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@aglaias-blog
Masterlist of all my works
Requests are open! 💖
House of the Dragon
Aemond Targaryen
Oneshot:
Sleep well, my Queen (Smut, somnophilia, 18+)
Wicked Game (Smut, dub!con, possessiveness, jealousy, 18+)
Series:
Kindred Spirits (series, soulmate AU, religious imagery, smut in later chapters, corruption/innocence kink)
my guy fumbled so hard
let me make myself very clear, on this blog its:
fuck donald trump
fuck ICE
immigrants are not illegal
free palestine
black lives have and will always matter
trans rights forever and always
pro choice
healthcare should be free
house the homeless
keep religion out of schools
LGBTQ+ rights
fuck the tories
if you dont agree, fuck off.
I feel like ppl get bogged down in semantics so let me make it real simple for you. A zionist is someone who supports the state of Israel. Zionism is the belief that a Jewish ethnostate called Israel should be developed in the Levant region (Palestine and Lebanon and Syria) regardless of the existence of Palestine, Syria and Lebanon and their people. When any pro-Palestine person says someone is a Zionist, that's not a synonym for Jewish, nor is another word for "person I don't like". When we call someone a zionist it's because they support the existence of Israel as a colony. And just so we're clear: it does not matter if a zionist says they're sad about Palestinian suffering or they want to "live in peace" with Palestinians because as long as they support the existence of a colonial ethnostate called Israel then they're still doing Zionism. If I came to your house and just started living there and tried to starve you out and torture you so you would leave your house, it wouldn't matter that I felt "sorry" for you because I'm the reason you're suffering at all. That's why when you try and say "well, Neil Druckman says he wants the war to stop" that doesn't matter. He's still a zionist. He still wants Israel to exist as a colonial state which will always be at the expense of Palestinians. Do not fall for liberal Zionists. Get it in your fucking head that there's no "progressive" Zionism because there's no "progressive" way to support a state that necessitates the elimination of whole peoples.
who up mementoing they mori rn
I have some news for members of the united states armed forces who feel like they are pawns in a political game and their assignments being unnecessary.
Are you in the military or thinking about joining? Are you unsure of where to get reliable answers? Call the GI Rights Hotline at 1-877-447-
Maybe spread this link compassionately in online spaces where these people might see it. This is extremely important.
hiii!!! I saw your request were opened and got really excited lol
can I request a Legolas x reader having an angry love confession with a happy ending? U can add as much angst or fluff wanted !
I hope your day goes well <3
Until Dawn
Legolas X half-elf!half-human!Reader
The clatter of hooves and voices cut through the stillness of the late afternoon. You glanced up from behind the bar, pausing mid-wipe of a glass, your fingers tightening around its rim. Travelers were common in this stretch of the woods, but not ones with such purposeful strides or cloaks woven with the threads of old legends.
The door creaked open, and a gust of wind swept in with the first of them. A tall figure stepped through—and your breath caught.
Silver-blond hair. Eyes like starlight through a winter sky. Legolas.
You didn’t realize you’d frozen until he looked at you, recognition flickering across his face like sunlight on rippling water.
“You,” he said softly, a smile ghosting over his lips. “I had wondered if the stories were true.”
“What stories?” you asked, setting down the glass carefully.
“That the half-elf who once sang Dwarvish drinking songs and shot arrows through the dark of Mirkwood now runs an inn... and claims to be done with the road.”
You huffed a laugh, masking the sudden twist in your chest. “I made a promise to myself. No more goblins, no more dragons, no more running for my life. Just quiet, warm beds and decent ale.”
The rest of the Fellowship trickled in—Aragorn with his wary grace, Gimli grumbling about the cold, and a pair of curious Hobbits looking like they’d never seen such a place before.
“I never thought I’d see you again,” you admitted, voice softer now, carrying only to him. “I thought you stayed in the Woodland Realm.”
“I left,” he said. “There are greater shadows moving now. The kind that threaten all lands, even quiet glades like this one.”
You met his gaze, the old bond between you sparking back to life as though no years had passed.
“I’m not the same as I was,” you said quietly.
“No,” he agreed. “You’re stronger now. But the world still needs you.”
You turned your back, pretending to straighten a bottle on the shelf. "The road nearly broke me, Legolas. I don't know if I have it in me again."
A pause. Then his voice, low and sure: “You don’t have to decide tonight. Just share a meal with us. Rest. Then listen to what the world is asking.”
You closed your eyes for a moment, then turned back to face him. “One night,” you said. “No promises.”
He smiled. “That’s all I ask.”
And somewhere, in the quiet beneath your ribs, something old and restless stirred.
As the last of the Fellowship settled into the great hall, shedding cloaks and weariness like autumn leaves, you quietly made your way to the front door. The bell above gave a faint chime as you opened it and stepped into the dusky twilight
You looked out at the fading sun, your jaw tightening as you reached up and flipped the wooden sign to closed. The familiar scrape of it swinging into place felt heavier tonight. You didn’t want your usuals wandering in, recognizing faces from stories they'd only half-believed, or—worse—asking questions you’d buried under hearth and routine.
When you returned inside, your two staff members were waiting by the counter, mid-laugh over something. You didn’t smile.
“Here,” you said, pressing coin into their palms, “Head home early. Lock the back on your way out.”
They exchanged glances. One opened her mouth to protest—you never sent them off this abruptly—but you shook your head with a tone that brooked no argument. “Not tonight.”
A beat of silence passed. Then, with hesitant nods, they slipped away. As their footsteps faded, the inn fell into a deeper quiet. It was just you and the Fellowship now.
You lit the hearth anew and began preparing a meal: roasted root vegetables, venison stew, fresh loaves warmed over coals. The motions were old, soothing—until a familiar footfall approached behind you.
“I remember when you could barely cook a rabbit over a fire,” Legolas said lightly.
You didn’t turn. “And I remember when you were insufferable.”
“That cannot be true,” he said with a faint laugh.
Your hands stilled over the chopping board. You breathed in through your nose.
“I was not the one who kept dwarves as company.”
You exhaled slowly. The knife in your hand trembled.
“Don’t.”
His grin faded instantly.
“Don’t bring them into this,” you said, voice hoarse. “I live with their ghosts every day.”
Legolas was silent for a long moment. You resumed chopping, though your cuts were no longer even. Each thunk of the blade echoed too loudly in the warm space between you.
“I thought you might want to remember them,” he said softly.
“I do remember them. Every night. Every time I close my eyes. Kili, grinning as he handed me his last dried pear. Thorin, bloody and dying in the mud, telling me—” Your voice cracked, and you pressed your fist to your mouth. “You don’t get to walk in here and open that door, Legolas. Not like this.”
A long silence stretched. You kept your back to him.
Finally, he said, “I am sorry. Truly. I didn’t come to wound you.”
You swallowed, forcing the knot in your throat down, back into the place where you kept it buried.
“I know,” you said at last.
He didn’t leave. But he didn’t press. You felt him step closer, and for a moment his presence was a comfort—but still a dangerous one. A reminder of who you were. Of what the road takes.
And still… it stirred something in you. Something old. Something that had once burned with purpose.
You set the knife down and stared into the hearth.
The inn was warm now, the fire casting golden light over old wood and tired faces. The Fellowship ate in relative quiet, grateful for the food and for the brief peace. You worked behind the bar, polishing mugs and pretending not to watch them.
But you felt it. The way some of them looked at you with curiosity, as if trying to place you—not just as an innkeeper, but as someone... else.
Frodo was the one who finally broke the silence.
“You were in Bilbo’s journal,” he said gently.
You looked up, a mug still in your hand. “Was I?”
He nodded, setting down his spoon. “There was a drawing—almost like a sketch from memory. A half-elf woman with a braid down her back, and a scar across her temple.” His eyes flicked to the faint mark just beneath your hairline, still visible in the flicker of firelight. “He said you moved like moonlight with a blade. That you fought like someone trying to outrun the end of the world.”
You didn’t speak at first. You returned to your task, cloth circling the rim of the mug, slower now.
“Aye,” you murmured at last, “That was a long time ago.”
Aragorn watched you then, thoughtful, but said nothing. The room held a breath.
Frodo’s voice was quiet. “He wrote about how you fought in the Battle of the Five Armies. Said you moved with the grace of the Eldar—but when you struck, there was something in it... a fury, raw and burning. Like the world had wronged you.”
You paused again. Set the mug down.
“He wasn’t wrong,” you said, your voice steady, though your eyes flicked to the fire. “I lost my brothers that day. Kili... and Thorin. Perhaps not by blood, but in every way that matters.”
“I’m sorry,” Frodo said, with the quiet sincerity only someone still young in the world can offer.
You nodded once. “We all carry ghosts. Mine just sit closer to the skin.”
Legolas, across the room, didn’t look at you, but his hand rested lightly on the hilt of his blade—as though remembering the same battle. The same blood.
“I remember that journal,” he said quietly. “Bilbo called you Eluneth—Moon-blessed. Said you were the only one who could outdrink Bofur and outrun a Warg in the same night.”
That pulled the faintest smile from you. “He embellished.”
“No,” Gimli grunted, lifting his mug, “He didn’t. Bofur still complains about it.”
A small ripple of laughter lightened the air, but your smile didn’t reach your eyes. Your fingers curled around the bar’s edge.
Frodo tilted his head, studying you. “If you were part of Thorin’s Company… why did you stop?”
You looked at him, really looked. At the way his shoulders tensed with questions and quiet burden.
“Because I gave enough to the road,” you said simply. “It took my youth, my friends, and my peace. I thought if I built something steady, something safe… maybe the world would leave me be.”
“And has it?” Aragorn asked, his voice low.
You met his gaze. “You tell me. You’re sitting in my hall with war on your heels.”
The silence that followed was heavier than before.
You picked up the next mug and began to polish again. “Eat while the food’s warm. Sleep while the roof holds. Tomorrow, the world finds you again.”
And as you turned away, your voice softened to a whisper meant only for yourself.
“It always does.”
The inn had gone still. The fire burned low, its glow casting soft shadows across the stone hearth. The mugs were cleaned, the food cleared away. The Fellowship had long since retreated to their rooms or bedrolls, lulled by warmth and weariness.
But you sat alone in a worn chair near the fire, half-empty bottle of mead at your side, boots kicked off, legs curled beneath you. One hand rested on your knee, the other held a cup you hadn’t taken a sip from in a while. You stared into the flames, jaw slack, thoughts thick with the weight of old wounds.
The softest creak of floorboards stirred your awareness, but you didn’t look up. You knew who it would be.
Legolas appeared like a memory made flesh, moving without sound until he stood just beyond the firelight, arms loose at his sides, hair unbound from travel.
“You always drank honey-mead when you were thinking too much,” he said, a half-smile on his lips.
You raised the cup, but still didn’t drink. “And you always appear when I least want company.”
He tilted his head, undeterred. “Then I’m exactly where I need to be.”
You sighed, glancing sideways as he stepped closer and took the seat opposite you. For a moment, he just watched the fire with you, like you were back in some forgotten camp beneath the stars.
“I was thinking,” he began, tone light, “about the first time I saw you. You were being dragged into Thranduil’s halls, soaked to the skin, shouting at Glóin for getting you caught.”
You snorted softly. “He did get us caught. He sneezed. Loudly.”
“I remember.” He smiled wider now. “And you, snapping at the guards in three different languages before turning that fury on me.”
“I didn’t know who you were.”
“You called me a pompous tree-weasel.”
You choked on a laugh and finally sipped your drink. “Sounds like me.”
He leaned back slightly, eyes gleaming with some old, private amusement. “But I watched you. Even then. I couldn’t place what you were—elf and human both, but more than either. You didn’t carry yourself like someone trapped. You watched the halls like a soldier would. Like you were already planning how to get out.”
You didn’t answer. The fire cracked softly between you.
“When you escaped with the dwarves,” he continued, voice lowering, “I told my father I saw you leap into a barrel like it was a warhorse. And later, in the woods—when you fired into the trees to cover their retreat—your arrows flew like mine. No hesitation. No fear.”
Your jaw clenched. “You don’t have to say these things.”
“I’m not saying them to flatter you.” He leaned forward slightly, hands resting on his knees. “I’ve met warriors across all the ages. Elves, men, even the proudest Dwarves. But I never forgot the look on your face that day. You weren’t fighting to win. You were fighting not to lose anyone else.”
A beat passed. You looked into the fire, and for the first time that night, your voice wavered.
“I loved them. Not all of them—but enough to bleed for. To die for.”
“I know.”
“I would have taken Thorin’s place in that final charge,” you said quietly. “I would have stood before Azog myself if I thought it would’ve bought him another breath.”
Silence wrapped the room again.
“I think that’s why I watched you,” he said. “Because I knew—if I blinked, I’d miss you burning.”
You met his gaze now. And there it was: the truth of it, sitting between you like a long-unspoken vow.
“I’m tired, Legolas,” you whispered. “And I don’t know what I have left to give.”
He reached out, not touching, just resting his hand close to yours on the armrest. “Then don’t give anything. Not tonight. Just sit with me. Let the ghosts rest for a while.”
You looked down at his hand, then at the fire. And though you didn’t say it, you didn’t pull away either.
In the silence that followed, there was no war, no crown, no past. Just you, and the elf who never stopped watching.
The fire had burned low, now little more than glowing embers nestled in ash. The bottle beside you was empty, your cup untouched for hours. Legolas had fallen asleep in the chair across from you, arms folded, head tilted slightly to the side, his expression softer than you’d ever seen it in battle or daylight.
You watched him for a while, feeling a strange pull of comfort and sorrow. He always looked younger in sleep. Less of a prince, more of the curious elf who had once tried to understand why you, a half-blood stranger, would ever choose to walk with dwarves into death.
But sleep didn’t come for you—not anymore.
The silence wrapped itself around you like a too-tight cloak, and slowly, the weight of memory began to stir.
There’s a flicker in the fire and suddenly you were laughing again. The clamor of a camp at the edge of Mirkwood, Bofur’s wild song about mountain goats and bad ale ringing in your ears. Kili throwing a twig at you because you said he couldn’t grow a real beard yet. You’d thrown it back, striking him square in the forehead.
“Tell me I’m not the prettiest one in this company,” he had said once, arms spread dramatically. “Go on, say it. You can’t, can you?”
You had smirked, braid half-undone, fingers calloused from the bowstring. “You’re lucky you’re not my type.”
He’d clutched his heart as if you’d shot him, then winked and walked off into the trees.
The warmth twisted.
Another flicker—and you were in Erebor.
Blood in your mouth. Thorin’s hand in yours, his grip weak, eyes clouded with too much pain.
“I was wrong,” he said, voice rasping like wind through broken stone. “I see it now. I see you.”
You had begged him to hold on. Promised him that the sun would rise, and that he would see the mountain whole again. But his breath had rattled in his chest—and stilled.
You had sat there for a long time, knuckles white around the hilt of your blade. Kili lay not far. Fili, already taken.
Only silence answered you.
You pressed your fingers to your eyes, willing the sting away, but it clung, thick as smoke.
“I should’ve stayed,” you whispered, barely audible. “I should’ve done more.”
The ghosts didn’t answer. They never did. But the ache of their absence filled the room all the same.
And yet...
There were other memories too. Softer ones. Bifur teaching you Dwarvish insults you were far too proud of. Balin telling stories until sleep took him mid-sentence. Bombur slipping you extra rations when you looked pale. Thorin, once, catching you singing in Elvish to calm your nerves and saying nothing—just sitting beside you, silent, as though listening to a memory he couldn’t name.
And Legolas. Always watching from the edge. Distant at first. Then fascinated. Then something else.
The present curled around your shoulders again, and you looked over at him, still fast asleep in the chair, the rise and fall of his chest steady.
You reached for the blanket draped over the nearby bench, quietly laying it across him. He stirred but didn’t wake.
As you sat back down, hands loose in your lap, you whispered into the dim room:
“I don't know if I can face another war. But maybe… I don't want to be the last of us, either.”
You didn’t sleep that night. But for the first time in years, you didn’t feel completely alone in the dark.
Dawn crept in slowly, brushing the sky in pale blue and soft gold. Birds sang tentative notes outside your shuttered windows, but the inn remained hushed.
The hearth was cold now. The chairs had been returned to their places. Tables were wiped clean, mugs polished and shelved, the rooms above emptied of guest linens. The scent of firewood and rosemary lingered, but your inn—the life you had built to keep the world out—was closed.
Literally.
The sign on the door now read “Gone traveling. Indefinitely."
When the Fellowship awoke, one by one, they descended the stairs expecting breakfast and soft beds to still be theirs. Instead, they found you standing near the door, your pack slung over one shoulder, traveling leathers worn like a second skin, bow strapped to your back, and a dagger resting easily at your hip.
Sam blinked in confusion. “Are you… going somewhere, miss?”
You gave a nod, small but sure. “Aye. With you.”
Frodo froze mid-step. “You’re—what?”
“I packed light,” you said, adjusting the strap on your shoulder. “Can’t say I’m thrilled about sleeping under stars again, but…” You trailed off, eyes briefly scanning the group before settling on Legolas.
He was already watching you.
There was no surprise in his face. No shock like the others. Only a quiet calm. Like a note held long and true finally finding its resolution.
“I knew it,” he said, lips tugging into a faint smile.
Aragorn stepped forward, brows knit. “What changed your mind?”
You met his gaze evenly. “Nothing. Everything. I remembered that the world doesn’t stop turning just because I pretend it has. And if it falls while I sit behind a bar, what did I survive for?”
Even Gimli seemed speechless for a moment. “Hmph. Well. If you’re coming along, I hope you still remember how to march.”
“Better than you remember how to bathe,” you quipped.
That drew a snort from Boromir and a laugh from Merry and Pippin, breaking the stunned silence.
As they gathered their things, still murmuring about your choice, Legolas stepped closer, his voice low for only you.
“You were never going to stay behind,” he said, almost gently.
You looked up at him, your voice steady. “No. But I had to believe I would, until I didn’t.”
He nodded once. “Then let us walk forward. Together this time.”
You studied him a long moment, then gave a small, wry smile.
“Try to keep up, princeling.”
You pushed open the door, letting in the crisp morning air. The road waited, as it always had.
But this time, you didn’t face it alone.
The quiet had ended.
The road to Moria had been long and steep, but nothing compared to the cold weight that settled on your chest the moment you passed through the threshold of the once-great dwarven realm.
Darkness clung to the air like dust, and even your elven blood couldn’t soothe the dread coiling in your gut. These were not halls of glory now, not the shining marvel Gimli had spoken of with such pride.
They were tombs.
Your steps echoed too loudly as you walked. The Fellowship moved in a hush, each bootfall and breath drawing the stone’s attention like an unwanted guest.
Gimli had fallen silent long ago.
You watched him, the way he held his axe tight to his chest like a lifeline, eyes wide as he passed shattered archways and collapsed pillars. His gaze darted toward dark corners, as if hoping—aching—for a familiar face to emerge.
But none came.
And then you reached the Chamber of Records.
The skeletons lay still where they had fallen. Weapons rusted. Dust thick on old shields. It was not war that filled the space now, but mourning.
Gimli moved to the tomb at the center like a man in a dream. You followed without meaning to.
He brushed aside what little remained of a helm and whispered a name: “Balin.”
You froze.
Balin.
Old, kind, sharp-eyed Balin—who once told you riddles on long rides and always made you take the last bit of stew. Balin, who had held your hand when Thorin died, his voice cracking as he promised to carry the king’s memory home.
Your throat closed.
“He was the best of us,” you murmured.
Gimli’s shoulders shook. “He was our hope. Our history. And now—he is dust.”
You stepped forward, placing a hand gently on his arm.
“He believed in this place,” you said. “And if he had known it would take him, I think he would have come anyway. That was the kind of dwarf he was.”
Gimli didn’t speak, but he nodded once, tightly.
“I thought the ghosts I carried were mine alone,” you continued, voice softer. “But grief… it finds us all. And when it does, it binds us.”
He turned to you, eyes wet and fierce. “Do they ever stop speaking to you? The ones you lost?”
You hesitated, your gaze falling to Balin’s tomb.
“No,” you said. “But sometimes, they stop screaming.”
A long moment passed between you—two remnants of the Company, survivors of a story carved in blood and stone. Then Gimli nodded again, slower this time, and placed a rough hand over yours.
“Thank you,” he said.
You squeezed back. “We’ll carry them forward. As we always have.”
Behind you, the Fellowship waited in silence. Even Legolas, usually still and watchful, looked at you now not with curiosity, but understanding.
The grief had found you both. And for this moment, you bore it together.
They came like shadows with blades—goblins pouring from the walls, the ceilings, the dark. The tomb of Balin was barely behind you when the Fellowship was forced into motion, swords drawn, feet pounding over cold stone.
You loosed arrows until your fingers ached, each one flying true—some finding skulls, others throats—but they kept coming.
“RUN!” Gandalf’s voice cracked through the chaos, ancient and fierce.
The Fellowship fled, boots striking the echoing halls of Moria. Behind you, the goblins shrieked, relentless, swarming like ants through the cracks in the stone.
The drums of war pounded.
Dum. Dum. DUM.
You passed dark pits and crumbling bridges, pillars shattered by time. You didn’t dare slow. You barely breathed.
And then came the heat.
A low rumble.
A deeper shadow.
The Balrog.
It wasn’t just fire. It was rage made flesh, born from the ancient pits of a forgotten world. You stopped when you saw it—just for a heartbeat—but Gandalf didn’t.
He turned on the Bridge of Khazad-dûm, staff in hand, sword gleaming like starlight in the dark.
“This foe is beyond any of you. Run!”
You didn’t want to leave. Every part of you screamed to stay.
But Aragorn pulled Frodo. Boromir shielded the hobbits. Legolas grabbed your arm as you hesitated, your eyes locked on the wizard’s back.
“Go,” he said. “Now.”
You stumbled forward, breath ragged, until you stood with the others at the far end of the bridge. Just in time to see the Balrog crash forward—flames licking the stone as it advanced.
And Gandalf—brave, maddening, kind Gandalf—stood alone.
“You shall not pass!”
The blast of light from his staff shattered the dark for one blinding moment. The Balrog faltered—then fell, crashing into the abyss.
Relief struck—until the whip lashed back, curling around Gandalf’s ankles.
You saw his eyes then. Not fear, not regret.
Resolve.
“Fly, you fools—!”
And then he was gone.
Silence fell.
And it screamed.
You didn’t remember how you escaped the mountain. Only that your feet moved and the world blurred and somehow, sunlight burned your eyes when you emerged from the tunnel.
The Fellowship collapsed to the grass and stone. Frodo sobbed quietly. Sam sat staring at the dirt. Gimli hung his head in shaking silence.
You stood apart from them.
Legolas approached, hesitant. “We must move on—”
“Don’t,” you snapped, voice sharp.
He paused, his expression faltering.
You turned to him, and for the first time in years, your grief burned through the surface like wildfire through dry wood.
“I have already lost Balin in this cursed mountain. And now I’ve lost Gandalf too.” Your voice cracked. “And it’s only just begun.”
Legolas reached for you—slowly, gently—but you stepped back.
“I don’t know how much grief I have left to carry,” you whispered. “And I don’t know what’s left of me when it runs out.”
He didn’t speak.
You looked down at your hands—scarred, steady, stained by years of blood—and saw the ghosts rise behind your eyes.
Balin, laughing over a campfire.
“You’ll never beat a dwarf at riddles, lass, but I’ll enjoy watching you try.”
His eyes always twinkled like he saw more than he said.
Gandalf, placing a steadying hand on your shoulder as you trembled in Erebor’s aftermath.
“Even the fiercest fire cools, child. But your spirit—it will forge something new from these ashes.”
You had believed him then.
But now… now the fire only took.
You sat down hard in the grass, legs finally giving out, and stared at the distant sky. The others were quiet. No one had words left.
Even the sun, warm as it was, couldn’t thaw what had been lost.
The Golden Wood greeted you in silence.
The moment you crossed into Lothlórien, it was as if the weight of the world loosened, only slightly, from your shoulders. The air shimmered faintly with magic—ageless, slow, and watching. Sunlight pierced the canopy in golden beams, illuminating the green and gold leaves like fire frozen mid-dance.
The others seemed to feel it too. Their steps grew quieter, breath deeper. The grief from Moria still clung, but here… it was dimmed.
Muted.
You stayed near the back of the Fellowship, your presence quiet and inward. Even Legolas, who normally hovered close, let you be—watching you with unreadable eyes.
Then came the soft sound of approaching boots across leaf-laden ground.
You turned at once, bow half-lifted—then lowered it instantly.
“Haldir,” you breathed.
The elf smiled, and it was like watching a tree in spring—still, serene, but warm beneath the surface.
“I thought the wind smelled of old fire and bowstring,” he said. “I dared not believe it.”
You stepped forward without thought, and for the first time in what felt like days—maybe longer—your posture softened. Haldir’s hand found your shoulder, and yours settled on his forearm, a brief clasp of warriors, friends, kin.
“I did not think I’d see you again,” you murmured.
“I often think the same,” he replied. “And yet, here we are.”
There was laughter in his voice—gentle, low. It stirred something in you that had been buried under stone and blood: memory. Of laughing beneath moonlight. Of shared patrols. Of long talks in old trees about the stars and the silence between them.
With Haldir, there was no past to bleed from. Only stillness. Understanding.
Legolas watched from a few paces away.
He did not speak. But his jaw tightened slightly as your laugh, soft and fleeting, reached his ears—something he hadn’t heard in days. Not since Moria. Not since Gandalf’s fall.
You barely noticed him at first. Only when Haldir led the Fellowship toward the inner woods did you catch the way Legolas lingered back, gaze not on the trees—but on you.
Later, as you stood beneath the mallorn trees, hands brushing bark that had seen centuries pass, Legolas finally approached. You didn’t turn.
“I didn’t know you were close with Haldir,” he said.
“He was my first real friend,” you replied, voice distant. “Before the Company. Before Erebor. When I didn’t know which world I belonged to.”
Legolas was quiet for a beat. Then: “You laugh more easily with him.”
You turned to him slowly. “Because he doesn’t ask me how I feel. He knows.”
There was a sharpness in your tone—not cruel, but edged by truth. Legolas flinched, just barely.
“I have tried to be patient,” he said. “To understand.”
“I know,” you said. “And I… I don’t fault you for it.”
You looked away, gaze lost in the gold-lit forest.
“But everything hurts, Legolas. I can’t breathe for the weight of it. Balin, Thorin, Kíli, Fíli—Gandalf.” You shook your head. “I don’t know how to laugh with you. Not yet.”
He said nothing, only studied you with eyes full of sea and silence.
You stepped away. “Give me time. I still want to be near the light. I just don’t know how to stand in it.”
And you left him there, beneath the mallorn tree—where even the sun seemed reluctant to intrude.
•••
The sky over Helm’s Deep was heavy, dark with the promise of death. Rain lashed the stone walls and wind howled through the crevices like a warning too late to heed.
The keep bustled with urgency—armor strapped on, arrows sorted, blades handed out with shaking hands. You moved among the chaos with steady steps, your cloak already damp, your bow newly strung. You had prepared in silence, your choice already made long before the gates had shut.
Legolas found you as you stepped out from the inner keep, near the passage leading to the women and children. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the sword at your hip, the set of your jaw, the steel in your eyes.
“You’re not going,” he said, water running down his cheeks like tears he would never let fall.
“No,” you replied simply.
“You’re meant to be with the others—”
“With the helpless?” you cut in sharply. “You forget who I am, Legolas.”
“I forget nothing,” he hissed, stepping forward. “But you were supposed to survive this. Do you not understand what’s coming?”
“I do,” you said. “And I’ll face it.”
He looked at you, truly looked at you, as if seeing the shadow of every battle you’d ever survived and fearing this one would be your last.
“I’ve already watched you fall once,” he said, voice low, taut. “When you lost them. Kíli, Thorin, Gandalf. You say you don’t know how much grief you have left—but do you know how much I have? How much more I can bear if you fall too?”
You looked away, breath catching.
“I’m not a memory to protect, Legolas. I’m not something fragile to lock away.”
“No,” he said. “You’re not fragile. But you are—” he stopped, jaw clenched, the words fighting their way out. “You are important. To me.”
That gave you pause.
The rain softened. For a moment, the world blurred around you, only his face in focus—his pain, his fear, his heart laid bare in the spaces between sentences.
“I’m still going,” you said, more gently this time.
He nodded, slowly. “Then I stay with you. On the wall. Not a step behind.”
You gave a quiet breath of what might have been a laugh, or a sigh. “Then try to keep up, princeling.”
He almost smiled—but it didn’t reach his eyes.
As the horns of war blew in the distance and the thunder of Uruk-hai boots echoed closer, you stood together on the ramparts. He watched the enemy. But sometimes, you felt his gaze shift to you—sharp, quick, as though checking you were still there.
Still standing.
Still his.
The night deepened. The sky wept.
Beneath the thunder and screams of wind, the walls of Helm’s Deep trembled. The Uruk-hai approached like a black sea, endless, armored, merciless.
You stood on the battlement beside Legolas, scanning the dark, arrow ready. His expression was unreadable, though his hand never strayed far from his quiver. Every so often, his eyes flicked to you—not in doubt, but in worry worn raw.
Then came the horns.
Not the harsh blares of the enemy—but something ancient. High. Clear.
Hope.
The gates creaked open and light spilled in—silver cloaks, golden armor, moonlit helms gleaming beneath the rain.
Elves.
And at their head—Haldir.
You froze, a breath caught in your throat, disbelieving.
He moved like moonlight through mist, every step purposeful, calm amidst the storm. And when he saw you on the wall, his smile broke through the rain like dawn.
You descended the stone steps as he approached. The moment you reached him, you embraced—not as warriors, but as those who had feared they'd never meet again.
“I hoped,” you whispered. “But I didn’t dare believe it.”
“Lothlórien does not forget its own,” he said. “We came as soon as Galadriel sent word.”
You pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes. “You always arrive when I need you most.”
A flicker of amusement touched his features. “Isn’t that what friends are for?”
Nearby, Legolas stood still as stone. His gaze hadn’t left you.
He watched the ease in your voice, the soft warmth you rarely showed. The way Haldir touched your arm when he spoke, the familiarity in your closeness. A part of him hated it—hated that Haldir saw a version of you he feared he no longer could reach.
Later, as the elves took positions and soldiers prepared for the siege, you and Haldir stood beneath the battlements, heads bowed close in quiet conversation.
He looked at you, studying your face. “There is pain in you.”
You nodded. “There always is.”
“But there is strength too,” he said. “Even when you forget it.”
You offered him a tired smile. “That’s why I keep you around. To remind me.”
Haldir placed a hand over yours. “And I always will.”
Above, Legolas stood watching, eyes narrowing just slightly.
He had never been jealous of Haldir’s grace, his skill, his rank. But this—the effortless way Haldir stood beside you, anchored you—this unsettled something in his chest.
Not because Haldir had it.
Because he used to.
The horns sounded again—closer now. The enemy was nearly upon you.
And still, you stood beside Haldir. And Legolas waited, bow in hand, fire in his heart.
The night would be long. Blood would fall like rain.
But not before Legolas promised himself:
Whatever the morning held—he would be the one standing beside you when it came.
The sun rose, but it did not warm you.
The battlefield stretched beneath it like a scar—black blood soaked into the mud, bodies sprawled across the ruined stone and grass. The air reeked of smoke, steel, and silence.
You stood where Haldir had fallen.
His body had already been taken, wrapped in elven cloth and carried with reverence by the survivors of Lothlórien. But you had stayed behind, rooted, staring at the bloodstained spot where he had died defending the wall at your side.
He had smiled at you, even as the blade struck true.
And you had screamed—only once—but it had broken something in your throat.
You hadn’t spoken since.
You didn’t hear Legolas approaching until his hand wrapped gently around your arm.
“You should rest.”
You didn’t move.
He stepped in front of you, his face pale beneath the dirt and ash, his eyes rimmed red—not with tears, but restraint. “You fought with honor. He did too.”
Your voice was a rasp. “You pulled me back.”
A beat of silence.
“Yes,” he said. “You would have died.”
“I was ready to,” you snapped, stepping back from him. “We were overrun. I was going to cover the retreat and you—” your voice broke, rage surging into the hollow place grief had carved—“You *should have let me go*!”
Legolas flinched as if struck.
“I could have died beside him. I should have—” your voice cracked, your fists clenched, “—instead you dragged me back, again, and I’ve lost another piece of myself—”
“Because I can’t lose you too!” he shouted, voice sharp and cutting through the morning like an arrow loosed in fury.
You froze.
He stood there, eyes wild, chest heaving, all the composure of an elven prince burned away by the fire of emotion long held back.
“I watched you grieve them all,” he said, voice quieter now but trembling. “Thorin. Kíli. Fíli. Balin. Gandalf. Haldir—gods, even Haldir. And every time, I saw something *break* in you.”
He stepped forward, unflinching. “And I stayed quiet. I stayed patient. I gave you space because I thought it’s what you needed—but I—” he faltered, then whispered, “I love you.”
The words hung between you like a war cry stilled in the air.
“I have loved you from the moment you argued with me in the Woodland Realm, stubborn and wild and brave. I watched you fight beside Kíli like fire given form. I watched you mourn them, one by one. And still, I loved you.”
Tears had slipped down your cheeks before you realized they’d come.
“I couldn’t let you go,” he said. “Not when I’ve already watched you die in pieces.”
You stared at him, all the fury ebbing into pain.
“I don’t know how to be what I was,” you whispered.
“You don’t have to be,” he said, stepping closer. “Just be with me. Whatever pieces you have left—I’ll carry them too.”
You let out a shuddering breath.
And finally, your forehead dropped to his chest, the storm within you breaking. His arms wrapped around you, steady and warm.
There were no promises. No healing words.
But in that moment, grief found company. And that was enough.
The final battle was chaos.
Fire lit the sky in sickening hues—red, orange, and gold twisting like dragons of ruin above the field. Screams tore through the clamor of clashing steel. The very earth trembled beneath the weight of death.
You had lost sight of Legolas.
Not for long—barely minutes—but it felt like a lifetime in the heart of war.
You fought like instinct made flesh, your blade slick with blood, your arrows gone. The battlefield blurred around you, faces unrecognizable, only movement and threat. But when you spotted the flash of silver-blond hair through the smoke, something within you slammed into place.
Legolas.
He was on the rise of a broken wall, drawing his bow, loose and precise—until the enemy swarmed behind him. You screamed his name—he didn’t hear it—and your legs moved before your mind did.
A troll's iron mace came down, fast and merciless.
You hit him hard in the side, sending you both tumbling behind a shattered outcropping of stone as the blow cracked the earth where he’d stood. You rolled, breathless, until you landed hard, half atop him, body shielding his.
There was silence.
Then—
“I’m fine,” he rasped, blinking at you, winded.
“Don’t say that,” you breathed.
Your hands were braced on his chest, his blood—thankfully—was not your own. But the fear was.
You were shaking.
“You could’ve died,” you whispered. “You should have—”
“But I didn’t.”
You stared down at him, and for one unguarded moment, you let the horror in your chest bloom. “I can’t—I can’t lose you too.”
His breath caught. His hands came up to gently hold your wrists. “You won’t.”
Tears stung your eyes—hot, unwelcome. You pressed your forehead to his, trying to steady your breathing as the sounds of war surged around you once more.
“Still here,” he whispered. “I’m still here.”
You closed your eyes.
You hadn’t made him any promises. You still weren’t sure if you could. But you could hold him close for now. You could fight for his life like he had fought for yours.
For once, it was not about loss.
It was about not letting go.
The White City gleamed beneath the morning sun, banners fluttering high above the citadel. Flowers carpeted the stone, thrown by joyful hands, the scent of hope and new beginnings thick in the air.
Aragorn stood crowned and robed in light, the roar of the crowd still echoing down the mountainside.
You watched from the edge of the crowd, quiet.
For the first time in an age, there was no battle ahead. No blood under your fingernails. No grief hiding behind your teeth.
Just stillness.
And you didn’t quite know what to do with it.
You lingered until the sun began to lower, until the crowd thinned, until the laughter dimmed to celebration-song in distant halls.
And then he found you.
Legolas.
He approached without armor, dressed in white and silver that caught the dying light, golden hair gleaming. He looked like he’d stepped out of a song—ageless, beautiful, unreal. But when he smiled at you, tired and small, he looked only like *himself*.
“I didn’t think you’d stay this long,” he said gently.
“I didn’t think I would either,” you admitted.
You stood side by side in the garden, the flowers beneath your boots crushed underfoot, the sounds of merriment muffled by trees and stone.
“It’s over,” he said. “We’re still standing.”
You let out a soft breath. “Somehow.”
You looked at him then—really looked. And for the first time, there was no fog of war, no heavy grief veiling your gaze. You were just… you. Bruised. Whole. Tired. Alive.
“I thought if we made it here, I’d know what to say,” you murmured.
Legolas turned to face you, head tilted. “And do you?”
“No,” you said honestly. “But I know what I feel.”
His eyes searched yours, and you saw it there—hope, held back so long it looked like sorrow.
“You pulled me from the edge,” you whispered. “Again and again. Even when I didn’t want you to.”
“Because I love you,” he said, quiet and sure, no hesitation now.
You reached up, fingers brushing his jaw. “Then you should know... I’m not whole. I may never be.”
“I don’t need you whole,” he said, leaning in so your foreheads touched. “I only need you *with me*.”
You closed your eyes, the warmth of his skin grounding you. Your hand found his, fingers threading between his own, and this time—you didn’t pull away.
No promises.
But something stronger.
A beginning.
I love everything about this. The way you describe things is so poetic 🩵🩵
mauro_roberto_____
welp. it was bound to happen at some point. looks like the whale was feeding and nabbed the guy by accident, and immediately spit him out:
The kayaker, who was unharmed, was quickly released by the whale
the whale:
You ever think about how we call toddlers that because they can't walk right. They toddle about. Fuckin idiots. Fuckin idiot steppers can't walk properly. Call 'em wobblers. This is my son Jeffrey he's at the age where I mock him for walking like a fucking scrub. "Skill issue" ass name.
How fandom should feel.
‘You should only send hearts to ppl you’re romantically involved with’
WRONG! BOUNDLESS PLATONIC LOVE, WARMTH, AND ENTHUSIASM BE UPON YE!!!❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️
This is a neutral post
Feel free to stop here and rest before journeying to the posts below.
spreading these occasionally would be nice…
As someone with major anxiety who can’t fucking stop themself from scrolling, i appreciate posts like this
Let’s all rest together, weary travelers.
Ghost: How do I make a date really romantic Price: Be mysterious Ghost: Right *later* Y/N: Where are we going Ghost: None of your fucking business
No nonono no no no. I just found Wilted 😭😭😭😭😭my heart can’t take it I think this is one of the best angst fics I’ve ever read😭😭 like it needs so much more recognition. But it can’t end like this.
Idk if you do request and if not that’s completely fine, but could you do like a part two or an au where something triggers her memories (bonus if she gets them back when she’s with her new boyfriend) and she so angry so she asked her mom then maybe she sees Simon walking or she calls him and demands he tells her the truth and that he take her home(with him) even though everyone is telling her Simon’s no good for her(including him), she wont listen and tells him the wreck wasn’t his fault and that nobody decides who she can and can’t be with that it’s her decision. And they get back together you know happy endings.
You can change some stuff if you want I just want to see Simon happy. Ok that’s all don’t forget to eat something and drink some water. Great authors have to take care of themselves too, bye👋❤️.
you got it, nonnie! been cooking this up since you sent the req, and it’s already at 3.4k words 😭. but more importantly, remember to take care of yourself too! here’s your reminder to eat and drink your 12 cups of water 🥹. hope this is close to what you were hoping for 💗 enjoy.
The days had stretched too long without him, the anticipation growing each time you glanced at the door of your flower shop. His deployment was supposed to end a week ago, and every day you found yourself waiting, feeling a quiet ache that had started to bleed into worry. Simon always visited the shop as soon as he came back, his presence slipping in like he was part of the space, a rhythm that had somehow settled into your life.
And then, finally, he arrived.
If you read Wilted and desperately hoped for a part 2 like I did, here it is 👆
𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐓𝐄𝐃.
simon makes weekly visits to your flower shop, leaving you curious about the person he’s mourning.
pairing. simon ‘ghost’ riley x reader
word count. 4.2k
Every Tuesday, exactly at three in the afternoon—never a minute early, never a minute late—he walks into the shop. Simon always looks the same: tired and drained, pale skin stark against the bruised shadows under his eyes. The cracked red of his lips stands out like a wound, and the way he moves, slow and heavy, makes it seem like sorrow clings to him, weighing him down like an old coat that doesn’t quite fit. Among the bright flowers and soft light of the shop, he stands out like a dark cloud against a summer sky.
"Just a bouquet," he mutters, his voice rough, as though speaking is a struggle.
You grip the counter a little tighter, his presence unsettling yet familiar by now. "Any flowers in particular?" you ask, knowing what the answer will be.
Hello?? Excuse me???? Why doesn't this brilliance have more notes?????????
Ughhhhh I loved this! Just some delicious, heartwrenching angst the way I like it! All the little descriptions and lovely little details just absolutely killed me 😭😭😭
And the plot TWIST I didn't expect! I really had to put my phone down for a minute!
Thank you for writing this 🙏🙏
The Hunger
Summary: During his time aboard the ship, rations slowly dwindle, and Ettore begins to feel that familiar call of violence | Word Count: 3k~ | Warnings: blood, gore, cannibalism(?), severe biting, murder, delusions, dubcon
A/N: Happy Halloween, here's my absolutely disgraceful offering for you 😂 I wanted to write something icky so bon appetite ig
Oooooh this was good. This was really good. You know this feeling when your eyes try to read faster than your brain can understand and you have to start reading the sentence again? When you really want to know what happens next?
Like literally my heart started beating faster in fear ✋️
*chef's kiss* 💖💖💖
