#ficlet run

Thranduil groaned loudly from under the covers.

“Venerated king of the Silvan Elves,” you went on, choking with laughter, “ruler of the beautiful Woodland Realm, what wouldst thou ask of me?”

Leaning against the sturdy door you had just opened to exit his bedchamber, you watched his lean, powerful form unfold like a late-blooming blossom amidst the pristine sheets woven of a thread so soft it had felt like the river’s water beneath your heated skin.

“Come back to bed,” he demanded in a booming, authoritative voice that left you entirely unfazed for you had known him for too long to be deceived by the regal airs he liked to swathe himself in as if to disguise his tender heart.

“To what purpose, my liege?” you teased mercilessly.

“Enough!” he roared, flopping back onto his strong back and extending both arms in a wordless plea.

What choice did you have?

Slamming the door shut again, you returned to the oasis of calm and safety and fell into his embrace as into a ravine of pure delight.

“Doth His Majesty yearn for sweet blandishments?” you asked softly, trailing your fingers lightly along the expanse of the dimly glistening skin stretching enchantingly over his sharp clavicles. 

“I requisition generous cuddles,” he acquiesced in a dignified tone that belied the frivolity of his order, “by royal decree!”

Only too happy to oblige, you slipped your arms around his elegant body and pulled him closer to you and pressed eager kisses onto every patch of silken skin you could reach without letting go of him; finally, the tension, that was so much a part of him that it was inscribed into his very muscles, started to drain away under the fluttering caresses of your fingers wandering over his back and of your lips worshipping his form relentlessly.

A happy hum resounded as he slung his long legs around you as if to cage you, engulfing your cool body in the welcome warmth of his own, and tilted your head up by a gentle tap against your chin to capture your roving mouth in a passionate kiss.

“A gracious and generous king indeed,” you panted; your voice was laced with sunlight and indescribable bliss painted every word a different hue of the rainbow of your love. 

“Indeed,” he agreed as he rolled you around to firmly pin you against the soft mattress. “And I shall have need of you for the rest of the morn. Deny not your ruler!”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Sire,” you giggled and let him exert his royal prerogatives over your body and soul only too gladly.

@fellowshipofthefics It's almost the end. We're almost through...

Lots of love from me, I hope you still enjoy those...

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A hand pressed against your heaving chest covered in flour and spices, you managed to conjure up a wavering smile of welcome; you had not expected him to be home quite so soon and hence you had been greatly startled by his unannounced arrival.

“’Weather didn’t hold,” he explained while shrugging out of his coat and toeing off his heavy boots, “we made haste.”

Your eyes swept over the chaos in your kitchen quickly; you had thought that you’d have at least another evening and night before your beloved returned from his caravan-guarding duties. Consequently, you were considerably dismayed to be caught not only unawares but also in the middle of your preparations of what you had intended to be a surprise for the gruff warrior.

“What’s that?” he ambled over eagerly, letting the sieve clatter onto the table carelessly to wrap his huge hands around your hips and pull you in for a passionate kiss that conveyed how much he had missed you during your time apart much better than any of his rumbling words ever could have.

“It was meant as a ‘Welcome home’ surprise,” you gasped into his mouth when his hold on you didn’t subside as the seconds ticked by. 

It was common knowledge – even though nobody dared confront him on the matter – that your beloved Dwalin had a major sweet tooth; in your attempts to keep your mind off the terrible absence of his bulky body in your house and bed, you had spent many an afternoon out of doors, picking fruit and trading spices with the merchants passing through the settlement.

After several meticulously documented trial runs, you thought that you had finally perfected the recipe for the spiced pear cookies that – there was no doubt about that – your taciturn lover would devour eagerly.

Words were often difficult between the two of you as he was at times very reserved and this made you nervous to the point where you fumbled to find the right thing to say, squirming under his unyielding and unwavering gaze.

Hence why you liked doing things for him that showed him just how much you cared for him.

A rough thumb scraped along the corner of your mouth, and you looked up just in time to see him put it into his own, his brows furrowed in concentration.

“Is that jam? Did ye make that?” he asked, his eyes alight with pleasure and curiosity as they scanned the room in search of the source of the delicious taste he had stolen from your very lips.

“There’s none left,” you chuckled, “it’s all in the dough already.”

“Dough?” he echoed slowly. His gaze returned to you, questing, and he gave you a little shake. “Beloved! Are you withholding sweets from me?” 

Unable to resist, you broke into resounding laughter at the sight of his evident distress; immediately, he started to list the bad weather, the blistering cold, his sore feet, and his undying love for you as the incontrovertible reasons why you had to hand over whatever sugary treats you were so heartlessly hiding from him.

“If you had not interrupted me,” you chided, “those would already sit in the oven.”

Instantly, he stepped back, slipping ever so slightly in his woollen socks on the polished floor, and lifted his hands defensively.

“Good,” you praised, “go grab yourself a tankard of ale, there should be a cask in the cellar, and in a little while, you may have a cookie or two, fresh from the oven.”

As you watched him stomp down the stairs, you already knew that he’d eat the whole batch, burn the roof of his mouth in the process, and then carry you to bed to make you feel just how much he had yearned for you as well.

In hopes that you've also liked this one, I remain your most devoted servant and friend.

@fellowshipofthefics Number 6 (?) Losing count here haha...

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You wrinkled your nose as you sought a good retort to this for he was not entirely wrong; upon finding a disoriented and considerably sour-faced stranger wandering around in your neighbourhood last spring, you had not hesitated to point out how incongruous and absurd his heavy coat and sharp-looking sword were in this part of town. 

If only you had known then what you knew now, but there was no use in crying over spilt milk or careless comments carried away by the nightly mists.

It had only been after several drinks and many a confusing hour that you had found out that he had found himself indeed not only in the wrong locality or city but in the wrong universe entirely. 

Since that confusing night – there had been talk of a dragon, a hoard of gold, and other rather fantastical things – Thorin, who imagined himself to be the long-lost heir of some imaginary kingdom, had been your guest and lover in the small one-bedroom-apartment you called your own realm.

Weeks bled into months and, as he seemed rather interested in the customs and habits of the inhabitants of your world, you had decided to take him to a Halloween party.

Unfortunately, Thorin did neither understand nor like the idea of dressing up as someone or something else and had turned rather petulant when you had presented him with a fluffy wolf-jumpsuit.

He was bulky and broad and, short of letting him leave bare-chested in nothing but a loincloth, you had not come up with any better ideas as most costumes that were for sale in the tiny shop down the street would not have accommodated his prodigiously broad shoulders and sturdy thighs.

“Come on,” you coaxed, wrapping your arms around his midriff tenderly and resting your head on his shoulder gently, “you’ll look fierce.”

“What is that even supposed to be?” he asked with a hint of humour in his voice as he took the costume from you and fingered the cheap fabric disapprovingly.

“It’s a wolf,” you explained, even though you had to admit that the likeness was not a very good one.

Before Thorin could launch into a long description of birds and beasts in his world, you held up your hand and swirled it suggestively to signify that you’d be willing to listen to him while he was putting on the costume.

The red cape draped around your own shoulders billowed as you walked over to the mirror to check your Red Riding Hood costume one last time.

“Why are you a little girl?” Thorin asked while tugging off his boots to step into his own disguise.

“It’s a long story,” you laughed, “but suffice it to say that the little girl will be eaten by the wolf!”

“I’d eat you all right!” 

His words made a shiver race down your spine and so you forewent the pleasure of letting him know how the story ended for the wolf; you had already proven that you could rewrite a story and you were not about to stop now.

It was not entirely clear to you why it mattered so much to you that he’d accompany you to the small gathering in an abandoned warehouse, but – after so many years of heartbreak and loneliness – you finally felt like yourself again and you desperately yearned to take the little miracle that had been granted to you into the world.

A part of you was afraid that Thorin and all his tender love and unyielding support would just dissolve and vanish once the clock struck midnight but another, stronger and more adventurous, part needed to check whether the magic that had painted your grey and drab life in rainbow colours again would withstand the cold gleam of the moon and the pounding bass of bad music.

“As my lady commands,” Thorin groaned and stepped into the monstrosity as if into battle.

“You know,” he added slyly as he pressed a quick, possessive kiss onto your lips, “where I come from, our foes ride wolf-like creatures.”

Giggling, you allowed him to lift you onto his back, slinging your arms around his thick neck and breathing in the warm, seductive fragrance of his long, wavy hair.

“Carry me away, my noble steed,” you cheered, deciding that an approximation of a wolf was a thousand times better and more promising than an enchanted pumpkin anyway.

@fellowshipofthefics: Here we are...the very last of the month. Thank you for the lovely prompts and sorry for the spam!

Thank you again for everyone having read any of these stories...

Lots of love from me ❤️‍🔥

-> Masterlist

The song of the drops clattering against the roof and the wooden shutters waving to and fro in the gales was enchanting and you started feeling drowsy with sleepiness, ready to let yourself be rocked into slumber by the symphony of the unleashed tempest.

Just as you were about to blow out your candle though, a glimpse of something unexpected cleft through the fascinating panorama like a flash of lightning itself and you sat up straighter; a man – leading his bucking, terrified horse by the reins – was just stepping out from the shelter of the dense trees, shading his eyes against the onslaught of water pouring down on him and slipping in the treacherous mud.

“Oh my,” you cried out under your breath; he should not be out in that weather! Without thinking about it overmuch, you hastily wrapped a woollen shawl around your shoulders and burst through your door to guide him back to the shelter of your home.

You were soaked to the bone, your tunic clinging to your skin disgustingly, before you had even reached him; his full, beautiful lips moved but you could not make out his words on account of the insistent howling of the wind.

Waving frantically, you motioned for him to follow you and took the reins of his horse from him, leading the poor beast safely to the small shed in which your own trusty steed was neighing in apprehension as the door was torn from your hand and slammed into the old, wooden wall.

“Milady,” a hoarse, gentle voice resounded behind you, and you turned around to recognise your king; you paled in shock.

“Milady,” he started again, lifting a broad hand as if to gentle you like one of his horses, “I owe you my gratitude. Would it be permissible for me to remain here – sheltered – and wait out the wrath of the weather in your comfortable stables?”

“My liege,” you stammered, “it may not be much, but I beg you to accept the hospitality of my home rather than my barn. Let me rub down your mount while you warm yourself by the fire.”

He was shivering now and – noble and honourable as he might be – he could not, in good conscience, reject an offer that was so very welcome and so freely given. 

“Let’s do that together for we are both drenched and weary,” he replied gently, grabbing a handful of straw and starting to dry his horse; after a moment of stunned silence, you joined him.

When you finally returned to your rooms, the merrily blazing and crackling fire almost making you cry with relief, you handed King Éomer your best linen towels – set aside by your mother for your wedding day – and retreated into the privacy of the small chamber in which you slept to peel off your wet clothes.

After braiding your hair hastily and donning your best gown, you returned confidently into the main room only to discover that your king was crouching by the hearth, kindling the fire distractedly. His light armour and tunic were spread out by his feet to dry though and his leggings hugged his muscular thighs indecently. 

Your mouth ran dry.

@fellowshipofthefics here we go again :D

That's it from me for today...Lots of love <3

-> Masterlist

Which was entirely unnecessary as Bilbo had clearly seen him stuff the fruit into his voracious mouth.

“You are a menace in the kitchen,” he went on griping as he stirred the muffin batter with a tad more vehemence than strictly necessary.

“I am helping,” Thorin protested, his ponderous air seriously undermined by the heroic but futile effort to keep blueberry juices from running into his beard as he opened his mouth to speak.

“You are eating our ingredients,” Bilbo shot back with a vicious glare from warningly narrowed eyes, “and we’ve promised the little ones that we’d bake blueberry muffins…which should have blueberries, as they’re in the name. Don’t you think?”

“They should be glad they get any kind of muffin.” Thorin had swallowed dramatically, pretending that he was swallowing down thoughtless words rather than testaments to his crime, before making this self-important declaration.

Bilbo merely cocked an eyebrow; he knew that the dwarf was devoted to the collection of stray nephews – as hungry as wolf pups and as fond of sweets as their notorious uncles – and that he’d never deny them anything that could make them happy.

“Hmmmm.” Thorin’s brow furrowed. “I guess, blueberry muffins do sound rather nice. I shall refrain from now on. What can I do to actually be of any assistance then?”

Bilbo’s ears perked up and – under messy curls full of flour because Thorin had misunderstood the term “dusting” – his hazel eyes flashed with wicked glee. “Why don’t you go get more wood for the oven?”

He had enough wood, Bilbo was absolutely sure of that, but he quite liked the way his husband’s muscles bulged when he was carrying in an arm full of heavy, dirty logs. 

Furthermore, the batter was about ready, and he wanted to pour it into the little moulds fashioned lovingly by Thorin’s kin without having any long, curly, black hairs or brazen, stumpy, dwarven fingers in it, thank you very much.

Shaking his head in fond impatience, he made quick work of the last step so that he was holding the tray in thick mittens – a much cherished Yule gift from Ori – when Thorin came back into the kitchen in a gust of cold, fragrant air and shook himself like a dog on account of the rain pouring down in buckets outside.

“If you could be so good as to open the oven for me?” Bilbo prompted and smiled when Thorin hastened to his side eagerly, pulling open the door fearlessly – as a dwarf and a smith, he was entirely unfazed by the blazing heat shooting out of the stove – and eyed the pools of delicious dough longingly.

“The first one is for you,” Bilbo promised with an indulgent smile and a small pat on the invitingly muscular behind of his beloved king. “Now go and put on the kettle. They should be here soon.”

As Thorin made to obey, Bilbo nudged him none too gently in the shoulder with his head.

“Kiss me first,” he demanded, knowing that he was being a proper brat this morning, but not feeling too bad about it when he saw the radiant, affectionate smile spread on Thorin’s face.

As soon as his lips met the coarse beard and the surprisingly soft mouth of the King under the Mountain though, he cried out in mock outrage, “Why, Thorin, you taste like blueberries and sugar! You fiend!”

The resonating, carefree, slightly mischievous bellow of laughter escaping one who had suffered so much made heat – love, relief, and unadulterated joy – pool in the pit of Bilbo’s stomach. 

What were a few stolen blueberries and a batch of wonky, over-stirred muffins in comparison to the life and the happiness of the one he adored?

@fellowshipofthefics here's another one (especially for you)

Lots of love to all the Bagginshielders out there from the middle of the divide haha (Yes, Thorin x OC is also on the list, what can I say? I like both)

-> Masterlist

Every day, the same man got off the bus at the same time and stop as you and proceeded to walk just a few steps behind you, never getting any closer and adamantly trying to avoid meeting your gaze. 

Oftentimes, some delinquent youths were loitering in dark corners, but the imposing presence of the tall stranger was enough to keep them at bay; he was so luminous even in the chiaroscuro of the early autumn mornings that he somehow managed to chase away the shadows around you.

Once you set foot on campus, he nodded curtly at you in what you surmised was supposed to be a friendly manner and turned sharply to his right.

It was very clear to you that he would arrive at his destination faster by just going in the opposite direction but – as the weeks went by – you grew used to his stern face and his light, almost colourless hair vaguely visible on the edge of your field of vision.

In the beginning, you had been slightly put off by his presence, but you soon came to see him as a silent sentinel who protected you without ever having exchanged a single word with you.

On a particularly overcast and dark morning, the bus had been five minutes late and this made you hasten your steps through the now distinctly uncomfortable alley; when you slipped on the wet pavement, his hand shot out and, wrapping lightly around your wrist, the stranger steadied you effortlessly.

“Oi Missus,” a youthful voice suddenly came from behind; there was something jeering and impatient in the tone of it that drove shivers down your spine, “where are you running to, pretty thing?”

You were a woman, alone, in a dark side street, and your class had already started; there would be nobody on campus waiting or even looking for you. You were caught.

Just as you were about to embrace the risk of breaking all your bones on the slimy pavement, the steady warmth of that hand, still gently encasing your wrist, broke through the panicked haze of your muddled thoughts. You were not alone after all.

“Just walk,” a calm, melodious voice spoke right beside your ear and then those long, pale fingers moved downwards until your hand was clasped gingerly in a broad palm.

“Thank you, Sir,” you whispered, tightening the grip of your icy fingers around the welcome heat radiating from that stalwart companion who held your hand as if it was made of glass and stardust. 

He walked you all the way to your building, standing around sheepishly until you had made it to the heavy glass doors.

“I could wait in the library for you? Later, I mean? If you’d be interested in a cup of tea or something? As a thank you for your double-rescue?” you stammered, surprisingly unwilling to let him go.

Wordlessly, he nodded. You smiled to yourself, knowing already that – if he were to show up later – you’d slip your hand into his on your way to the coffee shop at the corner; maybe, you fervently hoped, you could make this a thing between the two of you.

My darling (and everyone else) I hope you liked this...

@fellowshipofthefics: here's number 5

Lots of love from me

-> Masterlist

He raised the paper moon headdress at the same time as his elegant eyebrows arched upwards questioningly; despite being neither arrogant nor particularly vain, Lindir was exceedingly reticent to ever present himself in an unfavourable light.

Spinning in your raiment – the twins had decided that you were to be the sun while they would impersonate twinkling stars as a homage to their dear father – you winked at Lindir cheerily. 

Their plan – complete with a map of Imladris – was to pester and beg until the esteemed councillors and residents would either bribe them with treats or become the victims of their wicked practical jokes; they had been looking forward to this night for weeks. 

Neither one of you would have been able to deny the little ones with their pleading eyes and quivering lips anyway, but you had to admit that you loved your costume – shimmering and sparkling in the fading autumn light – and that you felt beautiful in it.

“You’ll look great,” you assured Lindir and stepped closer to him to affix the last part of his own disguise to his shapely head before he could tear the twins’ lovingly crafted creation to shreds by fiddling with it nervously.

“You only say that because you don’t want to disappoint the kids,” he mumbled but froze into a statue of marble under your careful hands. “You don’t actually mean it.”

“But I do!” you cried out vehemently. “I’ve helped embroider this overcoat for you. You look incredibly handsome and the moon suits your calm, mysterious, and enchanting aura so well.”

It was true that he looked stunning in the fruit of your painstaking labours; the silver threads and moonstone beads complimented his pale complexion and depthless eyes just how you had imagined them to do when – dreaming about Lindir’s sweet, quiet nature that warmed your heart without ever burning your skin – your fingers had embellished the fabric in reverence of his subdued but nonetheless pervasive beauty.

Averting his face bashfully, Lindir blushed to the roots of his dark hair – now held back not only by his neat braids but also by the silver-threaded headdress – and fingered the sleeves of the richly decorated garment those he loved so had fashioned for him.

He was painfully aware that his colleagues and friends would get to see him outfitted thus as they were the cornerstones of tonight’s entertainment; he probably already imagined Glorfindel’s smirk and Erestor’s scowl and hence, he shrunk back into a corner as if trying to vanish.

“Are we ready?” The twins burst into the room in a puff of glitter and carefree laughter, dressed as little, twinkling stars; their eyes shone so brightly that, for a moment, you truly believed there would never be darkness in these lands again.

“Almost,” you cooed. “What do you think of our beloved Lindir? Won’t he make a fantastic moon?”

“Oh, he’s the master of mooning,” Lord Elrond commented slyly, leaning against the doorframe and winking discreetly at you; even though he was the very definition of gravitas and neutrality, he sometimes couldn’t resist a small jibe when the occasion arose. 

It was all in good fun though and when he asked you to stand, all together, on the balcony so he could commit this picture to his eternal and infallibly faithful memory, you couldn’t fight the radiant smile – quite worthy of the sun you were meant to represent – rising on your face like a new day.

Dutiful as ever, Lord Elrond dug his hands into his coat pockets and produced the twins’ favourite treats. “Go and terrorise my peaceful sanctuary,” he whispered and watched his sons barrel down the corridor with an enthusiastic war-cry.

@fellowshipofthefics Only one more to go and you'll be rid of me!

As ever, lots of love from me!

-> Masterlist

Decided to prove to Aubrey that he was not the pampered, indolent royal she might have expected – and to redeem himself for the truly abysmal speech he had prepared and that she had been good enough to amend in long hours of meticulous work – he had invited her to dinner. 

The small cottage he had been granted – for security and privacy reasons – by the gracious government whose esteemed guest he was had the cutest, little kitchen he had ever seen, and he had been eager to make use of it.

When they had been but lads, Faramir and he would sneak down to the kitchens and learn how to make a proper roast and the best potato dishes at old cook’s side; a pang of nostalgic longing overcame him at the thought of a woman long dead and buried now for he had been very fond of the patient, kind woman who had taught him many a good trick and an easy dish that he had devotedly recreated and adapted over the years.

The storm was spewing rain against the windowpanes as if it tried to tear them asunder, eager to hammer down on tender flesh and delicate skin; illuminated by the bleak light of lightning slashing through the darkened sky, Aubrey’s eyes looked huge and unfathomable, but her smile was generous and cheery.

“Candles?” she asked in a soft tone, feeling her way along the kitchen counter; Boromir’s hand brushed hers as he made to open the same drawer she had already started pulling out and she shrunk back in surprise.

“I had a roast in the oven,” he lamented, only minimally pacified by the feeling of cold wax underneath his fingertips as he pulled out half-burned-down candle stumps and a nearly empty matchbox from the messy pile of lost buttons and stray keys.

“And I am sure it would have been marvellous,” Aubrey appeased him without the slightest hint of disbelief or irony in her voice. In the wavering light of the flickering tapers, she looked like the ghostly apparition of a much yearned-for soulmate, Boromir found, akin to the visions the servant girls were seeking in antique mirrors when they stood – in their nightdresses – in dark corridors, holding hallowed lights in their trembling hands.

As she grinned though and nodded at two cans of tomato soup, he had to amend his assessment; Aubrey was beautiful in a vivacious, winning way that could barely be captured by a reflection or even a picture. One had to see her move, smile, speak, or laugh to truly be able to even fathom how painfully alive she was.

“You deserve better,” he moaned, but – remembering his training and evenings in much less hospitable circumstances – he resigned himself to serving a woman he desperately wanted to impress lukewarm soup from a tin can and stale bread from the previous day.

He had half-expected her enthusiastic reaction but was still charmed by the way she ladled the bland fare – only barely heightened by the old spices they had unearthed in a cupboard – as if it was an award-winning dish presented to her on a golden plate by a three-star chef. 

“You are marvellous,” he breathed as he watched her wipe up the last drops of her soup with a handful of bread, smiling mischievously at him and motioning for him to do the same.

Her face went expressionless with stunned surprise upon seeing him so intensely moved by an emotion that she could not easily identify or name.

“How about you tell me more about that?” she then prompted with a wink, ambling over – candle in hand – to the fridge and giving a small shout of cheer when she opened the heavy door. “We shall be here for quite some time as these have to be taken care of before they go bad.”

Boromir doubted that the few bottles of beer and wine would turn sour and become undrinkable within a night, but the idea of keeping this miracle by his side – sleepy and slightly tipsy – was too good for him to resist.

He was a good, honourable man, but – at the end of the day, in a deluge of biblical proportions – he was still only a man.

@fellowshipofthefics some Boromir for your nerves!!!

Lots of love from me (as always)...

-> Masterlist