Nana ♡

https://www.wattpad.com/story/409494955?utm_source=android&utm_medium=link&utm_content=share_reading&wp_page=reading&wp_uname=vampxiric_

Content: Lord Elrond x reader short fic

Rivendell has a way of guiding wandering hands: corridors opening where you least expect them, shelves revealing what they have kept hidden for centuries. You are looking for nothing in particular when your fingers brush against a folded sheet tucked between two histories of long-fallen realms.

It is not sealed. It is not marked for archives.

It is simply… placed. As though someone set it down with the intention of returning.. and never quite did.

Your name is written on the front.

Not in the elegant, distant script Elrond uses for decrees or counsel, but in something softer. Familiar. Careful, as if he paused after every curve of every letter.

You should leave it. It's not right to read it.

You don’t.

The paper is thin, faintly scented of ink and pressed leaves. When you unfold it, the sound is almost reverent.

To you,

who arrived like a season I had not prepared for.

There are truths that do not lend themselves to speech. I have learned this over long years, and yet I persist in testing it, like a hand returning to fire, not in ignorance, but in hope.

If these words remain unread, then they will have served their purpose. If they do not, then I must trust you to understand what I cannot say aloud.

You have changed the way time moves through this valley.

Before you, days passed as they always have: gently, predictably, like water over stone. Since your coming, moments gather weight. I find myself noticing the light at particular hours, the sound of footsteps along familiar paths, the way silence behaves differently when it follows your voice.

This is an inconvenience, you understand.

It is also a gift.

I have walked beside countless lives, watched them rise and recede like tides. I have learned how not to hold too tightly, how to let beauty exist without claiming it. I believed myself fluent in this discipline.

Then you looked at me without reverence, and the language failed me.

There are things I do not allow myself to imagine.

I do not imagine futures that would require me to forget what I am. I do not imagine mornings I cannot keep, nor promises that time itself would eventually betray. And yet, my thoughts wander, traitorous and quiet, to small, impossible scenes: your presence lingering where it should not, your laughter echoing where only memory ought to remain.

I have lived long enough to know that some attachments do not announce themselves as such. They arrive disguised as conversation. As shared silence. As concern that settles too deeply, too quickly.

If I seem distant at times, it is not because you have stepped beyond my regard, but because you have stepped perilously close to its center.

You are not unaware of what separates us. Nor am I. I feel it in every measured word, every step I do not take toward you. This restraint is not absence: it is vigilance. It is the careful tending of something that might, if mishandled, undo us both.

And yet, I would be dishonest if I claimed I wish you elsewhere.

There are stars I have watched since before the shaping of the world. They endure. They remain. And still, there are evenings when the brief light of a single window matters more to me than their constancy.

That is the nature of what you are to me.

I place these words here because they have nowhere else to go. They are not a request, nor a confession, only an acknowledgment of a truth I carry in silence.

If you never read this, I will continue as I have: attentive, restrained, grateful for what is allowed.

If you do… then I trust you will hear not what is written, but what is carefully left unsaid.

-E.P

The letter trembles in your hands when you finish.

Not because of what it says, but because of what it refuses to.

You refold it slowly, as if it might bruise if you are careless. Your chest aches with the knowledge that these words were never meant to be a bridge. Only a resting place.

"You found it."

Elrond’s voice comes from behind you, calm as still water.

Not a question.

You turn. He stands in the archway of the library, hands loose at his sides, his expression composed, too composed for surprise. There is no sharp intake of breath, no tightening of his posture. Only a quiet inevitability, as though this moment has been accounted for all along.

"I did" you say.

His gaze flicks briefly to the letter, then back to you. There is something almost gentle in his eyes now. Resigned, perhaps, but not regretful.

"I wondered" he admits softly, "how long it would take."

That makes your breath catch.

"You knew?"

"I hoped you would not" he answers. "But hope is not the same as expectation."

He steps closer, the distance between you closing not as a transgression, but as a continuation. "You have always had a way of finding what lingers" he says. "Things set aside. Things left unfinished."

You hold the letter between you. "It was waiting to be read"

A faint smile touches his mouth, not amusement, but recognition. "Yes" he says. "It was."

"I did not write it to be read" Elrond continues. "But neither did I destroy it. That, too, was a choice."

You look at him then, not as a lord of Imladris, not as something untouchable and eternal, but as someone who once folded a piece of paper and set it aside because it held more truth than he could safely carry.

"I heard what you meant" you say.

Content: Lee pace x y/n angst

The phone rings at 9:42 p.m.

You’re curled up on the couch, half-watching a movie you’re not really paying attention to, Lee’s jacket draped over the armrest because he left it there earlier. You smile absently when you hear the ringtone, already expecting his name on the screen.

It isn’t.

Unknown number.

Your smile fades.

You hesitate, a strange, prickling unease creeping up your spine, then answer anyway. "Hello?"

There’s a breath on the other end. Controlled, careful.

"Y/n? This is Lee’s mother."

Your heart drops so hard it feels physical.

"He’s been in an accident" she says. "He was driving too fast. An ambulance took him to the hospital. He’s conscious, and the doctors say it doesn’t appear to be serious, but I wanted you to know."

For a moment, the room tilts.

Accident. Speeding. Hospital.

You thank her, though you don’t remember forming the words, and when the call ends, the silence feels unbearably loud. The movie keeps playing, characters laughing on-screen, and the normalcy of it all makes your chest ache.

You grab your coat with shaking hands and rush outside, barely noticing the cold night air as you flag down a taxi.

The ride is torture.

Streetlights blur past the window, each one another reminder of how fast things can go wrong. Your knee bounces uncontrollably, hands clenched in your lap as your mind spirals.

You picture twisted metal. Sirens. Blood.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to breathe.

They said he’s okay. They said it’s not serious.

But "not serious" doesn’t mean nothing. It doesn’t mean he wasn’t scared. It doesn’t mean he didn’t almost-

You squeeze your eyes shut, fighting the tears threatening to spill.

When the taxi finally pulls up to the hospital, you’re out the door before it fully stops.

Inside, everything smells like disinfectant and sounds like quiet urgency, murmured voices, distant beeps, soft footsteps. You give his name at the desk, voice trembling despite your efforts to sound calm.

They point you down the hall.

Your heart pounds harder with every step.

When you reach his room, you stop short in the doorway.

Lee is sitting up in the bed, one arm in a sling, a bandage wrapped around his forearm and another just above his eyebrow. He looks tired. Pale. Smaller somehow, stripped of his usual confidence by thin hospital sheets and fluorescent lighting.

Very much alive.

The relief hits you so hard your legs almost give out.

And then you’re crying.

It’s not quiet, graceful crying. It’s the kind that rips out of your chest without permission. You cross the room in seconds, dropping your bag on the floor as you grab his hand, clutching it like it’s the only thing anchoring you to reality.

"Oh my God!" you sob. "Oh my God, Lee-"

"Hey, hey" he says immediately, panic flashing across his face. He tries to sit up more, wincing slightly. "Hey, I’m okay. I’m right here."

"You scared me" you choke out. "Do you have any idea how scared I was?"

"I know" he murmurs, squeezing your hand gently. "I know, I’m so sorry"

You pull back just enough to look at him, eyes blazing through your tears. "Speeding? Really? After everything I’ve said to you?"

He looks down, jaw tightening. "I wasn’t thinking"

"No, you weren’t." you snap, voice breaking halfway through. "You never think when you’re behind the wheel. You think you’re invincible."

"That’s not-"

"You could’ve died" you say, the words finally spilling out. "They called me and said ‘hospital’ and ‘accident’ and I thought-" Your breath stutters. "I thought I was going to walk in here and-"

You can’t finish the sentence.

Lee’s eyes soften, guilt written all over his face. He lifts his hand carefully, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. "I’m so sorry" he says again, quieter this time. "I never meant to put you through that.."

Tears drip down onto the sheets as you lean closer, resting your forehead against his shoulder, careful of the injuries. Your voice drops to a whisper.

"I can’t lose you"

He exhales shakily, wrapping his good arm around you as best he can. "You won’t" he promises. "I swear. I was stupid. I know that now."

You stay like that for a long moment, breathing him in, grounding yourself in the warmth of him, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

Eventually, you pull back and wipe your face, sniffling. "You’re never driving like that again."

"Yes, ma’am" he says softly, a small, tired smile tugging at his lips.

"And if you do" you add, pointing a finger at him, "I’m taking your keys. Permanently."

He lets out a weak chuckle. "Fair enough"

You sigh, sinking into the chair beside his bed, still holding his hand like you’re afraid he might disappear if you let go. Your voice is calmer now, but the fear still lingers underneath.

"I don’t care how late you are. I don’t care how empty the road looks" you say. "I just need you to come home safe."

His smile fades into something more serious, more tender.

"I will" he says. "I promise. I want to come home to you."

Your eyes fill again, but this time the tears are softer, heavier with relief than panic. You lean down and press a careful kiss to his knuckles.

Content: Thorin Oakenshiel & Thranduil's Daughter!reader short fic

He sits in the dark corner of his cell when he senses her.

A presence,quiet, deliberate.

At first, she is nothing more than a pale shape beyond the bars. Then moonlight spills through the high windows, silver and cold, and finds her. Her hair catches it immediately, pale gold, almost luminous, as though it drinks the light rather than reflects it. A thin silver chain rests against her throat, glinting softly with each measured breath.

Thorin has seen beauty before, but this is something else entirely.

Then his gaze lifts.

The crown.

Delicate. Shimmering. Elven silver wrought into leaves and sharp points of authority.

Thranduil’s daughter.

The realization curdles whatever awe dared creep into his chest. He exhales sharply through his nose and looks away, jaw tightening as he fixes his eyes on the stone floor.

Enemy he tells himself.

Elven royalty. No better than the rest of them.

Hatred coils tight in his chest as he finally looks back at her through the bars. Her scent reaches him, soft, floral, infuriatingly gentle, suffocating like a mockery.

She smells like power.

"You" he spits, the word tearing free before sense can stop it. "are your father’s whore."

The insult echoes through the cell.

The moment it leaves his mouth, regret follows. Because she doesn’t flinch.

Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t stiffen in outrage or recoil in offense.

She only tilts her head slightly, eyes settling on him with cool detachment, like he is something unworthy of reaction.

And that-

That infuriates him.

His fingers dig into the stone floor, nails scraping against cold rock. If there is one thing Thorin Oakenshield cannot abide more than elves, it is an elf who refuses to react.

"What?" he snaps when the silence stretches. "No pretty little elvish words for me? No command to kneel before your father’s bloodline?"

His voice is rough, venomous.

But beneath it lies something more desperate.

The need to provoke.

To be acknowledged.

Her eyes are not Thranduil’s icy blue. They are grey, steady and unreadable, and they rake over him slowly. Not with anger. Not with pity.

With calculation.

The realization settles uneasily in his chest.

At last, she steps closer to the bars. Moonlight cuts across her face, and up close the elegance fractures, revealing something honed beneath silk and silver.

Her voice, when she speaks, is quiet.

"You mistake my silence for restraint" she says. "It is merely disinterest."

Thorin snarls. "Then why are you here, she-elf?"

That finally earns him a reaction.

Not anger.

A smile: small, knowing, and entirely humorless.

She glances down the corridor, ensuring they are alone, then meets his gaze again.

"I came" she says softly "because my father is considering killing you."

The words land heavy.

"And before he decides" she continues, calm as winter frost "I needed to know whether you are worth the trouble it would take to keep you alive."

She straightens, composure immaculate once more.

"For now" she adds, "you are."

Then she turns and leaves, silver crown gleaming as her footsteps fade into the halls.

Thorin remains in the dark, breath slow, heart pounding.

Content: Lee Pace x y/n short fic

The afternoon was slow and warm, cicadas humming lazily in the trees. One of the cabin’s shutters hung crooked, and Lee had dragged a ladder over to fix it, shirt sleeves rolled up, hair tied back, sun catching on his skin.

You sat on the porch railing, legs swinging slightly, trying very hard to look anywhere except at the way his forearms flexed every time he turned the screwdriver.

"You’re doing it again y/n" he said without looking, concentrated in his task.

"Doing what?"

"Staring at me like I’m about to fall off the ladder"

You crossed your arms. "I’m making sure you don’t fall off the ladder"

He glanced down at you with a faint smile. "Pretty sure that look isn’t approved"

You rolled your eyes, but your cheeks warmed.

He finished tightening the hinge and climbed down, stepping off the last rung a little closer to you than strictly necessary.

"How bad was it?" he asked.

"The shutter?"

"No" he said softly. "Me"

You hesitated. "You look… very capable for sure Mr Pace"

A corner of his mouth lifted. "That’s dangerous praise"

He leaned against the porch post beside you, close. Not touching. The space between your arms felt charged. You met his gaze, steady, searching, and for a second it felt like the world tilted toward something inevitable.

Then he exhaled softly, stepping back half a step.

"I should get the toolbox" he said, voice gentler now.

You nodded, heart still thudding, but you ignored it and went back inside.

You stood at the small counter, peeling apples and setting the slices into a bowl. The smell of cinnamon was already starting to fill the room.

"Do you need anything? It smells so good !"

“I’m okay” you answered. “It’ll be ready soon, mister gourmand!”

He laughed and gave a quiet "Alright" and went back to work.

You rolled out the dough, careful and slow, then pressed it into the pie dish. Every now and then you glanced toward the open door, watching him move on the ladder.

When he finally stepped inside, he washed his hands at the sink.

"I knew you got bakery skills! " he said, smiling, as you put the apple compote and the slices on top before putting the pie in the oven.

Content: Legolas x y/n short fluff

Legolas found you sitting on the wide stone balcony just as the sun was beginning to set. You were barefoot, knees pulled to your chest, wrapped in one of his cloaks: the green one that still smelled faintly of pine and forest rain. You hadn’t realized you’d stolen it until he stopped in the doorway, amusement softening his sharp elven features.

"Y/n, is that my cloak?" he asked.

You glanced down, then up at him, guilty.

"Um…Maybe?"

Instead of scolding you, he smiled, that small, private smile he only ever gave you.

He crossed the balcony and crouched in front of you.

"If you wished for it, you could have asked."

You shrugged.

"It smelled like you."

His ears turned the faintest shade of pink. He gently tugged the cloak tighter around your shoulders, fingers lingering like he wasn’t quite ready to let go. Then he sat beside you, close enough that your arms brushed. You tilted your head, letting it fall onto his shoulder. His arm came around you, careful, protective, pulling you into the warmth of his chest. His heartbeat was slow and steady beneath your ear, like something ancient and unbreakable.

The wind played with your hair, and he absentmindedly began to braid a small section of it between his fingers.

"I like when you’re here" he murmured. "It feels like the world is… kinder."

You smiled sleepily.

"Is that your way of saying you like me my prince?"

He huffed a quiet laugh.

"It is my way of saying I would choose you in every lifetime"

Your heart melted completely.

You shifted, curling closer, and he pressed a gentle kiss into your hair, feather-light, like a promise.

Content: Adar x y/n fluff, insecure Adar

Adar is sitting at the edge of the campfire, chest bare, one hand holding a cloth pressed against a fresh cut on his torso. The flickering flames catch his pale grey skin, highlighting the scars that run across his chest, arms, and shoulders. He shifts uncomfortably, shoulders tense, as if trying to shrink himself.

You approach slowly, careful not to startle him. "Adar… let me help you" you murmur softly.

He flinches, a hand tightening over his wound. "...I don’t need help y/n." he says quietly, voice clipped, cold. His grey eyes flick toward you, wary.

You kneel beside him anyway, just close enough that your presence is warm. "You’re hurt" you say gently. "And you’re cold. Please, let me help."

He hesitates, jaw tight, finally looking down at his hands. “I… don’t want you… seeing this.” he admits about his body, voice low, barely audible.

You glance at the scars running across his skin, the pale grey tone that makes him look almost otherworldly, and you smile softly. "Every scar, every mark, every shadow… it’s all part of you. Of your past, your present. And I like all of it."

He stiffens, shifting slightly, as if trying to hide his chest. "I’m… ugly" he mutters. "Grey skin, scars, this body… you shouldn’t…"

You reach out, letting your fingers brush gently over one of the older scars, careful around the fresh wound. "Adar… you’re not ugly" you say softly. "You’re… unique. And I love that about you. Every scar, every line, it’s your story."

He swallows, voice tight, barely above a whisper. "I… I’m not like you. You’re… light. Warm. People… like you."

"Even shadows need someone to care for them. And your children, they do love you." you reply, moving slightly closer.

His chest rises and falls, tension softening just a fraction. Slowly, he lets you take the cloth from his hand, your fingers brushing against his bare skin. He stiffens at first but doesn’t pull away.

"You… really mean that?" he asks, voice trembling, hesitant, almost afraid of your answer.

"I do " you whisper. "I like all of you. Every part, the parts you hide, the parts you’re proud of, the parts you’re scared of. All of you."

For a long moment, he studies your face, uncertain, as if trying to see if you truly mean it. Then, slowly, he rests his forehead lightly against your shoulder, careful, still cold and reserved on the outside, but letting himself feel the warmth you offer.

Content: Thranduil x y/n fluff

Everyone in Mirkwood knew better than to disturb the King at night.

Everyone… except you.

You padded quietly through the silver-lit halls, wrapped in an oversized cloak, eyes heavy, hands clenched in the fabric at your chest. Sleep would not come, not when your dreams kept turning sharp, loud and cruel like that.

Thranduil’s chambers were the only place that felt warm enough to make the world quiet again. You hesitated at the door, lifting your hand.

Before you could knock, his low, sleepy voice reached you.

"Come in."

You blinked.

"You were awake?"

"Barely" he murmured with a sleepy voice.

You slipped inside. The room glowed with dim candlelight. His winter crown remained forgotten on the nightstand, pale hair loose around his shoulders. He looked softer like this... less King, more safe.

"You should be resting, y/n." he said gently.

You shrugged, rubbing your tired eyes.

"I couldn’t sleep" you whispered. "My dreams won’t leave me alone.."

He stilled. For a heartbeat, the cold king disappeared. He stood and crossed the room, hands gentle but certain as he drew you into his arms.

"Then they will not touch you here." he said quietly.

You melted against him.

His cloak wrapped around your shoulders, warm and heavy. He guided you to sit with him on his sofa near the fireplace, your cheek resting against his chest, his chin lowering to your hair.

"Sleep, mir nîn" he murmured. "You are safe here."

His fingers traced slow lines through your hair, grounding, patient. The nightmares did not follow you there. They could not. Because the King of the Woodland Realm did not sleep that night.

Not until you did.