– A mortal toy softens the Mirkwood king, though he would never admit such a thing.
The toy rests on the table.
Carved wood, polished smooth by careful hands—an elk, its antlers delicately etched, its legs jointed to move when nudged. Simple. Mortal. Entirely out of place in the halls of Mirkwood.
Thranduil stands before it in silence.
“You brought this… into my realm,” he says at last.
You fold your hands behind your back, bracing yourself. “It’s a gift.”
“For whom?”
“For the children in the lower halls,” you answer. “Winter is long. They miss home.”
His gaze sharpens—not at you, but at the toy. As if it has dared to remind him of something inconvenient.
“Elven children do not require such things,” he says coolly.
“No,” you agree softly. “But human ones do.”
That gives him pause.
He steps closer, long fingers reaching out to touch the carved antlers. The elk shifts slightly beneath his hand. He watches it move, expression unreadable.
“You made this,” he says.
“Yes.”
“For children not of your blood,” he adds.
“Yes.”
A long silence stretches between you—heavy, thoughtful.
“You humans,” Thranduil murmurs, “have an odd habit of leaving pieces of yourselves behind.”
He straightens, withdrawing his hand.
“Joy. Comfort. Noise.”
You smile faintly. “Someone has to.”
His eyes lift to meet yours—cool, piercing, searching.
“Do you know what happens when such things take root?” he asks.
“They grow,” you say simply.
Another pause.
Then—unexpectedly—he turns and gestures toward the table.
“Leave it,” he says.
A beat.
“And… bring more.”
Your eyes widen. “More?”
“For the children,” he says crisply, already turning away. “If winter insists on staying, then it will not find them wanting.”
He stops at the doorway, voice lower, almost reluctant.
“…See that they are well made.”
You smile, heart warming.
“They will be.”
Thranduil does not look back.
But later—long after you’ve gone—you hear laughter echo faintly through the hall and on a high shelf in the king’s private chambers, far from curious eyes, rests a small wooden elk— carefully placed.
Warnings ⚠️: Canon typical violence, author attempts elvish, author attempts khuzdul, suggestive content, alcohol consumption, angst, blood, medical care, feelings of despair, themes of hope, found family, multiverse/time travel, cussing, angst, fluff, eventual smut, weapon use, realities of battle, tolkein monster encounters, fish out of water, injury to main characters, long fic, slowburn x reader.
Part 2 | Part 3
Of Crowns & Mountains
C.1: What Falls From the Sky
The city moved around you the way cities always did—indifferent, relentless, and slightly too loud. You'd long since stopped noticing any of it. The pigeons on the window ledges, the bus that groaned past every twelve minutes, the particular smell of warmed pavement mixing with coffee cart exhaust—it was all furniture now, backdrop, the unremarkable texture of an average workday.
Your lunch break had gifted you exactly forty-five minutes of escape from your desk, and you were spending it the way you spent most things, slightly distracted by thoughts you couldn't quite pin down.
You had a paper bag folded under one arm sandwich, crisps, something chocolate and entirely one third melted—your handbag hitched up on your shoulder, and your eyes were fixed somewhere in the middle distance in that unfocused way you had when you were thinking without really meaning to, whether you'd remembered to reply to your manager's email, and whether it was worth stopping for coffee on the way back even though it would probably keep you up until two in the morning again.
You could always do decaf ? You thought idly before a full body shudder rolled through you, Ugh—Decaf—what you really needed was a holiday.
The crosswalk signal counted down in red ahead of you. Around you, the pavement thrummed with the low vibration of underground trains and human footsteps, and the air tasted faintly of exhaust and the approaching edge of autumn.
The signal changed, you stepped off the kerb and the ground was simply—not there.
There was no real warning. No trembling, no dramatic crack of sound, no sensation that anything at all was wrong with the world until the world gave way entirely beneath your foot. One moment you were stepping forward with the easy confidence of someone who had never once considered that concrete might fail them, and the next the pavement split open in a line—impossibly clean, like a seam being unpicked from the inside—and your foot found nothing, and then your other foot found nothing, and then you were—
What the—?
Falling.
The city vanished. Not faded, not blurred at the edges, simply—gone. One half-second you were surrounded by glass and steel and the smell of someone's distinct lack of deodorant and the next you were falling through something that was neither manhole nor tunnel, something that had no colour and no logic whatsoever, and the only coherent thought you managed was a very sincere, very heartfelt
What the actual—
Then there was sky again. Real sky, enormous and heartbreakingly wide, rushing up to meet you at a speed that made your stomach leave your body and hover somewhere three seconds behind you.
You hit the ground with a sound that scattered every bird within a hundred yards, you bounced—somehow, impossibly, grotesquely—once.
Then lay very, very still in the tall grass of a field that smelled of clover and cold earth and absolutely nothing like the city, while the world swam and went quietly dark around the edges and then darker still, and then dark all the way through.
The company heard it before they saw it. A sound like something dropped from a very great height—which, as it turned out, was precisely what it was—coming from the scrubby field to their left, followed by a second impact, and then silence. Several ponies shied. Bofur's hat slid sideways. Dori, who had been in the middle of saying something to Nori, forgot entirely what it was.
They had just been caught up to by Bilbo, who had arrived breathless and clutching a contract and looking rather more determined than anyone had expected from a hobbit who'd fainted reading that same contract the evening before, and who now stood blinking at the treeline with the particular expression of someone wondering if perhaps he should have stayed in bed afterall?
"Was that—" he started.
"Something fell," said Fíli.
"Out of the sky," said Kíli, already twisting in his saddle with the barely-contained delight of someone for whom unexpected events were generally improvements on expected ones.
"Aye," said Glóin flatly. "I have eyes."
Thorin said nothing. He had pulled his pony to a halt and was looking toward the disturbance with an expression that gave nothing away, which was, admittedly, most of his expressions. His eyes tracked the stillness in the grass—there, the flattened circle where something had struck, and there the shape of it, visible even from here.
The shape of a person.
They dismounted in short order, hands moving to weapons with the automatic ease of long habit. Gandalf, who had said nothing yet, stepped forward at an unhurried pace that kept him ahead of everyone else regardless.
You lay on your back in the flattened grass. Your blazer had ridden up on one side. Your handbag strap was still looped over your shoulder with the dedication of a bag that had been through worse, which it hadn't. Your paper lunch bag was nowhere to be found, lost somewhere in whatever seam of the universe you'd fallen through. Your hair spread out around you in the grass, and you looked—inexplicably, maddeningly—like you were simply asleep.
Gandalf looked down at you with one enormous eyebrow raised to a truly impressive altitude.
"Well," he said, after a long moment. "That is unusual."
"She fell," said Kíli, arriving at his elbow with Fíli half a step behind. "Out of literally nowhere. We all saw it. There was nothing there and then there was—her."
"An astute summary," Gandalf agreed, in a tone that indicated he was already thinking six things simultaneously and sharing approximately none of them.
Balin pushed through to the front, took one look at you, and felt something in his chest shift with the instinctive concern of a person constitutionally incapable of being unmoved by someone clearly in distress. "Barely a scratch on her." he said, relieved, watching the visible rise and fall of your breathing. "How she survived that fall I cannot—" He shook his head. "She should not have survived that fall."
"She bounced," said Kíli.
"People don't bounce, Kíli," said Fíli, though he looked rather uncertain about this as a universal law.
"This one did."
Thorin had not spoken again. He stood slightly behind the cluster of his company, one hand loose at his side, and looked at you the way he looked at things he did not yet have a category for—with a long, measuring sort of attention that he would not have called interest and therefore did not have to examine.
You were tall, he noted. Taller than he'd have expected this close to the Shire. Taller than he was, certainly. Not a Dwarven woman. Not a Elf. Thorin took in the improbable situation and the softness of your face in its unconsciousness, from the race of Man then he concluded.
"Where did she come from?" he said. Not to anyone in particular.
"I rather think that is the question," Gandalf replied.
"Could be a trap," Dwalin said, not moving his hand from his axe.
"Trap," repeated Bofur, pushing his hat back on his head and squinting at your crumpled form in the grass. "Set by what, exactly? I've not heard of Orcs using—whatever that was—as bait."
Fíli and Kíli, satisfied that you were breathing and therefore not immediately a tragedy, had found a stick.
Long enough to be useful, thin enough to be precise. Kíli crouched beside you with the focused expression of a person conducting a scientific inquiry of the highest order and prodded your shoulder gently.
You didn't move.
He prodded again.
"Kíli," said Balin, from behind him.
"Just checking," Kíli said, without looking up. He lifted your arm a small way and dropped it. Your hand shifted slightly in the grass and then went still. Fíli crouched beside him and they exchanged a glance of the specific, wordless variety that only worked between people who'd grown up sleeping in the same delving.
"She fell from the sky," said Ori, in a very small voice from somewhere near the back. "She just—fell. From nowhere."
"I have eyes, Ori," said Dori, though his own voice wasn't entirely steady.
Fíli and Kíli had exchanged a single glance—that rapid, wordless communication unique to brothers —and within approximately four seconds had returned to proding you with the same stick applying it with purpose.
"Oi!, don't," said Balin.
"We're just checking if she—" Kíli began.
"She's breathing, leave her be—"
"Aye, but is she—" Fíli poked you lightly with the stick. Nothing happened.
"I said leave the poor lass alone," Balin said firmly, in the tone that had on occasion made even Thorin reconsider his decisions.
Fíli took a few moments to consider this and poked your boot once more, before Balin yanked the stick from his grasp and threw it across the field.
"You're not helping," said Bilbo, who was looking at you with an expression caught exactly halfway between worry and bewilderment. He'd barely signed himself up for one unexpected addition to this journey, and now there were—implications of two. "And where did she come from? People don't just—fall out of the sky. Do they?"
"Not as a rule," Balin agreed.
"Then—"
"Master Baggins." Gandalf's voice was mild. "I think we may set aside the question of how for the moment, in favour of the rather more pressing question of what is to be done."
That, as it turned out, took somewhat longer to resolve. They stood in a rough half-circle around you while the ponies shifted and the afternoon light moved through the pale sky overhead, and the debate ran its course with the particular energy of thirteen dwarves, one hobbit, and one wizard who already knew what was going to happen but was waiting for everyone else to arrive there themselves.
"We can't leave her," Balin said, for the second time, with the patient firmness of a dwarf who was prepared to say it a third. "She's unconscious in an open field. Wherever—she is from, she's no threat to us, and to leave her here is to leave her to the wilds. Literally."
"She'll slow us down," said Dwalin. He said it without particular cruelty, the way he said most things—as a plain fact, presented for consideration. He was looking at you with the calculating assessment of a man who thought in terms of march-pace and supply weight. "We don't know who she is."
"She's a person," Bilbo said, and then looked slightly surprised at himself for having said it with that much force.
"She's an unknown," Thorin said. His voice was level. Not unkind, precisely, but—measured. He was still watching you with that flat, unreadable look. "We know nothing of her origin, her allegiances, her—"
"She fell out of the air, Thorin," Gandalf said, very gently. "I suspect her allegiances are currently the least of her concerns."
Thorin's jaw shifted slightly.
"She is not a threat," Balin pressed. "And we are not the sort of company that leaves injured souls to die in fields because they are inconvenient. Are we?"
Silence. The sort of silence that had a particular shape—Thorin's silence, which meant he was weighing something he had already, privately, decided.
"Make a stretcher," he said finally, his tone conveying with considerable precision that he would not be discussing this further. "We move before the light goes."
They were efficient. Whatever else the company of Thorin Oakenshield was—loud, stubborn, occasionally catastrophic—they were efficient. A stretcher appeared from lashed packs and spare rope inside minutes, and you were lifted onto it with a care that surprised Bilbo, who was watching from a slight distance with his hands in his pockets and his brow furrowed with the specific anxiety of someone who'd already agreed to one impossible adventure and now appeared to be in the middle of a second one without being consulted.
They slung the stretcher between four of the ponies, adjusted until you lay stable and level, and the company moved on.
You swayed gently with the motion of the walk, still deeply, undisturbedly unconscious, your hands softly folded over your middle by Balin with a peacefulness entirely at odds with the manner of your arrival.
Kíli kept glancing back at you.
"Stop that," said Fíli.
"I'm not doing anything."
"You're staring."
"I'm watching. There's a difference." Kíli paused. "Do you think she'll wake up screaming?"
"...Why would she wake up screaming?"
"Well," Kíli said, reasonably, "if I'd fallen out of the sky I think I'd wake up screaming."
Fíli considered this. "Fair point," he conceded.
It was Nori who noticed the bag first or rather—it was Nori who acted on noticing it first, which was a different thing, and far more characteristic. He'd spent the better part of an hour watching it sway from where it had been carefully transferred to a hook on the stretcher frame, and the watching had turned into wondering, and the wondering had turned into the irresistible conclusion that it would be doing everyone a favour, really, to know what was in it. Information-gathering. Practical, even.
He'd barely gotten the clasp open before Bofur appeared at his elbow.
"What've you got?"
"Don't know yet," Nori said, and upended the bag.
The contents of your handbag landed in an arrangement on the grass beside the path as the company paused for a brief rest, and several dwarves drifted over with the unconcealed curiosity of people who had excellent reasons not to do what they were doing and were doing it anyway.
There was a small wallet, soft leather, which Bofur opened and peered into with great interest before deciding the flat, laminated cards inside were probably currency of some kind even if they looked like nothing he'd ever seen. There was a set of keys on a small ring with a little disc of metal on it that had an embossed design—Óin picked this up and turned it over in his fingers with a medic's assessing eye.
There was a folded piece of paper, which turned out to be a receipt for something called a 'meal deal'. There was a small mirror, which caused a brief stir. There was a tube of something—Bofur opened it, sniffed it, and passed it to Dori with an expression of profound uncertainty.
There were several soft-wrapped packages. It was these last items that proved the most interesting.
They were individually wrapped in thin, crinkly material, flat and rectangular, with a sort of adhesive tab along one side that released when tugged. The contents were soft, absorbent, wings that folded neatly. Óin, who had seen field dressings of every variety across his many years of campaigning, picked one up and turned it over in his hands with the slow, thoughtful nod of a professional assessment.
"Bandaging of some kind," he said.
"Good quality," Glóin agreed, fingering the material. "Very fine weave. Look at that padding."
"Aye." Óin was already applying it to a shallow cut on his forearm that had been annoying him since the previous evening, pressing the adhesive wings down with the satisfied precision of a man who appreciated good medical supplies. "Whoever she is, she travels well-prepared."
Bifur said something in Khuzdul.
"Yes it's remarkable," Bofur replied, abandoning the tube to crouch and examine the application more closely. "Doesn't even need a bandage over it."
"What," a voice hissed from behind them, "are you doing with that."
Bilbo had come back to see why the back half of the company had slowed. He stood now, looking at the arrangement of your belongings spread across the grass, at Óin's arm, at the remaining unopened packages, and then back at Óin's arm, and something in his expression twitched.
"Look bandages, Master Burglar," Óin said, with enthusiasm.
Bilbo opened his mouth. Closed it. Seemed to make a private decision that this particular battle was not one he had the vocabulary to win in it's entirety. "Has anyone thought," he said instead, with admirable composure, "that perhaps we shouldn't be rifling through the belongings of an unconscious woman?"
"We're cataloguing," said Nori, who had moved on to—a flat, dark-screened rectangle that he was turning over and over with the intense interest of a man who had found the most puzzling thing he'd ever held in all his years of handling puzzling things. "There's glass on the front. Very thin. Very smooth. And it's—heavy, for its size. And there are buttons on the side but they don't seem to—" He pressed one.
The screen lit up, several dwarves jumped.
Nori dropped it.
It landed screen-up in the grass, luminous and improbable and cycling through a sequence of coloured images.
"Sorcery," Dori breathed.
"I'll take that Dori," said a deep, calm voice from behind them all, and Gandalf stepped over Nori's outstretched hand and picked up the rectangle from the grass with the practiced ease of someone retrieving an object they'd been waiting to examine. He turned it over in his fingers.
Pressed the side button. Watched the screen with his eyebrows elevated to an altitude that suggested considerable interest carefully disguised as mild curiosity. Gandalf then began to mutter something the dwarves could not hear and causing the rectangle to emit a rather pathetic whine before collapsing in on itself and simply disappearing.
He took the bag from Nori without looking at him. Examined the wallet. The keys. The little mirror. The receipt. He had retrieved and reviewed approximately two-thirds of the contents with the methodical attention of a man reading a rather absorbing letter when a small, firm hand closed over the bag and pulled.
Bilbo looked up at him with an expression of patient reproach.
Gandalf looked down at him with an expression of a wizard considering whether he had, technically, been caught doing anything.
"She's unconscious," Bilbo said.
"Yes," Gandalf agreed. He relinquished the bag. His expression was perfectly composed, giving away nothing except, perhaps, to someone who knew him well enough—and Bilbo was beginning to—a faint shimmer of something that was not quite suppressed wonder.
He straightened, and looked ahead to where you still swayed in your stretcher between the ponies, peaceful and unaware of any of it.
"Keep that safe would you please, Master Baggins," he said, at last.
"I intend to," Bilbo said, holding the bag close with the firmness of someone who had found a principle and intended to stand on it.
They moved on. The sun slipped lower. The field gave way to a path, and the path to the first suggestion of hills in the distance.
You slept on, carried between four patient ponies, in a world whose name you didn't know, dreaming whatever it is people dream when they fall through the seams of everything they've ever known.
The company walked on. And somewhere ahead of them, the road curved east toward Erebor, toward danger and wonder and things not yet dreamed of.
– Elven punch burns warm; Thranduil’s nearness burns far hotter.
The winter feast in Mirkwood was a breathtaking affair—golden lanterns floating in the air like drifting stars, music threading through the halls, and long tables adorned with crystalline bowls of jeweled fruits and shimmering beverages.
One such bowl sits before you now, filled with the Elven winter punch—a luminous drink the color of frost-kissed berries. You swirl your cup gently, watching the liquid catch the light as though it carries starlight within.
“Be cautious.”
The warning rolls over your shoulder in a voice you’d recognize anywhere—smooth, cool, annoyingly beautiful.
You turn slowly.
Thranduil stands behind you, hands clasped behind his back, posture effortlessly regal as only he can be. His eyes are fixed on your cup.
“It is just punch,” you say.
“It is Elven punch,” he corrects, stepping closer. “Mortals tend to underestimate it… just before it outmatches them.”
You lift a brow. “Are you implying it’s too strong for me?”
A soft huff leaves him—almost a laugh, but refined into something dry and elegant.
“I am stating,” he says, “that it is strong enough for Elves.”
He reaches for the ladle in the bowl and pours the drink into his own crystal cup. The movement is graceful, deliberate, and annoyingly mesmerizing. When he takes a sip, his eyes never leave yours.
“You see?” you tease lightly. “You’re drinking it. I’ll be fine.”
“Hmm.” His gaze lowers to your cup again, the faintest glint of amusement in his eyes. “I would not place such confidence in your ability to remain upright if you drink more than one.”
“You think I can’t handle a holiday drink?”
He steps closer—so close you can feel the faint scent of winter spice and cedar clinging to him.
“I think,” he says softly, “that your kind is… delightfully fragile when indulging.”
Your cheeks warm. “And why does that ‘delight’ you, Your Majesty?”
His lips curve in a small, knowing smile.
“Because,” he murmurs, “it gives me reason to intervene.”
You blink. “Intervene how?”
He leans in slightly, voice a low whisper meant only for you.
“To keep you from tripping over your own feet in front of my court.”
Your breath catches. “I don’t do that.”
“Not yet.”
You scoff, lifting your cup in defiance—and take a bold sip.
Warmth floods instantly through your chest, spreading quickly, surprisingly potent. You exhale, eyes widening.
Thranduil’s smile deepens—not mocking, but rich with satisfaction.
“Ah,” he says, tone silky, “there it is.”
“Okay,” you admit, “it’s strong.”
“You have no idea.” His voice dips. “One more cup, and you will be reciting poetry to the chandeliers.”
You snort a laugh. “You’re exaggerating.”
“I am not.”
He takes your cup gently from your hand—fingers brushing yours, warm and deliberate—and sets it on the table.
“Thranduil—”
“You will thank me later,” he says.
“And if I want another?”
His head tilts, eyes gleaming like polished ice.
“Then I will simply have to stop you.”
A beat.
“By whatever means necessary.”
Your pulse jumps.
“Is that a threat?”
“It is a promise,” he answers, voice velvet-dark.
Somewhere across the hall, the Elven punch glows softly in its crystal bowl—utterly forgotten—because the heat in Thranduil’s gaze is far more intoxicating.
The categories are cruel/reverent, aware/delusional, manipulative/honest and strict/lenient. Got this MBTI idea from @ddarker-dreams 💘
I think I am going to do Wendy, Bebe, Nichole and Heidi next month. Then Butters, Jimmy, etc or Mike Makowski, Henrietta, Michael and Pete.
Cruel vs. Reverent
🤬 Craig Tucker: Cruel
Craig is a straighforward guy who tells it like it is... That includes a lot of criticism. Craig can pinpoint every flaw you have and lay them bare. He refuses to handle you with kid gloves, it's something that you'll just have to accept.
🃏 Clyde Donovan: Wildcard, leans Cruel
Clyde is a little tempermental, which means he will flip between being cruel/reverent. He can be a snuggling sweetheart, or a callous stone that gives the coldest shoulder. It's a rollercoaster and if you wanna be with Clyde, you better learn to enjoy the ride.
🙌🏾 Tolkien Black: Reverent
Tolkien is attentive, thoughtful and incredibly generous. His love language (if you ascribe to such a thing) is giving gifts. He will shower you with thoughtful items. Some will be extravagant and others will be practical depending on your needs. Either way, as long as Tolkien is around, you'll never go without.
🙌🏻 Tweek Tweak: Reverent
Tweek is alert, observant and persistent. He will fret over you like nobody's business. He thinks you're pratically a saint for putting up with him. He knows he can be a handful and because of that, he's so grateful to be with you. He'll fawn over you with an intensity that can be overwhelming.
Aware vs. Delusional
🤖 Craig Tucker: Aware
Craig is many things... Delusional is never one of them. Craig is lowkey observant. He is constantly analyzing your relationship in his head and scrutinizing the state of it.
🤡 Clyde Donovan: Delusional
Clyde is absolutely delusional. He thinks he's God's personal gift to you, and that you're madly even love with him - even if you're not. And he'll hold onto these delusions like a fucking lifeline.
🤖 Tolkien Black: Aware
Tolkien is definitely aware. He'll know exactly how you feel about him - your feelings are just irrelevent. He will pursue you relentlessly and lovebomb you like his life depends on it.
🤡 Tweek Tweak: Delusional
Tweek is definitely delusional in the sense that he will constantly assume things are bad and awful and going wrong when the aren't. He will makes mountains out of molehills and always believes that his relationship with you is teetering on a razor's edge.
Manipulative vs. Honest
😇 Craig Tucker: Honest
Like we covered earlier: Craig tells it like it is. He's honest to a fault. Brutally so, sometimes. He will also take his honestly and use it like a knife to cut you down. That said, he's not above twisting the truth on some rare occasions and using it to get what he wants.
🤞🏻 Clyde Donovan: Manipulative
Clyde is manipulative as fuck! He will do anything in his power to make you his and keep you - that includes any dirty trick he can come up with. He'll lie and decieve as much as he has to as long it leads him to his goal... You.
😇 Tolkien Black: Manipulative
Tolkien will manipulate you, but unlike Clyde, it will be subtle and meticulous. He'll show up where you are by "coincidence". He'll use everything at his disposal to keep you in his orbit. He'll loan you money, pay your rent - anything to prove he can provide for you. He'll do what he can to make you completely rely on him, especially financially.
🃏 Tweek Tweak: Wildcard
Tweek will do whatever it takes you make you his. Whatever it takes to keep you with him. Sometimes this means being honest, sometimes it means straight up lying. That said, unlike Tolkien, Tweek is not some master manipulator - his attempts are desperate and clumsy - you'll probably see through half (if not most of) them.
Strict vs. Lenient
🚫 Craig Tucker: Strict
Craig is probably the strictest guy on this list. He has rules and you better fucking follow them - Otherwise you're in for an ice cold shoulder. He is the master of withholding. Aside from Cartman, I think Craig is probably the strictest guy on either of these lists.
🙈 Clyde Donovan: Lenient
Clyde doesn't give a fuck as long as you belong to him. His only rule is that you love him more than anybody else and take care of him. Definitely the most lenient guy in this group.
🚫 Tolkien Black: Lenient
Tolkien knows you have your own life - He just wants to be a part of it. He'll let you do whatever... Within reason. He wants to keep you, and if that means giving you a long leash - so be it.
🚫 Tweek Tweak: Strict
Tweek is strict as hell, he has rules for everything! And if you don't follow the rules? Be ready for a loud, animated argument. He absolutely will flip the fuck out.
𓆩♡𓆪 it's that time of year again! this is my blog's third consecutive year of valentine's match-ups, a chance for you to be set up on a date with one of your favs! but this year is even more special as there are two parts to the event: sugar and spice! If you are 18+ you can enter both sugar and spice once each!
𓆩♡𓆪 SUGAR is the SFW and majority part of this event, open to everyone. SPICE* is the NSFW and smaller part of this event, available only to followers aged 18+
*spice info under the cut
𓆩♡𓆪 SUGAR! will see 14 winners chosen at random via raffle!
𓆩♡𓆪 SPICE! will only have 5 slots available and entries will be chosen via raffle regardless of engagement
₊˚⊹♡ 𝒔𝒖𝒈𝒂𝒓!
♡ start your message with "sugar!" and send me a description of yourself (sexuality, personality, hobbies, likes/dislikes, etc. any details to give a profile of yourself) and a fandom (or multiple fandoms!) of your choice from the list below.
♡ I'll tell you who would ask you to be their Valentine and why as well as the date they would take you on!
♡ you can enter by sending your information to my ask box!
♡ please keep in mind that entries for sugar are one per person and not one per blog. This is to make it fair.
♡ enter now for a Valentine's date!
・💌・꒰ CLOSES 10TH FEB. ꒱
・💌・꒰ 14 LETTERS RECEIVED ꒱
. ♡ ⋆ . · . 𝒇𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒐𝒎 𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 𝜗𝜚˚⋆
𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐍'𝐒 𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐃:
✧ I will write for literally anyone
𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐋:
✧Any of the Dimitrescus, Karl Heisenberg, Donna Beneviento, Carlos Oliveira, Jill Valentine
𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐖 𝐕𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐘:
✧Elliott, Sebastian
𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐍 𝐈𝐌𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐓:
✧Alhaitham, Arlecchino, Baizhu, Beidou, Clorinde, Cyno, Dehya, Diluc, Dottore, Kaeya, Kaveh, Kazuha, Lisa, Navia, Neuvillette, Ningguang, Pantalone, Raiden Ei, Scaramouche, Thoma, Tighnari, Xiao, Yae Miko, Zhongli (more will be added as I progress in the game ♡)
𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐊𝐀𝐈 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑 𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐋:
✧Argenti, Aventurine, Black Swan, Boothill, Caelus, Dan Heng, Dr Ratio, Jioqiu, Jing Yuan, Mr. Reca, Stelle, Sunday(more will be added as I progress in the game ♡)
𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐊𝐈𝐃 𝐀𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊:
✧Sol
𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐏𝐇𝐄𝐑:
✧Mr, Crawling, Mr. Silver, Mr. Scarletella
𝐓𝐎𝐋𝐊𝐈𝐄𝐍:
✧Any of the ainur/ elves, Aragorn, Faramir, Haleth
𝐂𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐋𝐄𝐕𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐀:
✧Alucard, Carmilla, Drolta, Hector, Striga
𝐇𝐎𝐖𝐋'𝐒 𝐌𝐎𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐂𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐋𝐄:
✧Howl
𝐊𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐀𝐌𝐀 𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐒:
✧Tomoe
𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐁𝐔𝐓𝐋𝐄𝐑:
✧Sebastian, Undertaker, Snake, Ash/Angela, Charles Grey
♡ start your message with "spice!" and send me a description of yourself (sexuality, personality, etc. any details to give a profile of yourself), preferred descriptions for your anatomy/gender, your kinks, boundaries, and a fandom (or multiple fandoms!) of your choice from the list above.
♡ I'll tell you who'd be your valentine and the spicy surprises they have in store for you on valentine's day!
♡ you can enter by sending your information to my ask box! for the sake of keeping minors out of this side of the event, anon entries will be invalid as I'll need to see your age displayed on your blog but you can ask for me to make your entry anonymous when it is posted for the sake of privacy if you please
♡ please keep in mind that entries for spice are one per person and not one per blog. This is to make it fair.
♡ enter now for Valentine's sex!
・💌・꒰ CLOSES 10TH FEB. ꒱
・💌・꒰ 3 LETTERS RECEIVED ꒱
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Elrond x Reader (can be seen as platonic & romantic)
A/N: I'm back and I have a few ideas for fics again. But if you have any then feel free to request them. Because I'm lacking a bit of creativity at the moment.
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♡ When Elrond and Glorfindel find you injured in the forest (you were attacked by orcs), you have already treated some of your wounds yourself
♡ Elrond has been looking for a new healer for a long time as he could do with a bit more help and recognises your talent
♡ You are very shy and hardly dare to heal even the smallest injuries at first
♡ But Elrond encourages you and tells you he won't train just anyone to be a healer
♡ In the beginning, he places his hands over yours as you heal, as your hands tremble with uncertainty
♡ The two of you spend a lot of time together
♡ Sometimes even in your free time, because when you're around Elrond feels like he can relax a bit more and doesn't have to keep an eye on everything because your presence gives him security
♡ When you have just started to take care of big wounds, Elrond has to ride out to fight some orcs
♡ He is very badly wounded, Glorfindel has done all he can for him, but now Elrond needs a proper healer
♡ And even if you're not sure how you're going to manage it, you can't just let Elrond die
♡ So you summon up all your courage and the knowledge you've gathered so far and get to work
♡ As you slowly and painstakingly heal every wound on Elrond's body, no matter how small, you hear his voice in your head the whole time, encouraging you, and imagine he is standing next to you and not being the one whose life is in danger
♡ Eventually it takes you all night to finish and you fall asleep next to his bed, your forehead resting on the corner of his pillow
♡ When you woke up, you felt Elrond gently stroking your hair and telling you how proud he is of you
♡ That was the first time you realised how important he is to you, because it was one thing to imagine his voice and another to finally really hear it again
♡ You wrap your arms around Elrond and were just glad to have him back and you were determined never to leave his side again
* It only took a moment after his wife told him that he had her enveloped in his arms, his head resting in the crook of her shoulder.
* Amongst all the terrible things happening recently, this news fills him with hope again.
* His wife smiles when she sees him trying to suppress crying and barely succeeding.
* He’s beyond happy to have his family and to have someone to raise again.
* He enjoyed raising his little brothers and misses them, although he isn’t telling this to anyone anytime soon.
* Tells his wife how much he loves her and takes a rare day off to enjoy and bask in the warmth of the news.
* When his son is born, he’s close to crying all over again.
* He is stern from the beginning, but only because he wants his son to grow up to be a good person.
* His oath taught him what prejudice and hatred can reap and because of that, he teaches his son not to judge someone by their race or status, but treat them with the same respect.
* Tries to put days aside every month that he can spend with his family as he doesn’t want to miss any moments of his son growing up.
* When his son gets older and starts his military training, Maedhros takes him aside for a talk.
* He tells him that should anything ever happen to him, he is his mother’s next protector- a role he trains for very determinedly and proudly as he loves his mother very much.
* Maedhros is just happy to be given this chance at happiness, despite his misdeeds of the oath.
