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ithilwen-lionheart · 9 months

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Home is where the heart is: Home is where you are - Legolas x Modern Day!Reader

Alternatively:

Ignorance is your new bestfriend

__________

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3 (you are here)

[ Part 3. Work Text: ]

There is no downplaying the hatred (Y/N) feels whenever her classmates would make fun of the Legolas that they see in the films.

Not only was it already horribly uncouth of them to brand him -or anyone, for that matter- as effeminate because of the way they looked or acted but they also had to sling “gay” about as if it were a rock meaning to insult instead of one’s sexual orientation. (Y/N) would always find herself muttering on the defensive whenever situations as such would arise, her thoughts simmering a little too hot with indignance and her composure only ever tempered by the winsome pondering that endured alongside it: that if Legolas were gay then he would be an addition to a party of wholly respectable people who followed their hearts and in their wake instead brings love in a cynical world that is already teeming with a troubling surplus of negativity.

It’s an enchanting idea -that dash of sweetness on otherwise stale and acrid coffee- like an exquisite chiffon paired with the cup of tea she indulged in one fine spring afternoon as she perused that slash Fellowship fanfic that featured her resident elf, Aragorn, facial hair, and some razors. It felt like a lifetime ago, she wouldn’t have even entertained the thought then that said elf would just stumble upon her doorstep one stormy night. Granted it was something she may find herself writing about, but more out of the imaginings in her head rather than out of actual experience.

(Y/N) actually found promise in it -cataloging everyday life with the Woodland Prince. It would make for a good rom-com with a well-balanced lead. Legolas is as naturally romantic and otherwise capable as he is adoringly ditzy around modern technology. With the probability of property damage at an all time low now that he had discovered the magic of WikiHow and search engines, she actually finds herself chuckling at the mere thought of the plethora of reels that could be made out of the blond archer’s previous exploits- multitude of phone replacements notwithstanding.

He’s “beloved protagonist” coded that way. Mr. All Eyes On Me when he enters the room or makes his first appearance on the first panel or chapter, Darling Please Shut Up an entire season after he finally finds a healthier way to process his trauma and ends up letting loose that silly goose that’s been cooped up inside him for far too long. It would be an advantage that Legolas is already built with more empathy than the usual male lead, that he’s already more than just his looks or his poetic words and that his love prevails over what to others would usually be pride and self-preservation before some dramatic loss or divine intervention hard presses them into a much needed system restart- it would almost be too easy to love him-

It would be too easy to love him. It had been for someone as jaded as her, what more for everyone else?

And then she goes to thinking about the fangirls, the fandom, the trolls and the inevitability of negative press and immediately shuts the idea down. (Y/N) is not about to fight fanwars over at twitter, not anytime soon or in the far future if she’s got so much as a say in it. She barely held herself together today and almost went out for blood when one of her blockmates made a “mockery” of Legolas’ name and thought 'Le-gay-las' to be such a splendidly creative attempt to go about it. These are bored university students, she didn’t want to start thinking about what exponentially worse travesties kids who overindulged on questionable YouTube content are capable of.

Thankfully enough, before her overthinking could get even more cataclysmic, she finally reaches the tell-tale porch of her home. The beginning of that chapter in her book- the very stone that Legolas first stepped on before he changed her life forever. It was an image that was so charged with positive emotions it was not unlike a lighthouse to the turbulent seas of her troubled mind- something that grounded her as much as the thought of what life now breathed past her threshold.

A tenacious smile blots out the line of practiced patience that weighed on her lips, her hands a little too giddy and enthusiastic as she retrieved her keys from the pocket of her bag and unlocked the door.

Upon entering, the delectable smell of dinner wafted through the abode. It was a siren’s call to her protesting stomach and yet it was the longing in her chest that championed over the promise of what she knew to be carefully curated food. It is only by sheer good luck that the skilled chef responsible for this also happens to be the only one ever able to sweeten her most sour of moods- today being no more than an everyday foe for one already so adept at putting the worst of her at ease.

(Y/N) padded through the carpeted stairs with the urgency of a child running to their parents after a nasty row with their playground bullies. She wanted to recoil at the comparison -the notion entirely foreign and not at all founded by previous experiences of the sort and yet her chest brimmed with an all too familiar bittersweet ache at the assurance of a nurturing face and comforting words all the same; of warm arms wrapping around her all in a bid to face what demons the world chose to serve her up on an unwanted platter that particular day. She was certain that her hurried footfalls carried the weight of her emotions, that it was amplified even more when she all but flung her bedroom door wide open and off its hinges if she had a little bit more strength.

Then she sees him. In glittering hues she registers the shape of him, the familiar outline drawn with smothering saturation that glows a bit more vividly than per usual- when her eyes aren’t too watery and her ribcage hadn’t been stuffed with a little too much cotton. Legolas sat curled up on her worn bean bag, eyes focused on the horror flick playing on the telly, a bowl of popcorn balanced on his long legs crossed over each other- the paragon of a couch potato. (Y/N) never would've thought that it would be a look anyone would find attractive. Too often had it been stuck on as a warning label for a bottle of crippling indolence but the Elven Prince lounged decked out in modern day clothes and wore it like a badge worthy of admiration.

He donned a juniper pullover and dove gray sweats and as she walked mindlessly towards him, (Y/N) swore he also had her heart somewhere in his pockets. Swears that he held it a willing hostage there when he subtly presented his cheek for a kiss when she came up behind him, when the corners of his mouth tipped into a languid smile after she did, swears that he tickled it with the sound of the chuckle that bubbled in his throat and the unmistakable scent of strawberries that wafted through the air straight from his mildly damp strands of spun moonlight.

"Legolas,” (Y/N)’s attempt at a careful inquiry proved a futile venture in the face of mirth, “-did you use my shampoo?" she manages with a poor excuse at a raised brow and the galloping echoes of her still missing heart.

A coy little smile and the soft press of thin lips against her own confirmed her suspicion: that he used her shampoo and that her heart was no longer her own.

"My heart lies wherever your feet may take you, en melleth.” he begins as if he shared her thoughts, as if Christmas came early for them and they beat everyone on the entire business of exchanging gifts. He goes on and (Y/N) thinks that it was a fine comparison, “You will have to forgive me for scouring what remnants of you there are if only to keep what little life in me remains in your absence." There was a twinkle in his eyes that belie the theatrical despondence in his words, a playfulness in him that (Y/N) insists warranted the bite on the tip of his sculpted nose.

“That’s what you get for holding mine in a vice grip in your pockets.” She quips and tries not to falter at the mild discomfort on that handsome face.

Soft baby blues look up at her in perplexity. Furrowed brows and genuine confusion making a young boy out of his Elvish immortality, “I do not have anything in my pockets-” he begins and yet his hands find their way into a dutiful search, “As I thought,” he mutters once his foraging concluded and proved fruitless, “Whatever it is you had lost, en melleth. Sadly, it is not with me.” His entire mien was so veritably apologetic, the gears in his head already turning to plot for ways in which he might provide her aid- it was a trait of his that she’d been familiar with. As a sentry to The Fellowship, (Y/N) had always seen Legolas a step ahead of his companions, both in battle of blood and mind. He was only ever second to Gandalf who was a wizard, and on occasions, Aragorn when it came to matters concerning mortals and their ideals. In his pondering, his initial befuddlement had dissipated and had instead been replaced by upset and a very much undue disappointment with himself- (Y/N) didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry at the thought that it was now her incriminating jape that was completely lost at sea, that it was something so abstract that Legolas seemed a bit too obligated at finding.

She instead settled on helplessly shaking her head all the while dismissing what needless fretting the elf is currently doing, “It’s a metaphor for something else, Legolas. It’s not something that’s truly lost in a physical sense. Don’t lose your pretty little head over it.” (Y/N) gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze and hopes that the whimsical smile she tossed along with it would be enough as she took her place to sit on the floor beside the prince.

“A metaphor,” the blond elf muses, “You did mention something of the sort before now. I fear it remains to be a notion I am still yet to fully comprehend.” there was a sheepishness in his smile at what he seemed to consider was a persistent lapse on his knowledge. As much as the look made him youthful, it was something his wisdom didn’t deserve.

And with all things concerning the Elven Prince and his honor, (Y/N) finds herself donning her figurative sword and shield- ever so ready to step into the fray to fight what shadows crept and posed a threat to his tranquility, “It’s not that it’s something you’re yet to comprehend. You have poetry locked and loaded with how you speak, metaphors come as easy to you as breathing does- it’s my choosing to speak in riddles when I shouldn’t that’s the problem.” She was certain that she made no room for self-loathing in the manner by which she spoke because she knew all too well just how equally as easily Legolas would bleed concern for her.

Still, his hand finds hers all the same as he leaned down to give her his full undivided attention, “And what riddle was it that you regaled me with?” he tipped his head in askance, strands of his hair slipping over his shoulder and pinning her down with the lingering scent of her shampoo.

"I swear someday I'm just going to die of diabetes because of your version of clothes-cuddle." (Y/N) lamented off-tangentially as a means of submerging her compromising statement from before back into its watery grave. She adapted the same dramatics the blond elf used on her not too long ago for good measure and it went as seamlessly as the fluid incorporation of his presence in her life. The idea of it wrapped around (Y/N) like a favored quilt.

Legolas on the other hand, he steeped on a wariness that dwelled on her plaint- a jest that unbeknownst to (Y/N), he so gravely misunderstood. He opts to abandon his popped corn kernels and placed it on the floor in front of him in lieu of reaching out to her, “Come,”

It was (Y/N)'s turn to blink up in confusion, “What for?”

“Will you indulge me?” Pleading, (Y/N) surmises, is a look best left for cats and dogs and should by all means be rendered an actual criminal offense when wielded by Legolas on grounds of what farce it would deem one utterly willing to commit for his name.

“Will I even be able to say no when you’re looking at me with those eyes?” she finds herself saying with no small amount of tenderness, already accepting defeat for a war that was all in her head. Those eyes were worth more than a dozen losing battles fought, she thinks, worth all the white flags she could wave until her arms fell off her shoulders-

Legolas raises his vacant hand to cover his eyes and (Y/N)’s thoughts skids to a halt.

“What are you doing?”

“Giving you the option to refuse. You always have a choice, meleth nîn. If my gaze impairs your judgment like so then on my head be it.” Legolas answers simply and so so factually that irregardless of how comical he may look to some in that very moment -a hand still reaching out to her and another over his eyes- his words were astute and to (Y/N) he was what she’d want the entire world to be, “A lone tap on the palm of my outstretched hand for a refusal and two for acceptance.”

She’d take limbs off corpses if that’s what it took to continue waving those flags to surrender to him. (Y/N) decides he needn’t know that, if only to preserve what little dignity she had left to lose and to keep the elf from looking at her in terror at yet another misunderstanding of a completely harmless metaphor.

Though, she does find herself laying her cheek on the palm of that outstretched hand and holding it in both of hers and she doesn’t know if waving those undead hands still seemed like such a bad idea compared to this.

At the very least not until she witnesses the gesture startle Legolas enough that the hand over his face falls to his lap and she is greeted by an almost childish uncertainty made soft by enduring affection, “Is this a "yes "?" he queries, voice as gentle as the thumb that absent-mindedly caressed her cheekbone.

(Y/N) thinks she could settle with embarrassing herself like this, figures she could go above and beyond by nodding her head wordlessly and failing at hiding a smile that was both dumb and shy in equal measure if Legolas would give her an even dopier one for her efforts- like what he’s doing. Perhaps he can work on putting a damper to his elvish charms because even then his beauty remained, or, (Y/N) thinks she could just shove it where it matters because there are more things far worth considering then than her insecurities as a damned mortal.

Like how this painstakingly beautiful Elven Prince gently pulled her in by the waist so that she was sitting on his lap, for instance. Or how he wrapped his slender arms around her stomach and rested his head on top of hers with so much tenderness she ironically felt like she was just a breath away from shattering into a million pieces-

And then he buries his nose into her tresses and breathes in and (Y/N) swears he greedily took those pieces of her in and put them back together again with an exhale and that little shimmy he did to settle them snugly into the confines of her protesting bean bag.

No words were exchanged as they resorted to watching what cheesy horror movie it was that Legolas had on. Adept hands that once wielded bows and arrows with killer precision put hard at work massaging (Y/N)’s aching muscles, wise and quiet lips almost childish as he showered her with an unprecedented kiss here and there.

Three movies in and it became nothing short of an indulgent habitude for Legolas and more than once (Y/N) fails to reign in a giggle at the most inappropriate of times. First was during a particularly gruesome death scene from a slasher movie that Legolas looked at her in absolute horror for; second was at a nasty exorcism that had gone so horribly wrong she wouldn’t have blamed The Elven Prince if in that moment he honestly thought she had been off her rocker as he looked at her in alarm once more; and third was that literally bloody elevator scene from The Shining- though it was also then that she had caught up to something and stepped her foot down because the terror-stricken expression on Legolas’ face remained the same as it had been the first two times. She looked at him long enough that she saw the mischievous twinkle in his eyes. Looked at him long and hard with narrowed eyes until his resolution faltered and a side of his lips quirked ever so slightly heavenwards- (Y/N) was certain that if she hadn’t loved him as much as she did, she’d have sent him back to his maker along with it when the realization dawned upon her that the entire time, the entire bloody time, he had actually been playing her.

Legolas Greenleaf, son of The Elvenking Thranduil, Prince of the Woodland Realm and the stalwart sentry to The Fellowship had been messing around with her. She thought it to be too scandalous an improbability to even entertain- at the very least previously when she was a little too drunk on love and comfort and how Legolas smelled exactly like her that he could never -would never- drop so low as to pull such an elementary prank as making faces. Now that she was a little bit sober, she scours the catalog her mind subconsciously took of Legolas’ fears and inspects them with keener eyes. A part of her thinks she might be overanalyzing it, that it might just be her looking for problems where there is none, but all of that was clubbed down when she recalls that scene with the Balrog from the Mines of Moria, she places it beside the memory she had of the Elven Prince the first night he flooded the bathroom, that one time she accidentally walked in on him naked and he ripped her shower curtains in an attempt to preserve his modesty- his fear was something that took its time crawling into his eyes, something that could only ever pull so slowly and subtly at his features as he always fought so valiantly against it.

It was all those and most certainly not raised brows, glittering widened eyes, and parted lips that hosted a gasp.

A godforsaken gasp.

(Y/N) inwardly banged her head against the walls of her mind on account of her stupidity. She should have known it from the damned gasp. Legolas was never one to make such a clear-cut sound of his discomfiture. Even in the direst of situations it was his face that would tell the entire story, whatever it is that will leave his lips would be actual words strung with a purpose.

Three movies in and Legolas frolicked enough to feign three startled gasps that (Y/N) actually believed in and felt sorry for. Three movies in and (Y/N) could actually commiserate with cross girlfriends and what need they felt to throw silly little punches at their guffawing boyfriends’ arms- embarrassment at the blatant comparison to an actual labeled relationship be damned. Three movies in and (Y/N) gets to thinking that she might actually have to cut Legolas’ screen time if he’s going to start making a habit out of pantomiming goddamn teenagers from cheeky television series.

She’d call it when he actually starts showing fascination towards jerseys and convertibles. The telly would have to find a home in the dumpster then.

“Having the time of our life are we, giggles?” she deadpanned, trying her damndest to remain unamused as velvety chuckles assaulted her eardrums, strong arms winding securely around her waist as Legolas pulled her even closer to him and nuzzled against the crook of her neck as if she were a treasured plush toy at every attempt of hers to pull away. It was once again a losing battle -as with everything else that concerned him. (Y/N) didn’t need those figurative swords and shields, not when they were as good as balloons fashioned by clowns at a children’s party in the face of the elf’s almost puppy-like clinginess.

A golden retriever puppy named “Giggles”- it wasn’t a far-fetched idea. If anything, it made a little bit more sense than the words Legolas spoke next.

"For what joy you bring me,” he states solemnly, chin perched on the plane of her shoulder as he looks up at her with serene determination in his gaze as if a gallant knight declaring the decimation of a most fearsome foe for his lady’s honor, “I shall protect you from 'diabetes'.” and before (Y/N) could even process the absurdity of his statement and crack at it, Legolas goes on- almost ludicrous in his earnesty, “Let all those who attempt to so much as lay a single threatening touch on you be dead before their stroke fell." and he was kissing the top of her head as if she were something so precious that she lost all heart to explain to him that diabetes wasn’t exactly something he could shoot or stab at to be rid of. Instead, she joins this little circus and offers her condolences to it in advance because if by some odd stroke of misfortune it takes on a concrete form, she’s certain that the Prince of Greenwood -otherwise known as the retriever puppy Giggles- would certainly be nipping at its tail in no time.

His lady’s tinkling laughter pierced through the foreboding silence of the magical box before them and Legolas allowed himself a slow smile as he too, fixed his attention on the movie.What pride and joy he had for the success of his pretense at obliviousness may have rubbed the Valars the wrong way because no sooner than he relaxed, a monstrous phantom flashed into the screen and the screech that left with what part of his soul was ripped out of him from shock had been a little too genuine.

-----

[ FIN. End of Chapter 1, Part 3 ]

———-

A/N:

As promised!

Also, as per the disclaimer I had put out on my notice, you will find that this part is written as a lighthearted and speedy almost-crack fic. This is due to the entirety of Chapter 1 initially having been written as a whole instead of in segments with this bit in particular having been cut off from Part 2 due to its derailment from the course I ended up taking with its re-written ending.

Additionally, it had been quite some time since I had last worked on a written piece- even longer still since I had last worked on this particular fic- so I apologize for whatever failure in consistency there may have been in my writing.

I find that I should also let you wonderful readers know that I have read, immensely appreciated, and loved each and every one of your comments and reblogs. I cannot thank you enough for your words of encouragement and investment in this story as it had played a significant role in bolstering my previously dwindling passion with this particular craft of mine.

If time and drive permit, this part may end up with an update containing a visual of some sorts. I had been working a bit more on illustrations when I'm not writing so we shall see~

Taglist: @siriuslydestiny, @elysianluv, @daddy-long-legolas, @foxchild-v

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ithilwen-lionheart · 9 months

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Part 3 of Home is where the heart is, anyone?

It's literally designed to be some sort of an ending credits scene though, so I guess don't expect too much?

#the hobbit #reader insert #fanfiction #literature #lotr #tolkien #Home is where the heart is: Home is where you are #lord of the rings #legolas #legolas greenleaf #legolas x reader

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ithilwen-lionheart · 10 months

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Source: alittlerussianensign.tumblr.com

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ithilwen-lionheart · 1 year

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*To thee, most pious king I adore: For your grace and honor, my mortal strength in battle I offer

*Legolas Imagines: Imagine #4 - Going back to Mirkwood with your son and not expecting Thranduil's reaction

As of writing, all of the above are mere outlines- the post is to determine which of the three pieces would be completed and published on or before Valentine's day.

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ithilwen-lionheart · 2 years

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Random Legolas Greenleaf moments: 102/?

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ithilwen-lionheart · 2 years

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Upping this because re-vampification of this piece is finally completed!

Fixes:

Major pronoun changes

Wording updates

Trimming

Imagery sharpening

Additional scenes (amplified spice, reworded letter, the occasional new dialogs)

Thranduil Imagines : Imagine #1 (Re-vamped)

Imagine waking up in an unfamiliar place with no memories of who you are and with only the vaguest of feelings that you are in danger

Receiving a love letter from an unknown savior

__________

A/N : This chapter contains implied sexual themes that might not appeal to all audiences. Please proceed at your own risk.

[ Work Text: ]

You woke up with a start. Blinking, you find yourself in the exact same place that you had fallen asleep in- a guest room inside what appeared to be someone's ancestral home, alone. To your left was an armoire of polished cherry wood, its frame carved with elaborate twines of whirls and flora, the surface of it was smooth as is the glass of the mirror that reflected a face - your face, bewildered and shocked as if seeing yourself for the first time.

What was it that they had said in regards to mirrors and reflections?

That breaking one would bring seven years of bad luck?

That there exists none for the vampiric race?

That in chanting a name three or five times you would summon an entity of both blood and wrath?

That in an alignment of two planes there would be an infinite number of dimensions?

Right- that in dreams, you were never meant to see your reflection staring back at you from a mirror's surface.

And what if you do?

Whispered voices and violent throes from beyond the bedroom walls reminded you of the reason why you were awake, of the consequences of the action you were foolish enough to make.

There was a weight in the air- of a pressing darkness, a non-existence that thrashed so valiantly, so brutally at the chains that held them tethered against their will. Their silent cries sent shivers up your spine, shrill and tormented as they were-

Spirits. Whether they were of ill-bearing or not, you did not know. As none seemed too inclined to make themselves known to you just yet, you took the moment to survey your surroundings if only in search of whatever items you might use to defend yourself with should the need arise.

The room was otherwise bare save for the armoire and the antique bed you occupied so you weren't really set with the widest of options. You couldn't exactly screw with the linear fluorescent tube that lighted the dresser, not when you have a much higher risk of blowing it up to your face than using it as a weapon -

Not that you were at all too certain it would even work against whatever entity lurked in the shadows in the first place.

And then you took notice of it- to your side was a bedside table and on it was what looked to be a fine roll of parchment tied by a thin strip of red silk.

It was not anywhere near the arsenal you think you might require but at the very least it might give you a clue about your whereabouts or information on what exactly it was the haunted you.

Information might prove to be a valuable asset. Even if whatever it was in that parchment could not exactly locate you to where you might find anything to club possible assailants with, it might give you what weaknesses of theirs existed that you might exploit to your advantage- if worse comes to worse, hopefully it could at least point you to places where you can hide.

For the war strategy or map you expected of the letter, it oddly gave off the energy of a romantic missive- you didn't know if it were for better or for worse. The paper smelled strongly of sandalwood, a scent that seemed so familiar to you that every note of evergreen and pine had conjured upon your mind the makings of an image.

Long hair reminiscent of the first lights of dawn on a winter morning. Graceful waterfalls that flowed down the length of a strong back to a tall and elegant body clad in an intricate brocade of inky starlight and autumn.

Gaze of liquid frost sat atop a marmoreal face- expertly sculpted nose, a fine jawline and high cheekbones.

Pieced together it was the representation of ethereal beauty, a lord artist's magnum opus- something no mortal could ever dare dream be. In its grandeur, it instilled upon you unfathomable awe -one you are most certain would have men falling to their knees in reverence and yet to you there was only odd recognition, as if what to the world might be immortal beauty incarnate -an untouchable god- is but a face you had known to wake up to, a body whose warmth and weight also knew to settle against yours.

In your mind's eye was a recollection of sorts, the edges of a usually sharp countenance made soft by sleep and bathed in the gauzy rays of early morning light, of velvety dandelion fractals that kissed what was exposed of a fair Apollon torso and blessed it with an otherworldly glow, of air that was light and as sweet as a thin pair of lips that curved in a gentle smile before moving tenderly to form words. The memory was voiceless yet it was as if your heart knew the very chords each shape of the figure's mouth would play.

Your skin tingled as if it too, also knew- however the wrinkling of paper was quick to derail you from yet another daydream. You learn from a quick scan of the letter you held that it was from a so-called Elvenking of The Woodland Realm,

'*Arimelda' he misspells your name a few times, however, due to what appeared to be a sense of urgency, the uptightness the regal handwriting had suggested had not been allowed the routine leisure to start a new letter afresh, '*Man ceril? Prestad? I am yet to unravel what trouble you may have found yourself in at present- I am uncertain even still if you are indeed in such a peril that it warranted risking the exposure of yourself to the fiends of my court. However, I was awoken from my slumber with an urgency that begged I reach you in earnest if only to ascertain that you are truly unhurt.

It is to this that I find myself at the stables, this letter clutched tightly in my hand as I saddled my elk. It is beyond doubt that I would sooner die than let harm befall you even as the world slept and the entirety of it cleaved us apart.

You may rest your heart, *mell, I shall be with you at once. Perhaps I may also remain in your company until the break of dawn if you wish, Eru knows I find the sight of your mornings most delightful.

Until then, I plead the powers acknowledge my utmost desire to keep you safe- that they grant you guard in consideration of my heart. If they prove cruel enough to turn a blind eye, I ardently wish you will do so in their stead- keep yourself safe, know that I am with you and you are with me, if ill-fate befall you then it shall bereave me in this lifetime and the next- my immortality diminished and what grace I bear void.

*An ngell nîn, no dirweg, there are enemies in the shadows.

N'i lû tôl, êl nín,

Yours, Thranduil.'

The adoration that weighed each and every single one of Thranduil's penned words set forth a heat to your cheeks and rendered your heart dizzy with the anticipation of his arrival. Yours he had signed himself, "-mine," you echoed in a whisper and clutched the letter to your chest, "-but to what extent?" you asked no one, giddy and anxious before you recall the imagery in your mind- of that figure bathed in sunlight whose weight dipped the side of the bed next to you, so close you thought yourself to go blind by the mere sight of him, strands of platinum tickling your nose, your cheek-

I find the sight of your mornings most delightful.

The sigh that left your lips was lovestruck, so telling of your intention to gratefully accept an offer to delve into one of your reveries should one be made. In fact you were already halfway into succumbing to yet another image (now of him half-turned with his broad back to you, flaxen strands draped over one shoulder, the rest of him bare save for the white sheets that pooled around his waist, a marvel silhouetted by the rising sun-) when there came a violent crash, a shrill scream and an unrelenting banging on your door.

A voice in your head warned you about what lied beyond- unseen shadows that are after the living. Desperate to regain what life they had lost by means of taking that of which belonged only to those that are alive.

A soul.

And you, my darling, are alive.

It is to this that your instincts had spurred you to bolt. Scrambling off the soft confines of the comforters and blankets you were previously bundled in, you ambled to your feet and quickly made your escape through the chamber's back door, careful to keep what proof of Thranduil you have as of now close to your person.

Settling with tucking the letter into the front of your shirt, you tiptoed your way through the kitchens. It was a task to keep even your breathing quieted through the fierce pounding of your heart and the panic rising in your throat but you managed, only, it served little good when the galley had already been silent as it was. Pots and pans, plates and utensils laid all undisturbed and there exists a remarkably wide berth between you and the servant's exit that the sounds even a mere inhale of yours made was amplified.

There is no lulling an already slumbering giant to sleep, there could only be waking it.

Three inhales and three exhales and there came a response to your quietude- foreboding footsteps, all disembodied. You made a mad dash towards the back entrance, not quite keen on adding a new pair to them yet.

Reaching your destination, you flung a pair of wooden doors wide open and was met by a sight that was entirely different from what you had expected.

Before you there was only water. Water that is neither murky nor clear, its depth concealed by the deceptive reflection of stale grey in the early morning skies that hung high above your head. Water that you cannot ascertain to be whether lake, river, or ocean from where it pooled over what might usually be a place for cobblestones.

Around you were what remained of once magnificent trees that stood tall as if ancient sentries that bore entire lineages with fruits aplenty. From where they had once been there is little else now but trunks that were either splintered or burned if even visible at all, their roots lost to whatever calamity had taken place as you slept.

The only natural disaster you could think that is capable enough to wrought such destruction was a hurricane, but to think it silent enough not to have caused you to even stir-

Who is to tell you that your culprit was something even remotely natural? Your bodiless footfalls? Your faceless screams?

The dove grey clouds that swallowed up the skies like the calm before a storm or an aftermath of a disaster?

No one. And for a moment everything felt surreal, even the sun seemed nothing more but a daydream conceived by the fanciful musings of the child that had once lived within you. As if memories that were too distant now they can be mistaken as nothing more but a happy delusion of a life that was never known.

You see no signs of solid ground anywhere and you only grow even more flighty. There stood another house across, as lonesome as the one you find yourself trapped on in the middle of this torturous limbo of still waters, unmoving ash skies, and stale freezing air.

Just another pallid cage to totter into in this entire world stuck in what seemed to be a recess in the vast hands of time.

Blinking your eyes warily, you squinted and was met by another two or three dwellings, all equally as despondent and far as the next that your only chances at relocation laid on having a boat.

A boat that is unfortunately nowhere in sight.

At a lack of anything else to do, you weighed your options: 1.) remain where you were and anticipate the arrival of your hunter armed with nothing but your own limbs and a wrinkled parchment; 2.) give the depths a test and see if it was either swimmable or if anything laid beneath that might serve you purpose.

The latter appeared most promising, if only to save you from the humiliation of dying a sitting duck.

Crouching down and reaching out into the waters, you lowered your hand as far as it could go in the hopes of eventually touching something solid. You ignored the cold that bit on your skin and seeped through you flesh, you pretended it hadn't licked at your very blood as you went further in until the waters reached your shoulder and had soaked through the front of your shirt- you barely managed to split your attention enough to keep the letter from being drenched with one hand before you managed to get ahold of something with the other.

A lever, solid and slimy and not unlike the repulsive limb of an unknown creature that had lurked for far too long underneath muddy waters. What gears operated it now was conceivably rusted and it took remarkable effort to yank it into function. When it did give, it reaped a chorus of discordant mechanic disturbances that had rattled the waters and pierced through the spell the ominous silence seemed to have swathed this entire world in.

From underneath the waters rose bridges of rotted white wood bound by seaweed infested ropes that served as both makeshift railings and the means by which the entire ensemble connected one domain from another. Like a spider's web.

The treacherous planks that lay ahead looked anything but enticing places to trudge barefooted on. At best you might end up with a couple of harmless splinters, you contemplated, at worse with perhaps half a foot but then you hear that anguished cry full of hate and misery from behind you and somehow felt that that might cause an entire limb if not your actual head-

Losing your marbles was one thing, losing the noggin that contained those marbles was an entirely different one. It wasn't a compromise you had found at all too appealing when said noggin housed Thranduil- especially not when what concrete proof you had of him was now half-sodden and sticking out of your soiled shirt.

Another shrill howl and you broke into a sprint without ever looking back. Slip and fell you went in your rush and upon reaching the next house you were peppered with bruises, splinters and no small amount of muck.

Rain had started to pour sometime during your panicked scrambling. Previously overcome by adrenaline, you only now take notice of the ice cold wetness that had soaked through whatever ridiculous clothing it was that you wore.

As you were at least for the time being presumably safe, you looked down to further inspect yourself. Tugging at the fabric that clung to your body, you came to the realization that you were clad in what used to be an oversized and pristine white night gown with sleeves that were folded just above your wrists and held in place by buttons made of white jewels.

There are gems in that mountain that I too, desire.

White gems, of pure starlight...

Still, they are much too pale in comparison to your radiance.

Be that as it may- I present to you, my precious star, the white jewels of Lasgalen.

You finally hear the words said in a voice befitting the images that breathed and lived and thrived within the confines of your mind. Deep, mellifluous baritones twining with touches that resonated and washed over your skin like warm honey accompanied by the cold midnight chill.

With it came an onslaught of emotions that burned with an intimacy that smothered your senses in rich velvet and made the sodden paper pressed indecorously against your chest seem as if a brand-

a testament to a bond that transcended what was known to and deemed possible for mortal men. Of a dreamer and a star whose paths had wreathed instead of passed.

'Arimelda'

Thranduil just who on earth are you?

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Third person P.O.V:

'Arimelda'

The girl blinked. Hearing words she was certain she had only ever read then in that room upon waking up, on the parchment that stuck so adamantly to her chest- like the words it contained that clung to the very veins of her heart. The voice of the Elvenking in her mind's eye threw her in a chaos of muddled yet emotionally charged memories that had set her entire body ablaze.

Her chest clenched and she started to heave, overwhelmed by the frustration she felt of a yearning that burned yet she could not quite lay a finger on.

All attempts of remembrance had left her with nothing more but lingering touches of skin upon skin, of fire and ice, the smoothness of an immortal upon the imperfections of a flawed human -of a wicked commandeering mouth upon abused and heated flesh- memories that only served to fuel already ferocious desperation until it was wildfire to an already parched forest.

(E/C) eyes fell on to the gems once more before moving down to grimy feet. As she did so, fresh warm droplets mingled with that of the cold deluge that mercilessly pounded against her simmering skin and she fell to her knees, one hand clutching at her throbbing chest.

She may have all but lost the creatures from her nightmares, but there seems to be little she can do against the threat her own lapse of memory conjured anew within the confines of her heart.

Of distant remembrances in bright platinum carried by raindrops she tried most desperately to catch with both her hands- drops that caressed her lovingly in turn before slipping off her open palms and vanishing into oblivion, leaving her with naught but pale undiscernible traces of where it once been.

Just bare feelings with not a face or a name to it.

And so she cries. Openly this time.

Loud helpless wails of raw pain and ugly sobs escaped her gaping lips as she struggled to breathe from the sheer onslaught of despair.

Almost missing the sound of hooves against stone. Almost.

With that she stilled. Time seemingly lost around her as her ears picked up the sound of damp rustling fabric,

as if a rider mounting off his steed.

The sound of boots meeting concrete confirmed her conclusion and before she could even look up to see who it was, a silken cape was drawn swiftly over her vulnerable form and a pair of arms were quick to take her in a warm and loving embrace.

Arms that are strong and vigorous as spring.

Vigorous as spring...

It was soon followed by a voice- an orotund whisper that even in its magnitude had unearthed a reminiscence as delicate as wind caressing chimes that hung on the windows of a magnificent room one midsummer night. The same gusts of wind that stroke her bare form as she stood behind the marbled railings of a balcony overlooking a vast green forest, warmth radiating from another's presence behind her.

Vigorous as spring, tall and strong as the finest oak.

'*Le melin, Glassen an achened le,'

It was so close she can feel those pair of lips brushing her ear even through the cloth that lay upon her, it was brief yet it brought upon her body shivers of silent rapture.

It's HIS voice. The voice inside my head!

The girl need not to even rise her head to meet the eyes of the stranger for slender hands had been quick to cup her cheeks the moment a sob escaped her trembling lips.

Hands that were firm as they are gentle, having wielded a sword and took arms for battle yet also having graced the shivering body before him with feather light butterfly wings, familiar as they seem like a distant recollection.

'Odulen an edraith anlen,'

It is when those very same hands tipped her head upwards that those memories had been breathed back to life.

"Why do you weep, le melin?" the inquiry leaves his lips, as smooth and as rich as the silk that slid off her body that night a hundred moons before. His tone as worried as the entirety of his immaculate countenance, eyes searching hers as his nimble fingers gingerly stroke her face.

With lips and a heart that is both unsure, the girl allowed herself to mutter the only name that thundered at her very core, "Thranduil?"

Blinking once, a soft smile flits across his lips to match the benign look that his eyes had taken. One strong hand moved to lovingly tuck a stray strand of her hair behind her ear before enfolding her smaller limbs in the cold albeit comforting confines of his,

"Yes, *hiril vuin?" he graciously tips his head in askance.

Her shivering body settled. Eyes blinking away another onslaught of tears threatening to break past her defenses once more, her smaller hands clutched at his one hand that encompassed her own,

"The subject of the songs in my head and the evanescent images in my heart, " her voice quivered, reaching out to touch a pale cheek in reverence, so light as if afraid that it will break the dreamy illusion that was before her.

The fantasy that made her shallow breaths hitch and her heart race as it leaned against her touch, "-that of which had haunted my waking hours with fugacious memories of bliss that treacherously slip through the fingertips of my frail recollection like gossamer thread," emotions glimmered in eyes of winter frost with every word said, as if snowflakes upon the eyes of a blessed overseer.

Confusion, apprehension.

Despite of this, he mastered his mask of calm with an intensity that spoke of it not being for his own sake alone but for hers as well. Already knowing the fragility of her state in under what few minutes they spent together, as if apart from now he had already known her so well as if an extension of himself forever.

Remaining oblivious to the unease that stirred and threatened the calm that washed over the king at her touch, the girl finished, "-that is you?"

"*Thand, that is I," Thranduil pauses and vacates evidently smaller hands in exchange of placing the back of his upon her forehead and another upon her cheek, his face an epitome of placidity that paled the slight furrow of his brows and the anxious curiosity in his eyes, "Pray tell, what is it that ails you, *êl nín?"

Tear stained (E/C)s blinked as they took in the sight before her, "You...are real?" with newfound vigor, she reaches out to touch those cheeks once more -still as careful as she had once been- moving up to run her fingers through ethereal blond locks with unadulterated wonder and a growing smile on her face,

"Neither a dream nor a figment of my fantasies?" her hands clasped atop her chest upon finishing her sentence, a necessity she felt the need to do lest she end up touching the entirety of the Elvenking's flawless torso.

That of which was clad inappropriately for the occasion in nothing more but his own grandiose night wear- a blood red velvet robe above a silver tunic all hidden underneath his intricate marble grey riding cloak.

"I can assure you that I am neither, Tinuviel." The king allows himself an unguarded chuckle, his arms finding her waist and his forehead pressing against hers. It was a sound and a moment the girl swore she would keep in her heart for until the day she perish and even further so if it be allowed. It rivaled all of which in the world she had grown to adore- the flowers, the moon, the stars, and even life itself.

'Tinuviel, 'she who is the daughter of twilight' in the language of my people. She is known as Lúthien, the fairest of Illuvatar's children. The first of elf-kind to have fallen in love with the race of men. A name quite befitting yourself, are you certain that you are of no Elvish descent?' Tinuviel hears amusement in Thranduil's voice from the remnants of a foggy memory.

'But I am not of elf-kind. '

'And yet you had ensnared the heart of an Elvenking with a mere flick of your wrist.'

"You are mine?" she spoke the question to his earnest eyes and knew before words that the Elvenking's answer had laid in the glacial flicker of something ancient and covetous within his timeless gaze.

His gaze that first dropped to her hands upon her chest as slow breaths left his parted lips before his sonorous croon, "All of me and mine that was and will be graced by your hands is yours-" his lashes fluttered against hers as his eyes found her mouth, "-beyond skin, beyond flesh- the roots to frost, the heart to bones." eye to eye as he brings her ever closer, "-the stars to my soul. I am yours."

In his embrace she turns into liquid starlight, as much his as he claimed to be hers, "You are mine." she whispers breathlessly, still struck with giddy disbelief as she now clung to his chest.

"Yes. Can you not feel me?" the Thranduil before her grounds her to the present by a languid hand that trailed up her spine, igniting her veins and sending sparks of pleasure in its wake before cupping the back of her head and pulling her in until their bodies fitted as if a puzzle and his sturdy chest was flush against her own, heartbeat to heartbeat-

"Am I not real enough for you, le melin?" his voice drops to a hushed whisper, sultry and hot against her sensitive ear, "Can you not recall memories of this body against your own? Underneath all this-" his fingers languidly toyed with the laces on the back of her gown, traipsing until the reached the ribbon it was tied into at that dip where her spine ended and her hip began, until it went under that too, "-beyond even this." his tone had gone even deeper still, as deep as he had buried himself beyond even this- beyond her skin and her flesh, within her.

She knew not if it is the King's tone or the words that he spoke, but it is in that instance that a dam in her mind had broken. It unleashed shard upon shard of vivid recollections and sensations, and be that as it may, all of which that laid in front of her as bright as day were nothing more but pieces of a puzzle she was still yet to solve.

An enigma whose fragments that shined brightest were that of red. A red that pounded loud in her heart and pumped smoldering passion in her veins, filling her up with white hot wantonness till she saw nothing more but the death of the stars in the sky.

Eyes of winter frost blazing with ardor and a thirst so intense that it bled through the Elvenking's mask of practiced indifference. Searing breath and ardent lips abusing her skin with sinful adoration doused in thick desirous Sindar.

Strands of ethereal blond curtaining the sides of her face until all she could see was his fetching visage -eyes closed and mouth agape, breaths deep and labored, groaning- consumed by unadulterated pleasure as he took and ravished her body. The lascivious sounds that left his lips not for the scandalous entertainment of anyone else's ears but hers.

Hers.

Mine.

A red she dared not speak of if only for the sake of self-preservation and dignity-

But a red she would wear proudly like a chain around her neck, of ruby and of pearl.

Heat rose up to her cheeks and pooled in her core like the flames of Mordor, "I.... I'm afraid I cannot." she managed to stutter in the face of the Elvenking whose very image in her mind were all silken sheets, discarded robes, amorous melodies growled by parted lips, unholy mouth that tasted strongly of Dorwinion wine, and a pearlescent physique as robust and spell-binding as a moon in its fullness bathed in the soft oranges of candle light.

The thoughts coaxed a treacherous whine through her already dwindling defenses, her hands to sliding down to grip the Elvenking's biceps as she pressed herself against him in desperation.

She watches Thranduil drink her in like a spent traveler to a lone oasis, feels a tremble course through her at the knowing look set as if a gem upon his eyes and a crown to the smirk that graced his mouth as he tilted her head towards him, took her quivering lips into his and gathered her in his arms.

He knew that she was starting to remember, however the Elvenking took one glance at her neck and there crackled the fire in his eyes once more. It was a carnal thing, those flames, so much so that (Y/N) had been unable to resist following them but to no avail.

Thranduil takes notice and flashes her a smile of the same mold as the one in her dreams -the one painted by his words on now sodden parchment- and raises a hand to thumb her bottom lip, tracing a vertical path from her chin down her throat, his eyes following suit- equally as leisurely, "Your stars of plum and mauve," he admires, digit pressing lightly on certain spots as if to direct her to where each resided.

His marks, on her flesh. He made five light compressions.

"Diminished?" she asks because his gaze falls and when he met her eyes next his lips were poised to part.

Pale blue hues flickered in tempered shock before settling into their usual calm, albeit tainted by veiled sorrow, "Diminished." he parrots, no less approving and pleasantly surprised.

Her hands find his face, a hand to each cheek that she caressed as she breathed longing that barely touched the Elvenking's cold lips, eyes fluttered shut, "Then lend me your light, dear moon. Make me remember, great king."

There was a shift in the air about him, something primal and one with the primordial epoch of Eryn Lasgalen in its youth- where flowers bloomed in untamed beauty, where trees stretched far and wide and bore in abundance, where wildlife ran amok in reckless abandon-

Virility and an encompassing desire to provide, to shower, to stake claim. His face bore the marmoreal grace of the age-old Elvenking still and yet his eyes,

his eyes bore the shine of a roguish marauder.

"Then I shall make you remember, melleth nin. And let this time be that even Eru Illúvatar himself cannot make you forget." the king swears an oath he appeared too eager to fulfill and seals it unto the girl's willing lips, the very breath that left his lungs hot and heavy, a puff of bewitching delirium.

One that rendered her lax and needy unto Thranduil's possessive embrace, the same one that coaxed from him a handsome grin that was both of triumph and of no small amount of lascivious wickedness.

The night was still young and bearing soul, heart, and body spun of the same thread- the King of Eryn Lasgalen plans to make the most out of it.

__________

[ F I N ]

__________

Chapter Index:

*Arimelda - S. Literal: dearest

*Man ceril? Prestad? - S. Literal: What are you doing? Is there trouble?

*mell - S. adjective: dear, beloved

*An ngell nîn, no dirweg - S. Literal: for my joy, be watchful

*N'i lû tôl, êl nín - S. Literal: Until then, my star

*Le melin - S. Literal: my love)

*Glassen an achened le - S. Literal: It is my joy to see you again

*Odulen an edraith anlen - S. Literal: I'm here to save you

*hiril vuin - S. Literal: beloved lady/my lady

*Thand - S. Literal: true

*êl nín - S. Literal: my star

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ithilwen-lionheart · 2 years

Text

middle school girls didn’t obsess over Legolas and Aragorn in 2001 just so that amazon could give all the boy elves super short hair in 2022

22K notes · View notes

ithilwen-lionheart · 2 years

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···

GIF by imaginelegolas

Home is where the heart is: Home is where you are - Legolas x Modern Day!Reader

Alternatively:

Ignorance is your new bestfriend

__________

A/N : This chapter contains offensive language and sexual themes and scenes that might not appeal to very young audiences. Reader discretion is advised.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

[ Part 2. Work Text: ]

For months, Legolas Greenleaf, son of The Elvenking Thranduil had lived under the care of the mortal girl, (Y/N) (L/N). It was from her that he had learned the name of the realm he had been transported to- Earth, the Modern World, (Y/N) would use many an interesting word to refer to her home, but to him every varied name was a mere echo of the first words she had ever spoken to him-

"You are far far away from home, dear prince."

Still, since that fateful stormy night from when she had invited him to her home, the blond archer had not been able to shake off a profound sense of familiarity that twanged within the depths of his soul. With little else but his eyes and his existing knowledge, he had confirmed the following: (L/N) was not a name he had once heard in Middle Earth; her rounded ears were indicative of her being of the race of Men and; the steady rate by which she seemed to have aged (as evidenced by the photos she had once showed him- curious and delightful memorabilia those things had been, not unlike paintings but made notably faster and cheaper) proved that she is of no distant Elvish or Dúnedain relations.

This initial search reaped results that had been nowhere near the assurance he would have preferred should he have been allowed more resources to spare. However still, Legolas ultimately decided against pestering the lady of the house with any and all forms of personal questions aimed only to satiate this undue curiosity.

Unless it would be a tale she would tell unprompted, Legolas would not pry.

She had already given him so much -a roof above his head, food on his plate, free rein within her home, and knowledge about her world- he would rather not wound the easy rhythm they had fallen into over such a trivial thing as her lineage. (Y/N) is a fine soul- kind-hearted and true, he could care less if she came from a line of age old kings or nameless villagers or if she is neither and something entirely other. If she struck some chord in his chest with her tinkling laughter or the weight in the words she would speak then that was his cross to bear, not hers.

And Legolas will carry it with pleasure all the same.

(Y/N) would argue that it was not at all her already existing fascination with what she had grown to inwardly refer to as Canon Legolas that had kept Real Legolas in her home. Real Legolas, she had found out the hard way -the catastrophic way- is a far cry from the near faultless, otherwise silent if not cryptically poetic, and modest charmer that the movies had made him out to be. Real Legolas for all of Canon Legolas' exemplary skills as a refined, hushed and deadly master archer and sentry is by comparison a mass of maladroit limbs attached to 6ft of lean muscle and an accident waiting to happen.

She thinks this was precisely what zoologists and animal behaviorists had meant when they said some creatures were not meant to be domesticated. Crass as it might be to compare the Elven Prince to a feral lion or a lumbering elephant, neither the movies nor the books had ever placed him in the settings where she had found him wrecking havoc in. Not in the bathroom where he had overflowed the tub and flooded the floors; not in the kitchen where he very nearly started a fire and -through some wretched strike of luck- managed to lock himself inside the fridge; not in the sitting room where he had sent both the books and an entire shelf toppling over him-

Don't even get her started on the technology. There was promising content for a spin-off comedy there, (Y/N) begrudgingly admits. One she would have found herself investing in if it hadn't been her handheld devices that had to be replaced every other week because it was either thrown against a wall, flushed into the toilet, washed along with both the dishes and clothes or just plain disintegrated. She still shudders at the thought of what could have possibly become of their house if she hadn't gotten home that one time to see her phone in the microwave on top of a casserole- of all things.

Fond as she might have been of the elf, (Y/N) wouldn't fancy a life in the streets -not even with him. She knew neither of them would last a week as they are, not even with their combined efforts, and so she felt compelled to step a foot down.

It was then that she had sworn Legolas off the kitchen unsupervised.

As with all the other times he committed destruction to property, imminent arson, both or consecutively in that order, Legolas had been insanely repentant and had posed no resistance to whatever succeeding mandates she established in order to keep the roof above their heads as...more than just a roof. Some would say it is only appropriate when one is at fault -even (Y/N) stands firmly by that belief- but for the elf, it is every inconvenience he deemed himself to have been the cause and somehow it would include one or two things that had been, in all actuality, caused by her own stupidity.

Then also would come the ridiculous amount of compensation. Before he had the material resources to spare (the origin of which (Y/N) is still yet to find out), it would be taking over simple tasks such as cleaning the house, washing the dishes or doing the laundry -all of which he excelled tremendously at and had since then been doing religiously for the two of them, the previously shared assignment of household chores be damned; at the acquisition of said unknown wealth, it would be buying her books, a trinket (often from the park nearby), sweets, or just about anything she would make an offhanded comment about fancying-

And by anything, she meant anything- which explains how she ended up with a dozen balloons, a basket of colorful easter eggs filled with custard pudding, a puppy, a duck, and quite possibly even a tiger should he had known where the zoo was that one time.

From what (Y/N) had observed, as much as the prince lacked the common sense to handle technology and most modern concepts, he seemed to make up with wisdom and a sense of curiosity driven to fill in the gaps in his knowledge. Maybe it was a given since elves do live far longer lives and would thus have all the time they need for self-improvement and continuous discovery, that and the fact that Legolas could well be over a thousand year old already. Hence, the girl figured it shouldn't have at all been too much of a surprise when all it really took is one mistake for the Elven Prince to renounce previous faux pas -both life-threatening and not- and instead develop a knack at doing everything else that followed perfectly-

Or at least, near-perfectly, he still burns his pie crusts sometimes.

On the occasions that Legolas is not doing any grand gesture of delight or destruction, life had went on as usual for (Y/N). Although instead of opening the door to an empty house, it would be to one that glowed with life inside of it. She would go home from university to see the elf prince whipping something up from inside the kitchen for dinner (once his ban was lifted and his 1 week probation had reaped no dire consequences) if not sweeping the floors or arranging the new books he had bought for her on the shelf.

Other times he would be out in search for a way to go back to his own world, these were the days the house seemed to reflect her own pain. There would be the creeping of an emptiness even more profound than the one that existed before Legolas had come to her life -as if in bathing for so long in the light, the darkness had grown fangs and a hunger so deep it would now seek to devour instead of just to siphon off as it would do prior.

Still, (Y/N) knew what needed to be done. Knew that the prince was bound by oath and by friendship to his comrades on their quest to destroy The One Ring. Knew that his home is in Middle Earth with all the elves, the Woodlands with his father and his kin-

Who knows what would happen if he wasn't able to go back? Surely Thranduil would be both a grieving father and king without an heir, and if what she had seen of the movies had been of some truth- a great deal of The Fellowship would have fallen to their deaths before they so much as even reach Lothlórien.

And so she never spoke against it and instead made it known to the elf that he has her support. That if she could be of any help at all to him, all he would need to do was say the word and she would do what she must.

Even if it would be to let go of the light he had brought in to her life.

The smile of relief Legolas had given her then almost made the inevitable loss somewhat bearable- as if by merely being as she was, (Y/N) had already lifted all the burden that accumulated on his shoulders every day he spent away from his quest.

(Y/N) genuinely loved that look on his face. And that he smiled like that because of what she had said? Because of something that she would do? It sent her heart into a fuzzy commotion of a thousand butterfly wings fluttering all at once.

It was a trade she would be willing to pay for this respite, for this fleeting wrinkle on the Elven Prince's forever.

Even if it would be to let go of the light he had brought in to her life, indeed.

-----

Elvish hair is too good to be true, (Y/N) contemplated one fine morning as she watched Legolas water the flower beds he somehow managed to grow on the windowsill of their kitchen. The window was cracked open and soft gusts of sweet smelling breeze had blown in to caress his soft blond locks, the image not a far cry from an idyllic shampoo commercial- most especially not when he ran his fingers above one ear and it was all that it took to restore the then errant strands to their former glory.

It was this display that had urged (Y/N) into thinking that mussing it with her hands seemed a rather propitious experiment.

There was no other reason behind this sudden whim of hers, really, other than a nagging curiosity- it most definitely not had been due to an impulse to feel those silken locks between her own fingers, no.

Just the mere thought of it was preposterous. She's a woman of culture and finesse, of intellect and of perhaps a questionable brand of inquisitiveness but she is not a lovestruck maiden and Legolas is not a growing infatuation.

She is far from writing prose upon prose in regards to the sheer elegance of his hair or the crystalline blue of his eyes-

-and the sky is green, apparently. (Y/N) groaned inwardly, she knew a losing battle when she sees one.

The first time she dared try so much as knot the prince's hair, (Y/N) had immediately gravely questioned her life's choices. Legolas had been so horrified it was almost as if she had sold his very soul to the devil instead of just disheveling his mane.

She vowed to the gods never to do that again.

That had been a good hour ago. (Y/N) spent each succeeding minute since on failing miserably at trying to woo the elf for the unexpectedly capital offense.

"Oh come on, Legolas!" Came her despairing whine once more, "I didn't mean it okay? I'm sorry." (Y/N) apologized for the umpteenth time as she tailed the blonde prince who moved about the kitchen without acknowledging her presence for the past 30 minutes. The girl finally threw her hands up in surrender and unceremoniously dropped on the cold wooden floor in front of the fridge at precisely the same time Legolas placed a hand on the refrigerator handle presumably at an attempt to retrieve cooking ingredients for dinner.

"My lady, move." He ordered, voice a sharp command as he crossed his arms over his chest and tipped his head subtly to the side. It was such an unsettling parallel to The Elvenking's cold habitude that it could have forgone the icy blue eyes practically glaring her down if the intention was to only further cement the fact that Legolas is indeed his sole heir.

To say that she hadn't been the least bit emasculated would be a terrible terrible lie because she literally shriveled in her place at that look. Shoulders dropping, her back pressed even farther back against the humming metal door behind her as if willing it to just swallow her whole.

Figuring that she had no chance of winning a stare down against those frosty daggers, (Y/N) went for the alternative which was to clasp her hands to her chest and look up at him with the widest and most pleading near-tearful eyes she could muster, "Legolas, I won't do it again, I promise! It was absolutely stupid of me to have done what I did," the fingers of one limb curled into a fist and her gaze dropped to his feet in shame at the dawning realization that her actions had indeed been severely inexcusable, "Of course you would be upset with me," her voice had gone quieter, "Perhaps would be for far longer," she trailed off in despondency before picking herself back up and raising her eyes to his if only to directly relay to him that she meant every word she had and will say, "-but please let me know what I could do to make it up to you. If there's anything -anything at all- just tell me." Her fingers found the hem of the jumper that he wore and clung as if for dear life.

One fine brow only raised at this, the entirety of the Elven Prince still an inscrutable winter, "Anything?"

(Y/N) blinked and nodded a tad too enthusiastically. Visibly too focused on mending things between herself and the elf to realize the variety of requests she had just unconsciously surrendered herself to. Not the least bit mindful of just how much of her she had offered on the table to be his for the taking.

Nevertheless, Legolas knew better. Elves do not possess the insatiable urge to claim and to hoard worldly boon, neither did his father raise an ellon who is so incapable of restraining his desire in the face of temptation.

With a sigh, he knelt to level with the girl in front of him, taking the hand that held his clothes gently into his own. He was met with such earnestness in her (E/C) hues that it took everything in him not to beg for her forgiveness instead.

She did not deserve his undue wrath for such an insignificant trifle as his hair, not after everything she had done for him-

Legolas' thoughts skidded to a halt at this. He had yet to wash his hair properly without getting soap in his eyes. In fact, the deed itself made him blink for far more times than any other elf had ever done in their entire lifetime for under the span of a few minutes and it had made him profoundly as uncomfortable as the stinging in his eyes did.

"I... could wash your hair? If you want?" (Y/N) offered sheepishly, retrieving her hands and fumbling with the sleeves of her own jumper instead, her gaze tentatively searching his face for approval.

"Truly?" Came the blond's inquiry. His exhale was aired with no small amount of delight, visibly thrilled at the promise of finally having his hair washed without any undue sacrifice from his end.

(Y/N) nodded, "Of course!" She smiled, equally elated at the chance to pamper the elf. "Oh! And maybe you could help me fix my hair too!" She rambled on with enthusiasm, all traces of gloom disappearing. Legolas mentally slapped himself for wasting time with giving her the cold shoulder when he could have sooner bathed in this joyous light that radiated from her instead.

Nevertheless, an unprecedented chuckle escaped his lips and he finds himself acquiescing to her whims once more, the glacier in his eyes thawed and the cotton in his chest bulging at the seams, "Certainly, my lady. Although," He furrowed his brows subtly in confusion, nimble hand moving in its own accord to tuck a stray strand of (H/C) behind one rounded ear, "I do not see your locks requiring much fixing, lovely as they are." the admiration in his own voice brought Legolas as much shock as the appendage of his that refused to resurface from where they were buried underneath (H/S) tresses.

"Bullshit, my hair is as unruly as a dwarf's..." The girl lamented, hands tugging at the offending tresses from either side of her face, "It's not as if you hadn't already seen how it won't work with me in the mornings. You did, and its bad." (Y/N) placed emphasis on the word by slamming both palms on the floor between them, her face an animated display of magnified despair.

Drama Queen, Legolas remembers what she would call such a display whenever they would witness something of the ilk within the fragile boxes that would play them those moving pictures- videos, no, he internally shakes his head, he is certain it goes by a different name, one that is even more odd-

series, yes, television series. He is still yet to unravel what exactly had made it so different from videos, figured it might be something worth asking a long while after he had fulfilled his tacit obligation to remove the frown marring his host's fine features.

"I have to say, such a comparison would not bid well with my friend Gimli, son of Gloin." The elf began, feigned thoughtfulness foiled by the conspiratorial upwards quirk on the side of his lips, "He would argue that the more fitting term for it would be handsomely unkempt...purposefully, not such dull a word as unruly." his efforts were proven fruitful with the beginnings of a matching smirk from across him.

"Semantics." (Y/N) quipped, snicker only growing bolder- so much so that Legolas had found much too late that his gaze had long unconsciously drifted off to a pair of soft plush lips.

Catching himself, he subtly turned to inspecting his blond locks with both eyes and his fingers. As much as he had claimed certain things to not bid well for his Dwarvish companion, there remains this particularly uncharted territory that Legolas, in turn, deemed would not bid them well. Fueled by this, the elf had not wasted a single second hauling himself up to his full height while reaching a hand towards his host to help her to her feet, "Shall we go then?" He prompted, all of his internal dilemma forcibly shoved aside as he allowed himself a near-boyish grin that was only ever for her.

"You are far far away from home, dear prince." she had baffled him once-upon-a-time, had doused him with the frigid truth that he is lost to his world- that he is time and space away from Middle Earth-

This (Y/N) that had gratefully taken his proffered hand with a flighty grin. She who had enthused him with a cheerful "Okay!" before practically dragging him behind her as she ran towards her bedroom.

Her home. The home she shared with him- still shares with him.

Her home that she had unironically made into his as well.

"You are far far away from home, dear prince."

Staring into the back of one (H/C) head, Legolas allows his thoughts to wander- fond as it is a shred bewildered,

Am I still?

-----

That served as the portend to their mutualistic arrangement where Legolas would fix his host's hair prior to her day's commitments and she would then in turn wash his locks before they retire for the night.

He would wake her up at precisely the break of dawn so that she had the time to bathe and he the leisure of brushing her tresses before braiding it into whatever style she preferred or had piqued her interest.

At first Legolas knew nothing more but to plait her hair in the same manner as his. Somehow, this had lead to (Y/N) buying a wig and a book on hairstyling she hoped more or less contained different manners of braids the prince could practice on while she was away- something to keep him occupied until she was done with university and she is back at home with him and not at all a matter of her not wanting to wear her hair the same way daily nor an aversion to sharing a braid with him.

In fact, (Y/N) had taken this as a means to - with no pun intended- thread her fate with Legolas' somehow. Worlds that are -for all they know- either lightyears or lifetimes away coalescing down to a single decorative twist- it was definitely solely just that and has absolutely nothing to do with the trend of matching items amongst couples.

-which they aren't.

Before her mood even soured at the disappointing thought she won't be caught dead doing something about anyway -at least, not yet, she would like to clarify- (Y/N) instead finds herself recalling Legolas' terrified face upon first seeing the bust she had bought.

It was something she could only feel half bad for laughing about considering how hilarious his stupefied expression had been. For an elf who had before then displayed very minimal emotion on his face, it was not unlike the first bawl of an emotionally constipated teen- like Draco Malfoy being made to talk about his family's issues and his questionable choice of role models in therapy. It didn't help in the slightest that Legolas very openly swore at thinking the bust to have been a beheaded creature- one cursed by dark magic to quite literally lose their face.

As she had said, (Y/N) could only feel half bad for chuckling whenever the memory would resurface- only now she was also embarrassed because it is the same Legolas who is now giving her a curious look from where he was underneath her, her odd chortle very much unbidden it would seem.

"What is it, mellon?" The elf inquires and sheepish as (Y/N) might have been, she was unable to douse her glee at the name the prince had taken to calling her. From the very beginning she knew full-well what it had meant: friend; that at some point he had began to see her as more than just a generous soul who took him under her wing, that she is to him now as Aragorn and Gimli had been and still is-

She dances with the dangerous thought that perhaps this might make leaving as hard for him as she knew it would be for her. It was a siren's song that she immediately had to put a stop to, the sheer selfishness of it too shameful to be caught dead bearing.

Looking back down, she was faced by Legolas who had one eye closed, suds trickling down the side of his face as she washed his hair with the lavender scented shampoo that had by now grown to be his. He looked rather at odds with the small stool he occupied beside the tub- also now his- with one of his long limbs awkwardly curled as the other stretched out and his toned arms wrapped around a knee. In spite of being in what usually would be a troublesome position for someone as exceedingly tall, Legolas showed no signs of discomfort as his head arched the slightest to the back with a content little smile gracing his thin lips.

So at home. So fitting like a piece on a puzzle she never knew was hers to solve.

The girl shook her head and continued gently massaging the prince's scalp, "Nothing. Are you really not planning on using the bust that I bought you?"

"Are you referring to that dreadful statue? Do not take this for ungratefulness, but I must refuse. That....thing," he clearly struggled to find both the word and the strength to say it, "-already goes beyond the peculiarity I could handle from this realm." the loathing in both his face and tone was as clear as day.

It was so clear that a few bothersome bubbles had built up on the more profound wrinkles on the side of Legolas' face (mainly the edge of one eye and mouth), (Y/N) was quick to take the shower head to wash it off, "Pity, I did spend a pretty penny on that." she uttered as she does so before laughing at the face Legolas pulled, she's not entirely certain whether it had been because of the suds seeping in despite his shut eyes or out of guilt but she relents, "But yea, you're right, it is trash. Isn't it?"

Legolas nods a bit too enthusiastically in approval and hums in delight as (Y/N) proceeded to wash the suds off after applying a couple of more hair products on his hair.

"Guess I'll just throw the bloody thing to the bin then," the (HC)-nette shrugs dismissively and suddenly remembers that one of her classmates seems to harbor a fascination with mannequins, "-or maybe I should just give it to charity." She finished and turned the shower head off before grabbing the neatly folded juniper green towel beside her to carefully dry the prince's platinum locks.

Brilliant blues fluttered open in answer to the hand she had settled at the center of his back. Guiding him to sit up straight, (Y/N) carefully scooted behind Legolas so she could sit on the edge of the tub to dry his hair better.

After a few seconds of towel-drying, the elf decidedly takes the towel from her hands and slings it over his broad shoulders, "It's your turn, mellon." He declared as he lifted himself off the stool and gently held both of her slender arms to guide her into the seat he had just vacated.

(Y/N) blinked a few times in mild bewilderment. It was not the first time Legolas had ever volunteered to wash her hair and yet she is still unable to master the rattling of her heart and nerves whenever he would both make and carry out the offer, "You really don't have to, Legolas-" and she meant it because the sheer closeness of him, the deftness of an elven archer's fingers whenever he does-

The Elven Prince is woodland incarnate and he is in no way at all taking her out of the woods, no, only ever deeper into it.

"Nonsense," Legolas countered, blissfully unaware of how close he's edging her to just throw caution into the wind as he gently but firmly kept her seated on the stool, "you had a long day and tomorrow would be," there's that subtle dimple between his brows, her goddamned undoing, "- a 'weekend'." He quoted with a small nod, a smile and a harmless brow raised to dare her to refuse, his hands already busy untangling her tresses from the braids he had done earlier that day.

"So," His mellow voice filled the silence between them after a few beats from when he began his self-appointed task and (Y/N) dies a little on the inside. Even the mere sound of him had already found a home in her bathroom- not that it hadn't already when the ruckus he made the first day he came had catapulted this shell of a residence into animation, but now it was something that went beyond mere amusement at his silliness-

-there's a profound difference between the chords pulled at the heart by laughter filling a previously empty space in comparison to a mere breath dissolving into the silence and making it into something but.

It certainly made matters worse that she now knew how to tell what those sounds of his meant. How that "so" was his attempt of asking her how her day had gone, different from the "so" he would use to ask her what she would want for breakfast or the "so" that would be him prompting her to carry on with her tale or to start speaking.

And those were just the "so's"- everything else remains carefully catalogued in the library that exists within the walls of her mind- an entire hall of which is dedicated to him.

A slight creak and gentle streams of water pulled her back into the forefront of her mind where her eyes were met with a firm jawline and damp lavender scented locks brushed against her reddening cheeks. Legolas, by some consolation, remained too preoccupied with washing her hair to pay her any heed.

The sigh that escaped her lips was more in relief at his distraction rather than out of actual satisfaction, "I would have said nothing much but the council was asked to facilitate the planning of an upcoming event for University Week so I guess we'd be busy these coming days." She stretched both legs in front of her and was met by a couple of pops that made her wince.

Legolas' gaze met hers in a heartbeat, concern coloring the dimple between his brows and the blues of his eyes, "That is concerning." his eyes drifted to her limbs. Patting a hand to dry on the towel slung around his neck before reaching down and pausing to hover just above her knee, "May I?" he queries.

(Y/N) feels a weight plop in her stomach, "Its fine, Legolas!" she squeaks a bit too defensively, "It's not like it actually hurts or anything- it does that." she reassures before her mind reaches a place of curiosity once more, as it often does, "Doesn't yours do the same?"

A blond brow only raises in perplexity, do what? It seemed to say.

"You know, the entire cracking business."

The other blond brow joins its twin to make the trip down south towards a frown, "Not unless it is broken, no."

Of course. Bloody elves and their outstanding genetic makeup.

A snort and a roll of her eyes was her proverbial spitting at the peak of frailty that is human constitution, "You elves and your fine ass genes." she mutters as she tilted her head back and Legolas began the process of shampooing her hair.

"Fine ass?" came his wondering rumble. Of course he would pick the most incriminating one out of half a dozen of words, (Y/N) groans and unintentionally startles the elf into a fuss, "Did I hurt you?" he falters and momentarily pauses to survey her face.

A faceful of Legolas, (Y/N) realizes, was the last thing she needed in this already mortifying situation. And just like in any other day when her restraint was so brutally being tested, she panics into a blundering idiot most concerned with the most trivial of trifles-

In this case being the (favorite scent) cream shampoo Legolas had lathered so tenderly unto her locks-

"You remembered?" She questioned, turning her head a bit to the side to meet the elf's smug grin.

"How could I forget?" That tone made it too easy to envision the prince puffing his chest out like a proud peacock in spite of him having been bent over to attend to her hair. "So?" A lingering question, fine ass, right. The girl mentally flips the heavens a bird for giving Legolas such troublesome curiosity to pair with a ruthlessly keen mind, another one for her own cursed fondness for digging her own grave.

"I'd advise against using it. That's all I'm telling you." she keeps it short and Legolas merely nods in understanding, albeit with a derisive little snicker.

"It is in league with fuck, shit, and motherfucker, I presume?"

"You presume correct."

A thoughtful hum and a sacrilegious massage from her crown to the base of her neck, "Fuck," she groans and slumps against the bath tub, all lose limbs and liquified bones.

Legolas chuckles, deep and rich and maddeningly infernal with his chowderheaded torment, "You certainly do love your swear words, my lady."

"I lay with them on the daily. I must attend to their needs lest they leave me to my lonesome." (Y/N) exclaims in faux lamentation, the back of a hand flying straight to her damp forehead in a desperate bid to derail the conversation as best she could- even if it meant selling her soul to such drastically absurd means.

Tried as sundry, the elven prince humors her, "So tall a task placed upon such delicate shoulders." he sighs in commiseration, face momentarily lost to hers- at least before he surfaces with an earnest offer belied by the lingering snicker in both his words and the lips that formed them, "Perhaps I might alleviate your burden by partaking in it?"

(Y/N) looses a snort, "Partaking in it?"

"With laying with them, yes." The ardent way by which Legolas nodded his blond head and had set the seriousness on his face was a theatrical masterpiece, "Allow me," he makes a show of taking a breath and coughing onto a fist and says in the most gravelly voice she had ever heard him use,

"Fuck,"

Fuck indeed, she thinks and most likely just gapes because he gives her an amused shake of the head and a breathy laugh before resuming with going about his business of massaging her scalp.

Her heart was allowed a full minute of self-inflicted riot before Legolas finally takes the targeted shot at maiming her dwindling restraint-

"Perhaps I might also attend to your needs-" he prompts with a voice that was as clear as the surface of uncharted waters- dangerously alluring with the promises that swam just beneath its depths. (Y/N) curses at how the back of her head easily fitted into the palm of his hand, at those archer's fingers that doubled as those of a gifted masseur-

"Such colorful vocabulary, my lady." The elf prince had the galls to tsk- she had barely half a mind not to kiss him, even less than that not to moan when he gave the tresses he held a gentle tug, "I am almost inclined to think that I might be hurting you had I not known threading one's locks to enforce more strength than this."

(Y/N) pieces enough of herself together not to walk down that proverbial plank like an overly enthusiastic sinner. Unfortunately what parts she missed conspired to color her cheeks and break her voice, "How is your search going by the way?"

Legolas hums thoughtlessly -ignorantly- to the fire that now burned in her core, "Fruitless, by lack of both a better word and an actual lead."

It was as if his very words themselves doused the flames within her as the shower head he held above her head had the bubbles off her hair, "I'm sorry I couldn't be of any help." She murmured quietly as deft hands began twisting her bunched up tresses inside a towel, eyes focused on the bathroom's tiled floors.

Her despondence might have sounded so pathetic because the elf was suddenly vigorously shaking his head and cautiously grasping her face in between his hands, "You are not to blame for the misfortune that had befallen me," he sighed and met her eyes with an anguish that startled her, "-none of it was or is your fault. You had let me into your home with no hesitation when I had nowhere else to go and aided me without asking for anything in return. You had not once questioned me or thought my intentions ill but instead believed in what truth my mere words employed-" he pauses and shakes his head, a wistful smile marring his lips that were only previously so teasing- so young, "-any other would have turned me away. If anything else," his words fall into silence, face inching ever so close all she could see are eyes that were so blue and soft they were at utter odds with the tempest that lived within them- of resolution faltering and breaking and then relaxing as if in sweet surrender.

(Y/N) didn't know if it had anything to do with the hand she later finds caressing her cheek.

What she does know is that in her heart were perhaps a dozen hummingbirds big enough they were practically serenading directly beside Legolas' ears the secrets she had most desperately kept hidden: that in those few months -perhaps even from the first time she had ever laid her eyes on him, on screen and on flesh- she had fallen helplessly in love with him; that even if he threatened to set her entire house on fire, intentionally or not, he would always find a place in her heart; that in his towel, his toothbrush, his jumpers and trackpants and socks, his cereal bowl, his mug, that antique rocking chair by the window and the flowerbeds he kept on the sill- that in all of those things both given and claimed she desperately hopes he knows that for him there is a home,

right here, with her.

That perhaps in knowing so Legolas would also find that for (Y/N) wherever he is there exists home as well- through the dozens of technology that he had literally blazed through, the mornings he had burned their eggs or toast or both, the socks he had shrunk and the bathroom floors he had flooded- because through it all he settled back the weight that had grown hollow in her chest-

He continues to even now as he drew closer and assaulted her senses with lavender and what she supposed was the scent of the Woodland Realm coded unto his very being as its prince, with mint and berries that mingled in every breath shared over such short a distance as the one that existed between their lips.

"My meeting you is perhaps the greatest miracle bestowed upon me in this lifetime." Legolas sighed with such reverent gratefulness one would think (Y/N) had given him the world- the scoff that had built inside her throat at the thought however, had expired when he repeated the same words in SIndar -the language of his people- as if she were one of his own.

My meeting you is perhaps the greatest miracle bestowed upon me in this lifetime, he had said.

He who had lived for a thousand and a couple of hundred years in discovery of Middle Earth's hidden secrets and precious treasures. Experiencing its vast lands, its inhabitants, its history and culture, enchanted passageways, odd friends and allies, accursed foes-

Legolas had lived it all and more and yet still, somehow -by perhaps some sadistic streak- considered this chance meeting that came out of what had to have been a terrifying experience of unethical inter-world yeeting as such a marvel.

Warmth filled her heart at the notion. The emotions she had suppressed thus far overflowing and seeping out of her eyes and wracking her body as she laughed and cried at the same time. 'Finally, finally, finally-' she thought. For once she was someone's blessing and as if that alone hadn't been more than enough-

she was his- Legolas'.

This prince's who is wise and knowledgeable yet so dense at the most inconvenient of times.

The elf with his eyes wide in shock and guilt and pain that ripped across his handsome face because he did not know whether he had caused her emotional turmoil or if he is doomed to an impending rejection she would likely find joy in. His immortal heart freezes at the possibility, body growing numb as he awaited what ill fate might befall him- he figured he might pull away, to straighten at least and better steel himself from what is about to come-

(Y/N) had grown an impetuousness that shoved Legolas' evident stiffness to the side. Driven by instinct and a yearning that had long taken over, her head shook an assertive 'no' as he tried to disengage, "You're my miracle too, dear prince. From the moment you stepped on my front porch, the monotonous loops you had broken and what you made of the hollowness in this house I now find myself wanting to come home to." she whispered solemnly, tears relentless and balmy on her cheeks as she reached up and grasped both of the elf's arms in an attempt to steady herself, "All the troubles you think you've caused are nothing compared to the amount of joy you'd brought back into my life." she hoped the quivering in her voice relented enough to at least carry the weight of her words across.

Her wobbly smile and wishes were answered by breathless laughter as Legolas pressed their foreheads together, eyes clamping shut out of sheer relief at the happiness they were both apparently allowed to have before fluttering open once again to shower her with immeasurable affection, "It is you who bring my heart joy, *idril."

And perhaps (Y/N) might have been a bit bolder than she had expected because next she knows she is spewing that one Sindarin phrase she had grown to whispering lovedrunk into the silence that ensued after one of his smiles, his back to her and he was what she presumed was out of earshot, "*Gellon ned i galar i chent lîn ned i gladhol."

Legolas blinks and there was something too cognizant mixed with the surprise in his eyes that she immediately knew in all those times before, he had in fact not been out of earshot, "Those words spoken into the winds..." he paused, all dimpled brows and parted mouth as he detached himself from her. Eye to eye, both of his hands cradled her cheeks before his thumb and gaze drifted down to her bottom lip, "They were yours?" the breath he used to exhale the inquiry was one his ministrations and the intensity of his undivided attention had taken off of her.

Naturally, (Y/N) chokes and deflects, "It must be the accent- I'm terrible at it, I know. You weren't even supposed to hear-"

"*Guren *glassui. Agoreg vae, hiril vuin." he cuts off with ardent admiration. From what she could remember of Legolas' rows with uncooperative furniture, even when peeved, his Sindarin had always been as smooth and as benign as his character- never being on the receiving end of it until now, she hadn't known how rich it truly was-

Like thick silk she'd happily use to smother her own facilities for having the damned luck to hear this dozens of times before she even could. Her annoyance might have been neon signages on her face because Legolas does that little tilt of the head to herald either an impending question or an observation, "You are not pleased."

If there was a pout on her face when she mumbled, "Only because my furniture heard your Sindarin first before I did." (Y/N) insists that it is perfectly warranted. She is the lady of the house -as Legolas had so dutifully kept her informed- she is entitled to a couple of outlandish whims within her household every once in a while even if it were something as telling of her desires as hearing the Woodland Elf speak in Sindar- a need that her own resources had intruded on, she had all the reason to be prissy.

Legolas blinks again, (Y/N) realizes he tends to do that a lot before reaching an epiphany- and then she wonders what freak of nature it must be now to couple with that smug smile that gave an edge to his previously benevolent mien.

"You harbor a fascination for my native tongue."

Ah.

Well, it could have been worse. She surmises, he could have went with just tongue and she'd have given Satan reason enough to rise up from the bowels of hell and drag her down with him.

"So what if I do?" she squeaks only because there's very little else to do between Legolas who had gotten to kneeling so close, his all too knowing gaze that had gotten a little too heated and the thumb he retrieved from where it had been on her lip to press against his own.

"*I may have to speak it more often then," he quips, as cocky with his acquiescence as one could get as he gently pried the hands that they only then noticed still remained on his arms. Legolas' fingers easily dwarfed hers, (Y/N) muses as she tries not to get lost in his eyes that too honestly dipped to her lips. What he says next, however, shoves each and every last one of her efforts down the drain,

"I adore you, *melethel." he professes, the hands that squeezed her own as affectionate as the words that flitted past his lips, "*As I do the stars that lit up my world and yours."

There was no flowery prose nor lines upon line of elaborate paragraphs on expensive scented paper, no grand gesture nor grandiose bouquets or boxes of chocolates- nothing but an immortal's words and the knowledge that he is descended from the Moriquendi, the Dark Elves- those who had lingered in Middle Earth and survived its darkness,

-those for whom the light of the stars are the brightest.

All these and a mere recollection, a memory,

"All light is sacred to the Eldar, but the Wood Elves love best the light of the stars.

It is what their immortal eyes first awaken to, what they blearily extend towards.

From the vestiges of nonexistence, through paths ravaged by war.

It is also last that fades as their very lights go dark."

(Y/N) didn't know where she had heard of it, only the first line had ever been in the movies and yet the entirety of it felt familiar- like the very breath she exhales, a constant even if her mind might one day betray her.

I adore you, as I do the stars that lit up my world and yours.

She hopes she'd sooner die than be relieved of Legolas' earnest words. It was a wish she wouldn't dare speak in fear of ruining the enchantment that bloomed between them- from where their noses had touched, their gazes had dallied, and Legolas' eyelashes had fluttered against hers in a manner that oddly resembled nerves, "What plagues you, meleth nîn?" what things could unsettle the Elven Prince were very few and far in between and out of a queer sense of duty, (Y/N) felt compelled to also keep a catalogue of them in her head- these were the ones that stayed on the bedside table of her mind, close enough to reach so that she may lull them to sleep before they even festered, close enough to rouse to see those darling eyes flutter.

Not to mention it was yet again a chance to put into practical use one of her many mindless and lovestruck utterances Legolas may have or may not have heard.

Meleth nîn, my love.

Patrician cheeks colored and (Y/N) immediately knew it was yet another one carried so helpfully by the winds into his ear.

"Ah yes," he began with a quiet murmur as if he's testing the waters as much as he had yet another realization. One of his hands moved up to touch her face and gently brush her tears off with the soft pad of his thumb, gaze still fixated on her lips as he pursed his own and willed himself to look away and into her eyes instead, "May I..." The question hang in the air between them as he looked at her from underneath his lashes.

(Y/N) raised a brow in askance, a mischievous little smirk plastered on her mouth because there was something about Legolas being practically on top of her yet still so damned accommodating that did things to her- things that mostly made her want to rile him up until he just snaps, "May I what?" She drawled in a breathy whisper that made the prince breathe a little heavier and draw closer, a hand reaching out to clutch the edge of the tub beside her head, his eyes clamped shut as if she was tearing right into his chest.

"May I have the honor of..." He continues to struggle,

"The honor of?" she parrots and slips her hand across his face, around his neck to massage his scalp as if to ease his pain. If he hadn't played her dirty previously, it would've been for that purpose alone- but she remembers his teasing arrogance from not too long ago and she takes this as a chance for payback.

His handsome features loosened as if in submission to blissful torture: all relaxed eyelids, slumped shoulders and parted lips before he finally opened his eyes to reveal twin pools of molten sapphires, "May I kiss you, hiril vuin?" He inquires, voice steadier as if now stroking the beast he let lose within him from the battle he had lost- the one who had only previously rammed onto its cage and fought valiantly against its restraints-

-his restraints. Years' worth of grace and virtue embedded into elves from birth and carried on for the rest of their immortal lives-

The elf's sobriety had been notorious for its potency- Canon and Real Legolas both. It would take an actual and merciful god to opt out of poking such a fetching bear on the nose given half the chance to- and (Y/N) is but a flawed mortal ridden with questionable life decisions.

"You know, you never need ask," she tugs on his locks as he had done hers, the answer she receives from him the very same one she had given before-

"Fuck," such a deliriously untethered gasp that begged for a home in her mouth. A home that the Elven Prince had seized as he bridged that aching gap between them, both of his hands settling to cup the underside of her jaw as he molded their mouths perfectly together- the sheer force of him a wave that pressed her back flush against the basin and had tipped her head back, his blond locks cold and damp against her skin like sprays of seawater that intensified the chill of his palm that then found the base of her skull and his other arm that then wound around her waist.

This was the very vision that had haunted her since that first night with the overflowing tub, the one that only festered with time spent with him in the same space- washing, braiding, and drying each others' hair; retrieving forgotten towels or toiletry; his presence on her bed after the affirmation that he may rest there on what few occasions he felt inclined enough to sleep; the gorgeous half-smiles and kittenish grins, the witty retorts and the foolishly endearing questions as he drifted about and handled every single thing in her household with extreme care and caution after once razing them to the ground; his long and nimble fingers that leafed through the pages of a book outlined so exquisitely by the setting sun that bled in rays of soft yet vivid oranges and reds through the window and directly unto his rocking chair as if it were placed there for that purpose alone- in emphasis of his already empyreal Elvish grace.

In all those moments, her yearning to touch him as a devoted artist would a perfectly sculpted piece burned far too much that her only chance at salvation had lied underneath the biting cold of a shower. Still, even that would not last long because her tub was just within sight and his toned physique was once again wrapped precariously by the dreaded curtain that then hung limp and harmless and empty beside her. Empty as the entire bathroom that closed her off from the rest of the world, empty and yet still so full of sacrilegious imaginations that would arch her back, part her lips and make unrepenting sinners of her hands.

Sinners that were apparently made from the exact same cloth as the dexterous fingers of a master archer.

The master archer who now had in the palms of his hands the bare skin of her back from underneath her clothes- wispy ice to her lurid fire; fingers trailing up her spine as if the string to her arching body that is, under his possession, now his bow. A bow that is so lovingly strung it was as if he meant to let loose his arrows straight into her heart.

As if every bolt knocked to fly were the breaths he stole from her mouth and into his, his targets the expanse of her neck and her ear- not quite touching, just the barest skim of teeth upon skin-

Somehow that was even worse. Worse in its austerity -its celibacy- she sees this guarded side of him on the daily, in the light of day; what she wants is what lurks underneath in the dead of night when no one is watching, more than a glimpse of that creature that was bound by his courtesy- the one that was only ever touched by the light of the stars, that part of him that no one had ever seen before-

"Am I not your stars, Legolas?" (Y/N) pants amorously in what short window there had been when his mouth was instead occupied by her jaw, arms around his broad shoulders, a hand threading through flaxen strands to bring him closer, to coax him to bite-

He momentarily rises to meet her gaze, forehead to forehead, a heat settling in his eyes as he took her in- the capture he had made of her-

-this was what she wanted more of. What she was being deprived of as Legolas instead took to inquiring, confusion already dousing flames that were barely even lighted, "You are- why must you-"

If he would not, then she would be the one to bathe them both in gasoline, "Then why are you holding back?"

"I fear what I might become," even in his faltering he acquiesces to the hand that pulled him into her, words outlined by his lips on the junction where her jaw met her neck, "-hiril vuin." he grounds the title out with a raw voice, breath as quick and hot as the ardor he had sent straight to her core.

She should've known better. Should've known that in playing with the flames between them, she would likely burn first before it even touched the elf above her.

The unfurling of her legs was enough of a testament to her damnation as it was, the yielding of her body already a mere excess, "I don't. I'll take all of you. Let me shine on you." (Y/N) urges, gracelessly turning her head to the side with what feeble strength she could muster if only to see his face- how he would react to her all but offering herself to him like this.

What meets her then were not the eyes of a marksman that has aimed to kill, not sharp or focused, no, it was even farther away from being human-

-closest to it were those of a hunter, a predator with every intent to devour a prey.

The Legolas that rose to look directly down at her prone and spread form beneath him was profoundly different from the one that had only previously lain cradled against her chest, "With what I would give," his head dips back, both mouth and words a sweltering climb up the length of her throat, "-you would shine brightest." he swears his most lecherous oath into her ear and it took knotting every last one of her nerves not to come undone then and there.

It proved a near insurmountable task in the face of his hands that made their languid trek down her hips, of his fingers that skimmed over and gripped around her inner thighs to spread her legs and of his body that pressed flush against hers with the prominent beginnings of his promise.

A rather auspicious one that (Y/N) believed only warranted the garish moan and the grappling of legs that had slipped past her already shoddy defenses. It was a needy gesture she would dread and regret later, yet it was also one that Legolas found much amusement and encouragement in.

To her it seemed a fair trade, one made even sweeter by the onset of his leisurely grind against her crotch, "*Eager are we?" he chuckles, deep and provocative as he braced a hand on the tub to one side of her head and trailed his other to caress the underside of her jaw and then the curve of her neck down the front of her torso. His gaze was hooded as he appraised what she made of the free rein he had granted her to buck her hips in answer to his.

It was a golden ticket (Y/N) all too willingly abused in earnest with no small amount of amorous pants and tipping her head back as Legolas' wandering hand bunched her shirt to her chest, cupping what small amount of skin and flesh was exposed of her breast, his thumb barely grazing her hardened nub through the chafing fabric.

"Take it off," she demanded, quite at odds with the desperate clinging her arms had gotten to doing around the elf's shoulder blades and the weak whisper she barely even managed through the heat that consumed her body.

Legolas briefly foregoes sucking at the spot between her collarbone in exchange for nuzzling a sultry path with his nose to her ear, the weight of his hand on her chest now settling to press on her bare stomach, "I would much rather you do it yourself, *idril. Make a spectacle of it." he imparts a hint of the Elven Prince that lived within him, sensuously authoritative and particular with his own wants.

If this is the version of him she gets for degenerate behavior then consider her dignity and resolve sold, "If you say it with that face and in that tone of voice..." her fingers slide off the length of one toned arm to twine strands of blond and bring them to her lips, "-tell me to take just my shirt off and everything comes off." she meets his smoldering stare from underneath her lashes as she kissed his locks reverently. Her efforts were rewarded by a cheeky smile and an approving peck as he drew back to allow her the space she needed to follow through,

"*Le fael, melethel. An ngell nîn no." His Elvish praise was not unlike a siren's call or a raunchy song that spurred her into a strip tease. If he wants a show then she'll give him one, she's inclined enough to set him ablaze as he had done her, let this be a memory he would learn to touch himself to.

Sitting up, (Y/N) places both of her hands against one sturdy chest to shove Legolas onto the floor, a movement that the elf graciously caught on with his keen senses and managed to brace himself against by an elbow on either side so that he instead leaned back before she even dropped down to straddle him.

"*You would have to be faster than that if you wish to outmaneuver me, maidh." he croons breezily even as he now laid to be the one looking up at her, still domineering despite the apparent shift in their positions.

She could change that, "You talk too much." she growled and all but forcefully sat on him and bit down on his Adam's apple, no small amounts of peeved and indignant even as she gracelessly fumbled with the drawstring of his pants- a strip tease long forgotten, that could be done for another day when the elf wasn't starting to grow a little too cocky. A little too deserving of being put down a peg or two.

Much to her chagrin, he takes even this in stride and laughs albeit breathlessly and very obviously pained, "Just previous you seemed to enjoy the sound of my voice." he puts emphasis on the word by trailing a hand up her thigh -cold and tentative on her heated flesh- and around her hip before settling on her lower back, thumbing the sensitive dip directly at the bottom of her spine to drag a whine he somehow already expected she would make, "Let me amend that-" he tips his head to the side in subtle appraisal and hums in faux-pondering belied by his growing satisfaction, "*-not just my voice, it would seem."

Of course he would catalogue that kink of hers and use it against her- sometimes she's inclined to think the movies got even the supposedly sage frame of mind so dreadfully wrong. You won't ever see a monk use someone's deviation for such an underhanded means as this.

"Fuck you," (Y/N) fumes despite the eagerness that pooled in her core at the prince's erotic jabs- both figurative and not. It was a hunger she was most pleased to notice had gone both ways at least as she pressed against him -mouth and body- and was met by Legolas breathlessly straining beneath her- the length of him impressive and firm and all too responsive.

Still, he insisted on playing his game.

A blond brow arched in overly pretentious shock even as baby blue eyes darkened from where they were fixed on her lips after they parted, "*Such foul mouth you have there, idril." he chastises half-heartedly, fingers lazily toying with the same spot on her back that sent shivers up her spine before using his other hand to push himself up with feline grace to press honeyed words sweetly against her lips, "We are getting there, are we not?" Legolas' lingering smile equally as saccharine as his fingers left the floor to trail a path down her exposed abdomen and the waistband of her shorts before settling on that wanton space where their needs aligned and (Y/N)'s arousal sat like a sopping duck, "Fuck me indeed." the laughter he looses tinkled rich with delight and approval.

Maybe she came a little then, maybe it had been a good thing because as the elf had said they were getting there, at least before he began entertaining such a needlessly distressing thought no one would have usually bothered with then, of all times, "Of how many years is the appropriate mating age for the mortals of your realm?" he inquires in all manner of seriousness, that infuriating dimple back between his brows, eyes squinted and hands paused on the very places they really ought not to be on if he were to so boldly pursue the specific line of questioning he so crudely dropped onto the table.

At least only if he would prove to be as much of a pain in the ass to crash straight into the consideration of the gap between their ages. In which case she would argue that it made very little sense, that it was unfair even, if they would pit what meager years her mortal existence could stretch on against the vastness of his immortality-

Unfair and just downright depressing. She could already feel more than just her libido shrivel at the thought, most especially upon taking into account the likelihood of such a rumination happening due to Legolas' killer streak as a destructive greenhorn whose tendencies already proved to extend even to sex.

(Y/N) would not dare be a fool enough to put this entirely beyond him if only to save herself from future disappointment.

It was a sobering enough thought that it retracted her hands from where they had been on the elf, Legolas following suit with his own limbs albeit in cautious confusion. Sitting back on her heels, she settled on pulling her jumper back down to cover her exposed torso and doing the same for Legolas before crossing her legs underneath her, already gearing herself for yet another talk about the Modern World's birds and bees.

If she took a generous amount of time to gather her bearings after the initial shock brought by the ice cold bucket the elf had all but hurled straight to her face- along with the complimentary depression she never asked for, (Y/N) figured she might as well allow herself the privilege to because there is certainly no getting anywhere now with the plug that he pulled. Perhaps not even anytime soon, she thinks in despondent resignation, or ever.

Not when their usual segment of a wholesome talk already took enough time as it is, not when by all rights Legolas is a thousand and no small amount of hundreds years older than she is.

(Y/N) sighs, a bit too worn on the inside, as if what interlude there had been from then and now had made wet blankets of her guts. It didn't help that their current setup of sitting a respectable distance across each other was too reminiscent of a system restart, not when only previously they were a mess of tangled limbs that held warmth, promise and passion.

"The legal age of consent is 16, for some it's 17 or 18- it usually varies where you find yourself in." she recites factually, perhaps a bit too lackadaisical because Legolas spares her a look of concern- she couldn't find it in her to plaster on a reassuring smile just yet, not when she was still actively begging the heavens for a few more minutes to grieve her torched erotic dreams, "But that isn't to say that there are those who hadn't had sex until then. Some do, quite earlier than others- usually with people around their same age group, often exploratory or driven by curiosity or attraction, occasionally out of love or what they perceive to be as love at such an age." she shrugs indifferently as if she mostly relayed second hand accounts,

"Point is, you'd hardly come by virgins in University. They're already rare enough between then and Senior High and not everyone is 16, 17, or even 18 yet." Maybe it wasn't even the information Legolas had been actively spearing for, maybe it was a little on the nose, but her hots for the elf was a lumbering zombie that refused to lay so she goes on, "Of course even that would depend on a person or even an entire place's culture or their religion, there's a lot of considerations to be made under those grounds- it's a headache, really," she leans back on her hands before piping up, "-but there's also the easier alternative that's somehow for some reason even harder still for people to have a gander at," the sardonic tone she finishes in was entirely genuine, the roll of her eyes barely prevented.

Legolas only raises a curious brow at this, still (Y/N) already knew to trust how hungrily he consumes every ounce of information that was fed to him, "And that is?"

"A person's stand on things." She tries to quell the pointedness she knew would be there when she met the elf's pale blue gaze, "Respect that and you're one step closer to not being too much of a scum of the earth." she finishes simply because it really is just that. No elaborate words or quoting some book or pretending to be a goddamn wizard who knew the singular way by which the world is supposed to work.

(Y/N) was rather proud of herself for her little spiel, all things considered, Legolas seemingly in on the sentiment as he nodded his head in agreement.

Of course it wouldn't be him if he would just let it settle on that, "And what is your...stand in these affairs?" he tips his head in genial inquiry, straight bodied and regal even from where he sat cross-legged on the floor, his hands clasped on top of his overlapping ankles.

He seemed a little too formal that she inwardly bristled, already apprehensive at the vagueness of his question, "I'm afraid you'd have to be more specific."

"Virginity." The elf said the word so simply it bore no outline to draw either a verbal or even an emotional response from, so intrinsically bare (Y/N) found all the space she needed to mount her defensive bricks on.

Of course he was bound to pick the freshest scab to prod. Although she was not entirely sure if it had something to do with his modest Elvish heritage or just his pure damned luck at pressing her buttons, still, her button is pressed and it was the big red one she would usually advise against but had never gotten to putting underneath a case,

"Look, for me it isn't entirely at all too important and I'd leave it at that if only to give space to respect what belief you might have on the subject. If it's important to you then fine, we could pretend earlier never happened and I would keep my hands to myself." she tries not to choke on her disgustingly pretentious play at apathy when her insides are already clearly starting to claw at her. Pulling her knees to her chest, she locks it in with her intertwined hands as if it would keep her guts from spilling out as she continued, "I wouldn't dare taint your virtue, if you're worried about that, and," she falters and condemns her luck and what stupidity had possessed her to put all her eggs in the basket of loving an elf- fairest and pure of all beings as they are.

As if she hadn't already known how deeply they love, how serious they are with their relationships, how they don't dabble on the same depravity as mortals do, how to the elves what is mere pleasure for men is the very bond they will share with but a single soul for the rest of their immortal lives- one rooted only out of the intention to lay proof of their love, to breathe new life onto the earth.

Even with the intensity of which she uttered, "Shit, this was a mistake." and clutched her temples in between her thumb and forefinger, (Y/N) still hadn't felt it an accurate enough portrayal of her utter emotional turmoil.

"Melethel," Legolas says the name with the same feathery profession as he had before, soothing and growing ever closer until she was certain he knelt in front her, again,

She was no longer entirely sure if his closeness was still something she would wish upon herself, not with the knowledge of their profound differences she knew all too well could easily drive him away. (Y/N) figures she may as well rip the bandage off this wound herself before it even had the chance to fester, "I'm no longer a virgin if that was what you were meaning to ask." and she didn't know why but she was hiding her face and then she feels a dampness on her knees and oh,

She was again that naïve little girl once upon a time, little (Y/N) who believed in fairytales and so desperately yearned for her own happily ever after. A maiden who gave everything she had to a knight whom she thought would love her forever. Only he hadn't been the man she thought he would be, not one who would protect her from the world, not even one who would stay by her side- all he had been was a rook sat atop a steed only tall enough to pass off as grand without ever truly being, as was its owner. A prideful man driven by ego who only lived off of taking- a mere half a man as were the others that followed.

To think that even after leaving they cemented the shambles they made of her life- that even long after they were gone they still damned her future to this day-

That even after taking her heart and mercilessly crushing it within the palms of their hands they still held all her chances at love as hostage-

With them they brought a darkness she had taught herself to be well-acquainted with, she sees their faces and recognizes them to be the ones with the jaws and the claws and the hunger that flourished under the break of dawn Legolas' arrival had brought in its wake.

Legolas with his tender hand on her cheek as he coaxed her to meet his gaze- his other supporting him from where it lay palm-first on the ground at her side; Legolas with his mane of flaxen morning light that flowed as he tipped his head beseechingly towards her, eyes of a most serene blue a sanctuary in and of itself; Legolas with his lips of foxy genteel that crooned and lulled her demons to sleep,

"*As you are now, êl nín, you are brightest. Forged by the journey you took, the wounds you bear and the scars that remained," his lips a cold press to the searing heat in and on her eyes, a succor to her aching heart, "*Even in darkness," his kiss was a promise etched onto the forefront of her mind, shining ever brighter still, "*Even in turmoil," his arms a shelter that enfolded her tenderly, a sturdy fort whose strength would withstand any storm, "*Gi melin."

Falling into him, (Y/N) thinks that perhaps this was why her romance with false knights ended in such tragedies,

for what better part could they play in the face of an actual prince? What candle could the mere desire of any mortal man dare hold to the adoration of an elf?

What promise of forever could outlast one made by a perpetual heart?

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[ FIN. End of Chapter 1, Part 2 ]

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Chapter Index:

*idril - S. feminine name. Idril translated as "beloved" in the Gnomish Lexicon, also may be translated as Idhril as in "mortal maiden".

*Gellon ned i galar i chent lîn ned i gladhol. - S. Literal: I delight when your [reverential] eyes shine when you [reverential] laugh

*Guren *glassui. Agoreg vae, hiril vuin - S. Literal: My heart is glad. You [familiar] did well, beloved lady.

*I know very little Elvish so what phrases I cannot directly find wherever would instead be italicized and marked with '*' to indicate Elvish.

*melethel - S. Noun: "darling, sweetheart”

*Le fael, melethel. An ngell nîn no. - S. Literal: You are generous, sweetheart. For my joy, make it so. (A/N: honestly just classically seasoned, Legolas flavored: That's my girl.)

*êl nín - S. Literal: my star

*Gi melin - S. Literal: I love you [familiar].

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Taglist: @siriuslydestiny, @elysianluv

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