started to dance, my arms and legs stretching to fit the perfect movements. Eventually, I stopped mid-movement, standing on one leg while extending the other behind. I couldn’t move; I was frozen in place. I could do nothing but shut my eyes.

Suddenly, I woke up; my eyes fluttered open from the confusion I had just endured. Rising from the bed, I pondered for a few seconds. ‘What on earth did I dream about?’. My hands pressed against my face, trying to comprehend my dream and reality. I pulled the sheets off me and got up for the morning. A typical morning for me results in the usual routine: dressing, brushing my teeth and hair, and then looking forward to what the day offers me. Until I remembered that I had booked that class. I typically picked out green tracksuit pants with a white singlet, hoping that would suffice. I picked up my purse and headed out the door to my car. I entered inside, placing my purse in the front seat as I turned on the white car. I noticed outside that it started to snow. Snow is beautiful, especially the little snowflakes that fall into your hand and dissolve upon touch.

As the car started, I prepared to drive to wherever it was that awaited me. The location was further from where I lived; it must’ve been at least twenty-eight minutes. The drive wasn’t particularly bothersome for me; when you live in New York, you get used to the traffic.

As I drove, the snowflakes emerged in more significant numbers. Eventually, I found parking just next to the side of a café. I wasn’t aware if it was for the staff or guests. However, it seemed empty with only a few cars, so—if I get called out on it, I’ll move my car. No one seemed to notice, so I assumed I was okay. I grabbed my black parker from the back and zipped it up. Exiting the car, I stopped to admire the snow falling for a few seconds. It was January 4th, so the snow season was still here. My hands shoved in my pockets, beginning to wander toward where I needed to be. According to the ad, it was building ‘52’; it was vague, I know, but it was the details given. I trudged through the snow, seeing building after building, until I came across something with the number ‘52’, where I needed to be. My hand gripped the gold-looking handle attached to the glass door. As I entered, I came upon a staircase; I took one step after the other. I quickly glanced at the ad to see what floor it was on, yet to no avail. Was it the ‘4th floor? Oh god, oh god, please don’t resort to me asking someone. My fingers started to twitch; I raised one of my fingertips to my lips, feeling the rough patches. My thumb started scraping off the first layer, and small blood trickles formed. I ran my fingers over my lips again as I trailed up the stairs. I could feel my chest becoming heavier, my mind swell with thoughts of self-doubt. Suddenly, the anxiety soon started to subside as my eyes saw the sight of a door. My fingers hesitantly wrapped around the door handle; I took one breath in, trying to be brave. I pushed it open—only for my worst nightmare to come to life.

My breathing became heavier, my heart sank, my eyelids widened, and I could feel myself hyperventilating. There was a group of ballerinas staring directly at me. There must’ve been at least four? Five? Looking my way! Their ages varied, going into their late 20s.

The one brunette asked in French “es-tu perdu, cherches quelqu’un”.

I couldn’t concentrate; my mind dwelled with clouded thoughts of judgment. I pressed my finger against my lip, trying to feel the rough patches.

Another asked in English, “My friend asked if you’re searching for someone”.

Quickly, my eyes diverted to the ground, avoiding their gaze. “I-I-, pr-viate, less-on”. I stumbled over my words.

“Lessons? Private lessons?” the girl spoke once more.

I nodded, avoiding eye contact.

As I quickly glanced, a middle-aged woman in her mid-forties stepped closer; I assumed she was the dance teacher. “Are you referring to the private dance lessons advertised? the one taught by Mr. Oropherion?”.

I paused for a moment, trying to gather my words. Mr Oropherion? Is he the teacher I’m with?

“I-Is. This. Right. Floor.” I tried to sound out the right words, but it was impossible. Perhaps my conscience was right; perhaps this was a terrible idea.

The middle-aged woman, confused, pointed toward the direction I needed to go. “you’ll need to head up one more level, then head to your right” Her voice was calm with a hint of soprano.

Still avoiding eye contact, I left, not even saying thank you, focusing on wanting to escape. I closed the door in front and let out a heavy breath. My head lowered to touch the tip of my hands. I wanted to melt in that moment; I wanted nothing more than to return home. However, I reminded myself that I was doing this for Mom. I breathed in once more, looking up at the door; my hands quickly released, and I began to walk quickly, edging further up the stairs. My mind came crashing down, feeling the dreariness wash over me. Feeling tired, I finally, at last, came across the door I needed to be. It was blank, the painted white withering away around the edges. My hand reached the doorknob, feeling the roundness, turning it slightly. I could feel the adrenaline kick in. I was hesitant, but my nerves started to build.

I started to whisper to myself, “Just a general hello, that’s all it takes—

You're doing this for Mom—

Give them a chance to show them how I can shine; give them a chance to see who I am because I’ll be the brightest star there”.

I breathed in, closing my eyes and opening the door. As I tried to force my eyes open, I was confused. There was no one here. It was an empty space surrounded by mirrors with bar beams attached to them. My eyes scanned the room, yet no one was there. I suppose I should be relieved, maybe the teacher had caught a sickness and decided to ditch the whole class. I wandered further inside; I might as well take a quick peek. I unzipped my black parker with a furry hood, tossed it on the coat hanger and took off my shoes, leaving my white socks on. I stood in the middle of the dance room, embracing the quiet ambience. I looked in the mirrors, reflecting my figure. Was this even what ballerinas wear? Who even is Mr. Oropherion? If he doesn’t show up in the next 15 minutes, I’m heading off and not returning.

Perhaps Aelwynn, the fae queen in my novel, would’ve also been able to dance freely and eloquently in movement. I still wonder what would entrance the pirate king Sarek Salazar. I never pictured him to be devilishly handsome, though. I suppose Aelwynn would be a beauty, but there must be more to it—beauty can only go so far in their bond; what would their obstacles or hardships be? Perhaps the fae queen is somewhat intertwined with difference, the opposite of a fairytale. Aelwynn is fair, kind, beautiful and strong; she meets all the criteria for something otherworldly, yet what if Sarek is her opposite, a beast? No—What if he was average, a gross-looking thing? Pirates are anyway; what if he wasn’t powerful, just an average man with greed—and the dynamic changes, challenging Sarek to choose between the love of his life or treasure?

Or he would choose—

Suddenly, I heard a male voice emit behind me: “You best have a thorough explanation, girl. Do not even think about squandering my precious time.”

My breathing became heavier as I realized someone was speaking to me. I did not turn around; I was afraid to. Instead, I avoided eye contact, too paralysed to move. My head stooped low, and my hands stood to the side. He spoke again, “Clearly, you are here for a reason, are you not? I’ll admit your intrusion is rather fatuous.”

I didn’t glance up; I couldn’t look; I needed time to gather the words to explain. What should I say? Hey, sir, some ballerinas told me to come here, and I fear speaking to people.

“I see you have a mouth; that means you must have a tongue. Go on, speak.” His voice was deep and tranquil, composed yet icy.

I took a deep breath in, slowly turning around. As my legs moved, I slowly gathered the courage to look into the man’s eyes, even if I muttered a ‘hello’. It would be enough. As my head glanced up to meet his, I noticed his appearance.

He—was like—something out of a fairytale. His face was lean and chiselled; his eyes were like ice; his blueish-greyish irises complemented his cold gaze. His hair tressed down like water reaching his chest, light like snow. Whilst his skin was pale in comparison, a fair tone in colour. His attire seemed far more affluent than mine, donning a black trench coat with white underneath. His trousers complimented the darkness of his coat, and his black loafers were polished. I glanced at his right finger, an oval-shaped ring with a diamond glass stone crafted in sterling silver.

“Did you hear me not the first-time girl?” his tone turned stern.

My mouth moved, finally finding the words to speak. “H-hello, I’m Y/n”.

“y/n?” he muttered.

My eyes glanced downward once more as I slowly nodded.

“So, you have a voice after all, pray, tell. Why are you lingering in my domain?” he said shortly.

I muttered “private lessons”, though my voice sounded like a whisper.

“Ah, so you’ve seen the ad; I suppose you haven’t wasted our time after all, although you are five minutes late; I expect punctuality, to be exactly on time at the hour.” His voice sounded stern once more.

Well gee, it’s not like it’s my first time here, and gotten lost. My eyes still avoided his; I couldn’t look up, so I nodded.

He didn't react when I avoided his gaze, dismissing it. However, he commented on something else: “Your posture is lamentable. Stand up straighter like so.” The tip of his finger lightly touched my chin, lifting it to meet his gaze. I didn’t turn away precisely, yet I still flinched. My breathing slowed down as I once more met his gaze. His eyes narrowed, and his lips thinned.

“You stand there like a bird, wounded by the natures of evil, ignorant of the world’s knowledge, caged and sheltered from the shadows that lurk within the realm. Tell me, little bird, care to spread your wings?” I glanced at myself in the mirror, standing straighter. I could feel the flush in my cheeks, but I didn’t say anything, only breathing slowly.

His finger pulled away, and he turned his back to me, walking away.

“I expect to see you here tomorrow at exactly the seventh hour of the night”.

“Do not make me regret my decision, or you shall return to the cage from where you came, little bird”, He muttered.

With that, he walked out of the room, distancing himself further and further away. At that moment, I stood in disbelief for a few seconds, trying to understand what had happened. However, once my thoughts were collected, I gathered my things and scurried out of there, wanting nothing more than to enter my car. Once I exited the building, I was hit with the coldness in temperature as it touched my face.

I opened the car door, tossing my things in the back, turning the engine on. I looked back, trying to see the building to the left. As I drove, my thoughts were plagued with astonishment. I didn’t look away; I maintained eye contact for longer than three seconds, and—I managed to speak my name without stumbling over my words. My emotions displayed were as if I’d seen a ghost. Yet—his face—his appearance—it reminded me of snow; I always loved snow; even when I was a child, it was the happiest of my memories. I recall when my parents took me to the park; I was fascinated by the sight of the winter wonderland, my face lighting up with delight and laughing with joy. I always find that snow rekindles the fond memories I have.

Perhaps Mom was right after all; this might be the start of something I’ve never been able to do. Talk.

#thranduil au #thranduil x you #thranduil #thranduil oropherion #the hobbit au #the hobbit #thranduil fanfic #lord of the rings #thranduil ballet au #thranduil headcanon #thranduil fanfiction #thranduil x reader #thranduil oropherion x reader

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hometoursandotherstuff · 1 year

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I never wanted a house as much as I want this one in Laguna Niguel, California. $5.2M. You enter by walking on a bridge over a koi pond (If you’re into golf, it’s built on the 10th hole of a golf course.)

It’s a whimsical hobbit mansion. These are the stairs, but there’s also an elevator.

Cozy sitting area.

The main sitting room. There’s so much to see in this house.

Look at the dining room ceiling.

Large kitchen and dining space. Love the red island.

This is cool. You come in from the garden and there’s a pub façade with a balcony.

Off to the side is another full chef’s kitchen.

The entrance to your private pub.

Inside it’s a real pub.

The stairs have a funky display area for art and shadow boxes on the landing.

One of 7 bds.

You’ve never seen baths like this house has.

They have a full library for books and art.

This is my favorite bedroom.

And, look at this bath.

Here’s another amazing bath- there are 8.

Look at the ceiling in this family room.

Stunning gardens outside.

Colorful covered patio.

Beautiful pool.

And, look at how pretty it is lit up at night. It’s a house like no other.

https://www.compass.com/listing/30752-paseo-del-niguel-laguna-niguel-ca-92677/1192820783660525553/

#hobbit mansion #mansions #houses #house tours #home tour #hobbit architecture #long post #unique homes

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strawwritesfic · 1 year

Text

Bilbo Baggins x Female!Hobbit!Reader: Save

Summary: The beginning of your own story might be worth writing down someday as well.

Rating/Tags: All (Post-Hobbit; pre-Fellowship of the Ring; The Green Dragon; Drinking; Alcohol; Server!Reader; family problems; inheritance problems; meet cute)

Challenge: “160 Collective Drabbles” challenge by BobaPop on Lunaescence Archives.

Tag List: @imaginesfire

Save

Any Hobbit worth their salt could recite upon command any number of stories about far-off lands and daring adventures. Children might shudder in their beds thinking of shadowy forests filled with creeping spiders; even adults could blanch over news of wolves spotted near Buckland. But that was all such tales were in the end: Distant news and exciting fiction, meant to entertain and never to touch its listeners. Nothing could ever really involve the Shire. The people of Hobbiton were free to continue their vicarious quests–until one day such a quest did involve the Shire.

“I already told you, Otho, I don’t have a mountain of gold hidden away to give to you. I’m certain that if I did, there would be nothing left after I was forced to buy back my home and all my possessions.”

You looked up from your work behind the counter to see one Bilbo Baggins sitting at a table across the room. He had a mug of ale clutched in one hand and a look of polite distaste on his face.

Upon recognizing his drinking companions, you couldn’t say you blamed him for looking like that. Otho and Lobelia Sackville-Baggins were not your favorite customers when they were minding their own business. Throw in harassing other patrons, and you couldn’t help but shoot them an ugly look of your own behind their backs.

Normally, you would have tried to throw them out. Now that you were in serious competition with your younger brother over the inheritance of the inn, however, you decided it would be better not to make a scene. "A patron is a patron, so long as they’ve got gold to spend," as your father had reminded you since you’d started working at the Green Dragon in your tweens. Apparently your brother had no trouble remembering this, though you suspected his good memory was because he didn’t spend much of his time on the clock doing any work, not because he lacked any hint of your admirable temper.

“[Name], quit lollygagging. Table Eight wanted supper fifteen minutes ago,” your father called over the usual evening hubbub.

His watchful eye prevented you from eavesdropping further on Bilbo and his guests, so you flashed your haggard father a grin, picked up a waiting tray of food, and dove back into the throng.

The Green Dragon had been owned by your family since it had been built several generations ago. Sometimes you got the feeling your father would have gladly given up five square meals a day to be rid of the responsibility of running the place. Not so you. Working at the inn made you come alive more than any other place in the whole of the Shire. You had been hanging around it since you were old enough to follow your father to work as a youth and working there since you were bold enough to convince him to give you a job. By necessity, you knew every nook and cranny, every regular’s name, and every story ever told by the grand stone fireplace.

Except, that was, for Bilbo’s story. Even knowing that the mere sight of Otho and Lobelia would anger you, you sneaked another peek over at their table as you set the food down on another surrounded by ravenous tweens. Sure enough, the trio was still there. Bilbo’s polite façade appeared to be fading quickly as he listened to the two of them rant.

“[Name],” whined one of the tween boys, “you’re in the way.”

You hastily removed your hand before any of them could mistake it for part of their meal. Your constantly-hungry youth wasn’t so far behind you that you had forgotten what it felt like.

“Make sure to pay before you leave this time. Don’t want me to have to talk to your parents again, do you?” you asked.

None of them replied.

With a deep breath and a roll of your eyes, you turned away. Before you lay a buzzing dining hall. Hobbits laughed and ate and drank in seemingly every inch of the building. It warmed your heart to see so many happy people enjoying your family’s business. All except for Bilbo, of course, who had dismissed faking politeness entirely and now stared grumpily into the space about his relatives’ heads as they prattled on about whatever it was they had a bone to pick about that night.

Before you could even attempt to interrupt the conversation, your father caught your eye and motioned impatiently at the growing assortment of food and drink waiting to be delivered. You picked your way toward him, progress hindered by the many customers that stopped you to say hello. The conversation at Bilbo’s table had grown quite lively by the time you arrived at the bar to pick up another order.

Truth be told, Bilbo’s fascinating disappearance and reappearance were not the only things about him that kept you looking at him. Neither were his rumored riches; you planned to take over the Dragon and raise your own small fortune, after all. Bilbo had, in fact, always interested you. He had had his own schedule before he’d left the Shire, coming in once a week to drink and listen to the same old stories you did day after day. Always polite, that Bilbo, if admittedly not forcibly friendly like most of the others. You had never had to throw him out for poor behavior, at any rate.

That night was the first night he’d been back to the inn after all his time away. You’d been dying to talk to him since the minute you saw him walk through the door. Between your job and the Sackville-Bagginses, you hadn’t had a chance.

Then an idea occurred to you–a wonderful, terrible, perfect idea. Before any of your fellow workers could guess that you were up to something, you filled your tray with the waiting glasses of ale. Your plan might not have had the best timing, considering the dinner rush and how flustered your father had already become, but he would have to do without you. You were only one Hobbit, and if your father truly believed passing the Green Dragon onto your brother (who was, as usual, suspiciously absent that evening), then what good was your working your fingers to the bone to please customers?

You turned and marched purposely toward the table at which Bilbo, Lobelia, and Otho sat. As you drew nearer, you could understand why Bilbo looked as pained as he did.

“As far as I’m concerned, you forfeited your right to Bag End when you left without saying a word and without electing an heir. The hole is ours,” Otho was saying.

“Is it,” said Bilbo.

Lobelia gave him a very nasty, almost un-hobbotish sneer. “You clearly aren’t right in the head anymore. Dragons? Dwarves? Why don’t you just admit you got into some messy business with that Gandalf fellow and step aside for Otho to be head of the family?”

“Difficult to do when I’m not at all mad, my dear Lobelia. For why should you think I had gold to spare if I never had my grand adventure?”

“You’re a fool,” she said, “a fool and perhaps even a criminal. We could go over your head, Bilbo. Mark my words.”

“Consider them marked. Now if you’ll excuse me…”

“We aren’t done here,” Otho growled, getting up to follow Bilbo away from the table.

Oh, yes you are, you thought.

Just as Otho reached over to pull Bilbo back into his seat, you arrived along with half the dining hall’s drinks. Otho standing up actually provided you with the perfect opportunity. All you had to do was angle your feet just right, and–

Lobelia’s scream told you that you had succeeded. Your staged trip and fall managed to tip all the ale on your tray so that it spilled over the Sackville-Baggginses heads. There they sat, dripping in abject shock, as Bilbo stood staring on in astonishment.

“Oh no!” you squealed dramatically. “Did I do that? I’m ever so sorry. I’m such a klutz!”

With a lurch toward Lobelia, you made to press a towel to her sopping hair. She flinched away before turning the full brunt of her wrath on you.

“You-You-You,” she said. Apparently, your act had rendered her unable to form complete sentences.

This unforeseen bonus didn’t last long; before you could so much as attempt to offer a fake apology, Otho got in your face: “I’ll have your job for this, girl,” he said, and any desire to apologize, falsely or otherwise, vanished.

You hooked a thumb over your shoulder toward where you’d last seen your father running around like a chicken with his head cut off. “Boss is that way.”

The two left without more than several glares in your direction. You watched only long enough to see your father shoot you a knowing, aggrieved sort of look when the Sackville-Bagginses approached him.

Shrugging, you turned away. Well, it was difficult to feel sorry for him. If he really wanted a supper rush without incident, he really ought to have forced your brother to show up for his shifts every once and awhile, especially if you were expected to give up your inheritance without a fight.

All the same, you knew better than to leave a mess behind. You began to pick up the (thankfully unbroken) glasses littering the table and were almost finished by the time Bilbo spoke:

“Thank you.”

You had assumed he had taken the opportunity to escape your inn entirely, actually. His voice surprised you, and even more so that he was standing exactly where you’d left him.

“You don’t need to thank me for being clumsy,” you answered, then smiled mischievously at his blank expression. “It looked like you could use a rescue. Those two shouldn’t bother you again tonight.”

“Thank you,” he said with more feeling.

“It’s your first time back since your adventure. Wouldn’t want you spooked off forever.”

Much to your confusion, Bilbo hesitated before he replied. His eyes slid toward the door and back to you, and then he took a wide step backward. “Right,” he said. “All the same, I think I had better get going.”

As you looked on, he began to shuffle toward the front door. You realized with a jolt exactly what he thought: Bilbo believed you, too, were after his gold. He didn’t exactly look less nervous when you followed after him either.

“That’s a shame,” you said. “I really was hoping to hear your story.”

That got him to pause. “You…were?”

“Sure. Dwarves and dragons and spiders and elves. Sounds better than half of the stories the rest of them have been telling all week. I'm getting a little tired of the time the creek froze over and let the wolves in, personally. ”

“Mine is a rather exciting tale,” Bilbo confessed, then seemed to decide you weren’t so frightening that he couldn’t size you up. “And you are?”

“[Name]. My dad owns the place.”

At that, a look of slight disappointment crossed his face. You didn’t understand it, not until he went on: “Then I suppose you wouldn’t be able to join me at my hole for a cup of coffee and a chat? I find myself wanting a quieter atmosphere, but I could do with some company still.”

The words no, not tonight were right on your lips. You couldn’t just abandon the inn, or your father for that matter.

But on second thought, why couldn’t you? Really, your brother ought to have been there by now to take over, and there were other servers, too, picking their slow ways from table to table. Besides, when was the last time you’d been given time off, or even a break for that matter?

“You know what?” you said. “I’d love to.”

“Delightful!” cried Bilbo, and he held out his arm.

It took you less than half a second to place your tray on top of one of the other server’s trays as she passed by. She gave you a wild-eyed, panicked looked, but you did not explain.

You’d hear all about your lack of responsibility in the morning once your father discovered you had slipped away. For the time being, you were just like any other Hobbit. Who cared about work, the inheritance, or the inn when there was such a fine story to hear and such a fine Hobbit to tell it? Even as you thought about the lecture you were in for, you couldn't find yourself regretting your decision.

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eunoiaastralwings · 1 year

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Hi, lovely! I'm so glad your requests are open! I have a cute idea that I was wondering if you'd be interested in writing?

Either Elladan or Argon bc they need more love ❤️

They have a secret admirer that occasionally leaves letters or little gifts (like cookies or small trinkets) for them. (They really hope it's y/n!)

Y/n accidently outs themselves at some feast/party and are so embarrassed, and it super flusters our elf boy, and he manages to confess as well

Thanks in advance if you decide to write this!

Be Careful What You Wish For

characters elladan x reader

fandom tolkien- the hobbit the lord of the rings

a/n @fictionfordays - I have it and I really hope you enjoy it hun - was lowkey tempted to end this in angst lmaoo

Elladan grinned - seeing yet another little piece of note left by his hunting gears.

He raced up and picked by the lavender scent note - his fingers excitedly opening it and his brother’s calls became distant:

‘The only time I have realized I have secretly fallen for you is when everything around me reminds me of you, in the smallest things, and the most unexpected moments, and I cannot tell you a single thing about it’

Elladan let out a soft breath - that he didn’t know he was holding.

His grin turned into a soft smile - as his eyes glossed over the words again.

Then, suddenly the note was ripped from his grasp.

He groaned - turning to his twin with a glare.

“Elrohir-”

“The only time I have realized I have secretly fallen for you. . .is when everything around me. . .reminds me of you, in-”

Elladan rolled his eyes and grabbed the carefully crafted and decorated note back from Elrohir.

His usually calm and composed twin - compared to himself - broke away from his usual façade to tease him for the little notes and sweet trinkets left by his supposed secret admirer.

It had been almost a month since he received these little gifts - left lying in places that were bound to be found by him.

The only people who would know him that well, were the ones of his kin . . .and Y/N.

The daughter of Lord Glorfindel - his heart never ceased to skip a beat whenever he set his eyes on you and he hoped more than anything you had left these precious little messages and trinkets for him.

Though - Elrohir being the wiser twin had advised not to let his heart go astray. . .what if it wasn't you?

It would leave not only his - but whosoever heart he captured broken too. . .

But call him selfish - he wanted. . .needed it to be you. . .

Elrohir had seen it through too - and he deeply hoped it was indeed you, you could not bear to think of the consequences otherwise. . .

“Be careful what you wish for, brother. . .”

Elrohir said quietly and moved away - making Elladan sigh.

Elladan gulped reading over his precious little note again - imagining it as it was your voice reading it out loud to him.

He was in too deep for something he wasn’t even definite about.

Elladan quickly hopped down from the high grounds - following his twin back into the centre of Rivendell.

The feast of Starlight was happening tonight and his father would scold him to Valinor if he was late for it.

He quickly got ready - dressing himself in the finest wear his father and sister had picked out for him - knowing he lacked any skills in looking presentable for feasts and festivals such as these.

Once Elladan was finished and dressed to look suitable for the event - he was surprised to meet you as he opened the door.

Your hand was moments away from knocking on the door and you blushed furiously as he chuckled.

“Hello, dear lady - what may I help you with?”

He asked - bowing generously to you.

Once composing yourself you rolled your eyes in a very unladylike manner - it was one of the reasons Elladan felt moved by you.

You didn’t let rules tie you down - you were your own person, proving much to be your father’s daughter.

He always admired it.

“I was hoping to get your opinion of my dress. . .”

You blushed as you spoke.

Elladan then dropped his gaze to your dress - a shimmering color that complimented your skin.

You wore it elegantly - you looked truly beautiful dressed in your favorite color and Elladan suddenly felt unable to form words as your beauty radiated causing his cheeks to redden a little too.

“I knew it. . .I look awful don’t I?”

You sighed - in seeing how long he was taking to answer. Unaware of what was really happening to him.

Elladan quickly reached for your hand as you turned away looking ashamed.

“Wait - no you look radiant!”

He blurted out fast - his face blushing again and he needed to clear his throat.

Elladan thanked Eru for his fair skin - for if his skin had been ruddy or freckled like the Feanorian relative he had heard he would have been a bright red berry.

Elladan suddenly felt the pain of the Feanorian as he stood in front of you - bashfully.

He grinned seeing you let out a sigh of relief.

You looked positively glowing - he thought.

Once Elrohir had joined the both of you - you three made it down to the festivities.

While tended to his duties behind his father - his eyes still remained on you.

You had gotten a hold of his sister Arwen and was interacting with her well into the night - that was until Aragorn had whisked her away.

Sneaking away from his father’s side he grinned making his way to you.

You had instantly smiled seeing him - making his heart skip a few beats.

“Elladan. . .”

You smiled.

“I told you look radiant!”

He smirked - has he overheard so many of the guests and residents complimenting you.

Including Lindir couldn’t help himself from delivering a compliment.

You blushed with a small thanks.

Elrohir came to your side not too long after - and joined Arwen and Aragorn had finished their dance they joined in your little circle too.

“Elladan, brother - why don’t you say about the lovely note you had gotten this evening?”

Elrohir suddenly said - making Elladan almost choke on his drink.

Your eyes had widened and you slowly looked at Elladan you tried to compose himself - then sent a glare to his twin.

Elrohir was the only one who knew Elladan had a secret admirer.

“A note, hanar?”

Arwen questioned - the excitement in her voice could not be missed.

Elladan tried to say something - but he was immediately cut off by Elrohir.

“Why, yes, little sister - a note from a secret lover no less.”

Elrohir smirked.

You had gotten unnaturally quiet - sipping away the wine in your hand but you listened attentively to the conversation.

“You have a secret lover, hanar!”

Arwen spoke excitedly to Elladan - her eyes sparking wanting to hear all the information about it.

“Oh what were the words again? Something about ‘The only time I have realized I have secretly fallen for you. . .is when everything around me. . .reminds me of you. . .’ I wasn’t able to read the rest of it - because someone took it away from me.”

Then Elrohir met eyes with his twin - it was only when he side-eyed you did Elladan understand what his twin was doing.

Elladan looked at you for a quick second - your eyes were on your wine but you were nervously biting your bottom lip.

He looked back at Elrohir who sneakily gestured to Sîdhel - Lindir’s daughter.

Snapping his eyes shut for a second - he took a deep breath.

“Yes - I do. . .sometimes little trinkets. But usually it is little notes.”

His eyes snuck to you as he spoke to Arwen.

“They are deeply poetic and beautiful - definitely from a gifted writer. . .perhaps even a singer. If I didn’t know any better I would be from Sîdhel. Her lady always knows the right choice of words - her words are always poetic. Her form of speech is as if reading a poem from one of Master Erestor’s scrolls. She knows a little craftsmanship from-”

“No!”

You suddenly shouted - your eyebrows had knitted together in anger and you almost slammed your glass down on the table beside you.

You earned some glances - but you were too angry to notice them.

Elladan frowned seeing the sudden change in you.

“How could you think they were from Sîdhel? Sîdhel never showed any interest in you. She surely hasn’t spent countless nights trying to think of perfect words to fit into the feelings my heart feels for you. Elladan you never listen - I spoke those words to you before, perhaps not exactly as written, but it was plainly obvious. And the little trinkets I left you? Did you not understand the carved horse at least? When you first took me out horse riding, it was the exact horse I carved for you. Or the flowers? - Remember the flowers we saw when you first took me hunting! Or-”

You suddenly silenced your shouted as you caught yourself in what you were doing.

You gulped - blushing a deeper shade of red by the second as four pairs of eyes watched you in shock.

You couldn’t even look Elladan in the eye - hastily making a ridiculous excuse you quickly escaped.

Your father’s bright blond hair was within sight and you were around to let him know you were going to retire early tonight.

Then suddenly a grabbed your wrist from behind you - you knew that familiar grip and you refused to meet his gaze.

“Y/N. . .”

Elladan breathed out - still unable to believe what he had heard.

“I-. . .forgive me. . .”

You sighed - only for Elladan to pull you to him and press his lips on top of yours.

Your sighed widened in shock but found yourself immediately kissing back.

After a moment he pulled away - placed his forehead on your forehead.

“My brother warned I should be careful what I wish for, - because I wished for you, I wished for them to be from you, meleth.”

You blushed.

“I thought you were hoping for Sîdhel. . .”

You frowned.

“My clever little starlight, I was hoping to catch you out.”

He winked as he smirked.

You rolled your eyes - you should have known Elladan surely had ways to catch you out on your own game.

“You are truly a fool for not understanding my gifts to you.”

You muttered - feeling a little upset.

“That I am - but I am your fool.”

Elladan grinned.

You laughed.

“I love you, Elladan. . .”

You confessed.

He was about to reply when someone had cleared their throat behind you.

Both of you turned to your father with crossed arms and a raised eyebrow.

“Ada. . .”

You tried - but Elladan immediately cut you off.

“I love her!”

He suddenly blurted - making you burst into laughter.

Glorfindel then only smirked.

“Good!”

He took his leave.

“Elladan!”

You laughed at the look on his face - he looked as if the doomsman of the valar had arrived before him.

He shook his head.

“Well at least your father approves.”

“He sure does.”

You laughed - then smiled as Elladan dove in for another wish.

They say you should be careful what you wish for you - and as Elladan protectively and lovingly kept you in his arms, you knew you wished for the right thing.

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tara's taglist: @wandererindreams @fizzyxcustard @ranhanabi777 @spidergirla5 @asianbutnotjapanese @floraroselaughter @mismaeve

#elladan #elrohir #tolkien #elldan x reader #answered #eunoiawrites #the hobbit #lotr #lotr x reader #elves of imladris #rivendell #rivendell elves #tolkien elves #elves #lord of the rings #middle earth #half elves #peredhel #imladris

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pclyglct · 4 months

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[ jenny boyd | she/her ] Another face is seeking safety in New Orleans. Make sure to welcome ELIZABETH “LIZZIE” SALTZMAN to the home of the resilient. Rumor has it that they are an 19/21 year old HERETIC, who is one of the SACRIFICED but we’ll keep that a secret. They are said to be VOLATILE, but that’s all a façade to cover up their STRONG WILLED nature. We’ve heard that they can be found listening to BRUTAL by OLIVIA RODRIGO, which sums them up pretty well. Let’s hope that they can find a way to survive this harsh new world.

hello! I'm S, and I'm happy to be here! a lil disclaimer first: I've watched all of Legacies, but I'm on s2 of TO (slooow progress), and s5 of TVD (no intention to finish), so wiki will be my source for kai/gemini/etc specifics not discussed in legacies!

name: elizabeth "lizzie" saltzman

age: turned at 19, currently 21

gender: cis woman (she/her)

hometown: mystic falls

current residence: new orleans

species: heretic (vampire/siphoner hybrid)

sexuality: bisexual (w/a preference for men)

positives: authentic, passionate, daring, strong willed, empathetic

negatives: selfish, volatile, impulsive, insecure, envious

house: slytherin

alignment: chaotic good

post-canon

lizzie's canon life is pretty much the same, and can be found here!

come the end of legacies, lizzie remained with the salvatore school, helping her mother and her friends rebuild and welcome the new class

in the year following, as the OEA rose in prominence and threatened the school, lizzie still committed to the school's cause regardless, keen on not running away over a hopefully insignificant threat

unfortunately for her, the threat wasn't insignificant, and her dedication to the cause is what led to her sacrifice

she took a solo recruiting mission to visit a supposed troubled young witch in need of safe haven. it was supposed to be a low stakes endeavor, not even worthy of a proper day trip. in reality, the "troubled young witch" was working for the OEA, and what was meant to be a good Samaritan mission led to lizzie being captured, sacrificed, and trapped in the prison world

she was in there for 3 years, absolutely livid at the turn of events. the karma of the situation (or lack thereof because she was trying to be good and not run away and deal with things head on and take initiative and spread warmth and community and all that kumbaya nonsense) has led to some setbacks in her own personal growth, ngl, but she's working on that since her return

also worth noting that her time away has left her feeling just awful in general. prior to her sacrifice, she was just starting to embark on a journey of figuring out a future for her self, now that she was finally in a position of having one with the merge out of the question. but then the OEA became a thing causing trouble, and she was thrown into a prison world just as things started seriously changing in the real world. being trapped for so long stifled her and her growth, and she's come back to a world different than the one she left, all the people she's loved moved onto various different stages in their lives over the 3 years, and she hates that.

anyways, she's only just recently finally made her way to new orleans after her release, and she's got a lot of resentment at the OEA for her imprisonment, while also dealing with a lot of self-esteem issues stemming from a profound sense of aimlessness. she's doing her best to reorient herself to this new reality

relationships.

parents: alaric saltzman (daddy issues), jo laughlin (bio mom), caroline forbes (mamma's girl)

siblings: josie saltzman (twin sister)

extended family: elena gilbert & damon salvatore (aunt & uncle), stefan salvatore (ex-step dad? / uncle), bonnie bennet (aunt)

past romantic relationships: rafael waithe (ex-fling), sebastian (ex-boyfriend), ethan (crush/dated), jen (ex-fling), mg (ex-boyfriend).

more dynamics: hope mikaelson (ex-sire bond/frenemies), landon kirby (hobbit), penelope park (frenemy), auora (unlikely ally), kaleb/jed/cleo/wade (super squad)

wanted.

trapped together: lizzie spent 3 years in a prison world, she was bound to make all kinds of relationships with the people she was trapped with, and I want them all. friends in the prison world, roommates/neighbors, hookups, relationships, enemies, unlikely friends (!!!), people she worked with during her many (failed) attempts to escape, etc. and all of the above!

vampire mentor. the s2 stefan to her caroline. ideally, this is someone who was in the prison world with her. I imagine that in the year after legacies but before lizzie got trapped, she had started making decent headway into her vampirism with mg, but after getting trapped, I can def see her making it her mission to get through honing her skills totally, if only to help her get through the endless sameness of the days

baby vamps. similar to the above, except instead of a mentor, this was someone who was new to the vampire world with her, and they explored the ins and outs of vampirism together. also ideally in the prison world, likely to be a WC.

crush (m): lizzie is prone to superficial crushes, pure eye candy. it's a great distraction for her, something to pour her energy into easily, and easy is exactly what's she's looking for after being gone for so long. if anything real actually comes from it is something we can plot, but for now, this would just be someone easy on the eyes

crush (f): I hc that lizzie realized she was bi after spending time with the god Jen in s4. since this realization, she's leaned pretty hard into the exploring that part of herself loud and proud and open about it (likely to overcompensate for how out of her field/new being with women is for her), so she probs also has a fem crush too. she's likely to resemble more of her s1 rafael-era flirtation (re: awkward & rambly) with women than her smoother s3/4 semi-confidence.

fwb/fuck buddy: lizzie has got a lot of pent up frustration over her years away, and this person helps her release that. could be friendly arrangement between two peers, or just a fuck buddy who is only contacted when she's got an itch to scratch. this person, regardless of the their relationship to her, likely also is prone to hear lizzie vent her frustrations before/after (and possibly even during) sex because bb's a talker!

living situation. I imagine since her return and coming to new orleans, she's probably living with a family member (her mom most likely, maybe her sister), which is fine, but she'll eventually want to move out into her own space (she was on an independence journey away from her normal familial crutches before being trapped, after all), so potential roommates and neighbors would be fun plots.

friends. and of course, all the friends! lizzie is an extrovert who has a very hard time being alone, so she of course likes to build a community of people she can go to for all the things. shopping friends. foodie friends. gossip friends. unlikely friends. confidants. OEA revenge buddies. accountability buddies.

frenemies. and with friends, comes enemies, which lizzie is prone to making.

everything above are just suggestions off the top of my head; I'm rlly open to any and all plots for my girl lizzie! if you'd like to plot, you can reach out to me here or on discord (blodxreina)!

#exitium.intro #fully engrossed in this legacies marathon atm but i wanted to get this out before sleep #i'll be around late tonight to hit up ppl for plots & respond to threads!

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coopsgirl · 2 years

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It just keeps getting worse for the Rings of Power. Here are some cast member/producer statements regarding the show.

She (the chick playing Disa) explained, “It’s their time and it’s so important and I hope many people will see this fantasy and be able to relate to it. This is a reflection of the world we live in, there are many and we are different and we will embrace and discover, and peel back, and learn, and educate, and be educated.”

This show should not reflect our world; it should reflect Tolkien's world. People also have not had a problem relating to it which is why it's one of the best selling fiction works in history. Is this show going to be preachy ("educate and be educated")? People generally don't like being preached at/talked down to and I can't see this going over well.

These cast statements echo what Executive Producer of the series Lindsey Weber told Vanity Fair back in February, “It felt only natural to us that an adaptation of Tolkien’s work would reflect what the world actually looks like.”

It seems to me that the only natural thing to do was to reflect Tolkien's world if you are doing a Tolkien adaptation. Make no mistake, this will not be an adaptation. They will not be telling his story with his characters (there was no warrior Galadriel, Miriel was never queen or queen regent, and they have more original characters listed so far than actual Tolkien characters and that alone is a huge red flag). It will be a veneer of Tolkien so thin that if you barely scratch it, it will disappear.

This is going to be very expensive fan fiction written/produced by people who don't actually seem to be fans. I love fan fic. I write it and read it. I like AUs, modern AUs, smut fics, and other things that vary quite a bit from Tolkien's stories and characters. It's cool to have fun with it and sometimes do crazy things. But, when someone buys the rights to actually use the real thing, I expect a proper adaptation. That doesn't mean you can't take some liberties and make some changes so that the material works better for film/tv, but it should not be so different as to be unrecognizable in character/theme/storyline.

If you watch this as a generic fantasy show, you might enjoy it. I'm not impressed by anything so far. The costumes/props mostly look cheap and like they came from Party City (seriously some of the helmets/armor/crowns look plastic), the elves just look like regular people with pointy ears, and the "not hobbits" (yes, Harfoots are hobbits!) look like they rolled around in dirt/trash and then decided to go on about their day.

One last thing, do you know what the show is supposed to be about based on any of the trailers that have been released? It's called The Rings of Power yet there has been no mention of rings or of their creation. Obviously as Tolkien fans, we have a general idea of what they might cover but you can't tell that from the promotional material alone. If I didn't know anything about Tolkien, I would think this is a world that had been at war, the war is now over and some people think it will be a time of peace and others think more conflict is on the horizon. Also a meteor lands somewhere. I can't work up any excitement for a such a bland, generic plot.

#rings of power #amazon is bullshit #short haired elves suck #harfoots are hobbits #where's celeborn?#where's celebrian?#where's cirdan?#where's sauron/annatar?#why is celebrimbor so old he's eligible for AARP?

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middleearthpixie · 2 years

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After the Fire ~ Chapter One

A/N: I've missed writing The Hobbit Thorin, so here he is. 💜

Title: After the Fire

Fandom: The Hobbit - Post BOTFA AU Where Everybody Lives

Summary: Following the Battle of the Five Armies, a grievously wounded Thorin is brought back to the kingdom of Erebor, which is still mostly in ruins. Although he’s survived the wounds he received at the end of Azog’s blade, his recovery is far from complete.

When she's asked to help the dwarves tend to their wounded, medical student Jasna Stoneham reluctantly agrees. Not only is she only just barely a qualified to even set foot in the infirmary, but she stutters when she gets nervous and nervous does not even begin to describe how she's feeling. To make matters worse, no one thought to warn her that she would be caring for the king himself, Thorin Oakenshield.

Unfortunately, the road to recovery isn’t necessary a smooth one, but if there’s one thing Thorin will learn, it’s that what Jasna lacks in experience and training, she makes up for in stubbornness, giving him a run for his money. And for every backwards step he takes, she is there to push him three steps forward. And Jasna will soon find out that there is a gentle, softer side to the dwarf king, one that very few people have ever seen and one he fights to keep hidden from her as well. But like his recovery, that is also easier said than done.

Bard convinces Jasna Stoneham to assist Erebor’s healer as the wounded from the Battle of the Five Armies as they flood into Erebor.

Pairing: Thorin Oakenshield x ofc Jasna Stoneham

Characters: Thorin, Jasna, Balin, Óin, Bard, Dáin Ironfoot, Dwalin,

Warnings: None

Rating: T

Word Count: 1,900

Tag List: @tschrist1 @i-did-not-mean-to @lathalea @linasofia @fizzyxcustard @legolasbadass @kibleedibleedoo @xxbyimm @arrthurpendragon @exhausted-humxn-being @rachel1959 @laurfilijames @sketch-and-write-lover @sherala007 @enchantzz @knitastically @notlostgnome @myselfandfantasy @ggfamert @medusas-hairband @guardianofrivendell @jotink78

If you’d like to be added (or removed) to the tag list, please just let me know!

The smell of smoke lay so heavily in the air, Jasna could taste it. She certainly saw it, gray and hazy and thick enough that it made seeing the Lonely Mountain almost impossible. Her ears still rang with the sounds of battle, although the battle itself ended nearly an hour earlier. Now, all that remained on the scarred plains between the city of Dale—now occupied by Woodland elves and those who survived Smaug’s fiery wrath upon Esgaroth, such as her— and the dwarven kingdom of Erebor.

The smoke wasn't even the worst smelling thing about war. No, far worse was the smell of death and decay that wove in through the smoke. She stood at the highest point of Dale, where the main road ended and a waist-high wall of cream-colored stone ringed the precipice—and swallowed hard at the sight stretched before her. Death—elves, Men, animals, dwarves—as far as the eye could see, and decay in the form of rotting orc and goblin corpses littered the plains. What had been a desolate, barren stretch of dust and soil and rocks and various other debris that found its way there in the arms of the wind, now bore the scars of battle. Deep wounds gutted the earth, stained by blood and various other fluids that she didn't want to think about. Weapons, both broken and discarded as well as dropped when its bearers were run through or decapitated or were dragged off by others, lay scattered all the way to the shattered façade of the fortress of Erebor.

Her eyes watered from the haze and it wasn't until someone rushing by her knocked her aside that she was jolted back into the present.

“Jasna?”

She righted herself. “I’m fine, thank you. Oh, Bard? What are you doing up here? I thought you’d still be down there.”

She pointed to the plains, where her fellow stragglers were now tending to the fallen, carting off the injured.

Burying the dead.

He nodded. “I was and I will be again. But, the thing is, I’ve come to ask a favor of you.”

“A favor?”

“You are one of the only remaining souls among us with any sort of medical training and the dwarves are in desperate need of all the hands they can get to help them. They’ve taken terrible casualties and the elven healers are busy with their own kin.”

“Wait, you wa-want me to go there,” she pointed to the crumbling stone front from which the small Ereborian army had erupted not twelve hours earlier, “where I will m-m-most certainly not be welcomed or wanted?”

“Welcomed? Probably not. But wanted?” Bard shook his head. The paler sunlight of the late afternoon shone along his black hair, making it look almost blue. “You are wanted. Óin himself asked me.”

“Who?”

“One of the Erborian dwarves. Please, Jasna, they… their king was seriously wounded, along with his nephews and they are terrified they will lose all three without the extra help. We cannot spare any more healers.”

“And you can spare me because I would only be in the way here.”

“No,” Bard shook his head emphatically, “I did not say that.”

“You don’t have to. I—I know.”

“They need you, Jas. We can spare you.” He caught her by the shoulders, crouching slightly to meet her eyes. “You can do this. You were first in your class, according to Demelza.”

“F-first, yes. But I’ve only th-th-three months’ training.”

“It will be fine. You’ve a good head on your shoulders and are a quick study, according to her.”

“She is af-afraid you’ll s-s-send her to work w-w-with the dwarves!”

“Jasna! They need you and you’re going to argue this with me? You can do this.”

“I ca-cannot. L-l-listen to me. I already sound l-l-like an idiot.”

“You sound like no such thing and you’ll be comfortable with them in no time and no one will even notice.”

“Liar.”

“They need you, Jas.” His dark eyes held more than a hint of pleading in them. “And you can do this.”

She tried to ignore the pleading in his voice that accompanied the pleading in his eyes. One of the first things she learned when she’d begun her training was that if one could be of help, one should be of help. Limited though her knowledge might be, she could help the dwarves. And if she were normal like everyone else, she would do so in a heartbeat. Dwarves might not trust Men, but she did not feel that way about dwarves. She knew what they’d think the moment she opened her mouth, however, and their distrust would turn far deeper when she did.

“Bard, it’s n-n-not a wise idea.”

“Jasna, they need someone. You’re the only one with enough skill at this point. The only one.”

She pressed her lips together, gazing back toward the ruined Ereborian façade. “I don’t know I can,” she managed to whisper.

He draped an arm about her shoulder. “You can. If something happened to Bain, or Sigrid, or Tilda, I wouldn’t hesitate to have you help them. Not for a second.”

She peered up at him. “But, I am not a healer, Bard. You know I’ve only had a few months before Smaug—”

“I know,” he interrupted, his dark eyes serious as he caught her by the wrist, “but your limited knowledge, coupled with your head for this, is far better than one with none at all.”

“But I’m at that point where I am ac-ac-actually more of a danger than an untrained p-p-person. And I’m of Man. The dwarves neither like nor trust us.”

“Jasna!” Exasperation wove through that one word hissed through his teeth. “They care nothing about that right now. Did you not hear me? Their king needs all the help he can get and right now, that is you.”

She turned back toward the kingdom. Her gut kinked sharply, a sour taste flooding her mouth, one she swallowed hard against. “And if I kill their king? Th-then what?”

“We will worry about that when and if it happens.” He gave a gentle tug on her arm. “Now, come. They’ll be bringing him down from Ravenhill, along with his nephews, any time now.”

She reluctantly followed him, her booted feet almost dragging in the dust. “It’s a terrible idea, Bard. And y-you know it.”

“No. You need to have a bit more faith in yourself, and win your abilities.”

“My abilities. Three months of schooling, Bard, that’s all I’ve had. I’m a menace now, not a healer.”

“Stop that. For the love of everything, Jasna, you cannot let anyone else see that fear, that doubt. You have to believe in yourself if you want them to believe in you.”

“I don’t wa-wa-want them to believe in me,” she told him as they began the trek down along the sloping road toward the plains. “You want m-m-me to.”

“You can do this. And if you need any assistance, I’m certain once he can spare them, Thranduíl will send his own healers.”

“If I need it?”

“Jasna!”

She winced. “Sorry.”

“Come along. It’s going to take us long enough to get there. And with any luck, Thorin Oakenshield will still have a bit of life left in him.”

****

“Where is the healer?” Balin growled, pacing along the length of the corridor outside Erebor’s Great Room, that was now a makeshift field hospital. “Bard promised us he’d be here by now.”

His brother, Dwalin caught him by the shoulders to halt his pacing. “Thorin and the lads aren’t even here yet. Save your fury for when they arrive.”

“Make way!”

Both dwarves spun as the Iron Hill dwarves hurried in, each quartet carrying a litter bearing a bloodied body. Within the Great Hall, Óin and his assistants—Glóin’s wife Narnerra, Ori, Dori, and Nori, the latter three conscripted into service to help—hurried from cot to cot, barking orders at the other Iron Hill dwarves helping as well. It was chaos, but a controlled chaos, if such a thing could exist.

But Thorin, Fíli, and Kíli had yet to be brought down. They’d been cut down at Ravenhill, the furthest point any of the medics had to travel. But for every minute it took to bring them in, their lives slipped further away.

“They’re here!”

Balin gripped his brother’s arm. “Where is Bard? Or may I now let my fury out?”

Before Dwalin could answer, the teams carrying Thorin and his nephews hurried by and into the Great Room. A throng of Iron Hill dwarves and their leader, Thorin’s cousin Dáin, gathered around even as Óin snapped, “Step back, if ye don’t mind! Balin, has Bard returned yet?”

“Not yet!”

“Yes, he has!” Bofur came around the corner with the black-haired Bard and a short, rather plain-looking girl? “I’ve got him right here. Him and—what did ye say yer name was, lassie?”

“Balin,” Dwalin leaned closer, “I thought you said he was bringing a healer?”

“That’s what I was told.”

Bard plowed through the throngs, almost dragging the little girl behind him. Up close, Balin realized that she wasn’t a little girl at all, but was a grown woman. She was just small. Even to a dwarf. Maybe five feet tall. And slight. Pale-skinned, with what looked like unruly dark red hair hastily skinned back into a knot at her nape.

Her eyes were captivating, though. Large and almond shaped and an unusual shade of yellow-green. Bard shoved the girl at him. “I’ve brought you your healer. Jasna Stoneham, Balin Fundinson. Balin, Miss Jasna Stoneham.”

Jasna offered up a nervous sort of smile. “I’m told your ki-king has been brought in.”

“Aye, he has, lassie,” Balin said, gesturing toward the Great Hall. “He and his nephews. And you’ll of course forgive me, but are you a healer?”

“Uh, well, N-no. N-n-n-ot exactly.” She visibly swallowed, her gaze sliding in Bard’s direction. “But—”

“She was in training when Smaug attacked,” Bard explained, his tone brooking no arguments. “She is the best we have.”

Balin hoped his disbelief didn't show in his face as he replied, “Well then, we’d best get you in there, lassie.”

She went paler still, but nodded. He caught her by the elbow and steered her toward where Óin stood, looking beyond grim. “Óin… I’ve brought you your healer.”

“Good.” He looked at the girl, and his already serious expression grew grimmer still. “She is the—very well. Lassie, start with Fíli. I’ll call ye if I need ye.”

She nodded, visibly swallowing hard again and moved around to where Fíli and his brother Kíli lay on separate cots, pale and still and bleeding from various wounds. Balin looked over at Bard, who offered up a slight nod and said, “She’ll be fine. I give you my word.”

“I hope so,” he replied, watching as the Jasna tucked a long curl behind one ear, her hands trembling as she reached down toward Fíli. But then, as he watched, a change crept over the girl. Her eyes weren’t quite so wide now, and she drew in a deep breath, then got to work.

#Richard Armitage #The Hobbit #Thorin Oakenshield #Hobbit Fic #Hobbit Fanfic #Fan fiction #The Hobbit fan fiction #Thorin x OC #AU #Thorin Fic #Is it hot in here?#Romance #Everybody Lives AU #The Hobbit BOTFA

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mysteriis-moon666 · 1 year

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SUMMONED AND DEFILED

Il faisait encore jour quand je partais de Castres, ville rugueuse d’ovalie, porteuse d’une victoire contre le RC Toulonnais en ce jour du 22 avril 2023. Dans les rues des supporters rentraient à pied, drapeau sur l’épaule, se chambrant gaiement. Des cumulus nimbus offraient un parterre de teinte grisâtre et laiteuse avec des trouées minimale de lumière, comme si des jets venaient à percer dans une obscurité naissante. Bientôt la pluie le long du trajet tomberait, et fera abattre le ciel sur terre dans une nappe de brouillard épaisse, et de crachin que cette nuit en enfer allait offrir à coups de décibel tellurique, de cris perçant et d’hémoglobine sonique. La nappe phréatique de mes émotions remonterait jusqu’à ma paroi nasale en laissant couler un filet de sang, pour une raison que j’ignore encore, mais qui demeure un présage de la déflagration reçue.

L’association Profusion existe depuis 1995, elle a mis en place des concerts dans le Tarn et la région toulousaine. Depuis St Sulpice, la première édition d'Une Nuit En Enfer a été effectué en 2003 où elle avait posé les bases d’une intention fidèle à l’underground oldschool. Pour ses 20 ans c’est « Be there or be dead », PAF 15 Euros. Pas de CB, rien que de la fraîche, à l’ancienne (vise le flyer). Lieu = Salle René Cassin / 81370 Saint Sulpice La pointe.

Les groupes ayant joué dans une nuit en enfer sont Fall Of Seraphs, Iron Flesh, Ritualization, Mercyless, Asmodée, Agressor, Necrowretch, Charnier, Fatal Nunchaku, Graveyard, Hate Wanted, Hypnosis, Hypoptalasias, Inhumate, Les Incapables, Malhkebre, Necrocult, Oldskull, Offending, Ossuaire, Otargos, Ouroboros, Pestiferum, Pulmonary Fibrosis, Putrefaction, Ruins Division, The Bottle Doom Lazy Band, The Seven Gates, Temple Of Baal, Trashnasty, Vorkreist, Withdrawn.

C’est OLDSKULL qui éventre la nuit comme l’on ouvre une parenthèse pour marquer les esprits. Son death metal touille Obituary (mais sans le groove) et Morbid Angel avec une lichette de Bolt Thrower, et parfois des grumeaux thrashy dans les riffs et rythmiques.

Le chanteur avait un t-shirt de Power Trip, et son growl de bons caillots de sang dans la glotte pour projeter son impureté deathalique. Le batteur du groupe avait le son de la caisse claire d'une bouteille que l'on décapsule, car pas de peau sablé. Je dis ceci car un gonze me l’a fait remarquer alors que jusque-là je n’y avais pas prêté cas. L'ingé son a assuré, je ne veux pas dire de connerie, mais il me semble qu’il travaillait à l’ancienne salle du Bikini, au 54 chemin des Étroits à Tolosa, car la façade démontrait un son de gouffre à death metOl. Scéniquement la scène n’est pas immense, les gars font leur set dans un condensé salé de leur sauce dégoulinante, ça envoie une bonne rasade oldschool, avec pour les light, un spot bleu, un rouge, un jaune, un peu de fumée et va chier à la vigne.

Dans une nuit en enfer il n'y a pas de poseurs, pas de kikouyou à licorne, de touristes, de personnes qui vivent dans un trou de hobbit, nannn. L'atmosphère est oldschool, il y a en présence une majorité de gars qui turbinent avec sincérité depuis l'époque des échanges de K7. L’underground c’est une niche, un endroit en marge, reclus, parfois trop, enfin tout dépend comment tu vois le truc. C’est un isolement, et pas du tout à la fois. Beaucoup y trouvent leur compte, du moins un temps, après les époques meurent et les nouvelles prennent leur place, il y a des personnes qui restent fidèles malgré tout. Oui ça existe.

L’underground fonctionne sur le principe du participatif, et généralement en autarcie. Ces passionné.es peuvent passer du statut d’inconnu à culte, mais c’est très rare, et pas du tout l’effet escompté. Le premier c’est d’être libre de créer, de faire émerger un art, une discipline, l’esprit d’une musique, l’incantation du concert, un lieu de vie, une époque. Tu évolues dans un environnement scellé de rite, signe, expression, symbole, représentation, empreinte, d’érudition, d’échange, de transmission, de passion, tu es dans l’ombre, te transformes dans la pénombre, le mystère et l’obscurité sont tes frères. Si tu viens avec une apparence, tu vires vers le soleil très rapidement car le simulacre ne fait pas partie de ta loyauté, de ton honnêteté aux autres et à toi-même. Mais l’underground va t'oublier un jour, comme si tu n'avais jamais existé, tu ne fais que passer, météore.

« Le rock est mort, le punk est mort, le metal est mort » tu entends ça depuis toujours, tout est mort quand tu vieillis, parce que le pain blanc de ta jeunesse est bouffé, et qu’il te reste le pain noir, et peut-être même un sac de clou noir avec des croûtons et des os à ronger. Bullshit, tu le sais, dans ta foi pour ces musiques en marge, tu es, tu vis, tu te sens bien au milieu de ces gens, que tu considères comme ton peuple.

Le rock est mort parce qu’il passe de mode pour certain.nes. La mode elle peut aller se faire enculer, et ce, depuis toujours. C’est ta philosophie.

Dans la salle ce soir, il y a un gars qui a organisé et fait jouer la première date en France et en Europe de Cannibal Corpse. C’était en 1991 à Escoussens, au pied de la montagne noire parce que la salle d'Aussillon n'était pas libre. Le christ de Mazamet, le seul et unique, nom Carlos, comme le chanteur, mais lui n’a pas de chemise à fleur, il préfère les champs de tripes du death metAl. Casquette vissée sur la tête, des cheveux longs, le ventre à bière de Tankard et toujours dans le game, le week-end suivant celui d’une nuit en enfer, il ira au Portugal pour un petit festival, il a son ticket pour aller voir les Mets au stade de France, mais ce qu’il lui tarde le plus, ça fait trois ans qu’il a son billet pour le Maryland Deathfest du 23 au 26 mai à Baltimore.

Le quatuor MISGIVINGS se poste sur scène. Formé en 1991 avec un seul opus à leur actif, je ne sais pas ce qu'ils ont foutu, nous sommes en 2023 ?!

Le bassiste chanteur a un truc dans le visage, la forme de son visage peut-être, mais il me semble que ce sont ses yeux qui me font penser à Tom Araya, d'ailleurs leur musique c'est Slayer mets Deicide. La basse a un son très metallique, le riffing des 2 gratteux c’étaient des frelons asiats aux dards véloces et pestilentiels. Le bassiste a rameuté le pit pas mal de fois, une sollicitation qui a trouvée l'envol de belles chevelures, et a certainement brisé quelques nuques. Le groupe fout un tournis de mur blanc sonique pour fouetter un death metal aux encornures saillantes, dans l'esprit pernicieux du groupe Pestilence. Mon cerveau était devenu un énorme paquet de lingettes mouillées à torcher un putride death metOl que Misginving remplissait sans arrêt, je pouvais faire des mouillettes sanguinolentes avec, cool, cool.

Formé en 2013 CONVICTION est un groupe de Doom Metal avec des membres d'Ataraxie, Temple Of Baal, et un unique album à leur actif.

Mettre un groupe de doom oldschool sur un plateau death metal c'est comme poser de la tisane dans un office de traders. L'ambiance est moins remuante. Attention j'adore le doom, là c'est Saint Vitus pour le doom et du Type O Negative pour le cimetière. Il y a un côté funéraire dans leur set que certains jugeront soporifique. Le bassiste joue avec un nœud coulant autour du cou ce qui annonce en terme de métaphore que le gars va se marier nan ? J'ai noté quelques fausseté dans le chant, ohhh trois fois rien, j'ai surtout apprécié dans le chant cette recherche mélodique, une ligne vocale claire avec du spleen dans son intention théâtrale, parfois même inattendue. Ce qui ressort vraiment de Conviction c’est "... la capacité de s'épanouir dans une douce douleur." (Thomas Mann), mais aussi une visite dans les marécages de l'âme, une cadence rythmique lente, des riffs charbonneux, vraiment intenses avec ce tréfonds doom, et des solis de très bonne tenue, pour finir par une cover de Black Sabbath, hé forcément. Nous étions bercé.es d’une funambule torpeur opiacée et refermions le cercueil sur nous.

Conviction se nourrit d’une noire vision, éviscère ses démons qui tordent l’âme. Il préfère les pierres qui redressent son âme plutôt que les fleurs qui ramollissent son cœur. Il se déploie dans sa nuit et dans chaque respiration de sa musique, en trouvant sésame dans le gémissement du lointain, jusqu'à ressentir le fracas du spleen à côté de lui battre des ailes, éveiller les torpeur jusqu'aux tristesses rédemptrices.

J’ai décidé d’être sensible, car c’est ce que je suis au fond de moi depuis toujours, c’est un prix à payer, il est lourd parfois, mais je laisse rentrer chaque vague et l’écume est belle, la collision sur les roches offre un spectacle étourdissant, et au fond de cet océan se gonfle une vivacité qui s’ancre à une diversité d’émotions. Conviction navigue dans ces eaux tumultueuses, à son rythme, il est vrai.

******************************************************************

Dans la grosse lessiveuse d'internet dont nous pouvons nous goinfrer jusqu’à écœurement de toutes les musiques disponibles, nous devenons des décharges à ciel ouvert, oubliant d'apprécier dans l'instant présent l'offrande des groupes en train de jouer en live, parce que tout est encombré des restes glanés, la contradiction renaît.

VENEFIXION c'est un peu de ça avec un soupçon de ceci, rien de nouveau, j'ai déjà entendu cela plein de fois et je m'en vais. Non, il fallait rester, il fallait se laisser atteindre par cette sorcellerie, par ce fléau de metal noir, cet incurable tourment, qui vient zester ce dégoût secret, mal indéfinissable qui donne tant de torts dont on n’est point coupable. C’était la magie noire d'un concert dans toute sa beauté exaltante, avec lequel Venefixion a frotté son set avec du papier verre et un marteau clouté. Urg !

Le quintette Venefixion a laissé trois opus, "Armorican Deathrites" 2016, "Necrophagous Abandon" (split w/ Possession) 2019 et "A Sigh From Below" 2021 en faisant évoluer sa musique qui irrite les refus et lui apporte tous les feux qu’elle inspire désormais, loin des vieux grimoires bretonnant du bois de Brocéliande d'ADX. Du khôl autour des yeux, du sang sur la tronche, un death black 2.0 qui joue la carte du malin, avec un max de delay dans le chant. Ecole putréfaction avec des restes primitifs de Morbid Angel, du swedeath rock'n'roll de Tribulation, et pour les cris en fond Ghostbath. Il y a le côté black'n'roll de Venom et Midnight surtout en fin de set, augmentant l'enthousiasme d'un public férocement attiré par les puissances souterraines. Oui il y avait de la magie noire, d'ailleurs en fin de set un gars a scandé « Satan » à plusieurs reprises le poing levé, exhortant de la sorte le chanteur à faire de même, et le public de lui répondre. Merci à cet Anton Lavey d'avoir libéré les apôtres soniques de Belzébuth dans la succursale rené cassin, face à la très belle église de St Sulpice la pointe, et de ce set de Venefixion en un petit bijou de crucifix retourné.

Merci à Profusion association, à cette Nuit En Enfer, à Oldskull, Misgivings, Conviction, Venefixion et à ce peuple des ténèbres.

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she-who-fights-and-writes · 4 years

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How would one write a realistic argument?

How to Write a Realistic Argument

Everyone argues.

Whether it be with a friend, sibling, parent, or coworker—arguments usually break out whenever there’s a stark contrast in opinion over certain things, which can happen a lot.

There are a variety of different kinds of arguments involving a wide range of people with different tempers. Because of this, writing arguments can be a bit difficult, but fear not, for this post is here to help!

1. Know The Writing Style of an Argument

For a very serious argument, the characters probably won’t stop and listen to what their opponent has to say.

It’s quick, choppy, and broken—each character shoving their emotions at one another and trying to get their point across without bothering to understand the other side’s opinions.

There should be a lot of em-dashes and italicized words for emphasis, and if it’s between two people, you want as few speech tags as possible; because there’s going to be a lot of back and forth, speech tags can serve to trip up the flow of the argument rather than help them.

When you do want speech tags or if there are multiple people arguing at once here’s some examples you can use:

Roared

Screamed

Yelled

Bellowed

Barked

Hissed

Shouted

Accused

Interrupted

Growled

Snarled

Spat

Screeched

Shrilled

But you also must know that your characters won’t just be standing stock still and yelling at one another; they’re going to be moving around, so here are some things you can describe your character doing during an argument

Expression contorting

Eyes narrowing

Speaking through clenched teeth

Baring their teeth

Lips twisting (into a sneer/into a snarl)

Hands balling into fists

Trembling

Breaking things/knocking stuff over

Pointing accusingly

Shoving

Spittle flying from their mouth

Stamping their feet

Face getting hot

Vein in forehead popping

Blood roaring in their ears/heart pounding

And if you want, to build tension you can put it in a dangerous place, like at the edge of a cliff or something—so you know fully well that if one of them goes too far it may end up with the other’s accidental death.

2.Know Your Characters

The most important factors of your argument are the characters participating in it.

You should have your characters’ tempers established beforehand so you know if they’re going to be hanging back while others argue or if they’re going to be throwing hands every other chapter.

Your characters’ tempers will shape how much tension the argument causes.

An argument with someone who is usually chill and slow to anger will be a whole lot more impactful and important than an argument with someone who is a known hothead, but it wouldn’t make sense if the argument happened over something minor.

Here’s a list of some of the tempers your character can have, ranked from lowest to highest on how much tension an argument with them causes

(Just so you know, these aren’t rigid categories; most people are usually a mix of everything!):

–Hotheaded Character–

Fights with a hothead hold the least tension.

Hotheads will fight over anything and everything, their quick fuse making them easy to irritate and anger. Their words can hurt people who aren’t used to it, but usually bounce off of close friends who are used to it and know that the hothead usually doesn’t mean it.

Arguments with hotheads have a high chance of turning physical, because their rage explodes in bursts rather than a slow buildup (the definition of going from zero to one hundred), and in any situation, hotheads are usually the ones to throw the first punch.

Because a hothead could get riled up about a spilled drink just as quickly as they can get riled up about a friend dying, just having a hothead getting angry during a moment of severe tension won’t bring you the umph that you’re looking for.

However, your hotheaded character can serve as an instrumental character in triggering more serious arguments, one of their mindless snide remarks going too far with a level-headed or shy character.

Examples of hotheaded characters:

Stanley Kowalski, A Streetcar Named Desire by Tennessee Williams

Lt. Tom ‘Iceman’ Kazansky, Top Gun (1986)

Anger, Inside Out (2015)

–Aloof Character–

These characters are a lot like hotheads, but the many, many fights that they pick don’t involve them getting raging, screaming mad.

They’re cold, calculating, and cutthroat, and they couldn’t care less about what you think of them.

Their anger is a lot less “loose cannon” than the hotheads’. They say what they mean and mean what they say, and it’ll take a long time to recover from the tongue-lashings these people can dish out.

The greater tension, however, comes from when the aloof characters raise their voices and start shouting—their schooled, uncaring façade fades away and they’re left truly and undeniably angered by whatever tipped the scales.

It’s not too tension-building because these characters were just bastards to begin with, but it’s still unnerving and shocking to see a normally collected character lose their cool.

Examples of aloof characters:

Mr. Darcy, Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen

Prince Cardan, The Cruel Prince by Holly Black

Alex Stern, The Ninth House by Leigh Bardugo

Sherlock Holmes, Most Media Types

Tony Stark, The Avengers

–Nonchalant Character–

These people usually don’t engage in meaningful arguments because they literally don’t care enough to bother.

When another character tries to pick a fight, a character who is more nonchalant will sometimes roll their eyes at whatever accusation is being leveled at them rather than retorting. This can go either way, perhaps escalating the tension or diffusing it by not offering up a reply.

Kind of like with the aloof character, they don’t have any emotional attachment arguments that they start or are dragged into. They’ll argue for the sake of arguing, but they really don’t give a fuck about it.

The part that draws the tension, however, is when the characters do give a fuck. A fight they get into turns heated, and a character’s normal devil-may-care attitude may morph into something else altogether.

Most nonchalant characters also may exhibit some hotheaded tendencies, which shows how muddles these archetypes can be.

Examples of Nonchalant Characters:

Han Solo, The Star Wars Saga

Deadpool, Deadpool (2016)

Angel Dust, The Hazbin Hotel

–Level-headed/Stoic Character–

These characters are the cool cucumbers of the group. They’re very, very, VERY slow to anger, and usually exhibit more maturity than their peers, almost never starting arguments.

They’re the masters of diffusing arguments with a few words, and hardly ever raise their voices.

Sure, they may serve as backup to someone else and may jump to their aid with a bit of heat behind their words, but this hardly happens when the argument is their own.

Many hotheaded or aloof characters may try teasing or pushing these characters in order to act out, but it rarely works.

On the few instances that a level-headed character is angered, it is pretty serious.

Either one of the other characters poked fun at something they shouldn’t’ve—their dead parents, something they’re self-conscious about, etc.—or a member of the group makes a terrible mistake with dire consequences, and the stoic character has had enough.

This causes a lot of tension because “oh shit, the calmest person in our group just went off” and can usually signal a breakdown of the group because their strongest link is snapping.

Examples of Stoic Characters:

Geralt of Rivia, The Witcher

The Mandalorian, The Mandalorian

Spock, Star Trek

The Doctor, Doctor Who

Atticus Finch, To Kill A Mockingbird

–Timid/Shy/Quiet Character–

An argument with a timid person causes by far the most tension out of everything, to the point where I call it “The Snap.”

Someone who is timid, shy, or quiet would rather not argue at all because they don’t have it in them to retort.

They may care a whole lot about the situation under contention, but for one reason or another they don’t want to start too much trouble. These people actively avoid conflict and usually try their best to diffuse situations before they start, whether it be by conceding, walking away, or pulling the nonchalant route and not saying anything.

However, unlike the stoic characters, they might be much more emotional; it wouldn’t be out of the ordinary for a timid character to cry when being berated by the others, and they may even be outwardly livid, but they always back down in the end.

However, they can only hold it in for so long.

If you have a character who spends the entire book meekly accepting the verbal (or perhaps physical) harassment of other characters, you should most definitely put a “Snap” somewhere in the story, a point where the character has had enough and fights back.

The timid character’s pent-up rage and sorrow explodes into a raging argument that will most definitely frighten the other characters.

The tipping point may be the death of the loved one or just a simple, ordinary jab from an antagonist—the straw that broke the camel’s back.

Unlike with the hothead’s quick bursts of anger like snap fireworks, the anger of a quiet character—much like with a stoic character—is like ten thousand pounds of dynamite with a very, very long fuse.

A quiet character will almost never have a contained argument once they’ve snapped; it will be like a category five hurricane, and God help the poor bastard that set it off.

Examples of timid/shy/quiet characters:

Carrie White, Carrie by Stephen King

Amélie Poulain, Amélie (2001)

Bilbo Baggins, The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkein

3. Know The Rhythm of An Argument

An argument isn’t just 0 to 100 and then back to 0.

The tension levels look more like a squiggly line than a single spike; the tension peaks and ebbs on various levels throughout an argument, especially if it’s a long, important one where both characters are snapping over a novel’s worth of building tension.

The argument can come in like a freight train or it can build up slowly, a character storming in after a realization or a single snide remark that snowballs into something much greater.

Then comes an accusation. Both characters brace themselves and realize that this argument isn’t just going to putter out.

More back and forth words exchanged. “I don’t like that you do this, this and this,” while the characters’ tempers flare even further, pushing them to say more extreme, hurtful things and working each other up into a rage.

A physical fight may break out between the two, throwing punches and insults.

The climax should be a huge, shocking exclamation or accusation. “I hate you!” “If you were never born, Mom would still be alive!” “This is all your fault!”

The tension ebbs. The characters stand in silence, bitter and ashamed of themselves.

They may agree on a few things, their tempers start to die down. They may come to some understandings or storm off with the tension unresolved. The argument ends.

This is the basic format of an argument; however, there are usually several levels of accusation-buildup before the eventual climax.

The whole point of an argument is that it leaves the characters’ relationships much different than they’d been before; they either understand each other much more, or they’ve become much more wary of one another.

If your characters’ relationship doesn’t change after an argument, then there was no point in writing it.

I really hope this helped! Happy Writing!

#writing #writing tips #writing advice #writing help #writers #writing an argument #writer #help with writing #help for writers

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i-did-not-mean-to · 2 years

Text

Boys and sticks - Chapter 24 🔥

Fandom: Hobbit (College AU)

Characters : @linasofia x Thorin, @laurfilijames x Fíli, me x Ori

Words: 1,6k

Warnings: SMUT, double SMUT, NSFW, dirty, etc etc

@middleearthpixie here is the chapter you can read to check out the safety precautions LOL

Previous parts

“They are lovely people,” Thorin started defensively and Tova wondered if he misunderstood her on purpose, holding up one hand to stay his logorrhoea before it could drown her; it was amazing how wordy he could be in private.

“I know they are lovely, I’ve met them,” she said gently, intertwining her fingers with his. She had decided – when he had held on to her for dear life on the bike – that she would risk it all and see where this would go.

“I’d like for us to have more dinners…and lunches…and…sex?” he grinned – embarrassed – while cupping her cheek tenderly, rubbing his thumb along the edge of her jaw, a move that had become a signature caress from him.

“I think I’d like that too,” Tova agreed. She had never expected or planned to fall into a relationship, but it felt like she had known Thorin for ages; she couldn’t even tell what it had been exactly: his invitation of Jia, the tea in the morning, or the way he had just climbed onto her bike, but she knew that being with him was effortless.

“I…” he looked around and pulled her behind a big oak tree, “this is what it’s like. I have a lot of kin I am constantly worried about – I really think Ori is about to run off crying like a girl, not that being a girl is wrong or something bad – and there’s no fancy champagne, there’s music and laughter, badly singed meat and endless loyalty.”

Tova nodded slowly, feeling that he was not done speaking.

“I don’t want you to feel forced to…take pity on me just because we slept together, but you do mean an awful lot to me and…”

He fell silent, kneading her hands in his as if to self-soothe by crushing her fingers to dust.

“I will decapitate Jia myself if she makes him cry,” Tova promised, brushing her lips across his tenderly, “and I had no idea that this would feel anything like it does feel now, but I certainly do not pity you.”

He shrugged awkwardly: “Well, you’ve seen the worst I guess.”

“I’ve never had a proper girlfriend, not that that’s what’s happening, except if you want this to be what’s happening…” Thorin slapped his hand against his own forehead which made Tova laugh.

“I usually curate what I say out loud so carefully, but somehow, you make it easy to be myself,” he admitted with a chuckle.

“I know what you mean,” Tova nodded, leaning against the tree trunk, and pulling him closer by the hem of his shirt. “You are a bewitching man, Thorin, you really are. Let me tell you this, people who care – and I do care – do not care for the clean, curated version. Nobody falls for a picture, darling, we fall for the second after, when people no longer suck in their stomach and grin open-mouthed with their crooked teeth and their donkey laughter.”

She had fallen into him headlong, Tova knew, drawn in by the surprising vulnerability and the honest care he took of other people; if he had been the beefcake everyone seemed to think he was, she would have had her way with him and moved on, but she was quickly growing addicted to the way he overcame his insecurities and to the steadfast bravery with which he defended his friends.

Thorin – who looked like a vengeful god from an old folk-tale – was a cute person who liked cuddling and hated waking up, who showed up for his friends and braved his fears, a complete human with deep feelings and interesting thoughts.

“So…I can walk you to class tomorrow?” he grinned, leaning against her, and pressing her against the rough bark of the tree.

“You can,” she panted when his mouth moved from her ear to her clavicle, peeling her out of her protective gear like she had scraped away his careless façade layer by layer.

“Do you think they’ll miss us terribly?” he wondered aloud, his fingers tracing the pattern of the tight shorts she wore underneath her riding gear, the leather crumpled and squeaking at her feet.

“I don’t fucking care, they have their own shit to get through,” Tova mumbled, thinking that she had done her best to screw Jia’s head on right again and that nobody could expect any more of her as she fumbled with the button of his jeans.

“Maybe you should wear that jacket after all,” Thorin grinned, slipping the leather garment back onto her naked skin.

“Why?” Before Tova could think about it, her back was scraped along the bark as he lifted her up easily, teasing her folds with one hand while kneading her bare ass with the other.

“Because I wouldn’t want to damage your sweet skin,” he moaned, feeling her hot and ready for him already.

As he slipped into her in one fluid stroke, as if he had been made to fit and fill her, Tova felt her heart flutter because he had made sure that she would not come to harm during this interlude, before her whole body started to shiver when his mouth closed around her nipple while he was still holding her up.

Her legs wrapped around him, and she bit down hard on her lip to keep from crying out when he shifted his angle, hitting spots within her she had no prior knowledge of.

Burying her hands in his messy man-bun, she pulled him closer to her heart, yelping when his teeth closed carefully around her nipple, and he started grinding against her in slow, firm circles that made stars dance behind her closed lids.

Oh, things had never been that easy with anyone, Lo thought as she sank down on him, feeling him fill her to the brim.

He was painted upon a canvas of dead leaves and crackling branches, and it was just perfect, the gold of his hair melting into the warm colours of the background, the curve of his smile the proof that the world was round indeed.

She understood that he had surmised that she would be put off by the simplicity of his own roots, but she knew – deep within her heart she felt it – that those roots were old and strong, that they were what held the world together.

Hard work and endless hours of labour had roughened his hands into unyielding, slightly raspy plains that slid so smoothly over the velvet of her skin as he closed them around her hips to steady her – balanced precariously on top of the small rock – while he pushed into her in that paced rhythm that made her want to crawl out of her skin.

She was not dating Fí, because of a thousand reasons, but when his hips started quirking faster, she allowed herself for a moment to wish those reasons away. Nobody else made her feel that way, no other lover had ever given in to her love of danger and semi-public sex; she yearned for the way his body felt on hers, raw and primal, authentic and wild.

Bored of the manicured dolls her father didn’t stop introducing to her, Lo had taken Fíli as a lover because he was different – pinching her ass when he thought nobody could see and eating her out in abandoned classrooms – but she had quickly, much too quickly, become addicted to the way he smoothed her hair after tugging at it remorselessly while she sucked his dick in the library.

Yes, it was the way those broad, callused hands interposed themselves between her and the rock as he picked up the pace, making sure that she did not suffer any injuries and the tender swirl of his tongue against her neck as he exploded within her with a hoarse cry, his hair darkened by the sweat beading on his noble brow. All those details put him apart from every other man she’d ever met, and she knew that she would never find anyone else again who was such a perfect fit for both her body and her soul.

When he pulled out, she whined low in her throat to mourn the loss of that delicious sensation of fullness and was rewarded by his fingers coaxing her to the edge of ecstasy.

“Say you’ll give me an evening, a full evening, Lo, say it,” he begged, scraping his slightly imperfect teeth down her throat before burying them in her shoulder, nipping at the silken skin.

“I’ll be yours for a whole evening,” she panted as his fingers spread around the warm wetness between her legs, making her whole body tingle with anticipation.

“Jia, please,” Ori muttered softly, stroking my hair gently. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dwalin wave at him to take me away somewhere along the path, probably before Balin threw me out for being such a hysterical female.

“Jia, let’s walk a bit, Balin is getting antsy and I do not care for having my ass spanked by him, in front of everyone, for making you cry,” Ori went on, his arms tightening around me as he just walked forward, effectively shoving me down the path.

It did not strike me as odd how much I trusted him not to steer me into a ravine or let me stumble and fall onto my stupid ass, which – in itself – was a surprising development.

“I really thought you needed the sleep,” I started – completely out of context – and his patient eyes rested on me full of empathy.

“Did you have somewhere to be?” he asked after a moment, stopping as we reached the edge of a small brook gurgling merrily.

“No,” I admitted, staring at the water trickling leisurely over the multi-coloured stones.

“Then, I suggest that, next time, you just snuggle up closer and try to sleep some more?” he laughed softly.

“NEXT TIME?”

#fanfiction #hobbit #thorin #ori #fíli #linasofia #me #laurfilijames #college au #smut #smuff #fluff #hugs and sex #lots of dirty stuff #safety first #oh maybe feelings #a little bit #eeeeew feelings

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outerspacesteve · 3 years

Text

headcanon #10: steve and bucky’s notebook

[TFATWS EP. 3 SPOILERS]

So... Bucky is using Steve’s notebook, leave me alone to cry, please :’)

Imagine Steve giving him the notebook after Endgame, because there’s finally some peace and quiet, so he suggests to Bucky that he catch up on some of the things he missed since WW2.

And later, when Bucky is flicking through the pages, he stumbles across a note:

“Buck,

If you ever need grounding, if you ever need reminding of who you are, just come here. I know this is an awful thing to think, and that everything you went through was horrific, and I can’t even begin to imagine what it was like, but I’m glad we got to see each other again.

When I woke from the ice and ran into Times Square, I remember the first thing I thought. It wasn’t confusion, it wasn’t shock or anything like that, no, it was “Bucky would’ve loved this.” It was like something straight out of those sci-fi books you used to read. So, in that sense, I’m happy that you get to see it, that you now have the time, and the peace, to explore.

It’s bittersweet in a sense - they got rid of the old laundromat that was down the road from your ma’s, and the grocery, where you used to sneak some extra food from when Mrs Smith wasn’t looking, that’s gone, too. They replaced it with some modern hipster café thing, I don’t really know, I only went there once. I wouldn’t recommend it though, the coffee wasn’t great.

But he parks are still fairly similar. I never did find out whether our old apartment was still standing. I didn’t really want to know; felt like finding out they’d replaced it would be like cutting one of the last threads tying me to you, and our old life.

But I got you back. Can you believe that? You were sent to hell and back, countless times, and yet we still found out way back to each other. That’s some next-level destiny shit, Buck.

You were the one person who always knew me. The real me, not the Captain America bullshit. Just plain old Steve Rogers, the little scrawny kid who you had to constantly check back alleys for, any time you were somewhere without me. You never did care for the whole stars-and-stripes façade, and for that I’m thankful.

I could write pages and pages of things I’m grateful for, or memories that I treasure, but bottom line is, you were everything to me, Bucky, you are everything to me. I’m not sure what I would’ve done without you. You’re worth so much more than you give yourself credit for. You managed to save my sorry ass more times than I can count. And no matter how many times I told you that I could get by on my own, or that I had them on the ropes, you said you knew, but you stayed anyway.

Remember in ‘37, and winter had just begun, and I had come down with another bout of pneumonia? It was the first time I was bedridden for weeks on end since my ma died. I remember you doing everything you possibly could to help. Of course I was the most uncooperative son of a bitch on the planet.

I must have been a pain in the ass; coughing all night so you hardly slept a wink and would be dead on your feet the next day at work, being too stubborn to let you help me cool down or warm up, refusing any of the soup you would make me. But none of that ever made you leave my side.

I remember, whenever you weren’t fussing over me, or telling me, “Steve, I swear to god, drink this soup or I’m going to force-feed it to you,” you would be telling me about this new book you’d seen in the shop window on your way to the docks.

You said it was called The Hobbit. You said it was an adventure book, about a group of dwarves searching for some dragon-guarded treasure. You practically had the blurb memorised! You couldn’t afford to buy it, what with me out of a job, and you spending all your money on food and medicine, but you went to the bookshop every day, just to look at it. You said you tried to read a few pages each time you went, but that Mr Robinson soon caught on and threatened to ban you from the store the next time you left without buying anything. You even checked the library, but it was a new book and they didn’t have it there, either.

You didn’t let me get a new job that winter, said it was better not to risk getting ill again, and that we would be able to figure anything else out. Obviously, I put up a fight, but eventually, you managed to convince me. I did take up a few art commissions, though. And I managed to scrape together enough money to buy you the book for Christmas.

I remember the way your face lit up. Even though our apartment was freezing, and our Christmas tree was tiny, and dying, and all kinds of pathetic, none of that mattered. I was just glad to see you so happy after all the stress that I’d put you through over the last few months. You said you didn’t mind, and you gave me the tightest hug, and said that your present looked kind of meagre compared to the book. It wasn’t, but even if it was, I would have loved it anyway, because it was from you.

You devoured that book within days. I don’t think I ever saw it more than a few feet away from you. The pages yellowed, became worn and thin, the cover faded and creased, but you still carried it around as though it was your prize possession. I was secretly so happy that it was me who had put that smile on your face.

And then the following spring, when I was once again ill and bed-ridden, you would sit by my bedside, and read The Hobbit to me. Even through my fever-induced haze, I could tell how much you loved the book - it shone through into your voice, into the small smile you’d wear when we got to your favourite parts. I don’t remember much of the storyline, but I do remember you. I think I paid more attention to you than to the book itself.

They wrote sequels, you know? And there’s movies now, too. I never did get around to reading or watching them, though. I couldn’t bring myself to do it without you. Felt like that was something I should be doing with you. You should watch them, sometime. Sam says they’re good.

Anyway, I love you, Bucky. Never forget that. None of it was ever your fault, it wasn’t you. But you’re free now, free to do whatever you want, free to be whoever you want to be. And if you don’t believe that, then believe me, at least until you can believe it for yourself.

Thank you, Bucky. Truly. For everything.

Love, Steve”

And on every few pages, randomly spread throughout the notebook, there’s a little drawing or doodle that Steve has done. Sometimes they’re drawings of memories shared between him and Bucky, sometimes they’re things Steve thinks Bucky would like, and sometimes they’re just completely random things that he felt like drawing. There’s even a cartoon drawing of Sam doing something stupid, and Natasha just stood off to the side, rolling her eyes.

Bucky loves all of them. But the one he likes best is the drawing of him and Steve on the bench at Coney Island, sat shoulder to shoulder, mouths covered in ice cream, and massive grins on both of their faces.

On the bad days, when his head is too loud and he can’t seem to quiet it, he’ll open the notebook. Sometimes he reads the letter, sometimes he just looks at the pictures. Usually, though, Bucky will open the notebook to one of the lists Steve had written when he came out of the ice, and he’ll watch something that Steve had already crossed out, signifying that he had watched it.

He would imagine what Steve’s reaction to the film or show may be, and what Steve might have thought of it. And sometimes, it really does feel like Steve is right there watching with him.

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gossip-girl-of-middleearth · 3 years

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Not a Hero (Fellowship x Soldier! Reader)

Synopsis: You, a soldier of Gondor, place duty above all else. When Boromir starts showing signs of plotting against Frodo and the Ring, you take matters into your own human hands, which get a little dirty, and bloody, in the process.

AN: Really wanted to try writing something a little more dark and gritty, and voila! This is the result. I love Boromir so, so much, so this was difficult to write (styled as gender neutral, for all readers)

Warnings: depictions of violence

Pairings: none

You were a soldier of Gondor, which meant both duty and the protection of Middle-earth came first, above all else.

Like most other soldiers, you stood strong, in both mind and heart. However, also just like most other soldiers, you had an intense inclination to get your hands dirty, in the name of service.

Being the most promising in his ranks, Boromir had taken you along to Rivendell. This was where it all started to go downhill.

None could miss the malicious glint in Boromir’s eye, when he watched the Ring. More startling so, none could deny the growing glimmer of murder, when he laid his gaze upon Frodo.

It was nothing personal, and yet entirely so at the same time. Boromir was taken with the Ring, and coveted it deeply. You, for the most part, felt no attraction to the Ring. You perhaps would have, under different circumstances, but as mentioned before, your mind was set, and clouded, by one thing, and one thing only – protecting Middle-earth.

This meant that Frodo, and the Ring, were both under your sword and service. Like a typical soldier, you would strike without warning. You wouldn’t blink once, or think twice, if it fell under the obligation of your sworn duty.

The Fellowship, for the most part, respected this. You held yourself in a high esteem, and diligently shined the insignia emblem on your cloak every night.

Though their races differed from yours, and though yours was arguably weaker in mind, spirit and body, they understood your sense of responsibility. However, what they did not anticipate, was just how deeply that sense ran. In all honesty, it ran deeper than an icy river at night, and was alike, in many ways, to the chilling waters.

Deep, cold and dark – without so much as a shred of mercy towards those who fell in the rapids.

It most definitely first began with the glances Boromir gave Frodo, and then the time he picked the Ring up from in the snow. There were other instances, at camp, where he would sharpen his sword, and glare Frodo down.

The young Hobbit was understandably unnerved. In fact, the entire Fellowship began to walk on eggshells. Whispers began to resonate in the night, about how merciless the race of men truly was. None of them, even Aragorn, were true-blooded human beings. Their souls didn’t work the same way.

This, of course, only became more and more apparent, the more only Boromir fell into the web of Sauron’s luring promises.

With a hard-set jaw, furrowed brows and analytical eyes, you walked behind your captain. You kept your sights trained on him, as he discreetly stole glances at Frodo up ahead.

You all walked through the woods, and did so in silence. This, naturally, made the dark words playing on Boromir’s tongue all the more evident.

He spoke of curses towards Frodo, and darker threats you wished to not repeat. Your hand stayed on the hilt of your sword, at all times.

Boromir may have been your captain, but he did not stand in the way of Middle-earth’s fate. You simply wouldn’t allow it.

Tensions were at an all-time high that night, at camp. Boromir sat seething against a tree, whilst Frodo uncomfortably tugged on the Ring.

Legolas, Aragorn and Gimli had all shared worried glances, before they ultimately fell asleep that night. Two nights of walking without rest was enough to fatigue even the most tireless of the Fellowship’s elite.

You were given the night watch, and happily so too. You could observe Boromir throughout every hour of the dark, as he himself watched over Frodo.

It was a triangle of stares. Frodo nervously studied the ground, before he too drifted off. Boromir maliciously revered him, whilst you burned holes into the captain’s head.

It was only when Frodo began rustling in his sleep, when you leant back against your own trunk, and feigned sleep.

Frodo apparently heard the call of nature, and quietly rose from his sleeping bag, as to enter the woods alone.

Boromir, also having been resting, peeked one eye open. He coldly watched the Hobbit retreat into the trees, before he too rose.

You opened an eye of your own, and idly observed Boromir. He stood, silent as a creeping fox, and retrieved a pickaxe from a sleeping Sam’s rucksack. His weapon of choice that night, so it appeared. More discreet than a sword, that’s for sure.

Once assured that Boromir had walked away far enough, as to the point where your footsteps would not be heard, you swiftly rose.

On silent toes, you walked through the dark. You were younger, faster and agiler than your older captain, and were confident you could keep Frodo safe from harm.

Soon, you found Boromir in the woods. He stood holding the pickaxe, and hid behind a tree. Narrowing your eyes, you emerged into the area.

With a start, Boromir gasped. He then feigned humour, and placed a hand over his chest, as to still his beating heart.

“Y/n, you startled me,” he quietly said.

You didn’t respond for a moment. Instead, you merely only studied both him, and the pickaxe.

“A bit late for an evening stroll, is it not?” you flatly asked.

Kicking himself off from the tree, and lowering his pickaxe, Boromir glanced over his shoulder briefly. Once assured the Hobbit was not yet returning, Boromir turned his head back around, and focused on you.

“Indeed,” he chuckled. “I was merely only ensuring our young Ring-bearer made it back safely.”

Gesturing towards the pickaxe, with a nod of your chin, you snapped your cold eyes upwards to his, and questioned him.

“You need a pickaxe for that?” you knowingly asked.

At once, the friendly demeanour of Boromir dropped. You would have been scared, of his grinding teeth, clenched jar and murderous eyes, had you not been a soldier. This is what you were trained to handle, and handle you would.

“Must I really wear a façade around you, soldier?” Boromir asked through gritted teeth. He stepped forwards, and met you chest to chest.

Barely stumbling back once, you squared your shoulders, and coolly met his glowering eyes.

“What façade do you wear, captain?” you bit back, ever using an even tone.

This caused something to snap inside of Boromir, like the breaking of a red thread previously hanging on. He spoke in low, hasty whispers, and growled down at you.

“We are the only humans in this Fellowship, Y/n,” he seethed. “More to the point, we are the only two from Gondor! You ought to understand why I must do this – I do this for our people, and our prosperity! We need the Ring, Y/n. Help me.”

Your face remained cool, as you stared up at him, with detached eyes.

“No, Boromir,” you flatly denied. “The Ring must stay with Frodo, and us with the Fellowship. Our duty is to our continent, not just our kingdom. We are sworn to our cause, and we mustn’t forsake that.”

“Look at you,” Boromir seethed again in disgust. He ran his eyes up and down your form, and scrunched his nose in disdain. “You are nothing but a loyal dog, blindly following orders – orders that do not even come from your own captain, but Elven filth instead! I will do this without you-“

As he had gone to turn away, and track down Frodo, you kicked the backside of his knees.

Fumbling for just a moment, Boromir lost his balance. At the same time, you swiped the pickaxe from his hands, and held it threateningly.

Turning around, with an even more enraged glint than before, Boromir panted heavily. He revered you in betrayal, and voiced so aloud.

“You are pathetic!” he growled. “You will damn us all! You will damn Gondor!”

“I’m doing this for Gondor,” you replied, for once allowing a snarl of your own to crawl through.

It wasn’t long after, that a brawl of sorts took place. The fight consisted of thrown fists, deep kicks to the abdomen and swinging arms. It then wasn’t long after, that the pickaxe became heavily involved.

Time passed both quickly and slowly, as you stood, hunched over, above Boromir. One swing after another, and blood spurted everywhere. It got onto your face, into your hair and up your nose. Worst of all, it entered your mouth. You could taste the rust of your sin, but simultaneously, the success of keeping Middle-earth safe, for one more day.

However, slipping your attention, Frodo, having returned from his short journey, watched from the shadows.

He winced and trembled, with every blow you delivered to the man’s pulped face. His eyes were wide in horror, as he heard the sickening crunches of metal meeting bone.

Soon, your duty was done. You stood above Boromir, and panted heavily. Even though it was only seconds later, you barely recalled the event. In fact, it simply seemed like a cold white blur, rather than a reality of the past.

You soaked in the sounds of the forest for a few moments – grounding yourself again. Wind blowed through the trees, owls hooted and bugs zipped past.

You stared down at Boromir. He was barely recognisable. A glimmer of guilt flashed through your chest, but was chased away by your soldier’s conscious.

That night, you had taken to a little creek nearby, as to rinse yourself of the blood. You left the pickaxe on Boromir’s body as you did so – perhaps a little frazzled from the event, which was still fresh in your numb mind.

So, on your way back to camp, you quickly bent down, and retrieved it. Frodo observed you, at the late hour it was, as you discreetly slipped the pickaxe into your bag, before leaning against your tree-trunk again.

The next morning, all had felt the sombre presence of death in the air. It hung around like a bad omen, and tainted the wind with malevolent intent.

Frodo barely said a word to you, for he didn’t know how to. He knew he had to say something, but by the heart of him, he still couldn’t believe it to be true. Part of him figured it to be a bad dream. However, the shrill shouting of Gimli soon told him otherwise.

All gathered around Boromir’s fallen body, and grimaced in terror. Who could have done this, they wondered?

“Orcs,” Legolas whispered, keeping his haunted eyes on Boromir’s fallen body. “We must be getting hunted by them at night…”

“From now on, we double the night-watch,” Aragorn ordered. He revered Boromir in guilt. If only he himself had stayed awake, then perhaps this travesty wouldn’t have occurred.

Whilst Merry, Sam and Pippin all teared up in distress, you watched on with cold eyes – completely detached. Aragorn noticed this, but said nothing.

That day, a funeral pyre was lit. Soft words of apology were said, before Boromir’s body was burned.

Frodo hated how the fire of the funeral reflected in your eyes. Every irk of duty was illuminated within your gaze, as you forced yourself to watch on. It was your responsibility, you told yourself, your duty of service.

Travelling that day was done so in silence, and done so faster than ever before. All except you, now thought Orcs to be hot on their tails. Well, all except you, and Frodo.

As sundown approached, and gave way to darkness once more, clouds overtook the sky. A heavy rain began to fall, and drench the woodland camp.

Everyone put their hoods up, and shielded themselves from the wetness of night. You had decided to announce the need of more firewood, and wandered off into the woods – alone.

Frodo watched you with terrified eyes, as he most certainly remembered what had happened the previous night, when you did the same thing.

Aragorn sat on a log nearby, trying feebly to stoke the dying fire. He saw the Hobbit’s distress, and uneven panting. Whether or not Frodo shivered from fear or cold, was unknown.

“Frodo,” Aragorn gently extracted, earning not only the Hobbit’s attention, but the entire camp’s. “Are you…alright, Frodo?”

Swallowing his nerves, and looking between both the ranger and forest, Frodo battled with his inner conflicts. However, the need to tell someone of last night’s horrors overwhelmed him, and with a swift rise of his feet, he fumbled towards your sack.

What he revealed to everyone at the camp, stunned them entirely. The mood dropped, into one of horror, and their uneven breathing was drowned out by the rain.

Not long after, and you returned, with an armful of logs. As you entered the camp, you spoke. However, you soon stopped, following the Fellowship’s hostile reaction.

“I apologise for the wait, it proved difficult to find dry wood,” you explained, glancing at the group.

Everyone stood around Aragorn, and snapped their attentions back at you, the second you reappeared, and spoke.

Unsettled by their presence, you knitted your brows. Making a move to place the firewood down, you questioned both them, and their silence.

“What’s going on?” you curiously asked, walking over to the fire, as to dump the logs.

Dusting your hands off, you squinted in the rain, as you looked back at Aragorn.

After sharing a dubious glance with both Legolas and Gimli, Aragorn brought the pickaxe forwards. You stared at it in quick shock, but placed your own tough façade on.

“Where did you get that?” you slowly asked.

The pickaxe was covered in blood – Boromir’s blood, to be exact. It’d take a fool to not trust Frodo’s frightened words, and the clear evidence.

As they stood in a huddled group at one end of the camp, and you alone in another, a tense exchange of words took place. The rain pelted on, and drenched everybody, like miserably drowned rats.

“Did you borrow this?” Aragorn tensely asked, shaking the pickaxe in gesture. However, when you didn’t respond, he questioned you again, although, his tone shone in more desperation – coveting answers. “Why did you not tell us?”

You analysed the weapon briefly, and the blood that coated it. Looking away, and studying the ground momentarily, you replied. Your jaw was set again, and your brows hardened.

“I was going to,” you sincerely replied.

Finding that you said no more, and planned not to, Aragorn shook his head – completely at a loss.

“Why would you not tell us what happened?” he pressed again.

Legolas, Gimli and the Hobbits all nervously looked between one another, as the tension in the air rose – akin to frogs in boiling water.

“I couldn’t,” was all you could offer, with another aversion of your briefly lifted eyes.

“You killed him…you killed Boromir,” Gimli stated, in a manner of shock. Sure, he didn’t appreciate Boromir, not in the slightest, but this…this was something else. This was murder.

Everyone knew it too. This was something their divergent souls couldn’t comprehend, nor fathom. The Elvish heart of Legolas sunk with dread, whilst Gimli’s Dwarven one brimmed with horror. The Hobbits’ filled with desolation, and the Dúnedain blood of Aragorn ran cold.

You had murdered Boromir in a way only a human could – bloody, brutal and cold. It was simply unnatural to the rest, and their lack of comprehension quickly frustrated you.

“He was going to kill Frodo,” you defended yourself, narrowing your gaze down at Gimli. “Was I supposed to just let him?”

“I don’t think you were supposed to do this,” Merry retorted, shaking his head in shock, whilst his eyes remained wide in disbelief. “None of us are…”

You started incredulously for a moment. Shifting your weight, you further narrowed your gaze, and bit back with an increasing tone.

“Do you think I had a choice?” you defensively asked.

“There’s always a choice,” Legolas rebutted, creasing his own brows.

That was the final straw for you. These beings, so high and mighty above your own human blood, were belittling you, for something only you could muster the strength to do.

“Well, I can’t do what you can, archer!” you snapped, raising your voice. “Nor can I do what Gimli does, or Aragorn, or even the Hobbits! I know you wouldn’t have done it – you probably would have just figured something out, correct?”

Though the question was aimed at all of them, Aragorn answered. Most by now had flinched in retreat, for the human before them ticked like a timebomb.

“I’d try to figure something out…” Aragorn mulled, with a voice ever-so tentative.

“Right! Because you’re Aragorn, the Dúnedain!” you barked again, now most definitely able to be heard over the rain, with a series of defensive hand gestures pointed at the soaked ground. “But not all of us can be Dúnedain, or Elves, or Hobbits, or Dwarves! Some of us have to make mistakes! Some of us have to get our hands a little bloody sometimes! Some of us are HUMAN!”

Your words intertwined with the harsh rain, as cold beads ran down your face, and past your enraged eyes. You stood as defensive as a cornered snake, which, in that moment, the six non-humans all considered your race to be.

“So, that means you had to kill him?” Gimli asked again in response, hardening his own tone. However, horror still ran deep along his inflection.

Flaring your nostrils in anger, your eyes burned brighter. They weren’t appreciative, and simply didn’t understand what it meant to be a human soldier. You weren’t raised in a cosy Hobbit-hole, nor an Elven palace or Dwarven mountain. You were raised in the army, and consequently, a killer.

“Yes, I had to kill him,” you tightly said at last.

With one last clench of your jaw, you leaned forwards, and lowly uttered a final response out.

“You’re welcome.”

With that, you moved back to the campfire, and began placing log after log onto the flames. And, just like only a human birthed from primeval men could do, you, and you alone, restored the fire.

Left standing in shock, the six beings all stared between one another. This was one cultural difference that didn’t quite sit well with them. However, the killing had been among the race of men – human to human. Who were they to inflict their differentiating ideologies onto you?

Pure humans were something entirely different, indeed, and none knew if they liked it that much.

188 notes · View notes