May I please request headcanons/reactions for Haldir, Elrond, Lindir, Legolas, and Thranduil seeing fem!Reader in pretty sage green lace lingerie??????? :3
here you go my sweet
Middle Earth Elves | Them seeing their S/O in green lace lingerie
{LOTR Masterlist}
Haldir, Elrond, Legolas, Thranduil
AN: I don't write for Lindir, unfortunately, but here are the others <3
gn!reader
Content warning (MDNI): suggestive content, biting, mention of intimacy, teasing, possessiveness, dominant language
Haldir
He tries his best to remain trained and composed when he turns to see the sight in front of him
His jaw visibly tightens, his eyes flick over your body, and you swear you notice his right ear nearly twitch in nervousness
Haldir remains silent for a moment, drinking you in, watching how the emerald lace contrasts against your skin and hugs your form
He tries to regain his composure again, not wanting to seem so affected by you
"That colour suits you... dangerously well, my dear."
The green reminds him of Lothlorien, a moment of home flicking in his mind, which makes him find it all the more appealing on you
He takes his time with you, giving a small motion for you to approach, and he traces the lace along your hip, your thighs, seemingly entranced by it
But his restraint is shown in small actions; his eyes linger a little too long, his voice is almost a whisper, and the grip he has on your thigh while you stand in front of him is a little tighter than usual
Elrond
He is polished and dignified, and has lived long enough to not be strucken by much anymore
Until you strip down in his chamber one day in front of him, and he watches as the fabric falls off your shoulders, unveiling the sage green lingerie that you hid under your clothes
And the sight still makes him pause, despite all the beautiful visions that he would have seen in his long life
The lace catches the candlelight, and he finds himself standing from his seat on the bed and walking to you, hands instantly finding your waist, fingering the fabric
And he melts when you look up at him, your hands finding his chest to gently lay on
"You cannot look at me like that, meleth nin. I am trying to remain decent."
"You do not need to be. It is only you and I here."
He admires you all through your intimacy, pulling back every minute to take in the sight of you under him, draped in the colours of the forest, all for him to explore
Legolas
You do it in a fleeting moment while with the fellowship, having accidentally packed the lingerie when you were rushing to leave with them
You both are on watch, and he has his head tucked on your shoulder from behind, before he glances down and notices a glimmer of emerald hidden below your clothes on your chest
"What's this?" he says with a tone of cheekiness
It isn't long before you give it, pulling your tunic down over your shoulders to show Legolas the top of your lingerie set, and his breath is caught in his throat from the sight
His hands are quick to be on you, tucking his fingers under the straps on your shoulders and moving them to bite the skin there
"Why do you choose to do this now? With everyone so close by? You're truly testing my control."
You find yourself lying on the forest floor, giggling as Legolas's hands slip under your tunic further, revealing more of the lace, and he breathes heavier with every bit of skin revealed
Thranduil
He looks at you like a whole meal
You become nervous under his strong gaze as you stand in front of him, the lace catching the moonlight
He admires heavily, like he's planning on the quickest way to pull the lingerie from you, to leave you completely at his mercy
He leans into his possessive nature
"You look so beautiful in my colour."
His words and touches along you feel like worship dripping in dominance
And you BET he does not get undressed for so long, loving the control he feels with having you covered in revealing lace on his lap while you paw at his golden clothes, becoming shy from his intensity
He teases heavily, loving how you avoid his gaze and cover yourself, only for him to pry your hands away from your body
"Don't you dare hide this gift from me. You are all mine to look upon."
characters included- Aragorn, Kili, Fili, Thorin, Boromir, Faramir, and Legolas
y'all, I went overboard, I had wayyy to much time on my hands after work so here's 7 characters (my fingers are cramped now, worth it though :) )
Aragorn-
Aragorn is deeply perceptive — quiet, but emotionally intelligent. He notices things long before you voice them.
One evening, you’re sitting together by the fire in the quiet of Rivendell, and your silence stretches just a little too long. Your gaze flicks to his tall frame, the way he moves with natural grace, even with the weight of destiny on his shoulders and then to your own hands, small and fidgeting. You feel it surge: the ache that you're not enough, not fitting, not worthy.
He shifts closer.
“You think I do not see you,” he says gently, dragging out his next words. “But I do. More than you know.”
You try to brush it off with a laugh, but he takes your hand and presses it to his heart.
“There is strength in you that no sword could match. If you have learned to believe you are lesser because the world has not learned to see you clearly, then let my eyes be enough - for now.”
He doesn’t offer empty reassurance. Aragorn offers loyalty, steadiness. He loves you for the depth of your mind, your differences, the resilience in your smallest gestures. And he reminds you with his actions, again and again.
Kili-
Kíli notices something’s off when you flinch away from his teasing.
He’s sprawled on the ground after a sparring match, laughing, trying to tug you down beside him yet you hesitate. He sees your eyes dart to your body with a scrutinizing glare, hears the sharp edge to your voice when you mutter, “Maybe you’d be better off with someone more like you.”
Silence.
Kíli's expression drops. He gets up, brushes off his knees, and stands very, very still.
“Is that what you think?” he asks softly.
When you nod, he wraps his arms around you, lifting you slightly off the ground until you can’t ignore the closeness, the affection.
“I don’t want someone like me,” he murmurs into your hair. “I want you. I love how your mind works, even if it runs a thousand miles a minute. I love how you stand beside me even when you’re scared. And I love this”—he touches your nose to his— “shortness. It means I can protect you and kiss the top of your head.”
He makes you laugh even when you’re crying. That’s Kíli’s magic. He loves deeply, earnestly, and without a single condition.
Fili-
Fíli is more reserved than Kili. Thoughtful, a bit more poised, but when you start withdrawing, he notices.
You’re quieter lately, dodging his compliments, brushing off his touch. One evening the tension draws to an edge and he corners you, gently-firmly, when you're both tending your weapons.
“You think you’re not good enough for me,” he says bluntly. “Why?”
You shrug, eyes lowered. “I just… I don’t always understand people right. I forget things. I talk too much, or not enough. I’m not a warrior, or royal—”
Fíli crouches before you, his golden braids brushing your knees. He takes your hands in his calloused ones.
“Royalty doesn’t make someone worthy of love,” he says. “Kindness does. Courage does. Being honest, even when it’s hard - that is what I admire.”
He places your hand over his chest. “You are exactly who I want beside me. Never let old titles or foolish voices tell you otherwise.”
Thorin-
Thorin’s love is fierce, protective — and hard-won.
So when you flinch at a council meeting, too aware of your place beside him, too small, too unsure, too unlike the rest of the proud, battle-scarred dwarves yet Thorin sees it.
Later, in the quiet of your chambers, he places his crown aside and sits next to you.
“I do not want a queen carved in stone,” he starts. “I do not need perfection.”
You try to explain the ways your mind doesn’t always process things easily, the moments when you shut down, the way his legacy feels like a mountain beside your self-doubt.
Thorin doesn’t interrupt.
And then, he says softly, “I know what it is to feel unworthy. I have stood in the halls of my ancestors and doubted my right to even breathe.”
He cups your face with rough hands. “But you give me peace. When the world is too loud, you are the quiet I reach for. When I forget myself, it is your voice I remember.”
He kisses your forehead with reverence. “You are not lesser. You are my balance. My heart. And you deserve love not in spite of who you are, but because of it.”
Boromir-
He doesn’t take it well. Not because he’s angry at you, but because it hurts him to see you carrying that weight.
The moment the words come out “I’m not what people expect when they see you. You could do so much better than someone like me”-Boromir turns with a look like someone had knocked the wind out of him.
He sits beside you without a word, wrapping an arm around your shoulders, and pulls you firmly against him.
“Do you think I care what people expect?” he says eventually, voice rough. “My whole life, I’ve tried to live up to what others thought I should be. And none of that brought me peace. But you? You bring me peace.”
He gently taps your temple with two fingers. “Whatever storms you carry in here, you don’t face them alone. Not anymore.”
He kisses your temple and holds you like he’s shielding you from the world.
Faramir-
He notices before you say a word. The way your shoulders curl in slightly around others. How you hesitate to speak in front of the council. How you apologize for being “too much” and “not enough” in the same breath.
When you finally break and whisper, “I don’t know how someone like you could love someone like me,” Faramir doesn’t speak for a long moment. Instead, he cups your face with both hands and leans in, resting his forehead against yours.
“Do you know,” he whispers, “I used to believe I was unworthy of love too?”
You blink, surprised, but he continues softly. “I grew up in the shadow of others- measured and doubted, Then I met you. And you never asked me to be anything but myself.”
He pulls you into a gentle embrace, voice barely above a breath.
“You see the world in your own way. And it's why I love you. Not in spite of who you are, but because of it.” he continues to hold you with a weeping gentleness as you work through this now, together.
Legolas-
When you tell him- eyes cast downward and voice cracking, that you feel out of place beside him, he doesn’t laugh, doesn’t offer surface-level reassurances.
He simply kneels in front of you, lowering himself until he has to look up at you.
“You speak as if love is earned through perfection,” he says quietly. “But I am not flawless. I have doubts. I have fears. And I am not untouched by time, though mime nostale seem so.”
He reaches up, brushing your cheek with a feather-light touch.
“I chose you not for how the world sees you, but for how you see the world. You remind me that there is softness even in pain. Beauty in difference.”
He offers a rare, gentle smile. “And I quite enjoy looking down only because it means I can look at you.”
Then, leaning forward, he whispers, “You do not need to reach my height. You already reach my heart.”
He leaves very early for his morning patrol, but he always wakes you up when he returns.
He’s gentle with you but also firm. He'd stroke your hair back, press a kiss or two to your temple, and whisper in that low, commanding voice:
"It is time, meleth. The sun is already jealous it does not see you."
If you’re stubborn, still trying to steal a few more minutes of sleep. He’ll scoop you into his arms bridal style. The tips of his ears would flush the faintest shade of pink when you bury your face into his chest.
Thranduil:
He'd be so regal and smug. He'd chuckle at your small sleeping form. His big hands would gently shake you, trying to wake you. He'd press a kiss to the crown of your head. If you still refuse to wake up, he'll walk over to the large windows in the bedchambers and pull them wide open. Letting the sun spill into the room. He'd stand dramatically and say,
"Rise, my queen. The world is waiting for you."
If you ignored him, he'd tug the blankets off of you. He'd go on muttering about how "hopelessly indulgent" mortals are. He'd sit on the bed and let you crawl into his lap regardless.
Legolas:
Oh, the sunshine prince. He'd be lying next to you, with your face snuggled into his bare chest. His fingers would be curled into your hair, stroking it with his long fingers.
"Meleth, I fear if you do not wake, the trees will grow restless. They miss you."
He'd pepper kisses along your jaw until you sleepily giggled. He'd grin against your skin. Whispering sweet words, maybe bribing you with honey cakes if you wake up.
Lindir:
He'd absolutely sing you awake. A soft, lilting melody by your bedside, fingers brushing over your cheek until you blink awake.
"Ah, there she is. The fairest star has returned."
If you refused to awake, the softest gasp would escape him. He'd probably sit on your side of the bed and just admire your face. He'd lean down and place the softest kiss to your brow and whisper something in sindarin.
Tolkien Preference- Their Favourite Body Part of Yours
Hair- Elrond
Elrond is absolutely enchanted by your hair. Long or short he loves to run his fingers through it. He could spend hours braiding it and is not above begging you to let him wash it for you. In the bedroom he doesn’t like to pull it, instead enjoys stroking or caressing it
Eyes- Glorfindel
Glorfindel can easily get lost in your eyes. Though he’s a powerful warrior, his biggest weakness is your eyes. He will sit and listen to you speak, loving the way your eyes light up. In the bedroom he begs you to look into his eyes constantly, especially when you cum
Lips- Arwen
Arwen loves your lips, not just kissing them, but staring and touching them. After an evening together she will trace her fingers over your lips. Sometimes she feels a little bad because she wants to listen to you speak, but she just gets so distracted by your lips
Breasts- Fili
Fili, like most dwarves, loves the softer parts of women. His favourite part of you are your breasts. He loves to lay on your breasts when you cuddles, and will have them in his mouth during sex. He can’t help watch them when you ride your horse or dance, and it drives him mad
Stomach- Bilbo
Bilbo is a hobbit, so of course he loves your stomach. Loves laying of stomach while you cuddle together. Will reach his hand under your shirt to feel your stomach. He also loves how your stomach gets a bit bigger after he’s fed you well, but he would never actually say that
Legs- Frodo
Frodo is short, even by hobbit standards, but that doesn’t bother him. His height just means that he can stare at your legs all damn day. Frodo like to sit against your legs while you read together, and loves to lay entangled in them post sex
Hands- Legolas
Legolas sometimes gets lost staring at your hands. He loves to feel your hand tracing against it chest, holding his hand, or grabbing his waist when you ride together. His eyes gets all starry staring at your hands grasping your bow and loosening your arrow when he tries to teach you archery
Ass- Thorin
Thorin has no shame in letting you know how much he loves your ass. In public he’s subtle, but he definitely will stare. In private he will grab and slap your ass as much as he likes, even when he growl at him, he kinda loves it
Thighs- Kili
Kili finds both comfort and arousal in your thighs. He loves to lay his head on them while you run your fingers through his hair. He also could live between your thighs, often telling you that suffocating between them would be his favourite way to die
Neck- Eowyn
Eowyn loves both the sweet little giggles you make when you pecks your neck with kisses. She also loves the intoxicating way you moan when she bites and sucks at your neck. She’s been distracted many times during training watching you wipe sweat from your neck. She often smirks at you every time Eomer asks why you’re wearing a scarf during warmer weather
summary : Where you cross path so often with Legolas your relationship seems written in the stars (or in Thranduil’s matchmaker’s mind —the king can be an embarrassing father).
author’s note : tried a different format, it’s less heavy than the rest i feel and frankly this idea fits in this sort of imagine format best! also can you tell i love adding thranduil everywhere? i don’t play about their father-son relationship. also i’m so slowww these days, final exams are coming in two weeks for me so it’s going to be a bit of a tight schedule but istg i’m working on updating the fics and fulfilling y’all’s requests and working on the different wips i said i was going to post (especially part two of meleth nin and rwbk haha trust)
➢ nini’s masterlist
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Where humans and elves have a party to celebrate the end of the Battle of the Five Armies and you see the prince here for the first time.
—Of course you have been invited to the gathering, as a member of the elven army, but you are not the only one here: the prince of the Woodland’s realm is also part of the crowd. You know it because your eyes cannot stop straying away from their path to lock on his face. The beautifully carved ceilings and walls of the Elvenking’s reception Hall are of little to no interest to you, as breathtaking as they are. It is something else entirely that catches your attention, something far from the realm of decorations and architecture. It is a rare occurrence to see the prince these days; as a matter of fact, you are fairly new to the army and have never seen him before. Your direct superior had always been the captain of the guard, a redheaded elf whom you know entertains fairly close relationships with the prince. It is the first time you see him yet he looks exactly as he was described to you: ethereal, handsomely so, with a lithe and vigorous figure, and something regal in his aura, but approachable still. The prince seems miles away from his father in this way, the king had always intimidated you to a great extent. His son does so too, but you believe with a little courage from your part you could push yourself to speak to him. Such a courage never comes.
Where Legolas feels himself enraptured beyond reason for the first time, but also suddenly taken by cowardice when he sees you.
—The prince could speak to trees in an ancient version of his mother tongue, yet find himself incapable of doing more than staring from afar the moment your form crosses his line of sight in the crowd. He has never seen you before, or he would have remembered, and it makes him regret the amount of time he has spent away from the guard. He is stuck to dumb staring, listening to what Tauriel has to say only from an ear. If Legolas could lie to himself, he would say it is the very fine fabric of your dress which flows in elegant cascades at your sleeves and waist that appeals to him, but elves are very bad liars. Especially to themselves. There is nothing Legolas can hide proficiently because being truthful and sincere had always been the ways his mother had taught him. It shows like sun in the night sky he has his mind turned elsewhere. It stays that way all nigh. Hours during which he wonders if he should talk to you, before acting upon none of his intentions and staying by himself in a corner. Nobody dares approaching him except Tauriel; the woes of being a prince. They all think him too mighty for regular company, you probably do so too. Legolas could tell tales and sing songs for hours, still he finds himself quiet at the idea of talking to you.
Where your eyes cross multiple times in the evening and you both choose to ignore it.
—It is painfully obvious you are observing each other, dancing around the idea of a stranger, so much that it is possible some people have caught it and found it odd. You look at each other like shy teenagers, shying away as soon as one catches the other staring. It’s almost like a game of cat and mouse, except you are both the fool being played and the player. You rationalise: it’s probably not you he looks at but something or someone behind you. Your importance is not great enough to interest him, your prowesses in the field not so deserving of attention to be noticed and reported to the prince. But his gaze lingers and, of course, he averts it the moment you gather the courage to try a smile.
Where Thranduil notices first the odd way his son is acting and Bard how the Elvenking’s gaze never stays in the discussion they are having.
—The king towers over everyone with his tall figure, blond hair alike to his son’s, but his eyes read only a corner of the room. Well, two. He switches from where the prince stands to where his line of sight ends: on a young elf-woman who doesn’t pay attention to her friends. Just like her, Thranduil is too busy analysing the soft smiles she sends and the way his son’s eyes soften just an instant upon seeing them to answer the question Bard asks him. Soon enough, the fisherman sees he is talking to a deaf man, and his gaze follows the king’s to know what holds his attention so much. It does not surprise him when he sees the prince; what surprises him is the newfound gentleness that lays about him. Legolas had been known for his superior attitude towards the dwarves and his temper lately, but none of that showed up now. On the contrary, he seemed transfixed, changed. Of course he glowed regal still, in the same way all of his kin appeared to Bard who was a simple human; though, if he had gotten used to Thranduil only Lady Galadriel could have bewitched him now. However, there was something unmistakable in his eyes, yet Bard could not read it. He understood what it was only when Thranduil spoke. ‘It reminds me of the first time I saw the Queen,‘ he said. He was referring to his late wife, and upon glancing at him Bard could see the extent of the love he kept for her. Loosing her had been his doom, but in his sorrow he had been left with a son to love and he was understanding too late Legolas was his greatest gift. Bard’s gaze crossed the room, following Legolas’s, and then he saw you. Beautiful in your dress, sweet like a blossom waiting to be picked, turned towards the prince with a smile like he was the sun you fed off of. ‘Do you think he will talk to her?‘ the fisherman asks to his elf friend, unaware of the more intimate character of the prince of Mirkwood. Thranduil’s lips lift with half-concealed tenderness, his silver locks seem to float in the wind against gravity when he shakes his head. ‘If he is like his father, I fear we have more chance of seeing him befriend a dwarf than talking to a nice-looking woman.‘ It makes Bard chuckle to know elves can be shy, even more when the elves in question are the handsome king and his identical son. Immortal beauty could do nothing against the ways of the heart, it seemed, for Thandruil knew Legolas’s palms were sweating at the sole idea of asking for your name and so he avoids it at all cost.
Where Thranduil knows his son as if he made him himself and decides to force the hand of fate.
—The king remembers you from your training as a guard, when your first important mission was being part of a party accompanying him to settle trade South in Rohan, and he suddenly lets you know. First, he asks for your name to a maid like it’s nothing, but clearing a report next to him is his son who doesn’t miss a syllable of the word. Keen hearing allows him to catch everything his father says about you, although it was never intended to be secret in the first place. It is the opposite, the king speaks in a clear voice with the hope that Legolas listens. Then, he deliberately asks for the schedule of all the squads pretending it needs a little remodelling. When he hands it to the elf-prince, he specifically tells him your group may need another hand —omitting the fact that he has been the one getting you rid of a member. And so Legolas finds himself scheduled to scouting like a mere guard by order of his father.
Where the prince grumbles against his task at first but then suddenly feels very inclined to complete it when a shimmering pair of eyes locks with his.
—He’d recognise you in a crowd full of people with his eyes closed. He’d recognise you by touch alone, without ever even having touched you. He doesn’t need it, he imagined the feeling far too many times. He does not speak to you, only glances and looks away when you catch him red-handed. You try to follow him, to subtly fall into his steps when he takes a path or when the group has to split, but it’s hard to know if he is the one being followed or the other way around. It seems the prince is somehow always gravitating around you, like pulled by your orbit. It stays that way all day, the subtle lingering of a glance, the prickling feeling in the back of your neck that tells you he follows behind though you cannot hear him. Leaves do not crack under the sole of his boots, the sap of trees whispers poems as he passes. Only on the way back to the Halls can you manage to steal your first interaction with the prince. Steal is the word, for it would have not happened had you been less lost in thoughts; and whose fault was that? In your fantasy, your footing becomes less assured and more wandering. You trail behind the group, wrapped in your daydreaming, and it takes less than a minute for you to stop paying attention to the ground you walk on. It’s like the forest means to teach you a lesson when you trip over a treacherous root, sticking out of the ground in an odd manner. But you had no time to reflect on the odds for this particular root to catch your foot, already you feel yourself falling head first and your body slice through the air. Unable to do anything about it but wait for the blow to hit, you close your eyes in hope it’ll make this embarrassing moment pass faster. It does not. Because the floor never breaks your nose and the scraped path does not hurt your ribs. Instead, there is a strong warmth wrapped around your arm, right under your shoulder, and it keeps you in a strange mid-fall position. You open one eye first, unsure, and then the second when the person helping you is none other than the prince. Immediately, you startle and think straight again. You cannot look weak in front of the prince you are bound to protect at the end of the day. What would he think of you if he saw that his kingdom was under the protection of an elf who does not even know how to walk properly? You stand firm on your feet in the bat of an eye, holding his gaze as you thank him profusely, though the tip of your ears turns red and you hope your hair does enough to hide it. His hand loosens its grip on your arm only when he judges you stable enough, but you do not motion to catch up with the others. Instead, you stay paralysed here, looking at each other for what seems like an eternity before he speaks; and by the gods would you like for him to never stop. ‘Careful,‘ he says. It’s not a scold or a taunt, Legolas says it with the utmost gentleness, like he really means it. You should be more careful. ‘I apologise, my Lord, I lost my focus,‘ you explain. ‘Pray, what is your name, my Lady?‘ My Lady. It is a title reserved for women of his status, women he esteems, yet he gives it to you like it has always been your title to bear. Until you strip him out of his and get the hang of calling him by his name, he will not call you by yours. Legolas Legolas Legolas Legolas Legolas, he can see it rippling from your tongue and already he knows he will love the way you coat his name with honey.
Where the stars are veiled and Legolas is asked to spend the night reading them, although there are far better star readers in the realm.
—His father schedules you to his protection, overlooking the fact that it is your day off, and you do not fight his decision. How could you? You are in his Halls and he assigns you to the side of his only son, perhaps the king wishes to test your loyalty. You are oblivious to the real schemes he plans, and so is the prince. He groans against his father once more when the information of what is expected of him falls: it is not the kind of quest Thranduil usually deems him fit for. Legolas whines and complains in the intimacy of his family, but when he steps outside the throne room and sees you waiting for him here, the frown pulling his brows disappears. His features soften and he feels his heart flutter, his blood slows like your sole presence is soothing enough. Now star reading seems like the most important task in all the elven kingdoms and he urges you to follow him before you can bow. He hurries to better keep his gaze from lingering where it shouldn’t —on your lips, on the cupid’s bow there especially, but also to escape the watchful eyes of his father. When he looks back, Legolas notices the hint of a smirk on his father’s lips and it does not please him so. If the king is always in his way, then Legolas cannot dote upon you freely. The Elvenking’s eyes catch everything, he has much more experience at observing the world than his son, and he is less oblivious than him to the changes of his character.
Where Legolas’s cape drapes around you while you are stargazing, although you both know elves do not get cold.
—It has taken him quite sometime to have you simply sit down next to him. At first, you refuses everything that could distract you from your task. You had to look after the prince, not that he needed it, but if you failed here it would be the end of your entire career. Legolas had had to sweet talk you for minutes before you could begin to graze the thought that maybe, maybe there was nothing to fear on the plateau he had chosen. Then another minute had been spent persuading you into joining him on the ground, and you had only relented when he said he was losing time reading the sky’s omen because you would not do as your prince told you. Usually, Legolas would have very little use of his privileges as prince, but to have you where he wanted you he was willing to make an exception. When eventually you had settled so close to him you could feel his warmth seeping from his body to yours, the prince let you play the role of the alerted guard while he focused on the stars. It wasn’t a grand success speaking to them tonight, they refused a single world to the immortal prince and veiled even further the moment he tried to read in their constellations. It was as if they wanted him to not be able to fulfil his task just so he had to talk to you to pass the time and then come back another night. That’s exactly what he did. Who was he to deny astral beings? Certainly not someone enough. ‘Is the breeze not chilly, this night?‘ he asks, and you do not want to disoblige him upon so small a matter. You nod once. The movement of your head is not finished before you feel the moonlit silhouette next to you shift swiftly and a weight upon your shoulders. It is warm and it encompasses your back, falls in the hole between your crossed legs in front. Legolas’s cloak feels different than yours: more luxurious and elegant, more heavy because of the expensive fabric, too big for you since he towers even as you sit down next to each other. But more than all that, it smells like him. It’s a rich scent of grass and wet dirt like the smell of the forest after the rain, like humidity leaking down the walls of a rock shelter. You are still on your guards but with a little patience the prince manages to distract you into a proper conversation with him. You don’t even register Legolas is doing all but star-reading, or pick up on the fact that the sky has been veiled since morning and that everyone could have known it was no weather for stargazing.
Where the latest folly of the king is making his son guard the cellar, though he made sure to provide him with good company.
—Legolas had been assigned many tasks as a prince, and of many natures. It was often diplomatic stays in a far away kingdom, or taking care of commercial notes and bonds, but it could be lesser things. It was not surprising to hear he was part of a party clearing the woods, or appointed to train recruits when his schedule permitted it. Still, this was exceptional. Spectacular even. To guard the cellar like a trainee? Never his Adar had done anything of the sort to him. He was a prince after all, was it even proper to schedule him to such an insignificant thing? Doubtful. And Legolas did not miss his cue to brood. But brooding didn’t work much magic with Thranduil. When he was a child, it was his father who spoiled the little prince rotten, and his mother who scolded him for it. But the lively little blond boy grew up and his mother passed away, and so his father became more guarded in his affection. So guarded his son would mistake it for mere luck. It was no luck he was once again scheduled to the same task as you were. Upon seeing you already looking like you would prefer to be anywhere but here, the prince felt his mood cheer instantly. He offered you a smile, which lit fireworks in your belly as it always did, and now you felt like cellar duty was a blessing. You had a hard time believing it when Legolas told you he was assigned here with you. Frankly, you even suspected he had done it on purpose, yet he assured you it was not the case. And just like that, the day passed at an excruciatingly fast speed. You felt you had not been able to talk for more than an hour when another pair of guards came to take your shift. Needless to say word would soon start to spread about the idea of your romance with the prince, for the two elves stepped in on a most intimate scene, they felt; and young elves especially loved gossips. You were sat down on a table in the cellar, laughing sincerely at something the prince had said, and Legolas was leaning with one hand braced on the edge of the table, grazing yours right next. He was smiling too, and his cheeks were slightly flushed. The atmosphere in the room was so warm that it was hard for your colleagues not to believe they had interrupted on something touching upon the realm of romance. In fact, you too were starting to wonder if your familiarity with the prince was not morphing into something else. He was definitely too close for elvish customs, and his shoulders had lost the light tension you noticed was always lingering there. Unfortunately, you could not indulge in having him to yourself any more; your shift was over and he probably had many princely duties to go back to.
Where you start to despair over your feelings for the prince in your room and exactly this moment there is a knock on your door and a blushing Legolas on the threshold.
—He almost trips over his own words when asking you out, something very unlikely for an elf so composed as him. Still, he feels like the utmost fool of this realm though he is only addressing a girl he likes; you strip him from his confidence. ‘I saw you once, fell in love with you because you hushed the tumult in my mind, and you have been haunting me ever since. It cannot be a coincidence you are always where my mind expects to find nothing, like the universe means prove me wrong. I believe the stars crossed our path, it cannot be any other way,‘ he pants at your doorstep, like a madman who has been restraining himself too long. Legolas is right, it is not a coincidence you always gravitate near each other, but maybe the stars are not the only ones worth giving credit to. This, he will never know.
Where Thranduil sleeps better at night, feeling he spoiled his little boy one last time.
Where Legolas sleeps better too with you in his arms, his lips pressed all night in the bridge between your shoulder and neck.
Something light and cute to kick off my holiday break. Found the most wonderful gif, too ♡ I didn't necessarily want to put the Caradhras scene on here haha, so snowy Legolas is perfect!
Happy holidays, everyone! ❄
･ﾟ✧ Legolas.
Being the light-footed Elf that he is, Legolas (dressed far too thinly compared to your thick winter clothes) would smoothly step across the deep snow around you, reciting old Elven wisdoms from times gone by. He’d notice your smile and quickly bend down to steal a kiss from you. “A snowflake had landed onto your face! I simply wanted to remove it,” he’d claim. It wasn’t even snowing – not that you’d complain…
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･ﾟ✧ Aragorn.
Animal traces were perfectly visible in the freshly fallen snow. Aragorn could study tracks anywhere, anytime, no matter the weather or season. But today, the two of you simply strolled around the fields, talking about all the different kinds of footprints left in the snow. Aragorn would lean over to show you another track he has spotted, almost touching your cold cheek. It would take you a while to actually look at the snow instead of his soft eyes ♡
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･ﾟ✧ Boromir.
Despite the sunny skies, Boromir would constantly check with you to see if you were cold. He had offered you his red coat right when you had met, and he would pull it around your shoulders during the break the two of you took on a lonely rock. “Ghastly cold, isn’t it?” he’d ask, sniffing, his cheeks all rosy as he’d grin at you. “Your fingers must be freezing. Those gloves aren’t meant for wintertime, you know? May I?” With that, he’d offer to take your hands in his to warm them.
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･ﾟ✧ Frodo.
You knew that Hobbits could dance just about anywhere – but Frodo inviting you for a dance in the midst of the falling snow would still surprise you. After all, he is not only barefoot but also on his way to the market with you. Still, he’d take his time to romanticise the season with you. At first, he’d pull you in for an energetic jig, making you laugh so hard that your breath would crystallise in the fresh winter air. But soon, the two of you would simply hug and sway as snow silently fell around you ♡
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･ﾟ✧ Gandalf.
Powder snow like this brings out great joy in Gandalf, almost like a child. On your winter walks with him, he’d use his staff to absentmindedly draw lines and symbols into the snow as he’d listen to you, or as he’d hum a winter travelling song from long ago. Gandalf also knows a few spells to surprise you, of course – like conjuring a gust of wind that makes the snow fly up and glitter, forming shapes, a snow rabbit here, a dragon there – not unlike his fireworks!
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･ﾟ✧ Gimli.
At your little bonfire, Gimli would curse under his breath when snow started falling. “We could be in front of a festive fireplace in the mines, with a banquet and music – but no…!” He’d pull his coat firmer around himself and grumble a bit as snowflakes landed in his red hair. At first, he’d decline your offer to shuffle closer and cuddle for warmth, but soon, the grumpy Dwarf finds the cosiness in sitting so close to you.
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･ﾟ✧ Merry.
In his childhood, Merry had once won a snow sculpture contest, a memory that he cherished a lot. That is why your offer to build things out of snow conjured the brightest smile into his face. At first, he’d be a bit fussy about your technique and unsolicitedly teach you the right way to work this special building material. But after a while, fun won the upper hand, and the two of you would build snowmen and castles like champions!
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･ﾟ✧ Pippin.
Scarf already in his hands, Pippin would be all excited after waking up to the first snow. He’d hurry you outside and entangle you in a snowball fight that somehow got bigger than he anticipated – the Shire is a small place, after all. Good thing Pippin’s little sledge can get you out of trouble fast, at least downhill! By midday, the two of you would be so exhausted that you’d spend the rest of the day dozing in the kitchen with some hot chocolates and berries: “Best day ever!” as Pippin would say ♡
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･ﾟ✧ Sam.
Taking huge steps through the snow, Sam would go on and on about how much he dislikes it. “It looks kind of pretty, but that’s it, in my humble opinion. Suffocates everything below, y’know, like a heavy blanket. Nothin’ grows. And it gets everywhere, and then we’ll have to dry our clothes for the rest of the day. But I’ll make us a nice pot of tea, and we can eat the rest of the biscuits – and sit by the fire and look outside. Snow is always prettier to look at from a warm chair inside. What? What’re smiling at me for?”
CW: reader is an elf, arranged marriage, mentions of death, angst
WC: 3k
A/N: Lee Pace is my hyper fixation atm😭
The first thing you notice about Mirkwood is how old it feels.
Not just old in years, but old in memory. The trees rise like dark pillars, their branches woven together so tightly that the light has to fight to reach the forest floor. Shadows stretch long and deep between roots that look like they have been there since the world was young. The air smells of moss, bark, and something sharper, something like ancient magic and quiet sorrow mixed together.
Your horse moves carefully along the narrow path. Elven guards ride ahead and behind you, silent and alert, their eyes always moving. You sit straight in the saddle, hands folded in your lap, even though your chest feels tight and your stomach twists with nerves.
This is not your home.
This is the place you were sent to for peace.
A marriage written on parchment. A promise sealed with ink, wax, and careful words spoken by people who would never have to live with the weight of it. No one ever talked about love when the agreement was made. Only borders. Only safety. Only survival.
Your land sits in a dangerous place, too close to dark things, too important to be left unguarded. Mirkwood stands in the same shadow. The alliance is meant to protect both realms. A shared border. Shared patrols. A united front.
And you.
You are the symbol of it.
When the gates of the Woodland Realm come into view, carved from stone and roots and skill beyond human hands, your heart starts to beat faster. The great doors open slowly, and your name is announced, your titles echoing through halls that seem carved straight out of the forest itself.
And then you see him.
King Thranduil stands at the top of the steps, tall and still, like he belongs to the stone and the trees and the shadows. His hair is pale gold, falling straight and shining even in the dim light. His crown looks more like silver leaves than a thing meant for war. His face is beautiful in a sharp, distant way, like something carved from ice and sunlight.
His eyes are bright.
And tired.
He looks at you the way someone looks at a duty they have already accepted.
You bow, just as you were taught. He inclines his head in return.
“Welcome to Mirkwood,” he says. His voice is smooth, calm, carefully controlled. “I trust your journey was… safe enough.”
“It was, my lord,” you answer.
For a moment, something sad flickers behind his eyes. It is gone before you can be sure you truly saw it.
“Come,” he says. “We have much to discuss.”
That is how it begins.
Not with warmth. Not with hope. But with maps spread across long tables, with quiet talks about borders and patrol routes and supply lines. You sit across from him in council chambers, surrounded by advisors and captains, speaking when you must and listening when you should.
In public, you stand beside him like a perfect picture of unity.
In private, there is distance.
You are given your own chambers, beautiful and quiet, with windows that look out into the forest. He keeps his own rooms. The court makes no secret of watching you, of judging every step you take, every word you say.
At dinners, Thranduil is always polite. Always respectful. Never unkind.
And never close.
He offers his arm when custom demands it. His hand rests lightly at your back when others are watching. But the touch is careful. Measured. Like he is afraid of something he will not name.
You learn, slowly, through whispers from servants and sad looks from some of the older elves, that he had a wife once.
A queen.
The mother of his son.
She died long ago, but not long enough for the wound to close.
He does not speak of her.
But you feel her absence everywhere. In the way his gaze sometimes drifts to nothing. In the way he never lingers near you when he does not have to. In the way he looks at you like someone standing at the edge of deep water, unsure if he should step in.
You understand, even if it hurts.
You do not push him.
You remind yourself why you are here.
You learn elven customs. You learn which words matter, and which silences matter more. You learn how to walk the halls like you belong, even when you feel like a guest in someone else’s long story.
You sit beside him in court and speak when you must. You listen more than you talk. You do not demand affection. You do not ask for more than he is willing to give.
And when you see that some villages near the borders are poor, frightened, and tired of living under the shadow of raids and dark creatures, you begin to help.
It starts small.
You ask where supplies are kept. You ask which villages need the most help. You go with small groups of guards and bring food, blankets, medicine. You sit with children who have lost parents. You listen to old elves talk about forests that used to be safer, about roads that used to be traveled without fear.
You help clean wounds. You carry water. You kneel in the dirt and do not care that your clothes get stained.
At first, the elves watch you with doubt.
Then, slowly, with something like respect.
One afternoon, you are kneeling beside a small home near the forest’s edge, helping an elderly elf wrap a bandage around his arm, when you feel eyes on you.
You look up.
Thranduil stands a short distance away, his dark cloak blending with the shadows of the trees. His expression is unreadable.
He does not interrupt. He does not speak. He simply watches as you work with careful, gentle hands, as you speak softly, as you treat these people like they matter.
Later, as you ride back toward the halls, he finally says, “You did not have to do that.”
“I wanted to,” you reply simply.
He studies you for a long moment. “Many would not.”
Something changes after that.
Not suddenly. Not in a way you can point to and name. But he begins to ask your thoughts in council meetings. He begins to listen when you speak. When you walk together, his pace matches yours without thinking.
You learn that he works late into the night, often alone, surrounded by maps, reports, and worries he does not share easily.
One night, unable to sleep, you find yourself walking the quiet halls. Light spills from beneath the door to his study.
You hesitate.
Then you knock.
“Enter,” his voice calls.
He looks up when you step inside, surprise flickering across his face before he hides it.
“Y/N,” he says. “Is something wrong?”
“I couldn’t sleep,” you admit. “And I saw the light.”
He gestures to a chair. “Sit, if you wish.”
You do.
Maps cover his desk. Borders marked. Villages circled. Lines drawn and redrawn.
“You carry all of this alone,” you say quietly.
He stiffens. “It is my duty.”
“It doesn’t have to be only yours.”
He looks at you then, really looks at you, and for a moment the mask slips. You see the tired king. The grieving husband. The man who has been holding himself together for far too long.
He says nothing.
But he does not tell you to leave.
The weeks pass.
You begin riding out with patrols. You visit villages together. You speak to allies. You argue, quietly, about how much risk each realm should take for the other.
“You are too cautious,” you tell him one evening, standing over a map.
“And you are too willing to place yourself in danger,” he replies.
“Someone has to show them we care.”
He looks at you for a long moment. “That is what frightens me.”
One night, during a formal dinner, a visiting elf lord takes the seat beside you. He is charming, too charming. He laughs easily. Compliments you too freely. Leans a little too close.
You remain polite. Nothing more.
But you notice Thranduil watching from across the table.
His jaw tightens. His gaze follows every word, every small smile. When the elf takes your hand and kisses your knuckles, Thranduil’s glass cracks in his grip.
Later, in a quiet hall, he stops you.
“Did you enjoy his attention?” he asks, his voice carefully calm.
You blink, surprised. “It was just talk.”
“Was it?” he says too quickly.
You study him. “Why does it matter?”
He looks away. “It shouldn’t.”
But it does.
And you both know it.
The borders grow dangerous again.
Reports come in of dark creatures moving in secret. Villages are attacked. Patrols return wounded.
One day, during a ride near the eastern edge, everything goes wrong.
An ambush.
Shouts. Steel. Shadows moving too fast between the trees.
You see Thranduil fighting, surrounded, his movements sharp and precise but the enemy pressing in too close.
You don’t think.
You run.
You shout a warning. You grab his arm and pull him back just as a blade flashes where he had been standing.
And something hits you hard in the side.
Pain explodes through your body. The world tilts. The forest spins.
You fall.
The next thing you know, light is too bright. Your body feels heavy and sore. The air smells of herbs and clean cloth.
You try to move and regret it immediately.
And then you see him.
Thranduil is sitting beside your bed. He looks pale. His hands are shaking where they rest on the edge of the mattress. His eyes are fixed on you like he is afraid you might disappear if he blinks.
“You could have died,” he says quietly.
“But I didn’t,” you whisper.
His voice breaks. “I would not have survived it. Not again.”
That is when he understands.
Not duty.
Not respect.
Not habit.
Love.
He stays by your side. He helps you drink. He helps you sit up. He argues with healers when they tell him to rest and refuses to leave.
One evening, when the room is quiet and the light is soft, he finally speaks.
“I have been afraid,” he admits. “Afraid to care. Afraid to dishonor her memory. Afraid to lose someone like that again.”
You reach for his hand. “Loving again does not erase what you lost.”
He looks at you like he is standing at the edge of something terrifying and beautiful.
Then without thinking he leans in.
Your first kiss is not gentle.
It is years of fear breaking open. It is need and relief and longing all at once. His hands hold your face like he is afraid you might vanish. Your fingers curl into his robes, pulling him closer.
The world disappears.
When you pull apart, you are both breathing hard, foreheads resting together.
“I love you,” he says, like the words are both a promise and a risk.
“I know,” you whisper. “And I’m not going anywhere.”
The alliance holds. The borders grow quieter. The court whispers, but now they whisper with hope.
One night, in his chambers, he kisses you again. Slower. Deeper. His hands are warm, steady, sure, like he is no longer afraid of what he wants.
The door closes behind you.
And this time, the night is not about duty.
It is about choosing each other.
About finally letting go of fear.
When morning comes, you wake in his arms, the forest quiet outside, and you know this marriage is no longer a contract.
Imagine Thorin realising how worried you are for the quest to Erebor…
You found him in the curved hallway of Mr Baggin’s home. The company had chosen to talk with a softer voices while the Hobbit host recovered in the living room following his frightful collapse. In truth, your response to the quest to reclaim the mountain and slay the dragon had been similar, knees buckling and mouth-drying.
“Hello there.” Thorin greeted, lowering the drink in his hand to give you his full attention. You flashed him a smile but it was fleeting as a question vexed your expression into a small frown and knit your brows.
“Thorin, I must inquire - are you absolutely certain that this is the right path?” You asked. “Can it not wait until we have a plan in place?”
Thorin provided a single nod. His voice was low and patient as though he knew you would ask such a thing. “Dain has read the-”
“The portents. I know.” You finished for him, recalling the words of Balin only moments ago. You turned away and shook your head. “Apparently, they are an unmoving force no matter the peril that lay at the end.”
Thorin’s gaze settled on your eyes. He knew you were troubled. Had this been another of his kin questioning his actions, he would have scolded their wavering faith. But you? What thoughts he had to reprimand vanished before they could form, replaced with only a strong urge to reassure your safety.
“What troubles you?” He asked.
You faced him once more and answered with honesty. “Everything.” You took note of how the warm light of the Hobbit’s home softened his features. He waited quietly for you to finish. “There is an unsettled feeling in my chest that has taken hold. I almost fear the journey ahead.”
Thorin set the ale aside on a small oak table and took your hands in his. He stroked the skin gently before pulling you two steps closer, nearly flush against his chest. A hand settled on your waist as his eyes held contact with your own melting away the rest of the world.
“I must do this.” He whispered. “I also do not wish you such discomfort. If you choose to wait for me in the Blue Mountains, I would never fault you for doing so. But if you are willing to join me, I will be with you every step of this journey. Over every bridge crossing, past every unsavoury creature, and unstable mountain path, I will be by your side.”
“What of the dragon?” You asked in return, voice equally soft. Smaug was the beast that was laying wait at the end of the journey.
“If our burglar can take back the Arkenstone, we will have no reason to face down the beast.” Thorin answered. He let you sit with his answers for a moment longer before asking, “Do I have the privilege of your company for this quest?”
Worry still seeped into your bones but you could not fathom remaining behind and waiting for days on end with no news. You squeezed his hands and sighed softly, decision coming to pass. “I will be at your side to reclaim Erebor. You have my heart, Thorin.”
Thorin raised your hands to his mouth and pressed a kiss atop the knuckles. “As you have mine.”
~ More imagines here ~
A/n: Fun fact, this was inspired by the word ‘portents’ as I read it multiple times in The Knight and the Moth by Rachel Gillig. Funny how the mind works!
