#i cant believe this is what broke my 2 year writing hiatus lolll but ur all welcome

[bellejolras]

ride this like a wave

Isildur comes down with a mysterious illness… luckily Arondir is a talented healer and there to help. Set in ROP 2x04.

(in other words, this is an insane sex pollen fic for a ship that doesn’t exist until now. enjoy!!!!)

for @tolkienpinupcalendar kinktober 2024

Rating: E(xplicit) / No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Arondir/Isildur (so far)

WC: 3384

Other tags: PWP, sex pollen, blowjobs, dubious consent, semi-public sex, gratuitous ocean metaphors, crack treated seriously, putting the ‘fun’ in sexual dysfunction

checking off kinktober prompts (4) handjobs, (5) clothed sex, (6) aftercare, (14) begging, (24) intoxicated sex

It has been hours since they survived a near-death encounter with mud, but Isildur can still feel it dry and crusting against his skin.

No amount of scrubbing with river water seemed to be able to thoroughly clean himself or his clothes, leaving a persistent film behind. The day has truly been one unpleasant experience after another: the mud, the beast, the freezing river, and now an itching, aching discomfort.

It had been bad enough to strip in the water, freezing and bare, vulnerable to the elements and the eyes of his friends should they look his way. Estrid had left them to bathe in peace, setting up a fire and their encampment for the night nearby, but Arondir is there in the water. So stoic he seemed as he washed, the dim light shining off his strong arms and broad back, focused and impervious to the elements. Isildur had stolen a glance and, reminded of his own mannish fragility, shuddered.

Now drying off in front of the cooking fire, Isildur is starting to feel a bit odd. His heartbeat is pounding, he is short of breath, getting chills, and not just from the cold air. In fact, sitting closer to the fire seems to make it worse.

“Smells delicious,” he says, the meat of the mud creature crackling over the scrapped-together fire pit.

Estrid raises an eyebrow. “You must really be starving,” she says, unimpressed.

Arondir grunts in amusement, but keeps his eyes on the fire, prodding it with a stick. A spray of sparks shoots up and he jumps out of the way to avoid the puffing smoke. He leans over to poke the fire from a different angle and readjust the embers, a breath away from Isildur. Isildur shivers.

Unsurpassed in his elven perception, Arondir turns to look at him. “Cold?”

Isildur rubs his hands together by the fire, but the heat doesn’t seem to seep in. “Just the mud. I’m still drying,” he answers, hoping it’s the truth. He can’t stand the thought of having a fever out here in the wild, with danger lurking literally at every turn.

Arondir nods, and goes back to stoking the flames. “I feel it too,” he says. “Something weird in that pit. Nasty stuff.” With his free hand, he flicks a missed spot of dried mud off the front of his armor. It sizzles as it lands in the fire, as though still wet.

Isildur wraps his cloak tighter around himself and tries to remember how to breathe.

The meat is, as Estrid predicted, awful. Nothing worse than a mud beast steak with no seasoning. But food is food, and Isildur is grateful to have it.

It doesn’t make him feel any better, though. If anything, he feels worse. His head is pounding now, he’s beginning to sweat despite the cold, and his heart is still racing. He puts his head down to his hands, suddenly, rubbing his face and trying to take a deep breath.

When Arondir puts a hand on his shoulder, he nearly cries.

“Isildur,” he says quietly, nearly a whisper. “What is it?”

Isildur looks up at him, eyes wild, searching his face. Is it concern he reads on the elf’s face, or does he catch a glimpse of the same madness in Arondir’s eye? As quickly as the thought occurs, it’s gone. “I don’t know,” he rasps. “I need–” and suddenly breaks into a fit of coughing.

“Estrid! Can you get some water?”

The next thing Isildur knows, he’s lying on his back on the ground in their makeshift encampment, an elf gently pouring water into his mouth. There’s a blanket beneath him, protecting him from lying directly on the dirt. The enclosure is not much more than a tarp draped over sticks, but it offers some protection from the wild. And some privacy, Isildur thinks faintly. The water is cold, which is nice, but having Arondir so intimately near is oddly dizzying. Every nerve is on edge, and as the blood races through his body, heat pools in his groin. it must be an effect of the fever, but Isildur can’t recall this as a symptom before. Or maybe his mind is too foggy to think clearly. But when Arondir touches a hand to Isildur’s forehead, a moan escapes. Surely this isn’t a normal fever.

Arondir doesn’t pull away at the sound, though, but rather leans back in and brushes the damp hair off Isildur’s forehead. Isildur can feel the heat radiating off as Arondir leans in to whisper to him, something strange and foreign.

Isildur tries to focus on the words and not the feeling of Arondir’s breath hot on his cheek, but all his schooling fails him and the best he can tell is that it sounds like Quenya.

Arondir pauses, puts a hand back to Isildur’s face for a moment, and then sits back up.

“Isildur, I need you to disrobe”

Isildur’s eyes open wide and search Arondir’s face. “Disrobe?” This can’t be a good sign.

“I suspect poison, but I need to check for wounds. Rule out any injuries that could be causing this.”

Arondir helps him sit up, and shivering, Isildur pulls the still-drenched tunic off over his head. A breeze catches in the damp curls of hair on his chest, raising every follicle to a peak. He shivers, and looks up at Arondir kneeling by his side.

“Pants too”

Hesitantly, Isildur complies, undoing the waist tie and sliding the filthy material over his hips and down, past the stab wound from Estrid’s dagger only days before. He winces, hunching over, knowing Arondir can see.

But Arondir looks him over with only a glance, not appearing alarmed by the obvious injury in Isildur’s thigh.

There’s something much more prominent that catches his eye, a much more pressing matter. Not Isildur’s thigh, but rather between them.

read the rest on ao3!