Middle Earth || OS

51. Faramir | To Look at Light

Tumblr : averil-of-fairlea

Anonymous asked: Can I request a Faramir X reader, where the reader is kind of an introverted quieter person in public, and she is roped into going to a party. She just sits in the corner with a thick book, and ignores everyone until some drunk touchy guy starts bothering her, and Faramir comes and tells him off. They have a cute, awkward relationship. a few weeks later the same guy from the party bothers her again, and Faramir gets so mad, he basically explodes out, "you don't touch her, because I love her!"

*

Your response to the party invitation fell on deaf ears.

"'I'd rather not," you'd said soundly, resolutely, and more than once, as you sat in your favorite armchair, ready for several hours of reading.

But your friend grabbed your forearm and lifted you up, rushed you over the threshold of your home, and teased you with 'don't be such a spoil sport.'

On instinct, you'd grabbed your empty canvas book bag from the seat and a random thick book from the low shelf near the door. Better than any friend, better than any medicine, books could always treat what ailed you.

"Stop it!" You finally broke free from your friend's grasp, frustrated and hurt by her insistence and lack of respect for your wishes.

You half expected her to re-grab your arm and pull you harder, so you took a step back, prepared to run home.

But her face fell, and then you could finally see it: She was not enjoying any of this.

"Please, please come with me to the party." That's all she said, but you picked up on the added but unspoken plea: I need your support. He will be there with her. I am over him but I still don't want to face them alone.

You wished she'd just said that in the first place instead of being rude. You rolled your eyes and readjusted your bag strap onto your shoulder.

"Keep walking," you said gruffly.

As luck would have it, the party was a casual affair, held just on the outskirts of the city at the spacious home of a young, wealthy widow everyone knew, who believed more in good company and good food than in keeping up appearances.

The ladies wore dainty but unpretentious long frocks; the men were in relaxed trousers and loose-fitting tops. There was finger food, not a huge elegant spread, and someone walking around lazily playing the fiddle, not a quartet of expert musicians.

Hm. Maybe this stupid party won't be so bad after all, you thought, feeling the weight in your book get miraculously lighter with the thought of slipping away quietly to read. That way, you would still be there for your friend, but out of reach if you started to feel uncomfortable, and no one would see or care.

Your friend was wrong on two fronts.

Her beloved was not with another, after all, and she was most definitely not over him. Within fifteen minutes of arrival, neither one was anywhere to be found.

Knowing your love of reading, the host chatted it up with you about your latest literary interests as much as her time would allow, but she had the party and other guests to attend to, so she politely excused herself.

Long before your friend ditched you, you'd spotted a well-lit area near the double doors leading to the garden, a niche piled high with large, downy pillows. It called your name.

Your heavy book bag flapping against your side, you made a beeline for it. After propping all the pillows up just-so, you leaned back and pulled out the book, hoping you'd swiped one of the more interesting stories from your shelf.