Lady Mercury

Lady (she/her) || 18+ || Falling into fiction

[ladymercury8]

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Characters include: Steve Harrington, and Eddie Munson

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Peter 3/Andrew Garfield's Peter/The Amazing Spider-Man (TASM)

Alternatively, you can endlessly scroll through all my work by searching (via the search bar above): #Lady writes

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[kassy-djomunson]

holy fuck i’m starving

[kassy-djomunson]

four years ago, season 4 volume 2 of stranger things premiered on netflix

[buckysbarnes]

WHY I WATCH STRANGER THINGS: THE “PLOT” - PART ONE 

[purrfectpeach]

First strawberries from my garden🍓✨

[lonelycity]

sonia attalla

[kassy-djomunson]

i’m not gonna say anything.

[pleasantlycrazyworld]

You’re Not Alone Anymore

Warnings: Intense dom/sub dynamic, deep subspace, overstimulation, implied smut, emotional vulnerability, past partner neglect, gentle aftercare (bathing, cleaning, dressing, cuddling), protective!soft!possessive!Frank, hurt/comfort, mild language, healing

Summary: After an intense night together, Frank finds you trying to do aftercare by yourself. What starts as confusion turns into quiet rage and aching tenderness when he realizes you’ve always had to take care of yourself. That ends tonight. Because Frank Castle doesn’t let the woman, he loves float alone in space

xoxoxo

Your thighs were still trembling.

You couldn’t move without shaking—hell, you could barely breathe right. Your skin was flushed, sensitive, and your head felt like it was floating somewhere between reality and the stars. Everything echoed. Every touch still lingered like fire. Every whisper Frank had growled against your skin replayed like a prayer.

You were limp on the bed, sheets soaked beneath your hips, mouth parted, eyes hazy. Floating. Blinking fast like that would pull you down from orbit.

And yet—with what little strength you had—you stirred. Reached out. Fumbled blindly for the towel abandoned after Frank’s shower. You’d done this a hundred times before. Clean yourself. Ground yourself. Take care of the mess alone, like always.

Frank had collapsed beside you minutes ago, panting and sweat-drenched. But as soon as you moved, he blinked at you, brows knitting.

“Where you goin’, baby?”

“Just… cleanup,” you whispered. Your voice was floaty. Far away. “It’s okay. I got it.”

Frank pushed up on his elbow, eyes narrowing as he watched you shake your way through some kind of ritual he didn’t recognize. Water bottle. Wipes. The shaking of your fingers. The dissociation in your eyes.

“The fuck you doing?” he asked. Not harsh. Just sharp. Alarmed.

You blinked at him, confused by the question. “I always do this. I’m fine. I promise. I’m used to it—”

“What?”

Frank sat up completely. The mattress dipped. You stilled.

Then, soft as a confession, “No one’s ever really… done aftercare. I usually just do it myself.”

You meant it casually. Like it didn’t matter. But the shame was already creeping in, burning at your throat.

Frank froze.

Then, voice low and dangerous, “What do you mean ‘no one’s ever done aftercare for ya’?”

You swallowed. “They got what they wanted and would roll over or fall asleep or just leave… and I’d just clean up after, maybe get some water or take a bath if it was bad. It’s not a big deal. It’s normal.”

His entire body locked.

You watched him clench his jaw, drag a slow hand over his face like he was trying not to put it through a wall. “Fucking hell.”

“Frankie—”

“No,” he snapped. Then gentled instantly. “No. Don’t. Don’t you dare make excuses for that shit, baby. That’s not okay. You—fuck. You don’t do that to someone you just wrecked. You don’t leave them floatin’ in space tryin’ to put themselves back together.”

You looked down. “It’s not like they were all bad. I just… learned to handle it.”

His hand was on your face before you could finish—steady, warm, grounding. He tilted your chin so you’d look him in the eye.

“You don’t ‘handle’ it anymore,” he said firmly. “You don’t take care of yourself after givin’ me your whole fuckin’ body. I’m the one who took you apart—let me be the one who puts you back together pumpkin.”

He paused.

“You’re not fuckin’ doin’ that anymore.”

And then—just as quickly as the fire came—he softened. His thumb brushed your cheek.

“You’re floatin’, baby,” he whispered, kissing your temple. “You’re still up there. Let me bring you down safely, gently. Let me take care of my girl. ”

You nodded, dazed. And when you finally let go, your body slack against the mattress, Frank was already moving.

He picked you up—literally lifted you—and you instinctively curled against him, burying your face in his chest. His voice dropped low, soothing: “I got you now. Just breathe for me, dollbaby.”

By the time you reached the bathroom, the water was already running.

He climbed in behind you, settled you between his legs, your back to his chest. His arms curled around your waist like armor.

Frank whispered the whole time.

“You did so good for me.”

“You’re safe now.”

“You’re mine. Let me take care of what’s mine.”

“You’re not alone in this. You don’t have to do shit on your own anymore.”

He washed your hair like you were something holy. Massaged your scalp with calloused fingers, gentle where others had been careless. He kissed the crown of your head after every rinse. Washed your skin with reverence. Whispered love into your shoulders, your knees, the delicate bend of your neck.

When he finally carried you back to bed—dressed in his soft shirt, wrapped in your favorite blanket—you were no longer floating. Just warm. Heavy. Safe.

He tucked in behind you, pulled you close like he was afraid to let go. One arm locked across your waist. The other cradled your head.

“You didn’t have to do all that,” you mumbled, half-asleep.

His voice came fierce in the dark. “Yeah. I did. And I will. Every time.”

You fell asleep to the sound of his heart behind you—steady, solid. For once, you weren’t bracing yourself. You weren’t rushing to fix the mess. You were just held.

And Frank?

He didn’t sleep at all. He held you for hours—processing, aching—because you’d been forced to carry that hurt alone for too long.

And he’d be damned if you ever did again.

xoxoxo

If you like my work, please let me know! Reblogging, commenting, and liking are huge and easy ways to let me know you're enjoying my work, and it keeps me motivated to post way more!!! Requests are open for Bob Reynolds, Bucky Barnes, Frank Castle, and Eddie Brock/Venom <3

Tagging:

@malfoys-demigod

@sweety18

@iamsofabulous

@luvrgirlsworld

@blackhawkfanatic

@methodgurl

@creptolli

@hellskitchens-whore

@confetti-cakemix

@awesompawsum

[luckieangel]

if you get horny out of the blue it’s because you and that fictional man are fucking in his universe btw

[boasamishipper]

happy 40 years of top gun everybody

[outofangband]

In The Fellowship of the Ring, Legolas seems to draw sense memories from plants and stones and it is from this that he can speak at all about the elves that lived there long before; “only the stones remember”, he says.

It’s a line I think about a lot, and about the plethora of implications with how elves interact with the world.

Stones live longer than even the elves, after all. There’s something both comforting and disquieting in knowing there’s so many witnesses to the tragedies over the years, that each bit of rough limestone or oak tree is imbued with the same memories of the elves.

I also like to think that elves have a specific sense for growth and decay; they can hear and feel, for lack of a better wording, shoots of grass growing, flowers blooming, roots expanding out, fungi breaking down, fallen logs disintegrating, wind eroding stone.

Just as with any other sense, not all are equally attuned to it or aware of it and both its presence in abundance or too high intensity, or its absence for long periods, can be overwhelming.

[legolaslovely]

Perfect Fit

A/N: I got a request for smutty Legolas and let me tell you, this was hard to write! Sometimes he’s just too pure for me to write! I’m not worthy lol. But I hope you like this, my dear anon! I did my best!

Pairing: Legolas x Elf!Reader

Word Count: 2,808 because yay smut with a plot!

Warnings: …smut, also Leggy bein a smooth ass mofo

Summary: Legolas returns from the quest of the Ring and has eyes only for you, his life long friend, but you don’t believe him. 

Once Legolas stepped into the great hall of Mirkwood, it only took a moment for him to find what he was looking for. Or rather, who he was looking for. His eyes landed on an elleth from across the vast, crowded wooden floor and though your back was turned to him, he recognized you right away.

He smiled to himself when he saw the velvet green dress hugging your frame and leaving your shoulders and upper back bare. He had given it to you years ago as a friendly name day gift and he wasn’t overly surprised to see you wearing it now, since this celebration was in his honor. He was somewhat shocked to see your long hair pulled into an intricately braided bun on the nape of your neck. He knew how much you hated having that many pins hidden in your hair and pricking at your scalp. He made a bet with himself about how long it would take you to start complaining.

His thoughts were interrupted by his father standing from his place at the high table. “Thank you all for joining me in celebrating my son’s return home.” His father’s further words were lost on him as you turned and laid your bright eyes on him. You smiled and lifted your goblet to him before pressing it to your painted lips.

Legolas forced his gaze from you to his father, nodding in appreciation with a promise to visit the high table later in the evening. He wanted to visit you first. He weaved through the elves on the floor, barely noticing their greetings. He stood behind you and said your name lowly.

You turned, a smile growing on your face as you took him in. You couldn’t even remember the last time you saw him. It seemed to you the quest of the Ring had taken decades and even now, he seemed centuries older. “Welcome home, Legolas.”

Before he could answer, waves of music eased from strings and flutes and flooded his sensitive ears. He reached out a hand to you. “Care to dance?”

You took his hand with nothing but a nod. He led you to the center of the now empty floor and bowed to you. You curtsied back with a smirk that made him chuckle. He knew you hated all the formalities of balls and that you had only attended this one because it was in his honor. He raised his hand to yours, leaving a breath of air between your skin. “You look lovely,” he said, loud enough only for you to hear.

You spun, the velvet skirt fanning out and then wrapping around your legs again. “Oh, this old thing?” you joked, passing your hand around his in the fashion of the traditional dance.

He leaned to you. “You know I didn’t mean the dress.”

You breathed out a laugh and turned your other shoulder to him, trying to remember your footwork. “Guess how many pins are stuck in my hair right now?”

He couldn’t hold back his hearty laugh. He had stopped caring about the elves surrounding you anyway. He scrunched his nose in thought. “Twenty.”

“Thirty!” you said, touching both your hands to his and stepping into him, then back out.

“My poor (Y/N),” he sang.

“That’s right!” You twirled once more and leaned to him, whispering, “Legolas, I haven’t danced like this in years. I can’t remember any more of the steps.”

“I remember.” He took your waist and held you high in the air as he circled around and the music ended. Your laugh rang in his ears before he set you down and all the guests applauded.

You shied away from the center of the floor and he followed you closely, not ready to say farewell just yet. You watched him and waited for the words he was clearly about to say, but he was interrupted.

“Legolas! Welcome back!”

You knew the voice. You turned to see the glowing Tauriel rushing to his side. She was absolutely stunning, as always. A new gown of the highest fashion adorned her perfect elven figure and her gorgeous hair swung on her back in neat curls. Her voice sang to him, telling him the news of Mirkwood and the watch and asking him of his adventures. You knew your time with your old friend was clearly finished.

By the time Legolas could escape Tauriel, you had disappeared. He whirled around, searching for you.

“(Y/N) has gone, my Prince,” one of the guards told him.

Legolas nodded and slid out of the hall, knowing his father would be furious with him leaving his own celebration so early. He would deal with his father later, he needed to find you now.

He silently flew through the corridors, hoping you still resided in the same chambers. While he was gone, it seemed everything in Mirkwood had changed. You were the only thing that remained the same and he was grateful for that. He wondered what made you leave the great hall. Did you really hate balls so much that you wouldn’t stay for his sake?

He reached the tall wooden door to your chambers and noticed it ajar. He couldn’t stop himself from peeking through and he smirked when he saw you. You had your back to him and had just finished taking all the pins out of your hair. A large pile of them lie on the small table next to your bed and you were raking your fingers through your long, gorgeous tresses that cascaded down your back.

He knocked on the open door. “(Y/N)?”

“Legolas. Come in. Is everything alright?’

“I came to ask you the same,” he said.

Your gaze fell to the floor as you threw your hair over your shoulder. “I’m just a little tired.”

“Is that why you left without saying goodbye to me?”

You turned back around and gathered the hair pins in a small silk bag. “You seemed in good company.” You glanced at him over your shoulder when you heard the door latch behind him.

“I’d much rather be in your company.”

You hummed, unimpressed and threw the pins in a drawer and shut it with a small, frustrated slam. “And how was your quest? Your father never tells me much.”

His voice was close behind you now. “Long and perilous. I thought every day of returning home. Returning to you. I’ve missed you.”

Your reply was cold. “We have been friends since we were elflings, Legolas. No time spent apart will change that. You should have been focusing on your duties instead of dreaming of Mirkwood.”

“I was dreaming of you.”

“Well, we can’t control our dreams, can we?” you muttered, spinning away from him, but reached out to stop you.

“Must you always be so stubborn? Look at me.”

You did. But before he could say a word more, you spoke. “I don’t know what you’re trying to do, but stop it. You’re making this more difficult than it has to be.”

“How do you know? You won’t let me speak.”

You felt his frustration, but he would never raise his voice to you. You stilled, his hands holding your arms in place and nodded, waiting to listen to what he had to say.

“When I volunteered to protect the hobbit on the quest, I had no idea how dangerous every day would be. I thought it would all be over soon and all our lives would go back to the way they were. But the moment I left Rivendell, my immortality left me. Suddenly I could die. Every time I loosed an arrow or drew my sword I thought of you and how I never told you of- of my love for you. Whatever happened, I knew I had to get back to you.”

You stared at the silver fabric covering his chest, willing your emotions away. “I worried about you from the moment you left. No one would give me any information. You should have seen your father’s face when I asked about you, like I shouldn’t even be able to breathe the same air as you. I’m not high born, I will never be up to his standards. He will never let us- he will never allow it. We all know Tauriel is a much better fit for you-”

He whispered your name and gently lifted your chin. In all the years you’d known each other, he had never touched you so tenderly. “No one is a more perfect fit for me than you. I have always loved you, and I always will. Nothing will keep us apart now.”

You nodded and welling tears blurred your vision.

“Are you sure?” he asked. “Because when you’re princess, you’ll have to attend many balls.”

You chuckled tearfully. “As long as I don’t have to wear pins in my hair.”

He reached into the pocket of his silver embroidered tunic. “What about this instead?” In his fingers shone a moonstone braid clasp. The silver twirls held the elven letters of your name and his.

You couldn’t hold back your gasp. You ran a finger over it. “How long have you had this?”

“Decades,” he breathed out with a laugh.

You shook your head, chuckling, and sat on your bed, pulling him down next to you. His gentle fingers ran through the thick locks at your temple and twisted them into an intricate, traditional braid. You watched as his fingers came into view and he clicked the clasp into place. “It’s so beautiful,” you whispered.

He leaned to you and placed a soft kiss on your forehead. When he drew away, you saw his eyes burning with emotion you’d never seen in him. You carded your fingers through the ends of his silver hair, spreading them out over his chest. For the first time since you were elflings, you felt nervous being alone with him.

You sucked in a breath and your thumbs rose to brush his jaw and cheekbones. He leaned down and his lips kissed yours for the first time in your long lives, and you immediately felt comfort and ease. All your days, you had felt unwelcome in Mirkwood. Though you were close with the prince, you were always detached from the forest. Now, with Legolas, you had never felt more at home.

You slid your hands up his chest and around his neck, pulling him close and kissing him deeply. His fingers trailed up and down your sides and around your back and you felt his breathing grow heavy and quick. His tongue circled yours like a whip and his lips burned your skin. You knew if you didn’t take another step, you’d both explode.

You made quick work of the clasps and buttons on his tunic and pushed it off his shoulders as you felt his fingers pulling at the lacing on the back of your dress. He stood you up effortlessly and spun you around so your back was facing him. Then, everything slowed. He took his time pulling apart the back of your dress, while placing open mouthed kisses down your neck and the back of your shoulders. You sighed and leaned into his chest, shivering slightly when you felt his bare skin against yours.

When your dress fell to the floor, you were suddenly overwhelmed with nerves and shyness. You pulled his arms forward and around your waist and glued him to you, not allowing him to look at you fully. His lips never left the skin on your neck and his fingers spread over your stomach. “Are you alright, meleth nin?” His breath was hot against your skin.

His voice, like the gentle waters of the sea, calmed you. You hummed your confirmation and laced your fingers in his over your stomach. He pushed your hair to the side and adjusted his position behind you and you inhaled sharply when you felt his arousal against your back. Your head fell back to rest on his shoulder as his hand rose to cup and knead your breast.

He whispered your name, but you couldn’t concentrate on anything more than his hands on you. He chuckled at your soft noise. “I want to see you.”

You spun tentatively in his arms and for a moment, his eyes were hooked on yours. You nodded and your confidence grew as you watched him take you in. His reactions to your naked form almost made you dance with anticipation.

When you couldn’t stand his burning stare any longer, you took his hand and pulled him to the edge of the bed. You laid on your back, watching the muscles in his chest tense as your legs spread and revealed your dripping core. He moved to climb on you, but you pushed him away. “Take those off first,” you said.

He chuckled and pulled at his trousers. Your gaze flitted over his neck, chest and arms. You’d have never guessed his muscles would be so defined. They dipped and rose under his smooth skin and you wanted so much to run your fingers over every inch of him. As he shed his remaining clothing, your eyes traveled lower and widened. You unconsciously bit your bottom lip hard as his member stood tall to greet you.

Legolas let out a groan at your expression and mumbled in his mother tongue, pleading you to have mercy on him. You giggled and reached out for him, feeling the bed dip as he hovered over you and settled between your legs. His lips captured yours again before moving to your neck and down the center of your chest. You arched to meet his swirling tongue and sucking lips and his arm wrapped around your back for support, to free his other hand that trailed up your tense thigh and slowly dipped into the wetness between your legs.

Your breathing grew heavy and you bucked your hips into his hand, begging him for more. He only chuckled and softly circled your entrance, sending his hot breath over your alert nipples. “Legolas, stop teasing,” you groaned.

He drew away and smiled from above you. “But you’re so beautiful like this, meleth nin,” he said.

“You are wicked,” you said before pulling on the back of his neck and sliding your tongue into his mouth. He growled and rolled over you and you felt the head of him caressing your folds. When you gasped, he ensnared your lips with another kiss and slid into you in one thrust. He filled you fully, almost painfully, but he was the most delicious feeling you had ever known. A perfect fit.

He hid his forehead in the crook of your neck and panted against your skin as you tightened around him. He took you with long, slow strokes so you could enjoy every inch of him filling you. You wrapped your limbs around him and held on for dear life as his thrusts hit home and he reached a hand between your bodies to rub small circles into your sensitive clit.

You whimpered, pressing your cheek to his as your stomach coiled and your hips bucked into his. You were so enraptured by his ministrations that you didn’t notice his face lift away from your neck.

“Open your eyes, meleth nin. Look at me.”

Finally, you remembered how to do as he asked, and when you did, you saw his lust darkened gaze on you. “You’re so beautiful,” he mumbled more to himself than to you. “I want you to come for me.”

Your muscles tightened around him at his words and he hissed. His pressure on your clit increased and so did the intensity of his thrusts. He groaned and the sound was enough to send you over the edge. Your climax sent shocks of electricity through you to where your bodies were joined, and into Legolas as well. As high as you were, you could still feel his hips stutter against yours as he spilled into you.

After you had both ridden out your highs, he laid next to you and held you, hearing your heartbeat fill his ears. Your head rested on his chest and rose and fell with his even breaths. As happy as you were to finally be one with your love, dread still poked at the back of your mind. “What are we going to do about your father?”

Legolas sighed deeply and ran his fingers through your hair. “No one will ever come between us, meleth nin. You need not worry about anything while you are mine, and you are mine forever.” He tightened his grip on you and peppered kisses on your giggling face. “Don’t be afraid of my father. He will be your father too, soon enough.”

Your eyes widened at that and Legolas laughed heartily.

[black-dhalias]

Hello!!!

I just read your “Until Dawn” fic and it had me SEATEDDDDD. And when I saw ur requests were open I got really excited lolll. So I was wondering if u could write a Legolas x reader where they meet at a tavern and the reader is gets the whole tavern dancing once the band starts playing. Similar to the scene in Tangled when Rapunzel gets the townsfolk to start dancing in the circle! Hope this makes sense lol

Take as much time needed and have a wonderful day 💗

By the Babbling Water

Legolas Greenleaf X human!Reader

The tavern was louder than most places Legolas Greenleaf had ever set foot in. Earthy scents of spiced mead and roasting meat mingled with laughter and off-key singing, humans crammed elbow to elbow in a warmth that no Elven hall could replicate. It was strange… and oddly comforting.

Aragorn sat beside him, nursing a drink with his usual ease, though his eyes scanned the room out of old habit. Legolas, however, sat still, ever the watchful observer. Until you passed by.

You weren’t just another figure moving through the crowd. You glided. A tray balanced with impossible grace in one hand, hair tucked behind your ears in a way that framed the brightness in your eyes. Your laughter rang out like chimes in the wind, and it was so genuine—so inviting—that people leaned toward it like sunflowers seeking warmth.

Legolas stared. He didn't mean to, but he did.

“Careful, my friend,” Aragorn muttered, following his gaze. “You’re staring like a stunned deer.”

“I…” Legolas’s voice faltered. “She laughed. The room shifted when she did.”

“You’ve been traveling too long if that surprises you.”

But it did surprise him. In a world filled with shadows and scars, you were a flame that didn’t flicker. There was life in your step, kindness in the way you remembered every patron’s name, and something enchanting about the way people *gravitated* to you, like you held court and didn’t even know it.

And then your eyes met his.

It was brief, a flicker of recognition—he hadn’t spoken a word to you, yet you smiled, like you already knew him. Like his face was one you wouldn’t forget.

“You two traveling through?” you asked when you finally made it to their table. The tilt of your head was playful, curious, and Legolas found himself at a loss for words. “Haven’t seen you before, but I never forget a face.”

“We are,” Aragorn replied, clearly enjoying the rare sight of his Elven friend struck dumb. “Passing through to the north.”

You turned to Legolas. “You’ve got a look to you,” you said, narrowing your eyes. “Like you belong in a song.”

His lips parted slightly. “I… do not sing often.”

You laughed, delighted. “Pity. You’ve got the eyes for it.”

His gaze lingered on yours longer than it should have, but you didn’t shy away. In fact, you leaned in slightly, lowering your voice conspiratorially. “I always know when someone’s more than they seem.”

Before he could gather his wits, you were off again, swept into a tide of patrons calling your name, laughter trailing in your wake. Legolas watched you move, that quiet little smile still ghosting his lips.

Aragorn leaned over, voice low. “She’s got the heart of a fire, that one. Careful you don’t get burned.”

“I do not fear the flame,” Legolas murmured, still watching you. “Only that I will not feel its warmth again once I leave.”

Aragorn raised an eyebrow. “Then perhaps you should stay a little longer.”

Legolas didn’t answer—but the next evening, he was back. And the evening after that. And every evening until you were the one saying, voice gentle, “You don’t have to leave when the road calls. Sometimes, the road leads you where you’re meant to stay.”

And for the first time, the prince of the Woodland Realm wondered if perhaps the world of men, with its clamor and song and fire-hearted barmaids, had something to teach him after all.

They came again, like always—just before the fire was lit and the mugs had begun to overflow, boots wet with road dust and wind in their cloaks.

You were already in the thick of it—greeting the man who’d lost his wife last winter with a gentle squeeze of his shoulder, handing off warm cider to the merchant’s twins who always shared one between them, slipping behind the bar to kiss the cook on the cheek and tease a plate of bread from him.

It was like watching someone command a kingdom built of stories and laughter, of faces you never forgot and names you always remembered.

When your eyes met Legolas’s across the tavern, your smile bloomed like it always did—like seeing him was part of your ritual.

“Well look who the wind dragged back,” you said as you approached their table, swiping a mug off a tray and setting it down in front of Aragorn without asking. “Starting to think you two are putting down roots.”

“Not roots,” Aragorn replied with a grin. “Just fond of good company.”

“And better dancing,” you added, tossing Legolas a playful look. “What do you say, my lord of the woods? Think you’ve got another jig in you?”

“I survived the last,” Legolas replied, voice low, though his eyes never left your face.

You laughed, radiant, and leaned in just slightly, enough for him to feel the warmth of your breath. “Then you’ll survive this one too.”

As if summoned by your words, the music struck up again—quick and lovely, the kind of tavern song that needed no introduction. Just a beat. A clap. A stomp.

You straightened with a grin. “That’s my cue.”

And just like that, you were off.

The crowd parted without protest, a hush of eager anticipation giving way to cheers as you moved into the center of the room. Your skirts twirled with every step, and you clapped your hands once—sharp and sure.

“Come on now!” you called. “Don’t make me dance alone!”

The old man by the hearth was first. You caught his hand and spun him gently, laughing when he stumbled on purpose. A young girl next, all freckles and wide eyes. Then a woman with a baby on her hip who managed to sway with you as the music built.

Then a farmer. A boy barely tall enough to reach your waist. An old woman with silver in her braid and laughter on her lips. One by one, you pulled them in, weaving a circle of stomping feet, flushed cheeks, and joy so real it made the tavern walls feel too small to contain it.

Legolas didn’t move.

He just watched.

Watched the way you danced without care for grace, how your steps were uneven but sure, how your laughter sparked every time someone missed a beat or made up their own. How you never paused, never hesitated—how you belonged.

It was all too human. Messy and alive. Fleeting.

And somehow, watching you felt like aching.

“You’re staring again,” Aragorn said under his breath, smiling into his mug.

Legolas didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

Because the room spun with you, filled with the noise of hands clapping and feet stamping, and for a heartbeat, it was as if the whole world had been reduced to this moment. To you. To the sound of your laughter wrapped in fiddle strings and the weightless pull of something he didn’t have a name for.

You caught his eye again. Not by accident. A look passed between you—playful, knowing, soft.

And even as the dance went on without pause, it was clear:

You didn’t need to take his hand to pull him in.

You already had.

The music didn’t stop. If anything, it soared—fiddle climbing, drum thumping, boots slapping the old floorboards like they’d been waiting all week for this very song. The tavern was alight, hearts pounding, ale sloshing, voices raised in tune and laughter.

You spun again, cheeks flushed, hair wild with movement. The circle was wide now, a glorious mess of partners changing hands, people twirling and stomping in the wrong places and not caring a bit.

Your eyes found his, right where he stood—statue-still, too composed, golden hair catching the firelight like something ancient and unwilling to give in.

You turned as you danced, facing him fully.

“Gonna make me ask, little leaf?”

It was loud, clear, and shameless. Half the room laughed. The other half watched with baited breath.

Legolas blinked. Something flickered behind his eyes—surprise, something like indignation, and something else too: heat.

Then a woman caught him—literally. A short redhead from the far end of the room grabbed his arm with a shout of delight. “Come on, pretty thing! Don’t let her down now!”

And he was in.

He stumbled, just once—his boots not made for this kind of clatter—but his instincts were quick, and his grace never failed him long. He found the rhythm, awkward for only a breath before he spun the redhead expertly into the arms of another, and was swept toward a broad-shouldered farmer, who grinned and slapped him on the back before sending him spinning again.

You laughed, breathless, catching glimpses of him between partners—tall, lean, so out of place in this raucous dance but trying. Trying because you asked.

And he was watching you too. Every time a new partner took your hand, he found you again. Every spin, every clap, every laughing stumble that passed between you both—you found each other. Again and again and again.

It became a game. Who could catch the other’s eye fastest. Who could hold the longest. Who could hide the smile and who couldn't.

The music was rising now—faster, brighter, louder. The final stretch of the song. The room whirled, people tossed from hand to hand in a joyful chaos of bodies and movement and song.

And finally—finally—as the last beat built to a crescendo, you turned—

And he was there.

Right in front of you. Chest heaving. Eyes bright. Hair disheveled. A flush in his cheeks that had nothing to do with embarrassment.

You didn’t hesitate. Both your hands slid into his, your fingers curling firm around his palms, and with a shared breath, you spun together. The music crashed into its final note—feet stomped, hands clapped, voices shouted—

And the room roared.

You landed breathless, grinning, still holding him. He didn’t let go either.

“Didn’t think you’d make it,” you teased, laughing.

Legolas, winded and dazed, looked down at your hands in his. “I am… frequently underestimated.”

You leaned in just enough for your smile to soften. “Not by me.”

For a beat, neither of you moved.

The tavern was still ringing with applause, but for a moment, all Legolas could hear was the echo of your voice, and the thunder of his own heart.

And for the first time, maybe, he realized something.

He hadn’t just been caught in the dance.

He’d been claimed.

The tavern had settled into a gentler rhythm now—mugs clinked, voices dropped to soft hums, and the musicians had retired to a corner, the last song still echoing in everyone’s bones. A few regulars lingered, half-asleep by the hearth or curled into quiet conversation over lukewarm cider.

You were drying mugs behind the bar when you saw him—still there.

Legolas, seated by the fire, hair loose from the dance, boots dusted and damp, his cloak draped across the back of his chair. He looked like he belonged in a forest clearing, not this room full of noise and stories and spilled drink—but there was something in his posture now, in the way his shoulders weren’t quite so tense, that made him seem closer. As though, without quite meaning to, he’d let the place in.

You wiped your hands and made your way to him without fanfare.

He looked up as you approached, that same unreadable softness behind his gaze.

You didn’t sit right away. Instead, you offered him a steaming mug, fresh and fragrant. “Mulled cider. With a splash of something sharper,” you said, smiling. “On the house. For surviving the dance.”

His lips twitched. “You have many talents. Humility is not among them.”

You grinned. “What fun would that be?”

You sat beside him, just close enough to feel the warmth from the fire—and from him.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

The crackle of the logs, the low murmur of distant laughter, the pop of pine in the hearth. You let the silence stretch, not awkward, just easy. Like both of you were still catching your breath.

Finally, you spoke, quieter now. “You did well, you know. Most men fall flat on their backs trying to keep up with that tune.”

“I had a good reason to try,” he replied.

You looked at him then, surprised—but not too much.

His gaze held yours. Calm, steady. Like he wasn’t afraid of silence anymore. Like he wanted to sit in it with you.

“You know,” you said after a beat, your voice softer than before, “You’ve been coming here for nights now, always quiet, always watching. I’ve met enough travelers to know most keep moving, especially elves. But you… stay.”

A pause. Firelight flickered across his cheekbones. “The world has many wonders,” he said, almost like he was speaking to himself. “Mountains that breathe mist, forests that sing. And still…”

He turned his head, eyes finding yours again.

“…somehow, this place calls me back.”

You could feel your pulse in your throat. Not fast. Just aware.

“Is it the cider?” you teased lightly, just to ease the weight in your chest.

“No,” he said, barely a whisper. “It’s you.”

The words hung in the air, fragile and too-honest. Not dressed up or guarded. Just true.

You didn’t know what to say to that. For once, words felt too small.

So you just sat there. Close. Warm. Quiet.

Outside, the wind brushed against the tavern walls. Inside, the fire crackled low.

And Legolas, Prince of the Woodland Realm, stayed at your side long after the last mug was emptied.

[black-dhalias]

hiii!!! I saw your request were opened and got really excited lol

can I request a Legolas x reader having an angry love confession with a happy ending? U can add as much angst or fluff wanted !

I hope your day goes well <3

Until Dawn

Legolas X half-elf!half-human!Reader

The clatter of hooves and voices cut through the stillness of the late afternoon. You glanced up from behind the bar, pausing mid-wipe of a glass, your fingers tightening around its rim. Travelers were common in this stretch of the woods, but not ones with such purposeful strides or cloaks woven with the threads of old legends.

The door creaked open, and a gust of wind swept in with the first of them. A tall figure stepped through—and your breath caught.

Silver-blond hair. Eyes like starlight through a winter sky. Legolas.

You didn’t realize you’d frozen until he looked at you, recognition flickering across his face like sunlight on rippling water.

“You,” he said softly, a smile ghosting over his lips. “I had wondered if the stories were true.”

“What stories?” you asked, setting down the glass carefully.

“That the half-elf who once sang Dwarvish drinking songs and shot arrows through the dark of Mirkwood now runs an inn... and claims to be done with the road.”

You huffed a laugh, masking the sudden twist in your chest. “I made a promise to myself. No more goblins, no more dragons, no more running for my life. Just quiet, warm beds and decent ale.”

The rest of the Fellowship trickled in—Aragorn with his wary grace, Gimli grumbling about the cold, and a pair of curious Hobbits looking like they’d never seen such a place before.

“I never thought I’d see you again,” you admitted, voice softer now, carrying only to him. “I thought you stayed in the Woodland Realm.”

“I left,” he said. “There are greater shadows moving now. The kind that threaten all lands, even quiet glades like this one.”

You met his gaze, the old bond between you sparking back to life as though no years had passed.

“I’m not the same as I was,” you said quietly.

“No,” he agreed. “You’re stronger now. But the world still needs you.”

You turned your back, pretending to straighten a bottle on the shelf. "The road nearly broke me, Legolas. I don't know if I have it in me again."

A pause. Then his voice, low and sure: “You don’t have to decide tonight. Just share a meal with us. Rest. Then listen to what the world is asking.”

You closed your eyes for a moment, then turned back to face him. “One night,” you said. “No promises.”

He smiled. “That’s all I ask.”

And somewhere, in the quiet beneath your ribs, something old and restless stirred.

As the last of the Fellowship settled into the great hall, shedding cloaks and weariness like autumn leaves, you quietly made your way to the front door. The bell above gave a faint chime as you opened it and stepped into the dusky twilight

You looked out at the fading sun, your jaw tightening as you reached up and flipped the wooden sign to closed. The familiar scrape of it swinging into place felt heavier tonight. You didn’t want your usuals wandering in, recognizing faces from stories they'd only half-believed, or—worse—asking questions you’d buried under hearth and routine.

When you returned inside, your two staff members were waiting by the counter, mid-laugh over something. You didn’t smile.

“Here,” you said, pressing coin into their palms, “Head home early. Lock the back on your way out.”

They exchanged glances. One opened her mouth to protest—you never sent them off this abruptly—but you shook your head with a tone that brooked no argument. “Not tonight.”

A beat of silence passed. Then, with hesitant nods, they slipped away. As their footsteps faded, the inn fell into a deeper quiet. It was just you and the Fellowship now.

You lit the hearth anew and began preparing a meal: roasted root vegetables, venison stew, fresh loaves warmed over coals. The motions were old, soothing—until a familiar footfall approached behind you.

“I remember when you could barely cook a rabbit over a fire,” Legolas said lightly.

You didn’t turn. “And I remember when you were insufferable.”

“That cannot be true,” he said with a faint laugh.

Your hands stilled over the chopping board. You breathed in through your nose.

“I was not the one who kept dwarves as company.”

You exhaled slowly. The knife in your hand trembled.

“Don’t.”

His grin faded instantly.

“Don’t bring them into this,” you said, voice hoarse. “I live with their ghosts every day.”

Legolas was silent for a long moment. You resumed chopping, though your cuts were no longer even. Each thunk of the blade echoed too loudly in the warm space between you.

“I thought you might want to remember them,” he said softly.

“I do remember them. Every night. Every time I close my eyes. Kili, grinning as he handed me his last dried pear. Thorin, bloody and dying in the mud, telling me—” Your voice cracked, and you pressed your fist to your mouth. “You don’t get to walk in here and open that door, Legolas. Not like this.”

A long silence stretched. You kept your back to him.

Finally, he said, “I am sorry. Truly. I didn’t come to wound you.”

You swallowed, forcing the knot in your throat down, back into the place where you kept it buried.

“I know,” you said at last.

He didn’t leave. But he didn’t press. You felt him step closer, and for a moment his presence was a comfort—but still a dangerous one. A reminder of who you were. Of what the road takes.

And still… it stirred something in you. Something old. Something that had once burned with purpose.

You set the knife down and stared into the hearth.

The inn was warm now, the fire casting golden light over old wood and tired faces. The Fellowship ate in relative quiet, grateful for the food and for the brief peace. You worked behind the bar, polishing mugs and pretending not to watch them.

But you felt it. The way some of them looked at you with curiosity, as if trying to place you—not just as an innkeeper, but as someone... else.

Frodo was the one who finally broke the silence.

“You were in Bilbo’s journal,” he said gently.

You looked up, a mug still in your hand. “Was I?”

He nodded, setting down his spoon. “There was a drawing—almost like a sketch from memory. A half-elf woman with a braid down her back, and a scar across her temple.” His eyes flicked to the faint mark just beneath your hairline, still visible in the flicker of firelight. “He said you moved like moonlight with a blade. That you fought like someone trying to outrun the end of the world.”

You didn’t speak at first. You returned to your task, cloth circling the rim of the mug, slower now.

“Aye,” you murmured at last, “That was a long time ago.”

Aragorn watched you then, thoughtful, but said nothing. The room held a breath.

Frodo’s voice was quiet. “He wrote about how you fought in the Battle of the Five Armies. Said you moved with the grace of the Eldar—but when you struck, there was something in it... a fury, raw and burning. Like the world had wronged you.”

You paused again. Set the mug down.

“He wasn’t wrong,” you said, your voice steady, though your eyes flicked to the fire. “I lost my brothers that day. Kili... and Thorin. Perhaps not by blood, but in every way that matters.”

“I’m sorry,” Frodo said, with the quiet sincerity only someone still young in the world can offer.

You nodded once. “We all carry ghosts. Mine just sit closer to the skin.”

Legolas, across the room, didn’t look at you, but his hand rested lightly on the hilt of his blade—as though remembering the same battle. The same blood.

“I remember that journal,” he said quietly. “Bilbo called you Eluneth—Moon-blessed. Said you were the only one who could outdrink Bofur and outrun a Warg in the same night.”

That pulled the faintest smile from you. “He embellished.”

“No,” Gimli grunted, lifting his mug, “He didn’t. Bofur still complains about it.”

A small ripple of laughter lightened the air, but your smile didn’t reach your eyes. Your fingers curled around the bar’s edge.

Frodo tilted his head, studying you. “If you were part of Thorin’s Company… why did you stop?”

You looked at him, really looked. At the way his shoulders tensed with questions and quiet burden.

“Because I gave enough to the road,” you said simply. “It took my youth, my friends, and my peace. I thought if I built something steady, something safe… maybe the world would leave me be.”

“And has it?” Aragorn asked, his voice low.

You met his gaze. “You tell me. You’re sitting in my hall with war on your heels.”

The silence that followed was heavier than before.

You picked up the next mug and began to polish again. “Eat while the food’s warm. Sleep while the roof holds. Tomorrow, the world finds you again.”

And as you turned away, your voice softened to a whisper meant only for yourself.

“It always does.”

The inn had gone still. The fire burned low, its glow casting soft shadows across the stone hearth. The mugs were cleaned, the food cleared away. The Fellowship had long since retreated to their rooms or bedrolls, lulled by warmth and weariness.

But you sat alone in a worn chair near the fire, half-empty bottle of mead at your side, boots kicked off, legs curled beneath you. One hand rested on your knee, the other held a cup you hadn’t taken a sip from in a while. You stared into the flames, jaw slack, thoughts thick with the weight of old wounds.

The softest creak of floorboards stirred your awareness, but you didn’t look up. You knew who it would be.

Legolas appeared like a memory made flesh, moving without sound until he stood just beyond the firelight, arms loose at his sides, hair unbound from travel.

“You always drank honey-mead when you were thinking too much,” he said, a half-smile on his lips.

You raised the cup, but still didn’t drink. “And you always appear when I least want company.”

He tilted his head, undeterred. “Then I’m exactly where I need to be.”

You sighed, glancing sideways as he stepped closer and took the seat opposite you. For a moment, he just watched the fire with you, like you were back in some forgotten camp beneath the stars.

“I was thinking,” he began, tone light, “about the first time I saw you. You were being dragged into Thranduil’s halls, soaked to the skin, shouting at Glóin for getting you caught.”

You snorted softly. “He did get us caught. He sneezed. Loudly.”

“I remember.” He smiled wider now. “And you, snapping at the guards in three different languages before turning that fury on me.”

“I didn’t know who you were.”

“You called me a pompous tree-weasel.”

You choked on a laugh and finally sipped your drink. “Sounds like me.”

He leaned back slightly, eyes gleaming with some old, private amusement. “But I watched you. Even then. I couldn’t place what you were—elf and human both, but more than either. You didn’t carry yourself like someone trapped. You watched the halls like a soldier would. Like you were already planning how to get out.”

You didn’t answer. The fire cracked softly between you.

“When you escaped with the dwarves,” he continued, voice lowering, “I told my father I saw you leap into a barrel like it was a warhorse. And later, in the woods—when you fired into the trees to cover their retreat—your arrows flew like mine. No hesitation. No fear.”

Your jaw clenched. “You don’t have to say these things.”

“I’m not saying them to flatter you.” He leaned forward slightly, hands resting on his knees. “I’ve met warriors across all the ages. Elves, men, even the proudest Dwarves. But I never forgot the look on your face that day. You weren’t fighting to win. You were fighting not to lose anyone else.”

A beat passed. You looked into the fire, and for the first time that night, your voice wavered.

“I loved them. Not all of them—but enough to bleed for. To die for.”

“I know.”

“I would have taken Thorin’s place in that final charge,” you said quietly. “I would have stood before Azog myself if I thought it would’ve bought him another breath.”

Silence wrapped the room again.

“I think that’s why I watched you,” he said. “Because I knew—if I blinked, I’d miss you burning.”

You met his gaze now. And there it was: the truth of it, sitting between you like a long-unspoken vow.

“I’m tired, Legolas,” you whispered. “And I don’t know what I have left to give.”

He reached out, not touching, just resting his hand close to yours on the armrest. “Then don’t give anything. Not tonight. Just sit with me. Let the ghosts rest for a while.”

You looked down at his hand, then at the fire. And though you didn’t say it, you didn’t pull away either.

In the silence that followed, there was no war, no crown, no past. Just you, and the elf who never stopped watching.

The fire had burned low, now little more than glowing embers nestled in ash. The bottle beside you was empty, your cup untouched for hours. Legolas had fallen asleep in the chair across from you, arms folded, head tilted slightly to the side, his expression softer than you’d ever seen it in battle or daylight.

You watched him for a while, feeling a strange pull of comfort and sorrow. He always looked younger in sleep. Less of a prince, more of the curious elf who had once tried to understand why you, a half-blood stranger, would ever choose to walk with dwarves into death.

But sleep didn’t come for you—not anymore.

The silence wrapped itself around you like a too-tight cloak, and slowly, the weight of memory began to stir.

There’s a flicker in the fire and suddenly you were laughing again. The clamor of a camp at the edge of Mirkwood, Bofur’s wild song about mountain goats and bad ale ringing in your ears. Kili throwing a twig at you because you said he couldn’t grow a real beard yet. You’d thrown it back, striking him square in the forehead.

“Tell me I’m not the prettiest one in this company,” he had said once, arms spread dramatically. “Go on, say it. You can’t, can you?”

You had smirked, braid half-undone, fingers calloused from the bowstring. “You’re lucky you’re not my type.”

He’d clutched his heart as if you’d shot him, then winked and walked off into the trees.

The warmth twisted.

Another flicker—and you were in Erebor.

Blood in your mouth. Thorin’s hand in yours, his grip weak, eyes clouded with too much pain.

“I was wrong,” he said, voice rasping like wind through broken stone. “I see it now. I see you.”

You had begged him to hold on. Promised him that the sun would rise, and that he would see the mountain whole again. But his breath had rattled in his chest—and stilled.

You had sat there for a long time, knuckles white around the hilt of your blade. Kili lay not far. Fili, already taken.

Only silence answered you.

You pressed your fingers to your eyes, willing the sting away, but it clung, thick as smoke.

“I should’ve stayed,” you whispered, barely audible. “I should’ve done more.”

The ghosts didn’t answer. They never did. But the ache of their absence filled the room all the same.

And yet...

There were other memories too. Softer ones. Bifur teaching you Dwarvish insults you were far too proud of. Balin telling stories until sleep took him mid-sentence. Bombur slipping you extra rations when you looked pale. Thorin, once, catching you singing in Elvish to calm your nerves and saying nothing—just sitting beside you, silent, as though listening to a memory he couldn’t name.

And Legolas. Always watching from the edge. Distant at first. Then fascinated. Then something else.

The present curled around your shoulders again, and you looked over at him, still fast asleep in the chair, the rise and fall of his chest steady.

You reached for the blanket draped over the nearby bench, quietly laying it across him. He stirred but didn’t wake.

As you sat back down, hands loose in your lap, you whispered into the dim room:

“I don't know if I can face another war. But maybe… I don't want to be the last of us, either.”

You didn’t sleep that night. But for the first time in years, you didn’t feel completely alone in the dark.

Dawn crept in slowly, brushing the sky in pale blue and soft gold. Birds sang tentative notes outside your shuttered windows, but the inn remained hushed.

The hearth was cold now. The chairs had been returned to their places. Tables were wiped clean, mugs polished and shelved, the rooms above emptied of guest linens. The scent of firewood and rosemary lingered, but your inn—the life you had built to keep the world out—was closed.

Literally.

The sign on the door now read “Gone traveling. Indefinitely."

When the Fellowship awoke, one by one, they descended the stairs expecting breakfast and soft beds to still be theirs. Instead, they found you standing near the door, your pack slung over one shoulder, traveling leathers worn like a second skin, bow strapped to your back, and a dagger resting easily at your hip.

Sam blinked in confusion. “Are you… going somewhere, miss?”

You gave a nod, small but sure. “Aye. With you.”

Frodo froze mid-step. “You’re—what?”

“I packed light,” you said, adjusting the strap on your shoulder. “Can’t say I’m thrilled about sleeping under stars again, but…” You trailed off, eyes briefly scanning the group before settling on Legolas.

He was already watching you.

There was no surprise in his face. No shock like the others. Only a quiet calm. Like a note held long and true finally finding its resolution.

“I knew it,” he said, lips tugging into a faint smile.

Aragorn stepped forward, brows knit. “What changed your mind?”

You met his gaze evenly. “Nothing. Everything. I remembered that the world doesn’t stop turning just because I pretend it has. And if it falls while I sit behind a bar, what did I survive for?”

Even Gimli seemed speechless for a moment. “Hmph. Well. If you’re coming along, I hope you still remember how to march.”

“Better than you remember how to bathe,” you quipped.

That drew a snort from Boromir and a laugh from Merry and Pippin, breaking the stunned silence.

As they gathered their things, still murmuring about your choice, Legolas stepped closer, his voice low for only you.

“You were never going to stay behind,” he said, almost gently.

You looked up at him, your voice steady. “No. But I had to believe I would, until I didn’t.”

He nodded once. “Then let us walk forward. Together this time.”

You studied him a long moment, then gave a small, wry smile.

“Try to keep up, princeling.”

You pushed open the door, letting in the crisp morning air. The road waited, as it always had.

But this time, you didn’t face it alone.

The quiet had ended.

The road to Moria had been long and steep, but nothing compared to the cold weight that settled on your chest the moment you passed through the threshold of the once-great dwarven realm.

Darkness clung to the air like dust, and even your elven blood couldn’t soothe the dread coiling in your gut. These were not halls of glory now, not the shining marvel Gimli had spoken of with such pride.

They were tombs.

Your steps echoed too loudly as you walked. The Fellowship moved in a hush, each bootfall and breath drawing the stone’s attention like an unwanted guest.

Gimli had fallen silent long ago.

You watched him, the way he held his axe tight to his chest like a lifeline, eyes wide as he passed shattered archways and collapsed pillars. His gaze darted toward dark corners, as if hoping—aching—for a familiar face to emerge.

But none came.

And then you reached the Chamber of Records.

The skeletons lay still where they had fallen. Weapons rusted. Dust thick on old shields. It was not war that filled the space now, but mourning.

Gimli moved to the tomb at the center like a man in a dream. You followed without meaning to.

He brushed aside what little remained of a helm and whispered a name: “Balin.”

You froze.

Balin.

Old, kind, sharp-eyed Balin—who once told you riddles on long rides and always made you take the last bit of stew. Balin, who had held your hand when Thorin died, his voice cracking as he promised to carry the king’s memory home.

Your throat closed.

“He was the best of us,” you murmured.

Gimli’s shoulders shook. “He was our hope. Our history. And now—he is dust.”

You stepped forward, placing a hand gently on his arm.

“He believed in this place,” you said. “And if he had known it would take him, I think he would have come anyway. That was the kind of dwarf he was.”

Gimli didn’t speak, but he nodded once, tightly.

“I thought the ghosts I carried were mine alone,” you continued, voice softer. “But grief… it finds us all. And when it does, it binds us.”

He turned to you, eyes wet and fierce. “Do they ever stop speaking to you? The ones you lost?”

You hesitated, your gaze falling to Balin’s tomb.

“No,” you said. “But sometimes, they stop screaming.”

A long moment passed between you—two remnants of the Company, survivors of a story carved in blood and stone. Then Gimli nodded again, slower this time, and placed a rough hand over yours.

“Thank you,” he said.

You squeezed back. “We’ll carry them forward. As we always have.”

Behind you, the Fellowship waited in silence. Even Legolas, usually still and watchful, looked at you now not with curiosity, but understanding.

The grief had found you both. And for this moment, you bore it together.

They came like shadows with blades—goblins pouring from the walls, the ceilings, the dark. The tomb of Balin was barely behind you when the Fellowship was forced into motion, swords drawn, feet pounding over cold stone.

You loosed arrows until your fingers ached, each one flying true—some finding skulls, others throats—but they kept coming.

“RUN!” Gandalf’s voice cracked through the chaos, ancient and fierce.

The Fellowship fled, boots striking the echoing halls of Moria. Behind you, the goblins shrieked, relentless, swarming like ants through the cracks in the stone.

The drums of war pounded.

Dum. Dum. DUM.

You passed dark pits and crumbling bridges, pillars shattered by time. You didn’t dare slow. You barely breathed.

And then came the heat.

A low rumble.

A deeper shadow.

The Balrog.

It wasn’t just fire. It was rage made flesh, born from the ancient pits of a forgotten world. You stopped when you saw it—just for a heartbeat—but Gandalf didn’t.

He turned on the Bridge of Khazad-dûm, staff in hand, sword gleaming like starlight in the dark.

“This foe is beyond any of you. Run!”

You didn’t want to leave. Every part of you screamed to stay.

But Aragorn pulled Frodo. Boromir shielded the hobbits. Legolas grabbed your arm as you hesitated, your eyes locked on the wizard’s back.

“Go,” he said. “Now.”

You stumbled forward, breath ragged, until you stood with the others at the far end of the bridge. Just in time to see the Balrog crash forward—flames licking the stone as it advanced.

And Gandalf—brave, maddening, kind Gandalf—stood alone.

“You shall not pass!”

The blast of light from his staff shattered the dark for one blinding moment. The Balrog faltered—then fell, crashing into the abyss.

Relief struck—until the whip lashed back, curling around Gandalf’s ankles.

You saw his eyes then. Not fear, not regret.

Resolve.

“Fly, you fools—!”

And then he was gone.

Silence fell.

And it screamed.

You didn’t remember how you escaped the mountain. Only that your feet moved and the world blurred and somehow, sunlight burned your eyes when you emerged from the tunnel.

The Fellowship collapsed to the grass and stone. Frodo sobbed quietly. Sam sat staring at the dirt. Gimli hung his head in shaking silence.

You stood apart from them.

Legolas approached, hesitant. “We must move on—”

“Don’t,” you snapped, voice sharp.

He paused, his expression faltering.

You turned to him, and for the first time in years, your grief burned through the surface like wildfire through dry wood.

“I have already lost Balin in this cursed mountain. And now I’ve lost Gandalf too.” Your voice cracked. “And it’s only just begun.”

Legolas reached for you—slowly, gently—but you stepped back.

“I don’t know how much grief I have left to carry,” you whispered. “And I don’t know what’s left of me when it runs out.”

He didn’t speak.

You looked down at your hands—scarred, steady, stained by years of blood—and saw the ghosts rise behind your eyes.

Balin, laughing over a campfire.

“You’ll never beat a dwarf at riddles, lass, but I’ll enjoy watching you try.”

His eyes always twinkled like he saw more than he said.

Gandalf, placing a steadying hand on your shoulder as you trembled in Erebor’s aftermath.

“Even the fiercest fire cools, child. But your spirit—it will forge something new from these ashes.”

You had believed him then.

But now… now the fire only took.

You sat down hard in the grass, legs finally giving out, and stared at the distant sky. The others were quiet. No one had words left.

Even the sun, warm as it was, couldn’t thaw what had been lost.

The Golden Wood greeted you in silence.

The moment you crossed into Lothlórien, it was as if the weight of the world loosened, only slightly, from your shoulders. The air shimmered faintly with magic—ageless, slow, and watching. Sunlight pierced the canopy in golden beams, illuminating the green and gold leaves like fire frozen mid-dance.

The others seemed to feel it too. Their steps grew quieter, breath deeper. The grief from Moria still clung, but here… it was dimmed.

Muted.

You stayed near the back of the Fellowship, your presence quiet and inward. Even Legolas, who normally hovered close, let you be—watching you with unreadable eyes.

Then came the soft sound of approaching boots across leaf-laden ground.

You turned at once, bow half-lifted—then lowered it instantly.

“Haldir,” you breathed.

The elf smiled, and it was like watching a tree in spring—still, serene, but warm beneath the surface.

“I thought the wind smelled of old fire and bowstring,” he said. “I dared not believe it.”

You stepped forward without thought, and for the first time in what felt like days—maybe longer—your posture softened. Haldir’s hand found your shoulder, and yours settled on his forearm, a brief clasp of warriors, friends, kin.

“I did not think I’d see you again,” you murmured.

“I often think the same,” he replied. “And yet, here we are.”

There was laughter in his voice—gentle, low. It stirred something in you that had been buried under stone and blood: memory. Of laughing beneath moonlight. Of shared patrols. Of long talks in old trees about the stars and the silence between them.

With Haldir, there was no past to bleed from. Only stillness. Understanding.

Legolas watched from a few paces away.

He did not speak. But his jaw tightened slightly as your laugh, soft and fleeting, reached his ears—something he hadn’t heard in days. Not since Moria. Not since Gandalf’s fall.

You barely noticed him at first. Only when Haldir led the Fellowship toward the inner woods did you catch the way Legolas lingered back, gaze not on the trees—but on you.

Later, as you stood beneath the trees, hands brushing bark that had seen centuries pass, Legolas finally approached. You didn’t turn.

“I didn’t know you were close with Haldir,” he said.

“He was my first real friend,” you replied, voice distant. “Before the Company. Before Erebor. When I didn’t know which world I belonged to.”

Legolas was quiet for a beat. Then: “You laugh more easily with him.”

You turned to him slowly. “Because he doesn’t ask me how I feel. He knows.”

There was a sharpness in your tone—not cruel, but edged by truth. Legolas flinched, just barely.

“I have tried to be patient,” he said. “To understand.”

“I know,” you said. “And I… I don’t fault you for it.”

You looked away, gaze lost in the gold-lit forest.

“But everything hurts, Legolas. I can’t breathe for the weight of it. Balin, Thorin, Kíli, Fíli—Gandalf.” You shook your head. “I don’t know how to laugh with you. Not yet.”

He said nothing, only studied you with eyes full of sea and silence.

You stepped away. “Give me time. I still want to be near the light. I just don’t know how to stand in it.”

And you left him there, beneath a barren tree—where even the sun seemed reluctant to intrude.

•••

The sky over Helm’s Deep was heavy, dark with the promise of death. Rain lashed the stone walls and wind howled through the crevices like a warning too late to heed.

The keep bustled with urgency—armor strapped on, arrows sorted, blades handed out with shaking hands. You moved among the chaos with steady steps, your cloak already damp, your bow newly strung. You had prepared in silence, your choice already made long before the gates had shut.

Legolas found you as you stepped out from the inner keep, near the passage leading to the women and children. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the sword at your hip, the set of your jaw, the steel in your eyes.

“You’re not going,” he said, water running down his cheeks like tears he would never let fall.

“No,” you replied simply.

“You’re meant to be with the others—”

“With the helpless?” you cut in sharply. “You forget who I am, Legolas.”

“I forget nothing,” he hissed, stepping forward. “But you were supposed to survive this. Do you not understand what’s coming?”

“I do,” you said. “And I’ll face it.”

He looked at you, truly looked at you, as if seeing the shadow of every battle you’d ever survived and fearing this one would be your last.

“I’ve already watched you fall once,” he said, voice low, taut. “When you lost them. Kíli, Thorin, Gandalf. You say you don’t know how much grief you have left—but do you know how much I have? How much more I can bear if you fall too?”

You looked away, breath catching.

“I’m not a memory to protect, Legolas. I’m not something fragile to lock away.”

“No,” he said. “You’re not fragile. But you are—” he stopped, jaw clenched, the words fighting their way out. “You are important. To me.”

That gave you pause.

The rain softened. For a moment, the world blurred around you, only his face in focus—his pain, his fear, his heart laid bare in the spaces between sentences.

“I’m still going,” you said, more gently this time.

He nodded, slowly. “Then I stay with you. On the wall. Not a step behind.”

You gave a quiet breath of what might have been a laugh, or a sigh. “Then try to keep up, princeling.”

He almost smiled—but it didn’t reach his eyes.

As the horns of war blew in the distance and the thunder of Uruk-hai boots echoed closer, you stood together on the ramparts. He watched the enemy. But sometimes, you felt his gaze shift to you—sharp, quick, as though checking you were still there.

Still standing.

Still his.

The night deepened. The sky wept.

Beneath the thunder and screams of wind, the walls of Helm’s Deep trembled. The Uruk-hai approached like a black sea, endless, armored, merciless.

You stood on the battlement beside Legolas, scanning the dark, arrow ready. His expression was unreadable, though his hand never strayed far from his quiver. Every so often, his eyes flicked to you—not in doubt, but in worry worn raw.

Then came the horns.

Not the harsh blares of the enemy—but something ancient. High. Clear.

Hope.

The gates creaked open and light spilled in—silver cloaks, golden armor, moonlit helms gleaming beneath the rain.

Elves.

And at their head—Haldir.

You froze, a breath caught in your throat, disbelieving.

He moved like moonlight through mist, every step purposeful, calm amidst the storm. And when he saw you on the wall, his smile broke through the rain like dawn.

You descended the stone steps as he approached. The moment you reached him, you embraced—not as warriors, but as those who had feared they'd never meet again.

“I hoped,” you whispered. “But I didn’t dare believe it.”

“Lothlórien does not forget its own,” he said. “We came as soon as Galadriel sent word.”

You pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes. “You always arrive when I need you most.”

A flicker of amusement touched his features. “Isn’t that what friends are for?”

Nearby, Legolas stood still as stone. His gaze hadn’t left you.

He watched the ease in your voice, the soft warmth you rarely showed. The way Haldir touched your arm when he spoke, the familiarity in your closeness. A part of him hated it—hated that Haldir saw a version of you he feared he no longer could reach.

Later, as the elves took positions and soldiers prepared for the siege, you and Haldir stood beneath the battlements, heads bowed close in quiet conversation.

He looked at you, studying your face. “There is pain in you.”

You nodded. “There always is.”

“But there is strength too,” he said. “Even when you forget it.”

You offered him a tired smile. “That’s why I keep you around. To remind me.”

Haldir placed a hand over yours. “And I always will.”

Above, Legolas stood watching, eyes narrowing just slightly.

He had never been jealous of Haldir’s grace, his skill, his rank. But this—the effortless way Haldir stood beside you, anchored you—this unsettled something in his chest.

Not because Haldir had it.

Because he used to.

The horns sounded again—closer now. The enemy was nearly upon you.

And still, you stood beside Haldir. And Legolas waited, bow in hand, fire in his heart.

The night would be long. Blood would fall like rain.

But not before Legolas promised himself: Whatever the morning held—he would be the one standing beside you when it came.

The sun rose, but it did not warm you.

The battlefield stretched beneath it like a scar—black blood soaked into the mud, bodies sprawled across the ruined stone and grass. The air reeked of smoke, steel, and silence.

You stood where Haldir had fallen.

His body had already been taken, wrapped in elven cloth and carried with reverence by the survivors of Lothlórien. But you had stayed behind, rooted, staring at the bloodstained spot where he had died defending the wall at your side.

He had smiled at you, even as the blade struck true.

And you had screamed—only once—but it had broken something in your throat.

You hadn’t spoken since.

You didn’t hear Legolas approaching until his hand wrapped gently around your arm.

“You should rest.”

You didn’t move.

He stepped in front of you, his face pale beneath the dirt and ash, his eyes rimmed red—not with tears, but restraint. “You fought with honor. He did too.”

Your voice was a rasp. “You pulled me back.”

A beat of silence.

“Yes,” he said. “You would have died.”

“I was ready to,” you snapped, stepping back from him. “We were overrun. I was going to cover the retreat and you—” your voice broke, rage surging into the hollow place grief had carved—“You should have let me go!”

Legolas flinched as if struck.

“I could have died beside him. I should have—” your voice cracked, your fists clenched, “—instead you dragged me back, again, and I’ve lost another piece of myself—”

“Because I can’t lose you too!” he shouted, voice sharp and cutting through the morning like an arrow loosed in fury.

You froze.

He stood there, eyes wild, chest heaving, all the composure of an elven prince burned away by the fire of emotion long held back.

“I watched you grieve them all,” he said, voice quieter now but trembling. “Thorin. Kíli. Fíli. Balin. Gandalf. Haldir—gods, even Haldir. And every time, I saw something break in you.”

He stepped forward, unflinching. “And I stayed quiet. I stayed patient. I gave you space because I thought it’s what you needed—but I—” he faltered, then whispered, “I love you.”

The words hung between you like a war cry stilled in the air.

“I have loved you from the moment you argued with me in the Woodland Realm, stubborn and wild and brave. I watched you fight beside Kíli and Thorin. I watched you mourn them, one by one. And still, I loved you.”

Tears had slipped down your cheeks before you realized they’d come.

“I couldn’t let you go,” he said. “Not when I’ve already watched you die in pieces.”

You stared at him, all the fury ebbing into pain.

“I don’t know how to be what I was,” you whispered.

“You don’t have to be,” he said, stepping closer. “Just be with me. Whatever pieces you have left—I’ll carry them too.”

You let out a shuddering breath.

And finally, your forehead dropped to his chest, the storm within you breaking. His arms wrapped around you, steady and warm.

There were no promises. No healing words.

But in that moment, grief found company. And that was enough.

The final battle was chaos.

Fire lit the sky in sickening hues—red, orange, and gold twisting like dragons of ruin above the field. Screams tore through the clamor of clashing steel. The very earth trembled beneath the weight of death.

You had lost sight of Legolas.

Not for long—barely minutes—but it felt like a lifetime in the heart of war.

You fought like instinct made flesh, your blade slick with blood, arrows gone. The battlefield blurred around you, faces unrecognizable, only movement and threat. But when you spotted the flash of silver-blond hair through the smoke, something within you slammed into place.

Legolas.

He was on the rise of a broken wall, drawing his bow, loose and precise—until the enemy swarmed behind him. You screamed his name—he didn’t hear it—and your legs moved before your mind did.

A troll's iron mace came down, fast and merciless.

You hit him hard in the side, sending you both tumbling behind a shattered wall of stone as the blow cracked the earth where he’d stood. You rolled, breathless, until you landed hard, half atop him, body shielding his.

There was silence.

Then—

“I’m fine,” he rasped, blinking at you, winded.

“Don’t say that,” you breathed.

Your hands were braced on his chest, blood—thankfully—was not his. But the fear was.

You were shaking.

“You could’ve died,” you whispered. “You should have—”

“But I didn’t.”

You stared down at him, and for one unguarded moment, you let the horror in your chest bloom. “I can’t—I can’t lose you too.”

His breath caught. His hands came up to gently hold your wrists. “You won’t.”

Tears stung your eyes—hot, unwelcome. You pressed your forehead to his, trying to steady your breathing as the sounds of war surged around you once more.

“Still here,” he whispered. “I’m still here.”

You closed your eyes.

You hadn’t made him any promises. You still weren’t sure if you could. But you could hold him close for now. You could fight for his life like he had fought for yours.

For once, it was not about loss.

It was about not letting go.

The White City gleamed beneath the morning sun, banners fluttering high above the citadel. Flowers carpeted the stone, thrown by joyful hands, the scent of hope and new beginnings thick in the air.

Aragorn stood crowned and robed in light, the roar of the crowd still echoing down the mountainside.

You watched from the edge of the crowd, quiet.

For the first time in an age, there was no battle ahead. No blood under your fingernails. No grief hiding behind your teeth.

Just stillness.

And you didn’t quite know what to do with it.

You lingered until the sun began to lower, until the crowd thinned, until the laughter dimmed to celebration-song in distant halls.

And then he found you.

Legolas.

He approached without armor, dressed in white and silver that caught the dying light, golden hair gleaming. He looked like he’d stepped out of a song—ageless, beautiful, unreal. But when he smiled at you, tired and small, he looked only like himself.

“I didn’t think you’d stay this long,” he said gently.

“I didn’t think I would either,” you admitted.

You stood side by side in the garden, the flowers beneath your boots crushed underfoot, the sounds of merriment muffled by trees and stone.

“It’s over,” he said. “And we’re still standing.”

You let out a soft breath. “Somehow.”

You looked at him then—really looked. And for the first time, there was no fog of war, no heavy grief veiling your gaze. You were just… you. Bruised. Whole. Tired. Alive.

“I thought if we made it here, I’d know what to say,” you murmured.

Legolas turned to face you, head tilted. “And do you?”

“No,” you said honestly. “But I know what I feel.”

His eyes searched yours, and you saw it there—hope, held back so long it looked like sorrow.

“You pulled me from the edge,” you whispered. “Again and again. Even when I didn’t want you to.”

“Because I love you,” he said, quiet and sure, no hesitation now.

You reached up, fingers brushing his jaw. “Then you should know... I’m not whole. I may never be.”

“I don’t need you whole,” he said, leaning in so your foreheads touched. “I only need you with m.”

You closed your eyes, the warmth of his skin grounding you. Your hand found his, fingers threading between his own, and this time—you didn’t pull away.

No promises.

But something stronger.

A beginning.

[serawritesthings]

SPELLBOUND

Pairing | Legolas x Reader Summary | Your bittersweet love will surely endure until the last of your days. Word Count | 1.1k A/N | Hello lovelies! Ever since I was young, my love for Tolkien has been my greatest inspiration when it came to writing and world-building. But, also all the fantastic writers out there that had me plastered to my computer at 4 in the morning, staying up all night reading wonderfully written stories about all the characters. So, because of this, I am taking a tiiiiiiny step into the community with this short story, hoping some of you will enjoy it. If you do, I'll happily write some more, and if you have an idea you would like me to write, feel free to send me a message!

“Our love cannot be.” 

Her words had echoed in his mind since the moment they left her blushed lips, at first only mindless words lingering in his mind as he stared thoughtlessly, then excessively nagging at him with every chance. Obsessively and utterly spellbound, he could only stare into your teary eyes that never hid from him, taking your trembling lips to his longing ones in a silent protest and carefully surrendering to the prospect of a love that might be possible if you loved hard enough. 

How naive you were, for you said the words too late. What good did it bring to only now speak of what you should have said a long time ago?  Perhaps it could be a testament to yourself that you at least tried to cease what you had, however weak the attempt might have been. Furthermore, you might have wished for him to be stronger than you, more sensible–but perhaps you were too alike in that sense.

“How can you say those words when you already know how my heart longs for you?” You could only close your eyes as he spoke, words dripping like honey over your troubled mind. Momentarily, you bathed in the golden glow, feeling the tenderness soothe the aches and hurt. How could you give him an answer that wouldn’t cause pain when his very words pierced you so–when his care for you extended further than you could have ever expected?

Devastated by the uncertainty that clouded your mind, shaking fingers jerked away from their hold on the silk that covered his forearms. You gasped when his hands didn’t hesitate to grasp yours, placing your palms against his heart that thumped heavily beneath the layers of fabric. 

“Do you feel that?” He spoke softly, leaning his head down to try and meet your avoidant eyes as his other hand found your cheek. “It does not beat like this for anyone but you.”

Unshed tears gathered in the corner of your eyes at his confession, overwhelmed by the idea of being loved by someone who would surpass the short time you had yet to live. Time was a cruel hand, one you couldn’t help but fear deeply, for he, bound to centuries, had a timeless plight while you were made to fade in the fleeting light.

“Our love is naught but a flame caught between two winds,” you say in sorrow, eyes closed to spare yourself the guilt you would feel if you gazed into his sky-blue eyes, the usual vibrancy muted–as if the stars that danced within them had momentarily dimmed. “It’s fragile and fleeting, how will it last?”

“Have I not pledged my heart to you?” Legolas implored, his words dulled with sorrow at the distress residing in your eyes. “Have I not deserved to relish in the warmth you bring me?” 

“Legolas…” He heard you whisper, a gentle plea that fell on deaf ears as he drew you closer, meeting your lips in a longing kiss. In a stolen breath, he reveled in the taste as his forever gentle hands cradled your face, fingers tracing the delicate contours as if to etch it into memory–into the fabric of his immortal being. 

With each passing heartbeat, the glade witnessed two souls so desperate yet unsure, and as it held its breath, the air shimmered around them in the quiet night. Like a silent whisper on your skin, his fingers lighted a path like fire as they caressed, refusing to let you pull away. Oh, how you wanted to. Yet, your heart clamped something so fiercely when the thought passed through your mind, the feeling not far from making you double over in anguish from having to be apart. 

The desperation in his embrace pulled at your heartstrings, urging you to cast away the dark thoughts that rained over you endlessly and lose yourself in his arms that wound their way around you–shielding you from hesitation and fear.

Yet tentative, your response wasn’t passive; fingers seeking refuge in the strands of his silken hair, and with each strand that slipped through your touch, only felt all the more consumed.

“You say it can’t be, yet why can’t my body stop aching for your touch even though you are right here, already in my arms?” His voice was a soft murmur in the night, lips parting for only a moment when speaking to find yours, then again, refusing to let you protest. “Mortal you may be, yet my heart yearning does not know the confines of time.”

Your gaze softened by his sincerity, voiced by her uncertainty. “I can not help but worry about what happens when my time passes. What aching memories will it leave you with…” You trailed off as the thought crossed your mind, but as you felt Legolas brush a strand of hair away from your tear-stained cheek, a soft determination shone through his glossy eyes. 

“Then surely I will pass, for I couldn’t bear to spend the rest of my life in a world where I can not gaze upon the wonders of your spirit that light up the darkest corners of my soul.” Yet melancholy, the words rang true as his voice had a slight undertone of acceptance that confused you. 

He knew that when the burden of your parting would become too heavy, he would transcend the sorrow that bound him to this earthy realm and leave all behind in hopes of once more feeling your touch on his graying skin. He came to welcome the idea a long time ago. Yet, the sadness in your eyes hurt him terribly, and his mind didn’t know how to lessen your anguish and recover the gleam that continuously resided deep within them, at times almost bursting with wonder.

“Why do you speak so indifferently? The thought does nothing but pains me something so fiercely.” He only gave you a soft smile in return, grasping your cheeks between his palms, thumbs tenderly caressing the soft skin underneath it.

“Can you not see, my love?” Placing his forehead against yours, his eyes pierced yours warmly, reassuring you that he only spoke of the truth. “In the realm beyond, we will once more find the embrace of one another, and I will continue to love you as I do now."

“Fret not, meleth nín.” Placing a tender kiss on your teary cheek, he whispered in your ear, bringing your head to rest wearily in the crook of his neck. “For you shall have me for the remaining part of your days, and when your departure becomes a burden too heavy to bear, I shall find you amidst the stars.”

[evankart]

Aragorn - scene from Two Towers

[lokigodofmyheart]

HOT WATER

Pairing: Legolas x Reader

Words: 2.4k

Summary: Y/N is exhausted and Legolas show her a place with hot water to relax. 

Warning/Content: soft smut.

MASTERLIST

Legolas observed the girl as she walked alongside the Fellowship. The journey has been long and hard for all of them. But it must had been harder on her, a mortal woman.  

Y/N could feel her muscles ache as she walks with the Fellowship. Her clothe were stained with dust and sweat and wherever else were in those roads. The only thing she craved right now was a moment of peace. Legolas fell back to walk in pace with her. He glanced at her, taking a mental note of her current state of exhaustion.  

Aragorn decided to stop and make camp because it' was getting already darkening it would be way too dangerous to walk at night. Everyone agreed, after all, they were all tired. Except for Legolas. 

As soon everything was settled for them to rest, Y/N sat on the grass, her back against a tree and her eyes closed. She closed her eyes, trying to relax a little. Legolas noticed her state and he sat by her side, as he silently observed her for a moment before speaking.  

"You seem tired." he noted quietly, his voice filled with genuine concern. 

“I am a little.” She looked at him.  

The elf nodded, understanding what she meant. "There's a spring not far from here." He offers slowly, tilting his head towards a direction "The water is pure, warmed by the earth. It will help you." 

Y/N hesitate at first, but the thought of washing away the dirty, in a warm water instead of the cold ones they had been finding...she was really tempted. 

“Okay, sure,” Y/N stood up from the ground with a small smile on her lips“lead the way, elf.” 

Legolas smiles back, his expression gentle. He gets up from his seat and starts making his way through the trees, making sure she was following him as he leads her to a small, secluded spring.  

The water is crystal clear, and steam rises up from its surface. The sun sets leaving them with the dark of the night and the light of the moon "Here we are." he says quietly, gesturing towards the spring. 

“That actually looks very nice.” She spoke already taking off her boots. 

Legolas nodded in agreement. The spring looks like a small oasis in the middle of the forest. The moonlight reflects on the water's surface, glimmering quietly. "Let the water soothe your muscles and ease your mind." he advises, as he turns his back at her politely to let the woman undress. 

She finished quickly, throwing her clothes at the ground and slip into the water. The warm instantly relaxed her body and her aching muscles. Legolas stands on the edge of the spring, his back still towards her. He listens to the sounds of the night, his keen ears attuned to everything surrounding them.  

"You don't need to be so vigilant all the time." Y/N says, looking at his back. 

Legolas' attention abruptly snaps back toward her. Her voice cuts through the silence and he turns slightly to glance at her. He can just make out her form in the water, the moonlight casting a soft glow on her skin "It's dangerous out here." he replies in a quiet voice, still standing on the edge. "We must always be on guard." 

“Well, there’s no danger here.”  

She was correct to a certain extent and he knew it. At this very moment, they were safe and in a secluded area, away from the dangers of the surrounding wilderness  

"Habit." It’s all he says.  

"Join me." Y/N says half-playful, half-serious "I won't look. I promise.” Legolas raises an eyebrow at her request, clearly not expecting it.  

She turned her back to him, as she was trying to untangle her hair, giving no mind to him, after all, she was sure he would decline. But then she heard the quite rustle of fabric. The sound of his tunic being pulled over his head and the rest of his clothes. And them, the water moving as he enters. 

Legolas slowly makes his way to her, his steps light and graceful. The warm water instantly easing his tension. He watches her silently for a moment as she struggles with her hair. Letting out a soft sigh, he spoke "Let me help you with that." 

He carefully moves closer to her through the water, his long, slender fingers reach out to gently undo the tangled strands of her hair. His touch is surprising soft, slowly detangling her messy hair. Nothing at all from what she expected from an Elf prince and warrior.  

“You’re good at this...” Y/N spoke quietly, enjoying the touch of his hands in her hair, enjoying how his fingertips barely grazing at her skin.  

"I have had plenty of practice." he replies quietly, his voice low and calm as he continues. 

She let out a soft chuckle and Legolas couldn't help but smile faintly at the sound. He works through the last few strands of her hair and finally, it is free from tangles. "There." he murmurs, his fingers gently running through her now-smooth hair. 

“Thanks.” She smiles, turning to finally look at him. They were very close, she noticed. And very naked too. She expected him to move away, but he doesn't.  

Their proximity makes him aware of her body, the feel of her skin just inches from his own. His gaze meets hers and it lingers. It's intimate and intense as his eyes travel over her face, tracing the contours of her features. Her face is wet from the water and his gaze is captured by the water droplets on her face, his eyes tracing the path they take He reached out a hand and gently brushed away a few more droplets, his fingers lingering on her skin for a moment.  

He speaks quietly, almost a whisper "You are breathtaking." The words slip out before he realizes. 

Y/N reaches her hand to his shoulder, tracing the path of the droplet, making his breath hitches as her fingers touched his skin, the intimacy of it makes his skin tingle. His gaze doesn't leave hers as he swallows, his own hands slowly cupping her face, brushing her cheekbones before he leans into her, pressing his lips against hers in a slow kiss, testing, savoring her. 

As soon as his lips were on hers, she closed her eyes and kissed him back. Legolas deepens the kiss, his tongue gently tracing the seam of her lips. His hands slowly move, sliding down her neck and over her shoulder, pulling her closer against him, their bodies pressed together in the warm water. 

His hands grow bolder, going to her back, tracing the curve of her spine, sliding lower until he grips her waist beneath the water, pulling her even closer. Legolas breaks the kiss for a moment, his breath uneven, and his eyes dark as they lock onto hers. 

"Tell me to stop" He murmurs. 

“Don't.” she murmurs too, before she closed the distance kissing him again, a more passionate kiss this time.  

Legolas responds to her kiss with fervor, his tongue slipping into her mouth, tasting her as his hands grip her tighter, pulling her closer against him while his hands roams over her body, exploring the curves and angles he's longed to touch. Her hands did the same, exploring his chest, his muscles, making the elf whisper words in his tongue, which she could not understand.  

His kiss becomes more urgent, the need to feel her growing with each passing moment. His hands slide down her body, grabbing her hips firmly and pulling her against him. Y/N let out a soft moan, feeling how hard he already was from just kissing. He breaks away from the kiss, his breath jagged as he looks at her with a silent question. 

Y/N understood and nod at him. Legolas doesn't need any more encouragement. He gently lifts her, his strong hands sliding down the backs of her thighs, wrapping her legs around his waist. When he sinks into her, he does it slowly, eyes locked into hers, watching every little reaction. Watching as she moans and her eyes almost roll back as she enters her inch by inch.  

Legolas holds her against him, his hands gripping her thighs as he stays still for a moment, savoring the feeling of being buried deep inside her. His eyes are darkened with need and desire as he looks at her, a soft growl escaping him as he starts to move in a slow and gentle pace.  

The water ripples around them as they move and the night were filled with soft gasps and moans from both of them. He loves how responsive she is to his touch, the way she gasps and moans, the way her nails digging into his shoulder, the way she arches against him as he moves, pushing her closer to the edge. 

Legolas felt when she reaches her orgasm, clenching around him and makes him follows her when the sensation is too much and he finally cum. Legolas holds her tight against him, feeling her body trembles. He buries his face into the crook of her neck, his arms around her waist, holding her as he follows her over the edge of pleasure, murmuring in his mother language. 

“What does that mean?” She asks curiously.  

He lifts his head up to look at her, his eyes still hazy with pleasure he replies in a gentle voice "It roughly translates to 'my sweet flower'”. 

Y/N smiles a little with his answer and he couldn’t help but returns the smile. She lifts her hand, gently caressing his cheek. Legolas closes his eyes at her touch, taking in the feeling of her fingers on his skin, her tenderness bringing him a sense of peace. For a moment, all he can think of is her, the feeling of her body against his, the soft sound of her breathing and the touch of her fingers on his skin. 

“We should go, before Aragorn or Gimli come look for us...” she made no motion to move from him. 

 Legolas reluctantly nods, knowing that she's right. He carefully pulls her legs from around his waist, letting her stand on the ground, but still keeping her close. He caresses her cheek gently and steals a quick kiss before speaking. 

They slowly move to get out of the water. Legolas steps out first, reaching out to help her from the water. He grabs his trousers from the ground and quickly pulls them on. He stays by her side as she gets dressed too, not wanting to leave her just yet "Unfortunately, you're right..." 

They slowly move to get out of the water. Legolas steps out first, reaching out to help her from the water. He grabs his trousers from the ground and quickly pulls them on while Y/N did the same with her clothes. When they’re done, he steps closer, taking her hand in his and lacing his fingers through hers. 

She smiles again, giving him a quick kiss. Legolas responds to the kiss, gently cupping her face with his free hand. His thumb caresses her cheek as he looks at her, his gaze tender and fond as he speaks, his voice low 

"We should return to the others..." 

Y/N nods. She broke the silence as they walk back to the camp “Thanks, I really needed that...the water was indeed good.”  

Legolas nods in understanding, his hand still holding hers as they walk slowly "So did I." he replies quietly "It's a small moment of peace and relaxation, something we rarely get in this journey." 

Once they step back where the fellowship was, they noticed that Aragorn and Gimli were still awake. And obvious Aragorn was the first to notice that Legolas’ hair was also wet. 

Aragorn gives a sly smile at the sight of Legolas' wet hair. His eyes dart to Y/N for a moment, then back to Legolas 

"Went for a swim, didn't you?" he asks, clearly amused. 

“We really needed a shower. You should try one too.” She says back to him. Legolas glances at her with a subtle smile, appreciating her humor.  

Aragorn chuckles in response to her suggestion, but there's a knowing look in his eyes as he replies. "I'll give it serious consideration. A proper bath wouldn't hurt." 

She chuckles too, sitting by the fire with them and Legolas followed her. The man, the elf and the dwarf kept talking, but Y/N was so tired she slowly fell asleep, letting her head fall on Legolas’ shoulder.  

The elf glances down at her, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he realizes she's dozed off, her head now resting on his shoulder. He instinctively brings his arm around her, pulling her a little closer, careful not to wake her.  He looks up to see Aragorn and Gimli's eyes on them, both wearing knowing smiles “Not a word.” 

Gimli raises an eyebrow, a lopsided grin on his face, and whispers just loud enough for them to hear “Looks like someone found a new pillow." 

Aragorn tries to hide a chuckle, but it ends up as a cough. He glances at Legolas, a smirk on his face “Who knew our dear Legolas made such a comfortable pillow?" 

Legolas rolls his eyes at their comments, trying to dismiss them with a snort of feigned annoyance. He looks down at Y/N, still asleep against him, her head resting on his shoulder. His expression softens as he speaks quietly, almost to himself "She's just tired..." 

“Yes, a bath in hot waters must be really exhausting.”  Aragorn says teasing his friend. 

Legolas shoots Aragorn a look, knowing he's not going to give up this topic anytime soon "We both needed it. It's been a long day." 

Gimli can't help but chime in, still smiling in amusement "Of course you did. And since both your clothes are dry, I wonder if-" 

Legolas raises a hand, silencing Gimli mid-sentence “Enough, you two." he mutters sternly, his patience running thin. Aragorn and Gimli exchange grins, but they decide to drop the topic for now.  Legolas carefully scoops her up in his arms, making sure not to wake her, and carries her to her bedroll. He lays the woman down gently, making sure she's comfortable. He pulls a blanket up over her, tucking it around her loosely, and sat by her side, keeping watching her as the other’s sleep. The rest of the night is quiet, and the only sound is the soft breathing of the rest of the Fellowship.