#aragorn oneshots

[thewulf]

Never a Burden || Legolas

Summary: Request: hiyaaa i have another legolas fic ideaaa! You write him soo well. How about reader who hasnt slept in a while and always offers to take watch. Legolas ofc notices after a bit and demands she doesnt take watch that night... Read Rest Here

A/N: Another one for my fav elf. Thanks always for the requests!!

Pairing: Legolas x Female Reader

Word Count: 3.1k +

TW: General LOTR triggers, anxiety, fear

Throwing out your bedroll you knew it would be a useless effort trying to sleep as it was so dark out. The stars were hiding behind a thick layer of cloud that had other plans for the night. The further along in the journey to Mordor the more your anxiety grew. Ever since the group was attacked by orcs not long back you couldn’t seem to fall asleep at night. You were left to sleep during the small breaks the Hobbits needed or when you got to sit on the horse.

The attack was weeks ago now. The lack of sleep and the constant moving was really starting to get to you. You’d do anything to be back in Rivendell under the elves protection. One of those elf beds would feel immaculate in this moment.

“I’ll take the first watch.” You yawned, speaking to the group as they huddled around the fire trying to keep warm.

Legolas looked up to you with skepticism in his eyes. He was the most observant of the group. He’d noticed you slept less than he had ever since the ten of them left Rivendell. He didn’t know you well. You’d come accompanying Boromir, but he quickly grew a liking to you. You were quiet and reserved, speaking only when you thought it was needed and always helping. Even him being an elf didn’t negate the fact he found you quite striking for both a non-ellon and a human altogether. That and you were far more intriguing than any other creature he’d come across in all his years across middle earth. How had the thirty-year-old mortal done that to him? What were you doing to him?

Legolas was a far departure from his father, King Thranduil, who had a disdain towards the human race. Instead, Legolas found humans, you more so, absolutely fascinating. How much the race managed to cram in their short lives. It exhausted him at the thought of what mortals went through. But it was their normal.

“Aye Lassie. Why don’t you let Legolas take the first watch. You’ve been up quite a bit, yeah?” Gimli spoke up after Legolas had confided him in of his worries over you. Usually, you were chatty and upbeat, but that personality Legolas had looked forward too had vanished all too quickly.

“Oh, it’s all right. Really. I’m not terribly tired.” You lied. You were exhausted but sleep just wouldn’t come.

Legolas shook his head, “I insist, Y/N. You’ve taken watch nearly every night for the last few weeks. You need a break.”

You bit your cheek trying to bite back your usual sharp tongue. He was just trying to be kind. Little did he know he was doing the opposite of what you wanted. You craved a distraction from the darkening thoughts in your mind that drove your fear and anxieties through the roof.

You gave up after a few hours. The snores of all the males around you irritating you more than soothing you too sleep at this rate. You got up from your bedroll and walked down the path to find Legolas. You knew he’d be displeased at your arrival but truly, you could not sleep. After a few moments of wandering in the dark it was he who found you. He had the advantage of being an elf and all.

“Whatever are you doing awake mellon nin?” It was like he appeared out of thin air startling you more than you wanted to admit. You spun around look up into his ever so blue eyes that shone bright in the darkness. Somehow they were striking even in the dead of the night.

“I said I could not sleep. Gimli’s snores are bothering me. I needed to be away.” You sighed in frustration.

Legolas took your hand like he had so many times before. You tried to ignore the way your heart raced at his touch. Needing to get over it, it wasn’t uncommon to have to touch or pull or shield another person or creature in the fellowship from time to time. It didn’t mean anything; it was just how things were. Legolas could never like a human like you. You’d be gone in the blink of an eye. It was probably funny for elves, little mortal crushes that they likely forgot about after some time.

“Come sit.” He pulled you down with him at the base of a large tree. Once you’d settled down beside him he continued, “What bothers you?”

You weren’t really going to tell him. That was far too embarrassing. You were supposed to be a fearless Ranger of Gondor. You’d been hand selected to travel with Boromir at request of his father, Denethor II. How could you deny such an honorable request? A female hand selected? You had a job to do, and you were going to do it well. Even if it quite literally killed you.

Instead, you shrugged, “Cannot sleep is all.”

Legolas wasn’t going to accept that as your answer, “Why not mellon nin?”

You turned your head to look at his, “I don’t know. Sleep has always been hard for me.” It was a lie even Legolas could see right on through.

He was quiet for a moment before pressing on a bit further, “You view me as your friend, no?”

You’d known him for a few months now after departing from Rivendell and naturally you’d grown close to him the quickest. Boromir was always a comfort as he reminded you so much of home, Minas Tirith. But Legolas brought out a different sort of bliss that drew you too him. He was funny, witty, sarcastic, and so different than any other elf you’d met in your almost thirty years in middle earth.

“Of course, I do Legolas. Why do you ask?” Maybe if you played dumb he wouldn’t press.

But you were wrong, “You can talk to me about what is bothering you. I have noticed you have been… off.” He paused looking over to you to see your reaction. Your eyes widened slightly at his realization of you sudden change. You should’ve known he would notice. He was far more observant than the common male you usually found yourself around in the mortal world, “I am worried for you mellon. I have not seen you smile in weeks. When was the last time you slept through the night?” He asked hoping you would open up to him for once. Legolas had found you to be particularly hard to crack. Most Rangers were but you didn’t seem like you’d ever budge. You’d been trained to be a stone wall and you were excelling at it.

You looked down feeling suddenly guilty for making him worry about you of all things. There were so many things that his attention needed to be on, not you and your emotions, “I cannot sleep. Not at night at least.” You yawned feeling the exhaustion overwhelming you, but your mind would not shut off even as you begged it.

Legolas nodded, motioning for you to continue, “I know this.” He said without judgement.

You let out a small sigh knowing you’d just have to tell him. He was never going to stop, not now, “Ever since the orc’s attacked us. I can’t seem to sleep. My head will not let me Legolas. I try, trust me I try so hard. And I am so tired. So tired I am afraid I have become a liability. What good will I be in battle if I can hardly handle my sword anymore. I am weak and tired and…” You felt the tears overwhelming your vision as you let it all out. Once the words had started it was like a waterfall had come out of your mouth.

Legolas ran a comforting hand up and down your back as you let it out. You wanted to run away from his touch as you had so many times before. You were a Ranger. Rangers had solo lives. You couldn’t get attached; it wasn’t fair to anybody let alone you. But damn, as his fingers traced up and down your back you knew you needed it. This life was lonely, and you were terribly touch starved. It felt so good. You knew his touch kept you from spiraling further into your own mind. Thankfully, the tears subsided before a full-blown anxiety attack took over your emotions.

Once your sniffles subsided he spoke up trying to continue to provide you the needed comfort, “I will let no harm befall you mellon nin.” He gave your shoulder a squeeze hoping it would provide you some additional comfort you needed. Legolas was no expert in elf emotion let alone human woman ones. But you seemed to be responding to his gentle advances positively so he concluded he must have been doing something correctly.

You sniffled knowing you probably looked awful under the tears that had slipped out. It had been so long since you cried. Not when you learned your mother had passed. Not when you’d been stabbed many times over training and being a Ranger. No, now when Legolas had finally got you to open up to him after months of trying.

“You cannot promise that Legolas.” Your voice sounded horse after letting more out than you had intended.

His eyes narrowed in on your puffy cheeks, raw from the crying, “I can, and I do, Ranger of Gondor.”

But you shook your head in response, “I do not wish to ask that of you Legolas. You need to look out for yourself and the Hobbits.”

“And you.” He only cocked his head to get a better look at you. He wasn’t shying away from the conversation like you were. It had become too difficult to look him in the eye at this point. You were too mortified by the breakdown and the now defense that was stemming from it.

He was as stubborn as you were, “Legolas you…”

But he stopped you by placing a hand on your arm, “I do not wish to offend. But you can hardly hold up your sword any longer. Do not think that has gone unnoticed by me nor Aragorn. You cannot protect yourself let alone Boromir. Not until you let yourself rest.”

You looked away once again in shame. Thinking you’d done an excellent job at hiding these exact ailments. Words were suddenly hard as you failed to come up with a sentence. What was the best way to admit how scared you were to sleep. How embarrassing for a literal Ranger. If anybody were judging, thankfully for you, they chose not to say a thing.

“As I said, I do not wish to offend you.” He said once more, this time a little softer as he dropped his hand from your arm leaving you aching for that touch that seemed to come so rarely these days.

“Hardly.” You swallowed your breath and took the moment to finally look at Legolas once again. He was studying your exhausted form before his icy blue eyes landed on yours. While you knew you couldn’t see him as well as he could see you, your eyes finally adjusted to the darkness. He was a vision even coated by the darkness of the night. You’d never been particularly fond of elves. You had always found them to be far too prim and proper for your rough lifestyle. But Legolas defied all your expectations by being exactly what you hadn’t expected him to be.

He let out a sigh knowing you weren’t going to say anything further, “Will you try to sleep?”

But you shook your head, “No. It just frustrates me. Laying there, listening to the rest of them snore away.”

The elf next to you contemplated something for a few moments before finally saying something, “Go grab your bedroll.”

“What?” That was the last thing you expected him to say.

“You will sleep here.” He spoke as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

There weren’t many excuses you could make as you just shook your head in disagreement, “I cannot do that…”

“Why not? I will help you sleep.” He stood from his spot offering a hand out for you to take. With slight hesitation you let him pull you up from your seated position on the base of the tree with a small pull.

“I do not wish to burden you with such small problems. We have much larger problems at hand is all.” You spoke out your final fear. Why should he care? All of middle earth was relying on your group to make it to Mordor to get rid of the ring. What was a little lack of sleep when orcs and evil could be ruling the world if they were unsuccessful.

His head snapped to yours with nothing but concern. An emotion he’d been wearing as he looked over you as of late, “You are not a burden. You are never a burden. It is a burden to see you not sleep. It is a burden to see you so weak when you are so strong. It is a burden that you have not come to me sooner mellon nin. Go get your bedroll and bring it here. I will help you sleep.”

Snapping your mouth shut you simply nodded to him, “I will be back momentarily.” Walking with haste you walked like a dog that had been kicked by its owner. Legolas had never been so outright with you before. You are never a burden… what had he meant of that?

When you had gotten back to him, very momentarily, he had already cleared out a space for you to sleep. Without saying much more you got into your bedroll knowing that sleep would be hard to come by, even away from the snoring of the males. Even getting all your fears out into the world you still knew sleep would never befall you.

“Close your eyes.” Legolas sat next to you being sure to keep his senses heightened as he helped you.

But before you did you needed to know one thing, “Legolas?”

“Yes?”

You turned your head towards him, “What did you mean I will never be a burden?”

He smiled a touch at your unusual vulnerability peeking through, “Exactly that mellon nin.” He began to brush through your knotted hair gently. His mother did this so many times when he was young to provide a sense of comfort. With the utmost gentleness he brushed out the knots from the long days of travel and lack of being able to wash, “I care for you very deeply, you know that. You are never a burden. You are my…” He paused wanting to say more but knowing it was not the right time. He was trying to get you to sleep not confess is true feelings, “friend. And I care for you. We care for you. We need you to care for yourself now.”

You hummed knowing he was right, “Okay. But… I am scared. Sleeping brings the terrors I cannot hide behind any longer.”

He shook his head continuing to stroke your hair, “I will fight them away. Fear not. Close your eyes. Trust me.”

You nodded closing your eyes beneath his gentle touch. Even as stubborn as you were his soft touch through your hair was already lulling you into a state you hadn’t seen in nearly three weeks. His tender touch was almost enough to lull you into a hopefully dreamless sleep. When he started softly humming a tune you’d so rarely heard you knew sleep would overcome you shortly.

“Thank you Legolas.” You mumbled unsure if the words were even coherent in your sleepy state.

“I will be here you when you wake, mellon nin.” He continued humming and brushing through your hair even after your breathes evened out letting the ellon know you were finally asleep. He continued to have his touch on you throughout the night knowing it was what your needed to feel safe.

When your eyes were hit with the sun the next morning Legolas had kept true to his word. He was sitting beside you with his eyes on your waking form. You’d have been more embarrassed by his eyes on had he not spoken up before you could.

“How did you sleep?”

Scooting to sit up next to him you gave him a quick nod, “Very well. I do not believe I woke up once. I feel… good.” Giving him a smile that he had so rarely seen form you as of late he grinned in return to yours.

“Good. We will do this again tonight.” He stood offering his hand to yours.

You took his hand once again relishing in the closeness the two of you were having so ardently over the last few hours, “You must sleep too.”

“Do not worry about me. I have had plenty. With you taking every watch as of late I have been able to rest.” He smirked knowing you wouldn’t have a good enough comeback for that one.

“If you insist…” You wanted to give him an out. He didn’t need to care for you. To watch over you. He had other, much more important, things to worry about.

“I do.”

Deciding it best to pack up you just looked to him after, “All right then. We will do this again tonight.”

He nodded with a small smile playing on his lips, “I have forgotten how agreeable you are once you have slept my lady.”

Your mouth dropped open at that backhanded compliment that came so naturally to your elven friends, “I am not that bad.”

He shook his head mindlessly placing his hand on your back guiding you back to camp as you were distracted by him, “Just less stubborn is all.” His grin only widened seeing you crinkle your nose up trying to come up with a comeback but coming up short.

“You test my patience elf.” You spoke with a hint of sarcasm coming from within. As much as he tested you, you needed him far more than you could imagine. He’d become somebody to lean and rely on. Somebody who could be there for you when it was so often the other way around. He promised you’d never be a burden to him.

He laughed that beautiful sound that made your heart race, “And you mine. But, I would have it no other way.” You shut your mouth as the two of you made your way to camp where the eight of them were sitting, waiting on the two of you. He must’ve let you sleep longer than normal because they were all awake and ready to go. But seemingly unfazed by your appearance with the elf. He must’ve done or said something. Making true to his word. You would never be a burden.

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[tobylix-blog]

Vita sine libertate nihil* - Aragorn x Reader

Content & Warnings: violence, attempted suicide, use of y/n, enemies-to-lovers trope Word count: 5.8k Summary: *Life without freedom is nothing. When the Gondorian army came to the CIty of Corsairs, Umbar didn't have enough sources to withstand the siege. Faced with the choice between surrender to the king and keeping your honour, you picked your blade.

A/n: This is based on request for enemies-to-lovers imagine. Well, turned out a bit more than just imagine. I'm going to write more stories with the same trope for other characters (Legolas, Boromir and Gimli are in process)

The heartbeat pounded through your head like a bell, the blood seemed thick as it pulsed in your veins. The consciousness was slowly slipping away from the grasp. Gentle blackness covered the edges of your sight. Even though blurred with agony the view of the pale towers and walls calmed you. You were to accept death in the City of Corsairs, Umbar Baharbêl, along with your people, as strong hands pulled the silks tight around your throat.

When the darkness was finally there to take you, you felt a strong hit land on your back. The first, unintentional inhale was sharp, setting your air depraved lungs on fire, while you scrambled off the floor. Your obscured vision focused on the shining mithril helmets. Gondorians.

They came to take over the city, destroy what was left of the mighty Umbar fleet and kill all who resisted. You had no power to stop them, but you had enough to not let them take your life. At least so you had thought. But now the slave, who was supposed to strangle you, was lying at their feet beheaded with one impatient swing of a sword.

“One concubine is better than none at all. What a wild custom to kill them all as the enemy storms the castle,” one of the men shook his head.

You felt his grip on your hair. The tug wasn't as strong as it was disgusting. The very thought of following these people from the North raised a wave of rebellion in your pained heart. You'd rather died before your eyes ever set upon the beauty of the sea than became a slave of Gondor.

With every bit of resolve there was you drew a narrow, curved dagger from your hip and stabbed the soldier's leg, just behind the knee between the plates of his greaves and the edge of his chainmail. The painful hit made him let go of your hair and the unexpectedness of the attack was enough for you to get away to the window.

Your back pressed to the cold corner of the wall, the fallen city just behind your shoulder, you stood against the soldiers. You couldn't fend them off, you wouldn't even buy time, even more so now that there was not a soul to buy that time for. But you still had a chance to win for the last time.

You raised the blood covered dagger and, under the multiple tense gazes, plunged it between your ribs aiming to get it right through the heart.

Darkness enfolded you before the Gondorians comprehended what happened and even before any sign of pain reached your mind. Blissful was that darkness. You seized the last straw and pulled yourself out of the living hell.

______________________________________________________________

Diffused light filled the space. You could almost feel its soft palms stroking your face. The view was in the same haze as the thoughts. For a whole century you were only looking up into the white nothingness above you. Or perhaps only for a few minutes.

Senses were coming back slowly yet surely. First was the vision. After the light was hidden away by a few flashes of blackness – you realised that it was simply blinking – the room became a clear image before your eyes. The ceiling that you mistook to be white was a pale grey surface. The light was streaming through the tall and narrow window in the wall on the opposite side. There wasn't much in the chamber. A couple of chests with candles on top of them, a chair by the window and a bed. The sense of touch came back next. Soft bedding beneath your fingers, tight embrace of bandages around your chest beneath a plain chemise.

You raised on your elbows slightly, pushing the pillows further against the headboard. As you were sitting up you felt the stinging in the flesh under the bandages and heard the subtle rustle of the fabrics. Hearing was coming back too. In the silence of the room you could pick out some retreating footsteps in the hallway behind the wall.

Smells returned the last. And with them came the difficult realisation – you were still alive and most definitely not in Umbar or even Harad. You couldn't find any of the familiar smells in the air – there was no thick oily scent, no aroma of spices tickling the nose and no salty fragrance of the sea. There were little to no smells at all. At least none that stroke any familiarity within.

The door creaked unpleasantly. You winced. The sound echoed around the room and retreated through the window cowardly, leaving you behind with a man who entered. You had never seen him before, but the silver glow of a diadem in his dark locks and the sight of guards standing outside the door were enough to understand his position.

The king had come to mock the defeated enemy, hadn't he? To laugh in your face and rise further on your defeat. Your teeth gritted at the thought.

“I was informed that you have finally woken up. Your wound was so severe that I feared you would never come back to the world of living,” he said. His intonation seemed rather plain as he looked down on you.

“It is not wise to dread death. Particularly the death of an enemy,” you remarked.

After closing the door the king took a chair from the wall and approached your bed. His eyes never left your face, his gaze calm and measured.

“I would have not chosen such a painful way to end your life,” he said quietly and sat in the chair he took, “But you would rather perish through suffering than become my captive, wouldn't you?” There was a trace of a sad amusement in his voice.

“There is no honour in one, who surrenders at their own will.”

“Honour? Yes, it is a word that can do the most beautiful and the most terrible things to people.” His gaze roamed across the chamber until his grey orbs caught the light from the window. He closed his eyes and inhaled slowly before turning back to you. “Tell me, were you the one who gave the order to execute all the concubines in the harem? My men mistook you for one of them, but the attire and the dagger spoke otherwise.”

You smiled bitterly. “Your people are quite ignorant of our customs. One of them presumed his hand was worthy of touching my hair. Now, with every step, he is reminded of that mistake.”

His eyes narrowed dangerously. “You may be the scion of some noble house in the south, but you possess no more justification for your cruelty than my own soldiers do. Do not forget yourself.”

“All that remains of me is my dignity. Yet you seek to deprive me even of this. You are a cruel king, Elessar,” you spat out lifting your head.

“Your words sting like wasps in the late summer. That usually proves as a sign of weakness. Though perhaps you still possess enough strength to pursue the path of diplomacy and share your name.”

“Diplomacy?” you shook your head in disbelief. “The time for diplomacy was over, when your ships dropped anchor in our harbour.”

He stood up without a single word of response. The silence was eloquently deafening – the encounter, or rather, the audience was over. The king pushed the door open, sending a draft through the chamber. “But perhaps, there is little honour in being called 'prisoner',” you said before he took the last step to the hallway. “[Y/N] would be more pleasant.”

You sensed him nodding rather than saw the movement. The door slammed shut behind the monarch, and you were at last left alone.

______________________________________________________________

The worst thing about being a royal prisoner was that it wasn't particularly unpleasant. You weren't tortured or even interrogated after the first visit of the king. You stayed in a regular room of what seemed to be the house of some nobleman situated high above the White City. You had all the necessities provided. Many of the commoners would be grateful to lead such life until the end of their days. But you utterly hated it. You hated the way your physical well-being mismatched your mind's suffering. How your heart pained from the thought of living in captivity, while your back sank into the soft pillows. How your thoughts raced around the man who took away your honour as your body healed by his efforts.

You pushed away the half finished plate. You couldn't swallow another bite. Honestly, the food was probably the worst part of the king's hospitality so far. Too plain to your taste and hardly seasoned. As your gaze drifted from the dull knife to the mountain peaks that were not hidden by the clouds anymore, a knock came to the door. A maid came in to take away the plates. It would all be too much like you were but a guest of the house if not for a guard who stood in the door frame observing closely.

You sat back calmly in the chair watching the beautiful scenery and paying the servant and the man less attention than a fly would get. They remained silent as well. Probably had an order restricting them from talking to a prisoner. Or prisoners. You weren't entirely sure that you were the only one, whom Elessar kept captive.

When your thoughts turned back to the king, you noticed that the maid and the guard became quite nervous, looking out into the corridor every now and then, and left shortly. Puzzled by their behaviour, you took a few steps away from the window and closer to the door. Muffled noises of speech and footsteps gave away the commotion in the hallway. You shook your head and took a step back.

Just in time to not be hit by a door swinging open. The king took such a long stride inside the room that he ended up right in front of you, a mere feet between the faces. Your expression seemed rather calm save for the raised eyebrows while he looked disturbed in a way.

“Is there trouble in your kingdom, your majesty?” you said as the door closed behind his back, certainly not without a helping hand.

Elessar noticed the mocking tone right away, but let it slide for now. “There is a matter for discussion.”

“Well then, I am all attention,” you responded, and sauntered towards the window.

He took a good pause before beginning his speech. “My first and foremost interest as a king is to bring peace to the realm of people. Therefore the peace treaty with Harad has been signed on terms of lands North from river Harnen returning under my rule and Umbar becoming a neutral land. While-”

“While the City of Corsairs is to be deprived of the military fleet, and its walls must be razed to the ground,” you cut him off, quotation from the official letter dropping off your lips like venom. “I am well aware of your interests in the South. Have you come to vaunt the great achievements of your army in my homeland?”

He winced. “I am not the monster you paint me, [Y/N]. My intentions are to bestow peace not cause deeper wounds. Umbar rejected the suggested terms, and that is why I had to resort to violence. Had your lords agreed to those suggested conditions, there would be no war and no pain.”

“And no walls, and no ships, and no freedom. What a great life!” You exclaimed, and turned away to the wall hiding the overwhelming resentment. “The sea is our life and purpose. Our ships are our honour. Without them there is only so much we could do. And having no defences against the threats from the land... We would be no better than slaves to Harad until we all become them.” Your voice sounded muted in the chamber, that seemed to be shrinking around you as your heartbeat quickened.

“There would not be any slavery! And there will not be now,” Elessar replied firmly. “Neutrality of Umbar means its freedom from foreign influences. If any danger hovers over it, the army of Gondor will set out on a march for the cause at the first call.”

His promise rang with genuineness as he took a step closer to you.

“You say so, and yet I watched the ships burn in the harbour, and I stay here. What is there left for us? The plain taste of scraps from your tables? Memories of the past slowly fading into fairytales?”

“Your people will be alive and free, I swear. Once the rebellion comes to an end there will not be a single soldier from Gondor in Umbar Baharbêl,” he spoke. “And you can aid the cause.” He moved to the window, standing side by side with you. “I see your wish to help your people, to alleviate their hardships. Right now is the time when your wish may become reality. The war is ongoing, but there is a possibility it will end soon. With your assistance it might be a matter of weeks if not days before Umbar settles in peace.”

You shot a glance to his side. His face held the same expression as when he had entered. Somewhat troubled, but at the same time assured. There was no hint of guile in his steely eyes and the straight line of lips pressed together, which allowed you to take another step in the diplomatic exchange.

“So what would be my course of action were I to agree with your proposal?”

“There has been a significant growth in number of outlaws – thieves and rogues – since I overturned the advance of the Black fleet. Whoever managed to run away turned against my rule by harming the small folk. Recently many of those have joined soldiers, fleeing from the City of Corsairs. They formed the rebellious groups, squads even,” he explained. “They are the issue. While there is no significant force in their possession, they know the land and remain hidden from my soldiers. But their presence and untimely attacks obstruct the path to peace in the region. They stir up the locals, calling fishermen and villagers to their banners, at times against the men's will... But no matter the price their resistance holds no meaning. In a year they will have no power to pursue the same goals and will turn back into thieves.” His hand pressed heavily against the windowsill.

“But that means another year of occupation and food shortage for common people. And you can help to stop this now. It would take you so little to relieve Umbar of suffering... Only a few of your words. A letter. A message to those, who still hold the weapons against Gondor. Order them to surrender, and your homeland will once again be free.”

You took his words into consideration. On one hand, he hadn't revealed all of the reasons. That the raids, while not being particularly dangerous for the Gondorian army, were still a threat to separated squads. That getting those rebels to capitulate would cut the losses and set up a secure basement to establish further diplomatic relationships. On the other hand, he was right in the assumption that resistance wasn't entirely supported by the commoners and mostly led to prolonged famine and downfall of trade. That reason alone would be enough to agree if you were the sole ruler. However Umbar hadn't been like many other kingdoms in terms of governance. All the major decisions including those of declaring war and signing peace were to be made by a council of lords.

In times of need the only remaining lord (or the one assumed to be the last living) would be able to take responsibility in full and declare his will as the rightful decision. But you were not a member of the council. You were a child of one. Moreover, your father happened to be the Master of Temples. His power was grand over the civil life of the City. If any edifice was to be built, his consent would be required. If any celebration was planned, it would be under his control. If the markets were set up, they would be watched closely by him. Even the way slaves lived in the City was his concern. That was the very reason behind your arrival to harem in the palace of Lords. As his successor you executed his orders.

But being a successor wasn't enough. In given circumstances you could only take the power in your hands if the council in entirety was dead along with their immediate heirs. Then and only then would your decision be considered legitimate.

“I cannot accept your proposal, Elessar,” you spoke, your voice quiet and firm as you explained the situation carefully. Every new piece of information was falling on the shoulders of the king with such loud noises that they echoed through the chamber. “I do not have the power you seek. You saved the wrong person,” you finished at last.

The afternoon sunlight enveloped the room in the thick blanket of silence. You stood straight with visible tension in every muscle and refrained from looking anywhere but outside the window. There were the mountains. Their tall peaks tearing up the few clouds. There was the city unfolding down at some ungodly sharp angle. Its streets hidden from view by more and more stone walls. There were the vast plains. Pale green of the late summer stretching beyond the horizon. But even though your eyes remained fixed within the window frame, you couldn't help but notice Elessar watching you. His gaze felt heavy as the stream of a waterfall, making you tense ever more to push against it.

You both remained motionless for a while. Until suddenly the atmosphere changed with a dry chuckle. You turned sharply to see the king smirking.

“It is truly the rarest of occasions to find a person, who could speak of their worthlessness with such dignity,” he explained, and you surprisingly realised he didn't mean to insult you in the slightest. It was but a statement of his genuine amusement.

You raised your eyebrows in return. “It is rather delightful to see you so unaffected by the failure.”

“My own council advised against the attempt of negotiations on the matter,” he replied. “So finding compassion in you is more than I should have expected from this venture. Our inability to put an end to the situation sooner is dispiriting, but the price of it will not be unbearable for my people, therefore I must accept it.”

Despite the careful acting you saw right through his words and understood that he did in fact hope for your assistance. Moreover the unfortunate result weighed on him noticeably, but he chose not to show it.

“Now that this matter has been settled…” he paused, pondering how to phrase it better. “I cannot let you leave, but I hope for your stay to deem bearable.”

You watched him walk out of the chamber, and each step restored his composure and regal facade. There was a similarity with the ancient Numenorean kings, as the light cast sharp shadows on his face. The image brought uneasiness at how truly different your current positions were. If you had been less honourable, you could've lied your way out — exchanged the potential influence of your name for personal freedom. But you held dignity in high regard and spoke truthfully. You were losing your value as a prisoner. And you were well aware of that. It wouldn't come as a surprise if your next bed would be a pile of dry grass in some forgotten cell beneath the castle. The only source of hope was the king's promise.

______________________________________________________________

The next day began with an unexpectedly early visit. You were still in bed as you tended to sleep longer hours to keep your mind off worries and let the days pass faster. There was a knock, more like a full-blown hit on the door, and then a guard entered. Same armour as all of them wore, but his face was unfamiliar to you and his arrogance was completely unmasked, which led you to an assumption that he held some higher position, a highborn officer most likely. Surprisingly enough he brought in a pile of books, their leather covers too delicate in comparison to the metal of his breastplate.

“A gift from His Majesty*, the King,” the man announced putting the whole pile down on the chest with a loud thud. He eyed your form covered in a thin chemise and a blanket with contempt before spitting out, “prisoner.”

Seeing the way he was on edge from simply being in your presence and fulfilling the royal order in your favour, you couldn't miss the chance. You practically jumped out of the bed, and in a moment you stood a mere foot away from him.

“I understand my image must seem divine to you, however I happen to be a human. And as such I have a name, [Y/N]. Do me a favour and memorise it. Perhaps, that is not beyond your feeble abilities.” You spoke confidently and clearly, looking down at him despite being physically shorter. “It is rather simple to put mind to use, once you first succeed. Do not fear... Though fears come from knowledge, alas-”

“Keep your dirty mouth shut, prisoner! Don't test my patience.” The agitated response came just as you had expected.

“Is that the extent of Gondorian wit? To reply with insults to fair advice? Should have expected as much from the northern barbarians. All swords and no quill. I hope you have at least learnt how to read, poor thing.”

His fists clenched as he mustered another sentence. “Don't you dare. My family has served the High Kings before Umbar became a thing. My mother comes from the line of Rohan kings-”

“Oh, Rohirrim? Those that sleep with their horses?”

The chamber blurred before your eyes. You winced from the explosive pain in your nape. It took but a moment for the man to grab you by the shoulders and push against the wall with brutal force. Strength truly was an undeniable trait of his.

“You bastard! Take your words back!” he practically shouted.

“The truth cannot be contained,” you hissed back with a growing smirk.

One of his hands slid up to your throat. “I'll make you regret.”

“You are too weak for that,” you managed with the little air remaining in your lungs as his grip tightened. It felt like the blood filled your head slowly to the brim, pressure growing with every beat of heart, low hum in your ears cutting off sounds like cotton. You could still see the man's face red with anger, his mouth falling open with more threats and curses. Your lips stretched into a wicked pained grin.

But then it was all over. His hand retracted from your neck as hastily as it came. He stepped back and turned around. Through fading humming you heard his voice. “-it! See, I already let the scum go. And mind your tongue! No subordination in this damned place.”

As the man walked away you noticed a young face painted with worry peeking through the door frame. Another guard, probably the one, who was on duty for the night. He was torn between the desire to ask you something and the order restricting conversations with prisoners.

You peeled your back from the wall and croaked. “Close the door.”

The boy — you could hardly call him an adult — fulfilled your wish with eager haste. You both had the same thought — “Out of sight, out of mind”. You collapsed on the bed, rubbing the crimson marks on your neck with a dissatisfied sigh.

______________________________________________________________

Candlelight was hardly enough to keep reading but you still continued. Sentence after sentence of history written down by someone's precise hand brought peace to your mind. Old names, some familiar and some new, greeted you from the yellowed pages. Great deeds and political decisions carefully recorded in ink invited you to the ancient halls of Annuminas. You stopped mid-sentence as the door creaked open. The little flames danced in a draft. You looked up from the page and over the shoulder.

Who would have thought? The king came to visit you. Now that was quite intriguing. You assumed he wouldn't have much interest in talking to you after the previous meeting resulted in nothing. However, he had caught you by surprise twice since then. First time with the books, and now he was in your chamber himself.

You leaned back in your seat. The flickering of lights slowed down and then stopped altogether, illuminating your neck strewn with bruises. Violet and blue in the centre, they faded into a pale green towards the edges, looking like some bizarre necklace. 

“What is that?” Elessar appeared genuinely puzzled as he approached you, his hand, unbeknownst to him, raised to trace the outlines of the brightly coloured spots.

You fought back the urge to pull away from his touch. “Results of an unsuccessful provocation. Either I have lost the sharpness of tongue or that of my perception.”

Seeing the amount and noticeable size of the bruises, the king assumed your inflammatory was rather successful. He received contradictory reports regarding the incident and bore hope that it was nothing of importance, until his gaze fell upon evidence of the contrary. The view rose a wave of resentment much higher than he anticipated. His first thought was to find that officer and punish him with a good old exile under the name of “thorough inspection of our borderline fortifications”. But soon came a much darker understanding.

“You intended to have your life taken,” he said. His intonation half-questioning as his fingers retracted from you neck. “I could understand your motives when you spilled your blood for the glory of your city. But now... Is it truly so unbearable to stay here?”

You frowned and closed the book abruptly. “Bearable is not the proper word for the given circumstances. Many would leave behind their lives to exchange places with me. However the capture in itself is a blow to one's honour,” you took a breath, before looking straight into the grey eyes of the king. “I do not resent you for the war, even less so for the victory. It pains me to know that my folk has to suffer more hardships, but that is the way of the world �� if you had not defeated them, someone else would. And yet you took more than the land. The custom commands me to seize my life from your hands, Elessar. To get revenge for that last trophy at any price.”

He shook his head with a sorrowful expression. “This custom is a torment for both. The sole existence of it is tragic.”

You shrugged at his remark. It seemed completely ordinary to you. The sky is above, the water is wet, the honour goes before life. It had been a law for generations before you and would become one for many more. All the more strange appeared the sheer confusion of your royal companion.

“If that would be of any relief, you may consider yourself my guest. Being a guest does not defile honour, correct?” Elessar spoke up again. Undeniable hope of his suggestion lingered in the air.

“With all due respect, it is rather difficult to deceive oneself in such a matter when one spends their whole days inside the same chamber,” you retorted with a bitter smile.

“I had the intention of allowing you more freedom of movement within this house once you heal. Though it happened sooner than I expected.”

This confession took you by surprise. Not the words. On their own they had little value. But the meaning they held and his sincere tone. You couldn't place his true intention as your gut insisted that the king was honest.

“You may roam the halls of this house at your wish, [Y/N]. Leave these chambers at any hour and return whenever. Spend days in places that please your heart,” he put a hand on top of a book pile beside you, “get accustomed with the library. There are many more than just these few tomes.”

He spoke as if directly from his heart, earnest to ensure your convenience in this place. His intonation, the subtle glimmer of his eyes, his open stance didn't match the impression you had of him. But the facts all fell into place like a mosaic. Elessar saved your life and – if his words were trustworthy – did so in order to help. He attempted to reach out to your people and propose peace repeatedly. He saw to it that conditions of your imprisonment were satisfactory, even when you proved to not have much political value to him. And it didn't get past you how his face contorted in displeasure at the sight of the bruises. He took your injuries very personally. Not in the way any jailor would.

______________________________________________________________

Season changes in Minas Tirith affected lighting the most. You learnt that in a span of a year. When summer gave way to autumn, stronger winds began to rise. With the first days of Ringarë** fireplaces were constantly kept lit to ensure that coldness and moisture remained outside. As spring finally came and then so did summer you felt more familiar with the weather becoming warmer and calmer. But even so nothing changed as much as the sun did. At least in your eyes. Plain white light of the ending summer was replaced with contrasts of golden dawns and gloomy days, which in their time gave way to blood-red winter sunrises and bluish light filling the streets after noon. At last when nature began to stir from slumber you noticed how the rays turned warmer in colour.

For a solid year you had been a guest of this foreign land. A guest, that's right. Ever since you had first set foot outside of the house, it was getting increasingly harder to deem yourself a prisoner. By the king's order you could go wherever your heart desired, as long as you had some escort. Growing up as a noble had you accustomed to such measures, so a guard following you through the city streets was but a tiniest distraction. In the eyes of the strangers you looked no different than any courtier – well-dressed, eloquently-spoken and accompanied by a guard.

The more time passed the less differences you felt yourself. Beside permitting you more freedom and sending various gifts: rare books, elegant garbs and some undoubtedly exquisite trinkets, Aragorn – it wasn't long before he asked you to address him by his old name – visited you frequently and counselled on important matters. As well as some matters of little importance. You soon discovered that his interest in conversing with you rarely depended on the issue at hand. In fact he was rather eager to spend time in your company even when he only had so little of that time.

And slowly but surely you discovered the same eagerness in yourself.

At first you attributed your growing softness for Aragorn to the fact that he brought you news from your homeland. How the revolt died down by the time winter came. How a new council of lords was established. How the Gondorian army was slowly leaving Umbar. And how their provisions remaining on the land were distributed among the locals by the appointed Master of Temples. How the merchant ships began to fill the harbour instead of the military fleet.

But the time passed and you knew better than to believe your own lies. The way you couldn't tear your gaze away from the king as he walked you through the court. The way you imitated his manner of speech to please him. The way you accepted his gifts without as much as a second thought. All these undeniable facts burnt your self-deception attempts to ashes. You were seeking Aragorn's attention just as much as he was seeking yours.

______________________________________________________________

Despite the great weather of the early morning in the still, half-asleep city Aragorn insisted on remaining inside. His request came unexpectedly, but you complied with it. At this 'ungodly hour' – as servants often called the time you chose to begin your days – you were practically the only people awake in the whole house. 

“The South has settled mostly. Whatever work remains here can be entrusted to the Prince of Ithilien,” he began uneasily as his hands squeezed the bundle he held close to his chest. “Therefore I must be taking the road to Annuminas.”

“You mean to restore the old capital?”

He nodded in response. “Both Gondor and Arnor need their king. Now is the turn of the Northern Kingdom. It had remained in ruin for far too long…”

It was reasonable. If Aragorn wished to reunite and restore the Two Kingdoms, he would need to grant attention to lands of Eriador. You sighed silently. People called him 'the Renewer' and now he did exactly what the prophecy foretold. But you couldn't shake off the longing to keep him close. He became a habit that you didn't want to leave behind. Even more so since you were the one to stay, while he was going to distant lands.

“...before I leave,” his voice cut through your thoughts, “I intend to return this to you.”

Soft glimmer of metal in his hands drew your attention. As he unfolded the fabric, you realised what it was exactly. The king held your own dagger. You would recognize that shape and ornamented handle anywhere. You reached out and wrapped your fingers softly around the decorated sheath.

“However I have a condition. You must promise that you will only use it to protect your life from now on,” he said both softly and firmly.

You looked into his eyes filled with expectation. “I can't make such a promise.”

As his expression melted into one of chagrin, you lifted your other hand to cup his face. The warmth of his skin against yours sent shivers down your spine, causing you to lean closer. “I might need it to protect your life, too,” you whispered practically against his parted lips.

For a brief moment Aragorn remained still, before he closed the remaining inches. You could sense his profound relief in the way he kissed – breathlessly and earnestly. The action finally put you both on the same page and pushed away idle apprehensions. There was an oath and a prayer in the movement of your lips.

When you pulled back, his hand on your shoulder and the cold of metal beneath your fingers served as the only anchors to physical reality. Your eyes glued to his keen grey ones and blind to everything else, you spoke.

“Allow me to follow you North, my King.” ______________________________________________________________

* – I couldn't find or remember what titles of respect are used to address kings in Middle-Earth. If you have some better idea, please share

** – Closest equivalent to December in New Reckoning

[rivendell-poet]

Hey! I love your work and I was wondering is you could do a Dark Aragorn x reader using this prompt: "I'm not jealous, you're just mine." If not, that's totally okay, but thanks so much anyway.

Hi, and thanks so much! Sorry it's taken so long for your request, and hopefully you enjoy it. As for darkness it definitely has underlying themes, and I was writing it with 'dark' in mind - but it's also not super dark/I wouldn't say it's leaning into yandere vibes, so hopefully it's still enjoyable <3

Also, massive thanks to @hastyhobbit for beta-ing this fic for me and all her suggestions

❝𝐃𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐞❞ « one-shot »

Pairing : Aragorn X Reader

Wordcount : 2.1k

TWs : Dark-ish undertones, but certainly not yandere | Reader is described with only gender-neutral terms/no outfit or looks description

Summary : As king, Aragorn can't spend as much time with you as he desires. As his betrothed, you're often more desired by his court than he would like. But the spring ball is a time to dance with you (at least that's what he had wanted to happen).

It’s understandable that Aragorn has been stressed the past few months, the pressure not only of the ring-war but of becoming king. He has people to help him, of course, but you can see when it weighs on him. How he’ll come to your chambers after a meeting and sigh, stare off into the distance when he thinks no-one else is watching. But you’re always there for him, and you always will be. Coming over to him with a gentle touch, or just the reminder that he has support. From looking at his schedule you know he’s had hours of back-to-back meetings, so when he comes into your chambers it isn’t surprising that he looks tense.

“Aragorn?” The question is light, simply to find out if he needs you or not. And, as it often does, his gaze slightly softens when he sees you - crossing the gap and holding you in his arms, head gently resting on yours.

“My love.” His voice is soft, vulnerable in a way he only is around you, “I missed you.”

“I missed you too.” The smile the words bring to his face make you light up as well, and he hugs you slightly tighter before releasing you and sitting on a chair to begin to get out of his formal outfit.

“How was your day?” Aragorn always enjoys hearing about it, no matter how mundane it is. He’ll always listen, questioning at the right points or laughing just when you want him too. It helps him relax, after a long day, and it helps him know that you’re safe. After all, he wants to know what you’ve been doing from you as well, not just idle gossip. As you tell him about your day he’s as engaged as he always is, never seeming to drop.

There’s only one point when the smile on his face falls, and he’s thankfully facing away from you. It’s when you mention how you’ve been spending more time with Lord Beregin. Aragorn knows that you can spend your time however you want, and that includes spending time with whomever you choose, but the fact that it’s that man puts him in an unpleasant mood. He wouldn’t trust Beregin to file paperwork for him, let alone have him around his betrothed. But he doesn’t mention it, just glad that you change the subject quickly.

You can tell something upsets Aragorn, the way he becomes slightly more enclosed and brooding, but when you ask he reassures you it’s just the endless meetings, and the lords that seem to forever need his opinions. That you have nothing to be concerned about, and he’ll always tell you if it’s anything major. There’s something off, but by the time you wonder if you should ask the two of you are already in bed, his arms around you. It’s safe, and you go to sleep contented.

When you wake up, you remember why you were excited for this day. A spring ball, the second of its kind and a new tradition for Gondor, is to be put on, although that’s not what you’re truly excited about. It’s the people who will be there; representatives of Rohan, lords of Gondor, and even some of the Fellowship. Aragorn can see your excitement, and it ends up rubbing off on him. Although he’s mostly looking forward to dancing with you. As his day of work finally comes to an end, the sight of you in your formal wear is more than enough to get him to smile.

You’re wearing a mixture of his and Gondor’s colours, just as he is, and when he offers you his hand to lead you to the ballroom he can feel the wedding band on your finger. It’s small, but you can feel the comfort it brings him, and the steady weight of his own. You can hear the pride in his voice as he welcomes everyone to the ball, when he welcomes them on behalf of the both of you. And the fact it’s the two of you together is what he’s most happy about.

Like always, he’s whisked away and confronted by diplomats of all kinds. You try to stay by him, but as yet another approaches he gives you a chaste kiss. “Go, talk to others.”

With his permission you soon slip away, and to your pleasant surprise you’re quick to run into friends. After the third time watching Éowyn and Faramir dance together, they notice how sadly you’re looking on. Éowyn gives a knowing glance to her husband before tactfully disappearing, and so Faramir offers his hand to you, you've been friends for almost as long as you’ve been in Gondor, you feel comfortable taking it. Besides, the song playing is a light one - designed for you to swap partners every one and a half rotations. The two of you have just enough time together for you to be reminded of the dance, and start to smile, when the song demands you switch.

You’re so caught up in trying to remember the dance, to focus on the footsteps and making sure you haven’t missed anything, that you don’t fully recognise your next two partners. Just the blur of footwork, the laugh as they dip you slightly before the music requires you to swap again. While switching you hear a sharper note at the start of the beat, an indicator that the song is changing. But when you end up in the new partner's arms you recognise them instantly - the slight callouses, the way he holds you closer to him. You’re dancing with Aragorn.

The first one and a half rotations go by quickly, but you’re glad that you won’t be swapping. There’s a brief period of downtime as the musicians arrange themselves, a melody still being carried, but preparing for the next musical number.

“I thought you weren’t going to dance?” You probe, although you’re in no way opposed to him joining you.

“I thought you wouldn’t be either.” Something in his tone is slightly off, but not enough for anything to be truly wrong. Then he takes a breath and his smile returns, “Well, may I have this next dance with you?”

“My king.” You bow slightly, rewarded by his light laugh, before the music starts to play and he takes your arm. 

The first few steps are slow, and when he finally pulls away from you you can feel his touch linger on your arm for a second more. And then, he bows in front of you, waiting for a second and watching you do the same, quickly pulling you into a ballroom hold. His hand rests gently on your waist as he holds you, both of you moving in circles, him dipping you ever-so-gently, before moving a few steps with you. Repeating the process, twirling you again - but never letting go of your hand, keeping the two of you close.

He speeds up when the music does, before the moment of silent trust when he takes you gently by the waist and raises you above him. You smile at the security in his arms as he lifts you, the music floating around you before Aragorn brings you back to him. Always back to him. The song comes to a gentle stop, and he unwraps his arms from you before you ask if he’ll join you for another dance. There’s a little conflict in his eyes, gaze flickering to the lords, before it shifts back to you, “Of course we can dance together again, my love.”

The next dance is just as beautiful as the first, another waltz-like dance with just the two of you again. As he leads you across the room a smile comes on both of your faces, as the music dies down again the smile he holds is genuine. Straightening, you can tell by his gaze that he needs to talk to diplomats again. And you can tell by the way he’s still holding onto you that he doesn’t want to leave you either. Another beat passes before his hand slips out of yours, a regretful look as he bows, “Join me soon?”

“I shall.” You promise, grateful to remain on the dancefloor. In the time you’ve spent together almost everyone has acquired a partner, and you’re just wondering who you can choose - trying to remember who wouldn’t cause a breach of etiquette - when Lord Beregin bows before you.

He holds out his hand to you, standing up before asking, “May I have this dance?”

You know he’s part of the king’s council, at least the main one, and so you know it’s safe to dance with him. Taking his hand, you allow yourself to smile. “Of course.”

The dance passes quickly, although not quite as smoothly. Lord Beregrin is a good dancer - and nothing in the music has changed - but it isn’t quite the same. The natural feeling, the complete assurance you have with Aragorn, can’t quite be replicated. And as nice as the dance is, you’re thankful that the next is another one where partner swapping is required. Dancing with others is still enjoyable, but as the music softens again you step away, searching for Aragorn again. It isn’t exactly hard to find him, and it’s rather easy to see the way a smile forms when he sees you approaching. Coming to him you listen to the conversation previously, giving your input when necessary, and Aragorn continues to stay by your side. 

Between the diplomats and the speechless, there isn’t time to speak to your husband - or at least not as privately as you’d like - but the almost lack of address is slightly worrying. It’s something you try not to worry about, but something that gets slightly worse as more and more people leave. The evening is a success, and part of that is making sure guests leave with a perfect impression, but surely between leaving with people there could be a moment for the two of you. And there isn’t, quite.

Aragorn still stays by your side as he always does, but to your annoyance there’s always someone else. Eventually the bells strike, a signal of finality for everyone to leave, and the feeling there’s something off doesn’t quite go away as you walk up to your shared chambers. Some words are exchanged, but they’re hollow. As if you’re a diplomat as well, clear that something is on his mind. Entering the chambers you begin to take off your formal clothes, giving a slight groan as you try and find the buttons yet again.

“Let me help you.” Aragorn’s voice is quiet, but the affection you’d been missing is there, and it’s reassuring to feel his presence. His fingers begin to take off the outer garments, buttons finally being free as the two of you can escape and let yourselves drop court formalities.

For the first minute you simply relax, savouring his company and enjoying the lack of tension in the air. As the first layer finally sheds, you ask the question. “You seemed… more distant, at the end of the ball. Is there something the matter?”

You know there is, but it’s still polite to ask. You can feel himself tense for a second, before his body relaxes again. “I am fine. You don’t need to worry yourself.”

“You don’t need to lie to me.” There’s no malice in your voice as you turn around, facing Aragorn. You can see him taking you in again, the slight conflict in his eyes as he doesn’t immediately speak.

“You dancing with…” He pauses for a second, “Lord Beregrin. If I could, I wouldn’t have that man on my council. Let alone dancing with you.”

“It’s-” The idea of the king of Gondor being concerned about one of his council members is so foreign to you that you pause for a second. “Nothing happened, I have no interest in him. Or anyone I danced with except you.”

“I have complete faith in you.” Both of you have taken steps to close the distance, and Aragorn takes your hand in his. “It is in others that I do not.”

Reasonably, he’s just caring about you. But something in you still doesn’t melt into his embrace immediately. “I wouldn’t let anything happen.”

“Meleth nîn…” Aragorn takes a second to breathe, “I know you would never. But men do not need such things to happen to get ideas.”

“Are you…” A thought hits you, and you lean in. Almost teasingly. “Are you jealous?”

“I would have been if you were talking like this.” His voice gets lower as well, close enough that he’s almost talking into the nape of your neck. “I’m not jealous. You’re just mine.”

A/N : Hope everyone enjoyed, and that I managed to get a decent mix of good characterisation while being dark enough. Or that I even managed to make it dark. Thanks so much for reading <3

« masterlist » thank you for reading *･༓˚✧ Taglist : @starwars2222 / @xiaoseminence / @withasideofmeg / @wordbunch / @bespectacledhuman ✧ wish to be tagged?

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[temporarily-your-saint]

oc that is elrond’s sister and she has a thing for elendil during the last alliance (which leads to her downfall) and then thousands of years later his daughter has a thing for aragorn and elrond is just tired of these men and from the same bloodline??? jfc. that half-elf is tired.

[entishramblings]

The Scorpion of Sarn Ford [Aragorn/F!Reader]

A.N: the amount of weird shit I had to google for this….my FBI agent definitely thinks I’m planning some fucked up crap.

Inspired: this fic was inspired by @estelofrivendell ‘s fic A Change of Heart. I adored the Assassin/Ranger relationship and had to put my own spin on it!

Pairing: Aragorn X Fem!Reader

Summary: The Scorpion of Sarn Forn is a notorious assassin. Much to Strider’s dismay, they are both hired for a job.

Disclaimer: I tried my best with geography, once again, it isn’t my best subject. heh!

Word count: 8.2k (idk why I’m like this)

Warnings: enemies to lovers, angst, fluff, humor that will have you peeing, blood, torture, death, murder, brief insinuation to sexual abuse (side character), creepy men that get what's coming to them, a little bit of spice, brief shirtless aragorn. this sounds very dark but I promise you its good, besides: shirtless aragorn. duh.

MASTERLIST | AO3 | WATTPAD

Aragorn never thought he would be in this position. He never even anticipated such a scenario. It was, quite frankly, entirely unfathomable. Not once did it cross his mind that he might be in the same city as her, much less be forced to sit next to her at The Black Falcon Tavern and Inn with a potential contractor. You see, The Scorpion of Sarn Ford—or as Aragorn preferred to refer to her as: the heinous hellspawn that middle-earth would undoubtedly be far better off without—was a notorious assassin. She made her coin from slipping into the shadows and slaughtering her targets, leaving no trace besides a corpse—still warm from the blood that once ran through it. The men of the south-west were wise enough to be wary and the rich of such lands were stupid enough to empower her with their dark wishes. She’s rumored to have a body count in the hundreds, including kings and queens. Though, that is not how she acquired her title.

Percaric Rothswood, one of the richer dukes of Anfalas, sat with them at a table in the back of the tavern. The Ranger and the Scorpion occupied the bench alongside the wooden wall, granting them both a clear vantage point of the entire establishment, while Percaric sat in a chair across from them. Aragorn's arms were folded, a small blade discreetly nestled up his sleeve, and his ale remained untouched on the table. Yet, the assassin reclined casually at his side, her dark cloak draped loosely enough to unveil the myriad of weapons adorning her attire, with two empty pints before her and a third in her hand.

The peculiar grouping drew the attention of onlookers—it was indeed an unusual gathering, particularly with the presence of the infamous Scorpion of Sarn Ford, and her form specifically beside Strider. Nervous and inquisitive gazes, hushed conversations, subtle nods, and even more overt glances from passersby and bar-sitters were all directed towards the pair. If a meeting like this were to take place, something must be going down.

“So, what’s this job, Percaric, that requires a ranger and a shrew,” Aragorn gruffed, his scowl as deep as the sand pits of the eastern coast.

The woman beside him snorted. “A shrew. Just what a lady wants to be called.”

He shrugged. “An argumentative, ill-tempered rat. I see no difference between it and you.”

She raised a brow, twisting her head to look at him. “Technically a shrew is a mole.”

Aragorn sent her a glare in response.

She huffed at him. “A mole that will die if it doesn't eat every two to three hours.” She picked up her ale and took a swing. “That sounds nothing like me.”

“You reckon so? I bet if you didn't get new gold to chew on in that exact time frame you would also die of pompous deprivation.”

A deep chuckle escaped her throat as her jaw tightened and her eyes narrowed. She turned to quip back an insult; however, Percaric nervously interrupted the hostile hires.

“Well, uh, you see, it's quite a delicate matter. The-the job, that is. My client doesn't want his indiscretions aired out among the common folk because, well, uh, the matter is quite sensitive and—”

Aragorn rolled his eyes. “Just spit it out, Percaric.”

The man exhaled through his nose, nervously patting the table. “Right, right, very well then.” He cleared his throat. “Well, uh, my client, his daughter was taken by someone of high prestige and, well, he would like her back.”

Aragorn leaned back in the chair. “Why doesn't he just pay the ransom then? Instead of hiring someone to take her back. There is a ransom isn't there?”

“Of course, of course. But, well, you see, this daughter, ehem, she’s bastard-born. His wife doesnt know that she exists and he would like to keep it that way. Paying the ransom directly would cause too much attention. Like I said, he wants this discreet.”

Aragorn sighed, his morals pulling hard on his heart. “How old is the girl?”

Percaric winced. “Fourteen.”

The Ranger cursed under his breath. “She’s just a kid.”

“Yes, yes. Well, you see, that’s why my client asked for you, Strider. Not many would want to help a bastard daughter.”

The Scorpion leaned in. “Then why did he ask for me as well?”

Percaric’s face twitched. “Well, uh, Scorpion, there’s a matter a bit more delicate involved that requires your skill.”

She raised her brows.

“My–my client’s daughter is quite beautiful. Well, we can only assume what is being done to her by her captor during her stay. He, well, he wants the perpetrator killed.”

She snorted, leaning back into the wall behind her. “Why not make Strider here do it?”

The Ranger clenched his jaw. “He should be imprisoned, rotting in a cell for his crime.”

“Ah,” she started. “You would bring him in instead of kill him, and that would mean a trial.” She winked at Percaric. “Too public for this client of yours.”

An anxious and awkward giggle-like breath left the man’s lips. “Precisely.”

“So, where is she being kept?” The Scorpion asked.

The duke glanced around him before leaning in and letting his next sentence come out as a whisper. “The tower of Eastemnet.”

“Eastemnet?” Aragorn confirmed, wide-eyed and surprised. “But that would mean—”

“Lord Theovail,” the assassin interjected. “One of the richest, well-guarded men in Arda.”

Percaric bit his lip. “Yes, yes. Now, well, now you see why my client asked for you, Scorpion of Sarn Ford.”

Aragorn huffed, hot air coming from his nose, as he shook his head—now finally reaching for his ale. “We will take the job,” he stated reluctantly.

“Oi! Not so fast,” the assassin interjected. “What’s the pay?”

The Ranger shot her a glare. “A girl, a child, is being held prisoner, and you worry of pay?”

She glared right back at him before turning back to Percaric. “The pay?”

He cleared his throat. “Three hundred pieces of gold up front and another three hundred upon your return of the girl, alive, and proof of Theovail’s death. Though you will have to split it, I’m afraid.”

She raised her hands with a tilt of the head. “Fine by me.” She turned, flashing a devilish grin to the man next to her. “Let us go hunt a girl-snatching arsewipe, Strider.”

He offered no-response other than a scowling side eye.

“Fantastic,” Percaric replied, taking two coin pouches out and plopping them on the table.

The assassin was quick to snatch up one of the bundles, standing, ready to take her leave.

Aragorn, however, let his finger drift over the coin. He glanced up at Percaric. “What’s her name?”

The man’s expression softened. “Calista, daughter of Lord Kassim.”

Aragorn nodded, grasping onto the pouch. “We will bring Calista home.”

……

The pair had been traveling for approximately two weeks at this point, and their interactions during this time were characterized by sparse conversations intertwined with numerous glares and disdainful expressions. In those few moments when words were exchanged, they were often heated disagreements concerning which path to follow, strategies for infiltrating the tower, or debates over the responsibilities of meals. It was, quite frankly, the most miserable trek across Arda that Aragorn had ever taken upon. But it wasn't until they were passing through the gap of Rohan, between the Misty Mountains and Ered Nimrais, that they met any trouble.

An arrow, coming from the mountain’s rocky side, whizzing past Aragorn’s ear was the first sign of danger.

He whipped his head around. “Scorpion!” he called out in warning, his eyes meeting the assassin’s for a brief moment.

She drew her dual silver blades only seconds before a small pack of goblins began descending. She was quick to behead the first goblin whose feet hit the grassy pass they walked through.

“Goblin’s from the Mountains,” she hissed.

Aragorn too drew his sword. “They shouldn't be this far south! They stay up near Ehu Daur and Moira!” He drove his blade through one of the beasts, swinging around to slice another.

“Well, clearly, they dont give a fuck as to where they should or should be!” The Scorpion quipped back as she brought one of her blades through the neck of one of the creatures. “On your left!”

Aragorn twisted his body just in time to block a blow from a rusted scythe.

The assassin dodged the next beast that came at her and sprinted towards the biggest one. She was quick to push herself into the air, flip over the goblin, and slice its throat before her feet even landed on the ground.

She looked up to see the two final goblins, one in match with her companion and the other approaching his back.

The woman moved quickly. Her feet carried her towards the beast who held its blade above Strider’s head. Just before it was to be brought downward, she yelled out a war cry and grasped onto the few hairs the creature had. She yanked hard. The goblin fell backwards onto the ground and she pounced on top of him, sending her blade through his heart—his pungent blood spraying across her face, neck, tunic, and leather armor.

With heavy panting breath, she stood and turned to face the Ranger who had slayed the final beast. Kicking the corpse of the one she had just killed, she spoke. “Only nine. A scouting team. More will be coming upon their lack of return. We gotta get a move on.”

Aragorn’s lips were parted in surprise, realizing that he nearly lost his life. Surprising the assassin, he spoke words that she never would have thought to leave his lips for her. “Thank you, Scorpion.”

She raised her brows. “I have a name, you know, Strider.”

The Ranger turned away from her, continuing along their path. “I don't care to know it,” he gruffed out, his brief sincerity from moments before disappearing.

She snorted, calling out to him regardless. “It’s (Y/N).”

“Don’t fall behind, Scorpion,” he replied.

She huffed, her irritation obvious, before jogging to catch up with his wide strides. “I don’t like you very much either, but if we're gonna be on this job for a while, you could at least not be a dick.”

“Coming from the rudest and most corrupt person I have ever met, that's rich.”

She chuckled loudly. “Wow. Rude, okay, I deserve that. But corrupt? That’s a bit far-fetched.”

He stopped walking, twisting to glower down at her with disgust. “You truly think so? Let’s talk of why they attach the massacre of Sarn Ford to your name. You killed dozens. Women. Children. Innocents. All for what? Gold! Corrupt is too kind a word for you. Wicked, diabolical, vicious is more like it.”

(Y/N)’s brows shot upward as a pained and frustrated laugh thundered in her chest. “Really? Do you even know what was happening in Sarn Ford?!”

“They were farmers! Common folk! Living off the land in peace and you…you slaughtered them!” he yelled.

She got in his face, her hot, angry breath burning against his skin. “THEY WERE ALREADY GOOD AS DEAD, STRIDER!”

“How could you even say that?” he replied, horrified.

She closed her eyes, taking in a deep breath, before focusing back on the man before her. “A disease was making its way through their village. Incurable. Painful. An alchemist, who had been working for weeks to try and find anything to help them, hired me. There was nothing to be done for them except extend a hand of mercy. To give them a good, painless death.”

Aragorn stared at her, his brows pulled together with shock in his gaze.

The assassin clenched her jaw. “I had mothers plead with me to end their child's life while cradled in their arms, only to follow them into death. At least, that way, they could die together.” She looked up at him, her tone privy with rage. “So, yes, Strider, feel free to bestow upon me any epithet you see fit."

He was silent, his shock radiating into the wind around him. Quietly, he spoke again, “How did you not get sick?”

She exhaled slowly. “The alchemist instructed me to wear cloth over my face and cover all skin but my eyes. Once the deed was done, I burned everything I wore and paid for new clothes with gold born of their suffering.”

Aragorn nodded slowly, compassion in his gray eyes. “I am sorry. Doing such a thing mustn't have been easy. It was an execution of mercy.” He turned, continuing once more. “Though the tales of your other kills aren't so kind. Come along, Scorpion. There’s a town a couple days ahead.”

(Y/N) snorted, anger seething in her bones, but followed him nonetheless.”

…..

The pair strode towards the Inn, located not far from Gondor’s borders. They forcefully pulled the door open, unveiling a noisy uproar of laughter and boisterous shouting, mingling with the lovely odors of urine, sweat, and stagnant ale. Creating such an environment, one the Scorpion and Ranger were used to, were the disheveled bodies of inebriated men.

With a mischievous grin, (Y/N) expertly navigated through the crowd, leading Strider to a secluded table nestled in a dim corner. It wasn't long before the arrival of steaming platters of meat and bread arrived, along with two pints of foamy ale, both of which they heartily devoured. The Scorpion raised her hand, beckoning the barmaid over and placing an order for two more pints—both of which she downed, much to Aragorn's evident disapproval.

After releasing a loud belch, she casually swiped the back of her hand across her mouth, then rose to her feet. “Gonna go get some air,” she grumbled, her balance momentarily unsteady as she gained her footing. Aragorn, in response, merely offered an exasperated roll of his eyes.

The assassin maneuvered through the bustling throng of men, slipping through the sea of people before pushing through the doors. The sudden rush of frigid tranquility enveloped her skin as she stepped into the embrace of the night. With a deliberate intake of breath, she allowed the crisp air to fill her lungs. Her eyelids fluttered closed as she tilted her head upwards, letting the misting drizzle of rain kiss her skin. The sound of the tavern was muffled, and the echoes of the celebration they passed down the road drifted into the air. Though it was subtle, for it didn't drown out the sounds of the singing crickets or the croaking frogs. It was peaceful. Well, that is until a form slammed into her and pressed her against the wall.

The smell of ale-laden breath and sticky sweat filled her nostrils as her eyes shot open. Her gaze, fueled by adrenaline, locked onto the burly figure before her—a man with a rugged orange beard—who had forced himself upon her.

“What’s a pretty thing like you doing all alone in a dangerous place like this?” he asked, a knife held to her throat.

She snarled up at him. “Oh, you're about to find out—”

Before she could make a move, however, the man was suddenly struck from the side, his body sent sprawling onto the weathered, muddy path.

As (Y/N) peeled herself from the wall, her hand instinctively reached for the slight gash on her neck. Meanwhile, the bearded man found himself seized by the throat, forcefully hoisted upward, and pressed hard against the unyielding stone.

“Do you even know who that is?” Strider uttered sharply.

A chuckle escaped the lips of the man, his bloodied lip spraying a fine mist of red onto Aragorn's face. “You’re whore?” he sneered.

With an unrelenting grip on the man's throat, Aragorn pulled him several inches away from the wall, only to slam him back against it once more. The impact elicited a grunt from the man. "The Scorpion of Sarn Ford," Aragorn hissed through clenched teeth, his voice seething with restrained fury.

The assailant’s laughter was dripping with sarcasm. “Yeah and I'm the fuckin’ King of Gondor.”

The Ranger clenched his jaw, ignoring the secret dig the man's comment produced. “You know why they call her that? Hmm. The Scorpion? Scorpions incapacitate their prey with venom, paralyzing them before they deal the final blow. That woman over there? She severs her targets’ spinal nerve, rendering them unable to move before subjecting them to her torture and kill. And the worst part? She doesn't even need them paralyzed. She gets off from witnessing the terror in their eyes as they're rendered helpless.”

Another laugh escaped the man, but as his gaze shifted towards (Y/N), his amusement faded. The assassin now held a dagger, twirling it in her fingers, a sinister grin stretching across her features.

He turned to look back at Aragorn, the color now drained from his face. “Ye’ c-cant be serious,” he stammered.

The Ranger merely lifted his brows and tilted his head.

Driven by desperation to escape the woman beside them, the man started to shove against Aragorn. However, a single forceful punch to his jaw rendered him unconscious, his body collapsing onto the mud once more.

“I had it handled,” the assassin stated.

Aragorn shot her a stern glare before responding bluntly, "Sure, you did."

The woman emitted a snort, yet settled into a squat beside the man, her dagger poised.

The Ranger, however, was quick to grab her by the wrist, successfully stopping her actions. "Are you out of your mind? We can't kill him. That's the last thing we need – drawing attention to ourselves."

With a huff of mild exasperation, she sheathed her blade. "Fine." She then nodded to the black horse tethered nearby, gesturing with a nod. "That's his horse. Saw him dismount as we entered. Bring it here."

Aragorn frowned, confused, but did as she asked.

“Alright,” she stated, gathering the man’s arms in her hands. “Help me with his legs.”

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked.

“Strider, just grab his damn legs.”

Exhaling audibly, the Ranger complied, reluctantly gripping the man's ankles. With a coordinated heave, they hoisted the man up from the muck. After a few groans and sighs, he was draped over his horse's back.

The Scorpion then took the leather strapping of the saddle and began binding the man’s hands and feet to it. She nodded to the young maple tree behind the Ranger. “Get me a large twig from that. Bout a foot tall. Keep the leaves on it.”

“What?” he hissed, his hands spreading wide in a gesture of bewilderment.

“Strider, would you just get the branch,” she urged impatiently.

Another loud, reluctant exhale left his lips, yet he trudged toward the tree and pulled off what she requested. He approached her, holding out the twig.

“Ah, thank you,” she acknowledged with a grin, accepting it from him.

With that she moved to the side of the horse, close to the man's legs. She seized the waistband of his trousers and gave it a yank, reaving his bare ass.

“Scorpion,” Aragorn chided.

Undeterred, she grinned, sticking the small branch between his ass cheeks so it stood upright, its leaves rustling faintly in the breeze.

“Seriously?” he gruffed out, his arms crossed.

(Y/N) looked at him with a wicked smirk. “You hear that party still going on down the road? I think they would appreciate some impromptu entertainment.” With that, she smacked the horse's rear and, with a brisk snort, it took off down the path.

Not even a minute passed, when they heard the shouts of anger and amusement funneling from the gathering.

Strider turned to glare at her, his jaw clenched and his eyes burning with irritation. He grasped onto her bicep and pulled her towards the doors. "Get inside the damned tavern, quickly."

A loud, hearty laugh flew from her throat, yet she allowed him to pull her along.

Engulfed once again in the clamorous atmosphere of the inn, Aragorn wasted no time in steering her towards the bar. “You can't just put a branch up the arsehole of a person that pisses you off,” he hissed under his breath.

She grinned unapologetically. “Sure, I can.”

He blew hot air out his nose, opting to withhold a retort. With a determined demeanor, he maneuvered them through the crowd of men, navigating as close to the counter as he could get. "Barkeep," he called out, projecting his voice. "Two room keys."

The man approached them with a shrug. “Only got one room left.”

Aragorn huffed. “Fine. Well take it.”

With that, the Ranger deposited three gold coins into the man's palm, secured the key, and then swiftly tugged the Scorpion alongside him as they grabbed their bags and ascended the creaky wooden staircase.

They approached their door, marked the same as the key, and it swung open under Aragorn’s touch. Within, the room exuded a chill darkness, accompanied by a faint draft slipping in through the slightly cracked window. The space appeared quite sparse, furnished with nothing but a small dresser, a modest table accompanied by two chairs...and a solitary bed.

A muttered curse escaped the Ranger's lips as he unceremoniously dropped his bag onto the table. "I'll take the floor."

(Y/N) rolled her eyes. “Really, Strider? It’s the one night we get the option of having a bed. As long as you stay on your side, I don't mind sharing.”

“Fine,” was his gruff response.

With that, the pair began getting comfortable for the night. Aragorn lit the worn down candle, its feeble golden glow illuminating the area, proving slightly better light as he dug through his bag. Meanwhile, (Y/N) shed her cloak and vast assortment of weapons, earning a skeptical glance from the Ranger. Yet, when she began to unfasten the tightly-worn leather armor that clung to her figure, his reaction was far more dramatic. "What on earth is that stench?!" he blurted out, recoiling.

She shrugged nonchalantly. “Remember those goblins? Yeah, I got an unexpected bath in their blood.”

“That was days ago. You reek,” he retorted. He strode over to the dresser, opening drawers until he came across a gray towel. Returning to the table, he picked up the pitcher beside the candle and gradually poured water into a small basin, also provided. After submerging the towel and wringing it out, he flung the damp cloth towards her, which she easily caught. “Clean yourself up.”

She shrugged once more. Turning away, she shed her shirt and let it drop to the floor. Her swift movements were focused as she wiped her face, neck, and chest, cleansing her skin of the grime that clung to it.

Though Aragorn didn't intend to look, his gaze inadvertently flicked towards her silhouette against the wall. It was then that his eyes fixed upon her bare back, adorned with a network of vivid, angry scars. He’d seen scars like that. He knew what they were from: torture.

“(Y/N),” he whispered sincerely, his steps leading him closer to her form. “What happened?”

Hearing her name for the first time from his lips, she was caught off guard—her heart skipping a beat. The simple utterance carried an unexpected weight, a rare vulnerability that seemed to momentarily freeze her in place. Uncertainty gripped her as she stood still, her mind racing to process the unfamiliar tone from him.

His touch was tender as he raised his hand to trace the lines on her skin. “Who did this to you?” he growled.

Brought back to the present, she instinctively recoiled from his touch. "I'm an assassin. I've earned my fair share of enemies," she replied, her voice tinged with defiance. Shifting her gaze over her shoulder, she met his eyes. "Have an extra shirt? Mine's beyond saving."

"I, uh, yes. Yes, of course," Aragorn responded, seeming to realize the sudden intimacy of the moment. He retreated to his bag, rifling through its contents until he procured a cream-colored tunic. He tossed it to her. "This should suffice."

“Thanks,” she grumbled, pulling it over her head.

(Y/N) approached the table, the Ranger's shirt engulfing her smaller frame. The fabric's loose drape hung off her shoulder. If she wasn't such a menace, Aragorn would have thought that she looked cute in his clothes.

Ungracefully, she deposited the damp towel on the tabletop before proceeding to yank off her boots and socks, placing them with a deliberate thud upon the chair nearby. “We are not that far from the tower of Eastemnet. Perhaps a two day journey or so. However, our predicament remains unchanged: we don't have a solid strategy. We don't have any floor plans. We don't know how many guards will be stationed. And we don't know where the girl is being kept. We are gonna be going in blind—”

“You’re bleeding,” he interjected, his voice carrying an unmistakable note of concern.

“Huh? Oh, yeah. Just a scratch,” she dismissed casually.

Aragorn grasped onto her jaw, lifting her chin up to take a better look. "A seemingly insignificant wound could easily become infected, Scorpion," he asserted, his tone insistent.”

She pulled her head from his grasp with a snort. “I’m fine, Strider.”

He crossed his arms, an unyielding resolve in his expression. “If we are breaking into Lord Theovail’s tower and stealing from him, I'd prefer my partner not succumb to infection-induced delirium, potentially endangering both our lives." Swiftly, he nudged the empty chair towards her. “Now, sit down, Scorpion.”

(Y/N)’s brows lifted, followed by a teasing expression that animated her features. “Oh? So I'm your partner now?” she quipped, her tone laced with playful amusement. "What happened to the 'vicious shrew killer that you would rather leave tied to a tree,' as I seem to recall you once calling me?"

He glared at her. “Sit, or I will leave you tied to a tree.”

Surprisingly, she did as he asked, allowing herself to sink into the chair with her legs casually sprawled and her arms folded tightly across her chest. Aragorn dug through his bag, pulling out a couple small tins and a tiny glass bottle. Grasping the towel, he located a clean section and dipped it into the basin. Squatting down between her legs, he lifted the towel to her neck. "Chin up," he instructed, and she obeyed without protest. Gently, he began cleansing the wound, meticulously removing dirt and debris from the area. Next, he uncapped the small glass bottle. "This might sting," he warned.

She clenched her jaw, but said nothing as the alcohol was poured upon her neck. Aragorn gently dabbed the liquid away. He then opened one of the small tins, extracting a dollop of green goo.

“What is that shit?” (Y/N) asked.

“Athelas leaf paste.”

“Athelas leaf?” she echoed, seeking further clarification.

“Kingsfoil. Athelas is the elvish word for it,” he replied simply, his attention focused on gently applying the paste to the wound.

She raised her eyebrows. “Elvish, huh. You're full of surprises, Strider. Where’d ya learn that?”

“Shush. Be still.”

The Scorpion rolled her eyes, but complied as he completed the task.

Standing up, Aragorn rinsed his hands and addressed her once more. "We can devise a plan for the tower tomorrow. Right now, we need rest."

(Y/N) sighed, nodding in agreement, as she too stood. She made her way towards the bed and pulled back the thin sheet, eager to climb into the softness of a mattress—regardless of how old and worn it was.

The gentle sound of air extinguishing the candle was succeeded by the enveloping darkness that reclaimed the room. Soon, Aragorn’s footsteps followed. She discerned the rustle of fabric as, presumably, he removed his shirt. The bed then creaked gently as he settled beside her, lying on his back.

She, resting on her side away from him, let her eyes close. There she laid, for a moment, before shifting. Then she shifted again. And again.

“Stop moving, Scorpion,” Aragorn grumbled, his patience waning.

“I can’t get comfortable!” she retorted.

“That’s because you keep moving.”

“It’s cold and you're stealing all the blankets.” With a determined tug, she seized more of the fabric, leaving Aragorn with a minimal share.

He merely exhaled audibly, opting for a wordless response. At the very least, she had ceased her constant fidgeting.

Aragorn remained awake during the initial hours, unable to find slumber. (Y/N)'s breathing had swiftly settled into a rhythmic pattern after she commandeered the majority of the sheets, though her small unconscious movements kept interrupting the perceived tranquility. Occasional, soft whimpers escaped her lips, her brows furrowing with evident distress. In truth, Aragorn found himself uncertain of how to respond. He held onto the hope that the disturbances would cease on their own, perhaps that whatever troubled her dreams would eventually pass. And eventually, it did stop, but not without an unexpected turn of events.

The Ranger's senses jolted as the Scorpion’s frigid form rolled towards his side of the bed, seeking refuge in his warmth. Although she had mentioned feeling cold earlier, the intensity of her chill surprised him. The wave of uncertainty that washed over him did not leave as her cheek pressed against his bare chest. Initially, the thought of infection taking hold crossed his mind, but he quickly dismissed it; her skin would have been hot to the touch if that were the case. It only took seconds for him to realize that the draft from the cracked window was striking her side directly. With a sigh of reluctance, he tentatively encircled his arm around her, drawing her in further.

In her state of deep slumber, she instinctively nestled into him, drawing a slight skip from Aragorn's heart. He cast a cautious gaze downward, taking in her appearance.

She seemed so different—distinctly separate from the notorious assassin he knew her to be. There was an innocence, an unexpected purity, about her in this moment that rendered her almost unrecognizable. Gone was the perpetual scowl that often marked her features. Instead, her face had relaxed into a gentle expression of repose, free from the tension. Her lips, adorned with the faintest hint of a pout, moved slightly as she drew each breath, almost as if he warded off the nightmares that had plagued her.

In this vulnerable state, the Scorpion seemed untainted by her reputation, stripped of her fearsome persona. The layers of her identity, usually shrouded in crude comments and sharp weapons, had fallen away. It revealed that the facade that she showed the world was just that, a facade. A good one at that though. Even Aragorn—a man well-acquainted with the intricacies of human nature—hadn't thought it would be a mask; but her story of Sarn Ford was the first thing that revealed its possibility to him. It was as if the walls she kept built had crumbled away, allowing him a glimpse of the person beneath the lies. And, until sleep claimed him, he allowed himself to savor this glimpse—to see her beyond the assassin.

When the first light of dawn began to filter in, (Y/N) stirred, wrapped in the warmth and safety that had cocooned her during the night. She hesitated to peel open her eyelids, savoring the sensation. However, as her senses roused to full awareness, a gentle yet distinct rhythm reached her ears—the steady thud of a heart beating beneath her. In an instant, her eyes shot open, and a surge of apprehension raced through her.

Beneath her, Strider's form lay, his chest rising and falling in slumber. Anxiety tightened her chest and clawed at her throat. Reacting instinctively, she sat up abruptly and, fueled by adrenaline, threw a punch at him.

A resounding groan of pain escaped his lips as he scrambled to sit up, his expression twisting in both surprise and discomfort. "What the hell, Scorpion?!" he managed to sputter, his hand instinctively reaching to dab at his lip.

“I thought I told you to stay on your side of the bed!” she retorted sharply.

He glared at her, his irritation obvious. “I did. If you would take a moment to observe your surroundings, you would see you are in fact on my side of the bed.”

Wide-eyed and perplexed, she twisted her upper body around, casting a glance over her shoulder. As the reality of the situation dawned on her, she faced him once more. Her eyes filtered over his form briefly, taking in his muscled biceps and defined abs. Her expression then turned into a deeper scowl. “Fuck off!” she snapped.

He only stared at her, bewildered.

….

Under the shroud of darkness, the Ranger and the Assassin stood at the base of the tower of Eastemnet on the south side. Concealed within the protective embrace of the tree line, they had spent approximately three hours observing the guards' patterns and identifying vulnerabilities in the tower's defenses. There they had hidden two steeds that (Y/N) had procured for them at the inn—most likely through theft, though Aragorn didn't want to think of that—allowing for a quick escape with Calista. Strategically, they discreetly knocked out all the guards on the outposts, binding and gagging them, for they knew the element of surprise would be their only bet. So, now they stood, with a pretty loose plan, ready to steal back what Lord Theovail had taken.

The Scorpion grasped onto the vine that entwined itself along the stone surface of the tower. A swift, assessing tug confirmed its stability. Her gaze shifted briefly to the man positioned behind her. “About two hundred feet to the top. Best guess, that’s where Calista is being held.”

He nodded. “After you.”

The Scorpion adjusted her grip upon the vine and she initiated her ascent. Aragorn doing the same only minutes after.

They moved in a synchronized rhythm, the sound of their breaths and the faint rustling of vines mingling with the night's stillness. Each handhold and foothold was chosen with precision, the texture of the stone under their fingertips guiding their progress.

(Y/N)’s movements were fluid and practiced, evidence to her agility and experience. Her lithe form seemed to dance with the contours of the tower, making it look easy. Aragorn, not as accustomed to such endeavors, displayed a determination that rivaled his unease. His powerful muscles flexed and strained as he pulled himself upward, his eyes never straying far from the path she took.

After what felt like hours, the assassin spoke. “Nearly there, just a couple more feet.”

Aragorn only grunted in response.

The woman firmly gripped the vine adjacent to the windowsill, positioning her feet against the wall in a manner resembling a vertical walk. This facilitated her upward movement as she pulled herself closer to the window. Yet, as her head reached the level of the glass, she swiftly withdrew, instinctively lowering herself. In an unfortunate circumstance, the unconventional stance she maintained resulted in her ass colliding with Aragorn's face.

He groaned. “Really, Scorpion?! Really?!”

“My bad,” she huffed out. “Hold on a second. I think someone is in there.”

“Yeah, hopefully Calista.”

She resumed her ascent, then promptly lowered herself again. This time, Aragorn effectively maneuvered his head to the side, evading her buttocks.

Regardless of this, he shot her a glare—not that she would be able to see it.

“It was a maid.” she whispered. “I think we are in the clear now.”

With that, she heaved herself up for a final time and reached for the dagger strapped to her thigh. “Duck your head,” she commanded. With as much force as she could muster, she brought the blade against the glass, tucking her face into her elbow. It shattered, falling around them both like deadly snow.

The Scorpion pulled herself upward and through the window, careful not to be pierced by any stray piece of glass, and Aragorn did the same.

The room was small, but decorated to the extreme. The prominent feature was the bed, elevated upon a platform, its tall wooden posts adorned with a luxurious velvet canopy that cascaded in graceful drapes. The mattress was covered in ornate blankets and quilts, complemented by an array of plush pillows. However, any semblance of beauty was starkly contradicted by the grim sight of chains extending from the wall and ensnaring the wrists of a young girl, shattering the room's facade of luxury.

Immediately, Aragorn ran towards her side. “Calista,” he murmured gently. “Wake up. It’s time to go.”

Calista's golden hair framed a face that appeared worn and defeated. Her eyes fluttered open, revealing a gaze void of life. Her voice emerged as a feeble whisper. "Who are you?" she inquired softly.

Standing steadfast in the center of the room, (Y/N) maintained her posture with crossed arms. Her unwavering gaze fixed on the imposing wooden door that likely remained locked from the other side. “Your father sent us.”

Aragorn carefully manipulated the cuffs that bound Calista's wrists, gingerly freeing her from their constricting hold. "I'm Strider," he introduced himself, his fingers working skillfully. "We're here to help. Come.”

As if entranced, Calista began to sit up, struggling to rise from the bed. Aragorn extended his support, assisting her onto the floor. However, her weak frame proved too fragile to sustain itself. She leaned unsteadily against him, her body unable to bear its own weight.

The Ranger looked to his partner. “She’s too weak. There's no way I can scale down the wall with her on my back. She won't have the strength to hold on."

The Scorpion uttered a quiet curse. “You will just have to come with me to find Theovail.”

He shook his head. “It’s too dangerous. We can't bring her near him.”

“Well, we don't have any other choice,” she snapped. “But as soon as I kill him, we will have to haul ass. His guard will be coming for us then—if they don't already know we are here.”

Aragorn clenched his jaw, inhaling deeply. “Fine. Get that door open.”

With that, the Scorpion set to work picking the lock and Aragorn scooped Calista up in his arms, her golden head nestled into his chest. It wasn't long before the group was creeping down the tower, level by level. The Scorpion led the way, ducking behind walls and maneuvering around pillars, making sure the way was clear. When they came across a guard that was blocking their escape, she was quick to slice his throat and pull his body out of sight.

“Scorpion, why you can't just knock them out?” Aragorn whispered with exasperation.

She, dropping his legs as she stuffed him into a closet, glared at him. “And risk having him wake up and alert others? I think not."

He huffed, knowing she was right.

However, their path forward soon encountered a challenge they couldn't evade as easily. Just as they were on the verge of turning a corner, a young maid's panicked voice pierced the air. “The-the girl. She’s gone!”

(Y/N) slammed her back against the stone wall, Aragorn doing the same.

“What do you mean ‘she’s gone’??!” A deep male voice thundered.

A shared realization passed between (Y/N) and Aragorn—Lord Theovail had now entered the fray.

“FIND HER!” he snapped. “Or it will be your head!”

The servant scurried down the hall, running right past the Ranger and Assassin who slunk into the shadows with their charge.

(Y/N) cautiously peered around the corner. The room before them was every bit as lavish as the one that had imprisoned Calista, if not more so. A roaring fire crackled in the grand fireplace, casting flickering shadows that danced across the two plush velvet couches by it. Luxurious fur blankets adorned each sofa, hinting at Theovail’s rich indulgence. A sprawling fur carpet lay before the fireplace, while an ornate wine cart laden with deep reds was conveniently placed nearby. And there, infuriated, stood Lord Theovail himself, a glass of crimson liquid in hand, his temper fuming. To make matters worse, his guards were positioned near the room's exit—the very door that Aragorn would need to pass through in order to escape with Calista.

The Scorpion drew her knife, sending Aragorn a look. It was time. In a hushed tone, she whispered to him. “When you hear it’s over, take her and run to the doors. I'll be right behind you.”

He nodded in agreement.

She then disappeared into the shadows. Not even a minute passed before Aragorn heard the thumping of two bodies, one right after the other, followed by the telltale crash of a shattering wine glass meeting the floor.

“What is the meaning of this?!” Lord Theovail’s voice thundered, a mix of surprise and outrage lacing his words.

Aragorn cautiously peered around the corner, his heart pounding. Lord Theovail was now a whirlwind of fury and frustration, his gaze darting in every direction and a knife clutched in his hand. “I am not one to indulge in games!” he roared, his voice echoing through the chamber as he brandished the blade. “Reveal yourself, you coward!”

Within seconds, the Scorpion’s blade was poised menacingly at Lord Theovail's throat, her grip firm and unwavering as she held him in check from behind. Her voice dripped with a sinister malice as she spoke, her words slithering through the air like a venomous serpent. “Lord Kassim sends his regards.”

A broad chuckle bubbled from Theovail's lips, mingling with a mix of disbelief and arrogance. “A woman?! Kassim sends a woman to kill me?!”

Aragorn watched as the assassin drew another blade from her lethal arsenal, the steel glinting in the dim light. He winced inwardly, knowing what was about to unfold. In one swift, calculated motion, the Scorpion's blade found its mark, slicing deeply into Theovail's spine. The lord's body crumpled to the floor, staining the pristine white fur carpet with a gruesome red pool. His once-commanding presence now reduced to stillness. Though his eyes, wide and drifting in panic, showed his fear.

She then sat on top of him, bringing the blade to his neck once more. The Scorpion's lips curled into a chilling grin, her eyes alight with a dark satisfaction. “Not just any woman. You ever hear of The Scorpion of Sarn Ford?”

Instantly, a tidal wave of horror engulfed Theovail's blue gaze, his previously defiant demeanor shattered like the fragile glass of Calista’s window.

He knew the legend. He knew there was no escape for him.

However, at that moment, a large, burly guard burst in. Seeing what was unfolding, he was at his Lord’s assistance in a flash. His hand grasped onto the assassin’s hair, yanking her form from Theovail.

Aragorn clenched his jaw, giving her a moment before he intervened.

The collision sent shards of glass and splintered wood flying as the guard and the Scorpion crashed into the wine cart, locked in a fierce struggle. The guard, towering in his size, managed to regain his footing first and hauled the Scorpion up with him. His meaty fists struck out, landing brutal blows that drew crimson from her nose and brow.

The Ranger cursed. Quickly, he sat Calista upon the ground and rushed to his partner's aid. Unsheathing his blade, he lunged into the fray. His sword found its mark in the guard's back, the steel emerging through the man's stomach. Time seemed to freeze as the guard's bloodied gaze locked with the Scorpion's, a moment charged with shock and shared disbelief. The guard crumpled to the ground, revealing Aragorn.

With a swift motion, Aragorn twisted his blade downward and reached out to grasp the Scorpion's face, his hands marked by a blend of relief and fear. The touch, both tender and urgent, brought her gaze to his. Blood marked one cheek, while the other felt the cool press of his blade's hilt against her skin. His deep voice, a mixture of anxiety and care, called out her name. "(Y/N)," he stated, the word a lifeline that pierced through her dazed state.

"(Y/N)," he spoke once more, the urgency remaining. “Are you alright?”

She blinked, forcing a response. “Yes, yes. I'm fine.”

Aragorn released a sigh of relief, yet his hand remained for another heartbeat, a reassurance in the form of touch. "Take care of Theovail. I will get Calista," he instructed, his hands finally and reluctantly withdrawing as he moved to tend to their young charge.

The rest was a blur: (Y/N) slicing Theovail’s throat and grabbing his ruby ring, Aragorn hauling Calista into his arms, and the trio racing down the tower's corridors—fending off any obstacle that dared to stand in their path. Adrenaline drove them to the treeline, panting breath heavy and loud, as they climbed upon their horses and took off into the night—leaving behind the bloody assassination of the Lord of the Eastemnet Tower.

…..

Weeks later, at three in the morning, the trio stumbled into The Black Falcon Tavern, where they first met with Percaric. The establishment was eerily quiet, save for the slumbering figure of the barkeep, who had succumbed to the late hour with his head on the counter. At the far end of the room, Percaric and Calista's mother stood, their figures illuminated by a flickering candle on the table. An air of anxious anticipation clung to the atmosphere.

As soon as their feet crossed the threshold, that stillness was disturbed. Calista's voice pierced the quiet as she called out to her mother, her strength visibly renewed since the ordeal. Without hesitation, mother and daughter closed the distance between themselves, embracing as if they had been torn apart for eternity. Tears flowed freely, mingling sorrow with joy. The warmth of their reunion dispelled the darkness that had clouded their lives.

Percaric approached the Scorpion and the Ranger.

The assassin tossed the man Lord Theovail’s ring. “Proof of death,” she stated bluntly. “I was gonna bring you his head, but figured it would smell pretty rotten after the long journey.”

He nodded awkwardly, the thought making him feel ill. He took a quick moment to examine the ring. Seemingly satisfied, he spoke. “You did well. Lord Kassim sends his thanks.” He then tossed them both pouches of gold before turning back to the mother and daughter. As Percaric prepared to take Calista and her mother back home, he turned back to the two rescuers. His voice carried a sentiment with his words. "Thank you."

Aragorn's silent nod and the Scorpion's subtle acknowledgment conveyed their understanding and their shared commitment to a world that often demanded their sacrifice.

With that, Percaric, Calista, and her mother left the inn, leaving the assassin and the ranger alone.

“Well,” (Y/N) began, as she walked towards the snoring barkeep and leaned over the counter, fishing for the room keys. “I don't know about you, but I could do with a good night’s rest.” She pulled the ring from his waist and turned back to Aragorn. Holding it up, one key dangling, her grin faded. “You're kidding, right?” She shook her head with a huff but turned and made her way to the rickety stairs. “As long as you stay on your side of the bed this time, Strider—”

“Scorpion,” he interrupted as he followed her.

The wood creaked under her feet. “I am serious. Keep yourself in check—”

“Scorpion.”

“I will not hesitate to paralyze you—”

“(Y/N)!”

She froze upon the stairs, slowly turning to look at him on the step directly below her. Now they stood at the same height, face to face, only inches away from each other.

“You almost died out there,” he whispered, his hot breath brushing against her skin.

“Yeah, so did you. It happens,” she shrugged. “It’s what we do.”

“(Y/N),” he persisted.

“What?!”

With that, he grasped onto her face, his finger warm and calloused from the lifetime of travel and battle. Time seemed to freeze as the moment lingered, the air changing between them.

And then, his lips were on hers.

At first, a sense of uncertainty held her still, her mind grappling to comprehend the sudden intimacy. But as his touch deepened and the kiss became a dance, she surrendered to the moment. Her fingers found their way into his hair, tangling themselves among the dark waves, as her lips moved with just as much force—if not more—as his. He tasted of pine and fresh soil, she wast sure if she quite literally was consuming the dirt upon his face, but she didn't care. She couldn't stop herself from becoming enthralled by his lips.

“Scorpion,” he mumbled against her mouth.

She hummed a reply as her lips continued to move with his.

“Room. Now,” he practically growled.

She grinned, her teeth tugging on his bottom lip. “Make me.”

Aragorn pulled away from her, raising his brow with a smirk. With that, he grabbed her by the hips and hoisted her up. Her mouth found his again as he stumbled up the stairs, ignorant to the barkeep who woke and was now squinting at the pair.

“The Scorpion and Strider,” the old man huffed. “The boys aren't gonna believe this one.”

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[random-imagines-blog]

A Different Canvas {Aragorn x POC!Reader} 

Requested by: @dracomalfoystan100 Wordcount: 4557 Summary: You already have a hard time in Middle Earth, standing out because of your skin tone. Aragorn, the hero, the legend, fell in love with you quickly, but not everyone that you were with had felt that way, and sometimes, the past can haunt. Notes: Mentions emotional and physical abuse, consensual sex.

Sometimes you felt like an old tree. Didn’t matter what kind of tree, nothing specific like a birch or a weeping willow. Just ... a tree. You were often looked at only for a couple of seconds, eyes not staying on you often. Everything to do with your coloring, which was a lot like that of a sturdy tree trunk. You were proud of it, the rich and earthy color of your skin. How it glistened in the sunlight, how it kept you shadowed and safe during the night. How it made you stand apart from most of the other people in Middle Earth. Your family, one of the few in Middle Earth with your natural skin tone, were few and far between, spread around. It was almost as if you were all trying to remind this land that you do exist. That you are here. That you’re not planning on going anywhere. Much like the Ents.  

Though most people didn’t like to see it that way. 

People didn’t like others who were different. It felt like being a human among dwarves. A dwarf around elves. An elf around humans. There usually wasn’t any outright hostility but your every move was being watched. Waiting for you to slip up, to do something, so that the people around you could nod to themselves, like yeah, this proved they were right about you. They automatically assumed that because you were of dark skin, you would be dark of personality. That you were violent, and evil, something that just came out of Mordor. But it couldn’t have been further from the truth.  

You were not a warrior. You were not this fierce killer who could put anybody to the sword. You barely even knew how to swing a sword! You were a lover, not a fighter, as your mother used to say. You were put on this earth to spread joy, and love, and happiness, which was one of the hardest jobs of all. It was easier to spread strife than it was peace.  

So, you had come to Minas Tirith. You had gone to the capital to find your life, to find your place. You found a job as a gardener, working with the healing gardens, tending to the herbs, and that was how you had found love. Twice, you had found it, and once it had nearly killed you. And now it was healing you. 

You had spent enough time languishing over your first love, that abusive guard, it was time to bask in the radiance of the second. Aragorn - the most handsome man in Gondor, and that wasn’t just your opinion, but that of several people. Several women, in fact. He was from the line of Kings, and could have taken up that mantle himself, but he had decided that ruling was not what he had wanted to do. He was a simpler man than that. Although he was a natural leader, he found that he himself was happier just consulting. After being strider for so long, after the drawn-out and exhausting war, he was ready to settle down. To be happy.  

And luckily, since meeting him, he wanted it to be with you.  

You were humming to yourself as you were going to Aragorn’s dwelling after you finished all of the weeding at the Healing Gardens. You had a basket beneath one arm, filled with vegetables that they allowed you to take home. You planned on surprising your man with a roasted feast tonight, knowing that he had a meeting up with the Council of Gondor. Oh, how you loved that man. How your heart felt so light when you thought of him. Even your steps seemed to be lighter. He made you feel as if you were walking on air. For reasons that you could never understand, he chose you, when he could have any woman on the map. From Eowyn in Rohan, to Arwen in Rivendell. 

Something about those women with w in their name. They were beautiful, they were powerful, and they both helped in different ways during the war against Sauron. You really could not fathom why you were chosen over them.  

You were used to the glances that you got from the city folk. The lingering side-eyes. The whispers that accompanied them. There were always critiques. That neutral colors didn’t go well with your skin tone, that you should cover up more, maybe a head dress to cover that strange head of hair. Children were always wanting to touch your hair, but you could forgive them because they didn’t understand. 

You turned a corner and found yourself suddenly with gauntlets upon your elbows, holding you steady. You looked up to see that you had run into one of the guards - recognizing the tree on the armor. “My apologies, I wasn’t looking where-” 

Your eyes went up higher and it felt as if you were hit by an arrow right in your lungs, all breath escaping your body in one movement. The face - the face of your first love, looking down at you, his sharp eagle-like eyes burning as they stared down at you. “Clearly,” He snarled. 

You took a step back, feeling his single word the same way that you had used to feel his fist against your body. Yellow. Green. Purple. Black. The colors of all of the bruises that had decorated your skin over time. Fenred had thought that because your skin was already dark, they wouldn’t show. But they had. You had memorized the outlines, could trace them with your fingers despite being well healed.  

“S-sorry,” you said, purely out of instinct, putting your head down, shrinking yourself, becoming the small person that he had made you be.  

He scoffed down at you, and then pushed past, his armor scraping against your skin, as cold as his heart. You were frozen in place, watching him until he was out of sight. Your heart was beating so fast that it hurt you, boom, ba-boom, boom, ba-boom.  

“Are you alright, dear?” An older woman asked, her hand resting on your arm. And the touch, the sound, it was like you were suddenly hit with your breath, taking one so deep that you started to choke on it, coughing into your hand.  

“Yes - yes, I’m alright,” You lied to her. “Thank you.”  

She didn’t look as if she was sure about this but then continued on her way down the road, back to minding her business, just like most people in the city. But that quick moment of kindness had brought you back to reality, and reminded you of how far you had come. Aragorn. You just needed Aragorn. 

Your feet moved quickly, your footwear slapping against the stone streets as you rose in elevation. Heading up staircases, ramps, the maze of spirals that was Minas Tirith, until you were at the front doors of the palace. The guard on duty knew you, of course, so you were let inside and searched out the man who had changed your life. He was outside, standing by the White Tree of Gondor, admiring the white flowers that it had sprouted. White. Everything in this city was such a pure white shade.  

Aragorn turned around, his hands clasped behind his back, a smile showing on his features. “There you are. I’ve been waiting for you.” 

“Why?” You asked, stepping forward. It wasn’t just a question out of curiosity, but out of insecurity, but he had not realized that yet. His face was still bright, and it was enough to cause you to smile too. He was some damn dastardly handsome. “Are you hungry?” You asked, holding up the basket of vegetables. 

“Yes,” Aragorn chuckled, walking up closer to you. More of his handsome visage became visible as he came near. The little flecks of gray hair in his beard starting to appear. The smile lines. The crow’s feet. “Starving, in fact.”  

While your ex, Fenred, had made you feel frozen, Aragorn made you feel heat throughout your body. Just the way that he had looked at you while he said that, his eyes tracing your figure. He wasn’t just hungry for vegetables. He was hungry for something else. 

“How could -” you said, your bottom lip starting to quiver. His expression fell in concern, stepping closer to you, taking the basket from your hands and setting it down on the ground. “How could you love someone like me?”  

Aragorn went through a little face journey. He looked confused as he heard what you had said - and then seemed to question whether that was what he had really heard. And then he just didn’t understand the question, going back to the original concern. “Sorry, I didn’t hear that right, what did you ask?” He asked apologetically. 

Your teeth sank into your bottom lip, feeling all of these emotions well up in the warmth that he made you feel. It’s like - you were happy that he looked at you like that. But you couldn’t understand why. You were holding your breath, waiting for it to all fall down. 

“How could you love me?” You asked again, your voice in a hushed whisper, barely even wanting him to hear it. He put his hand onto your cheek, as if he could rescind your question, put it right back between your lips. He smiled ever so slightly, the left side of his mouth going up a little higher than his right in that charming way.  

“Is that a challenge?” He asked, pressing his lips against yours. Your heart was beating so quickly then, as everything else seemed to go limp, surrendering to his touch. He had a way of making all thoughts fly from your brain, right out into the air, floating like petals in the breeze. How could he love you - he had so many ways. And he planned on showing you all of them. 

He picked you up in his arms, those strong arms that held the most important blade in all of Middle Earth History, the arms that had fought off mountains of orcs, the arms that had taken off the crown of Gondor, and carried you inside towards your shared chambers. Normally, such a thing would not be approved of, since you were not married. But no one went against what Aragorn commanded. He wanted you by his side, and so you would be. 

You tried wiggling out of his grasp, playfully of course. There was nowhere else that you would have rather been. Only a touch of your insecurities had been left within you, though you almost couldn’t remember why.  

“You keep wiggling your butt like that, I’m going to spank it,” Aragorn said, his breath hot against your ear, causing you to laugh. He chuckled as he set you down gently onto the bed, his hands now on your hips, rolling you over on the fur blanket. His hands were squeezing at your ass, enjoying the feeling of it beneath his hands. You moaned slightly at the contact, enjoying it. Just - enjoying his love. Enjoying how this great man was worshiping you. And then thwack - his hand came down onto your left cheek. It wasn’t hard, and your gown had taken most of the blow but it was still enough to cause you to gasp with pleasure. Thwack - he wasn’t leaving the other cheek untouched either. 

And then his hands went up your back to where the dress was laced up, and he started to undo the little knots that kept it form-fitting until it fell loose around you. You rose yourself up so that he could pull it off your body, leaving you bare on his bed. It had been a warm day; you hadn’t bothered with all of the under-garments. Not when you knew you were going to be seeing him anyway. 

“You -” Aragorn said softly, looming over your body. You had rolled back onto your stomach, enjoying the scent of him amongst the furs, the soft feeling of it tickling against your skin. But that wasn’t the only thing, as you could now feel the hairs of his beard brushing against the back of your thighs, causing a shiver to go down your spine. And then his lips against your bottom, tongue teasing the crevice. “- are the most beautiful person that I have ever seen. I could be happily stranded forever on this bed if you were here to keep me company.” 

You arched your back as his tongue found a new target, right in between your folds. His hands kept your thighs steady as he tasted you, his tongue flicking up at the tip to tease you further. You moaned into the pillow, feeling cherished, feeling - better than yourself. “Aragorn,” you said, your hands clenching onto the pillow.  

“My love-” he said, raising his head from you for just a moment. “You ask me how I could love you. Let me show you the ways.” 

You rolled over beneath him, facing him and you nodded, your eyes pleading for more. He moved up towards your lips and kissed you, and you could just taste yourself on his tongue. It wasn’t unpleasant in the least. The passion over-rode any disgust that you might have felt. Your hand got wrapped up in his brown hair, the soft tendrils seeming to wrap themselves around your fingers, pulling him in closer. He then moved to your neck, while his hands wandered around your body, admiring each curve, appreciating every pore. You mumbled his name again as he showed his devotion, stimulating your nipples with his hands before slipping down between your legs and growled slightly against your skin as he felt your wetness. Your arousal already strong. “That’s my girl,” he said, making you feel even more turned on. He possessed your heart, he knew that, you knew that, and any reminder of that was completely welcome. He’d been the one to repair it, put it back together, put YOU back together. 

You untangled yourself from his hair to help him, undoing his trousers, the firm leather doing nothing to hide the fact that he was hard. They looked uncomfortably tight and you were eager to set him free. 

He came out, hitting your thighs with a gentle moan. He was already rock hard. As you stroked him, you could feel a few drops of precum holding onto the tip of his cock. You wiped it with your thumb, spreading it around the head. He was a vocal man, much like he was in battle, letting out little grunts and groans, his mouth suckling on your dark skin, his fingers pinching your nipples. Your thighs were together, wrapped around his hand to keep him there. You weren’t going to let him go. Certainly not after he had found that sensitive nub again, and started to rub it with his index and middle fingers. You were so sensitive, it was like you could feel every swirl of his fingerprint, your head thrown back against the pillow, hand moving automatically to bring him pleasure too. You were on the bridge of overstimulation, but haven’t quite crossed it yet.  

Due to your previous relationship, you always had these insecurities, which also gave you this need to be worthy. You had to please him just as much as he was pleasing you, so that he wouldn’t realize how much better he could have it with any other woman. Your thumb pressed underneath the head of his cock at every stroke up - and then with every stroke down, twisted, causing sweat to erupt around his brow, on the back of his neck. You started to move faster, until he suddenly pushed your hand away with a growl. 

“I don’t want to cum that easily, my love,” he whispered into your chest. And then the feeling of his index finger penetrating inside you, stretching you out slowly. Your body adjusted as you groaned, pleading with him under your breath for more. He acquiesced. He added in his middle finger, and then slowly, prodding, his ring finger. He took his time, going slow, his erection between your thighs, shuddering as he felt your plush skin surrounding him. He spoke something in Elvish - something that he always said to you, something that you had only ever had to ask him to translate once and remembered since then. 

‘You are perfect.’ 

Or perhaps he had used the word immaculate, and had to tell you what it meant, since you hadn’t come across that word before. Something along those lines. A shiver went up your spine as those beautiful sounding syllables.  

“I need you, Aragorn,” You panted, your breath growing heavier as you could feel yourself getting close. His fingers could get you off anytime, but the most powerful orgasms you had were when he was inside of you. When you knew that you were able to get him off too.  

He groaned again, and then kissed his way up to your lips, taking them heatedly. He was so damn warm, like you were kissing flames. His fingers left, causing you to whimper as a feeling of emptiness took you over. But only for a moment, before he eased himself into you, filling you perfectly.  

Immaculately. 

You whimpered again as his thrusts started to be slow, passionate, tender. And then they started to pick up as he couldn’t hold back much longer. Each movement of his hips brought you closer to your peak, every grunt from his perfectly shaped lips, every time that his balls hit against your ass, you were rising to heaven. He was releasing all of his pent-up desire onto you. 

You reached your peak, closing your eyes, seeing white as your body shuttered. His hands on your hips were gentle, thumbs circling the bones as he slowed his motions to prolong your orgasm, only picking up afterwards, close to his own. He was ever a gentleman, refusing to be the first to cum. Ladies first, he insisted.  

He pulled out at the last moment, his hardness grinding between your folds, the head against your clit as he spilled out upon your pelvis. You hadn’t had the talk about having children yet, and he was careful to make sure you didn’t get pregnant until he was sure that it was something you wanted. You hummed sweetly, your hand going through his hair as you attempted to recover.  

“I love you,” You whispered to him, as his head rested against your shoulder. You weren’t the only one who had to catch your breath.  

“I love you,” He replied back, kissing your skin gently, never letting up in his affections behind closed doors. 

Despite the amazing time that you two had, the insecurities always returned. Especially when you were walking among the city, getting looks, and the risk of running into your ex was much higher. Every time you passed a guard, your eyes would flicker up to the face, anticipating the worst-case scenario. And of course it happened. Of course, your good luck was sure to run out again sooner or later. 

You were walking with Aragorn, arm and arm through the spiral streets. You had been in a good mood. You were laughing as he told you a tale that you had heard before, about when he had found Merry and Pippin in the remains of Isengard, eating like kings and smoking some of the best pipe weed known to Middle Earth. But your laugh got cut off when you felt a heavy pair of eyes on you. You knew them well.  And you could feel the anger, the hatred, the pure violence that the mind behind them held for you. 

You let your arm fall from Aragorn’s. You just missed the look of concern that he gave to you, your eyes focused on your ex, who was standing near one of the shops, supposedly guarding it. Heart beating fast, but not in the way that Aragorn set it off. This was you going into fight or flight mode. And you chose flight every time.  

“I’m going to go this way,” You murmured, just loud enough for Aragorn to hear and made a turn to go up a staircase in another direction. You hurried, moving so quickly, your shoes hardly made a sound against the stone. 

Aragorn was left bewildered. He watched your back as you left, and then turned his head to see the direction that you had been looking before you sprinted off. A guard stood there, his mouth curled up into a snarl, also watching you leave. The grey eyes of the man who could have been King regarded him carefully, memorizing what he looked like, before turning to follow you.  

He didn’t call after you, didn’t call more attention towards you, knowing you better than to do that. You weren’t a big gesture in public kind of person, as much as he had no problem with displaying his love for you. No, he reached you easily, and took your hand in his, pulling you into his chest, and kissed your forehead as you turned into him. His eyes looked straight into yours intensely, not with questions but with determination. 

“What did he do to you?” He asked quietly, his hair moving in the light breeze. His hand tightened against yours, not enough to hurt but tight enough not to let you go. “Tell me.” 

You felt all your strength leave you at his question, at his urging, and leaned against his shoulder, head nuzzling into his neck. “He-” You started, but your resolve to talk about it was leaving too. It was so difficult. So humiliating. His arm went around your waist, holding you close. His breathing sounding ragged - angry. 

He kissed the side of your head, lips pressing against your hair. He was so completely patient despite his own ire.  

“He was my former ... flame,” you said, not wanting to use the word lover since there had been no love from him. He had made sure that you didn’t feel an ounce of it, no matter how much you wanted it, strained for it. “And he made me feel so hated, Aragorn, he still does. Nothing I did was good enough for him. I had to constantly justify my existence to him, until I found myself doing it to myself. And he made me feel so ugly. The way that he would treat my skin. I used to think he loved me, or that he would grow to if I was just good enough. It took me way too long to realize that was never going to happen.” 

Aragorn stood tensely as he took all of this in. Your words were in his ear. He wasn’t mishearing you, misconstruing you at all. He thought that this man was worse than all of the Uruk-Hai that he had ever taken down. He didn’t want a man like that in the city’s employ. 

He pulled back to take your face in his hands, his thumbs caressing under your chin. “You’re beautiful,” he told you, squarely. “You’re the most beautiful person that I have ever seen in my life. You have the strength of a dwarf, never giving up, stubborn to the core. You have the elegance of an elf. The sweetness of a hobbit -” Each one of his comparisons was reminding you of what you loved about your friends, about the fellowship. Stubborn Gimli, never letting his smaller stature keep him from being helpful during the war. Legolas, serene and strong. And the hobbits - dear Frodo, Sam, Pippin, Merry. “I’ve never met anyone more worthy of love than you, my immaculate one. And I’m going to make sure that you get it.” 

He didn’t keep you standing there to be a spectacle to the city. After he gave his small speech to you, his compliments, he walked with you, arm around your waist protectively, calloused fingers fiddling with your dress, and walked you right to the Captain of the Guard - Faramir. The knight stood at attention seeing Aragorn coming, acting professional despite the fact that they were good friends. Almost like brothers now.  

“Aragorn,” he said, nodding his head in a bowing gesture. “Y/N.” 

You managed a smile to him. He had become a friend to you as well. His wife Eowyn had become a good friend to you as well, and you four often dined together. As long as Eowyn didn’t cook. Aragorn had warned you against that. 

“There is a guard in this city who doesn’t deserve to be one,” Aragorn said, his tone showing that this wasn’t the friendliest visit. He looked down to you, expecting you to chime in with his name. 

“We don’t have to go this far -” you said, weakly, but he shook his head. 

“Give me his name,” Faramir said, kindly. “I’ll make sure that he’s taken care of.” 

The immediate trust was a surprise to you. Fenred argued against you at every turn. When you tried to go for help, tried to tell a guard about what he had been doing to you, you got the cold shoulder. They all stuck together like a brotherhood. But Faramir didn’t need an explanation at all.  

“Fenred,” You muttered, your voice barely audible but it seemed to catch both of their ears. 

“I want him out of the city. Today,” Aragorn insisted. “Before the day turns into dusk, if possible.”  

“I know the name,” Faramir said, stroking his facial hair. “I think I’ve heard a complaint about him before.” And then he nodded towards you and to Aragorn. “He’ll be beyond the barrier before the stars come out. I’ll make sure of it myself.” 

“Thank you,” Aragorn said, putting an appreciative hand on his shoulder. “We both appreciate it." 

While walking away, you wrapped both of your arms around one of his, holding it close to you. “You didn’t have to do that,” You mumbled. “I could have just kept on avoiding him...” 

“No,” Aragorn said, his voice gruff, heavy. “You’re not going to walk on eggshells in my city. He deserved what he got, and now -” He breathed in deeply through his nose, and then out through his mouth. He was blaming himself for not picking up on these anxieties earlier. His mind reminisced through every time that you had come to him feeling insecure, unsettled, your hands shaking. He hadn’t put together the pieces that it was a guard making you feel that way. That it was an ex. “- now you aren’t ever going to have to worry about him again.” 

You looked around briefly and then pressed a tender kiss onto his cheek, pressing hard enough that he would be able to feel it through his beard. “I love you. Thank you, for always taking care of me.” 

“You don’t have to thank me,” he said, in that honorable and noble way that he always did. He truly believed he didn’t need the praise for doing what any man should do for their love. He paused his walk and turned down towards you, his nose brushing lovingly against yours. “And I love you too.” 

[inkedmoth]

Hunting in the Hills

For @erathene, she requested a one-shot of Aragorn troll hunting with Hathiel a fellow member of the Grey Company! Hope you enjoy ❤️

The ground was slick beneath her boots.

Rain, misty and light, had slowly been seeping through the wool of Hathiel’s cloak, flattening the fabric to her skin, soaking her hair, her clothes, her very being. Despite how cold and unpleasant it was, that discomfort was something she was accustomed to. Such was life within the Grey Company.

Padding silently across the saturated ground, she drew alongside her companion, his eyes down and locked on the tracks they’d been following for the past three days.

“Anything?”

Clear grey eyes flickered her way, before returning to the ground.

“It’s close,” Aragorn replied.

His voice was even quieter than her own, almost lost to the gentle patter of raindrops, or the swish of leaves in the breeze. He sank to a crouch alongside a rain filled divot in the muddy ground, brushing aside some leaves that had fallen over it, revealing the shape more clearly. Large, round, with five thick blunt points to one side. Only one creature this far north could make prints like that.

Troll.

“It passed through here no more than a day ago…”

At his words, Hathiel lifted her head, pushing the edge of her hood back slightly, squinting across the rolling foothills of the aptly named Weather Hills. Tree cover was sparse out here, but through the rain she could make out the darker smudge that indicated a forest.

“Nightfall’s not for a few more hours,” she mused, “if I were a troll, those trees would be mighty appealing…”

They couldn’t survive sunlight, even that of an overcast day risked stray sunbeams breaching the cloud cover. So the forest was no doubt its haunt. Unless it had managed to find a cave, but the prints had been leading resolutely south-east ever since they’d stumbled across the tracks during patrols.

“Why is it so far south…”

More than accustomed to Aragorn’s quiet musing, Hathiel knew when something was directed towards her and when it wasn’t. This time didn’t necessitate an answer, but it was a curiosity she too shared.

Had something pushed the troll from its territories? Had it run out of prey? Was it seeking others of its own kind?

She hoped not.

There were settlements further south, humans, hobbits, even elves… If the troll caught them by surprise in the middle of the night, it could do untold damage.

Without conscious choice, her steps sped up.

“Hathiel,” Aragorn’s warning tone followed her stalking.

“I’m not letting it reach Bree.”

There was no argument from her Chieftain, nothing beyond a low hum of agreement or disapproval. Even if he did keep pace with her.

Still following the large dish-like prints, the pair bounded across the rain slicked and muddy ground, and despite their haste, took great care in avoiding anything that could announce their presence. Twigs and branches were cleared in a stride, puddles were skirted, long grasses were weaved through.

Before long the forest was looming overhead.

Thick boughs, dense pine needles, strong trunks. It was dark within, gloomy and shadowed from the weak light that battled to break through the dense cloud cover. Hathiel’s pace didn’t slow, darting into the gloom without hesitation.

“Hathiel.”

The hissed warning had her steps slowing, a frustrated glance thrown over her shoulder to Aragorn. If they attacked the troll now, there was every chance they could lure it out, it was still midday –technically– if they could lure it away from the trees, then maybe, just maybe, they could trick it into freezing in sunlight. They just had to lure it out and then keep it from retreating.

Easy.

“We don’t even know if it’s here,” he pointed out, as though able to read her thoughts, “we can’t just rush in.”

“It’s here.”

That earnt her a glare, but she was quick to gesture to the prints that had continued into the treeline. Not to mention there was… an odour on the air. A troll smelled like a ruin full of corpses looked. Ancient stone soaked with rain and blood, rotting meat, musk, the smell of dank earth and foul things that hid within the shadows. A stark contrast to the scent of pine and rain…

It was here. She knew it was. Aragorn knew it was. The sooner they lured it out, the safer the region would become.

“It’s here,” she repeated stubbornly. “You know it is.”

“Then we should return with more swords,” Aragorn countered.

A huff of frustration and disbelief left Hathiel’s throat. They’d spent days tracking the blasted creature already, and now he wanted to retreat, gather the others, and then spend Oromë knew how long re-tracking it? The fell creature could be at Bree, or the Shire, by the time they caught up again.

But he was right.

Probably.

“We should at least get eyes on it,” she relented, gesturing behind her, into the dense trees. “What if it’s set up a lair? Or it has company? We can’t bring the others without knowing for sure…”

The look Aragorn gave her suggested he could see straight through her flimsy attempt to get closer to the troll. As though he knew her thoughts and her plans. He knew how much she hated the creatures that had killed her family. But she also saw how a silent sigh left his body, head shaking in resignation.

“We do not engage,” he said, voice low and hard, “do you understand, Hathiel?”

“We don’t engage,” she repeated, “I understand.”

Hathiel was many things, but she knew when to listen to orders. No matter how it chaffed.

But with that promise in place, the pair resumed their stalking.

This far within the woodland, the weak sunlight was all but banished. Movement became slow, cautious, moving in tandem. One set of eyes on the prints –now less distinct thanks to the bed of fallen pine needles– one set scanning their surroundings in constant vigilance.

Aragorn was focused, moving past her as the tracks lead downwards into a hollow, but Hathiel realised she was scarcely checking the prints beneath her feet. Instead, she was quite literally following her nose. The stench of rotting meat hung heavy on the air, so strongly that she half imagined she could see the maggots writhing on dead flesh, could see the leathery skin and dense hide, could see how the troll might be camouflaged amidst the boulders littered throughout the fores—

A boulder moved.

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck.

It was right there. It was almost in touching distance. And she was stood between the towering trees staring blankly at it like a plonker.

Without removing her eyes from the troll, she lifted one foot and took a silent step backwards. Another step. Where was Aragorn? A third step, her feet cushioned by decades of pine needles. A fourth.

At least she wasn’t right on top of it anymore. Was it asleep? It certainly seemed somewhat curled, the rough pebbled hide of its back was curved, small movements, its head down and not visible from where she was carefully moving backwards. Maybe she could back up enough to catch Aragorn’s eye.

There was a wet crunch, and the unmistakable sound of flesh being ripped.

It wasn’t asleep. It was eating. But that meant it was distracted. She could get away. But where the fuck was Aragorn?

crik

Something snapped beneath her foot, and the sounds of eating instantly stopped.

Hathiel froze, watching as the troll’s head came up –its back still to her– the creatures hearing wasn’t great, nor was its eyesight, but its sense of smell was all but unrivalled. Would it be able to smell her over the meat it was consuming? Could it smell her beneath the rain-soaked wool of her cloak and the heavy scent of pine?

Oh by Oromë’s bow she hoped not.

The seconds crawled by unbearably slowly, but finally after a Fourth Age, the troll returned to its meal.

She didn’t dare breathe, didn’t dare exhale in relief. Truthfully, she didn’t dare move either. But neither did she wish to remain in proximity to the creature for any longer than she had to—

There was a flicker of movement in her peripheral.

Dark clothes, dark hair, silent steps.

Aragorn.

Walking directly towards her. Fuck.

Silently, her hand snapped up, palm held out towards him, fingers splayed wide in an unmistakable order.

Stop.

Thank Oromë he listened. Aragorn froze, one foot lifted to step, that was lowered painstakingly slowly to settle once more. His hand drifted to his sword, head on a swivel as he tried to make out what she could see. She saw the moment he froze, saw how his clear grey eyes widened in alarm, and then snapped back to her in clear disbelief.

Her grimace was a poor apology.

Hathiel didn’t dare move, with her foot already half crushing the only Valar damned dry stick in this forsaken forest, she didn’t dare increase pressure, didn’t dare lift her foot. Maybe she could time it with the wind? Or with the sounds of rending flesh and cracking bones? Or could she signal to Aragorn to make a noise, throw something, anything, to give her chance to put distance between her and the troll…

Now there was an idea.

Looking to the Ranger, she made a throwing motion, trying to convey the slapdash idea.

The look he gave her was sincerely unimpressed, but at least he began to untie the waterskin from his belt. It was light enough that he’d be able to throw it hard, but heavy enough that it should cause enough of a commotion to draw the troll’s attention.

Waterskin in hand, Aragorn glanced to her, and made a beckoning motion, earning a nod of understanding. He’d throw the skin, she’d bolt to him, and the pair would absolutely book it out of the forest and far away from the tro—

Aragorn looked back to the troll and his face went white.

At the realisation that the eating sounds had stopped, Hathiel’s own head snapped about. The troll was lurching to its feet, stretching with a deep rumbling groan, and then before she or Aragorn could react, it turned around.

There was a pause, tiny beady eyes narrowing as it squinted through the gloom at her and Hathiel did her best to Think Tree Thoughts and become invisible. Its nostrils flared, once, twice, and on the third, its black eyes widened. Thick leathery lips curling back from thicker blunt fangs in a snarl that had equally thick spittle flying every which way.

Well… Fuck.

“Run.” The breathed order from Aragorn was barely audible over the pounding of her own heart. “Run!”

Hathiel ran.

A bellowing roar filled the forest, shaking the tress, sending droplets cascading down, pine needles and pinecones clattered and bounced through the branches, striking her head, her shoulders, her arms, her back. But still Hathiel ran.

She’d been ten feet away from the troll, and with its sheer size, those lumbering footsteps wouldn’t take long to catch her. She just had to keep ahead of it, she just had to reach the edge of the forest. Hurdling a fallen trunk, she’d barely run another three paces when there was a Valar almighty crash behind her as the troll simply ran through it. She would have cursed, would have yelled and sworn, if it wasn’t for the fact she was too busy breathing.

In through her nose, gagging on the fetid air that followed her, out through her mouth.

In, gag, out.

“DOWN!”

Aragorn’s voice cut through the forest like a sword through flesh, and without a second thought Hathiel dropped into a sliding skid. There was a whoosh of air, as a fist the size of her body whipped through the space she’d just been occupying.

Rolling and scrambling, she lurched to her feet and resumed her sprint.

The frustrated snarl at her back was far too close, the foul breath was hot on her back. Darting through a narrow gap of two trunks, there was a bellow and thud, as the troll tried and failed to bull its way through the gap. Her own steps didn’t slow, and for good reason, as a ground shaking crack filled the air.

She didn’t need to look back to know it had snapped one, or maybe both, of the trees in its path.

“Left!”

Another single word order, but Hathiel jolted to the left anyway, no matter how it might be heading deeper into the forest. A trunk hurtled through the air, the very edge of the branches lashing across her back and shoulder, almost knocking her down.

The ground beneath her feet was angling downwards into a dell, it was sparse of trees, more open, easier to move around in, with a generous layer of pine needles coating its floor. Already she could see Aragorn up ahead, also running but looking back to her frequently. His steps started to slow, as he turned about, drawing his blade.

What had happened to reinforcements? Did he really plan to take on the troll? Was he joking? No, no his feet were settling his stance low and ready. Well shit, she couldn’t just leave him here—

Something struck her and Hathiel found her body being flung.

One moment she’d been running, the next, a fist bigger than herself had slammed into her spine, her feet being lifted clear off the floor to hurtle through the air in a tangle of limbs and cloak. Her flight was rudely interrupted by the trunk of a tree, and then the unwelcome embrace of the ground.

For a moment, everything went dark.

And then things began to filter back into her consciousness.

Her ears were ringing. Blood pounding in her head. Vision flickering and pulsing in time to the stuttering of her heart. It hurt, she couldn’t breathe, it hurt, was she dead? It hurt. It hurt. It hurt.

But there was yelling. The bellowing of some beast. Her name. Did she have a name? She must do, as it was being yelled with increasing panic.

“Hathiel!”

Inhaling had pain blossoming across her chest.

“Hathiel!”

Moving her limbs had pain rippling up her spine.

“HATHIEL!”

It took far too much effort to sit upright, it took far too much strength to lift her head, it took far too much energy to focus her eyes.

The troll was lurching about the clearing, meaty fists swiping at a figure who was darting and flitting about. The entire scene was oddly akin to the time she’d watched a sparrow evading a buzzard. The sheer size difference, the fleetness of the smaller, the lumbering but deadly movements of the larger. But some very disorientated part of Hathiel’s mind recognised that it was her kin being perused.

The trolls fist slammed into the ground, almost knocking him down.

Her steps were unsteady –when had she climbed to her feet? – but she moved forth regardless. She didn’t know how she’d drawn her sword either, but she was upright, she was breathing, and her steps were steadying with every pace forwards.

She’d lost kin to trolls before, but she was stronger now. It wouldn’t happen again.

The creature was hardy, with thick skin and pebbled hides, most blows would rebound, would fail to cut. But this wasn’t the first troll she’d faced. Wasn’t the first she’d had to fight. So preoccupied with Aragorn, the troll didn’t learn of her presence until her sword had lashed out towards it.

The hide might be tough, but there were weaknesses, and her blade found it.

Slicing through the skin on the back of its knee, a pained bellow was wrenched from its chest. The troll whirled, and Hathiel lurched backwards, narrowly avoiding a second strike from its massive fists.

No longer the sole focus of its wrath, Aragorn darted forwards, his own blade parting the wrinkled skin of its other knee.

It staggered, but didn’t fall.

Between the pair, they harried it back and forth, darting in to nip at its heels, slice at its weak spots, flitting away from its retaliations. Again, again, again, again. Her sword was coated in black blood, the trolls’ steps were slower and uncoordinated, Aragorn’s teeth were bared in a snarl. They were wearing it down and they were beating it back and they were so so close to bringing it crashing to the leaflitter and loam.

And then it lunged.

Her own lurch back was rudely interrupted by its meaty hand closing about her arm. There was an audible crack of bone, barely drowned out by her agonised scream.

For the second time in as many minutes, Hathiel was flung.

Thankfully it wasn’t a tree that halted her flight this time, slightly less thankfully was that she’d been flung into Aragorn.

There was a yelp and curse from the Ranger as the weight of her body sent the pair crashing to the floor, one of his arms wrapped about her waist, the other shielding her head. Tumbling and skidding across the clearing, there was a grunt as she all but landed atop him.

A victorious bellow came from the troll, leaving them no chance to recover as it surged towards them.

“Move, move!” Aragorn barked, shoving at her.

Hathiel staggered to her feet, broken arm hanging uselessly, her free hand snatching up her fallen sword. A hand at her back told her Aragorn was with her, following and encouraging her to keep going. The banks of the dell weren’t steep, but it felt so, as she all but dragged herself upwards, feet sliding and pain blazing across her left side.

She could feel the ground shake as the troll gained on them.

“Get down!”

She dropped, yelping with pain as her arm was jarred. Feeling how Aragorn had all but covered her with his own body. Feeling the rush of air as the troll’s fist narrowly missed them.

An arm wrapped under her shoulders, all but hauling her up the slope, but her legs gave out, and Hathiel hit the ground once more. Unwilling to remain prone, she rolled onto her back with a grunt, pushing with her feet until her spine met that of a tree. A moment later and Aragorn was alongside, lashing out and managing to cut across the arm of the troll.

It only seemed to enrage the creature more, rearing back.

And then it lunged.

“Sword!”

There was no choice in the matter as Aragorn seized her wrist, bracing her arm with his. Her eyes snapped shut as the troll slammed into them. A sickening crunch, a shower of fetid black blood, a long wheezing gasp of putrid breath, and then…

Silence.

Long. Painful. Crushing. Silence.

“Hath?”

The voice of Aragorn was croaky, little better than how her own might be should she have the strength to speak. But she couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t breathe.

“Hathiel?”

Cracking one eye open, it quickly became apparent why, as the rough hide of the troll’s shoulder was pressed against her chest, scraping her chin. She could fee its blood soaking into her clothes, could feel her sword hand all but inside its fucking chest.

“Talk to me Hath, are you alright?”

She opened her mouth to reply, but all that left her throat was a strangled whine.

“Fuck!”

Alongside her, she felt Aragorn struggle, shoving and pushing at the troll’s body that had all but pinned them. Each jostle and jolt sent pain through her body, until finally, he broke free. Hands latched onto her shoulders and pulled.

The scream that left her was shockingly loud.

Immediately Aragorn stopped, the pressure on her body eased, and darkness flickered at the edge of her vision.

“Hathiel? Hath I’m sorry I need to pull you free.”

“Hurts…”

“I know, I know,” Aragorn said, voice strained but trying to sooth her in the same breath, one hand brushing her face, pulling limp hair out of her eyes. “On the count of three I’ll pull, I need you to push with your feet, understand?”

“Yea-h.”

“One, two, three!”

She pushed, he pulled, it hurt, everything flickered, and darkness fell.

The next thing she became aware of, was something tapping her cheek, an insistent gesture which was incredibly annoying. Her brows furrowed, head turning in a bid to get away, but a light shake had her senses snapping back into her body as pain flared through her arm, her chest, her spine, everything everywhere all at once.

“Hath?”

Prizing her eyes open once again, she squinted against the falling rain, squinted against the weak grey light of day. Aragorn was hunched over her, one arm about her shoulders, the other wiping at her face, either to clear her of the rain, or get the troll blood off her skin.

“Are you with me?”

“Ow.”

There was a harsh exhale of relief, and Aragorn’s head thumped onto her shoulder. “Oh thank Fuck.”

Despite her disorientation, despite her pain, despite the fact she’d just had the shit beaten out of her. Hathiel’s brows shot up at Aragorn’s curse.

“Tha’ bad?” she croaked.

“You’ve been out for almost an hour,” he replied hoarsely, “I thought you were dead.”

“Why the fuck’re you still ‘ere then?”

That earnt her a withering glare, although it didn’t last long as Aragorn shook his head and dragged a hand across his face, smearing the mixture of blood and troll across his skin and beard. He was sat back against a tree, she was half in his lap, half sprawled across the ground. He’d splinted her arm it seemed, and bound it with strips of a cloak.

Ah, that was probably why he’d hung around. Had to patch her up first.

“Is’t dead?”

“It’s dead,” he confirmed with a harsh exhale, “I checked. Our swords are lodged in its chest deeply enough that I’ll have to do some digging to get them out again. But its dead.”

“Good.”

It was getting hard to talk, so Hathiel gave up, letting her head thump back against his shoulder and her eyes fall shut once more.

“Something’s bothering me,” Aragorn was continuing in that tone of voice that told her she didn’t actually need to answer. “Why’s it so far south? It’s a mountain troll, and the Weather Hills hardly count as mountains out here…”

Her non-committal grunt was input enough.

“Elladan and Elrohir have reported of orcs and wargs gathering closer to the Misty Mountains,” he was continuing to muse, and Hathiel was half inclined to fall asleep listening to the rumble of his voice, “and Halbarad mentioned seeing orc prints in the South Downs… Are they gathering?”

A sobering thought.

Despite the need to rest, despite the urge to fall asleep in this clearing –no matter the stench of troll– and despite the fact her entire body was screaming in protest at the thought of moving, Hathiel stubbornly lifted her head.

“D’you… Do you think we should head to Rivendell?” she asked, “if, if they’re gathering, we’ve gotta, got to warn them.”

“You can barely breathe right now,” he countered, “I’ll warn Elrond, but for now you need to rest.”

“Can rest, in Rivendell.”

That earnt a huff of quiet laughter, jostling her head. “It’s many days walk away.”

“Bet’er get goin’ then.���

“You’ve done enough for today,” Aragorn chided gently, and very pointedly pressed his hand to her forehead and pushed her head back to rest against his shoulder once again. “Rest. We’ll figure out more come morning.”

She didn’t want to. She wanted to head to Rivendell. She wanted to warn Bree. She wanted to protect the Shire. But… Aragorn was warm at her back, his cloak was shielding her from the worst of the rain, and her body was begging for her to rest.

“Rest, Hathiel.”

For once she didn’t protest, and instead let her eyes fall shut once more. She would rest. But in the morning, there was work to be done.

[heliads]

platonic!aragorn x reader? i requested a bunch of these a while ago and i just adore how you write him. perhaps something in rivendell where the reader is overworking themselves because their productivity is really low so they work longer (bonus points if reader is a writer) and aragorn gets them to relax. ooh and sibling-style banter pls!!!

bonus points?? i didn't realize i was getting points at all this is fantastic

masterlist

Spring is a soothing time, it always has been. Winter is dark and dangerous; the sun sets early and tempers snap quickly, even amongst the elves. Those who claim to only proffer peace can lose it faster than you think. Grey skies spell trouble, early frost kills each and every bloom that thinks itself tenacious enough to come out before its time.

Every winter you think the cold will never end, that warmth and light will stay dead forever. Every spring, you are reminded of the one truth in this world that everyone seems to forget:  it will get better from here on out. There will, at some point, be a surrender of darkness, and you will heal. We all will, and we will do it together.

You are remembering that now as you walk through the gardens of Rivendell. Stormy nights made the stone and wood structures look cold with gloom, but with the way the sun shines upon them now, you would think yourself in a wholly different place. This is your home, it has been for the last ten years. You were not an elf born, but you came to their city and they welcomed you anyway. Swords can only do so much good. Sometimes poets and scholars are more necessary than guards.

So you found a place tucked away in glen thickets and stone walkways, so you learned to pursue your craft of words and thoughts until a foreign place felt like home and accepted you as one of its own. No life is easy, not while monsters like orcs and trolls still roam the uncharted territories in between cities, but Rivendell is a peaceful life, and it does good by you.

If you cannot find strife in the danger of fighting for your life, however, you will make it yourself. Resting is a difficult thing, even though it shouldn’t be that way. If you rest too long, you start to think, and if you think, you start to realize that you are technically an outsider here, not born within the stone spirals of Rivendell but of some other place, and that means you must prove that you deserve to stay here for longer. Those who stay must have meaning. What, then, could possibly be yours?

You’re a writer, then. Fine. Could your writing compare to those around you? Even the least of the elves still have centuries on you, so much time to hone their craft. By comparison, your scribblings must look juvenile at best. You’re trying, sure, but effort can only get you so far.

You’ll have to catch up on time, then. That’s doable. It should be, at least. You pour hours into the study of manuscripts and texts in the library, force your quill to paper so many times you think you might as well never lift it up. You may not have time as your virtue, but you can force it to work for you anyway.

The problem is getting your brain to cooperate half as well as your hands. Your pattern of frantic writing starts to wear away from you as you attempt to keep up the pattern from dawn until dusk day after day after day. It is exhausting work, but it shouldn’t be– isn’t this writing, what you decided you wanted to do forever? If you were truly gifted at it, this wouldn’t take so much effort, and it certainly wouldn’t drain you the way that it does. Maybe that is another failing, one more thing that separates you from the elves.

You hadn’t realized others were aware of your inner strife until you got a visitor one month after winter ended. He comes with bloodied hands washed clean, armor placed in an unlocked box for quick access, sword still within reach. Peace does not come easily to him either, son of the North, but it does not come easily to anyone. Aragorn might disguise his torment better than you, though. Or so he pretends.

You were not aware that he was stopping by. Perhaps you should have known, if you had spent more time outside of your study instead of unsuccessfully trying to burn through the latest chapter in your work. Regardless of what you could have learned, the result is the same:  your old friend stands in the doorway, shaking his head with mock solemnity even as he fails to hide a grin.

“Y/N, friend, have you ever been able to let yourself enjoy your time here, or must you always suffer yourself to your pages?”

You stand up with a smile and walk over to greet him. “Aragorn, how lovely to see you. What brings you this way?”

He lifts a shoulder. “Tracking business. There are rumors I don’t like about goings-on near Mount Doom, but that’s neither here nor there. Also, I heard that you weren’t doing as well as I would care to imagine.”

You stifle a groan. “You’ve been in contact with Arwen, haven’t you? Tell her she has nothing to worry about.”

“I would if I believed I wasn’t telling her lies,” Aragorn muses, “you seem too tired, my friend. Your brow is lined, your eyes are weary. What is the meaning of this?”

He does not say it angrily, or in any demand for information, just a concern for his friend. It is this and this alone that finally convinces you to open up.

“I need to do it,” you tell him at last, “I need results. I need pages of writing to make up for the fact that I lack the experience of the elves. I may be tired, but I feel like I have to prove that I deserve to be here.”

Aragorn shakes his head, looking surprised. “That cannot be. Who has told you that a person cannot merely live and have that be enough? Not every task must be proven right or proven useful, Y/N. You do not have to outwrite the elves, that truly is impossible. You are here to follow your own path, not theirs.”

You sigh. “It is difficult to not compare my writing with theirs when we live in the same place.”

“I remember that,” Aragorn says thoughtfully, “growing up and learning the way of the sword from elves with many decades already more than me was challenging, but it teaches you things that you would not know from mankind. Do not let them affect you, Y/N, intentionally or not. Only do what you wish to do. That is why you are here, not to do what they can but what you can. That way, they can learn from you as well.”

You run a tired hand across your face. “So you really came all this way to tell me to relax?”

His face splits in a familiar grin. “I figured you would need some advice. Besides, it truly is good to see you. It has been too long since we last spoke.”

You agree with that. “That means you could visit more often, you know, instead of tracking random animals through the wilderness.”

He frowns with pretend indignation. “My tasks are more important than that.”

“I wouldn’t know,” you tease, “you never visit long enough to tell me. And when you are here, you spend all your time following a certain Elf-maiden around. It makes for difficult conversation.”

He laughs. “You’re impossible.”

“Of course I am,” you say gleefully, “that’s why we’re friends. Thank you, though, for your words. I do appreciate them.”

“They are true,” he reminds you, “it is okay to rest. It always will be.”

It is a good message, this. Hard to remember and even harder to practice, but still good. You will try to apply its power in the days to come.

lotr tag list: @rogueanschel, @retvenkos, @gods-fools-heroes

[apricusapollo]

legolas to aragorn but she is eowyn and he is eomer

[fox-bee926]

Tolkien would be so proud if ever i write this aragorn fic

[coopsgirl]

Not to mention that he missed out on the long black hair. Being that Eowyn's blonde, I don't want to know where that came from 🤣🤣

Aragorn the Foodie

(this is 85% satire, mixes movies and books, and I don't care!)

We have all witnessed the barage of memes about Éowyn and her stew. We have all had a good laugh at her expense, but I think we may be wrong. Perhaps Aragorn is a food snob.

We all know Hobbits love food, drink, and a good time. During Bilbos birthday, this is said:

Besides, their cousin, Bilbo, had been specializing in food for many years and his table had a high reputation.

Also, in The Hobbit, Thorins parting words:

“No!” said Thorin. “There is more in you of good than you know, child of the kindly West. Some courage and some wisdom, blended in measure. If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world. But sad or merry, I must leave it now. Farewell!”

Which leads me to believe that Hobbit food is good. I think we can all agree on this. Those little folk seem like they could cook an amazing meal.

With this, we have set a precedent of Hobbits loving and cooking good food. In comparison, we know elvish food is good. Like, really good. In the Lord of the Rings, when the hobbits meet the elves in the woods in the Shire:

The Elves sat round the fire upon the grass or upon the sawn rings of old trunks. Some went to and fro bearing cups and pouring drink; others brought food on heaped plates and dishes.

‘This is poor fare,’ they said to the hobbits; ‘for we are lodging in the greenwood far from our halls. If ever you are our guests at home, we will treat you better.’

‘It seems to me good enough for a birthday-party,’ said Frodo.

The elvish "poor fair" was good enough for a birthday party, according to Frodo.

Now, for our foodie, Aragorn. We know he was raised in Rivendell which means he didn't eat garbage. During his youth, I am sure he picked up some ability to cook from the elves which would help him out in the wild. From my recollection, we don't see other people react to Éowyn's stew the way he did.

That's it. Aragorn is a food snob that can't appreciate a hearty, grey stew.

[thewulf]

Am I Wrong? || Aragorn

Summary: Request: Could you write something about (fem)reader who's part of the fellowship and really close to Strider? When they split up to find Frodo after Boromir blows the horn, reader goes with Merry and Pippin and gets separated from Strider.... Read Rest Here

A/N: Picking up when the group reunites in Isengard after Treebeard/Hobbits/Reader sack the place :) This is really sweet and fluffy, thank you for the request @fluentmoviequoter !!

Pairing: Aragorn x Female Reader

Word Count: 2.7k +

TW: General LOTR triggers, anxiety, fear, kidnapping, orcs,

Aragorn followed behind Gandalf as he led the small group to Isengard to deal with the dark Wizard himself. What he wasn’t expecting was to run into another part of the Fellowship after so being separated for so long.

He heard the Hobbits before he saw you standing there, radiant as ever, “I feel like I’m back at the Green Dragon after a hard day’s work.” Pippen spoke with his pipe happily placed in his mouth relieved the events of Isengard were over more than anything.

Merry spoke next, “Only, you’ve never done a hard day’s work.” That’s when he heard your bubbly laughter in response to the usual joking hobbits who were clearly very inebriated. You on the other hand seemed totally in control of the situation.

Aragorn’s heart pounded in his chest as he spotted you standing with your side facing him chatting happily with the two Hobbits that stole you away from him. You were alive. Somehow more beautiful than he ever remembered you being. His eyes scanned up and down your figure making sure they truly weren’t deceiving him. You were here in Isengard. Merry and Pippen too.

Merry stood, almost falling over, shouting at them with rosy, red cheeks, “Welcome my Lords, to Isengard!” You turned with the biggest smile on your face. Once your eyes landed on Aragorn’s you couldn’t take them away. Your smile grew as his mouth dropped in shock seeing you standing there alive and well. He couldn’t track you. He thought the worst of it. He knew right then that he had to tell you. He loved you. So deeply. He never knew if he was going to see you again, he thought the worst of the Orcs after not being able to find your tracks with the Hobbits.

“Y/N.” He spoke before nearly shoving the Hobbits away from where you were standing. He needed to be right next to you. Your smile turned to one of focus as you took him in after too long apart. Truly, you knew you loved him too. You wished to never spend another night away from your Strider. He was your home and comfort. He became your person without you even knowing it.

Without another word you through your arms around him tightly, bringing him in for an unexpected embrace. Unafraid of all the glances and knowing smiles from the fellowship and other men around you. You couldn’t seem to care about that right now, you’d deal with the embarrassment later, “Strider. What are you doing here?”

Before he could answer you Gimli shouted from behind the reunion, “You young rascals! A merry hunt you’ve led us on… and now we find you feasting and… and smoking!”

After dropping your arms from around his neck, you stepped around your missed companion taking offense to his words, “They’ve earned it Gimli!” You only smiled bigger once you felt Striders hand resting on the small of your back. He had always been protective of you but never so forward with it. The two of you had pined from afar but never acted on it as that would be seen as improper. But that was then. That was before he had feared the worst. You were alive. Breathing right in front of him with the most precious blush sitting on your cheeks. Yeah, he knew it was over for him. He needed you and was tired of trying to hide it.

Merry cheered with his pipe after you spoke and before Pippen tuned in, “We are sitting on a field of victory enjoying a few well-earned comforts.” He giggled in his non-sober state, “The salted pork is particularly good.” Pippen added for good measure knowing it would get under his dwarf friend’s skin.

You nodded along with them giggling yourself, “It is indeed.” You saw the gleam in Striders eye like he was trying not to laugh at the situation they had found themselves in. The plan certainly wasn’t running into the three of you while in an inebriated state. Aragorn knew you well and currently you were particularly giggly, a sign you’d partaken in some of their endeavors even if you tried to deny it.

The Hobbits waved their friends into Isengard, “We’re under orders from Treebeard who’s taken over management of Isengard.” Merry led the group in leaving Strider standing next to you holding onto the reigns of his horse. After the two of you shared a few moments just staring at the other he finally decided to speak to you. Neither of you were willing to follow the group at that moment. The two of you had a reunion to attend to before dealing with Saruman.

“I thought you were dead.” He admitted to you. Aragorn couldn’t meet your eyes as you just looked at him with a bit of bemusement forming along your tapered smile.

You tisked at him shaking your head, “You think so little of me Strider, no?” A growing smirk was playing at your lips as you studied his downtrodden expression.

His eyes finally looked into yours again, “Never, you know this. But I… I could not find your tracks along the Hobbits…”

“You did not think I would cover my tracks?” You eyebrows rose, challenging him now, “I thought you have always said I learned from the best?” Referring to him, naturally.

He let out a lengthy laugh. The tension in his shoulders released seeing you as the same person he thought he lost only a few weeks prior. Even though it had only been a few weeks he knew he could never part from you for that long again. He was a fool and only he came to realize that once you had slipped through his fingertips after getting taken by the Orcs. You didn’t hear his yell for you as he watched you fight. But even you, one of the best Rangers he knew, couldn’t overcome so many of them all at once. And just as he saw you, you had vanished in front of him along with the Hobbits. He had never felt such a failure before seeing you disappear with the creatures you had detested for as long as you’ve been alive.

“I should have never doubted you.” He spoke with that twinkle in his eye. He adored you, through and through. A slow gulp overtook him as he studied you. He always knew you were beautiful, ever since you met him all those years ago. But now, after it took him losing you to realize that he was in love with you, he understood just how stunning you truly were.

You nodded with that confidence he had adored in you, “Aye. Thought you would have learned by now Master Strider.” Tossing him a wink even you did not know where this overly friendly attitude towards your partner was coming from. That’s all he was and could ever be, just a partner in work.

He bowed his head with a similar smirk gracing his face, “Indeed. Forgive me, Y/N. But I was terrified. I thought I had lost you. My thought process was… less than rational.” When his eyes met yours once more a sad smile parted his lips. It hit you that he truly thought he might have actually lost you. Thinking of what you would do had you thought you lost him had you in an instant fit of tears. There would be no rationality in your actions had you thought of Strider dying.

His striking blue eyes sent a familiar shiver down your spine. You gave him a quick nod, “I will always forgive you, my king.”

Strider let out that familiar laugh that you had adored so much. The one that sent a shiver though your body, “It wounds me that you mock me so easily, my Y/N.”

You couldn’t stop your fluttering heart at his words, my Y/N, “I would never do such thing, you are my king, no?” You rose your eyebrows in curiosity. Sure, the news that he was the heir of Isildur took you by surprise. It didn’t shock you completely though. There was always something about him that felt so other worldly. When Legolas let true of his identify at the Council of Elrond it all sort of made sense. You’d been Rangers together for nearly thirty years, both of you being Dunedin it made sense to pair the two of you together early on in your ventures. He had never told you of his true heritage throughout all that time together. While it stung when you learned you understood why he had done so.

“I see you have not lost your tongue.” He avoided your question.

You smiled knowing his usually ways of dodging, “Would you rather they take it?”

But a quick shake of the head let you know he was simply playing, “Never. Your wit is but my favorite thing about you.”

Letting out a feigned gasp you shook your head, “I should be so offended Aragorn.”

“What do you mean?” He looked surprised by your reaction unsure if you were simply messing with him or being completely serious.

“Do you find me that unattractive?” You asked a little too bluntly knowing that you were surly crossing that invisible line the two of you had danced around for far too long.

A fiery blush rose to his cheeks letting you know you had finally gotten the better of him, “Oh no. Never. No. I did not mean it like that. Please…”

You stopped his incoherent rambling with a stifled giggle, “I tease.”

Shaking his head slowly he knew he likely looked a fool standing in front of you. He couldn’t hide it though as all of his emotions came forward seeing you there alive and well. He had begun the process of mourning your death, thinking he’d never see you again. He knew he wanted to tell you exactly how he felt, right here. He wanted to waste no more time. He came to the striking realization that even no matter skilled you or he was life in middle earth was very hostile and unforgiving. The chance of death was high and even higher now that the two of you had joined the Fellowship.

“You are fortunate I care for you very deeply.” He chose his words carefully, hopeful you would pick up on his true meaning.

“Oh?” You heard his words a little surprised. There was not much he could say that took you by surprise but this was one of them that did. He had never so much admitted he cared for you at all let alone deeply in your time together. Strider was very kind to you but the two of you shared a working relationship at most. You weren’t out here letting your tightly bound feelings out and he certainly wasn’t either.

His confidence grew seeing the color rise to your cheeks at his words. You were thinking and hard at it apparently, “That cannot be all you have to say.” He stepped forward knowing that he had the upper hand on you for once. He could never seem to catch you off guard until this very moment.

You sucked in a breath not having a clue where this seemingly innocent interaction was heading. Turning around you spotted the rest of The Fellowship talking to Treebeard far off in the distance. You spun back finding him standing much, much closer than he was before. Eyes widening your head was not making sense of what was actually happening, “I was not expecting you to say that.” It was you deflecting this time which drew an arrogant smirk on the man standing far closer than you were used to. How did he smell so good? Surely he hadn’t bathed in a while. How did Strider do it? Make your mind fuzzier than ever.

He had to look down to meet his eyes with yours, “I never want to spend a day away from you again.”

If your cheeks were not already aflame with realization they were flooding with color now, “You do not?”

It was he who had the courage to make the first move on you after seeing how easily you reacted under his words. He took his hands and brushed away a streak of dirt across your cheek slowly sending your already racing heart into another frenzy, “No, never. These last few weeks have been the worst in my life. Never do I wish to part from you again. If that is what you wish for too.” Ever the man you fell in love with, he left the decision up to you.

It was your turn to be courageous now, “I wish the same.”

His devilish smirk turned into a smile of utmost joy. A smile you so rarely saw on the man. For you knew you didn’t wish to separate from him ever again either. Nearly every moment you were away you thought of him. You thought what he would do in your situation and tried your hardest to stay positive. If it were not for the Hobbits you may have stayed to fight with the Rohirrim when they had saved you from the clutches of the orcs who had you running for days on end. But you knew Strider would save them before fighting on his own, the Hobbits would never survive Gondor on their own. In a way he had saved your life countless times even when he was not there. Strider stayed with you always. You loved him always.

It was then that he realized he had nothing to lose. The way you had looked at him told him exactly what he wanted to know. You had loved him just as dearly as he loved you, “Can I tell you something?”

A nod came from you, “Anything.”

It was now or never and he wasn’t planning on missing his chance, “I love you.”

You could not help the way your mouth dropped at that, “You what?”

“I love you.” He said again with more confidence. He loved you and he couldn’t keep it from you anymore. Strider also knew that things would never go back to normal after this quest. His true identity was revealed. Things would change. As much as he longed to go back to the simple life of patrolling the woods with you he knew that’d never be in his cards any longer. And if his life was going to change he wanted to bring the one thing that brought him comfort along for the journey as well. If he were to be king he wanted you to be his queen. No, needed you to be his queen. For a majority of his success came from you being there with him helping and guiding him.

“You love me?” You asked more to yourself than to him. When he placed his hands on your shoulders with a gentle touch you knew you were a goner. The look in his eyes was like nothing like you had seen from him, “Why me? We’ve been partners for over thirty years and… where is this coming from?”

He stopped your racing mind by running his thumb along your lower lip, ever the intimate action sending your speeding heard into overdrive, “I’ve always known. But losing you… thinking you died. It all but made me realize how daft it is to hide it away when I can tell you outright when clearly you feel the same. Am I wrong?” He smiled as he held the back of your head in his hand so gently.

“No. Certainly not wrong.” You spoke in a soft whisper. When he smiled even brighter than you had truly ever seen you had to tell him too. You’d all but implied the same feelings but you needed to let it out too, “I love you too.”

The next moments felt like a blur. He pulled you close before whispering in your ear, “The next time the nosy prince of Mirkwood is not watching I will give you a proper kiss, my lady.” It was the first time he’d called you that in all your time knowing him. A rush of warmth was felt throughout your body. It felt… right. Like you were meant to be at his side.

Once he released you from the hold he had you in you turned your head over your shoulder spotting the blonde-haired elf sitting on his horse paying much more attention to the two of you rather than whatever tale Treebeard was telling the new group.

You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped you over the absurdity of the situation. Of all the things you thought could happen today confessing your love to the man who had you enraptured ever since you met him was the last thing you thought possible. Yet here you were. Avoiding the ever-clear eyes of your elven friend, “Damn elves.”

He nodded in agreement, “Come on, hop on.” He led you to his horse where he got you situated before he got on behind you. Slowly, he led you back to the group. You caught Legolas’ side eye knowing the he had to have heard a majority of the conversation if he wanted too. And knowing him, he wanted too.

When Strider’s horse stopped he made sure to keep his hand on you, uncaring of the curious stares from the rest of the group. He loved you. They knew it. Why should he have to hide it any further? Finally, it felt like something in this journey made sense. All he had to do now was keep you safe and destroy the ring. Simple, right?

Lord Of The Rings Taglist (If you'd like to be added to any or all works please fill out the form here: Taglist Sign Up): @loving-and-dreaming @kmc1989 @memeorydotcom @matisse556 @buckylov3r @taygrls @ah-blossom @hardballoonlove @rosiahills22 @djs8891 @guacam011y @illisea @il0vebeingdelulu @shiftingtomydrs

[tobylix-blog]

Gratitude - Aragorn x f!Reader

Content & Warnings: platonic, fluff(ish) Word count: 3.6k Summary: Aragorn returns to become a king and pay back for the kindness of a merchant's daughter, whom he has met during his past visit to Minas Tirith.

You open the store once again. The city is wrecked. The siege was barely three days ago. But the market is the first place to come back to life. As long as it's loud and busy the city lives. Your storage is filled. By some miracle no fire or stone has touched your street. You fix the door open and hang out a long piece of cloth - a sign that the store is working. You turn back to tidy up the shelves behind the counter when someone steps in. Judging by the sound of voices several people come in at once.

"A minute, gentlemen, I'm almost with you," you say over the shoulder, not quite looking at them yet.

The voices are quiet, and for a moment all is silent in the store. Then a loud thud comes. You turn to see a whole bag of coins on the counter as a rich, melodious voice sounds from among the men.

"My friends will need the finest clothes for the coronation and so will you, miss".

Your eyes slowly rise from the counter to the man speaking. His familiarity strikes as a low blow. His appearance changed drastically and yet hardly noticeably. He stands proud and is wearing fine clothing with the White tree of Gondor on it, but the gaze of his gray eyes is as piercing as before.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The street is busy with people. Morning rush in the market doesn't fade until noon when the sun gets just too high. Through dozens of conversations unfolding between merchants and customers bargaining over the goods, old friends who suddenly met in the middle of chaos and servants figuring out how to get it over with sooner, you hear a distinct male voice saying. "Get lost, outlander! Northerners are out of their mind if they think I will sell them even a piece of shit! Damn rangers."

You recognize the voice. The trader from the armory a few doors down the street. As threatening as he appears, he isn't usually that hostile to customers. From your point of view, two steps above the ground you can only see the dark hair of the man he scolds. Man is saying something back but his voice you can't quite hear. Instead a loud response comes from the inside of the armory.

"Put your silver up your thin arse! Get away from my store before I put a hammer through your head," this time it's the smith himself. You shiver a bit hearing his rough voice.

Stranger only stays in front of the armorer's shop for a moment before moving on. You finally see him fully when he appears from the crowd. Tall and dark-haired he doesn't seem all that different from men of Gondor. His clothes give away the fact that he is indeed a Ranger. You hear more sneers following him from the other side of the street where old men sell leather. Their tannery is actually a few streets down from here, but they still keep a display in the busiest part of the market. Unpleasant fellows. They even got in a quarrel with your father a few times trying to steal his customers. Probably that's why you take a step down from the door and call out to the stranger. There's no other explanation at all.

"Ranger! Come look at our fabrics. Best broadcloth in all Minas Tirith! Vast selection and best prices for you."

The Ranger stops, looks around for a moment, and seeing the wares through the open door makes his way down to look over them. He looks at the materials laid out on the counter over, fingers them, and seems intrigued by the selection. He reaches out to examine a particularly colorful one.

"You have a very good selection here. Are these local, or imported? They look very fine."

You may be only 13 years old, but you know the goods well. "These wools are gondorian. Look at the quality here. There are none like this anywhere in Arnor. I also suggest these linen fabrics delivered from Linhir," you say imitating your father's manner of speech.

The Ranger smiles faintly at seeing you so assured in your speech and so young. He looks over the wools and linens.

"Linhir, eh? Impressive that you get such high quality goods from so far away." He looks back at you with visible curiosity. "Are you the shop owner's daughter?"

"I am," you confirm and after a little pause pull a length of dyed linen from underneath the counter. "This one is rarely to anyone's liking but you seem to be fitting the description of 'not anyone', if I'm not mistaken. Take it. There's enough for a good shirt."

The Ranger smiles more broadly this time, and picks up the length of linen. He examines it thoroughly, and nods slowly.

"You've got a sharp eye, to guess that I'm someone who doesn't blend in, lass," he says with a touch of humor in his voice. "And this is definitely worth the coin. How much are you asking for it?"

You name the price. He rummages his pockets for a moment before cold coins drop heavy in your palm. "There's more than needed. I'll be right back…" you say and rush into the house. For a minute only some shuffling is heard. Then you return to the counter.

"Here," you tell the Ranger. "Change and well… everything."

You pass him a coin of change and a small bundle. The Ranger pockets the change, and then takes a look inside the wrap. After a moment, he smiles faintly again.

"Is it common practice for you to throw in a meal with your sales?" he asks, amused.

You feel blush creeping up your face. "If the tavern owners are half as hospitable as the blacksmiths are, you will need it."

The Ranger laughs at that, and his smile remains afterwards. "You've an excellent point, lass. The hospitality of tavern owners seems to be in constant decline. And I'm not sure about the blacksmiths either."

It's clear in his voice that he's jesting, though he is obviously remembering his earlier confrontation with the blacksmith. You watch him put on the hood of his cloak as he walks away blending in with the crowd. You don't remember much from the rest of that day, except for occasional sidelong glance from the leather men. No wonder you don't. It's been over eight years since then.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Many thoughts arise at once, clouding your mind like a swarm. Yet they all are silenced by one phrase, that a dwarf says. "What is the meaning of this, Aragorn?" He says something else about how it's not the king's duty to walk from stall to stall, choosing fabrics, but it doesn't matter.

You slowly slide off the stool you were standing on, by some wonder landing on your feet and not gashing your knees against the wooden floor. The words are pounding in your head. Yes, that's right. People surrounding him are.. not exactly people. An elf, a dwarf and two hobbits. Just as the rumor has it. The king has friends of other races and folks.

Your body is stiff when you muster a bow to him. This tall man, Ranger you once met, turned out to be the last living heir to the throne. Some absolutely mad joke of fate that might be.

"It's an honor to see you here, my king. Though I must apologize for the disorder and lack of manner," you manage to utter finally.

He smiles faintly at your bow. "It's good to see you again, lass," he says, raising a hand to forestall any further apologies. "And there's no need to apologize. Your manner is fine, especially given the circumstances."

He leans forward a bit, eyes still sparkling with the faintest hint of mischief. "You seemed surprised just now when you saw me. As if you've seen a ghost walk into your shop."

"It isn't everyday that a faintly familiar ranger pays a visit… and happens to become a king, your majesty," you say. Your eyes dart from one of his companions to another until you settle with the image. From there on your steps are fast and words are even faster as you fall into the usual pattern of work. It helps to set all worries aside.

"Midnight blue and ink black broadcloth for Gimli, son of Gloin," you arrange the fabrics on top of the counter before the dwarf. "Goes well along with both gold and silver."

"Bright wools and soft satins for brave hobbits," you speak pulling out lengths of colored textile and showcasing them to Merry and Pippin.

"Silver silk brought all the way from Lorien for honorable Legolas of Mirkwood," you suggest, unsure yet if smuggled wares could meet the request of an elf.

"Linen from Linhir and hemp from Dale for your majesty," you offer a multitude of colors to the future king.

Aragorn's eyebrows rise in mild surprise at the speed with which you handle the various requests. You clearly know your craft, and well. You pick out the colors and patterns with ease. He runs his hands over the soft fabric of the broadcloth you picked out for Gimli. After a moment, he nods slowly.

"Excellent choice for my friend," he says, glancing at the dwarf. Gimli grins back and nods in agreement.

"It's an honor to meet your expectations, my king," you bow slightly under Aragorn's somewhat disapproving gaze.

You watch as the others look through the selected fabrics and nod in agreement, choosing the best fitting ones. Aragorn himself looks rather delighted by the wares. He picks out a length of hemp cloth, turns it over in his hands a few times, examining the weave and texture, and finally gives a satisfied sigh.

"I'm still a Ranger at heart," he says, glancing up at you. "My taste in clothes runs toward the simple and practical. This hemp is just the thing."

He sets the hemp down on the counter and smiles back at you. "I do wonder, though… which one will you choose for yourself?"

Your heart skips a bit at the question. "For myself?" The words leave your mouth before you get a chance to think them through.

Aragorn smiles at your surprised expression. "Of course," he says. "I doubt I need to tell you that the coronation will be a grand event. There will be people, nobles especially, with all the fashion sense and more coin than sense. You will be the only one in something plain and unadorned if you stay away from the occasion."

He looks down at your clothes. You're well-dressed for a trader, a clear sign that the store's profits stay high despite any turmoil, but it's clear that your dress is ordinary, suitable for an ordinary day. "You deserve something better than that."

"I'm afraid I don't quite understand, your majesty…" you mutter. "I might be able to watch the coronation from among the crowd, or standing on the parapet if the luck is good. But my dress makes no difference in that luck."

Aragorn lets out a small huff and shakes his head. "No, lass. You have seen me before, and you weren't among those sneering and showering me with cheap mockery. As far as I'm concerned, you're entitled to a seat of honor at the ceremony. And I'm not letting you take that seat while you've still got your old clothes on."

You look at him in disbelief. This idea seems absolutely mad. You have probably lost your mind during the siege, and now you're imagining the whole thing. That the King, Aragorn, would be in your store personally inviting you as a guest to his coronation and willing to pay for your dress because of some decade old encounter. You shake your head and blink a few times trying to get back to reality. And yet he is still here. The same smirk on his lips as he leans on the counter.

Aragorn's smirk grows a bit wider when he sees your reaction. "Don't doubt your eyes, lass," a hint of humor is present in his voice. "I am standing here. And I am inviting you."

He looks you up and down, taking in your current clothes and appearance. "And if you don't pick something suitable, I'll do it myself, and you won't like it."

At that you only shake your head yet again and turn around facing the many shelves behind the counter. You know the wares like the back of your hand and don't waste much time picking out the more delicate linens and a length of silk from southern Gondor in light blue hues. Aragorn only looks them over once and gives a nod of approval.

"An excellent choice," he says, looking up at you with a smile. "You have an eye for color."

You nod slightly, unable to speak anymore. It all seems so impossible and unreal. Aragorn pays for everything he and his friend choose as well as for the lengths for your own dress; he also leaves behind enough to pay any seamstress in the city for the gown. It's only a few minutes before you're left behind. Alone and bewildered by the meeting.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

In the next couple of days you pay a visit to a seamstress that once had sewn your mother's wedding dress. She takes the order readily and in the next morning a boy brings back a bundle with the finished gown. It's light and flowing like water in the river. You wait patiently until the day of coronation to finally put it on.

The dress seems to be enchanted somehow. You don't feel like a merchant's daughter walking through the crowd at court, being accompanied by a guard. You don't feel alien standing in the front rows among noble ladies and just a few steps away from lady Eowyn — niece to the late king of Rohan — and lord Faramir — son of the last steward of Gondor. You feel as if this could be some other life prepared for you by fate. And still you can't quite place why the king would step out of his way and do something of that sort for you.

Throughout the whole ceremony you can't tear your eyes away from his silhouette. You recognize the familiar color and texture of fabric, hugging his neck from beneath the armor. You watch him walk regally and at the same time very openly among the guests. Many are his friends. The ceremony ends with his grateful bow to the hobbits as the whole court follows his example. And with that begins the feast.

The great hall of the palace is decorated and festive. The long tables are filled with food and drinks. People flood the hall, taking their places. You watch the whole Fellowship find themselves close to the king. And your own place is somehow not that far away as well. Just among the members of the few remaining noble families of Gondor, blending you in with them.

As the feast progresses more wine bottles are opened. So far you managed to avoid the many cups of wine being offered by neighbors at the table, but it was getting noticeably harder. Some surely mistook you for a daughter of some less well-known, but clearly wealthy family, that would make for a good bride for one of their many sons. Before the direct confrontation becomes unavoidable you get away from the table and into a side gallery. Unsure as to where you should be going, you escape onto a balcony. It's empty and the scenery is beautiful. Fresh air is soothing against the heated skin.

You lean onto the parapet of the balcony, taking this chance to immerse in peace of the early night. Judging by the music, the dancing must have started, and that sounds like another perfect way to excuse yourself from the table later. But before you even decide to head back, you hear the sound of the balcony door slightly creaking at being opened and slow footsteps approaching.

You turn around and recognize Aragorn, who must have found a great time to sneak out of the spotlight relatively unnoticed. Back in the hall he looked nothing like the Ranger you once met, but here in the faint moonlight and subtle orange hues casted from the windows you can spot more similarities than before.

"Good evening, your majesty," you greet him politely with an appropriate bow.

Aragorn smiles faintly at your bow. He steps forward and leans on the parapet next to you. After a moment, he speaks, his voice more casual than it was earlier.

"You know, you don't need to call me by my title. Especially not while we're alone like this."

The suggestion catches you off guard. "I don't quite understand what should I call you then… or why that would even be possible," you confess your doubts.

He looks over at you and raises his eyebrows. "Why would it be possible to call me by my given name? Because I'm allowing it. For the time being, at least."

Aragorn turns to you completely so that he's leaning against the parapet, with one arm resting on it. The simple action bringing color to your face as you get to see him fully. "You met me before I was king. As far as I'm concerned, that means you still have the right to call me something other than 'your majesty' when we are alone, like this."

"There're many people in this city and beyond its walls who have met you before, Aragorn," his name feels almost alien on your tongue. "But I doubt that they all receive the same… treatment."

The king lets out a small huff and smiles faintly. "No, I suppose not. I doubt I'd be able to recognize any of them, for starters. You, however, were more memorable…"

He gives you a brief once-over. "You were more memorable," he repeats, his gaze fixed on you for a moment before he looks away and back out at the city. "It could be a mere coincidence, but I trust my fate and its signs. My visit to Minas Tirith eight years ago was the last one. It was the time when I attempted to make the final decision of whether to follow the path of an heir or give up. The way I was greeted with dozens of insults and many more curses in the streets of the White city was the sign that I assumed to be an advice against pursuing my right for the throne. You showed up before my eyes right when I was ready to give up. So young and eager, so welcoming and confident. I couldn't tear my eyes away from you. You seemed as the very essence of the new Era. You singlehandedly charged something within me with this new will to fight for such future."

You stand there too stunned to say a single word, your mind racing with thoughts. You would never expect to hear something of the kind. The way you acted during that first encounter was a surprise to you as well, as if… well, as if fate pushed you to be more hospitable and welcoming to this stranger.

The more you keep thinking about his words the brighter the scarlet tone on your cheeks turns. You try to get rid of the definitely wrong ideas you got, but they just keep reappearing in your troubled mind.

Aragorn glances over at you and takes notice of the shade of red creeping over your cheeks. He can't help but give a small chuckle. "And now you're blushing again. I wonder why?"

He reaches forward and carefully takes your chin, his hand tilting your face up towards him slightly. "What could possibly be going through that mind of yours, I wonder…"

Your eyes dart to his with righteous indignation. "You know what!" you exclaim rather impolitely, but continue in a much calmer, quieter manner. "How could you be speaking of fate so easily…"

Aragorn lifts an eyebrow in amusement as your voice rises then falls off again. His grip loosens a little, his fingers now resting on your cheek, still turning your face to look up at him.

"You don't like the concept of fate?" he asks, with a faint smile. "You don't think the right people can meet at the right time?"

"No, that's not what I meant. However, you sound so sure of the way you interpret those signs of fate. As humans we are only able to follow the path prepared for us, not knowing what lays ahead, aren't we?" you say trying to explain your mind's confusion. "But you seem to understand more, and that seems impossible to me. Especially, when," you pause for a moment searching for the right words. "When I somehow get involved in your fate."

He looks at your expression, studying your eyes and face, his fingers still touching your skin as he speaks.

"You are involved in my fate," Aragorn says, his voice low and serious. "You have been for a long time, whether you knew it or not. But I knew it. Not long after we first met. I knew there was a greater purpose to that encounter, even if you did not. And I made sure to be grateful for your timely appearance. Though I must admit there might be more than just gratefulness…"

He removes his hand from your face and makes a few steps towards the door back into the hall before turning around and facing you once more. "Dancing will continue for another hour, but it would be a shame if the king doesn't dance even once because a beautiful lady decided to spend her whole night on a balcony, right?"

Your gaze glides over his hopeful gray eyes and faint smile until it finally lands on his outstretched hand.

[rivendell-poet]

trick or treat! aragorn/reader fluff please? with a side of established relationship teehee

Trick-or-treat! And of course, I hope you enjoy it <3

*･༓˚✧ ❝𝐀𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫❞ ‧͙⁺˚༓˚✧ « trick-or-treat »

GN!Reader | Wordcount : 190 words | TWs : None

“Have I told you I love you?”

The question is somewhat sudden, and you take your eyes off the stars to fully take in your husband. Instead of looking up at the heavens Aragorn’s watching you, as though whatever thought he’s had has made sense in his mind. And then his brain catches up to him as he realises that he’s only said the last part of his thoughts. Coming closer to you, he smiles. “I meant today, have I told you today that I loved you?”

You take a second to think about it, mind playing back the slow wake up together and the morning kiss, the laughs you exchanged over lunch, and the excited look on his face when he asked if you’d stargaze together. But today, although he’s shown it in a thousand ways, he hasn’t actually said it.

As you shake your head gently, Aragorn finally bridges the gap and pulls you into his arms. “Well, let me make it up to you now.”

“I love you, my darling. More than the stars around us, more than the sun when it comes up. More than anything.”

A/N : Second treat down, same day again! Hopefully you guys are enjoying these <3

« masterlist » thank you for reading *･༓˚✧ Taglist : @starwars2222 / @xiaoseminence / @withasideofmeg / @wordbunch / @bespectacledhuman / @ferns-fics / @stormchaser819 / @raikan624✧ wish to be tagged?

[welikeimagines-andfandoms]

🍃Tolkien Masterlist🍃

Smut: 🔥🔥

Fluff: 🌸🌸

Heated Fluff: ⭐️⭐️

Friendly: 🌈🌈

Angst: 🌨️🌨️

💙 Collage

💚 Oneshot

💖 Preference/Headcanon

💜 Quote

💞 Blurb

Aragorn

- Just A Girl 💚🌸

- Waited So Long 💚🔥

- Kinks 💖🔥

Arwen

- Warrior Girlfriend 💙🌸

Bard

- Baker 💙🌸

- Break Stuff 💚⭐️

- Mermaid 💚🌸

- Mermaid Partner 💖🌸

Bilbo

- Tease 💞⭐️

Boromir

- Sleepy Reader 💜🌸

- Princess 💖🌸

- Waited So Long 💚🔥

- Lean On Me 💚🌨️🌸

- Teasing As Flirting 💚🌸

- Competition 💜🌸

Eomer

- Heart-Shaped Box 💞⭐️

- Queen of Pain 💞⭐️🔥

- Competition 💜🌸

Eowyn

- My Sweet Girl 💚🌸

- Thunderstorm 💚🌸

Fili

- Size 💚🔥

- Loved You Before 💚🌸

- Undressed 💙⭐️

- Elf Princess 💙🌸

- Braid 💚🌸

Glorfindel

- Chanel 💚🌸

- S&M 💚🔥

- So Tight 💞🔥

- Sunglasses and Flower Crowns 💚🌸🌈

- Lyrics 💙🌸

Kili

- We Didn’t Start The Fire 💚🌸🌈

- Elf Princess 💙🌸

Legolas

- She Knows It 💚🌈

- Big Girl 💚🌸

- Edge Play 💚🔥

- Tongue Piercing 💚🔥

- Waited So Long 💚🔥

- Sweet Prince 💚🔥

- Training 💚⭐️🌸

- Lyrics 💙🌸

- Go To Sleep 💚🌸

Lindir

- Toys 💚🔥

- Rebellious 💙⭐️

- Birthday Present 💞🔥

- Mermaid 💙🌸

- Warrior Love 💚🔥

Thorin

- 9 to 5 💚🌸

- Accidental Confession 💚🌸

- Courting Gifts 💚🌸

- Queen Under The Mountain 💜🌸

Thranduil

- Relaxing Day 💙🌸

- NSFW Alphabet 💖🔥

- Old Lady Reader 💖🌸

- Leaving A Party 💙🌸

- A Kingly Tour Guide 💙🌸

- Sleeping Loves 💜🌸

- Jewellery and Paintings 💙🌸

- Breath 💚🔥

- The Kiss 💚🌸

- Never Tried 💚🔥

- King To The Rescue 💚🌸

- Secret Conversation 💚⭐️

Multiple

- Meeting 1 💖⭐️

- Meeting 2 💖⭐️

- Meeting 3 💖⭐️

- Meeting 4 💖⭐️

- NSFW 1 💖🔥

- NSFW 2 💖🔥

- NSFW 3 💖🔥

- Lindir x Reader x Glorfindel 💞🔥

- Lindir x Reader x Glorfindel 2 💞🔥

- Favourite Position 💖🔥

- Fairy x Mermaid 💚⭐️

- Elves x Hobbit Women 💞🌸

- Elves Kissing 💖🌸

- Human and Elves 💞🔥

- Love Triangle 💙⭐️

- Kink Alphabet 💖🔥

- Two Lords and a King 💞🔥

- Poems 💞🌈

- Mediating The Kings 💞🌸

- Forehead Kisses 💞🌸

[live-laugh-legolas]

Masterlist

My rules are just to please be kind and patient

Requests are OPEN

I write for the fellowship and occasionally other ME characters

I’m really just doing headcanon type posts for now because I find them easier to write and I’m new to this

I will try to get to every request but it may take a while. I don’t want to post anything that I feel is total shit on my part so I may not end up answering everything. I feel bad about that but also I’m just doing this for fun and don’t want to pressure myself into writing anything I won’t enjoy

Not sure if I’m comfortable writing NSFW so if you request something I’ll probably not get to it for awhile if at all

Also please ignore the fact that this masterlist is kinda ugly. It looks better depending on what device you use. I’ll work on it…maybe

Group Headcanons:

The Fellowship x quiet!reader

You have a dragon companion

The Fellowship as your BFF

Their favorite candy

Love languages

Music preference

When they are sick

You lose your glasses

Coming out as trans/non-binary

Their hobbies

x adhd!reader

Older brother

Favorite video games

They get a puppy

x winged!reader

Around their crush

When you get hurt

They propose

x reader w/anxiety

What they do for your birthday

Given the silent treatment

x scarlet witch!reader

Dancing on tables

Cuddling

x musician!reader

Can they cook?

Their fears

When you get drunk

x depressed!reader

Favorite fall activities

Their favorite article of clothing

Their favorite shows

Spice tolerance

How clean are they?

How they handle nightmares

Their sense of humor

Horror movies

Eating non-edible items

Pumpkin carving

Surprise kiss on the cheek

Their sleeping habits

Pottery painting

Coffee shop au

At Disney World

Mental health

——————Aragorn——————

Strong reader

——————Legolas——————

Nose bleeds

Legolas headcanons

——————Boromir——————

Strong reader

Boromir headcanons

———————Frodo———————

Picnic date w/ Frodo

Frodo x mermaid!reader

Shenanigans w/ the hobbits

——————Samwise——————

Shenanigans w/ the hobbits

———————Merry———————

Merry x human!reader

Shenanigans w/ the hobbits

———————Pippin———————

Pippin x hobbit!reader

Pippin headcanons

His “type”

Shenanigans w/ the hobbits

——————Faramir——————

When they are sick

Coming out as trans/non-binary

Their hobbies

x adhd!reader

They propose

Eating non-edible items

——————Thranduil——————

Around their crush

———————Arwen———————

They propose

Oneshots:

The Weight of Moria (Gimli x Legolas)