You're afraid to write because you care too much about your craft. Not because you suck.
You want it to be perfect. Worthy. You're scared it won't be good enough. But the thing is, everything you write is worthy if you write it with heart.
That fear doesn't make you a fraud, or lazy. It makes you a perfectionist who doesn't write as much as they should because their fear is choking them. Your writing will never be perfect—nothing ever is.
So stop waiting for the perfect moment and go pour your heart out. Unleash your wild—and slightly disturbing—imagination onto those pages. Go create magic that only you can make.
GO WRITE THE THING YOU KEEP THINKING ABOUT DAY AND NIGHT. And make sure you write it for yourself before anyone else!
summary : Being a Ranger of the North meant you rarely had the luxury to spare yourself a bath, and it's a thought that does not sit right with Legolas.
pairing legolas x fem!Ranger!reader (no use of y/n)
content warning : dirt, legolas is the sweetest man ever, everyone knows but her, fluff, softness
wc : 6k
taglist : @entishramblings @goldenatreides @hell-o-kittys @flooofity @angiekayyy @xxliaaaa (let me know if i missed anyone!)
author’s note : the cutest thing ever to write i had so much fun omg
➢ nini’s masterlist
➢ read on ao3
It was through a litany of fortunate, perhaps unfortunate for some, circumstances you had joined the fellowship. Rangers of the North seldom enjoyed company, they were dark and grim to anyone with the eyes to see the dirt clinging to them like second skin and rarely spoke to one another. In fact, the rarely even met. It was a wonder you always stumbled upon the same man. Strider —or Aragorn, as you’d soon learn his real name was, gravitated around the same places you did. He scouted the same areas, slept in the same inns.
You were not wary about each other, a Ranger always recognised a peer when he met one; not many people were found sitting somber in a corner, talking to none and looking like the sight of a bath was not one they had met in the last ten years. But it took time for you to speak, to sit across each other in silence and exchange something as simple as names. Well, names you had chosen for yourselves: Strider and Shade, for you mastered a talent of discretion akin to no one’s. Perhaps also Rangers’ names were meant to scare, to entertain their reputation.
The loneliness is only so good for a moment. After, it soon becomes heavy, unbearable when forced upon oneself for too long. Aragorn could do with a friend, or a trusted name to call at least, and he had made you laugh once too many times in a corner of the Prancing Pony for you to not see him as bordering family after a while.
You carried on your own separate path most of the time, but often shared a drink when you met at an inn or stayed together a day or two when you encountered in the wilderness. He had shared little of his friends if he had any, even less of his life; it was like he was a shadow with no past nor future, only a present. So it came as a great surprise the day he spoke about elves in Rivendell. The name of Arwen fell down his lips like a talisman multiple times. You were glad for the few drinks you had had before, they certainly pushed him to open to you after years of knowing each other. Another name had also risen in the conversation more than once, someone he seemed to have a high opinion of. Legolas was the name, it clung curiously in your mind before falling into the depths of memory, erased by other urging matters.
In your entire life, you had not met a man so full of surprise as Aragorn. He could disappear without a trace one day and come to you with a party of four hobbits and the selfish need for you to help him get them to Rivendell without asking questions the next.
For better or worse you had accepted: for worse when the Black Riders you had seen sulk around lately revealed to be after the hobbits and attacked, for better when Rivendell welcomed you with a hot bath. Aragorn had promised you answers soon enough, but for now you had to settle for the steaming water of a bath scented with rosemary leaves your hosts had drawn for you, which you did most willingly.
It was your first time in an elven city, or even meeting elves, and already you could tell why everyone was so fond of them. Their hospitality could hardly be rivalled with and they were all so charming and pleasant to be around, a calm haven in the tempest your wandering life had always been. No wonder why Aragorn thought so highly of them.
It had been months since you had felt anything else than the cold water of a river to wash your back, or been able to get the dirt off of under your nails. You lingered in the bath until it turned cold, took your utmost time combing through your hair against knots and massaging your scalp clean of all the accumulated filth. Now you were left slipping on clean clothes for the night, looking at yourself in the mirror like your reflection was a stranger’s. It might as well have been one. Had you ever even seen yourself so pristine, so normal? The Shade had disappeared, you were still quick on your feet and discreet but the grim look that scared people away was no longer yours. If someone dared calling you pretty, they would have been right.
It was strange seeing yourself in this light. Strange and uncomfortable, like you were naked despite clothes, like a teenage girl unprotected. You trailed a hand to your clean, damp hair and pressed your lips in a thin line: you could do with this look for your time here, soon the old one would come back. You gave one thought towards Aragorn. Did he feel the same way? He was much older than you, the years behind him were greater, dirtier, you doubted a single elf-bath could get him rid of all the mud he had accumulated.
The thought made you smile. You wrapped your usual cape around your shoulders and left the room in silence, steps carrying you dead quiet more by habit than by real precaution. Above Rivendell, a starry sky was lit, the crystals along the open corridor you walked in seemed to be using its light as a source of their own, reflecting it to guide you.
A shiver coursed through you, a light breeze was blowing and your wet hair didn’t help the cold slowly sticking to your skin. The corridor took a slight curve at the end of which the shadow of someone walking your way could be seen on the pillars opening on a view of the kingdom. Elves didn’t sleep much, you even wondered if they even slept at all, so it was not surprising to cross one despite the late hour of the night. Still, your footsteps slowed and shifted to near imperceptibility of their own accord; maybe your visitor did too, maybe elvish steps were as featherlight as they were said to be, but you would not have spotted him if it wasn’t for his shadow curling ahead.
When the stranger came into view, your eyes crossed immediately like he had waited for your appearance just like you had anticipated his. At the other end of the softly lit corridor, a man was walking; unhurried steps, confident posture, composed aura. Like all elves, the man was of great beauty, but somehow he seemed even fairer than the others to you. And he wasn’t from Rivendell, you could tell by his blond hair and light blue eyes contrasting with the darker features of Elrond’s children. Upon seeing you, it seemed the pace of his steps broke for the smallest moment, and yours did too.
Elves caught everything, every shift in the atmosphere, every change in one’s posture, but he said nothing about the one then and let you pretend both of you had dreamt. When you crossed, he addressed a polite nod with a small bow, the faintest bend of his back. You replied equally before he slipped behind your back, still quiet, still here nonetheless. It was like he had been but a blur memory, he had existed for a second, taken your breath away and disappeared just as fast.
Now the wind had carried you in your room before you knew it and the handsome elf followed in your mind until sleep took you away. Then, he vanished almost too easily and by morning come you had not a thought to reserve him, your path had not crossed again. Not until the council, that is.
Of course, if a council had been gathered with every important kingdom there was, the only elf that did not belong to Rivendell was part of it. And he seemed to know Aragorn, he had greeted him shortly upon entering the patio. You quickly found your seat next to the Ranger, for it seemed your place stood with the people who resembled you more, and you had not been mistaken by thinking the dirt would cling to him more.
Further to your right, across the half-circle that had formed, the blond elf sat, and every time you tried to spare him a glance he was already looking at you. If he anticipated every one of your looks or if he simply never looked away from your form you couldn’t tell, but your eyes crossed once too many times for strangers.
You rationalised the thought: you had never seen an elf and he was certainly the most handsome there was in this room, it was only natural he drew you in. Him on the other hand, had seen other beauties than you, he had no reason lingering as he did. He looked to be around your age, which for elves meant he was probably around thousands of years old, and a Ranger, even a clean one, should not deserve so much of his attention. Maybe he was only curious because you were a friend of Aragorn. You hoped it was the case.
Your daydreaming was cut short by the beginning of the council, for which you were glad at first but quickly realised it was above all that you expected. So the Black Riders that scared the people were after the hobbits, precisely after one hobbit. Mr Baggins was sitting sheepish at the farther end of the gathering, the centre of the attention yet out of it all the same. He kept on staring at a jewel lying on a table in front of you all. You recognised it, of course you did, you were no fool. How did a hobbit become in possession of the One Ring was a mystery to you, one you expected you’d uncover soon enough but was last in the list of your preoccupation right now. What mattered was that he was in possession of it and that now Elrond was saying it could not stay in Rivendell.
Mentions of Mordor were made, of the evil forces of the East, of everything that would cost you your life yet pushed you further to believe it was not a coincidence life had put Aragorn on your path. Everything linked up to this moment, to your partaking to this council and to the impending quest you had a part to play in. You knew it in your heart.
A man rose, he spoke of the Ring as a gift, like it was a present kindly made by the Dark Lord to the foes of Mordor that could be used against him. Perhaps he was a fool, but you were already starting to realise the Ring had a power you could not have fathomed even in your deepest nightmares. It bended the greatest of men to its will, coaxed them to trust the insignificant object it was to better corrupt. You could not hold Gondor’s prince accountable, had you been in search of power the Ring would try to get to you all the same. But power was far from what you seeked, and in that way you were not an immediate subject of its attention.
Aragorn spoke up to reason the hasty prince. And he was right in every sense: none can wield the power of the Ring for himself, for it has but one goal: return to its Master at all cost. It did not satisfy the man, and when he talked down on Aragorn a tension grew in the room. Some people looked at each other without saying anything but before you had time to register what was happening, the elf you had especially noticed stood.
“He is no mere Ranger. He is Aragorn, son of Arathorn. You owe him your allegiance,“ he said.
Your head spun when you turned it too fast towards the man you thought you knew as a friend. He could never stop surprising you, could he? And now he was averting his eyes like it could turn the attention off of him. But how could it when the Ranger you sided with all these years revealed himself to be heir to the throne of Gondor? You remembered all the time he refused to say anything about himself, how secretive he had been all these years. Your lips parted to speak, but a voice other than yours reached your ears.
“Havo dad, Legolas.“
Legolas.
So that was his name. This was the man whose sole name had stuck with you once without reason, like impending fate. And fate had had her way indeed, because he was now looking at you across the room and you had no will to look away. His blue eyes bore in yours, they seemed to scan your every thought. Meeting him was destabilising, to say the least. And now you had all the time in the world to be destabilised by him because he followed without a second thought when you gave your strength to the quest right after Aragorn.
Again, your eyes crossed, but this time you gave him a smile, the mere twitch of lips but a smile nonetheless. And so it was decided, you would all form the Fellowship and bring the Ring to the fires of Mount Doom; bring Frodo to his destiny.
Somewhere between your ribs, your heart ached at the thought of the hobbit going through hardships you couldn’t imagine. How could such a little creature bear the Ring so willingly? And yet it seemed there was no one else than him to do it, he had borne it already up until now, more than any of you could have done.
Courage was often found best in places you least expected it, Frodo’s courage fuelled yours.
The council trailed to its end, people left the patio, went about their day when they still had the chance, but someone lingered. Looking over the stone balustrade down to the city, Legolas was leaning over the railing, his back to you. Soon, it was only the two of you left and you could tell he knew you were still here. You stayed unmoving for a few seconds, more to admire the way his hair caught the last rays of the dying sunshine than to really ponder about what to do next. It was already obvious you wanted to talk to him.
When your body joins his against the balustrade, he turns his head towards you with a smile. It’s inviting, everything in him is: his warmth, his posture, the features of his face. Up close you take better time to admire them, it doesn’t seem to bother him, he looks like he does the same. It’s worse than you thought, he is not just handsome but unreal, out of a dream almost. Your gaze trails to the blue of his eyes, down to the line of his nose, the sharp of is jaw and end up on the bow of his lips. You flicker your eyes back to his when starring at his mouth becomes painfully obvious.
“Legolas, is it?“ you ask.
The tension in his shoulder eases a bit more, he nods. “It is. What is your name, my lady?“
The title tears a small laugh out of you and you give him your name. He tests it on his lips once, as if to make it real.
“I am far from being a lady, I do not have the time to be one and rarely look like one.“
Your assertion pulls Legolas’s brows in a frown, what you say seems to puzzle him. It’s curious, he has never been so inclined to know more about someone he just met. Somehow, he wonders what you look like when you deem you are not a lady as well as when you are one. He wonders about all the in-betweens you can be. How far are you from the girl that smelt like rosemary he crossed yesterday in the corridors? How much faster can you make his heart beat?
“You are a friend of Aragorn,“ he says at last, like that would explain anything. Maybe he thinks all humans are like the Ranger: handsome even covered in dirt.
“I am. I am a Ranger myself. We may be known to be solitary people but sometime the loneliness weights anyway.“
“Yes, I see,“ he replies like he knows exactly what you mean.
A comfortable silence trails, a bird chirps in the distance and Legolas shifts next to you; his elbow grazes yours.
“Where are you from? You’re not from Rivendell,“ you ask.
He smiles: you notice a lot. “No, I’m not. I come from Mirkwood, North from here, down the Grey Mountains.“
Now the ethereal aura he glows of needs no further explanation. A smirk paints your lips, none of you has looked away yet.
“They say the Elvenking has a son,“ you tease, and his own lips curl into a grin that mimics yours.
“Or so they say,“ he mirrors.
Again, the quiet that follows is easy. It requires no further speaking and allows you to stray from one other’s eyes eventually. You are not a great talker, but it matters little for Legolas is not either, the silence works best. To Legolas, you are already a blessing the Valars placed on his way, unavoidable by all means. He does not wish to avoid you, if anything it is the opposite and it bugs him slightly. The elf-prince has yet to accustom himself to the tiny love-starved monster you birth inside of his stomach.
Weeks have passed since the council, and being part of the Fellowship is restless to say the least. There is always something to do: a danger to flee from, a distance to walk, a hobbit to save, a decision to make. All your years as a Ranger have trained you well, you are glad for the strength of your mind and the resistance of your bones, you couldn’t have done it without them.
Though something is utterly new for you: being surrounded by people day and night. The loneliness has turned into laughters and stories by the fire while you camp, the silent walks are now always loud —even when they ought not to. Strangely, you find that you enjoy the company, it gives you a break from the dreadful journey you are on. The hobbits are always up to something, Boromir always has a story to tell, Gimli never fails to make you laugh and Aragorn to teach you something new.
But there is one man you don’t quite know how to summarise. Legolas is a mystery to you. Since you’ve met him in Rivendell the prince has grown fairly close to you, to such an extent you can now easily call yourselves friends, but there is a tug at your chest every time he is around that tells a friend is not the word you would like to describe him with. Legolas has a way of showing he cares, things only reserved to you, but then he is always so calm and composed it seems like you don’t even have an effect on him. Maybe he cares as a friend would.
You don’t know the hold you have on him. How when he teaches you the meaning of a flower it’s because it reminded him of you, how he hunts for more rabbits since you once said you liked the way Sam cooked them. You rewire him impossibly, make him subject to things he had never experienced before, things like jealousy. He knows he shouldn’t feel that way, you don’t belong to him, you are free to do whatever you want, but he needs you to know he has as many stories to tell as Boromir, and he can make you laugh twice as much as Gimli does, and he can be more patient even than Aragorn with you.
At first, Legolas had been scared of the way his heart sputtered exactly the way you laughed every time you were too close to him. It destabilised him that he had to keep an eye on you in battle to be sure you were alright, that sometimes common tongue got lost in translation and the only right way to say things to you was in elvish. Then, he grew accustomed to the feelings you spurted inside him and showed them no resistance anymore, there was no use in doing so. But elvish culture had it that he was more reserved in voicing his emotions, instead he tried to show them in little acts here and there, in always being curious about you. You were clueless to his heeds. It seemed you saw none of them, which wasn’t surprising because in your own culture they could have been those of a friend also.
Compared to almost everyone else in the Fellowship you were not accustomed to elves and their customs, you couldn’t possibly know Legolas thought he was being obvious. It didn’t help the poor elf that everyone around had understood his doings right away; Aragorn had lived quite the same thing with Arwen, Gimli had eyes everywhere Legolas did not want them and Boromir had quickly picked up on the hobbits’ whisperings when the elf-prince and you talked. At that point, it wouldn’t have been surprising if they all had put a bet on when Legolas was going to confess.
But right now nothing more had happened and Legolas was busy staring at your back while you walked in front with Gimli. You could feel the burning of his gaze in your neck since a moment now, and it looked like he had no intention of stopping. Annoyed by the incessant starring of the elf, you eventually turned your head to him, looking in his direction above your shoulder. Your eyes met immediately and a small smile from your part was all it took for him to jog your way and end up walking by your side, the dwarf accompanying you now looking at him with a smirk full of innuendoes.
Suddenly, Legolas spoke. “Back in Rivendell, you said you were not a lady, but I still fail to find anything that makes you a man.“
The genuineness of his observation takes you aback for a second before you fall in an uncontrollable fit of laughter with the dwarf. Next to you, Legolas frowns in incomprehension; what did he say wrong this time?
“Aye, you do look like a girl! Dwarf-women seldom bathe too,“ Gimli laughs loudly, tears sprinkling at the corner of his eyes.
The comment makes you shake away your laughter, not without having to fan yourself cool again, and forces an embarrassed heat to creep up your cheeks while you try to deadpan the dwarf. It is true you have not had the chance to wash since leaving Rivendell. Your greasy hair you keep concealed into a braid, your nails are dirt-stained and you probably smell of sweat rather than pinewood like Legolas does. You wonder how can he keep so clean all the time, it seems filth resents him and refuses to stain his skin. His hair is always neatly done and his clothes never wrinkle, nor does he bears the marks of lack of sleep under his eyes like you do. You think you all are a bad sight to behold, all except him.
When you look up at him, Legolas is already glaring at Gimli, probably for his distasteful comment.
“It seems to me dwarf-men hold up to their women, then,“ Legolas retorts, and by the look on Gimli’s face another silly argument is about to happen.
Your hand falls easily to the elf’s arm, his expression immediately softens at the touch and he looses the frown upon his face when his eyes look down to yours.
“Gimli is right, Legolas. I would not dare call myself a lady like Lady Arwen seeing the state of filth I am in,“ you try to laugh it off. “It’s alright, it has always been that way.“
Legolas nods but you can see it in his eyes he is not pleased with your reply. If anything, he finds it illogical you should think ill of your looks only because it is not pristine. After all, you are on a quest to save the world, not attending a royal feast, he doesn’t expect you to look like elf-women do. In fact, it doesn’t matter to him at all. Legolas still finds you beautiful. Shamelessly, he likes the trace of battle on you, of walking days without an end and never wavering, the evidence of you that marks all things.
The subject is forgotten in surface and you go back to your usual discussion, but when you make camp the next time, there is a spring a five minutes walk away; and the time after a river running close; and so on until now you can take a swim every now and then. You know it is Legolas’s doing, he always comes to tell you about the river he found close by when you set camp.
The elf seems very content of his findings every time he tells you about them. He reckons the hour he looses every now and then walking ahead of the group scouting for the perfect spot to suggest Aragorn to make camp in are all accounted for when you smile softly every time he approaches you and you already know what he is going to say. He regrets them even less when you pull you shirt over your head, back turned to him, before he has time to leave and he has to turn away in a hurry, heart hammering in his chest and throat clogging because he knows you do it on purpose.
Legolas pretends he doesn’t see the insinuating looks Aragorn sends him every time you come back from your privileged moment of relaxation glowing in sheer happiness and dragging the scent of clean skin everywhere you wander. He grumbles to the way Gimli elbows him obviously when you come out from between the trees, or to the less subtle way Boromir has of whistling and holding out his hands in surrender because you look much better than them despite your grim clothes.
It doesn’t matter to him wether you look like a high lady or a wanderer of the woods, but it seems you are self-conscious about it now that you are not alone; enough for him to feel like he won something when you laugh more easily at the hobbits’ antics when you don’t look like a war-torn mess anymore.
Tonight is one of those nights where you had been able to spare some time for yourself and wash away some of the mud off of your body. Everybody is sleeping around you, you get to do the first quarter of the night shift.
From where you stand perched on a branch, the sky above is filled with stars, devoid of any cloud. A cicada buzzes in the distance, the air outside is still warm enough to keep you from shivering from your damp hair. The fire burning below casts orange lights upon your face, they dance and curl with the shadows of the night. You hope this is a calm night.
Back on the ground, a leaf cracks under unconcealed footsteps and your gaze darts to the sound. Looking up at you, Legolas stands at the root of the tree, gossamer hair catching the reflection of the fire behind. Your heart leaps dangerously when he climbs the tree to come level with you, a gracefulness to his movements only an immortal prince could hope to achieve. You follow them attentively, watch the way his strong arms flex under his tunic when he hoists himself up to you with the help of a branch over your head.
In seconds, he ends up crouched on a bough next to yours, one arm still gripping above you. The warm feeling that spreads to your body when he is so close anaesthetises everything else, the twist in your guts deliciously painful. Legolas is so close you can feel the warmth of his breath crash on your face from where he stands, and the heat of his body cages you against the trunk.
With the night, his eyes have turned a deeper shade of blue, they seem to invite you more. You try to avert from them when they send prickles at the tip of your fingers, but your gaze instead falls on the hem of his shirt that barely lifts above his waistband and lets a strip of white ivory skin out in the cold.
Something shifts in the air, he knows it and this time he does not do let it slip. He smirks right in your face when you dart your head up hurriedly and the familiar heat that coils in your stomach whenever he is around worsens.
Did the Valars agree to such beauty?
You drive away the thoughts that creep up your mind in the best way you know, by leaning further into the tree you are backed against, away from the unsettling proximity you share.
“Thank you,“ you breathe, Legolas looks at you curiously. “For always making sure I can bathe somewhere when we make camp. It’s sweet.“
You hope the pinkish hue that colours your cheeks is hidden by the darkness all around.
“It’s nothing, I could not let you speak ill of yourself only because you feel like a deadly mission takes away from your charms. Or Gimli, for all that matters.“
The compliment only makes you blush harder, you settle to look at the ground feet below, now certain Legolas sees the crimson colour your cheeks have turned.
“Gimli did not speak ill of me, Legolas,“ you insist with a smile.
“He did. And I did not like it.“
The revelation makes your heart trip over itself, it simmers in the silence that follows and the elf is always so close, you feel he even leaned in closer. Your eyes flutter to his, you hate that you feel shy all of a sudden but how could it be any other way when the intensity of his gaze makes you crumble completely. There is no frown on his face, nothing but the unbelievable composure he seems carved out from. However, Legolas feels everything but composed right now, because if he was composed he wouldn’t have to fight the urge to kiss you senseless.
Slowly, you reach for the braid in your back to change the subject. You drape it above your shoulder and go down the length with your fore and middle finger; Legolas’s gaze follow them intensely, you think you see his Adam apple bob from the corner of your eye.
“I have tried a different braid, the one you taught me last time,“ you explain, thinking back to the minutes you had spent fighting with your own hair to wave the right patterns in them.
Legolas’s gaze softens, a small smile blooms on his lips and he reaches out to feel the braid in his hand. His thumb traces the bumps of the hairstyle, gauging their regularity. His heart quickens in his chest, now he feels utterly infatuated by you, because the braid he taught you has a secret meaning you don’t know. It means everlasting devotion, admiration and beauty, and now Legolas cannot see you out of it.
Your eyes search for his, they wait for him to say something, to look at you. When he does, his hand slides to your face and featherlight fingers push a wild strand of hair away from your forehead, excruciatingly slow.
“You did great, meleth nîn.“
Meleth nîn.
You didn’t know much about elvish, but this you know. You had heard Arwen whisper it to Aragorn before leaving Rivendell, he had later explained it meant something in the realm of “my love“.
Now it had slipped from the mouth of Legolas like a prayer, like an endearment fit for you only, as if it was the most natural thing to call you. He didn’t flinch at the words that escaped him, they hung in the air between you. But your eyes opened wide and your insides lurched painfully, because nothing ever slipped from the control of Legolas, his own self never betrayed him. The words had been intended.
“Legolas,“ he hums in reply, visibly talking great delight in seeing you struggle the words out. “I know what meleth nîn means.“
You think he probably did not expect you to, but the look in his eyes doesn’t say so. Instead of growing embarrassed like you thought he would, only a small frown kisses his lips.
“Yes?“ he says, not sure about where you want to go with this.
Your distressed look and the way you part your lips to speak but never manage a sound finally make him realise you still don’t understand. Legolas knew human were stubborn, but you really were something. He huffs a laugh in front of your bewildered expression.
“Of course you’re the love of my life, I’m courting you,“ he breaks down like he is saying something common, discussing the weather.
Suddenly, your mind blurs and everything falls deaf to you. Legolas was courting you. From the start he was courting you and you had seen nothing, had dismissed as friendship what he thought was blatant flirting. And of course, he sees right through it. Legolas reads your mind the moment it starts to fumble on itself.
“Is a kiss friendly in human culture?“ he asks.
Your heart stops. “No… No it is not.“
“Good.“
You don’t have time to think once about the way he is leaning in and the hand he slides to your neck to angle you as he likes with a thumb under your jaw, because his lips are pressed to yours already. He stays here unmoving, mouth against yours, not a strength in his muscles so you can leave if you wish to; but you don’t and the moment your hand falls so his bicep to hold on to Legolas feels like he can breathe again.
Under your palm, his arm flexes instinctively, it keeps him from falling as he leans into you as much as he can. Against you, his lips are warm and soft, the kiss is languid, unhurried, it presses you against the tree a little more.
Your mind swims with him, you feel you might fall if you don’t hold on to something, anything, and it falls on the strip of exposed skin at his waist. The feeling of your cold fingers on him makes Legolas muffle a sound in the kiss, something that makes you grin dumbly and splay your palm wider.
When he parts from you after a while, his forehead rests against yours and his thumb strokes circles in your neck.
“Is that clear enough of a message?“ he breathes against the bridge of your nose.
“I don’t know… Maybe you should do it again, just to make sure.“
And Legolas doesn’t need to be asked twice when you look at him with those eyes, his mouth is already back on you —away for too long already, he feels. Now the kiss is less behaved, less diligent. By your doing it hurries to swollen lips and a bruising hand on your waist. Your own hand plays with the hair at the nape of his neck, you taunt him when you squeeze at his bicep just to feel better the extent of the man you have for yourself. It makes him smirk proudly, Legolas is very well aware of himself.
Under you, the sound of someone groaning in their sleep forces you apart, though it is more you who pulls away and Legolas’s mouth that tries to follow yours instinctively, hunger not slaked but worsened, if anything. You hold back a giggle at the face he makes and slide a palm to his cheek, kissing the other tenderly.
“You know, the rivers are usually big enough for two of us,“ you muse next to his pointy ear that you see turn red by the second. “And there’s a spot in my back I can’t reach all alone.“
Now Legolas is a fool if you ever miss an occasion of bathing again.
summary : Being a Ranger of the North meant you rarely had the luxury to spare yourself a bath, and it's a thought that does not sit right with Legolas.
pairing legolas x fem!Ranger!reader (no use of y/n)
content warning : dirt, legolas is the sweetest man ever, everyone knows but her, fluff, softness
wc : 6k
taglist : @entishramblings @goldenatreides @hell-o-kittys @flooofity @angiekayyy @xxliaaaa (let me know if i missed anyone!)
author’s note : the cutest thing ever to write i had so much fun omg
➢ nini’s masterlist
➢ read on ao3
It was through a litany of fortunate, perhaps unfortunate for some, circumstances you had joined the fellowship. Rangers of the North seldom enjoyed company, they were dark and grim to anyone with the eyes to see the dirt clinging to them like second skin and rarely spoke to one another. In fact, the rarely even met. It was a wonder you always stumbled upon the same man. Strider —or Aragorn, as you’d soon learn his real name was, gravitated around the same places you did. He scouted the same areas, slept in the same inns.
You were not wary about each other, a Ranger always recognised a peer when he met one; not many people were found sitting somber in a corner, talking to none and looking like the sight of a bath was not one they had met in the last ten years. But it took time for you to speak, to sit across each other in silence and exchange something as simple as names. Well, names you had chosen for yourselves: Strider and Shade, for you mastered a talent of discretion akin to no one’s. Perhaps also Rangers’ names were meant to scare, to entertain their reputation.
The loneliness is only so good for a moment. After, it soon becomes heavy, unbearable when forced upon oneself for too long. Aragorn could do with a friend, or a trusted name to call at least, and he had made you laugh once too many times in a corner of the Prancing Pony for you to not see him as bordering family after a while.
You carried on your own separate path most of the time, but often shared a drink when you met at an inn or stayed together a day or two when you encountered in the wilderness. He had shared little of his friends if he had any, even less of his life; it was like he was a shadow with no past nor future, only a present. So it came as a great surprise the day he spoke about elves in Rivendell. The name of Arwen fell down his lips like a talisman multiple times. You were glad for the few drinks you had had before, they certainly pushed him to open to you after years of knowing each other. Another name had also risen in the conversation more than once, someone he seemed to have a high opinion of. Legolas was the name, it clung curiously in your mind before falling into the depths of memory, erased by other urging matters.
In your entire life, you had not met a man so full of surprise as Aragorn. He could disappear without a trace one day and come to you with a party of four hobbits and the selfish need for you to help him get them to Rivendell without asking questions the next.
For better or worse you had accepted: for worse when the Black Riders you had seen sulk around lately revealed to be after the hobbits and attacked, for better when Rivendell welcomed you with a hot bath. Aragorn had promised you answers soon enough, but for now you had to settle for the steaming water of a bath scented with rosemary leaves your hosts had drawn for you, which you did most willingly.
It was your first time in an elven city, or even meeting elves, and already you could tell why everyone was so fond of them. Their hospitality could hardly be rivalled with and they were all so charming and pleasant to be around, a calm haven in the tempest your wandering life had always been. No wonder why Aragorn thought so highly of them.
It had been months since you had felt anything else than the cold water of a river to wash your back, or been able to get the dirt off of under your nails. You lingered in the bath until it turned cold, took your utmost time combing through your hair against knots and massaging your scalp clean of all the accumulated filth. Now you were left slipping on clean clothes for the night, looking at yourself in the mirror like your reflection was a stranger’s. It might as well have been one. Had you ever even seen yourself so pristine, so normal? The Shade had disappeared, you were still quick on your feet and discreet but the grim look that scared people away was no longer yours. If someone dared calling you pretty, they would have been right.
It was strange seeing yourself in this light. Strange and uncomfortable, like you were naked despite clothes, like a teenage girl unprotected. You trailed a hand to your clean, damp hair and pressed your lips in a thin line: you could do with this look for your time here, soon the old one would come back. You gave one thought towards Aragorn. Did he feel the same way? He was much older than you, the years behind him were greater, dirtier, you doubted a single elf-bath could get him rid of all the mud he had accumulated.
The thought made you smile. You wrapped your usual cape around your shoulders and left the room in silence, steps carrying you dead quiet more by habit than by real precaution. Above Rivendell, a starry sky was lit, the crystals along the open corridor you walked in seemed to be using its light as a source of their own, reflecting it to guide you.
A shiver coursed through you, a light breeze was blowing and your wet hair didn’t help the cold slowly sticking to your skin. The corridor took a slight curve at the end of which the shadow of someone walking your way could be seen on the pillars opening on a view of the kingdom. Elves didn’t sleep much, you even wondered if they even slept at all, so it was not surprising to cross one despite the late hour of the night. Still, your footsteps slowed and shifted to near imperceptibility of their own accord; maybe your visitor did too, maybe elvish steps were as featherlight as they were said to be, but you would not have spotted him if it wasn’t for his shadow curling ahead.
When the stranger came into view, your eyes crossed immediately like he had waited for your appearance just like you had anticipated his. At the other end of the softly lit corridor, a man was walking; unhurried steps, confident posture, composed aura. Like all elves, the man was of great beauty, but somehow he seemed even fairer than the others to you. And he wasn’t from Rivendell, you could tell by his blond hair and light blue eyes contrasting with the darker features of Elrond’s children. Upon seeing you, it seemed the pace of his steps broke for the smallest moment, and yours did too.
Elves caught everything, every shift in the atmosphere, every change in one’s posture, but he said nothing about the one then and let you pretend both of you had dreamt. When you crossed, he addressed a polite nod with a small bow, the faintest bend of his back. You replied equally before he slipped behind your back, still quiet, still here nonetheless. It was like he had been but a blur memory, he had existed for a second, taken your breath away and disappeared just as fast.
Now the wind had carried you in your room before you knew it and the handsome elf followed in your mind until sleep took you away. Then, he vanished almost too easily and by morning come you had not a thought to reserve him, your path had not crossed again. Not until the council, that is.
Of course, if a council had been gathered with every important kingdom there was, the only elf that did not belong to Rivendell was part of it. And he seemed to know Aragorn, he had greeted him shortly upon entering the patio. You quickly found your seat next to the Ranger, for it seemed your place stood with the people who resembled you more, and you had not been mistaken by thinking the dirt would cling to him more.
Further to your right, across the half-circle that had formed, the blond elf sat, and every time you tried to spare him a glance he was already looking at you. If he anticipated every one of your looks or if he simply never looked away from your form you couldn’t tell, but your eyes crossed once too many times for strangers.
You rationalised the thought: you had never seen an elf and he was certainly the most handsome there was in this room, it was only natural he drew you in. Him on the other hand, had seen other beauties than you, he had no reason lingering as he did. He looked to be around your age, which for elves meant he was probably around thousands of years old, and a Ranger, even a clean one, should not deserve so much of his attention. Maybe he was only curious because you were a friend of Aragorn. You hoped it was the case.
Your daydreaming was cut short by the beginning of the council, for which you were glad at first but quickly realised it was above all that you expected. So the Black Riders that scared the people were after the hobbits, precisely after one hobbit. Mr Baggins was sitting sheepish at the farther end of the gathering, the centre of the attention yet out of it all the same. He kept on staring at a jewel lying on a table in front of you all. You recognised it, of course you did, you were no fool. How did a hobbit become in possession of the One Ring was a mystery to you, one you expected you’d uncover soon enough but was last in the list of your preoccupation right now. What mattered was that he was in possession of it and that now Elrond was saying it could not stay in Rivendell.
Mentions of Mordor were made, of the evil forces of the East, of everything that would cost you your life yet pushed you further to believe it was not a coincidence life had put Aragorn on your path. Everything linked up to this moment, to your partaking to this council and to the impending quest you had a part to play in. You knew it in your heart.
A man rose, he spoke of the Ring as a gift, like it was a present kindly made by the Dark Lord to the foes of Mordor that could be used against him. Perhaps he was a fool, but you were already starting to realise the Ring had a power you could not have fathomed even in your deepest nightmares. It bended the greatest of men to its will, coaxed them to trust the insignificant object it was to better corrupt. You could not hold Gondor’s prince accountable, had you been in search of power the Ring would try to get to you all the same. But power was far from what you seeked, and in that way you were not an immediate subject of its attention.
Aragorn spoke up to reason the hasty prince. And he was right in every sense: none can wield the power of the Ring for himself, for it has but one goal: return to its Master at all cost. It did not satisfy the man, and when he talked down on Aragorn a tension grew in the room. Some people looked at each other without saying anything but before you had time to register what was happening, the elf you had especially noticed stood.
“He is no mere Ranger. He is Aragorn, son of Arathorn. You owe him your allegiance,“ he said.
Your head spun when you turned it too fast towards the man you thought you knew as a friend. He could never stop surprising you, could he? And now he was averting his eyes like it could turn the attention off of him. But how could it when the Ranger you sided with all these years revealed himself to be heir to the throne of Gondor? You remembered all the time he refused to say anything about himself, how secretive he had been all these years. Your lips parted to speak, but a voice other than yours reached your ears.
“Havo dad, Legolas.“
Legolas.
So that was his name. This was the man whose sole name had stuck with you once without reason, like impending fate. And fate had had her way indeed, because he was now looking at you across the room and you had no will to look away. His blue eyes bore in yours, they seemed to scan your every thought. Meeting him was destabilising, to say the least. And now you had all the time in the world to be destabilised by him because he followed without a second thought when you gave your strength to the quest right after Aragorn.
Again, your eyes crossed, but this time you gave him a smile, the mere twitch of lips but a smile nonetheless. And so it was decided, you would all form the Fellowship and bring the Ring to the fires of Mount Doom; bring Frodo to his destiny.
Somewhere between your ribs, your heart ached at the thought of the hobbit going through hardships you couldn’t imagine. How could such a little creature bear the Ring so willingly? And yet it seemed there was no one else than him to do it, he had borne it already up until now, more than any of you could have done.
Courage was often found best in places you least expected it, Frodo’s courage fuelled yours.
The council trailed to its end, people left the patio, went about their day when they still had the chance, but someone lingered. Looking over the stone balustrade down to the city, Legolas was leaning over the railing, his back to you. Soon, it was only the two of you left and you could tell he knew you were still here. You stayed unmoving for a few seconds, more to admire the way his hair caught the last rays of the dying sunshine than to really ponder about what to do next. It was already obvious you wanted to talk to him.
When your body joins his against the balustrade, he turns his head towards you with a smile. It’s inviting, everything in him is: his warmth, his posture, the features of his face. Up close you take better time to admire them, it doesn’t seem to bother him, he looks like he does the same. It’s worse than you thought, he is not just handsome but unreal, out of a dream almost. Your gaze trails to the blue of his eyes, down to the line of his nose, the sharp of is jaw and end up on the bow of his lips. You flicker your eyes back to his when starring at his mouth becomes painfully obvious.
“Legolas, is it?“ you ask.
The tension in his shoulder eases a bit more, he nods. “It is. What is your name, my lady?“
The title tears a small laugh out of you and you give him your name. He tests it on his lips once, as if to make it real.
“I am far from being a lady, I do not have the time to be one and rarely look like one.“
Your assertion pulls Legolas’s brows in a frown, what you say seems to puzzle him. It’s curious, he has never been so inclined to know more about someone he just met. Somehow, he wonders what you look like when you deem you are not a lady as well as when you are one. He wonders about all the in-betweens you can be. How far are you from the girl that smelt like rosemary he crossed yesterday in the corridors? How much faster can you make his heart beat?
“You are a friend of Aragorn,“ he says at last, like that would explain anything. Maybe he thinks all humans are like the Ranger: handsome even covered in dirt.
“I am. I am a Ranger myself. We may be known to be solitary people but sometime the loneliness weights anyway.“
“Yes, I see,“ he replies like he knows exactly what you mean.
A comfortable silence trails, a bird chirps in the distance and Legolas shifts next to you; his elbow grazes yours.
“Where are you from? You’re not from Rivendell,“ you ask.
He smiles: you notice a lot. “No, I’m not. I come from Mirkwood, North from here, down the Grey Mountains.“
Now the ethereal aura he glows of needs no further explanation. A smirk paints your lips, none of you has looked away yet.
“They say the Elvenking has a son,“ you tease, and his own lips curl into a grin that mimics yours.
“Or so they say,“ he mirrors.
Again, the quiet that follows is easy. It requires no further speaking and allows you to stray from one other’s eyes eventually. You are not a great talker, but it matters little for Legolas is not either, the silence works best. To Legolas, you are already a blessing the Valars placed on his way, unavoidable by all means. He does not wish to avoid you, if anything it is the opposite and it bugs him slightly. The elf-prince has yet to accustom himself to the tiny love-starved monster you birth inside of his stomach.
Weeks have passed since the council, and being part of the Fellowship is restless to say the least. There is always something to do: a danger to flee from, a distance to walk, a hobbit to save, a decision to make. All your years as a Ranger have trained you well, you are glad for the strength of your mind and the resistance of your bones, you couldn’t have done it without them.
Though something is utterly new for you: being surrounded by people day and night. The loneliness has turned into laughters and stories by the fire while you camp, the silent walks are now always loud —even when they ought not to. Strangely, you find that you enjoy the company, it gives you a break from the dreadful journey you are on. The hobbits are always up to something, Boromir always has a story to tell, Gimli never fails to make you laugh and Aragorn to teach you something new.
But there is one man you don’t quite know how to summarise. Legolas is a mystery to you. Since you’ve met him in Rivendell the prince has grown fairly close to you, to such an extent you can now easily call yourselves friends, but there is a tug at your chest every time he is around that tells a friend is not the word you would like to describe him with. Legolas has a way of showing he cares, things only reserved to you, but then he is always so calm and composed it seems like you don’t even have an effect on him. Maybe he cares as a friend would.
You don’t know the hold you have on him. How when he teaches you the meaning of a flower it’s because it reminded him of you, how he hunts for more rabbits since you once said you liked the way Sam cooked them. You rewire him impossibly, make him subject to things he had never experienced before, things like jealousy. He knows he shouldn’t feel that way, you don’t belong to him, you are free to do whatever you want, but he needs you to know he has as many stories to tell as Boromir, and he can make you laugh twice as much as Gimli does, and he can be more patient even than Aragorn with you.
At first, Legolas had been scared of the way his heart sputtered exactly the way you laughed every time you were too close to him. It destabilised him that he had to keep an eye on you in battle to be sure you were alright, that sometimes common tongue got lost in translation and the only right way to say things to you was in elvish. Then, he grew accustomed to the feelings you spurted inside him and showed them no resistance anymore, there was no use in doing so. But elvish culture had it that he was more reserved in voicing his emotions, instead he tried to show them in little acts here and there, in always being curious about you. You were clueless to his heeds. It seemed you saw none of them, which wasn’t surprising because in your own culture they could have been those of a friend also.
Compared to almost everyone else in the Fellowship you were not accustomed to elves and their customs, you couldn’t possibly know Legolas thought he was being obvious. It didn’t help the poor elf that everyone around had understood his doings right away; Aragorn had lived quite the same thing with Arwen, Gimli had eyes everywhere Legolas did not want them and Boromir had quickly picked up on the hobbits’ whisperings when the elf-prince and you talked. At that point, it wouldn’t have been surprising if they all had put a bet on when Legolas was going to confess.
But right now nothing more had happened and Legolas was busy staring at your back while you walked in front with Gimli. You could feel the burning of his gaze in your neck since a moment now, and it looked like he had no intention of stopping. Annoyed by the incessant starring of the elf, you eventually turned your head to him, looking in his direction above your shoulder. Your eyes met immediately and a small smile from your part was all it took for him to jog your way and end up walking by your side, the dwarf accompanying you now looking at him with a smirk full of innuendoes.
Suddenly, Legolas spoke. “Back in Rivendell, you said you were not a lady, but I still fail to find anything that makes you a man.“
The genuineness of his observation takes you aback for a second before you fall in an uncontrollable fit of laughter with the dwarf. Next to you, Legolas frowns in incomprehension; what did he say wrong this time?
“Aye, you do look like a girl! Dwarf-women seldom bathe too,“ Gimli laughs loudly, tears sprinkling at the corner of his eyes.
The comment makes you shake away your laughter, not without having to fan yourself cool again, and forces an embarrassed heat to creep up your cheeks while you try to deadpan the dwarf. It is true you have not had the chance to wash since leaving Rivendell. Your greasy hair you keep concealed into a braid, your nails are dirt-stained and you probably smell of sweat rather than pinewood like Legolas does. You wonder how can he keep so clean all the time, it seems filth resents him and refuses to stain his skin. His hair is always neatly done and his clothes never wrinkle, nor does he bears the marks of lack of sleep under his eyes like you do. You think you all are a bad sight to behold, all except him.
When you look up at him, Legolas is already glaring at Gimli, probably for his distasteful comment.
“It seems to me dwarf-men hold up to their women, then,“ Legolas retorts, and by the look on Gimli’s face another silly argument is about to happen.
Your hand falls easily to the elf’s arm, his expression immediately softens at the touch and he looses the frown upon his face when his eyes look down to yours.
“Gimli is right, Legolas. I would not dare call myself a lady like Lady Arwen seeing the state of filth I am in,“ you try to laugh it off. “It’s alright, it has always been that way.“
Legolas nods but you can see it in his eyes he is not pleased with your reply. If anything, he finds it illogical you should think ill of your looks only because it is not pristine. After all, you are on a quest to save the world, not attending a royal feast, he doesn’t expect you to look like elf-women do. In fact, it doesn’t matter to him at all. Legolas still finds you beautiful. Shamelessly, he likes the trace of battle on you, of walking days without an end and never wavering, the evidence of you that marks all things.
The subject is forgotten in surface and you go back to your usual discussion, but when you make camp the next time, there is a spring a five minutes walk away; and the time after a river running close; and so on until now you can take a swim every now and then. You know it is Legolas’s doing, he always comes to tell you about the river he found close by when you set camp.
The elf seems very content of his findings every time he tells you about them. He reckons the hour he looses every now and then walking ahead of the group scouting for the perfect spot to suggest Aragorn to make camp in are all accounted for when you smile softly every time he approaches you and you already know what he is going to say. He regrets them even less when you pull you shirt over your head, back turned to him, before he has time to leave and he has to turn away in a hurry, heart hammering in his chest and throat clogging because he knows you do it on purpose.
Legolas pretends he doesn’t see the insinuating looks Aragorn sends him every time you come back from your privileged moment of relaxation glowing in sheer happiness and dragging the scent of clean skin everywhere you wander. He grumbles to the way Gimli elbows him obviously when you come out from between the trees, or to the less subtle way Boromir has of whistling and holding out his hands in surrender because you look much better than them despite your grim clothes.
It doesn’t matter to him wether you look like a high lady or a wanderer of the woods, but it seems you are self-conscious about it now that you are not alone; enough for him to feel like he won something when you laugh more easily at the hobbits’ antics when you don’t look like a war-torn mess anymore.
Tonight is one of those nights where you had been able to spare some time for yourself and wash away some of the mud off of your body. Everybody is sleeping around you, you get to do the first quarter of the night shift.
From where you stand perched on a branch, the sky above is filled with stars, devoid of any cloud. A cicada buzzes in the distance, the air outside is still warm enough to keep you from shivering from your damp hair. The fire burning below casts orange lights upon your face, they dance and curl with the shadows of the night. You hope this is a calm night.
Back on the ground, a leaf cracks under unconcealed footsteps and your gaze darts to the sound. Looking up at you, Legolas stands at the root of the tree, gossamer hair catching the reflection of the fire behind. Your heart leaps dangerously when he climbs the tree to come level with you, a gracefulness to his movements only an immortal prince could hope to achieve. You follow them attentively, watch the way his strong arms flex under his tunic when he hoists himself up to you with the help of a branch over your head.
In seconds, he ends up crouched on a bough next to yours, one arm still gripping above you. The warm feeling that spreads to your body when he is so close anaesthetises everything else, the twist in your guts deliciously painful. Legolas is so close you can feel the warmth of his breath crash on your face from where he stands, and the heat of his body cages you against the trunk.
With the night, his eyes have turned a deeper shade of blue, they seem to invite you more. You try to avert from them when they send prickles at the tip of your fingers, but your gaze instead falls on the hem of his shirt that barely lifts above his waistband and lets a strip of white ivory skin out in the cold.
Something shifts in the air, he knows it and this time he does not do let it slip. He smirks right in your face when you dart your head up hurriedly and the familiar heat that coils in your stomach whenever he is around worsens.
Did the Valars agree to such beauty?
You drive away the thoughts that creep up your mind in the best way you know, by leaning further into the tree you are backed against, away from the unsettling proximity you share.
“Thank you,“ you breathe, Legolas looks at you curiously. “For always making sure I can bathe somewhere when we make camp. It’s sweet.“
You hope the pinkish hue that colours your cheeks is hidden by the darkness all around.
“It’s nothing, I could not let you speak ill of yourself only because you feel like a deadly mission takes away from your charms. Or Gimli, for all that matters.“
The compliment only makes you blush harder, you settle to look at the ground feet below, now certain Legolas sees the crimson colour your cheeks have turned.
“Gimli did not speak ill of me, Legolas,“ you insist with a smile.
“He did. And I did not like it.“
The revelation makes your heart trip over itself, it simmers in the silence that follows and the elf is always so close, you feel he even leaned in closer. Your eyes flutter to his, you hate that you feel shy all of a sudden but how could it be any other way when the intensity of his gaze makes you crumble completely. There is no frown on his face, nothing but the unbelievable composure he seems carved out from. However, Legolas feels everything but composed right now, because if he was composed he wouldn’t have to fight the urge to kiss you senseless.
Slowly, you reach for the braid in your back to change the subject. You drape it above your shoulder and go down the length with your fore and middle finger; Legolas’s gaze follow them intensely, you think you see his Adam apple bob from the corner of your eye.
“I have tried a different braid, the one you taught me last time,“ you explain, thinking back to the minutes you had spent fighting with your own hair to wave the right patterns in them.
Legolas’s gaze softens, a small smile blooms on his lips and he reaches out to feel the braid in his hand. His thumb traces the bumps of the hairstyle, gauging their regularity. His heart quickens in his chest, now he feels utterly infatuated by you, because the braid he taught you has a secret meaning you don’t know. It means everlasting devotion, admiration and beauty, and now Legolas cannot see you out of it.
Your eyes search for his, they wait for him to say something, to look at you. When he does, his hand slides to your face and featherlight fingers push a wild strand of hair away from your forehead, excruciatingly slow.
“You did great, meleth nîn.“
Meleth nîn.
You didn’t know much about elvish, but this you know. You had heard Arwen whisper it to Aragorn before leaving Rivendell, he had later explained it meant something in the realm of “my love“.
Now it had slipped from the mouth of Legolas like a prayer, like an endearment fit for you only, as if it was the most natural thing to call you. He didn’t flinch at the words that escaped him, they hung in the air between you. But your eyes opened wide and your insides lurched painfully, because nothing ever slipped from the control of Legolas, his own self never betrayed him. The words had been intended.
“Legolas,“ he hums in reply, visibly talking great delight in seeing you struggle the words out. “I know what meleth nîn means.“
You think he probably did not expect you to, but the look in his eyes doesn’t say so. Instead of growing embarrassed like you thought he would, only a small frown kisses his lips.
“Yes?“ he says, not sure about where you want to go with this.
Your distressed look and the way you part your lips to speak but never manage a sound finally make him realise you still don’t understand. Legolas knew human were stubborn, but you really were something. He huffs a laugh in front of your bewildered expression.
“Of course you’re the love of my life, I’m courting you,“ he breaks down like he is saying something common, discussing the weather.
Suddenly, your mind blurs and everything falls deaf to you. Legolas was courting you. From the start he was courting you and you had seen nothing, had dismissed as friendship what he thought was blatant flirting. And of course, he sees right through it. Legolas reads your mind the moment it starts to fumble on itself.
“Is a kiss friendly in human culture?“ he asks.
Your heart stops. “No… No it is not.“
“Good.“
You don’t have time to think once about the way he is leaning in and the hand he slides to your neck to angle you as he likes with a thumb under your jaw, because his lips are pressed to yours already. He stays here unmoving, mouth against yours, not a strength in his muscles so you can leave if you wish to; but you don’t and the moment your hand falls so his bicep to hold on to Legolas feels like he can breathe again.
Under your palm, his arm flexes instinctively, it keeps him from falling as he leans into you as much as he can. Against you, his lips are warm and soft, the kiss is languid, unhurried, it presses you against the tree a little more.
Your mind swims with him, you feel you might fall if you don’t hold on to something, anything, and it falls on the strip of exposed skin at his waist. The feeling of your cold fingers on him makes Legolas muffle a sound in the kiss, something that makes you grin dumbly and splay your palm wider.
When he parts from you after a while, his forehead rests against yours and his thumb strokes circles in your neck.
“Is that clear enough of a message?“ he breathes against the bridge of your nose.
“I don’t know… Maybe you should do it again, just to make sure.“
And Legolas doesn’t need to be asked twice when you look at him with those eyes, his mouth is already back on you —away for too long already, he feels. Now the kiss is less behaved, less diligent. By your doing it hurries to swollen lips and a bruising hand on your waist. Your own hand plays with the hair at the nape of his neck, you taunt him when you squeeze at his bicep just to feel better the extent of the man you have for yourself. It makes him smirk proudly, Legolas is very well aware of himself.
Under you, the sound of someone groaning in their sleep forces you apart, though it is more you who pulls away and Legolas’s mouth that tries to follow yours instinctively, hunger not slaked but worsened, if anything. You hold back a giggle at the face he makes and slide a palm to his cheek, kissing the other tenderly.
“You know, the rivers are usually big enough for two of us,“ you muse next to his pointy ear that you see turn red by the second. “And there’s a spot in my back I can’t reach all alone.“
Now Legolas is a fool if you ever miss an occasion of bathing again.
hey so anyone else just, feel thin. sort of stretched. like butter scraped over too much bread. like you need a holiday. a very long holiday. and you don't expect you shall return? or is that just me and bilbo baggins
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