Oscar Tully paid no heed to the din as it rose and fell around him while he made his way to his tent. He stopped here and there to talk to those who prepared to leave for a battle they undertook on behalf of a group of Tyroshi benefactors and to look upon, once again, the carvings upon the columns and the walls. Some were extraordinarily beautiful, and they made him marvel at the skill and patience that went into the making of them. Others were outlandish and macabre and made his blood run cold at the sight of them, and others still were as lewd as the murals that adorned the Red Keep, if not more so. Oscar regarded them only for a few moments before turning away. Those he had chosen for the fight to come had to depart by noon, and already, the sun was nearing the zenith. He would have only another hour or two to himself at best.

He swiftly crossed to the pavilion that was circled by so many others. It was larger and grander, and wholly befitting the Lord Commander of a company of sellswords who had proven themselves in battle many times over. Its walls were lined with panels of blue and crimson silk, and the arms it depicted were divided down the middle by silver thread. On one side sat the leaping silver trout of House Tully, and on the other side sat the crossed silver lightning bolts of the company he had founded and led after the Dance of the Dragons and the collapse of the Triarchy. A sentry on duty clicked his heels sharply together, stood stiff and straight as a spear, and lifted the flap of the tent, allowing him entry. Oscar greeted him with a brief but courteous nod and stepped inside.

His tent was dimly lit, and the coolness within provided some much-needed relief from the stifling heat of the outside. Oscar relished every moment of it. He would not have such comfort for himself until he returned, and he did not know when that would be.

But that was not the reason why he sought the peace of his pavilion.

“Y/n?” he called, as his gaze drifted across the interior. His raised bed of furs and the rug that lay by the foot of it he saw, and the carpet and cushions and little tables and chairs besides, but not you. “Are you here?”

You did not utter a word as you came away from the shadows. “Here, lord,” you said, putting your hands over his eyes from behind him. Then you listened to the noise outside. They were the all-too-familiar sounds of men preparing to fight. You took your hands away. “You leave soon?”

“I must,” Oscar said, turning to face you. A rare smile graced his lips. “But I shall return to you; I give you my word on this.”

“You bring me gift when you come back?” You asked expectantly. “You must bring me gift. It must be pretty.”

Oscar made a face and walked toward his bed.

“I ride to battle, Y/n,” he groused, “not the great caravans from Qarth and Asshai and Slaver’s Bay. And your demands grow more and more each time I take my leave of you.” He peeled off his gloves, tossed them aside, and sat on the edge of the pelts. “You desire more gifts. You desire more trinkets. More jewels and more baubles and more silks.” He stooped to pull off his boots. They were worn from use and covered in dust; brown specks fell onto the rug when he shook them and set them down by his feet. “When I brought you and freed you and accepted you as my companion, I did not think you would conduct yourself so. It makes you come across as greedy and ungrateful. I like it not.”

“But you say in Westeros, men give gifts,” you returned, both stung and bewildered by the manner of his reply. “You say this is way with knights. They give gifts. They treat women different. You treat me different,” you went on to say, gesturing to him, “because you are knight, and not slave master. You like giving gifts. I see this. Or I am wrong?”

“Indeed, knights are expected to treat women with kindness and courtesy, as I have often said,” Oscar responded, laying down his hands to lean against. “And yes. I enjoy giving you gifts,” he admitted freely, his pale blue eyes never leaving yours. “But there must be limits, Y/n, reasonable ones, even for the Lord Commander of a free company. There are dangers also, when a man is seen to be too generous by those who follow him. The men who follow me hear me heeding your requests, and they see me indulging you. They say things. They think I indulge you more than I ought to. Some of them already think me weak and easily swayed by you. I will not have the others call me weak,” he declared, his pride stiffening his voice. Yet there was a strange undercurrent that you could not quite place, something that betrayed an aspect other than his lordly pride. It was as if he were troubled. “I will not have them think you have some power over me. Such talk bodes ill for us both. It could lead to unrest, and perhaps it would end with my head rotting on a spike and you being passed from man to man. I will not have that.”

You tilted your head to the side, puzzled. Oscar’s tone was uncommonly grave, and his speech, at certain parts, hinted at dire implications, yet you did not understand what they were. Your grasp of the common tongue was still somewhat poor, and he spoke a tad too quickly.

“What are these words?” You enquired. “I do not understand some of them. You speak fast.”

Oscar took a moment or two to gather himself and explain, for his knowledge of the Valyrian tongue of Tyrosh was still as imperfect as your knowledge of the common tongue. Nevertheless, he managed with the words that he knew, and by the time he was finished, your eyes widened in fear when the true meaning of what he said and the troubled feelings you perceived before became plain.

“I do not want that,” you blurted, frightened by what his words revealed. “I do not want you to die. I do not want to be… how you say… passed… from man… to man. Not all are kind. I see this also.”

“It is good that you see this,” Oscar agreed solemnly. He extended his hand to you. “Now come to me. I long to feel your body against mine.”

“I must be quick?”

“Yes, I fear. I must be ready to leave when they sound the horn.” Oscar sighed. “More’s the pity. I enjoy our time spent abed.”

You went to him, your smile just as wicked as the one you received. Oscar took your hand into his and groaned softly when you joined him on the edge of the bed and straddled his lap. His kisses came not long after. They were rough, hungry, and unrelenting, as were the hands that glided around your sides and up your back. Fingers dug into the soft linen of your shift, frantically ripping at it even as your arms wrapped around broad, padded shoulders. Cool air soon danced over your exposed skin, making you shiver.

“Will you think of me while I am away?” Oscar husked, after he withdrew long enough to speak. “Or will you think of only the gift you expect me to offer you?”

He was only teasing; it was evident in the mischievous glint in his eyes. “I think of you always,” you told him. Suddenly, he dipped his head and ran the flat of his tongue over your throat before nipping at it with his teeth. The heat that followed in its wake ignited a passion that you only ever experienced while in his embrace. It was potent enough to make you moan loudly and without shame. “I think of you when we are… together. I think of you when you leave. It… I… what are words for—"

You stopped to speak aloud several Valyrian words in the Tyroshi dialect. Oscar understood them with no difficulty. He smiled with genuine warmth and pleasure.

“You long for me while I am away,” he whispered. “You pray for my safe return. It pleases me beyond measure to hear you say such things.” Then he renewed his embrace and said, “Come kiss me, my sweet. Give me something delectable to think of while I am away.”

You did as he bid and leaned in to kiss him. Your kisses were long and fervent, and they were returned with the same feeling in which they were given. Oscar could not tarry, no matter how much he yearned to do so. He pushed up the hem of your shift and slipped his hand beneath the frail silk of your smallclothes. When he yanked at them and tore them apart, his own body stirred in response.

“Come here,” he growled, before seeking your lips. 

A wildness seeped in with his kiss. It was a wildness that urged to take, and take, and take. Oscar held onto you and kept you steady while your hands slid down between him and you. They fumbled with the clasps of his tunic, the buckle of his belt, and the fastenings of his breeches. Still, they accomplished their tasks quickly enough, and soon, a cry of pleasure spilt free when cotton and leather loosened, and you reached around them to palm his cock.

“Yes,” he encouraged, as you began to stroke. “There. Just there. Just like that.”

It was not enough. And, as Oscar himself said, there was not enough time. You pushed him onto his back, startling him, then moved to guide him inside of you.

It all felt good, despite the haste that was needed. Oscar grabbed onto your hips, his nails digging into your flesh, as you undulated them and drove him closer and closer to your release. Your release neared also, a heady and powerful thing that seemed to rush like a mighty wave. You did not want to escape it. Instead, you rushed headlong toward it, eager to welcome it with willing arms.

Oscar was not idle, either. He reached up to caress your breasts, then sighed almost with gratitude when you placed your hands over his to keep them in place. His touch began gently at first, then insistent, and it all sent trails of fire surging down your back. You could not think, much less breathe. All you could do was feel the wave that rose within you and crashed as your body trembled and trembled, and your orgasm overcame you. But it was not yet over. You still rocked your hips, more erratically now, until Oscar trembled as well and called out your name while he came. He held onto you when your body gave out and you fell against him, weary and shaking. He neither moved nor spoke until your breathing returned to a more even keel and went still.

Later, after the need to prepare overcame him, Oscar arose, for dark and dreadful duties lay ahead, and he had to face them. You rose to help him. It was a habit you had come to enjoy, helping him into his raiment and his armour. Oscar had fine armour, the kind that was only ever forged for high-born lords with plenty of coin to spend. It was gray plate edged in crimson and blue, the colours of his house, and the crossed lightning bolts of the Stormbreakers adorned the breastplate.

“It is not complete,” you told him. “Wait.”

Oscar watched you pad over to the cedar chest you used to store your clothes, his curiosity piqued. “What do you have in store for me?”

“Wait. Close your eyes."

Oscar grinned. He did as you asked, anticipation coursing thick through his veins. He listened to the clink of a key being turned in its lock, cloth rustling, and then, a faint thump. And he remained where he was, his eyes closed all the while. His ears pricked at the muffled sound of your bare feet against richly worked wool, and goosebumps prickled all over his limbs when you secured something around his left arm.

"What is this?" He asked, when he finally opened his eyes and looked down. There, wound tightly around his rerebrace, was a wide strip of ribbon in blue and crimson. Leaping trout and crossed bolts of lightning were picked out here and there with silver thread.

"I make this," you explained, pleased with your efforts. Whenever Oscar was away, you took to your needle and scissors and thread, and the fruit of your labours now decorated the steel he wore to shield his person. "You say women make gifts for men. I make gift. It is good?"

Oscar studied the ribbon intently. The needlework was exquisite, and it was splendid to behold. He was touched by the gesture.

"I will treasure this," he swore. "I will keep it safe." A horn rang throughout the camp. The time had come for those ready to fight to depart. "And now I must leave."

"Come back well," you said. Then you pressed a kiss to the side of his helm. And uttered two words in the manner in which he told you.

God Speed.

You hastened to obey and crossed to his side, a gilded pitcher in your hand. “Another full measure, my lord?”

“Indeed,” Elrond said. He did not turn to look at you while you served him. “Tis a most wondrous night,” he murmured, looking out into the world beyond the window. “A ride through the forest may be in order for later.”

It was indeed a wondrous night, just as Elrond said it was. The valley stretched out in every direction, the leaves of its trees rustling like hushed whispers in the wind. The sky was a blue so dark it was almost black. And it was clear—a waning moon gleamed weakly in its station in the heavens, and not a cloud was to be seen. Then there were the stars themselves. They were brighter than they had ever been, covering the trees and hills beneath them in pale, white light. It was as if Elbereth, their maker, had been in a fine mood, and it showed in the brilliance of her creation.

“It is a fine night for such a thing, my lord,” you said, bowing your head and moving two paces to his left. It was what he instructed you to do while serving him. There would be other acts of service as well, he had said, but what those would be, he did not say. “Should I send word to the stables once you decide to depart?”

“You may do so,” Elrond returned, though not ungently. He drank deep and made himself more at ease in his seat. It was unadorned but very well made—a gift from Lothlórien, and carved from the silver-grey wood of a Mallorn tree. “And you may join me,” he continued, “if you please me well, that is. Now, take this away, y/n, and set it down with the others. I have had my fill of wine.”

“Of course.” You divested him of his cup and drifted to the other end of the room. “And it would be an honor, my lord, to accompany you and see the forest at night,” you told him, putting down what you held on a round table made of polished wood. It was full of many delicacies, all of them neatly arrayed in clear crystal bowls: delectable wild berries from the forest, little pastries and tarts from Rivendell’s kitchen, and the strange but fragrant dainties Gandalf had brought with him the last time he called on the Lord of Imladris. The sight and smell of them was tantalizing and made your mouth water. “Pray what must I do now?”

“Please me how I desire best,” Elrond expressed, leaning into his seat. His eyes twinkled with anticipation. “I trust I no longer have to guide you in this?”

A welcomed flash of heat crept up your throat. This was what Elrond meant when he spoke of other acts of service. You did not need to ask an explanation on what he sought, for no further explanation was necessary. You knew all too well what was expected of you.

“You do not, my lord,” you replied, turning to go back to him. The floor was smooth and cool against your bare feet. It was another duty he asked of you. You were to be barefoot while you attended him during the hours he was alone with you, the way a thrall would when they served their master. “I will do as you command.”

When you reached him, you moved to stand between his spread legs. Elrond said not a word after that. He merely watched, his grey eyes like molten silver, as you reached down for the hem of your dress—a simple thing of deep brown—and pulled it over your head. Goosebumps prickled over your limbs when you tossed it to the floor without ceremony and stood in nothing but your smallclothes.

“Does this please you, my lord?” You asked, your lips curling up at the corners. Elrond looked at you like he wished to devour you.

“Very much so,” Elrond husked. He remained seated, but his gaze never left yours. “Continue, y/n.”

You nodded and made quick work of the studs going down his tunic. They each took the shape of a star, and they were still warm to the touch. Elrond kept perfectly still while you went about your task. And it was impossible not to feel how his chest rose and fell with each breath he took, and the strength that lay beneath layers of velvet and silk that parted and revealed an unblemished torso with its smooth, supple skin. Nevertheless, you carried on—resisting your urge to linger and touch each dip and curve—and dropped to your knees to loosen the heavy sash that circled his waist. It slipped off of him without a sound, leaving him exposed from belly to throat. Elrond finally stirred. He leaned forward and cupped your chin, lifting it so you would look at him.

“Do this next deed well, y/n,” he whispered, “and you will find yourself well rewarded.”

The smile that graced his lips when you swore to do your best was a sinful and bewitching one. You moved your hands to the clasps of his breeches, unfastening them one by one until you had undone enough to take his erection to hand and free it from the confines of his raiment. Elrond moaned softly and closed his eyes. He slumped into his seat, his head thrown back, his hair cascading over his shoulders like a dark waterfall, when you ran the flat of your tongue up his shaft.

You began slowly, and in the ways he enjoyed most. You kissed the tip, swirled your tongue over it after that, and stroked with your hand. You repeated each act, again and again, until his breath grew sharp and ragged, a visible sign of his growing arousal. Then you dipped your head and swallowed his cock.

Elrond gasped each time you took him as far into your mouth as you could manage, all while uttering words in an ancient language you did not know. There was tenderness in them, that you could not deny, and warmth. They also inflamed the senses, just like his touch heated your blood when his hand glided down your cheek.

“You are most dutiful,” he breathed, “and always eager to please. Pray do not stop. I am so very close.”

You heeded him and used your hands and lips together, nearly gagging when Elrond cradled your head and gently pushed it down on his length. It took him over the precipice and he shuddered, with spurt after spurt of his spend spilling into your mouth. Then it stopped, and the room grew quiet. Elrond took a deep breath, and brushed his hand down your hair while you took in the bitterness of his seed. And he was far from finished. When you drew away, he clutched your arms, pulled you back up, and kissed you deeply, his teeth grazing your lips in his frenzy to savor all what he found clinging to them.

“I can taste myself on your lips and on your tongue,” he cooed, drawing you onto his lap and pushing your legs apart until you were straddling his hips. “And I believe the time has come for a reward. Kiss me now and give yourself to me. Yes,” he grunted, when you kissed his ear and ran your thumb back and forth over his nipple until it stiffened, “like that.”

He slid his hand down your belly and underneath your smallclothes while you kissed and kissed. After he tore them away, he cupped you between your thighs and groaned when he found you wet. He took his time, sliding his fingers over your folds and proceeding to stroke gently. And it was exhilarating. You ground your hips, rhythmically at first and then erratically, as he gradually increased the pressure he used. Then he slipped a finger in, and another, and began to thrust. You threw your arms around his neck, your fingers digging desperately into his flesh, as fiery and overpowering flashes of pleasure tore up your back. It was too much. A flood of pure sensations surged through your veins, the likes of which you had never experienced before. They made you feel like you were drowning. Then you let go, moaning long and deep and throaty, as you came. Elrond trembled beneath you, and whimpered as you poured onto his hand. He still held you, speaking soft words of praise while you fell against him, shivering.

Nothing could be heard save for the fluttering of sheer drapes as they lifted and fell in the breeze. Elrond stayed where he was, unwilling to move while you rested. At length, he said, “Are you well, my sweet?”

“I am,” you said, tucking your head beneath his chin. The flood that had pulsed through you ebbed away, and a comfortable sense of indolence poured in as you settled in Elrond’s tender embrace. “Can we stay like this for a little while before we leave for the forest?”

“Of course. Our ride through the forest can wait.”

There was a saying around the school - only the accountings get the accountings. While all the students from the other majors were out partying and dancing until their heels hurt from jumping, the accountings were stuck memorizing business terms and calculating debits and credits until their fingers hurt from routinely tapping their calculators. It was a figurative hell on earth.

And you have always been fond of burning.

It was seldom to see you attend a party, but miraculously your schedule cleared up and there weren't any quizzes or lectures in the vicinity. "Are you already missing the comforts of Harvard?" your father teases and you crack a smile. "God, don't remind me of studying." You groaned while slumping on the leather couch.

You've almost forgotten about the comforts of your childhood home after being surrounded by flashing white lights and empty cans of redbull, comfort wasn't exactly in your vocabulary. "I'm just saying; you ditched school to attend the neighborhood gathering and you are cooped up in this humid living room, avoiding everyone who wants to talk to you." He emphasizes, encouraging you to come out.

"Please, those people saw me grow up. I hardly think that I'm missing out." You reasoned, returning your attention back to your cellphone. "- all they ever talk about is me getting married, or at least having a boyfriend." You added while scrolling past a TikTok video about some random guy bashing Crumbl cookies.

The people in your parent's close circle were typical upper-echelon folks whose only means of communicating with some 20+ year old is asking them about marriage. Of course, your usual reply would be that you are not seeing anyone and they'd blink at you like fucking reptiles. They can't fathom the idea that a young, intelligent and relatively good-looking (not ugly) woman still didn't have a husband.

It did make you happy that they found you interesting enough to have a husband but it was infuriating that being married was the only thing they cared about you. They belonged to a different time, you tell yourself before your mind drifts back into TikTok.

"We have a new neighbor, he's a good fellow but he's a little too young for our crowd. I don't think that he's old enough to relate to Geert's Hoover Deluxe jokes. You should talk to him, you've always had magic with your words." He encourages, and a sigh escapes your mouth. "Dad, I'm not talking to one of your golf buddies." You groaned. Maybe it was a mistake coming here.

You still needed to study for the licensure test, that test was something that you could not fail. It was the first step to your CPA to Lawyer plot-line, if you are unable to handle the pressure of the licensure exam then maybe you aren't equipped with Law School. Then, maybe you should just drop out and become a stay-at-home daughter like your other friend, Magnolia.

"He's a lawyer. He handled that case that you were fixated on, the one with the ballerina and her father. Of course, he defended the ballerina." He did his best to remember your teenage ramblings about Oonagh, the ballerina, and her treacherous ex-husband, Gilbert. "What?" You pry your attention away from your mobile phone. Johnson v Johnson was the court case that began your fascination with law, and the guy who defended Oonagh Johnson was in the same house as you! Goddamn.

Thranduil wanted to let the ground consume him whole. He's spent a lot of time with businessmen and world-leaders alike but BBQ with his neighbors was a different type of embarrassment. He couldn't relate to them in matters of American life or farming, and he honestly doesn't know enough about the outsourcing industry to make a decent connection with these folks.

Of course, he could relate to their wives about perfume, but he doesn't want to be that cunt who talks to random people's wives. He seriously wanted to go home, but then he sees a figure in his periphery. A woman with amazing hair, walking towards him and suddenly everything was happening in slow motion.

She takes a step, her hair moves along with her, the wind is her willing assistant and her lips turned upwards. A smile. Is she looking at me? He tries to hide the fact that he was looking over his shoulder. Maybe she's looking at someone behind me? He thinks, but then again, there was no one standing beside him, save the rose bush.

"Hey," you greet him and suddenly he finds himself leaning back into his true self. The confident defense attorney who charms everyone that he speaks to. "Hey?" He raises an eyebrow, as if he's teasing you. "My dad told me that you were the one who defended Oonagh Johnson back in 2012." You opened your mouth to speak.

Always straightforward. Time is gold.

"Yes, it was a terrible thing what happened to her." He breaths. The case seemingly close to his heart just like this case was to you. "I know that it sounds a little creepy but that is my favorite case in the history of the world. I was thirteen years old-" you rambled and he releases a breath that he was unaware that he was holding.

Thirteen years old in 2012. I feel so old. He muses.

"- I didn't know what I wanted to be, and then I saw you and Oonagh on the news. I knew then that I wanted to be in the same spot as you, defending women, minorities, children. I knew then that I wanted to give what was due. Justice." You finished rambling, he notices that smile on your face.

It reminded him of himself back in his rookie days, that hopeless glimmer in your eyes mirroring back to all the years before him. Some dreams remain dreams, and others turn into goals. "Well, that case is close to my heart. I don't think I've ever told anyone about this before but my mother was a victim of domestic abuse, her father was not a good man, and when I defended Oonagh, I felt some sort of retribution..." He pauses. I shouldn't tell this to a stranger.

"It is a different kind of power that you feel when you do something right. Yes, it is every citizen's right to defend themselves in the court of law whether or not they are guilty or innocent, but I think that you'll realize this when you do become a lawyer. It feels like a breath of relief when you bring true justice to the innocents." He continues. A feeling that feels so far from me now.

"Yeah, I don't know how I'll deal with choosing cases when I'm an actual lawyer but my dad says that I don't have to think about that until after I actually pass the bar." You chuckled nervously. He pries his attention away from his current woes, "Oh, are you studying law right now?" He inquired, his body leaning closer to yours.

"Oh no, I'm studying Accounting right now. It's my pre-law course." You informed, and he slowly finds himself respecting you. "I wish that I did something cool like that, my pre-law was Polsci and I wouldn't recommend it even to my worst enemy." He chuckles, his conscience floating away and instead is focused on you.

The shining starlight that has come to guide him away from this existential crisis. "I've heard a lot of things about that major. Some people say that it doesn't really equip you in law school, but the Polsci majors that I know are such cool people." You smiled, only beginning to realize that the man standing in front of you was h o t.

Hot with a capital 'H'.

He had a cleanly shaven face, and beautiful golden blonde hair that seriously rivaled those of the Targaryens that you watch on HBO. (You are still stuck in Season 5 of GOT due to being on studying jail.)

"That major did not help me in law school. It gave me an overview but law school is ultimately a different demon." He warns, staring deep into your eyes. She looks good, he thinks. "Well, hopefully if I pass next year I'll be able to apply for law school. Are there any universities that you recommend?" You ask and he ponders.

"I finished my degree in Harvard-"

"Fuck," you interrupted him. "No, I'm sorry." You gasp.

"I study in Harvard right now. It's just I found it - I don't know." You mentally cringe, accepting the fact that you've let go of your chance with dating this hot lawyer man. "It's alright, I was gonna say to not study in Harvard. Stanford is much better. I've found really formidable opponents who finished their degree in Stanford." He smiles, finding your quirks to be adorable.

It is not everyday that a woman walks into his life and talks about his best case to date, and then laugh about stupid stupid things. "The food isn't really that great to be honest," you mumbled. "Some things never change." He mused. "Oh wait, I'm sorry. I haven't introduced myself. I'm Y/N Saint." You offer your hand to shake and he takes it.

"Thranduil Greenwood." He smiles while shaking your hand. He lets go of it, and then remembers. "Daniel's your father?" He asks. "Yeah, but he's not really my biological father, he adopted me when he married my mom." You provided a bit of a background information.

He tries to make the conversation longer, in the hopes that you wouldn't walk away from him or that you'd leave at least an email or a number or a facebook profile so that he'll have some way of communicating with you. "He's a nice guy." He compliments.

"He's more than nice," you smile.

Suddenly, your phone rings. "Oh damn, sorry. I really have to catch a plane, but it was so nice talking to you attorney. Um, do you have a phone or anything. I'd love to keep in touch." You turn the alarm off, and focus your attention back to him. He unlocks his iphone and hands it to you. You glance at his wallpaper. "It's my son." he answers, not bothering to hide that fact about him.

"You have a wife?" You tired to keep your tone nonchalant, but it comes out jealous and icky. "No, his mother left when he was born. Funny enough, I couldn't blame her anyways. I was twenty, she was nineteen and she had an art degree." He jests and you try your best to find an instagram app on his phone.

How old is this man anyways? All he had on his phone was whatsapp, imessage, a few apps that were there when you buy the phone, and then two different email apps (email for apple and gmail.) Which made you want to laugh at him, as it was adorable, but you decide to open his notes app. "I don't have any social media except for instagram so I'll just write my username down and hopefully you do have an Instagram at home." Your voice turns nervous at the end.

There was a 50/50 chance that Thranduil had an instagram. "Goodbye, it was nice talking to you." You greet, handing him his phone, but before he could reply - you sprint away.

yournamesaint: mornings like these...

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>comments

ingridhorstefe: the type of thing u see before going to bed - yournamesaint: chug redbull and the bed becomes a theory - ingridhorstefe: id reply something smart abt management theory but my brain is fcking fried

"Thank you for helping me set up an Instagram account, Tauriel." Thranduil thanks his intern before taking a sip of his coffee. "I don't think that you should post anything for legal reasons, but I already fixed your profile and privated your account. I also told everyone in the firm to follow you, Legolas says he'll only follow you after you get 10 followers so everyone won't think that he's following a bot." Tauriel continues, and Thranduil has no idea what those words mean.

"It is about time that I enter the realm social media. I mean, it is one thing to not have social media but Atty. Elros has an instagram and he's literally fifty something." Thranduil jokes. "I did tell you to sign up, which reminds me, you should follow Atty. Alfred." Tauriel presses the 'follow' button on his screen.

"As much as I hate Atty. Elros he has an amazing feed." He jokes again, and Tauriel nods agreeing with him. "He's actually an excellent photographer, I've heard a story about him actually. I heard that he wanted to be a photographer at first but then had a change of heart because his twin brother became a neurosurgeon..." Tauriel informs.

greenwoodlaw_ has requested to follow you

yournamesaint wants to call you.

"Hello," he greets seeing your face on the other end of the line. "Hey, I'm surprised to see you with an instagram. I mean I'm not stalking you or anything, it just says 'new' on your profile." You found yourself explaining to him, and he responds with a laugh. "Tauriel, my staff, helped me make this account. I figured that it was about time that I make one, I mean even the old lawyers in the neighboring firm have their own social medias." His big eyebrows merged together.

"I was about to give you my phone number yesterday but I remembered that I didn't have a line. I wouldn't be able to call you or reply to the text messages." You reply uneasily. Your father has pestered you about getting a line since the moment you bought your phone, but you shook him off saying that no one texts or calls people in their mobile number anymore. You were wrong.

"I didn't really bother paying for that since it's a distraction." You settle your phone on the desk in front of you, not bothering to adjust it to an angle that'll make you look better. There is no use fighting against what you really look like. "I understand. Shouldn't you be studying?" He asks and you shake your head.

"I'm free, miraculously, but I'll start on some reviewers in an hour. Better safe than sorry." You inform.

"You must always be on your feet." He says.

"You sound a lot like my professor." You teased. "- but thank you for the advise, I shall use it well." You add.

Tauriel walks inside of his office, carrying a stack of files. "Oh, it looks like you've got a lot of work to do." You smile. Tauriel raises an eyebrow but he gives her a glance telling her not to ask any questions. "I guess this is goodbye. I'll call you again tomorrow."

"Goodbye,"

"Bye."

The night is quiet and dark, as it always is. Omen stands in his room, contemplating nothing in particular. His new form doesn’t require much sleep, if at all— he hasn’t tried to test it honestly. Sometimes, time just… blurs into itself.

Knitting helps with the spasms— there’s not enough of him left to call them muscle spasms. But other nights the pain is too much to think of counting the stitches, row after row. 

Tonight, the pain is not so bad. The voices, though. Those never leave. The souls he’s taken, or perhaps they were souls that once mattered to him. Omen can’t recall. 

He used to wander the headquarters at the dead of night when he had nothing else to do. Walking helped quiet the voices. But after he unintentionally ran into a half awake Phoenix and almost caused him to burn down the common room, he figured it might be best for him to stick to his room. 

But tonight, something draws him away, to the roof. As he steps onto the large, flat roof, Omen feels a sense of calm wash over him. The night sky is so vast and quiet above, its calm reaches down into him. The stars are so cold and distant from this view— nothing he could harm. Not even his untethered form could reach them, he thinks. 

“They’re beautiful, aren’t they?”

A voice shocks Omen from his reverie. His head snaps to look for the source, landing on you. You smile an uncertain smile— he supposed that’s better than most of what he gets from the other protocol members.

“They look cold.” He finally answers. 

You quirk an eyebrow at him. “They’re actually the opposite. The hottest stars are over five times as hot as our sun.”

Omen watches as you look up at the stars, clearly enamored. The way you look up at them… he almost envies it. He realizes he can’t remember the feeling of the sun on his skin, on his body.

Not wanting to dwell on the thoughts, Omen turns to you. He finds himself fixating on your arms— then immediately catches himself for having stared at your arms. Admittedly, you do have quite nice arms. They’re lean and muscular, a few lighter marks from scars long faded. (He wonders if you have an interest in crafts…)

“Do you come here… often?” he asks you, painfully aware of how cheesy the words sound. Though, perhaps more so if it had come from someone less like him.

You laugh. “A bit. Can’t sleep,” you shrug. “What about you?”

Omen shrugs, mimicking you. It feels… good. Human. Sitting here, talking with you. 

“I do not often sleep. Not anymore,” he says. You look at him, empathy in your gaze. 

You don’t press, which he appreciates further. The two of you just lie down in silence. Omen images that the tile of the roofing under him is still the slightest bit warm from soaking in the sun’s rays, that if he presses his worn fingers to them he’ll feel that intoxicating heat of the sun. 

“Do you want to hear more about the stars?” You ask.

Omen surprises himself by speaking before he can think further about it. “I’d love to.” Further to his surprise, he realizes the sentiment is genuine. 

There was a time where he had thought the only way he could find fulfillment was through the stealing of souls from others. That the sensation he felt in battle was peace.

You light up. “See those stars there— that bright cluster? That’s a part of Ursa Major. Actually we predict the formation is gonna change in the future…”

But maybe this is another kind of peace— lying here, listening to you speak, the stars glinting in the darkness.

SAGE: 

Sage is a very busy woman, and because of that she doesn’t get a lot of opportunities to cuddle. 

When she does though, she’s very affectionate. 

She’s usually naturally cold, so she likes to snuggle up to you with a blanket or something

When spooning, she likes to be the little spoon, but is willing to try and be the big spoon too. 

Really likes sitting in your lap and having you wrap your arms around her waist. Perfect place for her to cover your face is kisses which leaves both of you a giggling mess. 

SKYE:

Skye loves cuddling. 

She always makes sure you know how much she cares about you by making sure you feel safe in her arms. 

She’s a big fan of the honeymoon hug position so she can hold you and be close to you. 

Doesn’t initiate the cuddling too often, but will always offer if she notices you feeling down. 

Not really cuddling, but I am a firm believer that Skye gives the absolute best hugs. 

JETT: 

Jett claims she doesn’t like cuddling. This is a complete lie. She just doesn’t want to look soft. 

The moment the two of you are alone, her head is in your lap as you play with her hair, or she’s wrapping her arms around you from behind as she rests her chin on your shoulder. 

She moves a lot in her sleep, so if the two of you are cuddling while you sleep, it’s likely just one of her arms draped over you or your legs intertwined. 

She doesn’t cuddle a whole lot unless the two of you are trying to sleep, so during the day it’s mostly just long hugs or leaning against you. 

REYNA: 

Despite her intimidating demeanor, she loves holding you in her arms. 

She’s always warm, so she makes a wonderful cuddling partner if you’re cold. 

Really fond of cuddling positions like the sweetheart’s cradle and the half-spoon. She’s always the big spoon though, but she finds it funny when you attempt to try and be the big spoon instead.