#levs writes

(Okay first of all there are some edits in this image that are not mine, but I cannot find the credits. If anyone has them, lmk and I shall add.) I have a new Elronduil fic to offer though! Thank you so, so much to @hakunahistata, and @melians-griddle for the beta work, and @logicalhighly for the beta and tips on sword fighting ILY so much. Thanks also to @seaemberthesecond for cheering me on so enthusiastically!! . . . Thranduil is back in Imladris at last—his second home—and reunited with the one he loves. Well, nearly reunited. If Elrond has not finished with his tactical drills and weapons practice by the time Thranduil makes his way to the parade grounds, it’s very likely the Lord of the Hidden Valley shall find himself bodily removed and hauled to his chambers—the entire host of the Dúnedain and Noldorin army as his reluctant witnesses if need be.

Rules: Post the last line you wrote and tag as many people as there are words (or as many as you want) I was tagged by @starshadeemilyart and @gaydhros thanks you guys! Have a line from [redacted] for the pairing [redacted]

He feels a spike of arousal in his gut, the inevitable response of his physical body to the notion that he is going to be touched by a hand not his own. But it is more than that; it is her. It is the act of baring himself to her so vulnerably, sharing in such an intimate and illicit closeness that she is asking from him, and him alone. It is absurd, he should not want this, he has never craved the touch of an elleth in all his long years, never mind that of his daughter.

“There was a line for the loo, you ought to have started without me, these look absolutely divine.”

“Encouraging me to eat desserts without you angel? You’re unhinged.” .

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Levs actually posting a wip snippet on a Wednesday? Stranger things have happened!

Thank you for the most recent tag, @gaiaseyes451 and for past tags @gaydhros and @balrogballs I haven't forgotten, but life has finally allowed me some breathing space!

Have this little letter from Elrond to Celebrian. They have just begun courting here.

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My dearest Celebrían,

This letter is brought to you by Maecheneb, our newest pigeon, rather than in the hands of any gossip-hungry relatives. And though he understands Quenya, he can’t read a word of Tengwar, so I am free to admit to you just how ardently I desire to take your chilly fingers in my own… even into my mouth so that I might suck the cold away, discovering to my delight the lingering taste of those butter candies you favour upon each pad. I would kiss the frost from your nose and ears, and then I would press my lips to yours, and kiss such warmth against them that the very air around us should turn to heat and steam with it. Though I admit, In committing myself to willing circulation into your extremities, mine shall surely flee from my own in favour of rallying other places. How is that for a distraction?

You may tell your mother that pigeons are no good for delivering anything heavier than a small scroll, but that a second pair of gloves shall be delivered to her with the soonest courier and arrive well in advance of the next winter. And yes, to answer the question I can hear you asking yourself; it is in my best interest to win the affection of not only the daughter I have grown most endearingly fond of, but her mother as well.

The foundling children are a rowdy bunch; eager to learn of lore and bookish things, but perhaps even more so to learn of weaponry and the ways of battle. For they are sharp and quick and have heard tell among the men of the reason for the muster. They all think themselves legendary knights of the First Age. They make an early father of me, for which I am honoured and grateful, both on account of their affection and for the much-needed practise, in case Eru should will it that someday I might indeed have my own. I think I would quite enjoy that.

While I agree it is bittersweet that our next meeting shall be dogged by marching drums, and pierced through by battle trumpets, I too count the days. I have so much to tell you that a letter cannot do justice to.

Until then, I am thinking back on my memories of us strolling upon the shores of Mirrormere with the sun on our faces. Your hair turned to gold, your fair cheeks kissed bronze and your beautiful laughter brings me a warmth that I revisit in my own cold, dark hours when I am in need of comfort and strength. I send you this warm thought in the hopes it might also bring you some respite until I can hold you once more.

(If ever you use Amroth as a messenger again and he persists in his nosiness…ask him how Anárion is faring. Trust me.)

Yours,

Elrond

Tagged by @deckofmanymore and hey! It's actually Wednesday!

I swear I am still writing Alliances, so here is a bit from the next chapter. Ithilwen is my OC Thranduil's wife, and Vaia (Vaialore) is her lady partner.

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“Váia has already promised to write, and I hope you shall do the same.” Ithilwen shoots Thranduil an expectant look, squeezing his arm as they stroll beneath the towering Beeches of Eryn Galen.

“Of course, my lady. I just…” Thranduil trails off, searching for the right words. 

“Just what? Assumed our friendship would sour in the wake of our betrothal?”

Her directness is both discordant and refreshing, like the shock of cold water on the face, but he supposes they can’t go on dancing around it forever.

“Well, yes perhaps. A little.”

A little is an understatement, but telling her he had expected her to rage at him, run him through with an arrow and never speak to him again seems a bit dramatic, even by his standards.

The look on his face must be somewhat telling, for Ithil’s smile broadens before she steps in front of him, planting her hands upon his shoulders and making him pull up short.

“Thranduil, how many times must I reassure you? Long have we been friends. I took my first hart hunting with you. You helped me make garlands for the Tuilë feasts in Doriath, and helped me drum up the courage to offer a flower crown to the lady Lúthien. You taught me the secrets of fletching my arrows with eagle feathers and crafting lighter shafts of Tulipwood. You were the first with whom I felt brave enough to discuss the desires of my heart. I refuse to let things be different between us on account of tiresome politics. And just try calling me my lady again.” Ithil raises an auburn brow at him, her dark eyes sparkling with the sort of playful mischief that used to precede her daring him to pick flowers from Melian’s garden, or fiddle with the tuning pegs of Daeron’s harp or shoving him out of the tree they’d been climbing and into the Long Lake.

The last bit had held true only a handful of weeks ago. Before the announcement.

“Yes, my lady.” Thranduil’s cheeks cramp from the grin that stretches them as Ithil scoffs and smacks his arm. I don't write OCs very often, so I hope y'all like her!

GIF edit cred to @williamtspearsthereaper I am completely normal about this 🫠🫠🫠 New fic, new old fandom! True to form, I’m stumbling onto this well-worn ship a hundred elf years too late, but they tugged me aboard and are holding me prisoner for the time being, so, here you go!

Also, special shoutout to whose fault it is I’m here, @depraveddame. You are a menace and I love you to the moon and back. I hope you have the best day and I will never forgive you for steering the ship my way.

@gaiaseyes451, and @logicalhighly…even if you aren’t enrolled in Middle Earth University yet, bless your beautiful socks for looking this over, and to @hakunahistata, my darling for letting me know if this elven rubbish makes any sense. ILY.

PS despite being a long-time Tolkien nerd, this is my first fic for any pairing in this universe, so there will probably be some timeline headscratching and some horrid abuse of Sindarin (anyone with better translations, do feel free to lmk) but I hope y’all like it anyway!

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The final blessings of colour splash Thranduil’s moon-pale skin with shades of lilac. Streaks of fuchsia illuminate his hair and dusky rose washes over his fine olive-gray silk robes. It’s an intimate and ethereal show of beauty that threatens to steal Elrond’s breath, and effectively puts all other sunsets to shame.

Admittedly, every sunset spent in the company of Thranduil has a habit of putting all the sunsets that came before it to shame. It’s an ongoing problem.

Rules: post the first sentence of your most recent 10 fan fics and tag up to 10 people.

Tagged by @gaiaseyes451, @beerok23, and @hermiola

I was trying to decide if this meant fics of mine, or fics I've read and then decided fuck it! The first 5 lines are from mine, and the last five are from the last 5 fics I've read!

From: Precocious (Thranduil/Arwen) “Ada says you don’t like girls,” Arwen says, blithe and matter-of-fact, as though it’s a perfectly normal statement to layer atop inquiries about Legolas’ latest orc raids and when he might be due in Imladris next, and talk of Elrond’s upcoming begetting day. From: Alliances (Elrond/Thranduil & Elrond/Celebrian)

There is nothing that compares to that first glimpse of the proud mountainside city of Imladris, glinting like a multifaceted gem in shades of pearl-white, ochre, warm tawny, bright green and sparkling blue in the late-morning sunshine.

From: Like Father, Like Son (Elrond/Thranduil & Elladan/Elrohir/Legolas)

“Can it be my turn to steal the host’s attention?” Thranduil murmurs, long torso pressing up against Elrond from behind. The tickle of soft lips and subtle-not-so-subtle graze of teeth along the shell of his ear is the sort of invitation Elrond always finds impossible to refuse.

From: My Neighbor Aber (Fred Rogers/Chuck Aber)

“Well, hello Daniel!”

“Hi Owl X.”

“How are you this evening?”

From: Encore (Aziraphale/Crowley)

“Merci,” Crowley says with a quick smile for their waiter, sitting back and snatching his elbows off the table to make room for his Crêpes Suzette. (Be aware this is an epilogue for Play for Me the Music of Your Heart.)

From: For Reasearch Purposes, Obviously (Elrond/Celebrian by spicy_runawaymum)

Elrond means to find Erestor. Most of the city has already gone silent as its inhabitants turn to quieter activities as the sun sets. There is a letter that he needs to write, but he wants a second opinion. As he heads down the hall in the family wing and passes his own bedroom, his sharp ears pick up the unmistakable light, high-pitched hitch of breath.

From: Something Sleepless in Mirkwood (Elrond/Thranduil by oRocky_417)

“How is the pain?”

“I had never said there was pain.”

 Elrond exchanged a long look in silence with the king, who was seated on the long edge of a divan in the little room.

From: Hunger Inherited (Fingon/Turgon by @gaydhros)

“Slower,” Findekáno whispered. “Take your time.”

From: Equilateral (Thranduil/Oropher/Legolas by Arcane Charisma)

He takes his keys from the hook by the door and looks around for his wallet. As he wanders into the kitchen, rain begins to hammer against the window, and he sighs. Oropher’s bloody wallet is right there on the table, but, as usual, he has no cash and—Thranduil idly counts them—fourteen receipts.

From: Recognition (Feanor/Fingolfin/Finarfin by @antlered-vixen)

The herald’s eyes had e’er been uncomfortable to meet, lying just on that maddening overlap of divine acuity and birdlike emptiness, wherein one could not tell if he knew too much, too little, or perhaps if needing to know at all was a concept foreign to one such as he, whose entire existence was a stern performance of obedience.

I couldn't think of a better cover, so y'all get my Elronduil art from November 🫣 But, Alliances Ch. 2 is up! . . .

“I was under the impression that alliances existed in spite of wars, not necessarily as a result of them. Or am I mistaken in the sourcing of our grain, cloth, cheese, wine, good steel?” Thranduil counters, resigned but determined. The fire and adrenaline of his first fight of the afternoon is apparently going to carry him straight into another. Worse, he can already tell how this one is going to end.

“You know that is not of what I speak. A political ally is a thing of necessity, yes, in war as much as in peace. But it is not the same thing as friendship. There are those, especially among the Noldor who would grasp your hand like a blood brother to your face while holding a dagger to your back with the other. And always they are restless and ambitious, their eyes and ears bent upon a larger prize, no matter the cost. I sense it even now. There are those who would die for you, and those who would take your life in place of their own. You would do well to finally learn the difference.”

“You would do well to not be so bitter and resentful, ada. You have not let anyone within arm’s length of you since nana died. Could it not be that you have simply forgotten what friendship feels like?” 

If his father wishes to pick off the old scabs of history, Thranduil holds no shame in making sure they bleed. Even if it means bleeding a few of his own as well.

Oropher stops abruptly in their circuit of the parade grounds, the furious look he hurls at Thranduil sending a cold shiver up his spine. But there is pain also, frozen in the ice of his gaze; deeply entrenched, ancient and repressed. It tugs at some equally reclusive and painful thing in the depths of Thranduil’s chest despite his frustration.