I don't think the person who introduced Lord of the Rings to me understands how much I've fallen in love with the movies (and the books). In the span of two months, I have watched the entire trilogy four times, have finished the LOTR books, and still, I plan on reading the Silmarillion in the near future. So needless to say, it was natural that I got into the fanfiction side of the fandom and lo' and behold, I was shocked by how few fanfics there are for my favorites.
So anyway, here's my Lord of the Rings fanfics 🤍
(Most of them are Pippin, Faramir, and Aragorn just saying. Mostly Pippin.)
PIPPIN
"LITTLE LIFE" (fluff) - coming soon
"A BROKEN LITTLE HEART" (angst/fluff) - coming soon
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The world had changed from what it used to be... She could taste it in the water every time she swam. She could feel it in the earth every time she'd walk. She could smell it in the air... Much that once was, is now lost. For those who remember, are no longer alive. It all began with the forging of the great rings, all of them bound with the strength and will to govern each race. Three of such rings were given to the elves, immortal, wisest and the fairest of all beings. Seven to the dwarf lords, the greatest miners and craftsmen of the mountain halls. And lastly, nine rings gifted to the race of men, who above all else, desired power.
However, not much later, they were all deceived, for another ring was made. In the cursed land of Mordor, in the fiery depths of Mount Doom, the dark lord Sauron, forged another ring in secret. A Master Ring, if one may. A ring to control all others. Into this ring, he poured nothing but his cruelty, his malice, and most importantly... his will to dominate all life. One ring to rule them all. Eventually, the Free Lands of Middle-Earth fell into the power of this ring, but there were some who resisted. A Last Alliance of Men and Elves marched against the armies of Mordor, and on the slopes of Mount Doom, they fought for the freedom of Middle-Earth.
Victory was near, but the power of the ring could not be undone... It was in this moment, when all hope was lost, that Isildur, son of the king, took up his late-father's sword, and the rest is history... A myth, if you will. And with that, Sauron, the enemy of the Free People of Middle-Earth, was finally defeated. Millions were slain, thousands injured. The survivors didn't survive much longer, and those who did never spoke of it again. The detrimental effects of the war brought nothing but pain and isolation. As for the ring? It had passed on to Isildur the Destroyer, who had one chance to end evil forever.
But the hearts of men are easily corrupted, and the ring of power had a will of its own. After all, it betrayed it's wielder, to his death. And some things that should not have been forgotten, were now lost. History became legend, and legend became myth... Until, two and a half years later, the ring passed out of all knowledge. But when the chance came, it ensnared a new bearer. The ring is said to have been taken by the creature, Gollum, who took it deep into the tunnels of the Misty Mountains, where it consumed him. It brought to him, an unnaturally long life, poisoning his mind for over five centuries.
Waiting in the gloom of Gollum's cave for it's master. Darkness crept back into the forests of the world, and rumor grew of a shadow in the east, whispers of a nameless fear... And the ring of power perceived, it's time had now come. It abandoned Gollum in search of a new master. But that's when something happened, that the ring did not intend. It was picked up by the most unlikely creature imaginable — A hobbit! Bilbo Baggins of the Shire... For the time will soon come, when the hobbits shall shape the fortunes of all. She knew it. The banshee could finally sense it... It would all be over soon. There was still some hope.
·˚ ༘ ೖ୭ DISCLAIMER 🌙 ˊˎ I do not own the The Lord of the Rings movies nor any characters, plot or dialogues. They all belong to J.R.R Tolkien. I only own the characters, plots, backgrounds and dialogues that I create for my characters and storyline that appears in this story.
·˚ ༘ ೖ୭ WARNINGS 🌙 ˊˎ this story contains mature scenes, strong language, blood, gore & death, descriptions & mentions of violence, PTSD and might also cover topics like ED, SH, SA, etc. Such parts will be rare, and before anything triggering I will be providing a TW. Read at your own risk. Don't force yourself to get through it for the sake of the plot, because I will be giving a brief, undetailed summary of what happened at the end of the chapter so that you guys don't have to read it. All I want is for my readers to be happy and comfortable.
·˚ ༘ ೖ୭ DEDICATIONS 🌙 ˊˎ I would like to personally thank a few good Wattpad friends of mine who have never stopped supporting me from the very beginning (even during my super-cringe writing era, so you know they're fucking amazing). Thank you guys so much for all the support and love you have shown me.
·˚ ༘ ೖ୭ CREDITS 🌙 ˊˎ A special shoutout goes to @SolarHartless1 for the aesthetic layout.
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-AUTHOR'S NOTE━ 🗒✏️🖇
★Before you proceed, note that the love interest will be Aragorn Elessar (like, duh), but can we just... ignore that fact that he's 87 for the sake of the story😭 like, i'm not gonna reduce his age or anything, as it is not up to me, but while reading, can we like, not think of him as an old man💀
★The major plot for this book will be a based on The Fellowship of the Ring, just as the name suggests, but with my own execution and additional events.
★This story contains mature themes and strong language, minors, idc whether you interact or not, just please don't go around preaching your age, cuz it's gonna be very weird for people to read a comment that shows how down bad 13 year olds are these days for 90 year old men😭 (like I get it, it's aragorn we're talking about here and it's hard NOT to simp, but still)
★Once again, just to remind you guys... if there's something that triggers you, DON'T FORCE YOURSELVES TO READ IT. You're not missing out on anything, trust me. I will provide a non-triggering summary of the events towards the end of the chapter to keep you updated, but seriously, prioritize yourselves first.
★Don't forget to vote and comment if you like what I'm writing, because it's very motivating for me, and I may or may not be a whore for reassurances.
★I don't mind criticism either, so feel free to express your genuine thoughts. However, if you're gonna be a dumb bitch about it, you could always stop reading as I don't tolerate bullshit.
There's a fine line between criticism and toxic hatred.
★If you ever need to vent or confide in a stranger about anything at all, my dms are always open for you <3
Prompt: Faramir invites an old friend back to Minas Tirith
A/N: It's a little different, just slightly, to how I usually write. It's a rollercoaster, and it's long, so get yourself a hot beverage and prepare yourself for 6k words worth of brainrot.
Faramir x Reader
Fem reader
No content warnings
6.2k words
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You paced the lavish sitting room, throwing irritated looks at all the doors. Faramir was a busy man, you knew, but he had always been punctual. With a groan you sank into the cushioned bench and stared out of the tall, pointed windows.
Minas Tirith had changed since you were last in the city as a girl. Gone was the heavy atmosphere, the distant encroaching darkness on the horizon, The Dead Tree, its gnarled branches cold and bare, the darkened halls, haunted by Denethor’s bitterness.
The city had thrived under the new king’s rule and the new steward’s management. The white stone glowed in the sunlight, vines grew across walls and flowers blossomed in window boxes, there was chatter in the streets and laughter in the halls.
It was no mystery then, why Faramir wrote to invite you back into the city, now renewed and reborn. No, the mystery was why he wrote to you at all.
You had only known him for a year, more than ten years ago. Just two young teenagers, bickering with each other over readings while the tutor tried to calm the both of you. He had been a scrawny thing then, growing taller, but not broader. Not quite a man, like his brother was growing into, not quite a boy, like the other children in the Citadel. His hair too, had been at an awkward length, shaggy around his ears, falling about his forehead and into his grey eyes.
But while Boromir might have been the bolder of the two back then, when it came to academics, Faramir was just as eager. He had been relentless in his pursuit of knowledge, hounding the tutors and dogging the librarians, and, more than once, your spirited debates with him had drawn a small crowd of curious onlookers in the Citadel. There was even a time where you had to race him to the library to get your hands on some coveted book before he did.
But perhaps, the most infuriating thing about him was his kindness.
How he would smile softly after an intellectual argument, as though consoling you, if you had lost, or congratulating you, if you had won. How he would share his notes with you if you had missed lessons, or gift you with chocolate in return for a peek at your own writings. How he would walk you back to your rooms after classes, showing you shortcuts and asking about your day.
How he had offered you his handkerchief and wiped your tears away the night before you left the city with your uncle.
Your heart clenched and you blinked yourself back into the sitting room.
There were voices in the corridor now, and hurried footsteps. You stood and straightened yourself, smoothing the creases in your dress and schooling your features into something neutral.
The door swung open and a man walked in.
He was tall and broad with the build of an archer, with steady legs and strong arms. His light brown hair fell in gentle waves to his shoulder, and his beard was short and well-trimmed. You took in his sharp jaw, his pink lips, his face, handsome, noble, familiar somehow.
His grey eyes sparkled in the late afternoon light and a jolt shot through you.
Faramir.
You stared at him and his barely-there smile grew.
“You’re late,” you blurted.
His eyes widened in shock before he shook his head and chuckled. “And I was told you arrived early.” His voice was low and rich, inviting and warm.
Faramir. This man was Faramir. Solid, handsome, real.
“You have my apologies,” he continued. “There was a meeting that ran over. I did not intend for you to wait so long for me.”
“It’s no matter, I was just admiring the city. A lot has changed.” You turned away from him, scolding your racing heart and chastising your rapidly flushing cheeks. You sucked in a breath and straightened your spine. It was just Faramir.
He came to join you by the window and you kept your eyes fixed on the plains beyond the buildings. “Your letter surprised me,” you said. “I hardly thought I ever crossed your mind.”
A laugh escaped from him, short and sharp. “You’re still the same.”
Your head snapped towards him and you narrowed your eyes. His easy, unfazed demeanour rankled something in you. “It is quite a slight, being told one hasn’t changed in so many years.”
Did he still see you as that awkward, graceless girl? Someone who had not filled out her dresses yet, who made ill-timed comments in conversations, who battled with her skin, her hair, her sharpening mind and her rapidly fading childhood.
He blinked at you, jaw agape. “I did not mean… I simply meant…” He laughed again and gave you a rueful smile. “Forgive me. What I should have said, I suppose, is that I am glad to see you again.”
That strange, foolish feeling was rising in you, like you were fourteen again and you had said the wrong thing at the dinner table. You fought the urge to cross your arms and you nodded slowly. “I am glad to… to be back. Thank you for your generous invitation.”
The words felt strange in your mouth. So formal and distant. Polite. You gestured woodenly at the view. “My uncle would have been pleased at how well the country is doing.”
“I am sorry to hear about your uncle.”
“It has been a few years now.” You hazarded a look at him. His eyes had melted into something soft. You forced yourself to hold his gaze. “I am sorry about your father and,” your breath hitched, “and Boromir.”
“Yes,” he said, voice low. “It has been quiet in the Steward’s House of late.”
Your chest constricted and you wanted to reach out, to lay a hand on his arm, to say, I too have been left alone by all who loved me.
He cleared his throat and nodded at the door. “Has anyone shown you to your rooms yet? I thought that the one on the second floor, that faces east, would be best. But if you’d prefer your old room, I’m certain we can —”
“No.” You swallowed and flashed him a smile, burying the discomfiting feeling. “I mean… No, thank you. I’m sure what you have prepared will be suitable.”
A bell tower somewhere chimed the hour and he grimaced. “I’m sorry but I have another meeting, the last of the day, in a few minutes. Would you be happy to join me for dinner? It would not be anything formal. We could even dine outside, if the fine weather holds. There is so much I wish to discuss with you.”
It was jarring to hear those words coming from Faramir’s lips. Invitations to dinner were something said between two adults, not adolescents.
But you were no longer fourteen, and Faramir was a man now. A friend.
A stranger.
“Yes, dinner outside would be lovely,” you said. “I look forward to it.”
He broke out into a wide smile. “I shall send someone to show you to your rooms, and please, if there is anything you should require, just ask.”
“Of course, thank you.”
He reached out and took your hand, large fingers enveloping your own, and gave it a light squeeze. “I shall see you in a few hours.”
He withdrew with a smile and closed the door behind him.
You stared at your hand for a moment, heat rising to your cheeks, before scowling and scrubbing it against your dress.
-
The evening breeze swept through the open doors and the candles on the table flickered. The temperature had dropped with the sunset, and in the end Faramir had settled for dining in one of the rooms that opened up to a courtyard. Trees rustled and crickets chirped and music from another part of the Citadel drifted over the walls. The warmth from the lit fire licked at his back and he belatedly wondered if he should have offered you the warmer seat instead.
Faramir caught his eyes wandering from some vague spot behind you to your face again. You were focused on the last bit of roasted meat on your plate, cutting it into dainty pieces before lifting it to your lips. He let his eyes trail over your hair, braided and pinned, to the softness of your cheek, the angle of your jaw.
When he had seen you that afternoon he could scarcely believe his eyes. He did not expect you to stay the same, of course, and yet… the sight of you, grown, beautiful and striking, made his pulse jump.
Where was the girl he had known? Who had picked up her skirts and clambered up walls with him, whose quick wit had both frustrated and delighted him? Was she gone, suppressed by etiquette lessons and laced up gowns, washed away by time and tempered by misfortune?
But then you had opened your mouth and bluntly stated his tardiness and he couldn’t help but laugh. No, your spirit was still unchanged, your fire still undimmed.
You looked up and his eyes skittered away. His palms grew clammy and he exhaled. Valar, he was acting like a silly boy, sneaking looks at you across the table, filling his mouth with food instead of conversation.
“What is the matter, Faramir?”
“Nothing.” He smiled.
You had an inquisitive look on your face, half-curious, half-challenging. The same sort of expression you used to wear before launching into an argument. “You were looking at me.”
Heat started to creep up his neck and he dropped his eyes back to his nearly empty plate. “I was just thinking.”
He heard your intake of breath and he prepared himself for an onslaught of words, ready for the cajoling comments and prodding persuasions that you always used to coax him to speak.
Instead, he heard the clatter of cutlery and he looked up to find you arranging your fork and knife at the side of your plate. You glanced towards the open door and, something in that small action, so intensely familiar, made the words tumble from his lips.
“Would you like to go on a walk?”
“I…” Your astonished look morphed into one of suspicion. “How did you know?”
“You used to walk after meals, if I remember correctly.”
“I didn’t think you noticed.”
He noticed. Of course, he noticed. Boromir had once pulled him aside, warning him that if he did not get his looks and glances under control, their father might start getting ideas for future marriage matches. He had wondered if your uncle had realised this and that was why he had whisked you off to the family estate back in North Lebennin when autumn arrived once more.
In truth, Faramir never found out the reason; he was never told, and he never asked.
He grinned and stood. A walk would be good. Dinner had been pleasant, with the usual, banal questions asked and answered. Proper and polite. A far cry from shared smirks and ceaseless chatter you once shared with him. Perhaps some movement would ease the atmosphere. “Shall we walk? Is there any place you would like to see first?”
You paused for a moment, biting your lower lip, before a sly smile crept onto your face. “The old lookout tower. The one that overlooked the Houses of Healing.”
“I do hope you won’t chase me up it. I do not think the excitement would agree with the food we just ate.”
“I won’t.” You looked out at the courtyard then back at him, eyes now dancing with mirth. “Are you becoming old and decrepit?”
“More like sensible and wise.” He walked over to the hooks by the door and reached for the two cloaks that hung there. “Here, you are welcome to borrow one of mine. It is cold out.”
He offered you the thicker one and watched as you ran your fingers over the soft wool before throwing it around your shoulders. It fell past your feet, pooling on the floor, and the sight of you swathed in his cloak stirred something in him.
He led you out into the courtyard and then onto the open ramparts. Hundreds of little lights flickered in the city below. It was quiet, save for the distant bustle of the kitchens and the rustle of the guards shifting on their feet. The wind carried your perfume to him and he inhaled the sweet scent of lilies.
“I have always wondered,” he said, “why you left Minas Tirith.”
“My uncle was worried about me growing up in court. I think he wanted to avoid any pressure that might have befallen me. Marriage offers and gossip and the kind.” You looked away, towards the plains. “I was sorry to leave, but I am glad that I had gone.”
His heart dropped. Had he been selfish? Writing to you and asking you to visit the city when you were clearly happy out in the country? Had you not thought of him once in all the years? He swallowed. “Does it bring you pain to be here?”
“No, not at all.” You shook your head and laughed, and his shoulders relaxed. “I simply meant that I think he made the right decision. It might have been a little boring, but I grew up unrestrained.”
“I do hope you will enjoy the excitement of the city.”
“The change of scenery is refreshing. And I will confess that a break from my responsibilities back home is welcome.”
He noticed then, the shadows under your eyes, the weary tinge in your smiles.
Yes, the both of you were no longer children.
The old, crumbling tower neared and your steps quickened. You paused at the base of the steps, throwing a mischievous look over your shoulder, before vanishing up the stairs. He chuckled and hurried after you, taking the steps two at a time. “You said you would not race me!”
“I said I would not chase you up it!”
He caught sight of the edge of his cloak and the flash of deep purple silk underneath it as he rounded the corner. “So you’ll have me chase you instead?”
Your laugh echoed in the narrow stairwell. “I have no doubt that you’ll catch up. You were always the faster one.”
“And you always the cheater.”
“It is called levelling the playing field.”
The gap between you and him rapidly narrowed, and as the both of you emerged at the top, his hand closed around your shoulder before he could stop himself. You turned, flushed and giggling, eyes alight. Laughter rose in his chest and he chuckled, breathless and buoyant. “You’ll get me into trouble. Like before.”
“Faramir, you are the steward. There is no one to get in trouble with.” You grinned at him before striding towards the merlons. “In any case, I have no plans to lob mushy apples from here so you need not worry about disgruntled guards and unfortunate citizens.”
“I always have to worry about disgruntled guards and unfortunate citizens. It is no easy feat, running a city like Minas Tirith.”
“I can imagine.” Your voice was soft, sympathetic.
He strolled towards you, and you glanced behind at him, shadows from the flickering torches dancing across your face. Your eyes were intense, searching. Valar, he could never stand to hold your gaze when it was like this. It was as though you saw through him.
“Faramir, why did you ask me here?”
He shoved his hands into his pockets, feeling boyish and clumsy. “I was… clearing some of the rooms in the Steward’s House when I chanced upon our old classroom. I found one of your old essays.”
“A beastly thing, I’m sure.”
He slowed to a stop beside you, close enough that your cloak fluttered against his legs when the wind blew. “It was rather good, actually. I’m certain you would have made a valuable advisor if you had stayed in court.”
“Well,” you scoffed. “I do not think the court missed us much when my uncle and I left.”
“Boromir and I did.”
“You did not write.”
“I was not certain I was allowed to. Father refused to tell me anything, and then there were other matters. Training, classes, scouting missions.”
He felt a pang in his chest. In truth, he had thought of you over the years, but there were always things to attend to. His father’s growing resentment, his strange prophetic dreams, city matters and trade routes.
The War.
It had been a sleepless night when he had wandered the empty halls, opening old doors and peering into neglected rooms, when he stumbled upon the old classroom. It was still and dusty, books stacked by the window and sheets of paper on one of the tables, abandoned as though someone intended to come back, but never did.
He had been hit with an intense loneliness, a hollowness, an aching.
When he had seen your familiar scrawl on the sheets of paper, along with an unflattering sketch of the tutor, the memory of your playful smile flashed into his mind. And then there was a comforting warmth in his chest, and then for the first time in weeks, he had laughed.
“Faramir,” you said, and he shook himself out of his thoughts. “I am sorry I did not write either.”
“It is no matter.” A smile tugged at his lips. “We are here now.”
-
“Faramir, if you wobble the ladder I will drop these books on your head.” You gripped the polished wood with one hand and clutched a stack of books to your chest with the other.
“If memory serves, you were the one who had a habit of rattling stools and ladders.”
You glared down at him, scoffing at the grin on his face. He was leaning against the shelf with his arms across his chest, relaxed and languid. That night on the tower had shattered the stiffness between the both of you, and the last week and a half had been filled with nostalgic adventures.
Between his duties, Faramir had shown you the changes in the Citadel, walked with you to the markets and shops, even challenged you to a slingshot contest which he won. There had been dinners on balconies, and picnic lunches in gardens, and midnight snacks in derelict towers.
He had told you about his experience in the war. His heartbreak at finding Boromir’s cloven horn, the near-fatal Osgiliath charge, recovering in the Houses of Healing. And you told him how you had to manage the family estate, the scramble to build temporary houses for the refugees, how many of them chose to settle and work the land instead of returning to the ruins of their villages.
He had smiled at you in that soft way you knew, had given you the unbroken strip of apple skin he peeled, had discussed new theories and topics with you by the light of the fire.
“Are you coming down?” Faramir smirked at you. “Or are you going to add to that dangerously heavy pile in your hands?”
You shook your head and started down the ladder, feeling the rungs with your feet.
The library was empty, the librarian having gone home for the day. Light rain pattered on the windows and a fire crackled somewhere in the room. The library, of all places, had remained the most unchanged. There was something comforting in that, in the musky smells of books and paper, of the plush chairs and rickety stools.
As you neared the bottom, your foot slipped, misjudging the distance to the floor, and you stumbled. Instead of hard stone, you were met with a firm chest at your back and a hand on your waist.
Had Faramir always been this warm and big?
“Are you alright?”
You felt the rumble of his chest, his breath by your ear.
His hand, large, heavy, burned through the thin silk of your dress.
“Yes, thank you.” You stepped out of his touch and fumbled with the books in your arms, rearranging them into a neat stack. Valar, what has gotten into you? It was just Faramir. You shoved the books into his arms and turned away. “Next time you can go up on the ladder.”
“I think I would flatten you if I fell.”
“I’ll be sure to step out of the way.” You forced a laugh and wandered down the aisle. You heard him follow after you, his steps slow and steady.
How could such a simple thing affect you so? It was not as though you were so wholly inexperienced; there had been one or two sweethearts in the past, though most of them were short lived.
Had there been anyone for Faramir? Some pretty thing with a perfect education who could recite poetry and embroider and dance?
Your stomach churned and the twisting feeling in your heart squeezed the traitorous words up your throat. “You know, I am surprised you have not found a partner yet. I would think that the offers must be pouring in.”
“Why would you think such a thing?” He was closer now, just behind you, and you could hear the dismay in his voice.
“The maids, they love to gossip.” You laughed, but it sounded hollow to your ears. “I spoke to a couple of them when I went down to the kitchens two nights ago.”
He fell in step with you and you glanced at him. There was a small smile on his lips but his eyes looked clouded. “There have been offers, yes, but I have declined them all.”
“Unable to find a suitable one?” You arched an eyebrow at him.
“It is not a question of suitability. There is no need for me to choose a partner for their station or standing. Such things never mattered to me, even more so since my family’s passing. I would much rather have someone’s genuine love and affection.”
Of course he would say something of that sort. You smiled to yourself, heart warming at his words. They would be lucky, whoever he loved.
The rain fell harder against the glass and thunder rumbled. You glanced at the window, a memory coalescing in your mind. “Is the little alcove still here? The one behind the curtain?
Faramir grinned and inclined his head towards the back of the library. “I believe so, though it has been some years since I have sat in it.”
He led you to the back of the library where a narrow velvet curtain hung in the corner. He drew the fabric back to reveal a cosy space with a wooden bench built into the wall by the window. The lantern that hung from the low ceiling was dusty and unlit.
You padded over to the bench, bending and inspecting the corners. “It is still here,” you breathed, tracing the two sets of initials carved into the wood. “I cannot believe it.”
He leaned over you, so close that you could inhale his scent. Sandalwood and something, paper perhaps, or mild soap. “So it is.”
You looked up and Faramir’s face was mere centimetres away. Were there always so many yellow flecks in his grey eyes? And his lips… did they always look so soft and inviting?
All you would have to do would be tilt your head, and your lips would connect…
You stepped back and waved stiffly at the lantern. “Shall we light this? We could read here. If you’d like.”
He glanced at the narrow bench. There would be no doubt that the both of you would have to be pressed up in some way to fit.
“If you would like. I think there are might be some oil on the librarian’s desk, and a lit candle, I could —”
“I’ll go.”
You turned around and marched away, pressing your hands to your hot cheeks when you were safely hidden by the shelves. You took a breath. It was just Faramir. You would find the oil and the candles and sit and read with him, and think nothing of lips or kissing or how solid he had felt behind you.
-
Faramir was in a hell of his own making. Truly, it had been all his fault. For the first time, he cursed his gentle nature. If he had chosen not to speak and steered you away from the instrument shop…
How could he have forgotten that he was not the only friend you had made in your youth?
Elphir, the boy, no, the man who made lutes and drums had been one of them as well. And how could Faramir have denied you when you had lit up at the sight of the old shop and nearly tripped over your feet rushing to the door? And when you had asked if Elphir could come to the Citadel in the evenings to teach you how to play, he could not find it in himself to refuse you, even as discomfort settled deep in his stomach.
In some fantastical lapse of judgement, or perhaps in some foolish notion to watch over you, he had offered the sheltered courtyard below his sitting room to you and Elphir, and now music drifted into the room. Teasing, taunting, tormenting in the way it would mingle with your laughs.
He strode over to the window and slammed it shut.
For five evenings now, you had rushed off after dinner to Elphir, returning to your rooms after your lesson without seeing him. The pot of tea you usually shared with him in the evenings sat unfinished and cold on the table each night. Faramir sagged against the stone pillar and stared up at the vaulted ceiling. If Boromir was alive, he would call Faramir a fool and insist that he go over and chase the man away. But what right did he have?
He was not your lover or your partner, and even if he was, it would be unreasonable to get upset over you spending time with another, especially for something as innocent as music lessons. Faramir was your friend and…
He was your friend.
His breath hitched as the thought rippled through his body. Somewhere in the past three weeks he had forgotten that.
When he had written to you, inviting you to the city, he had only planned to reconnect with an old friend. Someone who got along with him, who understood what his family had been like, who was not a soldier or a subordinate.
He did not intend to be run away with his feelings.
He had grown used to you in the Steward’s House. Your shawl was draped over a chair, the table was always laid for two, you wished him goodnight in the evening before you retired. He had even considered clearing the set of rooms next to his own for you so that you did not have to walk through two corridors just to visit him.
But alas, you were not his.
“Faramir!” You burst into the room with a wide smile on your face and he startled. You slowed your steps, tilting your head and lowered the arm that held your lute aloft. “Is something the matter?”
He shook his head and tried to smile. “I was just deep in thought. How was your lesson?”
“There is something I want to show you.” You wandered over to the cushioned seats by the fire. “Will you sit?”
He nodded and sat in the lone arm chair instead of sharing the bench with you. Your brows creased for a moment before you shook your head and positioned your hands on the lute.
A haunting melody began to fill the room. It was simple, no more than five or six notes that changed subtly every few bars. It tugged at something in his mind, a dream perhaps, or a memory.
A woman humming, a gentle hand on his cheek, the comforting scent of beeswax.
“My mother,” he whispered, frozen where he sat. “She used to sing this to Boromir and me. To get us to sleep.”
Your playing petered out and you looked up at him. “You used to hum it when we were younger, when you thought no one could hear.” You laid your lute to the side. “Elphir taught me the basics of playing. I taught myself the song. In the night, after my classes.”
He felt the corners of his eyes start to burn and he glanced away. How could he not love you now?
“I am sorry, if I shouldn’t have —”
“Please do not apologise. I…” He shook his head and dabbed at his eyes. “ She would be happy to hear these rooms filled with her music once more.”
You came over to him and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder, your thumb soothing the tension in his muscles with its idle strokes. His eyes focused and unfocused on the decorative ribbons on the bodice of your dress. The crackle of the fire and the rhythmic sound of breathing filled the space between your bodies. He felt your hand drift towards the side of his neck, your thumb just grazing the edge of his jaw, and he slowly, slowly looked up at you.
Your eyes were soft and half-lidded, your lips slightly parted.
He did not dare move, did not dare breathe.
“Faramir.” He shivered at the sigh in your voice. “I—”
A knock sounded on the door and you jerked away from him. Cold air replaced where your heated hand had been.
A muffled voice came through the door. “I have your tea, sir.”
“The tea,” he muttered, rising to his feet. “Would you like to…”
“It has been a long day,” you said, snatching up your lute and striding to the door. “I… Goodnight.”
You flung the door open and he heard the startled squeak of the maid followed by the rapid patter of your footsteps.
-
You slammed your room door shut behind you and leaned against it. Your breaths came short and quick, chest heaving and skin searing.
What had you almost done? What words were going to spill from your traitorous lips?
It was just Faramir.
Just… a friend.
You shook your head and slumped to the floor. There was nothing decidedly friendly about what had just passed between the both of you. And… and what? What could possibly happen between you and him? You had an estate waiting for you in Lebennin, there were people who needed your instruction and leadership. And Faramir was the Steward of Gondor; the people needed him as well.
Your trip to Minas Tirith was supposed to be nothing more than a visit to an old friend. You had forgotten yourself. For so many years you had run the estate on your own, had resigned yourself to quiet meals in the day and lonely nights in the study. There was no time, no place, to entertain such ridiculous notions like love.
And yet…
You stared at your hands, hands that had held him for just a moment, had felt the coarseness of his beard and the beat of his heart.
Want burned in you.
Want for his lips, his hands. For his gentle smile, for his joyous laughter. For a permanent seat at the table, for space on his shelves for your books.
-
Faramir stared at the tea tray on the table. Two cups, two saucers. A full pot of tea.
He stroked the side of his jaw, his own fingers feeling indelicate compared to your touch. There was no mistaking the look in your eyes, desire mixed with tenderness. Perhaps it was not so ridiculous to think that you might return at least a fraction of what he felt for you.
His stomach swooped and a strangled laugh burst from him.
But was it just a flash of fancy, borne from the moment? A reckless action in the dim of the night?
Were you going to slip from him, retreat back into your shell of polite distance? He would not be able to bear it, to hear your stilted words, to have you shrink away from his casual touches. To have you vanish again, taking your laughter and your light away with you.
Should he go to you? Would that be impertinent? But he had lost you once before with his inaction, and only a fool would not learn from their mistakes.
-
You tugged the borrowed cloak on your shoulders closer around you. It smelled like Faramir, like sandalwood and that evasive something, ink perhaps. Mist had descended on the Citadel and drifted across the parapets like sheer curtains. Your steps were soft on the stone and you wandered from torch to torch, veering closer for warmth, roaming further for the cover of shadow. The guards paid you little attention, and the stars overhead twinkled unbothered.
Twice you had tried to walk to Faramir’s room, twice you had turned on your heel and fled back to your rooms. In the end, your room had become stifling and you rushed out into the open air.
Your blood had cooled and, now in the starkness of the open night, you felt foolish.
You paused by the old watchtower, leaning on the cold stone and staring down at the Houses of Healing. You would apologise when you saw him next, and then perhaps it was time to return to the family estate…
Muffled footsteps approached and you turned.
Faramir emerged from the mist, still in his day clothes, his hair mussed and his eyes tired.
“Faramir,” you whispered, arms falling to your sides. You opened your mouth to speak, but your rehearsed speech refused to leave your lips.
He came to a stop in front of you, a disarming smile on his face. “Somehow, I am not surprised to find you here.”
“Were you looking for me?”
He nodded, and amusement coloured his smile. “I suppose, in a way, I have always been looking for you.”
“Is there something you wanted from me?”
His twinkling eyes grew serious. “I wished to speak to you.”
You turned away, suddenly unsure, but his hand reached for yours. His thumb caressed your knuckles and you lifted your eyes to him. “What about?”
“I think you already know.”
You swallowed and tried to speak, but the words stayed lodged in your throat, and your eyes fell to your joined hands.
“I have never been good at disguising my feelings,” he said, voice soft and low. “I am sure you must be aware…”
Aware? Aware of what? His feelings? That he only viewed you as a friend, and that perhaps you had taken advantage of his kindness, mistaken it for affection and…
His fingers skimmed your chin, gently urging it up. His grey eyes were alight, burning almost, with an open passion so rarely seen in him. You scarcely dared to look away. Your heart pounded in your ears.
“Perhaps I have always loved you, even before I realised what that word meant. I was too young, too naive.” He cupped your cheek and you leaned into his touch. “But we are older now. And I can say for certain that I… I —”
You surged forward and pressed your lips to his. They were pillowy and soft and carried a trace of bitterness from the tea. He deepened the kiss, pulling you flush against him. You laid a hand on his chest, fingers splaying across his heart. He sighed into your lips, his exhale hot on your skin. You felt him grin and you nudged his nose with yours.
“I think,” you muttered, “I have wanted to do that for a long time now.”
He laughed and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “You are welcome to do it any time you wish.”
“Faramir, why me? And after so many years since we last saw each other.”
“Can such a thing truly be explained?” He hummed to himself. “I suppose the simplest answer I can give is that you bring me joy. And perhaps also, I think we make good partners. We have always made good partners.”
You sobered at his words. “Faramir, we are not children anymore. My estate… I cannot leave it unmanaged. And I have neglected my duties already these past weeks.”
“We will find a way,” he assured. “It is only a full day’s ride from Minas Tirith, is it not?”
“Less, if one has a good horse.”
“Less, I think, if you had the reins.” He chuckled. “We are not children anymore, yes, but that only means that we can truly do as we wish. As we choose.”
You mulled over his words. “And you would choose to have a busy bride, to have to make trips out to the country with her?”
“I choose to have you.” He stroked your cheek. “And you, my love? What would you choose?”
“I choose, I think,” you said with a smile, “to remain where I have always belonged.”
“In Minas Tirith?”
“With you.”
He grinned and wrapped his arms around you. He laughed into your hair and you tucked your nose into his neck. You inhaled his scent, thinking of the unknown, familiar note in it that always eluded you. Thinking of how it smelled like rain and books, of apple peels and bitter tea.
Thinking of how, perhaps, it smelled like home.
---
If you made it this far, holy shit thank you for reading.
I characterised Faramir a little bit differently here. I think I have a tendency to conflate kindness with passivity when it comes to him, but I think he can be pretty intense if he wanted to be.
And also, I feel like this entire piece is tinged with the bittersweetness of growing up, but I hope that it veered more sweet than bitter. To you young'uns out there, truly, I promise you, it is not terrible to grow up ❤️
Summary: Pippin saw you once at the market, and he did not have the slighest idea of who you were. Without a clue on how to flirt with you, he devised a plan, but there are more than a few issues intercepting it.
A/N: This was so cute to write! I have a big soft spot for him, not to mention the other hobbits <3 I apologize for the lack of posts, I'll try to write something weekly but I've been quite busy lately! Also, this isn't the best thing I've ever written, so I apologize if it's not up to my usual standard!
Gender Neutral Hobbit Reader
1.4k+ Words
Pippin stares at the empty parchment paper before him, a groan falling out of his lips. All he can think about is you, the Hobbit he saw at the market. He hadn't the slightest clue of who you were, but he could picture you clearly in his mind, and he even remembered your purchases. A loaf of bread, a jug of milk, apricot and blackberry jam, and a wicker basket stuffed to the brim with strawberries. You had teased one of the market vendors with a sugar-coated smile, and for once, the spoiled boy wished he had to work his life away. It was a startling thought for a slacker.
He dipped his feather back into his inkpot, and dramatically laid his head against his wooden chair. Frodo had asked him for a favor a few hours ago, though that was long forgotten as Pippin dreamt up more thoughts of you. He reimagined your soft looking hair and ruddy cheeks, and your eyes, oh your eyes were mesmerizing. You had made eye contact with him once (he was quite obvious when he stared), and the smile that lit up your face caused his cheeks to instantly redden.
He could not fathom why your presence in his mind would not falter, but it helped him to come to a slight realization. He would either be a coward, and ignore the chance that had been presented to him, or somehow win your heart. How he would achieve such a thing was a mystery to him, but somehow, he would work it out. Perhaps Merry could assist him.
With a frenzied grin, Pippin jumped out of his desk chair and flew out his Hobbit hole. Frodo’s insistence about the favor completely fled his mind, and the task that had been presented to him was left on the desk, without a single blotch of ink upon the paper. The Hobbit would have more than one issue come tomorrow morning.
•••
You laid upon your bed with a content sigh falling out of your lips. It was a bit difficult living alone, but you made it work and had multitudes of profit coming your way. Your daily market trips were a reminder of your childhood and a detox from your busy life, though the trip that morning had been a bit special. You had noticed a stranger among the market stalls that you had never seen before. All of the Hobbits of the Shire usually followed a schedule, which had allowed you to make friends with several of the Hobbits on your market days. You knew all of the vendors by name, and all of the people that attended at that time in the morning. Yet somehow, you had seen a stranger in the crowd.
It threw you off. He was rather good looking too– the kind of man your mother would have encouraged you to go after– but you only glanced at him from time to time. He had curly brown hair and a beautiful smile, and to your embarrassment, you accidentally met his brown eyes at one point. He had flushed pink, and luckily, you had managed to muster up a smile and move on to the jam stall.
It was embarrassing how that incident had quite a hold upon you, and even more so when you had mentally factored another market visit into your schedule. In all honesty, the boy probably would not even be there! You have never seen him all your life, but a feeling in your stomach forced you to have a little hope in your childish fantasy. You were not one to believe in chance and usually stuck to hard reality, but that time, you let your brain carry you away.
•••
Merry was of little to no help to Pippin. He had been a flirt whilst in his tweens, and yet, the only plan he had been able to come up with was to “talk to them!” Pippin had recoiled at the suggestion of merely walking up to you, and the thought of conversing with you sent panic running through his body. He was a hopeless fool and he knew it. Besides, he was not too positive that you would be at the market the next day. All he had done to plan the encounter was to make a few idiotic pick-up lines in his head, and other than that, he had no plan how to even approach you.
He also had not factored another person in his vague equation. Frodo was more than pissed about the lack of a letter from his cousin, and was currently sitting in Bag-End with a frown present on his face. The letter was simple– it would have been an apology to a farmer for an incident Pippin and Merry had blamed on Frodo– and yet the lazy boy could not even procure a lame “sorry.” Frodo was not going down in flames for an incident he had no absolutely no idea about. First, he would find Merry, and then hopefully he could knock some sense into Pippin.
•••
There was a stupid smile on your face as you walked down the path to the market. You had a basket in your hand– although you did not need to buy anything for the week– and a piece of paper in the other. You had written down your name and your address, in case you saw him and the encounter went well. You had dated a few Hobbits before, and the relationships never worked out, but you had a little bit of hope about this. Although you were not sure if the boy even had a thing for you in the first place, you were still grinning and thinking up scenarios in your head.
By the time you arrived, you did not see the familiar head of curly hair among the stalls, and you could not help but let a disappointed sigh fall out of your lips. Patience, you thought, since your gut feelings were almost never wrong.
First, you walked up to the jam stall and paid for another jar of blackberry jam, and had a short conversation with the vendor. Still, he was not there.
You walked around the square with your basket hitting against your leg, and mentally cursed yourself. Of course you had let your fantasies get a hold of you, you always did. With another sigh, you walked over to the fruit stand and purchased a few strawberries. As you were giving the vendor his money, you felt a peculiar tapping at your shoulder.
You turned around with a racing heart– what if it was him!-- and to your surprise it was. His face was beet red and he attempted to stutter out a few words, and you found it stupidly adorable.
“I’m, uh, I’m Pippin.” He mumbled, and you giggled. Your face flushed when you realized how kiddish you were being, but you wanted to keep up your confident facade, and could not falter for a second.
You told him your name with a wide grin and laid a hand on his shoulder to pull him away from the stall as a couple of people approached. He was a nervous fool, and you found it adorable.
“So… you come here often?” He said awkwardly, and you giggled– again– at his expression. He looked like somebody had slapped him.
“Once a week,” you answered, “but then I would not be able to see you often. How about-”
Your date offer was interrupted by a yell, and you cursed under your breath. You had been doing so well! Pippin stiffened and looked around the square, an apologetic look upon his face. Another Hobbit bounded towards him, and you could sense the aggravation that radiated off of him.
“Oh, hello Frodo, do you need something?” Pippin inquired.
“Yes, I need that letter.”
Pippin froze up at Frodo’s word.
“Oh, I forgot about that-”
“Because of some lovely person, yes, Merry told me.” Frodo snapped, and your face heated up a little bit as he turned his head to you. “You must be them, my apologies.”
“It’s no matter. Here, Pip,” you handed the flushed boy the slip of paper in your hand. “I’m free tomorrow at six o’ clock, in case you’d like to come over. Would you?
“Of course!”
“Don’t be late for dinner.”
You sent him an apologetic wave and exited the market square with a triumphant grin on your face. The event didn’t go as you had planned, but it had gone better than you had ever thought it was. Although you were joyful about it, Pippin was in a pool of regret as Frodo dragged him off.
Just a little something something for you guys...as a treat😈
When Simon's away for a while on deployment, it can get lonely. He's knows by the way your texting, when he gets the chance and can text, that you are missing him like crazy. You tell him how you can hardly wait till he returns, how your body is just aching for him something fierce.
And fuck his aching for yours too.
If he could hop on a plane, he would in an instant just to get back to you. Unfortunately, that's not something available to him at the moment.
But that doesn't mean there's nothing for him to do.
Simon knows his baby needs something to take the edge off, something to tide over that insatiable appetite for him until he can come home and fuck her proper the first chance he can get. You never asked for it, but he knew you wouldn't mind.
Ding
Your phone goes off. It's late, but youre no stranger to staying up well past dark; sometimes that was the only way you'd get a minute to talk to Simon when he was away across the world.
You check your phone. It's a text... a picture...
At first glance at the small icon on the lock screen, the image is kind of dark so you have to click on it to bring it up and when you do you nearly faint.
The caption reads: “Gotta be stealthy so they don't fuckin' catch me, but this one's for you sweetheart."
Simon is clearly propped up in his cot, his legs splayed open, shirt off. All that you can see is his thick torso with it's small speckling of light colored hair across his abs. The belt and zipper of his pants are completely undone and the waistband flung open. In one of his meaty hands he has a hold of his cock, already swollen with a little glistening at the top caught in the low light - most definitely a product from thinking of you.
You have to swallow to keep the spit from dribbling down out of the corner your mouth. Instantly you feel the heat rise in your cheeks, burning through your face as the blood pools there. It feels like you are going to pass out.
He's done it, he's taken your breath away in an instant.
Not even recovered from that glorious image your phone dings again, this time downloading something for a few seconds. Your heart pounds in your chest, your breath caught in your lungs, as you wait to see what he's done now.
Ding
It's downloaded. This time it's a video...about a minute long. Your shaky, excited finger instantly clicks play.
"Mmmm..." his breath groan hits your ears as the vision of him stroking his length plays across the screen. His voice in hushed, clearly trying to be as quiet as he can while still making sure you can hear his words. "Fuck darlin', I wish you were here... rather have that sweet little pussy 'round me than my hand."
You've stopped breathing, literally; you could hear a pin drop in the room. The video of his abdominal muscles contracting and releasing as he continues to stroke his cock is all you can focus on now. Looks like he's in the middle of things.
He groans again, his breathing getting faster. "Fuck, I miss ya luv. It's been hell not having ya near for this fuckin' long. Nearly rippin' a hole in my goddamn pants from being so fuckin hard. I swear... gonna absolutely wreck ya when I get back. Don't even bother wearing any panties cause they're gonna get shredded off ya. Nothin', and I mean fuckin' nothin' is gonna keep me from buryin' all this in ya the fuckin' second we're alone. I wanna make you cum so fuckin bad baby."
The video fades out amongst the sound of another low, gravely moan and your sanity is gone. Dear God you were a lucky one tonight. You have to take several minutes just to relearn how to function properly again so you can text him back.
Before you can do that your phone goes off once more.
Ding
One final message pops up on screen: "Think of me later when you cum, sweetheart..."
Oh, you would, you would. And maybe just to be nice...you'd send him something back too.
masterlist | subtle things he does for you | simon my love
simon’s feelings hit him like a truck, as if he's a deer caught in the headlights. he only comes to realize it in the heat of the battle, chests heaving up and down as the two of you hide behind a wall for cover. you tell him to reload first and it's something so insignificant, so minute and yet it pieces things together for him. so he does what his first best. swallow the lump in his neck, ignore the swelling of his heart and focus on what’s next.
except
he sucks at it and boy is it evident.
it is so subtle though, subtle enough for it to slip under everyone’s radars including yours. except, captain price is no fool. he's known simon long enough to see the little change in his demeanor when you enter the room. how simon immediately sits up right, in his best posture, giving you a firm nod of acknowledgment.
how simon always looks your way, always. even when you’re not looking, he’ll still check what you're doing, where you are. it’s not intended to be creepy, it's just a form of reassurance that you’re alive, that you’re okay, that he has another chance to confess. (also the type to lean against the door frame and observe you)
what’s shocking is that even during his infamous cigarette breaks, he chooses to hang out with you. he adores the fact that it’s comfortable silence between the two of you. and more importantly, it contains the two best things he needs, silence and you. “what a view” he thinks to himself.
moreso, the lieutenant’s eye for detail is insane. simon is incredibly nuanced, he can notice when your mood is off, when you’re hurt, irritated or whatsoever. he tries to deal with the issue silently, like handing you a bottle of water, leaving a seat for you beside him, ensuring that he does most of the paper work and so on.
simon reacts at the speed of lightning if he notices you’re hurt or in range of fire. he remembers the one time he ran, grabbing you by the waist to make sure you don’t get shot. your small frame clinging against his, your body weight almost nothing to him and he felt lightheaded. he desperately wanted to keep you in his arms but he settles for asking, “you holdin’ up fine?” as he lets you out of his grip.
he enjoys bantering with you so much. such snide and snarky remarks all the time. from “what? can’t handle a little teasing from your superiors?” to “you know it's bad manners cussing behind your lieutenant’s back,” to “thought you were tough?” to “all that back talk, why don't you come and prove it?” he absolutely loves the reactions you give him.
moreso, when he begins getting more and more comfortable, he invites you eat lunch with him as opposed to with the rest of the soldiers. adores the fact that you both can converse without having eyes on the two of you. “plans for lunch?”
oh and of course, the most difficult moment of his life, when you reached forward on your tippy toes to fix his balaclava, simon thought he’d have a heart attack. took all of his strength to not lean forward and press a kiss to your forehead. “looking alright now?” he jokes, you can almost hear his smirk.
he hates the vulnerability, he does. but what he doesn't hate is the fact that it's you. it's you he’s being vulnerable with. and he repeats it to himself every night that you’re the best choice anyway.
Some chapters of life don’t actually have an apparent ending. They just fade away silently.
It’s a strange feeling to look back at the past sometimes and see how some parts of life have simply dissolved into nothingness. And even though this poem might sound sad, I believe that being mindful of the transience of life actually helps us to feel all the preciousness and beauty of it.
i think the Captain would enjoy some Queen songs. mr ‘i put my whole body into It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’ would be the guy who tries to sing every voice and instrument in Bohemian Rhapsody. he’d appreciate 70s Queen, the sheer theatricality, the operatic influences, the witty lyrics. his favourite song would be Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy, and he’d be one of those people who think Freddie was only singing about himself
Summary: The Avengers were looking for someone to help Loki fit in with the team. To become socially acceptable, so to speak. He had been given the choice of sitting in a cell in Asgard or serving some sort of community service probation on Midgard. The Avengers and Shield both felt that as long as Loki was on Earth, he should be under supervision.
This is now your job. Why? Because you’re a witch. You’re not sure why this qualifies you, but here you are, giving it a shot. What could possibly go wrong?
Relationship: Loki x Witch!Reader
Tags: Witch!Reader, Magic, Witches, slow burn, everybody lives in the tower, character development, Loki‘s redemption, Stephen Strange is a friend, Loki and Stephen are frenemies, Tony Stark is a good bro, kids love Loki, Tony has stupid nicknames for everybody, eventual smut
