warnings/tags: explicit sex, age gap, praise kink, face sitting, fingering, dirty talk, sugar mommy Kate, mommy kink
word count: 6k
+ masterlist + rules +🌿 reposts and comments are much appreciated, they motivate me a lot and keep me writing <3
It should have been embarrassing, the sheer Pavlovian inevitability of her name popping up on your screen and lust immediately zapping through your body like three letters conjuring arousal in an instant, but God, who else could say they had Kate Lethbridge-Stewart sending them messages at one in the morning?
Half a year ago, she was the face of every news outlet, her strikingly beautiful features sharpened by camera flashes as she negotiated for the peace of the world. Back then, she hadn’t felt entirely real to you; she’d been one of those untouchable figures normal people only ever saw through television screens and breaking-news alerts, the kind of woman your friends reposted with captions about wanting her to step on them, half-joking and half-serious, while you would’ve fought whatever was going on in the oceans yourself if it meant to see her up close.
Now, as you turn your phone and have her focus on you, your clit almost pulses in the same beat of the music playing in the bar.
I saw what you posted on your profile. Kate had written, omitting any form of greeting.
A giddy grin spreads across your face, and you lift your phone higher, angle it away from your friends, even though they don’t spare you another glance.
Good evening to you, too, Katherine, you reply, adding her full name with the hope it will get you in trouble later. And because you are feeling brave—courtesy of the wine warming pleasantly beneath your skin—you add, Thought women in positions of national security were supposed to keep their distance from social media.
The typing bubble appears almost instantly.
You barely have time to suck in a breath before her next message arrives.
Thought brats were supposed to know better than to be insolent to the woman paying their rent.
You squirm in your seat, thighs clenched together to either fight or chase the throbbing between your legs; no matter for what reason, the pressure nearly has you moaning out loud, and you’re not sure the downtempo electronic music or chirpy chatter of your friends could’ve droned it out enough to spare you from embarrassing yourself. No one had to know your underwear was ruined by a simple text, but you could all but hear the reprimand in it, could imagine that twitch of Kate’s eye, the flutter of her nose as she clipped her words.
Apologies, you text back, biting down on your lip hard enough to hurt. After a quick glance around to make sure none of your friends was paying attention to your darkened screen, your thumb hovers over the predictive text for only a second before tapping it. Mommy.
Heat floods straight through you as your phone’s autocorrection apparently decided to save you from your own terrible instinct to keep provoking Kate any further tonight.
You already are on very thin ice, apparently, after posting a bathroom selfie that had done little to hide how short the hem of your dress was, how deep the neckline plunged, how seductively you had looked over your phone into the mirror.
Oh, so she does know her manners, Kate replies, and your cunt heats up like you had sat down on the sun itself. The knowledge that the older woman was at work—damn workaholic that she was—texting you like this because of a single picture made you feel powerful enough to take on the world. Her click-clack heels at Downing Street and red manicured nails typing warnings towards your attitude; you were so wet.
Throat suddenly dry, you reach out for your glass, tipping the chilled wine against your dry lips right when the next message comes in and completely nullifies the refreshing effect of the fruity alcohol on your tongue.
If your intention with that picture was to remind half of London that you’re attractive, congratulations. If your intention was to make me cancel a meeting because I couldn’t stop imagining you bent over my desk for wearing that slutty dress, I congratulate you as well.
You don’t dare to even exhale for fear of it sounding like the whimper you feel lodged in your throat, that arousing, thrilling image of Kate fucking you in her office, shoving those slender fingers inside you with a hand around your mouth to keep your noises down, bullying all rational thinking out of your mind and replacing every cell of your body with ones that screamed for Kate.
I can hop into a cab, you type, both hands clinging to the phone. The leather of the booth you are sitting in radiates your heat back to you, and the underside of your thighs feels as sticky with sweat as the slick dampening your panties.
Don’t bother, Kate sends back.
For the shortest of moments, there is a hole inside your stomach, one that can’t comprehend the meaning of her message, doesn’t want to accept the dismissal, not when lust has already clouded your brain to the point of so badly needing her to fuck you tonight that you think you might die if you don’t see Kate.
Come outside before I decide to come in there and collect you myself, pretty girl, she adds.
Oh fuck. Your head shoots up, expecting to see Kate walking through the crowded bar, hands shoved into the pockets of her long, swinging coat, and her face set into that no-bullshit expression. Your heart double jumps inside your chest, thrums against your rib cage hard enough that it blends out every other noise around you, and all you can focus on is the demand on your screen, the minutes of time she has given you. Fucking shit, the fact that she knew exactly where you were shouldn’t be as hot as it was.
On the plus side, she wasn’t working anymore.
Some very stupid, very wine-softened part of your brain—the one between your legs, currently operating on nothing but her attention and poor decision-making—gets there before the rest of you can intervene. I’m still out with my friends.
Another notification from your PayPal drops down into the chat, and so does your jaw.
She’s impossible; you almost laugh out loud at the the five-fucking-hundred pounds that are sent with another, single demand: Lose the panties on your way to the car.
“I think I’m heading out for the night.”
Your voice comes out astoundingly steady, and when you add a carefully staged little yawn, you’re fairly certain there’s an Oscar somewhere with your name engraved on it. There’s a faint chorus of protest from your friends—something about it still being early, don’t be ridiculous—but you’re already leaning forward, using the table as cover.
It looks like you’re just reaching for your bag when in reality, your fingers close around your keys first, then slip up beneath the table, hidden by the short fall of your dress, finding the thin strap of your sodden underwear. Your pulse is loud enough to drown out everything else as you angle the tiny Swiss Army knife into place and, with a quick, precise movement, sever the elastic.
One last faux-apologetic smile into the round, and you’re making your way out of the bar, watching yourself stuff the black, wet fabric of your panties into your handbag in the reflection of the floor-to-ceiling windowfront; a blush on your cheeks and a cold breeze of the elevator brushing your cunt.
Five floors down, and you think you feel a drop of arousal roll down your thighs. Music plays in here as well, but you ignore it.
Ten, and you avoid eye contact with the elevator operator, who thankfully seems to be disinterested in conversations, or maybe you just look as ready to be fucked as you feel, and he knows better than to speak up.
Fifteen floors down, the doors slide open in the foyer, and you’re already moving—quickly, aware of your nakedness under your dress—to properly slow down. The golden-lit entrance hall blurs past as you hurry through it, coatroom ignored without even a second thought, because Kate will simply replace anything she decides she wants you to have again, and you know it.
You almost stumble through the building doors into the cold spring night, air hitting you sharp and immediate, and there—just as expected—the black car is waiting at the curb with its door already open for you to duck in.
An arm circles around your waist, and the door is barely shut when an eager mouth slants itself across yours, a hot, hungry tongue insistently licking over your bottom lip in a similar greedy greeting as Kate’s hands haul you onto her lap with a low, rough sound from deep in her throat, hard enough to steal a gasp from you. The car jolts into movement, your knees dig into the upholstery, but you don’t care, not when Kate’s kisses devour you, bruising and breathless. She barely lets you breathe between them, and you helplessly rock into her, fingers clutching uselessly at her heavy coat. The older blonde doesn’t waste patience or niceties when they aren’t required, and you feel the full force of it in the fingers that dig into the flesh of your arse to roll her hips up into you, her thighs spreading yours automatically while her mouth keeps stealing every shaky breath you try to take.
When Kate leans back against the seat and leers at you through darkened brown eyes, you try to chase after her lips, drunk on the taste of her. Your nose bumps against hers, and instead of kissing you, Kate drags her teeth along your jawline, nipping at the skin under your chin.
“Hello, gorgeous,” Kate purrs, fingers winding around your neck.
You shiver at the rasp of her voice, hips rocking down against hers before you can stop yourself, eager and aching for the friction. Kate’s grip tightens immediately, one warm hand sliding down the curve of your waist to smooth over the thin fabric of your dress, restless fingers stroking higher and higher like she can’t decide where she wants to touch you most.
She always had that eagerness to touch you and claim you, from the first time you had met after she’d hired you over The Agency when she’d taken you out for a get-to-know-each-other-dinner that ended with her finger fucking you in the bathroom of the most expensive restaurant you’d ever been, brown eyes glinting wickedly as she left fingerprints on your thighs and your legs in a state unable to walk. You know bits about her past, know or suspect there must have been someone she had lost because of that sharp control she needed, sometimes desperately. You didn’t mind the rougher fucks, could gladly take her stretching you out with her toys or pressing your face into a pillow as a crop landed on your arse; sex with Kate was always with care, no matter how snottily you cried into luxury sheets.
“Hi,” you breathe out, embarrassingly wrecked already, the word catching in your throat when Kate drags her palm over your thigh and squeezes hard. “Hello.”
Kate grins against your skin, sharp and pleased, and it only makes you press closer. Her hands are everywhere—gliding over your hips, your stomach, the dip of your waist—heated through the thin fabric, possessive and impatient enough to leave you squirming in her lap. The movement earns another low sound from her, her forehead tipping against yours as you roll your hips again without shame this time, chasing the pressure the smooth fabric of her expensive trousers offers to your clit.
“There she is,” Kate murmurs, eyes dark as they flick over your flushed face. Her blonde hair looks impeccable despite the hour and when she raises an eyebrow and drops her voice, you question how she wasn’t the most desired woman in all of politics. “Missed me that much?”
“You were the one interrupting my night,” you shoot back, grinning crookedly.
“But you aren’t complaining,” Kate doesn’t phrase it as a question, and nevertheless, you shake your head. “That’s what I thought,” she adds smugly and her hand roams over your thighs. “Did you have a fun evening, darling?”
You hum in agreement, still moving and rolling your hips in circles, grinding against her trousers, every rare scratch against your clit pulsing through you. It’s not enough to stimulate you constantly, nowhere close to getting you off, but you like it all the same, love the knowledge of Kate allowing you to be so lascivious; she lets you rut all over the clothes she had worn while saving the world today.
“We had cocktails,” you say, a moan rumbling through you as Kate’s hands tighten on your hips, guiding you to roll slowly against her lap with deliberate, maddening pressure.
“Good ones?” Kate asks, dark eyes drinking you in, and the city lights flash in passing over her openly ravenous expression.
“Mmhm,” you manage, shivering when she guides your hips harder against her lap. “Very expensive.”
Kate smiles at that, slow and pleased and a little wicked. “As they should be,” she murmurs, fingertips digging into your waist possessively. “I don’t spoil you so you can develop cheap taste.”
Heat floods straight through you, embarrassingly immediate, and Kate notices of course she does. Her gaze flicks down to your mouth as you bite your lip, smug amusement curling at the edges of hers.
“Look at you—” there is a roughness in her voice and her thumbs press simultaneously into your lower stomach and you know you’re dripping all over her trousers. “Wearing things I bought, sitting in my lap, getting wet while I ask about your evening.”
You whine under your breath when she rocks your hips harder against her, the friction making your thoughts blur pleasantly.
“Can’t help it,” you admit and because it’s not enough that you’re humping her in the back of her car, you bring your hands into her hair, feeling the soft, silky texture of the blonde strands to get a hold of something.
“No,” Kate agrees, leaning in until her mouth brushes yours again. “You really can’t.”
She chuckles gravely at the way you immediately duck your head instead of giving her anymore worded answer after another bruising kiss, the sound melting into a pleased hum, warm, and smug against your ear as you settle closer in her lap. You press a lingering kiss beneath her jaw, then another at the corner of her mouth before trailing slowly down the elegant line of her throat, your lips soft and teasing where hers had been demanding. Her pulse jumps beneath your mouth, and you feel her fingers flex against your hip at the sensation.
“Rest up, sweet girl,” Kate murmurs, closing her thighs for more comfort. “I bought a new bed, and I can’t wait to christen it with you.”
Obediently, you sink into her. “Yes, mommy.”
The rest of the drive passes in a haze of stolen breaths and wandering hands, with you curled against her like you can’t get close enough, kissing along the smooth column of her neck and the sharp edge of her jaw until her head tips back against the seat in quiet approval. Every so often, Kate drags you back up for another dizzying kiss to your mouth, slow and deep enough to leave you flushed before you return to mouthing at her skin again, her hands endlessly roaming over your dress in warm, restless strokes while the city lights flash through the windows around you.
By the time the car glides to a stop in front of Kate’s building, you’re half-limp in her lap, lipstick ruined and head pleasantly fuzzy from the steady attention of her mouth and hands. Outside, the suburban house is a far cry from what you had expected Kate to live in; she’d taken you up to penthouses of hotels for the first dates and she still did sometimes, if only to get out her strap and fuck you legless and flat over every surface You’d once asked how much the room cost and immediately wished you hadn’t when Kate had answered without blinking, like naming numbers that could buy entire apartment blocks was as casual as discussing the weather.
Honestly, you had bagged a good one.
Not just rich—obscenely rich. Private-driver-at-any-hour rich. “I bought a new bed on a whim” rich. Tailored suits and jewlery worth more than your yearly rent rich. The kind of truly, filthy rich that had paid for most of your wardrobe, replaced your cracked phone without a second thought, and once flown you to Florence for a weekend because you’d casually mentioned wanting to see the Uffizi someday.
It doesn’t help that she’s maddeningly fit and hilarious as well.
The driver opens the door before either of you move, but Kate catches your chin first, dragging you into another kiss that leaves you dizzy all over again. “Come on,” she murmurs against your mouth, voice roughened with want, expensive hands all over you.
You barely make the four, five, six steps up her front door with your dignity intact, and it’s all Kate’s fault. Even before she slides the key into the lock, you find yourself crowded against the cold wood, her thigh between yours and one hand slipping up the front of your dress, up and higher over your thigh, nimble fingers dancing closer and closer. There is a sharp grin against your shoulder when she trails through the streak of slick sticking to your skin. Slut, her teeth seem to bite into your muscle, mouth still huffing around an amused chuckle.
“What a mess you’ve made,” Kate murmurs, teasing a whine out of you with the low voice and thigh against your arse. “Bet I could fuck you right here on the street and you would moan like a whore for me.”
Your eyes nearly roll back inside your head, and your teeth dig deep enough into your kiss-swollen bottom lip that tears well up. “Yes, mommy,” you get out hoarsely, the shame of wanting her so much even right now sitting as hot in your blood as the lust.
The key clicks in the lock, and before you can properly catch your balance again, Kate is guiding you backwards with firm hands until it’s your spine meeting the door. She shuts it behind you with a solid thud, crowding into your space immediately after. In her heels, she towers over you slightly, all sleek strength and controlled power, her slim frame deceptively muscular where it presses you pinned against the wood.
“Kate—” you start, already breathlessly, but she cuts the sound off with her mouth.
The kiss turns dirty fast. Open-mouthed and heated, all tongue and slow bites that make your knees weaken as Kate presses herself against you. Her hand once more slides up your thigh beneath the hem of your dress, just enough to leave your skin burning without giving you what you want, teasing strokes that keep you squirming while she kisses you deep and messy. You can taste the faint trace of your own lipstick smeared across her lips, and when you make a helpless little sound into her mouth, Kate smiles against you like she’s won the biggest prize at the fair.
“I would ask if you followed my order—” Kate nips at your jaw and your head thunks back, exposing every inch of throat and neck for her to mark up however she wanted, purple or blue as her blouse and coat, pink like the bottle of her perfume on which scent you’re drunk on, “but I know you’re too much of a good girl for mommy to disobey her.”
Kate hums at the sight of you already melting for her, the sound low and satisfied as she smooths a hand over your waist.
“Mm. That’s my girl,” she purrs, lips brushing lazily beneath your ear before she finally steps back just enough to look at you properly, eyes dark with amusement and want alike. “Come on, then. Time to show you mommy’s new bed.”
Her new bed, as it turns out, has the softest mattress you have ever felt, all deep plush comfort and expensive linen that practically begs you to melt into it and sleep through the whole week.
Not that you get the chance to enjoy it properly. Not after Kate walks you backwards across the room with that dark look in her eyes, not after she kisses you light-headed the moment your knees hit the edge of the mattress, and certainly not after she has tied your wrists neatly to the headboard and made herself comfortable on your face.
She thrones on top of you like a queen, her glorious thighs pressing against your head like the smoothest, softest pair of ear mufflers you’ve ever owned, and her hand is wrapped around the pole of the headboard to guide her movements, those magnificent hips rocking, circling, grinding onto your mouth. Elegance is carved into every inch of her, even in the throes of passion. While you suck on her clit, lick through her folds, fuck into her with your tongue, you barely dare to blink, enamoured with the sight of her pale and freckled stomach and her small breasts, with the way her dark eyelashes are lowered onto blush-dappled cheeks and how her thin lips are curved into an easy smile as pleased sighs and moans mingle with the sound of you lapping at her.
She tastes like the most exquisite drink and you try to swallow as much of her as you can, chasing after every drop, mewling and whining when you feel her juices drip down the corner of your mouth and trickle a trail over your throat, too far away for you to get it and with your hands bound, there is no way to keep her on your tongue.
“Yes—yes, like that, oh fuck,” Kate moans when your tongue plunges into her again.
Her blonde hair falls messily into her face and over her sharp shoulders, and you can feel her clench around you, feel the throb of her clit when you detour and wrap your lips around the bundle of nerves.
“Fuck, aren’t you just perfect for mommy—” Kate groans, her hips losing the effortless rhythm as she starts to chase after the orgasm that you yourself notice in the tremble of her thighs and the sheer amount of wetness. “More, be a good girl for me,” she demands and the hand on the headboard reaches for restraints. She twists them around her first, tightening the fabric and your arms are abruptly pulled up higher, nails scrambling for a hold and meeting her palm as you cry out into her cunt.
Brown, lust-shot eyes stare down at you, her mouth curving into an exhilarating smirk as she sees you squirm for her.
“Needy little slut,” she rasps and for the first time, you have to squeeze your eyes shut and will yourself to keep your thighs apart and fight the orgasm that’s simmering in your blood and already fucked-out brain.
Maybe it’s the lack of oxygen or the fact that you become helpless around her, but you think the slightest touch to your clit could make you pass out right now.
Eager to make her come on your tongue you huff in a long breath and keeping your eyes trained onto her—how her free hand starts to roughly pinch and pull at her erect nipples, red fingernails leaving pinkish streaks on the ivory skin of her breasts—and you first nose and then lick over her clit, in a broad stripe then small, fast kitten licks right over it and Kate comes with the most arousing, sexy low grunt you’ve heard, pressing down onto your tongue as she tenses up.
Kate collapses backwards, sadly, moving away from your mouth and falls onto the mattress, legs beautifully opened for you to strain your neck and admire with pride the display of her cunt. If you could, you would have dived right back in, make her come again and again.
“Fuck me,” Kate guffaws, tits lifting at a long intake of breath and you want to bite her nipples, lavish the peaks and every inch of her skin until she glistens and shines likes the diamonds she bought you for your last birthday.
“Again?” You ask, practically perking up like a dog and tug at your restraints, wiggle around with an abundance of energy buzzing through you.
Kate props herself up on her elbows. One brow lifts, lips quirking. Her toes brush lightly against your ribs as she studies you.
“You’re ambitious,” she says dryly, voice warm with teasing. “But I think you’re forgetting something important about me.”
You tilt your head, still very much not done with her.
Kate exhales a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “My stamina,” she continues, “is not what it used to be at your age.”
Your expression falls almost immediately, lips pushing out into a slow, exaggerated pout as you stare up at her like she’s personally offended you.
“That’s not fair,” you mumble, twisting slightly against the restraints in a way that’s more sulky than persuasive.
“Darling, don’t push it.”
Kate’s amusement falls warningly low, and she swings herself back onto your stomach, totally ignorant of how her wet cunt burns through your middle and how the sight of the trimmed dark hairs sends you into a near cardiac arrest. Her breasts swing slightly over your head as she leans over to untie the knot around your wrists, and you lunge up, finally engulfing one nipple around your mouth, teeth worrying at the hardened nub as both of you moan out loud.
Her hand flies to the back of your head, craddling you closer with her fingers splayed wide and scratching through your hair, her back arching into you. Just when you think you get away with it, sucking and licking at her nipple, eyes pleadingly looking up at her, the hand in your hair tightens, and even before she throws a disapproving look at her, she yanks your head away.
“You have been such a good girl so far,” she starts, and you whine pathetically. She brings you closer to her face, her freckles and worry lines highlighted by flushed skin, and lifts both brows. “Behave, or I will tie you down with mommy’s favourite vibrator and watch you earn your allowance until you are crying for me to stop.”
It costs you more than everything to not moan in favour of the idea of that.
“I’m sorry,” you choke up on the words yes, please fuck me stupid, mommy, and try to put as much remorse into it as possible.
Gentle fingers comb through your hair, smoothing the sting out of her earlier grip, and a kiss is pressed against your forehead, followed by a soft murmur, “I know, darling, I know.”
Then Kate shifts lower with a quiet sigh. The mattress dips beneath her weight as she folds herself against you, all warm skin and lingering fruity and sweet perfume, settling her slender body carefully so you can feel the steady rise and fall of her breathing against your naked chest, the feeling of curves and hips and smooth skin going straight to your head. Moonlight poured into the room and melted all over Kate’s skin, shining silver and pearlescent in her blonde hair and you lost yourself, staring at her brown eyes, heart tripping over itself in your chest.
The moment feels fragile and you want to hide your face in the dip of where her graceful neck meets her shoulders that carry so much, and drown in the care and adoration that this wonderful woman grants you.
“So,” Kate draws out, voice gone honey-warm again. “What do we do with you now?”
Before you can answer, she bends down and kisses you.
It is nothing like the frantic, filthy kisses from earlier in the night. These are slow, lingering things, soft enough to make your ribs ache. Kate kisses you like she has all the time in the world now, mouth warm and unhurried against yours, every brush of her lips careful and affectionate. When you sigh into her mouth, she smiles a little against you before kissing you again, gentler this time, sweet and sugary. Her thigh slips between yours and you gasp as the firm muscle presses against your cunt, your clit dragging over her silky skin.
The smile becomes a smirk, a deep purr from her throat when you roll your hips into her and that hot-white-fizzling zap of arousal and desire sparks over your spine.
“There is my girl,” Kate husks, sliding a hand between your bodies.
You both groan at the wetness she easily slips through, and you whisper a “Please,” against her lips.
“Aren’t you just the sweetest?” Kate asks and trails her fingers through you folds, two of them circling around your entrance as you push forward. She sinks them in with no resistance and curls them immediately, grinning and kissing the moan from your lips.
She knows exactly what to do to you and, plays you like an instrument and manipulates your pleasure with those nimble fingers and her voice, moving her mouth across your face and throat to burn each word into your already marked skin.
“You look so beautiful for me, sweet girl.” Kate thrusts her finger deep, hitting that spot inside you that has your toes curling into the expensive sheets and your fingers scrambling to hold onto something, liquified pleasure racing through your bloodstream. “I wanted to feel that pretty cunt around my fingers the moment I saw that dress. Needed to fuck you right over that bathroom sink and fill you up,” she groans as you tighten, your eyes slanting shut at the filth of her words.
“Mommy, please—” you beg, the pitch of your voice rising into desperation, and Kate shushes you.
“Let me play with you a bit,” she drawls, and to accentuate her point, her fingers slowly drag out of you again, leaving you empty despite what she had just said she wanted to do, and you cry; first at the unfairness of her, then because her slick fingers find your clit and she rolls it between the dexterous digits.
For a while, that’s all she does, driving you into a frantic madness, reducing you to babbling pleas while she slides two fingers into you, dragging them across every spot, curving and scisorring—“Take your time, lovely, don’t rush this.”—then spreading the arousal over your sensitive clit—“I have no self control around you, all I want to do is spoil you rotten, my darling.”—and repeating the pattern until you’re not sure if she will ever end this.
Finally, Kate deems you enough of a mess and goes back to kissing you, plunging her fingers into you mercilessly, shifting her thigh to accompany every thrust with the rolling motions of her body.
“Come for me,” she rasps and angles her hand so her thumb can press down onto your clit hard enough that your vision whitens out. The last thing you hear before every muscle in your body tenses up is a demanding, “Come for mommy,” and then there is nothing but static crackling in your ears.
You come back to yourself, not knowing how much time has passed.
There is a warm, soft body curled around yours beneath the sheets, Kate lying close enough that there isn’t an inch of space left between you. One of her legs is tangled with yours, her bare thigh hooked over your hip while her arm rests heavily around your waist, keeping you tucked against her chest. One of her hands rests loosely on the small of your back, thumb occasionally brushing against your skin in absent little strokes.
The room is dark except for the muted glow of the city outside the windows, silver light catching on pale skin and rumpled linen. Kate’s blonde hair is a complete mess across the pillow, softer somehow like this, freed from all the careful polish she wears during the day. Up close, you can see every faint freckle scattered over her nose and cheeks, every softened line around her eyes now that her usual composure has melted into exhaustion.
Her eyes are closed, breathing deep and slow against your mouth.
You can feel the warmth of every exhale.
Carefully, you shift one hand up her side, fingertips brushing lazily over her waist, and Kate immediately makes a quiet sound of protest before burrowing even closer. Her forehead nudges against yours, nose brushing yours sleepily.
“Don’t move,” she murmurs, voice rough with sleep.
A helpless smile pulls at your mouth. “I wasn’t.”
“Mhm.” Kate sounds unconvinced, though one eye cracks open just enough to look at you.
There is still the faintest trace of lipstick smeared at the corner of her mouth. You brush your thumb over it gently, and her expression softens into something unbearably fond. “You’re staring,” she whispers, and if you weren’t too exhausted to go another round, the rasp of her voice gathers warm in your core and absurdly enough in your heart as well.
“You’re pretty.”
Kate huffs a sleepy little laugh at that, the sound warm against your lips before she leans in and presses a soft kiss to your mouth—slow and lingering, more affection than hunger now.
“Silly girl,” she mutters and runs her hand over your spine. “I’m old and past my prime.”
“I don’t know about that,” you say and kiss her throat. “You’re the hottest mil—”
A sound close to a growl vibrates under your mouth, and Kate’s fingernails scratch to close the spots where you are ticklish. “If you finish that sentence, I will cancel the flight to Spain in two weeks,” she threatens and you giggle.
“You don’t even know what I want to say.”
“Don’t be absurd,” she murmurs and the sheets rustle as she pulls you impossibly closer, tangling herself around you. “My son has friends who thought they could call me that—that description.”
“What?” you feign ignorance. “They called you a hot millionaire as well?”
She humphs, and you grin triumphantly.
“Wait,” you pause. “We’re flying to spain?”
Kate blinks at you slowly, clearly debating whether she has enough energy left to deal with your sudden excitement.
“Yes, darling,” she says at last, voice dry with fond amusement. “We’re flying to Spain.”
Your entire face lights up so quickly that she actually laughs.
“You spoil me,” you accuse softly, though the words melt into another grin before they properly leave your mouth.
“That is rather the arrangement,” Kate points out, one eyebrow lifting despite the exhaustion weighing her down. Her fingertips drift lazily up and down your spine beneath the sheets, soothing and absent. “Besides, you said you wanted to go.”
You duck your head a little, suddenly shy despite everything the two of you had done tonight. “I didn’t expect you to remember,” you mumble.
Kate watches you for a moment, dark eyes softening with something unbearably affectionate. Then she cups your cheek in one warm hand and tips your face back up toward hers.
“How could I forget what makes you happy,” she murmurs.
Her mouth finds yours one last time. It’s another slow kiss, one clearly meant to end this conversation. You melt into it immediately, fingers curling loosely against her side while Kate hums quietly against your mouth. When she pulls away, she doesn’t go far, forehead resting against yours beneath the dim silver glow from the windows.
“Go to sleep,” she whispers, and you snuggle in, the world fading out with her heartbeat lulling you into sweet summer dreams.
Honestly, as a German I can not quite understand the obsession of the English speaking world with the question whether a word exists or not. If you have to express something for which there is no word, you have to make a new one, preferably by combining well-known words, and in the very same moment it starts to exist. Agree?
Deutsche Freunde, could you please create for me a word for the extreme depression I feel when I bend down to pick up a piece of litter and discover two more pieces of litter?
ver = prefix to indicate something difficult or negative, a change that leads to deterioration or even destruction that is difficult to reverse or to undo, or a strong negative change of the mental state of a person
der Müll = garbage, trash, rubbish, litter
-ung = -ing
die Vermüllung = littering
ver- = see before
zweifeln = to doubt
-ung = see before
die Verzweiflung = despair, exasperation, desperation
@shiplocks-of-love I don’t think that will happen. The words make perfect sense. I think if German is your mother tongue you get a feeling for combining words, like a
• irren = to become lost (also: to err, to be mistaken; to wander, to stray)
• der Garten = garden
der Irrgarten = maze, knot garden
• be- = prefix with a variety of functions: ¹as part of a compound word, it denotes a processing or change of state; ²as part of a compound word, it denotes a touch; ³as part of a compound word, it denotes a more intensive preoccupation with or thematization of something; ⁴it forms from a noun an adjective with a pseudo-participle form because the corresponding verb does not exist; ⁵as a prefix, it forms a transitive verb from a previously intransitive verb; ⁶as a prefix of a verb, it shifts the focus and thus changes the sentence structure
• lustig = funny
• -ung = suffix turning an adjective/adverb into a noun
die Belustigung = amusement, entertainment, merriment
der Beitrag = contribution, article in a newspaper or magazine, posting on social media, input to a discussion
The thing is, since in German you have to decline/conjugate many words in relation to the noun they are refering to those monster words actually serve a purpose of making the language simpler.
A common example is a (as in any) red wine (ein roter Wein) as compaired to the compound a red wine (ein Rotwein). If rot is an adjective it has to be conjugated: der rote Wein - des roten Weins - die roten Weine - and many more. But it if rot is part of the noun you only have to decline Wein: der Rotwein - des Rotweins - die Rotweine.
So, die Verzweiflung über die Vermüllung der Umwelt is way longer than Umweltvermüllungsverzweiflung and you would have to know three grammatical genders and the words’ respective declinations. Whereas for Umweltvermüllungsverzweiflung you only need to know that Verzweiflung is grammatically feminine (die) and its deklinations.
love when a character is a scientist and their speciality is science and they do science in a science lab. no specifics no clear goals no clue where their funding comes from. dont even worry about it. science.
Мы шли обратно на всех парах — узлов десять, не меньше. Ровная половинка растущей луны маячила впереди. По крутым берегам крупными мазками зелени взбирались кусты и деревья. Берёзы подметали траву усталыми кистями ветвей. Сосны изумрудными кронами упирались в вечернее небо.
Закат не пылал, а нежно теплился на горизонте всеми оттенками спелого нектарина. Смотреть на него было приятно. Что-то согревающее было в этом зрелище, будто специально созданном в противовес холодному речному ветру. Наступление сизых сумерек нас не расстраивало. Мы были пьяны. Хорошая компания и кислое, наспех купленное, вино делали нас отчаянными романтиками. Мы укутались в пледы. Из капитанской рубки доносилось тихое урчание радио.
Русло то и дело петляло. Подслеповатая фара луны маячила то с одной стороны, то с другой. Она дразнила нас своим ажурным полукругом, умело прячась за тёмными сгустками леса на берегу. Глухо рычащие самолёты прочерчивали воздушное пространство вдоль и поперёк, сплетая следы топлива в тончайшую паутину где-то бесконечно близко над нашими дурными головами. Порой кому-то из нас казалось особенно смешным протянуть руку вверх и попытаться схватить пролетающее судно за побелённый фюзеляж. Пальцы раз за разом сжимались вокруг пустоты, а звенящий хохот вспугивал птиц, комаров и засидевшихся в прибрежных кустах рыбаков.
Смеркалось. Какой-то особенный вечерний сорт покоя окутывал всё вокруг. Пепельно-лиловый оттенок застилал небо по следам затухающего огонька заката. Ветер трепал полосатый флажок на носу теплохода. Впереди с одного берега на другой, как тонкая финишная лента, перекинулась линия электропередач.
One good friend of mine asked if I was journaling, so I decided to go on and just start a side blog for writing abstract diary entries. Unfortunately in Russian only — I gotta remind myself, how to write in a native language, too.
Today's Valyrian glyph is mōzugon "to drink". It's a side view of someone drinking, but I don't quite remember how... But yeah, the word for "drunk" is derived from this, and the line is from a Game of Thrones episode with Melisandre and Thoros of Myr.
Love Spells and Fang-tastic Kisses (A Hauntingly Romantic Tale) | hobbit
pairing: Thranduil x fem!reader 👑🦇
You're invited to Thranduil's halloween party; a fangtastic opportunity to get closer to the man you've been harbouring a crush on
tags/ warnings: none, modern!au, Thranduil in a hot vampire costume
word count: 8,2k
an: hello!! happy Halloween! This is totally not a month late!! We shall ignore and celebrate Halloween!
+ masterlist + rules +🌿 reposts and comments are much appreciated, they motivate me a lot and keep me writing <3
You're invited to a Night of Haunting Delights!
Dearly Departed,
As the brisk winds of autumn carry the faint whispers of otherworldly echoes, and the luminous full moon bathes the night in an unsettling glow, we extend a chilling invitation for you to join us at a Halloween gathering that guarantees to send shivers down your spine!
Attire: Elegantly Eerie or Ghoulishly Glamorous
“Tilda if you want your braid to be straight you have to hold still for a second!”
The girl in front of you nods obediently but a few seconds later the wobbling of her head starts again as she grows impatient. Five minutes ago, after she kept reaching back with her hands when the braiding pinched a little, you had asked her to sit on her hands. What you didn't count on was that this would give the girl the wonderful opportunity to swing forward and backward, using the height difference that her hands gave her to the usually flat surface of the kitchen stool.
You allow yourself another quick glance at the clock above the fridge and immediately regret it again when you see the time.
It was already just after four, and while on any other Friday afternoon that was just the kickoff to the weekend, today didn't offer you much more time to have three children – four if you counted Bard – ready with costumes and makeup.
Your eyes flitted from the clock to the invitation pinned to the fridge, surrounded by all kinds of paintings; the animals were Tildas, the planes had been drawn by Bain and there were a few more advanced watercolor sceneries that Sigrid had done, hung up with different shapes of magnets and while there was so much color the silver paper with the beautiful handwriting stood out in elegant monochromy.
Now, with the current time coming up closer to the one on the invitation, more than ever since the kids had brought it home from school a few weeks ago.
The girl in front of you wiggles again and you bite down on the hair tie that you had to take away from her (she had offered to hold them while you braided but with her nervousness, she had dropped them two times until you had taken them again).
“Tilly,” you groan out between clenched teeth, just barely catching the last centimetres of hair you had left before they slipped away and you could start from the beginning.
“Sorry Auntie,” the girl giggles, the sound so pure and full of excitement that the annoyance and stress disappear in a pink cloud full of love for her. “Are you done soon?” Tilda asks, already moving her head again to look back at you but you react fast and turn with the movement.
“One second–,” You hold the hair in one hand and grab the hair tie with the other, quickly securing the braid. When it falls down, you reach for the small mirror placed on the kitchen counter, holding it out so that Tilda can get a look at herself. Watching over her shoulder, you see the red-painted lips curve in a smile.
“I look so pretty!” she exclaims, her eyes wide and sparkling, not just because of the glitter she wanted you to put on her eyelids.
You laugh, tapping her red nose with one finger, “Yes you do! The prettiest scarecrow in the whole wide world”
She scrunches her nose, and takes one last look in the mirror before she hops down the stool with such speed that you nearly drop the mirror in order to catch her. But she lands safely on the floor, running off into the hallway, where you can hear her stomping up the stairs.
You hope she will only grab her stuff and be ready in ten minutes when you had planned to leave.
Knowing her, you would need to send Sigrid to get her sister.
Halloween had been a lot easier a few years ago, when it had been just you and a bottle of wine alone on the couch, watching scary movies or the few times you'd gone out with work colleagues. Halloween at the Bowman's house, no, scratch that, Halloween in Esgaroth in general was incomparable to that.
Not that you would want to trade your life now for those years, not for any amount of money.
When you moved from the bustling city of Gondor to the quiet seaside town of Esgaroth there hadn't been any more lonely nights, alone yes, you needed them from time to time, but never lonely. How could you be lonely if you had Tilda, Bain, and Sigrid in the neighbourhood? They were responsible for the move, including the change of apartment as well as job, if only indirectly.
After their mother, and Bard's wife, had passed away, your brother had overworked himself trying to feed all four of them, taking on a second and third job next to his handyman one, which in itself had already taken up too much time. It had taken you too much to listen to how tired and completely exhausted he had sounded on the phone calls between you, which had diminished in their regularity.
He didn't have to explicitly ask for your help, he was too stubborn for that, which is why you didn't let him know that you had quit your job (it had been unbearable and much too boring anyway) and your apartment (please, who wants to live in a multistoried building with a hundred tenants?!). You had just left one day with all your stuff in the car, rented a small vacation apartment in Esgaroth and rang the doorbell.
You had chosen a Sunday morning, the only morning of the week when he was not at work and far too tired to object much.
One week after that, Bard helped you move into the guest room.
Not that you weren't extremely happy with the life you now lived, much cosier and full of laughter, family movie nights and stickers everywhere on your clothes, but right now you wished you could have imprinted your organized lifestyle from before on your brother.
“Bard? We should leave in like–” You watch the clock, debating on whether you should lie to give all of you enough time to finally get out the door. Hearing nothing but what sounded like chaos from upstairs, the answer was clear, “–in five minutes!”
Eh, close enough to the truth.
A door slams somewhere, followed by the sound of boots on the carpeted stairs that barely muffle the steel soles. “Coming!” you hear Bard's grave voice getting louder the closer he gets, “Have you seen my hat? I swear I left it here..”
“On the sofa.”
“What? Who put it there?”
You would have laughed if you didn't hear a loud crash from upstairs at that moment.
“Everything's fine!” Sigrid yells just as you and Bard nearly run into each other on the way to check whatever happened and if someone is hurt. The edge of Bard's cowboy hat, now safely placed on his curly mess of hair, slams into your forehead, not enough to really hurt but it slows you down abruptly.
“Sorry, sorry!” Bard takes a step back and adjusts his hat. “What are you doing up there?” he yells, casting an apologetic glance at you as he steps back onto the first step. “I'll be right back down.”
Another glimpse at the clock.
“Tell the little monsters they'd best come straight with you or I'll tell all the neighbours to give their candy to Legolas!” you raise your voice enough that it would travel all the way to the three children's rooms. Immediately there is an indignant shout, a proclamation of “You wouldn't dare!” (Bain), “Legolas would never do that to us!” (Tilda) and “I can't get my dress zipped, Da!” (Sigrid).
It's a miracle how you and Bard manage to be out the door relatively on time with all the kids both costumed and ready with makeup, and equipped with bags for their candy.
You don't question it any further, happy that you finally made it and with few incidents. You had already been out with one foot when Bain ran in again because he had forgotten his proton pack for his Ghostbuster costume. After that Sigrid had to go to the bathroom and last but not least under the laughter of the others you went in again to exchange the cape that had come with your witch costume against a far warmer black coat.
You are glad that you did, even if it cost you time that you truly didn't have.
October has made itself comfortable in the small town, decorating the trees on the side of the road scarlet red, pumpkin orange and a sulfurous yellow and the cold winds that swirl through the colourful trees are biting at your legs, despite the tights you wear under the dress.
“Shit, I hope they have a warm punch,” Bard leans towards you, careful that the curse doesn't reach his kids that are walking a few meters in front of you, awing at the town's Halloween decorations.
You look from them to your brother. “Have you met them? Of course, they will have warm punch, jeez, I am sure we will have mulled wine served to us in barrels.”
It wasn't an understatement, last year the hosts of what must be the biggest Halloween party in the area (not just in Esgaroth, it was bigger than the ones in most cities on the coast) had shipped in the most expensive bottles of cider and even the simplest choices of drinks like water or coke had been served in crystal flutes.
Bard grins, clearly remembering the cider as well, or the effect it had. By the third glass, when all the kids had been tucked into their beds in the mansion and the adults had gathered outside again, there had been one too many drinking contests with the result of a shared hangover.
“I can't wait to see what Thranduil has planned for this year,” Bard muses, raising a hand to scratch the stubble of his beard. He turns his head slightly in question. “He didn't tell you anything?”
“What?” you ask in what was probably a much higher note than usual because Sigrid whips her head around alarmed. You wave her off with a tight smile and lower your voice, “Why– why should he tell me anything?”
Bard's eyebrows wander so high up his forehead that they should disappear under his stetson any second. “No, don't do that. Don't deflect and worm your way out of this. He comes into the coffee shop daily and I know he stays for a chat.” At your incredulous look, he shrugs his shoulders, “What? The kids talk.. and before you tell them off for snitching–” his lips curve into a smirk “Thranduil mentioned himself that he enjoys staying for his cup of tea.”
“I wouldn't tell them off!” you protest, completely overrun by the sudden emotions cursing through your body like it's a goddamn rollercoaster.
“No, you are too nice for that,” Bard says, drawing a roll of your eyes as a reaction from you, “–and far too flustered that you would speak to them right now.”
Any objection dies on your tongue as another particularly cold breath of wind hits your face and the heat in your cheeks burns indisputable; your denial is no match to it. Your stubbornness, however, steps into the fight with her hands raised, ready to at least try and defend yourself in any way she knows how.
“So what?” you attempt to sound nonchalant. “There are many customers that do not want to leave immediately. They say they like the atmosphere. It's cosy and comfortable.”
When you think of the coffee shop that hired you a few years ago, those adjectives were not the only ones coming to mind- the moss-green facade made it special, tugged in between a white hairdresser and a grey washing saloon, the plants ranging from honeysuckle growing on the walls to seasonal potted plants littering every window sill and the steps up to the dark blue door made it colourful and alive.
It was however very cosy and comfortable as well once you stepped inside, with cushioned stools and wooden tables decorated with candles in coloured glasses. There were benches under the windows, and a leather couch tugged away in one corner of the room with two giant armchairs where students would hang out during their break you truly love the warm feeling that just thinking about the shop brings to you but you can't help it; your thoughts trail to the man that would come into the coffee shop every morning and sit at the few bar stools at the counter.
Right where you worked, and waited for him.
Before, your mind would only conjure the big windows, the sound, and smell of coffee getting crushed in the machine and the chatter of the customers but now, and damn that man for messing with you with that, you think about golden sunlight filtering through the window and falling on silver hair, about tea steaming and the flowery scent of it, about the low hums of appreciation when Thranduil would slowly sip his tea, the cup looking tiny cradled between his big and yet slender hands.
“Yeah sure,” Bard laughs and the familiar sound of it leads you back, out of the coffee shop into the night; Halloween night. “That's what keeps the customers there, right.” He earns himself a well-deserved nudge in the side from your elbow “Ow!” he yelps dramatically, rubbing the spot that you slightly grazed.
“What was that supposed to mean?” you glare at him, eyebrows pinched together, “And I hope for your own well being that you're gonna tell me it is because of the coffee and the delicious pastries.”
“–or the woman smiling at everybody like she gets paid for it.”
“I get paid for it!”
“Not enough to be that happy every morning, sunshine coming out your–”, Bard stops himself before the crude word slips out his mouth but the sentence finishes itself in both your minds and that's enough for you to hit him again. It doesn't do anything, your flat hand catches just his upper arm and not forcefully, you two were never really ones for the whole wrestling siblings act.
His upper body shakes with laughter as you shake your head, clicking your tongue against your teeth like that would help the smile fight its way up in the corners of your mouth. “Obviously I am nice to the customers, they pay good money for a good cup of coffee.”
“Or tea.”
“Or tea,” you roll your eyes again because of course, Bard has to throw in another hit with the fence about Thranduil. “Just because you are mister grumpy, grumbling while you work and avoiding talking to your customers doesn't mean I have to do that as well.”
That you bring up the subject of his work is normally enough for him to change the topic, not that he hates working as a handyman, going around town fixing leaky pipes and sinks or straightening up shelves and letter boxes, but his boss wasn't as nice as yours and that left him working far too much for (what you think) is far too less money. On any other day he would quickly move on to another topic but tonight he has his teeth dug into what was in his mind, the relationship between you and Thranduil Greenleaf.
The truth is that you don't know what Thranduil thinks of you, you on the other side are completely and utterly swooned by him. Hell, when you moved to Esgaroth the last thing you had on your mind was falling in love and then, a few weeks into the new job, in comes this tall, beautiful man with shoulders that you want to lean into and cerulean eyes that pierce their way into your soul and he orders a fucking tea.
In a coffee shop.
At first, you thought you hadn't heard him right, then he'd cocked one dark eyebrow, his manicured nails tapped against the wooden counter and his deep voice had repeated the order for “His tea”.
Thankfully, your coworker Feren had jumped into the conversation before you'd started crying out of pure confusion about who the man was and why he would order tea in the middle of the midday rush when you weren't even sure if and where the shop stored tea.
The next day the man was back, this time with an apology about his rushed behaviour the day before and when he ordered his tea, a flowery combination of what smelled like roses, cherry and green tea, you told him off for behaving far too entitled for someone who wanted something from you.
After that Thranduil came back every day, ordering his tea and sitting on the barstool, chatting with you while you prepared coffee, wrapped up pastries and tried not to glance over at the beautiful man giving you his whole attention.
Well, not that often. Once in a while, you allowed yourself a sneak and were gifted a small smile and sometimes a wink.
“Yes, let's come back to Thran for a second.”
You groan.
Bard laughs.
“Did he or didn't he tell you about the party?”
“He told me nothing,” you say, fingers crossed inside the pocket of your coat. It's not entirely true, he really hadn't told you anything but he had asked you some things. What you would want to drink, what you think is a better activity for the children, apple bobbing or pumpkin bowling?
The lie, half-lie, half-truth, comes out sure enough and Bard huffs, white clouds escaping his nose and disappearing into the rosy evening light of the lowering sun. He stuffs his hands into his pockets as well and you can see the second-guessing of his outfits happening on his face. It's a nice costume, the nearly all-black outfit except for a leather belt with a golden buckle, some silver decorations on his stetson and the jacket that he is wearing. He probably would have chosen another, slightly warmer costume if it hadn't been for Tilda who wanted her dad to wear the golden star that she had made him in school and that's now proudly shining on his chest.
You smile and link your arms, pulling your brother with you as you catch up with the kids that already started trick-or-treating at the houses on the way.
When you arrive at the mansion its heavy iron gates are wide open, pumpkins with what probably were supposed to be scary faces cut into them by a wobbly kids hand sit on the ivy covered pillars. They stare down at you as you turn onto the gravelly road adorned with orange-glowing lanterns, the kids sprinting and kicking up dirt and gravel with the warm boots that Bard made them wear no matter the costume. You can hear them awing and gasping, and when Bard and you turn another corner and the tall pines make way for the mansion sitting on the end of the road, even your mouth falls open.
The fountain in the circle in front of the stairs is coloured an eerie red, illuminated by the lights inside the lower bowl, and the texture looks easily mistaken for blood from far away. Instead of the usual birds using the fountain as their water source, fake bats are hanging from the upper bowl, their glowing red eyes shining through the water rushing in front of them.
The whole garden is decorated accordingly for the festivities; spiderwebs cover the trees and bushes, skeletons sit on the benches, gravestones are splattered here and there on the lawn and everywhere are little ghost fairy lights strung from tree to tree.
The house itself screams Halloween as well, with flickering lights in the windows, more cobwebs stretching over the dark roof tiles of the front porch, and the small tower where Thranduil's son and the children's friend Legolas has his room. The ivy that grows outside at the gate grows on the white brick of the house itself as well, climbing up the walls and when you get closer you can see the (hopefully) fake spiders nested inside the green vines. The door to the house is wide open, letting a pool of golden light fall onto the porch but instead of going inside Bard tugs you along with him towards the small group of adults milling around on the lawn around a small campfire.
“Good evening!” he proclaims and tips his hat.
You give everyone a small wave, eyes scurrying over everyone in search of a particular someone who doesn't seem to be there at the moment. Though you don't know if it's a relief or disappointment, your heart leaps in your throat at the realization. Arm still linked with Bards, you stop at the fire pit.
It's the same constellation of people as most years, mostly parents from the children's friends who got together in the ways that parents always make acquaintances. Elrond (dressed as a pirate with a ridiculously big hat and a fake pirate sitting on his slim shoulders) and his wife Celebrían who matches his costume with a puffy blouse, leather trousers and a sword dangling next to her leg were the first parents you met when you started bringing the kids to school. Their daughter, Arwen, waited for Sigrid and Bain and her parents had roped you into a conversation while they wandered into the school, Arwens hand finding Sigrids naturally.
Then there are Thorin and his husband Bilbo, Thorin who seems to be dressed the warmest in a werewolf suit, and Bilbo, who wears a green overall with flowers pinned all over it (“I am a gardener!” he could be heard multiple times throughout the night and every time Thorin would lean into the other part of the conversation and whisper loudly “He is secretly a garden fairy, you simply can't see his wings” and watch him so lovingly when Bilbo glared at him that you got jealous.)
Those two you met because Bain was in one class with Thorin's nephews Fíli and Kíli who he basically adopted as his sons at this point. Five years ago they came over for a school project and stayed because “Bilbo is trying out vegetarian recipes and we need meat if we want to become real strong men” (their words, mumbled with mouths full of the spaghetti and meatballs you had cooked that day).
You really met them on a stroll through the park with Tilda, who decided that walking around and gossiping was much more fun than sliding and swinging on the playground, and you exchanged numbers so at least one person would inform them about the boy's whereabouts. Fíli and Kíli, as it seemed, sometimes just forgot to call home, and now you would ring them and chat when Bain and the two boys would huddle up around the living room table, their textbooks buried under snacks and instead of their pens they held controllers of Bain's game console in their hands.
There were some other people around the garden, work colleagues of Elrond and Thranduils or parents that you never got as close with as these four, neighbours and friends of friends.
However…
“Where did the children go?” you ask, head turning back to the parents after sweeping over the whole garden, resultless.
“Maybe the evil witch got them,” Thorin's joke about your costume goes right over your head, your eyes still wandering and meeting Bards in confusion. They weren't your kids but you felt the same chilling drop of your heart whenever you couldn't find them as if they were your own.
Elrond steps closer, nudging his chin toward the house. “Thranduil gathered them inside the house,” he explains with a comforting smile that eases all the worry. Of course, you didn't have to worry, this party is always safe and it's not like you let them loose in the woods for the wild animals (Ha Thorin, take that!).
“He wanted them to get some warm tea before we go out trick-or-treating,” Celebrían adds, uncrossing her arms in front of her chest when Elrond takes one hand in his.
“That's good,” you feel and hear Bard exhale a deep breath, even he gets nervous when he doesn't know about Tilda's whereabouts despite the fact you are with his dearest friends right now. “So who drew the short straw and will go with them this year?”
The groan that leaves Thorin at the question is an answer in itself.
Bilbo playfully pushes his hip against his husband. “We–” there was most definitely a bigger I in that word– “decided that Thorin should definitely go to keep an eye out for the boys. Kíli got into some trouble with another boy at the school and his house in on our route.”
“Yes,” Thorins mouth twitches into a smile “And judging by how dented the boys' pockets looked, I'm sure I'll find the eggs that mysteriously disappeared from the kitchen in them.” He gets another push from Bilbo and rolls his eyes “I won't do anything stupid, love.”
“Throwing eggs with them will count as stupid.”
“Then I will maybe do something stupid.”
“Don't you dare,” the smaller one shakes his head, wavy locks flying with the movement, “I really have no desire to deal with the parents tomorrow about why their windows are smudged.”
Thorin laughs, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to Bilbo's temple while throwing a wink in Bard's direction. “No worries, they won't know who it was. Bain is a smart one and will figure that one out.”
“Oh, I am sure about that,” Bard nods, pride oozing out of the smile that grew when Thorin called Bain ‘smart’.
You want to reply, step into the conversation to tell them that Bain will not partake in any egg throwing at all because of his smartness, thank you very much, when the children storm out of the house, loudly cackling and yelling, long and short feet trampling over to you fast enough that you get nearly crushed by a small fury of a straw scarecrow who crashes into your legs. Following her is Arwen, Elrond's girl, who is wearing a costume that must be snow-white, because hot on her trails is Thranduil's daughter Tauriel with a red-riding-hood cloak a fiery red like her hair, fluttering in the wind like a wild flag in a storm. Behind them comes Legolas, who, despite his braided hair and green Robin Hood outfit, bears such a resemblance to his father Thranduil that you falter for a moment. He seems to have had a growth spurt every time you meet him, slowly growing as tall as his dreams, his head ever closer to the clouds.
“We are going now!” Tilda yells up to you, her voice uncontrolled by all the excitement that has the girl bouncing up and down your side and tugging at your coat. “Are you coming with us, auntie? Are you? Or are you Da? Pleasee–”
Thorin, who steps away from the fire to Fíli and Kíli (both of them wear a Ghostbuster costume like Bain) rubs his hands through their hair, earning himself an outraged grumbling, “Aren't you two going to ask me nicely to join you?”
“I would beg you to stay here,” Fíli barks out, fixing his long blond hair by throwing it dramatically over his shoulder. “But your head is too thick for that to go through.”
“That and you are such a fool for Bilbo. He probably asked you to keep us in check,” Kíli adds, mimicking his brother with his own, brown hair. Even though they are not twins, their behaviour is so similar you could mistake them as such.
“You–,” Thorin starts but Elrond jumps in: “Celebrían will be there as well and now.. you know not to anger her.” His sharp eyes bore into the boys, even without any real edge or warning in the sentence Kíli and Fíli shrink under the gaze, nodding fast enough that their heads must hurt, Elrond's stern, thin eyebrows surely help with that.
His wife and you share a smirk.
You turn back to Tilda and Bard, the latter is wiping away some crumbs of what must have been cookies out of the corner of her mouth, careful that he doesn't smear the lipstick the younger one is so proud to be wearing.
“Tilly–,” you tug at the collar of the sweater she's wearing under her costume.
You don't get to finish the sentence, right as you open your mouth to tell her that you would love to come with her, you are abruptly silenced by the resonant sound of approaching boots from behind. The arrival of a newcomer, his voice a mellifluous, baritone timbre and a sonorous blend of charisma, sends a tantalizing shiver down your spine. “I had dared to hope she might grace me with her presence, as you delightful rascals torment the hapless neighbours.”
Tilda's eyes grow bigger as she looks up at the man standing behind you, the dark brown shining with admiration, and her mouth falls open in the tiniest ‘o’.
It's not that difficult to impress her, she is an eight-year-old girl, all you had to do to win her heart was to tell her a story about the fairies and elves that supposedly lived in the forest next to your house, but that look in her eyes, awe in its purest form and you are sure that she would be singing praised about whatever she is seeing right now if there wasn't absolute shock mixed into her emotions as well.
There are only few that get that reaction out of Tilda though and you slowly twist around. First, your shoes turn, squelching softly on the grass covered in leaves, then your legs, your upper body following the movement and finally, awfully cautiously, your head turns.
Your eyes land on a pair of boots.
Black. Leather. Boots.
And they don't seem to end as you lift your chin.
You know the man is tall, like really, really tall. Even Bard, who got luckier than you with the height genes, is a few inches shorter than Thranduil. If you stand next to Thranduil, it always requires you to look up.
Right now, as your legs buckle and you casually (it surely is anything but) drop one knee into the grass for more balance, the striking figure of Thranduil is looming over you. Your eyes travel upwards, up those damn boots on his endless legs, to the silvery corset that hugs his small waist tight, higher up over a ruffled white blouse with far to many buttons undone to be considered decent, and when you reach his face, your tongue lays heavy in your suddenly dry mouth.
The smirk hiding in the corner of his mouth and the crowfeet next to icy blue eyes twinkling with mirk tell you that the asshole knows the effect the costume has on you.
“Good evening,” Thranduil greets everyone but his gaze is locked on you. “I didn't know it’s witching hour already,” His lips curve more, flashing a row of pearly white teeth and if the black cape swaying around his body isn't expressive enough, the smile reveals two extraordinarily sharp canines, pointing down at you almost predatory.
You swallow hard enough that your throat protests. When you speak there is still a roughness to your voice that surely anyone around you must be able to detect: “Aren't you supposed to lay in some dirt until the sun sets? I wouldn't want anyone to clean up your ashes,” and when you can't fight the smile that threatens to break out on your lips anymore, you add a cheeky, “Count Greenleaf."
Next to you Thorin snorts and Bard groans.
“If you two would pause the flirting for just a second,” your brother's voice cuts through whatever had been building up there because your eyes snap to him.
“We weren't flirting!” you say at the same time as Thranduil nonchalantly shrugs his shoulders: “One second should be fine.”
The look you send him is supposed to be threatening but all it archives is another smirk from the tall blonde man.
“Back to the question,” Bard sends you a wink that has you fletching your teeth in his direction “I think Thorin, Celebrían and me will go with you, Tilly-bear.”
“Yes, and I think Bilbo wanted to help me prepare the games for when you come back,” the man addressed nodded dutifully, not an ounce of not a bit of malice in his face and yet you resist the urge to roll your eyes. Here stood probably the smartest people you knew and they didn't even try to hide what they were up to.
Of course, you could have seen it coming, in the last few years it had always happened that you and Thranduil were suddenly left alone. At Sigrid's birthday party, Bard sent you off to buy more garlands, only for you to run into Thranduil at the supermarket, whom Bard had asked about the very same thing. Another time, Elrond and Celebrían both had to cancel a breakfast out of the blue, so it ended up being just you and Thranduil sitting together. It seemed like everyone was conspiring behind your back to force something into existence that was growing so beautifully slowly.
Now all you can do is smile and nod, while you kiss Tilda on the cheek (“I will try to ask Lady Galadriel if she has your favourite chocolate,” she whispers into your ear like a secret promise), ruffle Bain's hair despite the fact that he always shakes the care you put into styling the short brown mop away as soon as your hand leaves his head, help Sigrid with the zipper of her Mary Shelley dress and let her pull you into a hug (“If you want me to abandon Da somewhere on his own, you just have to say the word,” she mumbles and nods into Thranduil's direction. “I will be fine,” you assure her. When you want to let her go, she smiles encouragingly: “Don't let us be the reason you hold back from going after what you want. I'm pretty sure Bain wouldn't mind having another boy his age around the house.”
You hug her just a tiny bit tighter, wondering when the hell she grew up.)
Bard only gets another light shove, as well as a threatening warning that you would hide all of his work tools if he steals the kids' candy, and then they are off, disappearing down the gravely path winding through the trees and you watch until the laughter and howling grow quiet.
Someone, and you know exactly who it is by the crunching sound of leaves under heavy boots, the scent of a rich perfume hitting your nose without having to turn around, steps next to you. “They are not very subtle, are they?” Thranduil hums, and your cheeks go up in flames again.
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” you deny, forcing a calm tone into your voice.
“Come,” Thranduil says. He holds out an arm, an invitation you gladly take. The sight of him, all dressed up in this costume with fangs and silvery blond hair flowing down his back, is enough for your legs to consider giving up under you; you appreciate the arm not just for the gesture but for the feeling of his muscles underneath your palm as well.
“Where to?” you ask, yet you know that no matter the answer, you will follow wherever. Sigrids words have made themselves comfortable in your mind, and the night, coming upon you on the slow walk to the mansion in beautiful tones of pink and purple in the sky, feels magical.
“I did not lie before, even though I was tempted,” Thranduil says “There are a few more things to be done and I was a little bit selfish in wanting your help especially.”
This time, you don't ignore the warmth settling in your stomach that his words cause, instead you embrace it, use it. “Well, I am sure that while the others are maybe capable, this witch here” – and you point to yourself with the free hand – “has a touch of magic that will surely be better than anyone else.”
He chuckles, seemingly agreeing in the form of a low hum. “Witch, you truly are captivating, making me wonder if being wicked has ever looked so irresistibly appealing,” he flirts right back, as openly as he never did before. Or maybe he did. Maybe all those times he complimented you in the coffee shop or asked for a smile to sweeten up his tea were not just niceties (it was what you told yourself every time, a reassuring 'He doesn't mean it like that' to hold yourself back and not kiss him senseless), maybe he really did like you.
Motivated by a sudden rush of adrenaline and giddiness, you tug at his arm, beaming up at him. “Count Dracula would be envious of the charisma you bring to that costume, Count Greenleaf,” you giggle, nearly shocking yourself with the sound.
You reach the steps up to the front porch of the mansion just that moment. You take the first step, Thranduil though, stops and while it's not the biggest difference in height, when you turn around to ask him why he stopped, you have a direct line of sight with the fangs biting down on his lip.
“I don't know who this Dracula is or what you mean with a costume,” he leans closer, finally taking that step and growing taller before you. “But I will take the compliment nonetheless. It's not every night that an enchanting woman compliments me.”
He grins an uncharacteristically lopsided grin, boyish and far from the snobby, rich persona he sometimes falls into and the laugh bursts out of your chest. His statement was far from the truth, he must be the most lusted-after man in Esgaroth (it didn't help that he was a stupidly rich single father, drop dead gorgeous with soft features, strong shoulders and a voice that made a woman's heart tremble). More than enough times you had become a witness to a poor soul making their way up to Thranduil when he was sitting on his spot at the counter. Their faces were sometimes nervous, sometimes determined but no matter in what way they came onto him he never accepted a number or agreed to a date.
He did however accept the compliments that rained onto him.
Walking into the mansion, you are confronted with what can only be described as the target Halloween decoration section. The dimly lit hall is illuminated primarily by the soft, flickering glow of antique chandeliers that have been fitted with blood-red candles. Their warm, dancing flames cast haunting shadows on the cream-colored wallpaper, adorned with intricate, spiderweb-like patterns that seem to writhe in the low light.
Upon entering, you can't help but notice the intricately carved mahogany staircases that rise on either side, their ornate bannisters entwined with artificial cobwebs, and the steps littered with pumpkins and more candles. The velvet drapes on the large windows are heavy and dark, adding an air of foreboding mystery to the space.
Throughout the hall, life-sized, macabre figures dressed in costumes stand at attention, like sentinels of the night. Skeletons in tuxedos and gowns, ghouls with outstretched hands, and statuesque vampires adorn the corners, exuding an unsettling realism.
The air is heavy with the scent of incense and dried herbs, giving the impression of an ancient, mystical ritual underway. A wrought-iron candelabrum hangs from the ceiling, holding a cluster of flickering black candles that fill the air with an enchanting, spicy aroma.
Turning in a circle in the middle of the hall, your mouth falls wide open.
“Thranduil,” you breathe out “How.. what.. don't tell me the whole house looks like this! No wonder I couldn't find any decorations,” you turn, throwing your hands in a wide gesture into the air and an airy laugh follows, “–you bought it all!”
Thranduil quirks an eyebrow and shakes his head, his hands neatly tucked behind his back. “No,” he starts, then corrects himself. “Well yes, the whole house looks like this, you would be surprised to see I fully committed myself as I now have a coffin instead of my bed upstairs. Legolas and Tauriel inspired me with their fantasies of a haunted mansion, they picked out the majority of what you see, though I shipped most of it into the country from a friend.”
“Because that is so much more reasonable,” you shoot back, skipping over that one part of his answer, still gazing around in wonder, “Where did this friend get these things? They look so real.”
You reach out to one of the skeletons in a fancy suit, barely hearing the: “Wait!” when a loud cackling booms through the hall, a ghostly and eerily sound. The squeak that you nearly scream bounces off the walls in the same way, rounding corners and expanding in reverberation.
Thranduil is at your side in seconds. He extends his hand just a moment too late to prevent you from approaching the sensor. However, the shock coursing through your body, combined with the warmth of his presence so near, sends your hormones into a frenzy.
Laughing uncontrollably, you fall into his chest, grasping for your own racing heart while feeling the irregular beat of his through the thin blouse. His cape drapes around you, as he joins in the laughter and lets his chin brush against your shoulder, folding himself across your back.
“I should probably adjust the sound settings,” his breath hits your neck and the thought of his lips (the fangs!!) this close to the delicate and sensible part of you sends a thrill to your body.
“Maybe,” you answer, sounding very much as flustered as you are. “Or you could hide it somewhere you don't want any guest to wander and use it as an alarm system.”
Thranduil's hand, still holding yours, comes to your waist, guiding your own fingers over the tulle fabric of the skirt and it evokes a delicate and ethereal sensation as your fingers gently graze its surface. “Maybe,” he sounds rough, voice low and raspy, similar to boots sinking into gravel. When you take a deep breath and relax into his touch, let him stretch the flat and warm palm of his hand over yours, the tips of his fingers sinking into the fabric of the dress right on the curve of your hips, his voice evens out:
“I think it has found its purpose right here.”
“And that would be?”
“Luring alluring witches into my arms.”
“Do you plan to use that move on anyone else?” you ask, and suddenly feel his lips ghost over the soft skin on your shoulder.
The lips turn into a smile. “Why should I?” The words feel like they are spoken directly into your skin and the grin with which they are said leaves a heavy and burning imprint in your mind. Your eyes dart toward the ceiling, to the flickering candles as if you would pray to the gods in the heavens above even though the devil is standing right behind you- ready for your command.
“It has worked once and I find myself quite satisfied with the results it has yielded,” Thranduil's voice becomes even lower, his timbre taking hold on your heart while rattling your bones. One boot shuffles closer, tapping the outside of your shoe gently and teasingly, and you are sure that if you look down you would faint at the sight of the leather boots reaching as high as your hips.
He raises his other hand as well, lets it descend slowly on the other side of your hips and without your hand under it, his touch burns through the fabric. You wishfully hope they will stay there forever, holding you to him and moulding your forms together perfectly.
“Do you know how you can best a vampire?” the question shouldn't cloud your mind over as much as it does, but how could you continue thinking clearly when Thranduil decides to graze the tips of the damn fangs over your neck?
Not at all, as proven by the lack of an answer.
Thranduil continues, either unbothered by the silence on your part or spurred on to unravel you even further. “There is sunlight, an unfair opponent if one considers that you emit light even brighter. And though I know the consequences, I would gladly burn to ashes for one second in the golden rays of your smile.”
A gasp echoes through the hall, wavering with emotions, and your hand flies to your mouth to bite down on a finger, stifling any sound.
“Most theories revolve around a stake through the heart. I doubt that would do any good since I lost mine when you came to this town and served me that awful cup of tea.”
You want to laugh but the true meaning of what he is telling you hits you hard enough to press all the air out of you in a shaky exhalation.
“Then there is holy water,” Thranduil's lips ghost over the juncture of your neck once again, not once really touching skin. The anticipation of what is about to be said, about what he is about to do, tears at your resolve to stand still, to wait and let it happen. There is no one rushing you, no one trapping you in conversation or leading you into awkward fumbling around with words while the others are staring.
This is exactly what you yearned for.
There is a cold blow of air as Thranduil takes a breath and then his teeth scrape the skin, digging slightly into the flesh (not to break it, he would never hurt you) and-
his lips touch you, finally. They press down onto the spot where the fangs have been, gently and not moving at all. Just the soft weight of them.
“I would drown myself in it if I could taste your lips.”
Oh..
Your eyelashes flutter down, brushing the heated skin of the apple of your cheek. A soft: “I wish for nothing else than a kiss” is said into the room, raising the electricity sizzling and crackling.
Before you can even blink, Thranduil's hand caresses your cheek, tilting your head to the side. The difference in your heights grants him the perfect angle to lean in, capturing your lips in an ardent kiss, despite the awkward positions of your bodies, twisted into each other. Any illusions of gentleness from the previous kiss on your shoulder fade, as Thranduil's lips now meet yours with an intense, passionate fervor.
You might have expected that your first kiss would leave you breathless, but the desire and hunger within him not only steals the air from your lungs but also clears your mind, immersing you in a captivating void. He doesn't break away, his lips maintaining their press against yours, and with the hand curling over yours on your waist, Thranduil tugs at you to turn you. The sensation is head-spinning, and if you weren't already descending into the depths of Thranduil, you'd surely have stumbled.
With Thranduil no longer towering over you and no need for you to twist to meet him, he confidently takes a step forward. It's like a well-practised dance, where he leads with precision. Uncertain of where he's guiding you, you surrender to his direction. A step back, a pause as your hands intertwine behind his neck, though it tugs at your arms, and then the next step. Another kiss follows, fervent and insatiable, a hunger that defies comparison.
In the distance, a cheer breaks through the pounding of your heart and the rush in your ears. Realizing it's the children, you manage to disentangle yourself from Thranduil. Even though you long to return to his lips, he, too, wears an apologetic look in his cerulean eyes.
“We should–”
“The children–”
Both of you speak simultaneously, still in such harmony that your words tumble over each other. You gaze at each other, and a burst of laughter escapes your lips, hearty, uncontainable laughter that you attempt to muffle with a hand, though Thranduil still holds you close.
“We should head outside,” he murmurs, a touch of nostalgia in his voice, longing in his gaze, which traces a path from your well-kissed mouth to your eyes.
“That would probably be the wisest choice,” you agree, but your body seems to resist the logic, leaning in closer to him. “Strange, I appear to be unable to detach myself from you,” you jest. Your arms wrap around his waist, seeking the comfort of his embrace.
Content&Warnings: everyone-lives AU, platonic, mention of death
Word count: 2.6k
Summary: Boromir is a man of land through and through. But fate and state matters get him on board of an Umbar ship - a whole whirlwind of different life and customs.
A/N: this was equally a torment for me and the text, two whole months of struggling with getting this right. the degree of success is up to you to determine
Ramp creaked unpleasantly under Boromir's feet, adding more tension to an already nerve-wracking moment. He had never stepped upon a ship's deck before, and was determined to not trust the wooden vessel with his life. To the point of refusing the opportunity of boarding with the others in Osgiliath and riding on horseback all the way to Pelargir. He would gladly dismiss the prospect of the voyage altogether if travelling to the City of Corsairs by land didn't take a solid month longer than sailing. However, Aragorn promised the team to be the best, and Boromir reluctantly agreed.
The captain, indeed, was a pleasant person, clearly knowledgeable of their job and hospitable to passengers. From their explanation Boromir learned that the crew mostly consisted of sailors that served on the trading ships rather than pirate ones. The news gave the man some much needed reassurance before the long journey. Even though the line between the merchants and pirates was quite vague in Umbar.
A day later the ship left the river mouth and took off into the sea. It didn't go too far from shore. The dark line of land was visible in the distance most of the time, but the constant rise and fall of the waves was no less unsettling than in the first moment. Sons of Gondor felt way out of their place without steady ground beneath. And Boromir even more than others. He leaned against the bulwarks and sighed heavily, hoping that he didn't look as green as he felt.
A cheerful voice called out to him, "First time on board? It'll get better."
He looked to the side, noticing a sailor tightening ropes and knots. You glanced back at him, fixing the last one in place. "It always gets."
"Does not seem this way to me. I have spent the whole day here and nothing changed," Boromir retorted, knitting his brows.
You smiled. "Don't rush it. The ship is like a timid town lady. She takes time getting close with a man."
Boromir shook his head and glanced over the dancing whitecaps. The sight of the ever moving water caused another spasm in his stomach.
Even sleep betrayed Boromir once he left solid land. The morning was young and chilly, when he sneaked out of the cabin, careful not to wake any of his companions. The endless blue of the sea mirrored the depths of the sky. Right between them was the ship's prow that you walked down ensuring tightness of all ropes. From the centre of the deck you seemed to be walking a narrow bridge between the horizon and the boards with ease of a practised acrobat. Boromir involuntarily froze in place, half hidden from your view by the mast and multiple barrels placed on deck. His eyes glued to your light steps against the boards and fingers curling around each length and knot. There was something very personal in watching you do some mundane tasks when you thought to be alone, save for the helmsman, who couldn't be less interested in whatever happened on board.
Bare feet against the ever wet wood – what a strange habit – and yet you still managed to move quietly. Or maybe the ever-mumbling sea silenced your steps enough for Boromir to not catch a sound. He stepped to the side to get a better view, unobscured by the spars. The world shifted slightly – and then turned with a loud thud. Dull pain of the collision with the hard deck in his side made the man curse under breath.
You turned at the sound and watched him retreat back to the cabin. An expression of dissatisfaction with the means of travel was clearly showing on his face.
"Sailing is a strange job," Boromir stated firmly.
After three nights on board without a single incident in the calm waters of the bay of Belfalas he seemed more confident. The broad daylight showed more colour in his face and less insecurity in his eyes. And his steps appeared steady.
"Is it though?" you threw a questioning look back at him.
The man crossed arms on his chest. "I understand swimming and fishing in the boat, but staying away from the shore for weeks and months is against human nature."
"There is truth in your words, but think of it this way - replace 'shore' with 'house' and you will get the description of being a soldier. You don't find that strange, do you?" you chuckled. "The main difference is that we fight sea rather than other people and use ships instead of swords."
Unconvinced Boromir only shrugged in response.
“Your people even call you their captain,” you smiled, looking at his pressed lips, “is that not a happy enough coincidence?”
Sharing their pints of beer, sailors hustled and bustled in the eternal evening dusk of the lower deck. Rumbling laughter thundered through the still air along with clattering of dishes and creaking of wood. They made bets over weather and luck with beer and meat as well as with coins – mostly copper jingling in empty pockets. And someone started singing, a heavy accent draping from the melody known since times before they had learned walking.
Cutting through the moving crowd, like he often did in barracks or taverns full of celebrating soldiers, Boromir made way to the bench where you just shook hands with another crew-mate betting on a good catch. You stood up greeting him and motioned to the corner, where bales were piled up in the shadow.
“It’s much better than being packed like sardines.”
Dropping down on the soft sacks without spilling a droplet from the full glass, you caused Boromir to raise an eyebrow in amusement before sitting down beside. He glanced over to the crew and then back to you. “This does resemble how the army can be at times.”
You contentedly nodded and took a generous sip, allowing him to continue. He took the hint, but hesitated to elaborate on whatever thought brought him to the lower deck, boiling with life in the dim light of oil lamps and candles, after a solid week of travelling in comfort of the cabin.
“I found myself in need of an apology,” he said at last, clasping hands together.
“Did I somehow offend you, my lord?” you sat up concerned.
A burst of laughter, low and deep at the same time, was his first response. “No, not in the slightest. I mean quite the opposite. Since the first day of this voyage I have expressed a great deal of unsavoury opinions. For that I seek your forgiveness.”
You waved off his words. “I don’t hold a grudge against one’s lack of experience.”
“And still,” Boromir insisted, “you were gracious enough to bear continuous insults. Not a single time have you turned away or raised your voice to silence the irritating noise. Your actions speak of your character differently from your words.”
“That’s the art of trade in the way I’ve learned it – be soft with people and hard with actions. In that manner one climbs up the ladder of success,” you shrugged.
A day before arrival, when the ship entered the narrowing pass to Umbar, the movement became very cautious and unhurried. Even the wind and waves seemed to find delight in leisurely licking the wooden side of the vessel.
"Why did we slow down?" Boromir asked the captain.
"The gulf is tricky to navigate. We must go on short sails to get past all the rocks and cliffs," they replied, leaning on the helm.
Gondorian nodded and looked up front. Steep banks were rising before his eyes. At that moment two of the crewmen rushed by his side. He turned too late to express his indignation at the accidental push, but just in time to watch your white shirt pass by like a cloud of smoke in the wind. You didn't even bother to take the steps down to the deck, simply jumping over the small staircase in one leap. Like another fish joins the shoal, you pushed through the crowd and disappeared among fellows.
"What are they doing?" Boromir furrowed his brows, pointing at the gathered crew.
"Ah, choosing the fortune diver. Seems like they've spotted something nice this time. Folks are so eager, they’re down to three already," they explained with a nonchalant yawn. Though by the time the sentence was finished, the choosing was already over. The crowd parted, demonstrating your triumphant smile and two unlucky souls that lost their chance in the final draw. "Y/N, again? Cheating, aren't you?"
"Nah, the tides just like to blow my way," you responded, throwing off the outer shirt and rolling up the wide pants slightly.
Some indescribable trepidation washed over Boromir as you did so. He didn't know for sure if there even was something to worry about, but his gut was all but against it. There was no time to find out, though, and neither was there time to object. You took a few steps of run up and leaped right overboard in a swift arc. The crew blew up in a round of laughter and clapping as the fountain of splashes rose into the air.
As if woken up by that sound, Boromir tore his seemingly glued feet from the deck. He hurried to the bulwarks and bent over the board, watching your flexible form descend to the shadowed depth of the gulf as if it was the most natural of ways to move. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the curve of your body as you reached the bottom and swam to your goal. Each stroke was strong and precise – clear evidence of years spent at sea.
His gentle heart, that only seemed to have been encased in strong armour, skipped a beat when you let out a few air bubbles, trying to pull the gilded candelabrum from the grey sand. The precious trinket was positively stuck and very unwilling to budge. It took you a few more tugs along with an eloquently layered silent curse before the metal slid out of the sand trap. That last pull kicked the rest of the air out of your lungs. Heavy coldness began to spread from the centre of your chest. You pushed from the bottom and began rapidly rising. Racing against the last air bubbles, you were losing tragically. The heavy candelabrum was weighing down one hand, slowing down your painfully long rise. You felt that everything was getting slower, darker...
The surface shattered into a million glowing splashes, reflecting sunlight and dark boards of the ship, as you broke through to the air. The first moment over the water was deafening and blinding. The dull monotonous rustling of the waves was replaced with an eruption of shouts and laughter. The first deep inhale nearly pushed you back down. You rubbed salty water away from your eyes until you could see a rope dropped from the deck right in front of you. By some miracle, it was just an arm length away. You only got up by a couple of feet before feeling the rope being pulled up, lifting you easily. In a few moments you were already grabbed by an unfamiliar pair of arms.
The candelabrum slipped out of your hands and landed on the boards with a loud metallic rattle, nearly hitting someone’s feet. Your fingers curled in the thick fabric of someone’s shirt. Pressing your forehead to soft fabric, you were catching your breath one gulp of air at a time. The warmth of the hands against your freezing back was revitalising. Hitched breaths, almost as faltering as your own, came in soft gusts over your shoulder. Despite the tight embrace getting most of your attention, you slowly began to recognize the colour of those locks, tickling your cheek, the wide belt made of expensive leather and the boots he refused to take off on board. You couldn't see that yet, but your mind easily painted the image of his eyebrows drawn together.
Boromir’s heavy sigh gusted against your wet hair. He probably said something. You lifted your head and noticed a massive wet stain on his shirt. Some crew-mate’s words suddenly came to your mind about that shirt, which “probably costs like our yearly payment”. A panicked thought rushed through your mind. You pushed away, nearly tripping over the damned candelabrum.
“-sorry, deepest apologies. I didn’t mean to get it wet,” you breathed out hastily, adding a weak chuckle, before a human wave of crewmen washed you from the deck to below the boards.
Considering your dive a sign of bravery and fortune, fellow sailors left you with no work to be done upon arrival to Umbar. It seemed nearly alien to sit idly on a barrel with the gilded trophy in your lap, while they were busy carrying the cargo ashore. So much life happening around and you were out there like a ghost. Invisible and long forgotten.
“Why would you risk your life for that trinket?” the wind asked.
You shuddered and turned around. Boromir stood just a few feet away. On solid ground he seemed taller. With his hand on the hilt of the sword, he would look threatening, if it wasn’t for his gaze. There was genuine confusion and concern. Almost as if he was looking at a child, who regularly acts against all advice and gets hurt.
You clutched the ‘trinket’. “It’s how one gets their fortune – through daring and courageous acts.”
“Or loses everything,” he stepped in. “You could have died! Taking such chances... It is not worth a handful of coins. If silver or gold is what you wish for, you could have begun selling fish in the market, saving up for a better life-”
“No!” you jumped off the barrel, momentarily getting nearly face-to-face with him. “I- Not a single soul has built their fortune, putting away a bronze at a time. It is known no merchant gets off well if their first pouch isn’t full. That is how life is. That is why the tradition exists.”
You let out an exasperated sigh. “Until...the catch is good enough, our lives are worth so little, my lord. We gamble less than you do in a single game of cards.”
Boromir opened his mouth to say something, but not a sound rang. His eyes filled up with painful understanding and fear. For a moment you dreaded to see the pity in them, but instead there was pure terror of recognition. His entire spirit was shattered by this simple thought that you lived with for years. His hand rose to grip your shoulder. The touch was feather-light.
Someone called out for Boromir. He looked back for a moment before returning to you. His grip tightened just a bit.
“Come with me. Find me here tonight. And, I promise, you will never have to put your life on the line for coin. It can be so different from now on.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Nothing scandalous, I assure you,” he turned again, hearing another question coming his way from afar. “Just be my guest. There in Gondor your life could be started anew.”
His hand finally left your shoulder and he quickly regained his posture, stepping away. Once again he looked as a noble lord of the great kingdom. But his eyes still betrayed the fear of a young boy, who couldn’t bear to see you willingly putting your life at stake. He bowed his head, and in a moment – was gone.
As an author (of sorts) and a reader I often have questions to fellow readers. Might as well try to seek some answers here. What do you look for in fanfiction and in original works? Are your expectations different in those cases?
I saw you opened requests and thought if you were inspired could you do a little sequel to "I Didn't Know That I Was Starving Till I Tasted You". I absolutely adore that story it is SO good!
Midnight Meetings in our Kitchen | hobbit
pairing: Thranduil x fem!reader👑
The night before the reopening of his restaurant, Thranduil is feeling antsy - you try your best to coax him back into bed.
warnings/tags: none
word count: 2,7k
an: This has taken me months to write and I apologize for the delay! My mind was just as frazzled as Thranduil's.
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+ masterlist + rules +🌿 reposts and comments are much appreciated, they motivate me a lot and keep me writing <3
You woke up alone and to the faint metallic sound of pots clanking in the kitchen. The hand you blindly reach over to the other side of the bed comes in contact with a cold mattress and rumbled sheets, no residue warmth of the person that held you until you fell asleep nor any sign that he actually slept and not gotten back up immediately as soon as you had closed your eyes to his even breathing.
This is not the first time Thranduil snuck out of bed – in the weeks you now shared one it has become all the clearer how often he actually strayed through the apartment while you were deep in a slumber – but it is the first time he did it after he promised to stay.
It would be easy to let the anger and frustration fester, let it grow either in a thoughtless fight or in weeks of unspoken feelings, and if this was anyone else you would holster these moments like munition. Keeping them close to your heart like ivy holding on to cracked walls.
Thranduil however, is not anyone else.
The blanket is pushed aside, your feet step into the slippers by the bedside and in passing of the desk by the door, you grab a cardigan to throw over your shorts and the top you slept in. The moment you open the bedroom door, the sounds from the kitchen grow louder. You quietly creep around the corner, passing by the room where you hardly ever sleep, and find your boyfriend in a familiar stance – leaning over the stove, a spoon in his hand and one in the mess of long hair bundled up in the nape of his neck, barely holding it together; your boyfriend as well as the spoon.
He doesn’t seem to realize you are there, your shoes did a good job silencing the steps, so it is no wonder Thranduil flinches as you wrap your arms around his stomach from behind and press your face against his back. He catches on quickly, snaps out of the murmuring of ingredients and a “Oh,” escapes him in a sigh. “I’ve woken you up, haven’t I?”
“No,” you mumble into the loose shirt. Thranduil is comfortably warm, not by nature – his hands are a blessing in the summer and he made it a sport to tickle you awake with his icey tips as soon as you spent the nights under mountains of blankets – but by the heated kitchen and the many pots boiling in front of him. Lips against the soft fabric, you continue: “But you said you wouldn’t do this. Not tonight, Thran.”
You feel his spine curve as Thranduil sacks into himself slightly, as he stops holding himself up on the counter and instead hugs your arms closer to his chest. His whole body rumbles at another sigh. “I know,” he is tired, his voice drips sleep more than he realizes, “I know, Darling. I will come to bed soon, let me just finish this recipe.”
You lurk past his right side into what you think is a pot of soup?
“Do you plan on serving it later?” you ask and let your fingers trail over the bunched-up shirt, over the soft hairs on his lean stomach.
“I’m not sure. It lacks something and I can’t figure out what exactly. Spices I used plenty, the broth is perfection and the vegetables have been in harmony every other time I thought of them.” – Thranduil is the only person in the world who you know can taste a dish without even cooking it, all that happens in his brain is a mysterium – “I need to find.. whatever it is that’s missing before I could serve it.”
“So, you will cook dozens of portions with a tiny thing changed?”
It is meant to be a joke though Thranduil nods.
He could be unreadable and stubborn, especially these last few weeks. His restaurant ‘The Green Leaf’, is known as the best spot for fine-dining vegan food, praised high and above by the critics for excellent taste, extravagant and beyond thinking of known dishes taken to another level in ways you couldn’t even begin to fathom. Thranduil is precise, cutting dishes that fail his standards and not adding new ones till he reaches perfection only known to him.
The turn to autumn brought not only harsher winds but it took one of Thranduil’s suppliers to sell out to ‘Oakenshields’, another star restaurant across the street and a thorn in Thranduil’s eyes ever since the press fueled heavy competition between two restaurants that are no were near the same category. They have close to nothing in common, except for two petty as fuck owners with their heads stuck that far up their arses, that they couldn’t see further than their rage.
Thranduil, mature as he is, reacted to the news of his supplier changing sides – literally and metaphorically – as any normal person would, and decided on a night similar to this one, that he would change every meal that he had previously cooked with the ingredients of ‘the traitor’. Out with entrés made with apples, gone are the burgers simply because the cucumbers are no longer accessible. You realized quickly that going with the flow meant outings to farmer's markets testing fruits and vegetables, negotiating deals with you hanging on his arm, and new recipes he cooks for you to try. The work and effort of many nights waking up to find him in the kitchen all lead to tomorrow, the first day after the restaurant’s summer-closing and the presentation of a completely new constructed menu.
To say Thranduil is spun tight is an understatement.
“Thranduil –” you sigh, your hot breath slightly wetting his shirt and your lips move against his spine. “This is nonsense and I don’t say this to be mean. You’ve been up the whole day, going through recipes you’ve been sure about and that you know by heart. Trying this won’t do no good; it will only exhaust you.” The tips of your fingers trail through the hair, higher up to lay a flat palm against the firm skin, feeling his intake of breath. You let your touch be gentle if he misunderstands your words.
Communication between you had never been the problem – well, except for the obvious misunderstanding of the feelings you both had harbored for each other in complete ignorance that the other packaged them up in love languages such as cooking a meal or throwing out flowers of your dates – and you two had gotten even better at speaking your mind to avoid confrontations that could have been cleared up by a simple discussion at dinner or before going to bed. You never went to bed mad at each other, that is the rule you agreed on. You would talk it out and then make up. You have learned that Thranduil’s cold demeanor came on the second he felt vulnerable and alone which is exactly why you lean into the subject with your hands holding on to him.
“I get that this is important for you,” you continue and your knees nudge the muscles of his calves, “but you need sleep. Your greatest weapon is your brain, so, let it rest. I’m sure this will work out without a new dish.”
For a while, there is the boiling of water, the steam of carrots and celeriac drifting through the air. Thranduil’s hands continue to hold onto you, drawing figures onto your wrists to signal you that he did hear you and is thinking of an answer, not ignoring you. Then, he lets go with one hand. The stove clicks off, and the gas flame disappears, dipping the kitchen into more darkness now that the blue flickering light is gone.
Other than that movement, Thranduil stands still.
You opt for another lighthearted joke to break the tension that is obvious in his shoulders, the wings of them have the shirt stretched tighter at his hunch. You take the spoon out of his hands and fish in the soup, yes definitely soup, carefully balancing it around his stiff body and closing your lips around it.
“Mhmm, what excellent boiled potatoes,” you hum.
Thranduil's expression shifts ever so slightly, as if your words have finally pierced through the mental blockade, where he’s no doubt been sifting through countless possible events. An amused snort escapes him, his spine curving closer against you as he chuckles softly. “Did you have another Pride and Prejudice marathon this week?”
“What?” Your voice jumps an octave, betraying you instantly. “No! Of course not! Me? Nev–er. I don't even know that movie.” The words tumble out in a frantic cascade, and in the middle of your denial, Thranduil abruptly turns to face you, his sudden movement drawing a helpless grin from your lips.
One eyebrow arches in quiet amusement as he begins to crowd you against the kitchen island and leaves you to stare up at him. “If you didn’t watch it – and I certainly didn’t – how do you explain the ‘continue watching’ notification I saw at the restaurant?”
“Wow, uhm,” you fumble for an excuse, fingers toying with the strings of his silken pajama pants. “Maybe your brother decided to give my recommendations a shot?”
Thranduil lets out a scoff, his disbelief evident. “Las? When has he ever taken our advice on anything?”
True, his brother is going down the full teenager-who-listens-to-no-one-route like he’s doing a marathon but you are just as determined. Coyly you flutter your lashes up at Thranduil, pulling at the strings and twirling them around a finger. “Maybe that’s a sign of the universe, then. That you should stop banging pots and start bang– showing attention to your girlfriend.”
Thranduil laughs so low in his throat, that you feel it swooshing straight into your stomach, the vibrato of his voice and the rasp of the few hours of sleep undoing every thought of getting him back to bed because this, Thranduil in just a loose shirt standing in the silver light of the moon in the middle of the kitchen and staring down at you might be the most attractive thing you have ever witnessed.
His hands wander from your waist up to your shoulders, sliding up further to cup your neck in his large palms and gently tilt your chin up further. Your breath comes to a full stop, instead, your heart takes on the job of pulsing twice as fast at the gentle touch of his thumb moving over the underline of your jaw. The day you realized he cradles you just as gently as his favorite knives was surely one to process but now you lean into the lingering taps of his fingertips, the pad of his thumb pressing slightly into the plushness of your lower lip.
Thranduil slots one leg between yours, casually and with an ease that you wouldn’t believed him to be able to when you first met him. “Have I recently told you how thankful I am that you’re you?” he asks and you shake your head slightly. His lips curve downward, as do his eyebrows. “I may have gotten lost in my work again, haven’t I?”
You nod, never one to pour a lie into this intimacy. “But that’s fine. I know this is important to you. The restaurant opening and all can’t be easy.”
“That’s no reason to push away the one person that makes this journey bearable. You shouldn’t have to put up with my nightly disappearance out of bed simply because the restaurant is a large focus on my mind right now.”
“It has become quite the habit of yours,” you agree quietly and slip one hand under his shirt again.
There’s nothing sexual about the way you hold onto his waist, tracing the bones and muscles, all breathing softly and singing under your touch. Being this close to him grounds you the same way he needs physical touch as a reminder that he is still important in arguments and fights. That no matter how far apart your opinions are at that moment, your bond is still there.
“I am truly sorry for this habit. I will work on it and I think once we have gotten through the worst of the press and critics I can rest easier but it’s nothing I can one hundred percent promise. The last time we closed for a month I slept barely after reopening.”
You tilt your head. “Is there anything I can do to help you?”
“No, everything you do makes me a better person already,” Thranduil says and leans down to finally catch your lips in a soft kiss into which you melt like butter on a hot pan. Every nerve ending is sizzling and burning, sighing as he holds your face close and kisses the breath out of you. “Or would you do me the favor and never watch your movie again?”
You laugh and bite down on his lip, “Never. Try something more realistic.”
He agrees with a huff of laughter, “Of course not,” and pulls you back into another kiss.
“Can we go back to bed?” you mumble against his lips. As much as you enjoy the loving kisses, the slow and languid draw of his tongue, the playful nip of his teeth in the lull of the night, his full body cornering you against the counter – oh, there’s this low sound of his throat again – but unlike Thranduil, you had a few hours of sleep already and you can feel the urge to hop back under the covers in the cold around your bare ankles.
Thranduil’s head swirls around, seemingly taking in the state of the kitchen without the haze of a restless man dreaming of the perfect dish clouding his judgment and he raises a hand to tap against his lips, loudly exhaling. “Shit. I can’t leave this lying around and while it’s no good for the restaurant, I can’t just throw it out.”
You shrug your shoulders, sneaking past him to open the drawer meticulously sorted with plastic boxes. There are certainly enough of them to store the soups and their different varieties. Once Thranduil starts working on a new recipe, his tendency to fill the kitchen and run tests leaves its traces in the way you now look out for good lunchbox offers and Tupperware parties, always being mindful of having enough of them to stack up the freezer. Thranduil may be opposed to frozen food – and not only storebought, he would not eat something he didn’t cook fresh even if the whole idea of freezing food he cooked meant that it was still good and full of vitamins – but you don’t mind popping them into the microwave on a long day at work and relishing the soul food of your boyfriend weeks after he abandoned the thought of that particular version.
“We could pack them up and bring them around to the shelter tomorrow. Ah, wait, no. You have to be at the restaurant early for the deliveries. I can drop them off then, get home to change and still be there on time for the opening, oh! Thran–,” you are interrupted by the warm weight of Thranduil hugging you close from behind, surprising you the same way you had earlier, only that the height difference allows him to mouth a kiss into your neck.
“I love you,” Thranduil says, digging his fingers into the wool of your cardigan. “All I’m doing is keeping you up at night and you’re still here, thinking about bringing the food to the shelter and my schedule. You’re brilliant, my love.”
The compliment goes through your heart like molten honey, sticking in all the slowly healing cracks that Thranduil mends each day he is there for you. The change from being roommates to best friends brings the risk of disrupting the carefully built balance yet Thranduil and you made it work and in times like this, standing in the darkness of your shared kitchen in the night before the re-opening of what Thranduil loves third-most in the world, every effort is worth the risk.
You smile, resting your head against his chest and looking up at him. His grey eyes are already on you, framed by long lashes and the strands of hair shining silver. “Love you too, most ardently,” you stand up on your tiptoes for a quick kiss upside down. “Soups can wait, let’s go to bed.”
LotR Week (6/7): Songs and tales - Aragorn x Reader
Content & Warnings: fluff, mention of alcohol
Word count: 0.5k
Summary: During the celebration in Edoras you find enough courage to sing in front of the strangers. But some familiar eyes watch you too
A/N: couldn't bring myself to put poor poetry in our king's mouth, so this is for reader to bear with. Penultimate submission for @lotrweek
The wind had once caught a banner,
And carried it on ever since
In cheerful, careless manner
Over the mountains and seas.
It waved it all over the cities
And forests - those bursting with life.
Over blue lakes and white lilies,
Brighter than mithril dwarves mine.
The wind had blown on through summers
And never had tried to stop.
But one day it suddenly faltered,
And banner threatened to drop
For beautiful lady watched it
From weathered and sheer cliffs.
Her dress was of highest merit
And so was the shawl she knit.
The wind crawled closer and bargained,
“Give me your shawl. In return,
I will chase off the clouds
And let all your fires burn.”
The lady refused and asked for
A single thing in exchange.
“Please, give me back the banner
From days of the passing age.
This banner I still remember –
My love has ridden with it
On day that I will forever
Have written across my lips.”
The tight circle around you exploded in cheers and clapping. The smell of ale wafted over you as the foam splashed from the mugs. Unfamiliar hands patted your back with encouragement and approval. Someone toasted to your name and your song and more voices joined in. You smiled uncertainly and slowly made way through the crowd to the further end of the table, where it seemed calmer.
A few feet of distance didn’t make much difference in volume, but you found yourself breathing easier while not being surrounded by a living wall of bodies. In fact, it was rather nice to get away and watch the celebration from the sidelines. You looked around the room, noticing familiar faces here and there, but your eyes couldn’t catch a glimpse of the one that mattered the most. Not until a hand covered yours resting on the table and a mixture of smells filled your lungs. Leather and tobacco, and, which surprised you the most, foliage. Even here in Edoras, where everything was but coarse grass and horses, and occasional drink, he still smelled like he just walked out of a forest. You asked him about it a few times, though he simply shrugged it off as a consequence of living in Rivendell for too long.
Aragorn’s voice was low, but with his lips pressed against your ear there was no chance of missing his words. “It was a sight to behold. I thought there was a sun shining in the middle of the night, and a merry rain accompanied it. I must admit it’s a shame that your voice has never rung through the Hall of Fire, that would bring joy to many.”
“You flatter me. Elves have unnumbered songs and tales much more beautiful than this one.”
“But none of them is yours,” he whispered again and added softly, “meleth.”
The last part made you give up the dispute, it always did. And Aragorn, as if in gratitude for your compliance, embraced you. You felt several gentle kisses tracing the side of your face before he pulled you back and down until you were conveniently seated on his lap. His breath tickled your neck as he spoke, "Now, tell me. What is the tale behind your wonderful song?"
LotR Week (5/7): Here with me - Frodo x elf!Reader
Content & Warnings: mild bitterness of any parting
Word count: 0.3k
Summary: Winters come and go, but Lothlorien remains the same. Only more memories find shelter under the old trees. So does Frodo
A/N: mid-lecture drafts find their way to @lotrweek
“Fear not to set foot out of our woods. You will always be here with me. Under these trees our memories are not just images of the past, but living dreams. Maybe even more alive than those walking the green earth.”
Frodo turned around at the sound of your voice, his eyes wide with surprise. At the very bottom of the blue orbs there was pain and fear greater than those known by most immortals. Your heart responded with a loud thud.
“The world is changing both fast and slow in our eyes, but here,” you gestured at the lace canopy of trees above and around, “everything will remain the same.”
He nodded shakily. “I wish I was brave enough to carry on with no doubt. But I can’t forget about the dangers and losses waiting ahead.”
And you wished he was fearful enough to stay behind, to choose safety, to let others catch the banner and go on until the end. But he wasn’t. No, that little hobbit had a heart of gold and a will of steel. And you did whatever was possible to not chain him to the eternal hills against the decision which he had made, even if he was still unsuspecting of it.
You placed your hand on his head and ruffled his dark curls affectionately. “It isn’t bravery that you need, dear Frodo. Your vision and mind are clear of illusions, you are aware of what the future might hold for you. Do not resent it.”
Tiny gems of tears glistened in his eyes as he looked up, but they never spilled. “I found more gifts in Lothlorien than I wished for, and I’m afraid of losing them.”
His words were a low blow. It took all of your willpower to not sway. “Each of them will you bring along on your journey. But not all of them may be lost,” you assured, raising a hand to your chest. “I will wait for you.”
______________________________________________________________
Frodo was walking away, but somewhere in the corner of his eye he could see himself standing beside you, and your hand was still in his hair, bringing waves of warmth to his heart. He must return and he will.
LotR Week (4/7): Gifts, burdens and choices - Boromir x Reader
Content & Warnings: angst, mentions of death
Word count: 0.7k
Summary: The weight of the gift, once a symbol of your love and hope, now pressed down on you as an unbearable burden
A/N: this had taken my soul out just to finish the piece. Running to catch up with @lotrweek
You had been preparing the gift for a long time. Staying awake at night and thinking over and over what could be worthy of his status and practical in use, spending hours on drawing poor sketches and then throwing them into the hearth, until finally they turned out good enough to bring them over to Cobbled Street and explain your request to the craftsmen before entrusting the process to their skilled hands. It wasn't until months later that you could finally hold it in your hands.
The horn, crafted of polished walnut wood and adorned with intricate gilded filigree. Cold and real, it was even more beautiful than you imagined it. Each leaf and branch, each tower and spire, etched onto its surface by the artisans, had your heart and thought poured in it. It was for Boromir, a token of your affection, a symbol of your unspoken dreams.
______________________________________________________________
The weight of a horn, heavy in your hand and cold even through the cloth wrapped around it, seemed only to make the pounding of your heart worse as you rushed through the echoing halls. Your steps quickened each time you jumped over the last stair, as if you tried to outrun the rising whirlwind of thrill and apprehension. You followed the trail of news, the whispered rumours. "Lord Denethor holds the audience, the wizard came from the North. They speak of Boromir." Your heart was sinking, but the hopes arose.
Your hold tightened on the horn, keeping it against your chest like a shield from the creeping fears, as you silently entered the grand hall through the side door, keeping in the shadow of columns and out of sight.
Denethor, sat upon his throne, his eyes fixed upon the figure of Gandalf, clad in white. The hobbit, small and seemingly unassuming, stood beside the wizard, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and fascination.
Gandalf cleared his throat. “Boromir,” he began, his voice a low rumble, stirring fear mixed with hope in your chest, “fought bravely, valiantly. He fell defending the Fellowship, facing a horde of orcs.”
The walls crashed around you like bread crumbles in the shaking hands of the ill. The white stones fell with thundering rumble, burying you beneath and filling your lungs with dust. Or so you felt as the words swept you off your feet like a storm.
Your hands trembled. The horn slipped from grasp. Loud rattle reverberated off the walls and gathered in the centre of the hall in an ugly blot of terror. Boromir, dead? The image of him, tall and strong, his dark hair crowned by the sunlight, filled your mind. His laughter, his stories, his gentle teasing. Everything vanished with a single sentence.
“What a mockery,” Denethor hissed. “Pick up that trinket and get out!”. You heard his words, but they were lost in the deafening roar of your own grief, of the howling ache blowing through the gaping hole in your chest.
One of the servants, who remained hidden behind another column, hurried to get the horn and push it into your shaking hands. You stumbled back, vision clouded and obscure. A pair of warm palms, burning hot against your shoulders, shoved you forward. Stone floors responded to your unsteady steps with freezing firmness, and you broke into a run.
The weight of the gift, once a symbol of your love and hope, now pressed down on you as an unbearable burden. The intricate filigree, meant for the hero you loved dearly, now truly was but a mockery.
______________________________________________________________
Boromir always made the right choices. For his soldiers, for the people of the White City, for himself. It was as if he had some impeccable compass in his chest, that always showed him the right direction, and followed its guidance without second thoughts.
He had chosen you, though. Despite the whispers, the disapproval. He had seen past the expectations that dictated your lives. The world said that you were not meant for each other – such is the order of things. But you had chosen otherwise.
______________________________________________________________
And now, he was gone. As if due to some cruel repayment for his only mistake — you. The world was going on, the pace of life unchanged, but in your eyes everything had stopped, faded, died. The horn was a silent testament to your love, never meant to come alive with the sound again.
LotR Week (3/7): The green earth in the daylight - Legolas x Reader x Gimli
Content & Warnings: polyamory, fluff
Word count: 0.5k
Summary: Fangorn forest seemed all the same from the outside, but once you crossed the edge it seemed like you fell into a different realm without even noticing.
A/N: running late for @lotrweek, but how could i deny the pleasure of writing gigolas x reader
“Certainly, we wandered into the wrong forest,” Gimli mumbled, stepping over an anthill. A few busy inhabitants of the bustling tiny queendom took the opportunity to climb his heavy boots and travel further away than any insect before them dared to.
“What brings on the clouds of doubt, meleth nín?” Legolas wondered, walking around a tree with a dreamy expression. “Do you not recognize the old Fangorn?”
“I was convinced that we followed the right road and entered the same woods,” the dwarf squinted, watching a couple of birds dancing in the branches above, “however the further we go the less assured my eyes leave me.”
“I must admit I agree. This place looks nothing like the forest where we met Gandalf,” you announced, glancing down to the ground warily, but unlike the last time grass didn’t catch onto your ankles, only softly grazing the leather of your boots.
It wasn’t just the grass, in fact quite a lot had changed. From the lively sounds tinkling in the air to the gentle touch of summer breeze. From the roots calmly buried in the soft ground instead of standing up and threatening to trip an idle traveller to the soft rustle of leaves singing a hymn of the peaceful afternoon. And not only the material aspects, it was as if the very grim mood of this forest was gone.
“Do your hearts agree to call all of us lost wanderers? I would never accuse either of you of lack of belief, yet you leave me little other choice,” Legolas smiled amusedly.
His hands landed weightlessly on both Gimli’s back and yours, and pushed forward with surprising force. He guided you further through a gap in some thick currant bushes adorned with red berries and into a clearing flooded with sunshine.
“Here,” Legolas breathed out. “Watch it closely. Listen to the woods’ whispers. Feel the warmth and life. Smell the blossoms and the ripe fruits. What was once lethargic and gloom is now reborn to its former glory,” the elf took a few dancing steps forward and settled down gracefully in the tall grass. “The earth is green in the daylight again. Calad i nî dadwen*.” [The light that was comes back]
He intoned the last part like some line from an old romantic ballade, which almost made you chuckle. The sight of him joyful and lighthearted, sitting in the grass, forgetting about everything but the forest, brought easiness and a hint of mischief to your heart.
You moved closer to Gimli and hugged him from behind. Pressing your lips to the crown of his head. “I know the sun has already kissed you, love, but you wouldn’t decline me, right? Especially not when our little star is so busy being in love with nature.”
The dwarf chuckled contentedly and covered your hands with his own, tilting his head to the side to let you kiss his temple and beard covered cheek. Legolas paid the action no mind, leaning back on his elbows and letting the wind catch in his hair.
“It must be truly a significant change that occurred in this place, if he is still so serene instead of being green with envy,” you whispered with a smirk.
“An elf growing blind in broad daylight, what a miracle,” Gimli agreed and you couldn’t hold in the gay laugh.
