âsummary: youâve grown up in the Shire with Pippin Took, best friends since you could barely walk, and youâve always thought life couldnât get any more ordinary⊠until you realize you canât stop noticing him. Between playful races through the hills, quiet mornings under ancient oaks, and your little secret magical abilities that no one else understands, Pippin is hopelessly, ridiculously in love with you and you might just be starting to feel the same. But the road to realising your feelings is never easy. There are whispers of danger, adventures that pull you far from home, jealous little tiffs, mischievous antics, and moments that make your heart leap, break, and mend again⊠all while the rest of the Shire, Frodo, Merry, and even Sam, get caught in the wake of your chaos.
âpairing: Peregrin âPippinâ Took x female!Baggins!(adopted) reader
âword count: ongoing (planned for full-length, ~60 chapters)
âcontent: childhood friends to lovers, slow-burn fluff with whimsical tones, subtle magic and mystical Shire moments, playful Pippin antics, teasing, hand-holding, longing glances, mischievous races, jealousy, soft heartbreaks and rifts, flirtation, slow-burn romance, adventure threads, Frodo, Merry, and Sam as side characters, lingering suspense, magical realism, heartwarming moments, and hopeful endings , reader is sunshine with a mysterious magical side, Pippin is lovesick!hobbit energy, whimsical drama and sweet fluff throughout.
A/N: So⊠I noticed hardly anyone writes fanfiction about Pippin Took (what?!), and I couldnât just let that happen. So I started a story all about him⊠and a new OC, Elowen Baggins Frodoâs little sister (adopted) , but theres something strange about her :) It will absolutelty be a slow burn and longer because i want to give pip the love he deserves! I'll be writing on here and wattpad.
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The Shire had a way of stretching itself thin, rolling out its green hills and silver streams like a patchwork quilt that shimmered in the morning light. The dew clung to every blade of grass, trembling under the gentle breath of wind. Birds trilled and hopped from branch to branch and somewhere far off a waterwheel turned lazily in a sleepy mill. Even the hedgerows seemed to lean closer.
Peregrin Took lay sprawled beneath an oak older than most hobbits, his legs tangled in creeping ivy a stick resting across his chest. He squinted up at the gnarled branches. They stretched high and crooked, twisting toward the sun like arthritic fingers.Â
"What are you hiding?" he muttered. "Is that it? Are you hiding something from me, old oak?"
"Elowen!" he called, letting a pebble bounce off the roots. "Come see! This tree is... boring!"
From the edge of the sunlight she appeared, slipping through the grass and mist like a sprite. Elowen Baggins, ten years old Frodo's younger sister, and already somehow older than she looked, moved with a grace that only some people seemed to notice.Â
"It's not doing nothing," she said softly kneeling beside Pippin, fingers brushing the moss. It shivered at her touch. "It's waiting. Listening. Something stirs beneath the roots."
Pippin blinked. "Something stirs? It's a tree. A boring old tree. Not a troll, not a wizard, not-"
"Some things whisper even when they have no voice," she said, tilting her head, the sunlight catching the edges of her eyes so they seemed brighter than the grass around them. "You just have to notice."
From behind the oak. Frodo, a little older, quiet and careful as always, leaned against the trunk, hands in his pockets. "You're imagining things," he said softly. "It's a tree. Trees don't whisper. Trees do not stir."
"Maybe not," Elowen said, glancing at him, "but some trees can hear. And some trees remember."
Pippin huffed. "Trees remember? That's a new one. I'm too young for trees with memories."
Before more could be said, Merry Brandybuck, skidded into the clearing, leaves sticking to his curly hair, cheeks pink from running. "Pippin! What are you doing now?" His blue eyes flickered from the oak to Pippin, and finally to Elowen who crouched like a cat. "Why are you all staring at a stupid tree?"
"Staring?" Pippin muttered. "It's listening. It's... alive. Well that's what Elowen says."
Elowen smiled faintly, a little secret tucked in her lips, and waved her hand over the moss and the branches seemed to move in the direction opposite the wind. Even Merry frowned. "By the Party Tree... did you do that?"
"I think it likes me," she said simply, brushing her fingers along the bark. "Or maybe it's responding to... something else. Something coming."
"Coming what?" Pippin asked.
She looked at him, calm and certain, eyes shimmering. "Something far away."
Frodo frowned, brushing a strand of hair from his eyes. "Heavy? What do you mean?"
Elowen shook her head. "I cannot tell. Not yet. But the forest can feel it too."
Merry snorted, hands on his hips, and let out a teasing laugh. "Feel it? The trees, Elowen? You mean... the trees are whispering to you now?"
Pippin grinned. "Yeah! What's next? Talking to the grass? Polishing rocks until they tell you secrets?"
Elowen rolled her eyes but smiled faintly, a little sparkle in her gaze. "If the trees are alive, why not notice? Why not feel?"
Merry leaned closer to Pippin and whispered, loud enough for her to hear, "Next, she'll be hugging the mud and gossiping with it."
Pippin snorted. "Don't tempt her, Merry. She might take you seriously."
Elowen laughed softly, a sound that made the morning air lighter, almost dancing. "One day, you'll see. Maybe not the mud, not today but some things the world cannot explain... you will notice too."
Merry shook his head pretending to sigh dramatically. "I'll stick to poking sticks and chasing rabbits, thank you very much."
Frodo smiled faintly stepping closer to the group. "You two will never take her seriously, will you?"
"Never," Pippin said, grinning. "Not unless the trees start walking into the Green Dragon and ordering ale."
Elowen only smiled and gently brushed her fingers along the moss again, silver beetles shifting carefully around her hand. Somehow, even their teasing couldn't touch the quiet gravity of her presence, the little pull in the air that made the world seem a little more... alive.
And somewhere in the roots of the ancient oak, the wind whispered once more. Only Elowen heard it. Only she listened.
-
I.I
A/N: pls pls tell me if anyone would read this i have no idea and want to add more to Pippin's fanfics since there arent that many <3
Summary: This mission wasn't supposed to go as badly as it has. There wasn't supposed to be a blizzard, you weren't supposed to get snowed in at a remote cabin, and there certainly was supposed to be more than one bed. And none of this would be a problem were it not for your completely irrational, ill-advised crush on Loki.
Pairing: Loki x Female Reader
Warnings: Smut, 18+, Minors DNI, p in v sex, fingering, workplace crushes, There Was Only One Bed.
A/N: I didn't think this was going to be the next fic I posted, but this has been 95% finished for over a year and I just figured out the final 5% in the last 72 hours. Don't ask me how my brain works because I truly don't know sometimes. Also, perhaps after you read this, you will think "hey, I would like to read another fic that involves railing Loki in the middle of a blizzard." Well, my friend, then you should read Some Things Are Easier to Say in the Dark by the great @loki-cees-all because not only is there a blizzard and one bed, it is also beautifully written.
You didnât expect this mission to go as badly as it has.
It was supposed to be quick, one of those tidy in and out things that almost feels routineâor at least as routine as things ever get in this line of work.
No one counted on a fucking blizzard, though.
It comes upon you suddenly enough to feel suspiciousâone moment, itâs slate grey skies and barely a puff of wind and the next thing you know, the wind is howling and whipping at your coat and you can barely see three feet ahead of you.
âWhat the fuck is this?â you shout at Loki, who looks just as perplexed as you feel. âI thought you said the radar was clear.â
âIt was,â he says, frowning. He taps at the screen of the device, an overly complicated piece of tech that youâd delegated to him because Tonyâs brief training sessions had made your eyes glaze over. Still, though, you know enough to tell that youâre looking at a weather map and thereâs absolutely no sign of the storm thatâs howling around you.
An uneasy feeling is bubbling in the pit of your stomach and prickling up the back of your neck. Everything about this feels wrong.
âWe need to find shelter,â says Loki. You know him well enough to tell that heâs pretending to be really calm and unbothered because he doesnât want you to know that somethingâs wrong. Normally, youâd call him out on that bullshit, but the creepy crawly feeling running up your spine coupled with the storm that doesnât seem to exist has you itching to get inside as soon as possible.
âThereâs a safehouse just west of this hill,â he continues, tapping at the screen.
âLetâs go, then.â
The trek to the safehouse is fairly demanding, even though the distance is short. Youâre walking straight into the wind, which seems to grow stronger and more biting by the minute. The snow under your feet grows slick with ice and your pace slows to a crawl, though even that doesnât stop you from slipping.
The safehouse turns out to be an unassuming cabin thatâs a little too shabby to be rustic; in the biting wind and dim light of the storm, itâs the most beautiful thing youâve ever seen. You make it to the door and a few minutes later, youâre inside.Â
The cabin has been unoccupied long enough to put a light layer of dust on some of the furniture, but not enough to render anything musty or moth-ridden. It is charming in a way that you donât normally see with S.H.I.E.L.D. safehousesâhandcrafted furniture thatâs a little rough around the edges, pine board floors, a squat wood burning stove in the center of the room that makes you want to curl up and read a book. ItâsâŠhomey and maybe even comfortable, two qualities that S.H.I.E.L.D. is decidedly not known for. Itâs a welcome surprise, given how this mission has gone so far.
Loki bolts the door the moment youâre both inside and quickly turns his attention to the windows.Â
âIâm putting up wards,â he says. Thereâs a grim set to his jaw that you donât particularly like, largely because you only see it when something is wrong.
The back of your neck prickles.
The wood burning stove is not merely decorativeâitâs the cabinâs only heat source. There are a few places that are intended to blend in no matter whatâyou suspect this is one of them. You manage to get a fire going and you settle yourself in front of it while Loki works. You know enough to not interrupt him, even though you feel like youâre about to bubble over with questions.
It takes him a while to finish warding all the windows and you notice he shuts the curtains for each one once heâs finished, which sends another chill up your spine. When he finally joins you by the fire, he looks a little tired.
âSo, I take it you canât just magic that storm away or something,â you say, with a casual sort of tone that sounds strained even to you.
âIt doesnât work like that,â he says, which you sort of expected. The set of his jaw is still tight. âAnd even if it did, this isnât an ordinary storm. Someone is doing this.â
âYeah, I kinda got that impression.â You pause, worrying your lower lip between your teeth. âAny idea who?â
He shakes his head. âSomeone very ancient. Angry.â
You exhale. âGreat. Do I want to know what the deal is with the curtains?â
âWe should not look outside after the sun sets.â
The skin on the back of your neck prickles. âWhy?â
Thereâs a reason that they call Loki âSilvertongue:â he is a compelling, eloquent speaker. And the somewhat irritating part is that he can do this extemporaneously and effortlesslyâhe doesnât need to think about it at all.
So the fact that he pauses for a moment to think scares you a lot. His gaze drifts to the fire, quiet and thoughtful, as though he might find his answers written in the embers.
âImagine every ghost story you heard as a child coming true,â he says finally.
You donât like how spare he is on the details, but an icy chill works its way up your spine and you get the eerie sense that someone is listening. Suddenly, you donât feel like asking any more questions.
âOkay,â you say softly.
*
Being in close quarters with Loki isâŠsomething.
There was a time early on, back when you first started working together when you thought something could maybe happen between the two of you. It was hard not toâLoki is attractive, certainly, but he has a particular magnetic quality that can make a stadium full of people think that heâs talking just to them (incidentally, this is also one of the qualities that gets red flags and warnings added to his file at S.H.I.E.L.D.) When you experience that up close, wellâŠitâs intense, to say the least. It becomes easy to believe that his smiles mean something more, that he sees something intriguing in you.
Your feelings for Loki arenât exactly a crush, or at least thatâs what you tell yourself. Crushes are silly infatuations that make people do incredibly stupid things and entertain incredibly stupid hopes. You are a professional with a good head on your shoulders: you know better. Youâre attracted to him, but it doesnât matter because nothing is going to happen.
Perhaps more importantly: Loki is a god and you are not. You have a good relationshipâyour banter comes easily and he seems to enjoy talking to you more than he likes talking to the average personâbut itâs strictly professional and thatâs all it ever will be. The fact that youâve been working closely together for three years without a hint of anything romantic only confirms your theory. Heâs your colleague, nothing more.
ExceptâŠbeing trapped in a small cabin with him is dredging up a whole swarm of feelings that you would have sworn you had gotten over.
Which, again, is another feeling you thought you were over.
The wood burning stove is doing its best to keep up, but itâs still no match for the storm outside, even though Lokiâs done something to the logs to keep them regenerating as they burn. You dig out an extra pair of woolen socks from your pack and pull on your fleece over your sweater and long sleeved thermal. You pile your coat on top of your sleeping bag, along with your share of the scratchy wool blankets youâd pulled out of the cedar chest by the foot of the bed.
Loki watches you with the lightly amused look that always feels like he must be quietly making fun of you.
âWhat?â you say as you settle yourself under the blankets. âSome of us are delicate mortals who find the cold a little uncomfortable.â
âI said absolutely nothing,â he says, though the glimmer in his eyes undercuts his point.
âYou were thinking it.â
âOh, the things I think of would turn your head, darling.â
You know that thereâs no innuendo specific to you in that statement, but your body reacts like there is: your heart and stomach do a complicated series of flips that would put trapeze artists to shame and a heavy, familiar heat stirs hopefully in your hips. Outwardly, you roll your eyes at him and focus on arranging the blankets over your legs.Â
âIâm well aware that your mind is a kaleidoscope of horrors,â you say.Â
âOh, I wouldnât say itâs horrors so much asââ
You recognize that look in his eye: it is the herald of something wildly inappropriate. And while youâre no prude, the reality is that youâre about to share a bed with him and you will have no outlet for whatever feelings of lust this will inevitably provoke. Time to change the subject to something as far away from sex as possible, which happens to be whatever creepy fuckery is happening outside.Â
âSpeaking of horrors: why are you being so cagey about whatâs going on out there?â you say.
You almost feel a little guilty as the teasing expression disappears from his face and settles into something grimmer. âItâs safer this way,â he says as he sets about preparing his own sleeping bag and blankets.
âThat doesnât really answer my question,â you say.
âI know.â
It occurs to you that this is a perfect example of the cryptic bullshit that makes his intentions so hard to read. Is he saying this because he cares about you? Is he trying to prevent problems down the road? All of the above or something else entirely? Nobody fucking knows, least of all you.
You scowl at him and he looks completely unbothered, which is typical.
âI hate it when you do this, you know,â you say.
Thereâs a slight twitch to his lips that could be a hint of a smile and youâre embarrassed by how giddy that makes you feel.Â
âI know,â he says.
âIt makes me feel like you donât trust me or something.â
He stops what heâs doing and looks at you and his face is so honest and open that it makes your breath catch in your throat.
âOf course I trust you,â he says.
Thereâs something unsaid in his expression and youâre not quite sure what it is, but it leaves you with a warm glow in your chest.
âOkay,â you say softly.
For the briefest of moments, the difference between god and human doesnât feel so impossibly vast.
But itâs only a moment.
*
You fall asleep quickly, even with Loki lying so close by that you could count his breaths if you wanted to.
You wake sometime in the middle of the night. The wind is still howling outside. Your mouth is dry and you fumble on the nightstand for your water bottle. Your fingers close around empty space and it occurs to you that youâd left it over by the fire.
You lie still, staring at the ceiling. The blankets have warmed up with your body heat and youâre not keen to brave the chill of the cabin. You could wake Loki up, maybe ask him to summon your water bottle to you. You nearly snort with laughter at the thought. That would go over well.
After a moment, you muster up all of your strength and willpower and haul yourself out of bed.
Itâs not as bad as you thought it would be, in the end. You pad over to the fire and take a long drink from your water bottle, which turns out to be almost empty. You go to the little kitchen to refill it, idly listening to the wind howl outside.
You wonder if itâs still snowing, if the snow is piling up in drifts against the doors and windows, freezing you in. The thought of being stranded here with Loki is admittedly appealing.
Your brain is still a fuzzy from sleep and youâre a little distracted thinking about being snowed in with Loki and for just a moment, you forget what he said about not looking outside. You reach up to the kitchen window and push the fabric of the curtain aside to see how bad the snow is.
Youâre not frightened at first because you only see shadows, but after a moment, you realize that the shadows are moving in an unnatural, broken sort of way, like someone had sculpted them into rough facsimiles of people and commanded them to walk, without really explaining what walking was.
Quite suddenly, they all turn and look at you. Or they would be looking at you if they had eyes. There is simply a void where their faces are, though somehow you can tell that their mouths are open, gaping and hungry, showing all of their teeth.
You feel something hook into the thread of your thoughts, tugging and pulling at your mind. The world tilts on its axis and thereâs a sharp and white hot burning at the base of your skull that makes you cry out.
In the haze of pain, you think to yourself that itâs like theyâre trying to take your soul and the shadows grin at you with too many teeth and a hissing, sibilant chorus of voices says, yes, we are hungry. So very hungry.
You know in that moment that they intend to kill you.
You are leaning closer to the window, your thoughts growing dark and murky as something saws away at the thing that tethers your soul to your body and there is so much pain and all of those horrible spindly hands and grinning mouths are reaching for youâ
Someone is grabbing you around the waist and you scream because you think this must be the end, but instead, theyâre pulling you away from the window and yanking the curtain closed and you realize itâs Loki.
There is a flash of green light and the connection between you and whatever is outside breaks abruptly and the pain retreats to a dull ache, like your body is carefully starting to repair those shredded, fraying threads that the shadows were tugging on.Â
Lokiâs eyes are wild and he looks at you like he half expects you to disintegrate or melt into the shadows. You are suddenly shaking so badly that your legs start to buckle.
âIâm s-s-sorry,â you say through chattering teeth. The cold you feel is bone deep and unnatural. âF-f-forgot.â
âFoolish girl.â He says it without malice, almost with affection, though his face is drawn tight with something like worry. Your legs are about to fail you, but heâs right there before they can, scooping you up into his arms like itâs nothing.
You snuggle up against his chest almost automatically, your body instinctively seeking out heat. âS-s-s-sorry, c-c-c-cold,â you manage to squeak out.
âI know,â he says and it almost sounds gentle. He is carrying you across the room and climbing back into bed with you in his arms, drawing the pile of blankets and sleeping bags over the two of you.Â
The wind howls and you shudder, realizing for perhaps the first time that it may not be the wind making those noises. Loki stiffens, his grip on you tightening.Â
âDid you see their eyes?â
You shake your head.
You feel some of the tension leave him, though not all.
You have so many questions, but that unnatural, bone deep cold is making you sluggish and sleepy and your teeth are chattering so hard you wonder if youâd even be able to speak at all.
âYou need to rest,â he says. The cold feels like the sort of thing that could easily claim you while you sleep and he must see that fear reflected in your eyes because his expression softens ever so slightly. âRest. Iâll keep you safe.â
You donât like how quickly that line melts you. You tell yourself that itâs only because youâre so cold and tired, but you know thatâs not entirely true.Â
You allow your head to drop to his chest and he readjusts his grip on you, smoothing one hand against your hair, resting his chin on the top of your head. You try to catalog all of the different sensesâthe way he smells like snow and pine, the heat of his body pressed against yours, the feeling of his arms wrapped around youâbut sleep is pulling insistently at your eyelids and you find yourself struggling to stay awake.
âRest,â he says, and this time it sounds like a command.
Your eyes slowly slide shut and sleep finally claims you.
It seems like you sleep for a long time. Your dreams are strange and unsettling and have an odd sort of veneer, like theyâre real but not quite.Â
The first time you wake up, itâs because of a nightmare. You are back at the window and the things outside are threading their fingers underneath the panes, reaching for you with their spindly hands, clacking their too sharp teeth. You donât know where Loki is and youâre trying to back away as they reach for you, and one of them is wrapping its fingers around your wrist and you can see its eyes andâ
You thrash out in your sleep and gentle hands are soothing you. You wake abruptly, shaking, blearily looking up at Lokiâs face.
âTheyâthey were coming for me,â you manage to sputter out.
âShh.â Loki is stroking your back. âYouâre safe. I wonât let them harm you.â
Your pounding heartbeat takes a moment to settle, but the gentle pressure of Lokiâs hands on your back calms you slightly. Thereâs a tenderness in his actions that you donât necessarily expect, but it also feels so right and natural that you wonder how you could have ever been surprised by it.
âWhat are they?â you ask.
âThatâs an answer for daylight, love,â he says. âGo back to sleep. Youâre safe.â
You want to protest and push for answers, but youâre so very tired and heâs smoothing your hair again and you can feel exhaustion tugging at your eyelids, ready to pull you back under.
âIâm holding you to that,â you manage to mumble at him. âIâm not going to forget.â
âIâd expect nothing less.â You can hear the smile in his voice. âSleep, darling.â
You fall back under.
Your dreams are still wild and strange this time around. You wake again a few hours later, teeth chattering and tears streaming down your face. Loki wraps you even more tightly in his arms, drawing more blankets over the two of you, conjuring an additional pile of furs. You try to tell him to save his magic for the wards and the fire, but he hushes you and mutters something about how thatâs not exactly how it works, even though youâre pretty sure it is.
You sleep again.
You have a half memory of him quieting you and pressing his lips against your forehead, but youâre not quite sure if itâs real or wishful thinking.
When you wake again, itâs still dark and the wind is still howling. The cold has retreated somewhatâitâs not as sharp, not as biting, but you still need the warmth of the blankets and Lokiâs arms to keep it at bay.
Youâre a bit more clearheaded now, so thereâs part of you that feels a little embarrassed about what happened. It was a stupid mistake. Rookie level. You know better.
âAre you awake?â Lokiâs voice rumbles pleasantly against your ear.
âSort of.â You hope he continues holding you. Youâre not quite ready to give up his warmth or his arms just yet.
âHow is one âsort ofâ awake? Either you arenât or you are,â he says.
âIâm very talented,â you say. Itâs not particularly funny, but he humors you with a soft laugh, more exhalation than anything else.
âHow do you feel?â he asks.
âStill cold,â you say. While it is true, youâre also secretly hoping that the more you emphasize this, the more likely he is to continue holding you. âItâs better than it was, but itâs still bad.â
As if to prove a point, a shudder works its way through you. Loki shifts, rolling over so his body covers yours, pulling the blankets up so they cover your shoulders. It helps, but thereâs now a degree of intimacy there that makes your heart stumble in your chest and your breath catch in your throat. You know he doesnât mean anything by it, but with his green eyes bright above you, you canât help but hope he does.
Leave it to him to ruin the moment.
âThat was very foolish of you,â he says, his expression becoming serious and his voice taking on that hard edge that you only hear when heâs trying to pick a fight.
You exhale sharply. âAre you seriously trying to do this right now? I told you it was an accident. I was half asleep.â
âIâm not fond of close calls,â he says tightly.
âOh bullshit,â you snap. âYou fucking love chaos, donât tellââ
âItâs not chaos, it was foolish and dangerousââ
âFor fuckâs sake, do you think Iâm not aware of that? Iâm notââ
âYou could have died.â Heâs not yelling, but heâs raising his voice and thereâs an unexpectedly strained quality to his tone that you donât know what to do with. âItâs not chaos, itâs not an accident, itâsââ
For a moment, he seems like he might be at a loss for words, and for some reason, this enrages you.
âItâs what, Loki?â you say with more venom than you intend. âPlease enlighten me, since youâre such a fucking expert.â
Youâre not quite sure what line youâve crossed, but you think it must be an important one based on how angry he looks.
âYou truly are infuriating,â he says. âYou nearly get yourself killed and you have the audacity to speak that way to me after I save your life!?â
And before you can say a word, he brings his mouth down on yours in a bruising kiss.
His tongue sweeps past your lips, seeking out yours, demanding and hungry. Your response is reflexive and instinctive, your lips parting, tongue meeting his. You return his kiss, even though youâre still a little mad at him and heâs maybe still a little mad at you. But his mouth loses that hard edge as you kiss him back, his touch turning softer, more tender, but still urgent and wanting.
âDo not scare me like that ever again,â he murmurs against your lips, kissing you in between words, each pause punctuated by the soft caress of his lips, the silky warmth of his tongue. âDo you have any idea what youâve put me through?â
You are astonished and somewhat perplexed. âIâŠI didnât even know that youâŠthat you wanted thisââ
âDarling, I have thought of little else.â
His mouth covers yours again and you are drowning in the feeling of him. The cold that has settled in your bones is melting like snow in springtime. You move your hands along his shoulders, tentative at first, then a little braver. You thread your fingers through his hair, marveling at how soft and smooth it is. He deepens the kiss, his fingertips tracing the curve of your cheekbones.Â
Itâs dizzingly good and you want more. You need more. You arch against him in a clear invitation, reveling in how perfectly his body fits against yours. He sighs and presses back against you briefly before pulling away.
âYou should rest,â he says, his voice slightly strained. âYou experienced some very powerful magicâI donât want you to overexert yourself.â
âI wonât,â you say, tugging him back down to you. He allows this for a moment, his hands cupping your cheeks as he deepens the kiss with toe curling intensity.
And then he draws back.
âYou really do need to rest,â he says.
You shake your head. âI need you, Loki.â
His lips and tongue are just as insistent as yours when you pull him back into a kiss. You can feel him growing hard against your thigh and when you wrap your legs around his waist and rock your hips against him, he groans and nips at your lip before withdrawing again.
âDarling,â he says, his voice a little hoarse, like heâs barely holding himself back.
âI can stay on my back,â you say.
âAppealing as that is, youâre rather ignoring my point.â
âAnd youâre ignoring mine,â you say, rolling your hips again. His eyes close for a moment as he presses back against you, his hand sliding along your thigh. Your hands grip the fabric of his shirt, pulling him back down into a kiss that he returns without protest.
You catch his lower lip between your teeth and he sucks in a deep breath as he grinds his hips against you.
âPlease,â you breathe. âI need you so bad.â
He groans as he lowers his head to the column of your throat. âIâm trying to keep you safe and youâre tempting me like this.â
âTouch me and tell me I need to rest more than I need you.â
Itâs a bold thing to say and your heart pounds with anticipation as you feel him nip at your collarbone. His hand pauses at your hip, so close to where you need him. You wait a moment and then take his hand in yours and guide it underneath your waistband and between your legs. He lifts his head, gaze snapping to yours and the moment that his fingers graze your slickness, you know that youâve won.
âOh, youâre dripping,â he says, his voice dropping and his eyes darkening with lust as his fingers swipe across your clit.
Youâre tempted to tell him that you told him so, but this still feels so fragile and tenuous that you settle for a more flattering truth: âLoki, I need you.â
âDo you have any idea what youâre doing to me?â He shifts on top of you so that you feel the hard press of his cock against your hip.
âSame thing that youâre doing to me,â you say. âWhich is why I need you to fuck me.â
He sighs, but his fingers donât stop moving. âYou really ought to rest.â
âI can stay on my back,â you say. âYou can take me really slowly and gently. Think about how good that will feel.â
âDarling,â he says. You can see a flicker of hesitation in his eyes and you know that youâve almost won. You feel your orgasm starting to coil like a snake in your belly and you moan, rocking your hips with his hand.
âLoki.â You lick your lips. âDonât you want to feel me come on your cock?â
You know the exact moment he gives inâyou see it in his eyes. Less than a second later, heâs sliding one long finger inside of you and curling it just right.
âNot before I finish what I started.â His voice is a low growl.
âYes,â you breathe, letting your head tip back against the pillow. âGod, that feels so good.â
âI can feel you trembling,â he says, his voice rough. âAre you going to come for me already? Iâve barely touched you.â
âI told you: I need you,â you say.
He raises an eyebrow, his eyes darkening in a very attractive way. âYouâre not getting pert with me, are you?â
Thereâs a particular tone to his voice, a sternness that makes you shiver. Something to explore later, perhapsâright now, you need him too badly to play games.
âNo, just trying to emphasize that I need you.â
âAre you really that desperate for me? Do you really need me that much? Surely you could touch yourself, surely you donât need me that badly.â
You know that heâs saying that to amp you up, to tease you. But you are also so desperate to come that the idea of not having him is beyond comprehension.
âI do,â you say, a bit of desperate note making its way into your voice. âI need you, Loki, I need to come for you, need you to fuck me, please donât make me wait, please, please, pleaseââ
He stops your mouth with a kiss as he eases a second finger inside of you. âIâm going to take care of you, sweet thing,â he says as you gasp at the stretch.Â
His fingers are curling inside of you, his thumb working your clit in small, tight circles that are pushing you closer and closer to the edge as a fantastic pressure builds inside of you.
âOh, thatâs it.â His eyes are dark, pupils wide and lust-blown. âI can feel how close you are.â He brings his lips to your ear. âCome for me and then Iâll fuck you properly.â
Your breath hitches as you reach your peak. âOh godâIâfuck, Iâm coming, Iâmââ
Your voice cuts out as you come, pure pleasure blooming low in your hips, your back arching against the mattress as Loki works you through it, murmuring soft encouragement as he watches you shake in his arms.
âYouâre beautiful when you come undone,â he says, pressing a kiss against your cheek. âUtterly stunning.â
You fumble for the waistband of his pants, your fingers slipping over the fastenings. âI need you,â you say, tugging at the fabric.
His mouth curls into a smile, his eyes dancing with mischief. âAre you quite certain?â
Leather yields to warm skin and you slide your hand into his pants, wrapping your fingers around his cock. He inhales sharply as you stroke him, his eyes turning dark.
âYouâre presenting a very compelling argument,â he says.
âThink about how good youâll feel inside of me,â you say, gently increasing the pressure on his shaft as you move your hand.
âNorns, woman.â But heâs rolling on top of you as he says this and sliding his pants off his hips. He pauses briefly to divest you of your pants and underwear. A shiver works through you during the brief moment when your bare skin is exposed to the chill of the roomâŠand he notices right away, hesitating slightly as his brow furrows in concern.
âDon't you dare stop,â you say. âI donât care if I get hypothermia and die, I will straight up implode if you donât fuck me right now.â
He chuckles, pulling more blankets around the two of you as he settles himself between your thighs. âAre you always so demanding?â
âLook, youâve been teasing me for the last twenty minutes and youâve been strutting around in those fucking leather pants for a lot longer, so forgive me if Iâm a little impatient.â
He pauses above you, his expression deadly serious. âLet's get one thing quite clear, my love: I do not strut.â
Thereâs a glimmer in his eyes and you smirk back at him. âYou totally do.â
He lines up the tip of his cock with your entrance. âI walk with the gravitas and stature appropriate to my station.â
âYou strut and I know you strut because itâs extremely distracting.â
His smile is sly. âTell me more about how I distract you.â
âYou make me think about doing this with you.â
The tip of his cock eases into you. âDo I? How often, would you say?â
âAll the time.â
He sinks in another inch. âAll the time?â
âMmmhm.â
One more inch. âThat does sound terribly distracting.â
âYouâre still trying to tease me,â you say and he grins and gives you another inch.
âYou wouldnât want me as much if I didnât.â
âIâd want you always, no matter what.â
His gaze turns serious and he leans into kiss you, his hands stroking your cheek as he sinks into you fully, all the way to the hilt. You gasp, your walls stretching to accommodate him, your legs wrapping around his waist to hold him even closer. Heâs still for a moment, his eyes shut.
He opens them.
âIâve waited so long to have you,â he murmurs.
âYou have me,â you say. âYou always have.â
He kisses you deeply as he starts moving, slow as honey, sweetness in every thrust of his hips or touch of his lips. He fills you in a way that youâve never experienced, his cock bumping up against that tender place inside you, making you gasp and pull him deeper.Â
It builds slowly and steadily, the muscles of your cunt tightening as he takes you higher. You shudder as your climax builds.
âThatâs it, my love,â he breathes. âThatâs it.â
You inhale sharply, your orgasm swelling within you, rising, about to pull you under. You ride that wave, your hips rocking with his. You try and hold on for as long as you can because he feels so good and you donât want it to end, but eventually, it becomes too much.
You keen and he kisses you. âCome for me, darling. Let me feel you come.â
Your fingernails dig into his shoulders and all your muscles tense and release as you come. Loki sucks in a sharp breath, brow furrowing.
âFuck.â His pace increases slightly. âYouâre divine.â
Less than a second later, heâs also unraveling, his expression of ecstasy particularly beautiful in the flickering firelight. Even in the hazy afterglow of your own pleasure, you canât help but stare at him, utterly spellbound.
As soon as he catches his breath, he kisses you deeply and slows to a halt, his cock still throbbing inside of you.
âI donât want to say I told you soââ you start.
âThatâs a lie.â His reply is prompt and accompanied by another deep kiss.
You smile against his lips. âOkay, maybe I did want to say I told you so.â
âBetter.â
You feel pleasantly loose and sleepy, exhaustion pulling at your eyelids. He seems to notice your fatigue and raises an eyebrow. âIs this the part where I say I told you so?â he asks as he slowly eases out of you.
âMmm, but it was so worth it,â you say. âSo Iâm basically right.â
âThatâs not how that works,â he says.
âIâm not listening to you,â you say. âI need to recover my strength.â
âNow youâre just being pert.â He shifts to his side and draws you close so heâs spooned up against your back.
âYou like it,â you say, barely stifling a yawn.
âMmm, I do,â he says, drawing the pile of blankets back over you both. âAre you warm enough?â
âYeah, but donât go anywhere.â
You feel him smile as he presses a kiss against the back of your neck. âI donât intend to.â
âGood.â
You both fall asleep like this, wrapped around each other, warm and safe from the storm outside.
Warnings â ïž: Canon typical violence, author attempts elvish, suggestive content, alcohol consumption, angst, blood, medical care, feelings of despair, themes of hope, found family, multiverse/time travel, cussing, angst, fluff, eventual smut, weapon use, realities of battle, tolkein monster encounters, panic responses,fish out of water, injury to main characters, death of a side character, long fic, slowburn x reader.
Part 2 | Part 3 - Coming Soon
Sundering of Paths - Chapter One
The Raining of Mushrooms & Feet
The evenings were your favourite kind of ordinary. No deadlines, no emails, no obligations beyond the simple, uncomplicated act of putting one foot in front of the other and letting your mind go quiet.
You'd had the same route for two yearsâleft out of the apartment building, down past the corner shop, through the little cut-through beside the old church, and into the park where the trees were currently doing their autumnal thingy, shedding leaves in slow, dramatic spirals like they were performing for an audience.
You pulled the door shut behind you, checked your pockets by habitâkeys, iPod, lip balmâand shoved your earbuds in, scrolling through your playlist with half your attention while you started down the path. The evening air had that particular bite to it, cold enough to sharpen your thoughts but not cold enough to be unpleasant. Somewhere behind you, a car alarm went off and then stopped.
The music kicked in just as you turned the corner, and you let yourself sink into it the way you always did, shoulders dropping, pace settling into something comfortable. The trees lining the path were beautiful tonight, amber and copper and a deep, burnt red that seemed to glow in the fading light.
The playlist was a good one. You'd been building it for weeks, and it had finally reached that level where every song led perfectly into the next. You were not paying attention. This, in hindsight, would turn out to be the first of many mistakes.
The pavement was there and thenâwithout any reasonable explanationâit wasn't. There was no warning, no crack of thunder, no swelling of impossible light. One moment you were walking, music in your ears, thinking about whether you had enough milk for tomorrow's cup of tea. The next moment the ground simply ceased to cooperate.
Your foot came down on nothing and then you were fallingâgenuinely falling, not the brief embarrassing stumble of tripping on a kerb but a stomach-dropping plummet that lasted just long enough for you to think "oh shit" before the ground arrived.
You hit hard, a full-body collision with an uneven surface that drove the air from your lungs and sent you sliding several feet through a carpet of wet leaves. They were everywhere, sticking to your palms and your back and your trainers.
You lay there for a moment, completely still, your brain doing that slow systems-check that follows a significant impact.
"Ohâ ow," you managed eloquently, pushing yourself up onto your elbows and blinking at the ground beneath you. Wet leaves. Dark, rich earth. The sharp, green-and-rot smell of deep woodland.
You pushed up further, getting yourself into a sitting position, and became aware of two things simultaneously, the sting of your palms, scraped and dirty, and a pulling sensation at your knee where your jeans had connected with something sharp.
You looked down. A neat, ugly tear in the denim, and a smear of blood showing through beneath.
"Ugh ...Brilliant."
Your earbuds were still in, one dangling loose now, and you pulled them both out, shoving them into your pocket. The music cut off mid-chorus. In its absence, the silence wasâEnormous.
Not the city-park kind of silence, that comfortable urban quiet underscored by distant traffic and the far-off sound of someone's television. This was a silence with depth to it, layered and old, full of wind moving through leaves and the distant sound of birdsong you didn't recognise. You looked up slowly.
Trees. Tall, ancient-looking trees stretching in every direction, their canopies interlocking overhead in a lattice of amber and gold that filtered the remaining evening light into something dim and quiet. The path beneath youâif it could be called thatâwas narrow and unpaved, winding away in both directions through the undergrowth.
This was not the park.
Your iPod was on the ground beside you, face-down. You picked it up and turned it over. The screen had cracked right across the middle, a spiderweb of fractured glass splitting your wallpaper image cleanly in two.
"Oh, come on," you said to no one. "That was a birthday present."
You were still staring at it, trying to decide whether it was still functional, when the world caved in on top of you.
It happened all at once, somethingâ someoneâ hit you from behind with the approximate weight and enthusiasm of a small, very determined boulder. Then another something hit from the side. Then two more in rapid succession, and suddenly you were flat on the ground again.
"ânot the mushrooms!" someone wailed, in a voice of such genuine anguish that it might have been a eulogy.
"Excuse me!" you managed, from somewhere beneath the pile. "Offâcould you get off, get offâplease."
There was a scrambling untangling and a considerable amount of "sorry" and "beg your pardon" and one very heartfelt "Pippin," delivered in a tone that communicated prior history between the other parties involved. Weight lifted from your legs, your stomach, your shoulders, in stages. You got your elbows under you for a second time and pushed up into a sitting position.
Your knee was definitely bleeding now. Your palms felt like sandpaper. Your cracked iPod was somewhere in the leaves. And sitting around you in various states of dishevelment, surrounded by a scattered collection of vegetables, were four of the strangest-looking kids you'd ever seen in your life.
Except.
The more you looked at them, the less certain you were that they where kids. They were shortâ shorter than you, and you were not exactly toweringâbut there was something about them that wasn't childlike at all. They were looking back at you with expressions ranging from open-mouthed astonishment to cautious wariness to one in particular with a expression of delighted curiosity.
Then your eyes drifted down to the feet. Big, round, covered in dense curly hair, bare on the cold earth without seeming to notice the temperature.
You stared at the feet.
The feet's owners stared at you.
"...hello?" you tried.
"Hello!" said the delighted one immediately, grinning with the kind of uncomplicated warmth that makes you like someone before you've even learned their name. He had a cheerful face under a mop of sandy redish curls and looked like he found the whole thing tremendously exciting. He stuck out his hand. "I'm Pippin. Peregrin Took, properly, but nobody calls me that except when I'm in trouble. Which," he added, with cheerful honesty, "is fairly often."
"Right," you said, shaking his hand automatically. "Okay. Hi, Pippin."
"And I'm Merry." The one beside him was a little more composed but no less friendly, brown curls and an easy smile, already beginning to collect the scattered vegetables from the ground around you. "Meriadoc Brandybuck. Are you hurt? That was quite a collision."
"I'mâyeah, I'm fine, I think." You looked down at your knee again. "My jeans are ruined."
"Yourâwhat?"
"Myâ" You gestured at your legs. "Never mind."
The other two hung slightly further back. One of themâstocky and square-jawed with a serious, earnest faceâwas watching you with an expression of cautious concern, like you might need help but he wasn't sure yet if you were trustworthy enough to offer it to. The last one stood a little apart from the rest, slender and dark-haired with a quality of quiet watchfulness that was different from the others. He was looking at you, then at the treeline around you, then back at you, as though running calculations.
"I'm Samwise," the serious-faced one said, giving a small, slightly awkward head bob that was almost a bow. "Samwise Gamgee. Are youâ if you don't mind my askingâ are you quite alright? You came down something awful hard there Miss."
"I'm fine, Samwise, thank you." You managed to get your feet under you, and Merry immediately moved to help you up, taking your arm with a practical competence that was oddly reassuring. You stood, brushed leaves from your jacket, and looked around again at the impossible forest. "Um. Can I ask you guys something?"
"Of course!" Pippin had found your iPod and was turning it over with intense, fascinated curiosity.
"Do any of you know how to get to Adelaide Court? It'sâit's on the east side of town, near the Tesco, there's a grey building with a red doorâ"
Four blank faces.
Not the blank face of people trying to remember directions. The blank face of people hearing words that don't connect to any concept they possess.
"Adelaide Court ?," Merry repeated slowly.
"The... Tesco?" Pippin tried.
"It's a supermarket," you said, then stopped, because the blankness only deepened. "It's a shop. A large shop. With food in it?"
"We know what shops are," said the dark-haired one, speaking for the first time. His voice was quieter than the others, measured. "But I don't know any place by those names. I'm Frodo Baggins." A pause. "This is the East Road. Or it should be. We've come from Farmer Maggot's." He was studying you with that same quiet calculation. "Where have you come from?"
"Fromâ" You gestured vaguely upward, or backward, or wherever your apartment had been. "From home. I was going for a walk. I tripped and then I wasâhere." You looked around again. The trees were real. The cold was real. The blood on your knee was real. "Where is here, exactly?"
"The Shire," Samwise said, with the tone of someone stating something so fundamental it barely required saying.
"Theâ" You blinked. "The what?"
More blankness, this time from their side. Four small faces looking up at you with expressions of increasing uncertainty. The Shire apparently needed no explanation, and the fact that it needed one now was clearly concerning.
"Right," you said, mostly to yourself. Your voice sounded steadier than you felt. "Okay. Um. I genuinely have no idea where I am, and I broke my iPod, my knee is bleeding, so." You exhaled. "I'm just going toâstand here for a second."
"Of course, Miss," Samwise said, with great earnestness. He was already holding out a handkerchiefâ an actual, fabric handkerchief, neatly folded. You took it, mostly out of surprise, and pressed it to your knee.
"Thanks Samwise."
"Think nothing of it, Miss."
Pippin had sidled up next to Merry and the two of them were exchanging a rapid, whispered conversation that you strongly suspected was about you. Frodo had moved a little way back up the path, looking at the road ahead with an expression that had shifted from watchful to something quieter and more private. You got the sense there was something happening here that went beyond fourâshort people?âtumbling into a stranger in the woods.
You didn't ask. You were too busy cataloguing the ways in which your situation was steadily becoming more alarming. No phoneâThe iPod was unusable. The forest around you bore no resemblance to anything you recognised. The people in front of you were unfamiliar with the idea of a freaking supermarket.
"So you guys are lost too?" you asked.
"Not exactly lost," Merry said, with the slight evasiveness of someone who isn't technically lying. "We know where the road is. We just need to get to the Bree beforeâ"
"Before it gets dark?" you said, looking up at the dimming sky between the canopy. It was later than you'd realised. The light had that particular quality of impending evening, everything going golden and slow.
"Yes," Frodo said quietly from the path ahead. "Before it gets dark."
It was surprisingly easy to fall into step with them. That was the thing you kept noticing, in between noticing that none of this was possible and that your knee stung every time you bent it. The four of them had a quality of immediate, uncalculated welcome that you hadn't expected. Pippin talked constantly and cheerfully about everything and nothing, switching subjects with the associative logic of a pinball machine, and didn't seem to notice or care that you frequently had no idea what he was referring to. Merry would occasionally translate, or add context, or shoot Pippin a long-suffering look that communicated years of fond tolerance. Samwise walked near you with a slightly anxious protectiveness, and twice caught your elbow when a root threatened to send you down again.
Frodo was quieter. He walked slightly ahead, and you had the sense he was the leader ? Navigator of this small troop.
You were in the middle of trying to explain what a podcast was to Pippinâa sentence you had never expected to sayâ when you realised something had changed.
The birds had stopped, you didn't notice it at first, the way you don't notice a background noise until it disappears. But the wood had gone very still, and the quality of the light felt different, wrong, like something was pressing down on it from above.
Pippin had gone quiet mid-sentence. Even he felt it.
"Frodoâ" Merry started.
"Off the road," Frodo said. His voice was low and urgent in a way that raised every hair on the back of your neck, and he was already moving toward the bank, where the roots of a large oak created a kind of natural hollow. "Now. Get off the road and hide."
You didn't ask questions. Something about the way he said itâthe urgency, the fear underneath the controlâmoved you before your brain had finished processing the instruction. You scrambled after the others, sliding down the bank with way less grace than any of them, landing in a crouch behind the roots and pulling your jacket tighter as if that would help anything.
The sound arrived before the source, and it was the sound that frightened you first. Not a hoofbeat exactlyâ or not only a hoofbeatâ but something layered underneath it, something that pressed against your ears in a way that had nothing to do with volume. It was the sound of a space where warmth wasn't. Of a presence that moved through the air like a wound.
You pressed yourself against the roots, shoulder to shoulder with Sam on one side and Pippin on the other, and you all held absolutely still.
A horse appeared on the road above. It was black. Not the natural, shifting black of a dark horse, but black the way shadows are black, black the way the absence of light is black. The thing riding it wasâyou couldn't look at it directly. Every time your eyes tried to settle on it, they slid away, like your brain had simply had enough and was refusing to process what it was seeing. A cloak. A hood. And beneath it, nothing you could properly see, but something you could feel, a cold that went past temperature into something older and more final.
It stopped.
Right above you. Right at the edge of the bank.
You stopped breathing. It wasn't a decision. Your body simply stopped.
The thing wasânot twenty feet from where you were crouchedâit stopped, and it inhaled. The sound of it traveled through the cold air with horrible intimacy, a slow, searching breath like something tasting what was in front of it. Sampling the night. Sampling the dark.
Pippin's hand found yours and gripped it so hard your knuckles ached. You gripped back. You were both staring straight ahead and neither of you were breathing and the hooded thing on the road turned its headâYou thought with perfect, crystalline clarity.
"I am going to die here and I don't even know where here is."
And then, slow as it had come, it moved on. The hoofbeats receded. The smellâcold and deep and ancient and wrong, like something opened that had been sealed for centuriesâdrifted and thinned on the evening wind.
No one moved for a long time.
"Right," you said, when you had located your voice. It was somewhere in the region between a squeak and barely functional. "Whatâ" You stopped. Tried again. "What in the actual fuck was that thing?"
"I don't know," Frodo said. He was standing now, and the steadiness he projected was clearly costing him something. "But we need to move. Quickly."
"IâI'mâYep" you managed. "Yesâfull agreementâ absolutely do that."
The ferry was nothing like you expected, which was to say that it was a flat wooden raft with a rope and four determined short people hauling it across a dark river, and you stood in the middle of it with your arms slightly out for balance and your eyes on the far bank and tried to be useful, which after several attempts at being useful just required staying out of the way.
Pippin had recovered his good spirits with impressive speed. By the time you reached the far bank he was already talking about supper. Sam was quiet and thoughtful in the way that suggested he was worrying about several things simultaneously. Frodo looked like he was carrying some kind of invisible weight, and you kept glancing at him not sure if offering anything would help.
Merry appeared at your elbow. "Alright?" he asked, low enough that it was just for you.
"Not really," you said, with honesty, because there didn't seem to be much point in pretending. "But I'll keep up."
He nodded, and that was that. The landscape changed, the comfortable familiar fields giving way to roads that felt more traveled but less civilised, you walked through the night in stages, stopping twice to rest, and you had time to piece togetherâfrom Pippin's cheerful stream of information and Merry's more careful answers to your questionsâthe barest outline of where you were.
The Shire. The East Road. A place called Bree, where they apparently needed to meet someone there ?
You did not ask about the thing on the black horse. They didn't offer, and every fibre of your being was in favour of not revisiting whatever it actually was.
Bree appeared ahead of you eventually a cluster of lights behind a large gate in a wall that seemed designed by someone who had taken the concept of "keeping things out" very seriously. The Gatekeeper opened up for you with the resigned wariness of a man who had seen many strange people arrive at this gate at this hour and had made friends with very few of them.
You walked through into cobblestones and woodsmoke and the smell of something being cooked that made your stomach remind you aggressively that you hadn't eaten since lunch.
The inn was called the Prancing Pony. It was dimly lit, pleasantly loud, and thoroughly full of people minding their own business in the particular way that means they're definitely keeping an eye on things. The innkeeperâwas a broad, friendly man with an air of mild overextension, like someone running three tasks simultaneously and fully committed to all of them.
The spot your strange group decided upon was warm, and close enough to a fireplace that it made you realise how cold you'd actually been.
You sat on a bench near the wall on instinct, you always liked to people watchâwith a bowl of something thick and savoury in front of you that tasted better than it had any right to given the circumstances. The noise of the room was comfortable around you, voices, laughter, the clunk of pots, someone playing a pipe instrument in the corner.
You were watching Pippin at the bar with the focused attention of someone who hadnt realised they were identifying a problem in motion.
"What is he doing ?" you said.
"Ordering," Merry said, beside you, in the tone of someone who knows exactly what that means and has made his peace with it.
"Ordering what? Were already eating"
"Well, they have ale here" Merry tilted his head. "âin pints!"
You looked at Pippin. Pippin was cheerfully engaged in what appeared to be an extensive conversation with the barkeep, gesturing enthusiastically at what you strongly suspected were the ale barrels. You got up.
"Pippin."
"Hullo!" He turned with the expression of someone who has done nothing wrong and therefore has nothing to worry about. "Are you still hungry? They've got a wonderful selectionâ"
"Are you ordering a pint?"
"Well, they do several sizes," he began.
"That is not an answer to my question."
"It rather is, for a Took," Merry said from behind you, shit where did he come from.
You looked between them. Pippin was regarding you with bright, unconcerned eyes. "Listen," you said. "I don't know the rules here, I don't know theâ customs, or theâI genuinely have no idea what's happening in my life right now. But." You pointed at the barrels. "Is ale really a good solution ?"
Pippin considered this.
"They have a cheese," he said. "And I believe there may be some cold meats, I'll eat and drink"
"Well thats...better," you sighed
"Wonder if they have mushrooms?" he added hopefully.
You sat back down. Leaving Pippin at the bar, and you watched him begin to cheerfully enumerate what appeared to be a four-course supper to the increasingly impressed barkeep.
"Does he always eat this much?" you asked Merry.
"More, usually," Merry said, with deep affection. "You should see him at the Elevensee's!"
Sam appeared with two more bowls, set one in front of Frodo's seat with a polite nod to you, and settled himself with a watchful quiet that you were beginning to recognise as his natural state. He was looking at the room the way Frodo had looked at the roadâ measuring it, taking inventory.
Time passed. The room was warm. You began to feel, cautiously, that perhaps you might survive this evening, which felt like progress. Frodo was somewhere in the crowdâyou could see him near the bar, talking to Merryâ
Then the singing started. Pippin, it turned out, was a gifted and enthusiastic performer who had not the slightest trace of self-consciousness. He was up on the barâ on the barâwith a pint in one hand and a crowd gathering. You were laughing despite yourself, watching him with his arms wide and his curls bouncingâ
And then you looked for Frodo, and Frodo wasn't where he'd been. One moment Frodo was there, the next he wasn't, and the space where he'd been was just empty and a ripple of wrongness spreading from it. You were on your feet before you'd thought it through.
"Where's Frodo?" You asked, Merry was already scanning the room.
"He was justâ" Sam started.
"Stairs." It was instinct, or something like it, or just the fact that the stairs were the only other place that someone could go. "Come on."
You grabbed the nearest available thing as you went, which happened to be the fireplace poker. It was iron and heavy and you didn't know what you were going to do with it, but your hands needed something and this was what was available. Behind you, in your peripheral vision, you saw Pippin descend from the bar and seize a chairâcarrying it in a way that communicated he was absolutely prepared to throw it if necessary.
Sam was in front, which seemed right. Sam had the look of someone who would put himself in front of people without being asked and feel that it was the correct thing to do.
You were at the back, which also seemed right, because you were honestly terrified and the back of the group was where you naturally gravitated anyway.
The stairs creaked under your feet. The hallway above was narrow and low-ceilinged, lit by a single wall sconce that turned everything amber and shadow. Doors on either side, all closed. Sam was moving with his jaw set and his small, square hands in fists, and the rest of you kept pace with him, moving as a unit, the poker was in both your hands in a grip that was more 'please for the love of fuck don't let me need this' than any actual combat readiness.
The door at the end was slightly open.
Sam stopped. You all stopped.
From insideâ voices. Frodo's, low and uncertain. And another voice, deeper, quiet in the way that very large, very contained things are quiet. You angled past Merry, who had moved to Sam's shoulder, and tried to see through the gap.
The room was small. Frodo stood near the middle of it. And in the corner, occupying rather more of the available space than seemed geometrically reasonable, was a man.
He wasâ tall. The word wasn't sufficient, but it was where you started. In the low-ceilinged room he seemed to take up the top half of the available air. Broad-shouldered, dressed in dark, worn travelling clothes, with long dark hair and the kind of face that had been weathered past ordinary handsomeness into something more complicated. His boots were crossed at the ankle, his arm resting on his knee. He was smoking a pipe.
He looked, from your angle, approximately the size and shape of a potential catastrophe, even seated he was simply large, large in the unshowy, structural way of something built rather than grown, and the low ceiling did him no favours.
The man's eyes moved to the door as it openedâto Merry, to Sam, to Pippinâand then past them, to where you stood at the back of the group, and they stopped.
You were used to not being the first thing people looked at in a room. You weren't that tall on a good day, quiet by nature, the sort of person who could stand at the back of a group and be comfortably overlooked because you where shorter or at least the height of everyone else in the group. This man looked at you with the same comprehensive attention he'd turned on the rest of the group, and his gaze moved, briefly but unmistakably, to the poker.
Something shifted in his expression. Very small. Very controlled. Gone almost immediately, back behind the even, watchful stillness of his face, but it had been thereâsome quality that was not quite amusement and was too restrained to be called anything so simple.
"I thought I heard small folk on the stair," he said, and his voice in the enclosed space was quiet and unhurried, and somehow harder to ignore than a loud one. "I was not expecting quite so many." His eyes returned to the chair in Pippin's hands and then back to your poker. "And I was not expecting ...furniture."
"It's a precaution," Pippin said without preamble.
The man looked at you for a moment. You had the sensation of being readânot unpleasantly, not with hostility, but with the thorough, impersonal attention of someone who had learned to assess strangers quickly because not doing so had consequences, before he addressed you all as a group.
"A reasonable one," he said. Simple. Flat. Meaning it.
You blinked. That was not what you'd been braced for. You kept the poker where it was anyway, because you'd carried it up all those stairs and you weren't ready to trust him yet.
"Who are you?" Merry said, stepping forward with the matter-of-fact boldness of someone who considered his height his own business and nobody else's.
"Strider." The name arrived like something worn smooth with useâbut the name sounded like it sat on top of something else, which was either reassuring or its opposite. "I am a friend to Gandalf the Grey. And you are all in considerably more danger than you yet understand."
I really like the colours you get on magpies, what at first glance looks like a other black and white bird is actually full of these wonderfully iridescent greens and purples
Summary:Â In the tranquil dawn of Ithilien, you awaken to the tender return of your elven husband Legolas after a fortnight's absence
Paring:Â Legolas x Human Reader
word count:Â 7000+
warnings:Â NSFW, SMUT, Fluff
A/N :Â Hello there! I wrote this sweet and passionate one shot the other day, I hope you enjoy!
Masterlist
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The ancient forests of Ithilien stretched like a verdant tapestry beneath the star-strewn skies of Middle-earth, their leaves whispering secrets carried on the wind from distant realms. Once scarred by the shadows of Mordor, this land had been reclaimed in the wake of the War of the Ring, its rolling hills and crystal-clear streams now a haven for those who sought peace amid the remnants of old battles. The air here was perfumed with the scent of wild herbsâataraxia blooms that unfurled their petals only at twilight, mingling with the earthy aroma of moss-covered oaks and the faint, salty tang from the Anduin River winding lazily through the valleys below. In the heart of this rejuvenated wilderness stood the elven outpost of Emyn Arnen, a graceful fusion of nature and craftsmanship where stone archways intertwined with living vines, and towers rose like elegant sentinels, their spires catching the first glimmers of dawn.
Your bedchamber, perched high in one such tower, was a sanctuary of serene beauty, designed with the ethereal touch of elven architects. The walls were hewn from pale limestone, veined with subtle flecks of silver that gleamed like captured moonlight, and adorned with intricate tapestries depicting the legends of the Eldar: the Two Trees of Valinor in their eternal glow, the flight of the Noldor across the HelcaraxĂ«, and the heroic deeds of figures like Fingolfin challenging Morgoth himself. Tall, arched windows dominated one side of the room, frameless and open to the elements, allowing the night breezes to dance freely through gossamer curtains woven from spider silk harvested from the ancient woods of Mirkwood. These curtains billowed like ethereal spirits, their translucent fabric embroidered with golden threads that mimicked the constellations aboveâEĂ€rendil's star shining brightest among them.
The bed itself was a masterpiece of elven artistry, vast and canopied with branches that seemed to grow from the floor, their leaves perpetually green through some subtle enchantment. The mattress was stuffed with down from the great swans of the Anduin and layered with silken sheets imported from the distant havens of Lindon, soft as a lover's sigh. Scattered across the polished wooden floorâcrafted from the resilient heartwood of mallorn treesâwere rugs dyed in deep indigos and crimsons, remnants of Gondorian trade routes that now flourished in peacetime. A low table beside the bed held a crystal decanter of miruvor, the invigorating cordial of the elves, its faint glow illuminating a cluster of personal treasures: a lock of your husband's silver-gold hair bound with a mithril clasp, a pressed flower from your wedding day in the glades of LothlĂłrien, and a small dagger forged in the fires of Rivendell, its hilt engraved with runes of protection.
It was in this cocoon of tranquility that you lay, the early morning hours wrapping around you like a gentle embrace. The world outside was still cloaked in the hush of pre-dawn, the stars fading one by one as the eastern horizon hinted at the sun's imminent arrival. A light breeze slipped through the open windows, carrying the crisp chill of night mingled with the promise of warmth, rustling the curtains and sending faint ripples across the sheets that draped your form. You were asleep, lost in the dreamless repose that came from nights spent in quiet longing, your body curled beneath the covers in a white sleep dress of fine linen, its fabric light and flowing, embroidered with delicate vines along the hemâa gift from the weavers of Minas Tirith, symbolizing the union of human resilience and elven grace.
The dress clung softly to your curves, its neckline dipping modestly yet revealing the gentle rise and fall of your chest with each breath. Your hair, unbound and splayed across the pillow like a dark halo, caught the faint starlight, while your faceâsoftened by sleepâbore the subtle marks of your mortal life: faint lines at the corners of your eyes from laughter shared under moonlit skies, and a freckle or two from days spent wandering the sun-dappled paths of Ithilien hand-in-hand with your beloved. As a human wed to an elf, your life was a bridge between two worlds, one fleeting and passionate, the other eternal and serene.
Two weeks had passed since he departed on his scouting trip, venturing north along the borders of the Gladden Fields to monitor the lingering shadows that sometimes stirred in the aftermath of Sauron's fall. Orc remnants, twisted creatures, and uneasy whispers from the Misty Mountains required vigilant eyes, and none were keener than those of the Prince of Mirkwood. You had bid him farewell at the edge of the forest, your hand lingering on his as he mounted his steed, Arod, a descendant of the noble horses of Rohan. "Return to me swiftly, my heart," you had whispered, and he had pressed a kiss to your knuckles, his blue-grey eyes shimmering with unspoken promises. The days without him had been filled with the routines of Ithilien lifeâtending herb gardens that supplied remedies to nearby settlements, reading ancient scrolls in the outpost's library, and sharing meals with the small community of elves and men who called this place home. Yet the nights were long, the bed vast and empty, your thoughts drifting to him under the vast canopy of stars.
Now, in the velvet hush of your chamber, the door creaked open with the subtlety of a leaf falling in autumn. Legolas entered silently, his elven boots making no sound on the wooden floor. He was clad in his traveling garb: a cloak of grey-green Lorien weave that blended seamlessly with the forest, a tunic of deep emerald stained faintly with the dust of the road, and leggings tucked into boots caked with the mud of distant marshes. His bow, unstrung but ever at the ready, was slung over his shoulder alongside a quiver of fletched arrows, their tips glinting like captured frost. His hair, usually bound in warrior braids, hung loose and slightly tousled, damp from the night's dew, framing a face etched with the faint weariness of travelâyet his eyes, those luminous pools of winter sky, sparkled with the joy of homecoming.
He paused at the threshold, his gaze softening as it fell upon you, asleep and unaware. The sight of you stirred something profound within him, a blend of immortal longing and the tender vulnerability he had learned from loving a mortal. Setting his bow and quiver aside with care, he approached the bed, the breeze from the windows catching his cloak and making it flutter like wings. He sat gently on the edge of the mattress, the bed dipping slightly under his weight, and leaned over you. His hand, cool from the night air and scented with pine resin, reached out to stroke your hair, fingers threading through the strands with infinite gentleness, not to wake you but to reassure himself of your presence. He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering as if drawing sustenance from the warmth of your skin.
It was a whisper against your temple, a gentle, repeated stroke that moved from your hairline back into the loose strands splayed across your pillow. The touch was cool, carrying the faint, clean scent of night air, pine resin, and distant, cold starlight. It traced the curve of your ear, a feather-light caress that spoke of infinite patience and a longing held carefully in check.
Your consciousness swam up from the depths, drawn by that persistent, tender contact. A soft sound escaped you, not quite a moan, more a murmur of recognition. Your eyelids fluttered open, adjusting to the dimness. The room was shadowed, but the silhouette seated on the edge of the massive bed was unmistakable. Slender, elegant, his outline a familiar cut against the grey light of the window.
âLegolas,â you breathed, his name a sigh of pure relief, a knot in your chest you hadnât fully acknowledged loosening all at once.
He didnât speak, not yet. His palm, cool and slightly calloused from bowstring and reins, cupped your cheek. His thumb swept over the apple of your cheek, a slow, reverent arc. In the gloom, you could see the faint gleam of his eyes, the luminous blue-grey of a winter sky just before snow. They drank you in, tracing the lines of your sleep-softened face as if memorizing them anew.
âI did not mean to wake you,â he whispered, his voice a low, melodic ripple in the quiet. It was husky with weariness, yet softened with an emotion that made your throat tighten. âI only wished to see you. To know you were real, and not a vision my mind conjured from loneliness in the wild.â
You turned your face into his hand, pressing a kiss to his palm. The taste of himâclean skin, a hint of leather, the essence of himâflooded your senses. âYouâre home,â you said, the words thick. Two weeks. Fourteen nights of an empty bed that felt cavernous, of listening for a footfall that never came. âYouâre really here.â
âI am.â He leaned down, his forehead touching yours. His silver-gold hair, slightly damp from the nightâs moisture, fell like a curtain around your faces, closing you in a private world. âMelin le,â he murmured, the Elvish words a warm breath against your lips. âI have carried the thought of you like a star in my hand every league, every hour.â
Your joy bubbled over as you sat up fully in bed, pulling Legolas into a tight embrace, your arms wrapping around his neck as if to anchor him there forever. His body, lean and strong from the journey, molded against yours, and you buried your face in the crook of his shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent of forest and freedom. "When did you get back?" you whispered against his skin, your voice muffled but laced with eager curiosity. "The scouts said you might be delayed by the rains in the north."
He chuckled softly, a vibration you felt through his chest, his hands rubbing soothing circles on your back. "Only moments ago, my love. I rode through the night to reach you soonerâArod sensed my urgency and flew like the wind. The rains were fierce, but they parted before us, as if the Valar themselves willed my return." His words were a balm, but your mind raced to the perils he might have faced, the hidden dangers of the wilds that no elf, even one as skilled as he, could entirely evade.
Pulling back slightly, you cupped his face in your hands, your eyes scanning him intently in the dim light. "Are you injured? Tell me trulyâdon't spare me the details just to ease my worry." Your fingers trailed down his arms, feeling for any telltale stiffness or warmth that might betray a wound, then to his sides, gently pressing along his ribs. He remained still under your inspection, his gaze warm and indulgent, though a faint wince escaped him when your hand brushed a spot near his shoulder.
"A mere bruise from a low-hanging branch in the misty thickets," he admitted with a wry smile, guiding your hand to the faint discoloration blooming under his tunic. "Nothing that time and your touch won't mend. The true ache was in my heart, far from you." You frowned, your mortal concern sharpening as you lifted the edge of his tunic to examine it closer, your fingertips tracing the purplish mark with feather-light care. "See? No blood, no broken skin. I am whole, thanks to your wards and my kin's vigilance."
You nodded, relieved but not entirely appeased, leaning in to press a soft kiss to the bruise. "Promise me you'll let me tend to it properly laterâwith salves and rest. You've pushed yourself too hard." Your hands continued their exploration, sliding up to his neck and into his hair, checking for any hidden scrapes, while he watched you with eyes full of adoration, his own hands resting on your hips as if to ground himself in your presence.
The ache of missing him transformed, melting into a liquid warmth that pooled low in your belly. You pushed yourself up on your elbows, the thin sleeping dress of pale linen slipping from one shoulder. âLet me see you,â you whispered. âLet me help.â
He nodded, a small, grateful motion. You moved to sit fully, the blankets pooling at your waist. Your fingers went to the intricate clasps of his travel-worn cloak, the grey-green fabric smelling of forest loam and campfire smoke. He remained still, his gaze never leaving you, his own hands coming up to frame your face again as you worked. Each clasp yielded with a soft snick. You pushed the heavy wool from his shoulders, letting it fall in a heap on the floor beside the bed.
Next was his tunic, a sturdy garment of dark green. You tugged the hem from the waistband of his leggings, your knuckles brushing against the flat, hard plane of his stomach. He sucked in a quiet, sharp breath at the contact. You lifted the tunic up and over his head, and he raised his arms to help, the muscles in his torso and arms flexing, defined even in the low light. He was bare now from the waist up, his skin pale as moonstone, smooth and unmarred save for the faint silvery lines of very old, very minor scars. The scent of him intensifiedâclean sweat, sun on skin, the pure, masculine musk of him that went straight to your head.
Your hands flattened against his chest, feeling the steady, strong beat of his heart under your palm. It was quickening. You leaned in and pressed your lips to the center of his chest, just over that frantic rhythm. His hands came up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair.
âYour turn,â he murmured, his voice now carrying a new, rough edge.
His hands slid from your hair to the thin straps of your sleeping dress. He hooked a finger under each one and drew them down your arms with agonizing slowness. The linen whispered over your skin, catching briefly on the peaks of your nipples before sliding down your torso. A cool draft touched your newly bared skin, but it was chased away instantly by the heat of his gaze. He let the dress fall to your lap, then with a gentle push, urged you to lie back against the pillows.
He looked his fill. In the indigo light, your body was a landscape of soft curves and shadows. Your breasts, full and heavy, rose and fell with your accelerating breath, the nipples tightening into dusky, eager peaks. The dip of your waist, the swell of your hips, the thatch of darker hair at the junction of your thighsâhe took it all in, his eyes burning with a devotion that was also fiercely, undeniably hungry.
âSo beautiful,â he breathed, not as a bland compliment, but as a awed statement of fact. âMy beautiful, wife. The sight of you is a balm that heals all weariness.â
He leaned over you, bracing himself on one arm, and finally, finally brought his mouth to yours.
The first kiss was a reunion. Soft, searching, a slow melding of lips that spoke of hello and homecoming. His mouth was cool at first, then warming rapidly against yours. You sighed into him, your hands coming up to slide over the smooth, powerful muscles of his back, feeling them shift and coil under your touch. He tasted of the clear water from his journey and something uniquely, essentially Legolasâan evergreen sweetness, a hint of wild honey.
The kiss deepened. His tongue traced the seam of your lips, and you opened for him willingly. The slide of his tongue against yours was slow, sensuous, a deliberate exploration. There was no hurry, only the profound luxury of rediscovery. One of his hands slid from your cheek down the column of your throat, his thumb stroking the frantic pulse there, then lower. He cupped your breast, his palm covering the full, soft weight, his fingers finding your nipple. He rolled the tight bud between his thumb and forefinger, a gentle, knowing pressure that made your back arch off the bed, a broken sound catching in your throat.
He broke the kiss, his breath coming in warm gusts against your wet lips. He looked down at where his hand worshipped your breast, his eyes dark with intent. âI have dreamed of touching you just like this,â he confessed, his voice a low rumble. âOf feeling this perfect weight in my hand, of watching this pretty nipple harden for me.â He lowered his head and took the peak into his mouth.
The heat and wetness of his mouth was a shock of pure, dazzling pleasure. He suckled slowly, his tongue laving the sensitive tip in firm, circular strokes. His free hand found your other breast, mirroring the attention, pinching and rolling that nipple until the sensations doubled, tripled, a bright, aching need coiling deep in your cunt. You cried out, your fingers clutching at his hair, holding him to you. He groaned against your flesh, the vibration travelling straight to your core.
He kissed a wet, hot trail down the valley between your breasts, over the quivering plane of your stomach. His lips were soft, his tongue occasionally flicking out to taste your skin. You felt the muscles of your abdomen jump under his mouth. He nuzzled the soft curve of your belly, his hands sliding under you to grip your ass, kneading the full, yielding flesh.
âPart your legs for me, my love,â he whispered against your skin, his breath ghosting over the very heart of you.
Trembling, you did. The cool air touched your exposed folds, and you felt incredibly open, incredibly vulnerable. He settled between your thighs, his hands sliding under your ass to tilt you up towards his mouth. For a long moment, he just looked, his gaze hot and unwavering on your exposed pussy.
In the dim light, your cunt was a beautiful, intimate sight. The outer lips were plump and a deep, flushed pink, glistening already with your arousal. He used his thumbs to gently part them further, revealing the darker, delicate inner folds, slick and swollen, and the tight, furled bud of your clit, visibly throbbing. The scent of your desire, musky and sweet, filled the small space between you.
âLook at you,â he murmured, his voice thick with want. âSo wet for me already. This perfect, pretty cunt. I have missed its taste more than sunlight.â
And then he lowered his mouth and licked a long, slow stripe from the very bottom of your entrance all the way up to your clit.
The sensation was electric, a bolt of pure, white-hot pleasure that made your entire body jolt. A sharp, ragged cry tore from your throat. He did it again, and again, broad, flat strokes of his tongue that coated it in your essence. Then he focused, his mouth sealing over your clit, sucking gently as the very tip of his tongue flicked rapidly against the hypersensitive nub.
âOh, gods⊠my love⊠fuck,â you babbled, your hips lifting off the bed, seeking more of that devastating pressure. He held you firm, his hands keeping your ass in his grip, controlling the pace. He alternated between soft, sucking kisses on your clit and deep, probing thrusts of his tongue into your hole, fucking you slowly with it, mimicking the act to come. The wet, obscene sounds of his mouth on your pussy filled the room, a lewd counterpoint to your gasping moans.
The coil inside you wound tighter and tighter, a pressure building at the base of your spine. You were panting, your hands fisted in the sheets. âIâm close⊠so closeâŠâ
He pulled back, leaving you throbbing and empty. A sob of protest escaped you. He surged up your body, his own need evident in the hard, insistent line of his erection straining against the soft leather of his leggings. He kissed you hungrily, letting you taste yourself on his lips and tongue.
âNot yet,â he said, his voice ragged with his own restraint. âI need to be inside you when you come. I need to feel that sweet cunt milking my cock.â
The vulgarity from his normally elegant mouth was wildly arousing. You fumbled for the laces of his leggings, your fingers clumsy with need. He helped you, shoving them down over his hips along with his smallclothes. His cock sprang free, and you gasped.
It was long and slender like the rest of him, but thick where it mattered, crowned with a broad, flushed head. Veins traced its length, and it stood rigid, curving slightly upward, a bead of clear fluid already glistening at the tip. It was beautiful and intimidating, and your cunt clenched in empty, desperate anticipation.
He knelt between your spread thighs, his hands running up your inner legs, pushing them wider. He leaned over you, bracing himself on his arms, the tip of his cock nudging against your soaked entrance. He looked into your eyes, his expression a storm of love and lust.
âI love you,â he said, the words a solemn vow. âEvery part of you. Every sigh, every tremble. Mine.â
âYours,â you echoed, reaching up to touch his face. âAlways. Please⊠I need you.â
He pressed forward.
The head of his cock parted your slick folds, stretching the rim of your hole. He pushed in an inch, just enough to make you both gasp at the exquisite, familiar tightness. He held there, letting your body adjust, his forehead pressed to yours, his eyes squeezed shut.
âSo good,â he groaned. âSo fucking tight and hot. I will never get used to this feeling.â
He sank another inch, then another, in a series of slow, controlled pushes. Each one sent a wave of deep, filling pleasure through you. You could feel every inch of him, the thick stretch, the pulsing heat as he seated himself to the hilt, his hips flush against your ass. You were full, so completely full of him. A deep, satisfied moan rolled from your chest.
He began to move.
There was no frantic pounding, no desperate race. This was a slow, deep, rolling rhythm, a dance of reconnection. He withdrew almost completely, leaving just the tip inside, before sliding back in with a smooth, relentless glide. Each thrust dragged his cock against that perfect, sensitive spot inside you, building a crescendo of pleasure that was both overwhelming and soothing.
The sounds were obscenely beautiful: the wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin, his ragged breaths, your high, keening whimpers, the creak of the massive bedframe. You wrapped your legs high around his waist, locking your ankles at the small of his back, pulling him deeper. Your nails scored lightly down his back, and he growled, picking up the pace just a fraction.
âThatâs it,â he panted, his hips snapping forward with more force. âTake me. Take all of me. This cunt was made for my cock.â He shifted his angle, and on the next thrust, he hit a spot that made you see stars. A sharp, guttural cry was ripped from you.
âThere! Right there, please!â
He obliged, hammering that exact spot with unerring accuracy. The coil, which had never fully unwound, snapped back with vengeance. The orgasm rolled over you in a deep, seismic wave, starting in your cunt and radiating outwards to your toes, your fingertips, the very roots of your hair. Your vision whited out. Your cunt clenched around him in rapid, fluttering pulses, milking his length, and you screamed his name into the crook of his neck, your body bowing off the bed.
Feeling you come around him was his undoing. His rhythm shattered into short, frantic thrusts. âI can feel you⊠fucking hell, I can feel you coming on my cock,â he grunted, his voice breaking. âIâm going to fill you. Iâm going to pump my fucking cum so deep inside you.â
With three more brutal, deep drives, he buried himself to the root and stilled. A raw, elvish cry was torn from his throat, a sound of utter release. You felt the hot, sudden surge of his release as he came, jet after jet of his seed painting the deepest part of your womb. The pulses seemed to go on and on, each one wringing a low groan from his chest. He collapsed onto you, his full weight a welcome anchor, his face buried in your neck, his body shuddering through the last of his climax.
For long minutes, there was only the sound of your shared, labored breathing and the frantic beating of your hearts slowing to a synchronous rhythm. He was still inside you, softening, a warm, spent weight. His arms came around you, holding you so tightly it was as if he wanted to merge your bodies into one.
He finally lifted his head. His eyes were soft, sated, luminous with love. He kissed you, slow and tender, a world away from the frantic passion of moments before.
âI missed you,â he whispered against your lips.
You smiled, your hands stroking through his sweat-damp hair. âI missed you, too. Welcome home, my love.â
He made a contented sound and nuzzled back into your neck. âI am not leaving this bed for a week.â
âPromises, promises,â you teased softly, your own body humming with satisfaction, already feeling the pleasant ache between your legs.
He shifted, his cock slipping from your well-used cunt with a soft, wet sound, followed by a trickle of his release. He paid it no mind, simply gathering you into his side, pulling the heavy blankets over your cooling bodies. You curled into him, your head on his chest, listening to the strong, steady beat of his heart. The first true rays of dawn began to paint the room in pale gold and rose, catching in the dust motes and glinting off the silver threads in the coverlet. Legolasâs fingers resumed their gentle stroking of your hair, and you drifted in a haze of perfect, sated bliss.
As the waves of pleasure subsided, you both lay entangled in the sheets, your bodies slick with sweat and humming with the afterglow of your union. Legolas held you close, his arm draped possessively over your waist, his breath steadying against your hair as the first golden rays of morning filtered through the curtains. You nestled into his side, your head on his chest, listening to the eternal rhythm of his heartâa sound that had become your lullaby in this shared life between worlds.
For hours, neither of you stirred beyond the occasional shift to draw closer, the morning unfolding in lazy contentment. You traced idle patterns on his skin, following the faint scars from battles long past, while he murmured tales from his journey in a low, melodic voice: the sight of a hidden glade alive with fireflies, the call of an eagle soaring over the Anduin, the quiet camaraderie with his fellow scouts around a flickering campfire. "And through it all," he whispered, his fingers weaving through your hair, "I carried you here," tapping his chest gently, "a light that no shadow could dim."
Time seemed to stretch endlessly in that cocoon of warmth, the outside world a distant murmur. You shared soft kisses and whispered dreamsâof future adventures together, of planting a garden with seeds from distant lands, of nights under the stars where mortality and immortality blurred into simple, profound love. As the sun climbed higher, bathing the room in full light, Legolas pulled you even tighter, his lips brushing your forehead. "Let the world wait a little longer, meleth nĂźn. This moment is ours."
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