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Disclaimer: This is a non-commercial, non-profit work of fiction under the names and likenesses of real individuals. This fictional story is not intended to imply that the events herein actually occurred, or that the attitudes or behaviors described are engaged or condoned by the persons whose names are used without permission.


Author: Barbara (savageseraph)
Original Story: Tomboy by Brenda (azewewish)
Pairing: David Wenham/Miranda Otto, implied Viggo Mortensen/Miranda Otto, Philippa Boyens/Miranda Otto, Lawrence Makoare/Miranda Otto
Rating: R
Summary: No two people see things in quite the same way.
Post-reveal Notes: Many thanks to caras_galadhon for helping me when I kept getting stuck.


The stew looked worse than it tasted. Although the lumps it contained were massive and the color made the whole thing look like something that had already been eaten at least one other time before it was served, it wasn't half bad. In fact, Viggo found himself snacking on it in between takes. When Miranda caught him, she laughed, and after trying some herself, she told him he was lucky that she hadn't cooked it herself. Viggo had murmured something about being sure it would still be fine. She gave him a speculative look, didn't agree or disagree. Looking back on it, Viggo supposed he should have been suspicious when she asked him over to dinner later that day.

He brought wine and a bunch of flowers. She cooked a roast that made Boromir's bracers seem tender by comparison. Her mashed potatoes were overly salty and decidedly lumpy, and her carrots were closer in consistency to pudding than to a vegetable. He tried to eat, made an honest effort to choke down what he could under Miranda's watchful and amused gaze, but he was man enough to know when he was beaten. He pushed the plate away and offered to take her out to dinner.

When Viggo passed Miranda on the battlefield at the Pelennor shoot, he clinked his sword against hers and winked at her. The ring of steel on steel made her smile more than he imagined the clink of crystal on crystal from wine glasses lifted at a garden party would. She was too fierce for something so frilly and fanciful. Studying her with an artist's eye, Viggo nodded to himself. Fierce suited her.


One thing Lawrence took for granted was that he could have the gym to himself if he got there well before it was light. He'd be able to indulge in some quiet exertion before the other early risers stumbled in and the daily banter began. When he arrived one morning to find the lights already on, he was surprised and a trifle disappointed. He sighed softly, resigned to being social sooner than he expected and much sooner than was decent.

When no one called a greeting, he stepped into the room, looking around, eyes widening as they came to rest on Miranda, more specifically, on Miranda's back. Her hair was pinned up, the gold darkening from sweat at the roots, and the cords from the earbuds she was wearing explained why she hadn't responded to him coming in. She hadn't heard him. She hummed softly to herself, following along with her music as she raised and lowered a set of weights, working on building up arms and shoulders to bear the drag of a sword and the weight of armor.

Working to be ready for today. While Peter shouted some last directions and changes to blocking, Lawrence watched Miranda, her gaze going in turn to each of the foes she would face in turn once the cameras rolled. He imagined her picturing each falling to her in turn, her fighter's heart not accepting anything short of victory.

He grinned, eager for his chance to face her, to feel the shock of satisfaction as she reminded him that sometimes a deceptively delicate surface hid a core of solid steel.


Philippa frowned at the notes on her script, quick scrawls of the changes Peter was making to the scene. She rubbed at the middle of her forehead, then waded into the crowd of warriors waiting for warfare. Usually, she wasn't restless, but today, she couldn't seem to sit still. She rubbed her arms, smiled at Viggo, and the expression must have seemed natural, because he returned it, saluted her with his sword. A cluster of Orcs were talking about meeting tonight at the pub to grab dinner and shoot some pool, a group of Gondorians were arguing about whether Spain or Germany was going to win tomorrow's World Cup match.

A little further on, Philippa saw Miranda running through her blocking while Lawrence watched. The bulky costume might help to hide her curves, but the smooth way she moved, equal parts combat and dance, set her apart from the other men on the field. Whether by plan or chance, they gathered in such a way that left a space around her, separating her from their own socializing.

The passive shunning, the retreat into more familiar company, was something Philippa recognized. She had been the lone woman in a crowd of men too often not to see what was happening. She wondered if Miranda felt the swirl of the social currents around her or if she was the rock they could not touch or tumble along in their grasp.

If Miranda were a rose or a rabbit instead of a rock, they probably wouldn't have become friends, but Philippa wondered if Miranda realized (or ever would) that playing with the boys didn't erase the fact that she was a woman.


Dave didn't have a part to play on the Pelennor shoot, but he came because he was curious. Sure, he'd get a chance to see the full spectacle once the film was finished, but the careful choreography of the chaos of the battlefield interested him. He turned aside Dom's attempts to convince him to slip into the scene, a secret walk-on, but wasn't as lucky in avoiding Viggo's efforts to give him a concussion when he butted his forehead against Dave's and caught him in a quick, firm embrace.

Dave was still blinking away stars when he caught sight of Miranda. Her helmet was off, eyes half closed as she ran through the choreography of the next part of the scene. An orc extra dodged, narrowly missing the kiss of her blade.

That thought conjured memories of other kisses, of kisses presses against the back of his neck, between his shoulders, while she teased him open with clever fingers. Of kisses spiced with gentle nips, just enough to send the shivery pain of each pinch singing through him, when she shifted her hips, pressed the dildo slowly into him. He'd never been fucked by a woman before, but judging from the way she gripped his hips, angling them for and pulling them into each thrust, he was certain he wasn't her first.

He tried to ignore the pressure of his fly against hardening flesh. The sunlight caught on Miranda's blade, sparked, and he chuckled softly, grateful he had a girl who liked to play with swords.


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