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In response to Spiced Wine's request for The Hobbit. [Obviously, 100 percent book verse. If one only saw the movie, it barely makes any sense.]

Their meal had been cold and dry and Bilbo felt, as he often did, so very far from home. But, finally, he fell asleep, the last of their company to do so. Even watchful and serious Thorin snored.

Then Bilbo dreamed of that boundless dragon store he had seen. In the dream his task was to carry it out of the cave piece-by-piece without awakening the slumbering Smaug. When morning finally came, he felt as though he had indeed crawled through tunnels and clambered over rocks all night long.

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Written in response to Tehta's request for "The one where all the sons of Feanor have different superpowers."

Everyone knew that Maglor could reach into the hearts of his listeners and turn cowardice into bravery, or parsimony into generosity, not to mention make the hardest man cry. And, Celegorm’s magics with birds and animals were legendary, but very few had heard of Maedhros’ fire-bending skills, inherited from his father. He was loath to use them even in the direst of circumstances because they were fueled by rage and hatred and he feared to ever lose control.

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Written at Rhapsody's request for "The one where Fingon is the best man to Maedhros' wedding and he's happy for his cousin."

The day was beautiful, with azure skies and golden sunshine, the air filled with the scent of lilacs and roses. Fingon had needed to summon more courage than he had believed he owned to wish his cousin well; but the heart is a sturdy vessel and can withstand more battering than one presumes. His flame-haired cousin had never been more handsome and his bride was a lovely, accomplished maid. Of course, he wished them all the best.

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This is in response to Jaiden's request for "Celegorm and captive Lúthien."

He wanted to be kind to her, but her attitude could strip paint off metal. Fairest Lúthien, foulest mouth.

After last night, he was not going to be the one to make the next move. He had kissed her and she had kissed him back--taking his breath away, actually--before pushing him away with language that would make a soldier blush.

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At the request from Minuial Nuwing for "Maedhros and Fingon in the happy years - how about an evening around a fire with wine and song?"

Findekáno almost fell on his face tripping over Huan and Carnistir to secure a place on the log in front of the fire next to Maitimo. He had thought no one had noticed when out of the corner of his eye he caught Macalaurë shoot a teasing grin at Maitimo, cocking his head in Findekáno’s direction. Maitimo only frowned at his brother, oblivious as ever.

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This is at the request of Ladyelleth for "So, how about a Finrod/Curufin snippet?"

Finrod slipped into the forge, deserted except for Curufin. What a picture he made, bare to the waist, sharp, dark shadows defining his beautiful torso in the red and gold light. He stopped behind him and waited until Curufin put down his hammer and tongs. Wrapping his arms around him, he kissed the so familiar well-muscled shoulder tasting of salt and danger.

“I hope I am not unwelcome,” Finrod whispered.

Curufin turned and pulled him into a plundering kiss. When at last they broke apart, his predator’s face softened into an expression of boyish vulnerability. “Do you realize this is the first time since we began that you have sought me out?”

“I do,” Finrod said, with affection and regret. “I cannot fight it anymore.”

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This is written for Himring who requested "how about a three sentence fic to go with your bio of Lalaith (any aspect of it)?" 

“Riding on the horsie, the horsie, the horsie,” she prattled, straddling cook’s broom and trotting in a circle, stopping only to chuckle to herself. “Hunting for my Túrin, my Túrin, my Túrin.” She let out a laugh that turned into a squeal of joy. “I know you are there, big brother, hiding behind that bush. Come play with me.”

“You play. I like to watch you.” The sunlight caught her tangled curls and turned them into purest gold.

“I have a silly brother, silly, silly. I have a silly brother, who only likes to watch.”

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Linda Hoyland asked that I imagine a "story where Arwen and her father fall out and she almost elopes with Eomer instead of Aragorn."


Forest and mountains gave way to plains of waving grass, bending and cresting in a cold spring wind. She had nursed her anger at her father as though it were the only thing which could keep her warm through the pelting rains and winds as icy as winter. A lesser woman would have sickened from exposure or fallen from her steed in exhaustion. Fortunately, she was a daughter of the Eldar, tempered with the blood of Melian the Maia. If only she could speak with her gentle mother, gone now, sailed, broken and beaten down by the violence and sorrows of this benighted land. Just then the sun came out from behind the swiftly fleeing clouds and the green grass stilled about her winded horse’s feet.

Then she saw him--tall and comely, despite the whiskers, golden haired, a young horse lord, surrounded by a small host of riders, lesser in stature and aspect. Clearly he was their prince. They looked to him for guidance, no doubt startled at her appearance. She must look a fright--fine garments, unsuitable for riding, rent and bedraggled from her wild flight.

“Who goes there?” he shouted at her in faintly accented Sindarin. Not only handsome, but learned, possibly the son of the king of the horse lords. If Elrond would not permit her to marry her one true love, then perhaps to spite him she would marry this beautiful boy. That would show him!

“My lord,” she called to him, as clearly and loudly as she was able. “Is this the way you address all the ladies you encounter in the wild?”

He laughed, blue eyes sparking. “See!” he said, maddeningly not greeting her, but turning to the grizzled veteran next to him. “She is no specter or fay, but a lady, a young and beautiful one, wet and exhausted.”

He smiled directly at her then, white teeth gleaming in his sun-burnt face. “Éomer son of Éomund at your service, my lady. I fear you have lost your companions and your way. Please accept our hospitality. When you are fed and dry, and we have cared for your brave mount, which you have ridden nearly to her death, we will discuss how to return you safely to your family.”

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This request is from Chaotic Binky: "How about Orcs fantasising about what it must feel like to be clean and not smell horrible."


It was a dark, cold night. The little Orc girl scooted closer to the camp fire. She loved it when her mother sounded happy, singing while she cooked.

Chop ‘im up.
Chop ‘im up.
Toss ‘im in the pot.
Nothing like a youngin’
To really hit the spot.

The Orkling snatched a tiny jacket and trousers that her mum had thrown to the side and sniffed.

“Watcha doing with those, ya little imp?” Her mother snorted disparagingly, but she didn’t sound angry.

“What are they?”

“Those are human-child clothes.”

“Can I keep ‘em?”

“I don’t know what you’d want ‘em for. They won’t wear worth nothin’ or be warm!”

“But they smell so good.”