#this would be thranduil and thorin

[theoneandonlynikki]

Barduil/Bagginshield concept: Modern day AU where Bard and Thorin are in flannel shirts with the sleeves rolled up, and Bilbo and Thranduil are both losing their minds over how unbearably sexy it is.

[helplessavacado]

working on dwarrow Kylen and Ama'kien and oh my god...

Kylen and Thorin Oakenshield are literally just the same fucking character aren't they 😭😭😭

[themoonking]

i know i shouldn’t expect logic from the hobbit movies, but did they ever explain (either in the movie or in behind the scenes stuff) why thranduil showed up with his entire army just to turn back around?

[butter-n-breadrolls]

I want a Bagginshield fic where everywhere they go on their journey other people want Bilbo, because he’s smart and helpful everywhere he goes. He’s good company so Elrond tells him he can stay in Rivendell, he’s outspoken which Thranduil finds amusing and politically intelligent enough where the elf king would prefer him as an ally, he helps the people of lake town so much to the point Bard offers him a place on Dale’s future council.

But also I want straight up marriage proposals (either purely political or cause Bilbo is so charming), I want Bilbo in a Thumbelina situation where everyone wants this hobbit. And Thorin is pissed off. every. single. time.

[basil--and--sage]

Kíli would put a bow into his hair in an instant and probably carry him around in a bag like one of those it girls with their little fancy dogs, while Thorin barks at anything that moves, lmao

I’ve always wanted to read a fic where there’s a magical mishap and Thorin gets turned into an animal but instead of a broody wolf or something he’s a little fancy long-haired dog like a shih tzu or a pekingese or a lhasa apso

[thatfanficstuff]

In Dreams - Thranduil

Pairing: Thranduil x reader

warnings: just canon stuff

Every step through Mirkwood dragged at you, the forest path winding in endless turns that led nowhere. The shadows around you seemed to be living things and you once again cursed yourself that you hadn’t tried harder to convince the Company not to travel through its depths regardless of what the wizard said.

“Are you alright, lass?” Dwalin asked.

You answered with a quick shake of your head. “There is only trouble here.”

No sooner had you spoken the words than the spiders attacked. You held your own as well as you could, but you weren’t too proud to admit relief flooded you when the elves came to the rescue. Now, you were being led to the palace and the king. Great. This would go well, you were sure.

“How does an elleth come to be in the company of dwarves?” an elf with long, blond hair asked.

You eyed him a moment before recognizing him as Prince Legolas. You glanced away. “Half.”

“Half?”

“Half-elleth.” You caught his look of surprise as he took in your features which greatly favored your elf father. Fortunately, your life expectancy took after his as well. “And Mithrandir, to answer your question.”

He chuckled. “That answers a lot of questions, actually. And where is the wizard now?”

You sighed in irritation. “Wherever he usually is, I suppose. Which is anywhere but where I need him the most.”

That got laughs from several of the guard and Thorin shot you a narrow-eyed look. “Do you know these elves?”

You smirked at your friend. “No, but I suppose they find my company more pleasurable than yours.”

“Cheeky elf,” Thorin grumbled though his lips twitched in amusement.

As you neared the palace and the inevitable meeting with the Elvenking, the conversation died away. Partly in grim anticipation, and partly in awe as you took in the world around you. The halls of the palace opened before you, carved into the very heart of the wood. Opulent and vast, possessing its own quiet beauty so vastly different to Imladris. Even the dwarves were taken with the halls around them.

“This way,” one of the guard said as he directed the Company down a branching corridor.

Ori stumbled, his eyes locked on the grandeur around him instead of where he was going. You caught him and he nodded his gratitude as you made sure he was steady on his feet. Thorin gave you a nod of thanks as well, though he should know by now you looked out for all of them as if they were your own kin.

Your mind raced as you neared the throne room wondering at the destiny of the Company. What did Thranduil intend to do with all of you? Before you could even guess at an answer, you were led over stone bridges and stairs until stood in a vast chamber. It was a masterpiece of elven design and at its center stood the throne, towering over everything around it. And upon it sat the Elvenking, his presence commanding, his form striking. Long hair like spun silver framed his regal face, and draped over a resplendent silver robe. Upon his brow sat a crown reflecting the branches and boughs of his kingdom. You gasped in surprise, never expecting him to be so beautiful despite the descriptions you’d heard.

His gaze moved over the company, cold and assessing. But when it landed on you, it was no longer indifferent. The chill in his eyes turned into something else, something that made your pulse race and your skin prickle. Something deep and intense that lingered far longer than it should but you couldn’t bring yourself to look away.

Finally, his focus shifted to the leader of your group. “Thorin, son of Thrain. I did not expect to see you here again.”

“Nor would you have to had your guard allowed us to continue on our way,” Thorin replied, defiance in every word. “What is your business with us?”

The king stood, every movement elegant and deliberate, his eyes never leaving Thorin. “Your presence is…unfortunate.” He paused and his gaze slid back to you with unsettling focus. “You trespass, yet I am merciful.”

“Merciful?” Dwalin spat. “To us?”

Thranduil’s lips curved into a faint smile. “I offer you freedom. You may go, all of you.” A pause, a beat of silence, then, “provided you leave the elleth behind.”

You sucked in a breath as every eye turned to you. The words hung heavy in the air. Seeing they surprised you as much as any of them, Thorin’s response was instant and fierce. “No. She is one of us. You cannot have her.”

The Elvenking’s laugh was a beautiful, bitter sound. “So loyal.” His eyes narrowed and his lips thinned. “Would you rather rot in my dungeons?”

When you started to protest, a hand grasping yours quieted you. Dwalin pulled you back with a shake of his head. “Leave it,” he hissed.

Thorin’s gaze moved between the two of you before he looked at Thranduil once more. “Better to rot than to break faith with a friend.”

Thranduil arched a brow before nodding slowly. His face was unreadable though a flicker of something flashed in his eyes. He was calm, controlled, yet his interest in you remained unwavering. “Then to my dungeons you shall go,” he declared, gesturing to his guards. “We shall see how long loyalty keeps you warm.”

And that was the last you saw of the dwarves for many weeks.

While Thranduil held true to his word and had the dwarves placed in his dungeons, you were led to an opulent room with a comfortable bed. You were dressed as befit a proper elleth and more than once you joined the king for a meal where little was said beyond your pleas for him to release your friends with promises you would remain behind. For his part, Thranduil always seemed to be watching you, waiting for something and seemed utterly disappointed when it didn’t happen.

Most of your time was spent alone as you waited for something to change. You read. Paced. Laid in a bed you seldom slept in. Days flew by, each one much the same as the one before. Until the day you heard a commotion in the hall outside your room. Before you could ask the guard what was going on, the door swung open.

Thranduil stood framed in the opening, his composure cracked, his mask gone. It was a shock to see him so unguarded, so vulnerable, and even more of a shock to see the relief that washed over him when his eyes found you.

“You’re still here,” he said in a breath. “Did you know of their plans to escape?” The question an accusation and a plea.

You met his gaze steadily, unflinching. “How could I? You haven’t allowed me to see them, let alone speak to them, since the day we were captured.” Your words were bitter, short. Filled with the resentment you couldn’t help but feel at the thought they’d left you behind, though you knew they’d had little choice.

He searched your face looking for deception and found none. “I should have known,” he muttered to himself. He took a step closer and hesitated as a thousand emotions flashed across his face. Then, as quickly as he came, he turned away. The silence rushed back in to fill the space he left behind, but it was somehow even lonelier than it was before.

You didn’t see the king again until he announced you would accompany him on his journey to the mountain to reclaim from the dwarves what rightfully belongs to the elves. He ordered you placed in one of the wagons, afraid if given your own mount you’d disappear like your companions. Two of his guard rode beside the wagon to ensure you stayed where you belonged, their presence watchful and silent.

When you saw Thranduil, it was always at the end of the day when you were led to his tent to dine and find your rest on the cot he had placed on the opposite side from his own. Or early in the morning when you both rose, broke your fast and prepared for the day’s journey. His gaze followed you as the guards led you away until you were gone from his sight before going to find his own mount.

You didn’t understand your purpose. Why he brought you. He could have easily left you in Mirkwood. Or perhaps he meant to trade you for whatever treasure he believed Thorin would keep from the elves. Despite your friendship, you found it unlikely Thorin would make that deal.

Finally, on the last night before you made camp in the shadow of the mountain, you could take it no longer. “I don’t know why you brought me,” you confessed, hoping for answers.

And for a moment, you thought you’d get them. But he only studied you, eyes deep as the skies above your head, his expression unreadable. “You will, in time,” he said at last. Another beat passed. Two. “Stay close to my guards when we reach the mountain.”

The camp beyond your tent laid quiet. “Why?” you ask, the word meaning so much more than it seemed. Why did he want you to? What did he know? Why did he care?

“There will be danger.” He answered only the obvious, sidestepping your unspoken plea. “I would not see you harmed.”

You nodded in frustration. He looked at you a long moment. Studied you as if you were something precious, something he was afraid to lose. Finally, you turned away, faced the wall of the tent and pretended to sleep.

Thranduil had left you guarded in his tent since you’d arrived at the final destination, your promise to remain with his guard apparently not enough for him to allow you to roam beyond the flaps of your temporary home. You’d made your displeasure known by refusing to speak to him so you’d received no more answers to your many questions. And now you were afraid you’d never get the chance.

The world went from ordinary to chaos in an instant and you now found yourself engulfed in battle. A cacophony of screams and steel surrounded you as you fought, swift and sure. Yet it was never enough as orcs crashed around you. There was no sky, no ground, no respite. Only bodies, blood and blades. You weren’t certain when you’d become separated from the guards, if they even still lived, but now you fought alone, growing weary and desperate.

Orcs were everywhere. An unending flood of enemies. Their blades crashed against yours until you shoved them away with the desperate grace possessed by your father’s people. You sliced, stabbed, cut them down any way you could. You fought with everything you were, but you could not fight them all.

An orc charged toward you, monstrous, larger than the others. Time slowed, stretched as his weapon arced above you, prepared to deliver the fatal blow.

Then Thranduil was there. He moved like light, like the wind, and intercepted the blow meant for you. His swords flashed, lethal and precise as he dispatched the orc. As he saved your life. You stared uncomprehending as your world narrowed to the figure before you. To the king who fought like a man possessed.

“Why?” you pled even as you spun to stop another blade, to end another life. “Why risk yourself for me?”

His eyes met yours briefly in the chaos. “I have dreamed of you,” he finally confessed. “My entire life, you have haunted me.”

You could not breathe. Could not think. His words crashed over you, more devastating than any blow you’d yet taken in the battle. You were his soulmate? It was impossible. You would have known.

“Have you not seen me?” he asked, his voice heavy with yearning, as you fought side by side.

You shook your head, unable to do more. You had no answer for him. No truth that would make sense of his claim.

“You are my dream.” His voice broke as surely as his heart. “My curse. My constant.”

As he slayed the last orc in the group that had charged the two of you, there was a brief lull. He turned you to face him, hands on your arms as he studied you.

“I had never seen your face before that day in the throne room,” you managed, the words a confession, an apology.

He swallowed before drawing you closer and pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. The gesture, so filled with emotion, with longing, stole the breath from your lungs. “Be careful.” He whispered the plea then he was gone, leaving you with the echoes of his confession.

When you next saw Thranduil, he rode astride a great white elk, a beast that you had seen only in your dreams until that moment. The image seized you, an echo of all the dreams you’d ever had of the soulmate you thought you’d never find. The battle raged around you as the pieces fell into place. He cut through the enemy lines, regal and relentless. The motions the very ones that had danced in your mind since before you could remember. His twin blades flashed with deadly precision as the majestic beast carried him forward with grace and fury. He was your vision brought to life. Everything you never let yourself hope to find. You lost sight of him again as you turned back to the relentless horde, more determined than ever to survive.

It seemed like days before the chaos calmed and the battle ended. The elves swept across the field, ending the few orcs that still breathed and moving their brethren that needed to the healing tents. You’d fought to save the Company. The Durins were injured but breathing. You’d done the duty charged to you by the grey wizard and now you sought your reward.

You spotted him at last, his form unmistakable as he dismounted from the great elk and issued commands. You ran through the chaos, closing the distance in a blur. You didn’t give him a chance to brace before throwing your arms around his neck, clinging to him, afraid he’d disappear if you let go.

He stiffened in surprise as you collided with him but then his body relaxed in your hold. One arm wrapped around your waist as the other hand found the back of your head to keep you held tightly against him.

You pulled back just enough to see his eyes, just enough to lose yourself in the wonder you saw there. He studied you, searching for the reason, for what had changed between you.

“I never saw your face,” you explained, your words tumbling in your joy as you smiled. “I only saw a regal form upon a white elk. I have found you.”

His expression transformed as confusion gave way to realization. To a joy that mirrored your own. “I had given up hope.” His voice was raw with emotion.

“But I had not. And I am so glad it is you.” You laugh through your tears, filled with the joy that can only come from finding your soulmate. Finding the one destined to be your perfect match.

His arms encircled you, holding you as if he could not bear to let you go. The world faded until there was only him, only you. And it was everything you had ever let yourself hope for.

[rottencherrypie]

R-18+; Positions

Summary - The favorite positions of some of Middle-Earth's finest royals...

Warnings - Smut, language, fem!reader, afab!reader, mention of male genitalia (characters), mention of female genitalia (reader), missionary sex, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, creampie, oral sex (reader receiving, Fili and Legolas give), facesitting, implied squirting, mention of bodily fluids, cowgirl position, mention of breasts (reader), sub/dom dynamics, implied dom!Reader, implied sub!Kili (he finds a way), praise kink (Kili), slight dirty talk (various characters), slight sensation play, doggystyle position/bent over, voyeurism (Thranduil stop fucking the reader in front of guards), slight dark!Thranduil, slight dom!Thranduil, slight sub!Reader, kneeling, slight dark!Legolas, dom!Legolas, lowkey mean!Legolas, implied brat!Reader, oral sex (Legolas receiving), fingering (reader receiving), slight powerplay (if you squint), possible dumbification (if you squint), implied punishing, cum eating, and maybe more (I might have missed some).

Pronouns & POV - She/Her, third-person

Pairings - Thorin x Reader, Fili x Reader, Kili x Reader, Thranduil x Reader, Legolas x Reader

Word Count - 3,800+ (I got carried away at some parts)

A/N - This is from my suggestion box which I had posted on Instagram (I will add the suggestion box here too eventually), the person who sent in this suggestion requested to not be tagged but I still wanted to thank them for their suggestion! This is more headcanon-like, so it varies a bit in length each section. I did attempt to give some plot based roughly around the suggestion given! There is only the header image in this post because Tumblr would not save the draft with the gifs I attempted to add, so I apologize for that! Reader is implied to have tits and an ass large enough to jiggle, soft hair, and I believe plump lips. Smut below!

Read on AO3 Read on Wattpad

-thorin

Missionary. The dwarven king of Erebor is a man of routine. Whether intentional or nonintentional routines, they are a part of the raven-haired man's life.

He was a simple dwarf, viewing routines and structure as the utmost importance as it was there to prevent chaos—or as much chaos that was preventable within Middle-Earth, which appeared to be close to none.

The dwarven king's love for routine touched all aspects of his life, including the more intimate aspects of his bed.

It was not an intentional routine, but rather a formed one caused by stressors—something he often cursed, but in this instance would thank as it had led him to many pleasurable nights.

It was made gradually, the first few nights of the king's reign after the battle were particularly stressful. He found himself restless, tossing and turning within the fur bedding as his beloved lay beside him—lacking an equal amount of rest due to how the bed shook with each toss of his sturdy form.

So, to settle the king's mind—and to make the bed creak with something other than displeasure—the queen motioned for him to crawl onto her. It was a mere tired curl of a finger, yet the king knew what she was requesting; and what his beloved wanted, she got.

The thickness of his cock slowly split open her tired, wet walls. The weight upon his shoulders eased as the weight of his cock eased into her, a mixture of relief and exhaustion danced upon his face as his hips began to rock at a steady speed. The toned flesh of his hips met against the plumpness of her arse as he slowly wrapped her legs around his waist, allowing his tired cock to carve deeper into her walls.

An act which slowly drifted into nothingness, as the dwarven king soon fell asleep with his head in the crook of her neck after the heat of his seed flooded into her drenched core—coating the walls of her womb with a fresh painting of white.

As the stressors of the crown became more frequent, so did the nights of the queen's comfort. Though, at times that comfort extended into the daytime during particularly frustrating elven visits.

The all too familiar sight of the dwarven king climbing on you filled your view, yet the shade of his sapphire-colored eyes had dimmed with darkness reserved for the elven king of Mirkwood. You were aware of how much the pair despised one another, how their feud over who was owed what had led to death and devastation—yet, you had little time to dwell upon the past as the thickness of the king's cock pushed into your core.

The weight of your head fell back against the smoothness of the pillows, as the weight of your chest lifted upwards slightly, allowing your back to arch and your dwarven lover to gain further access within the warmth of your walls as he pushed into you. The bones of his hips snapped against the flesh of your arse with a rough fury, the slapping of skin meeting each other echoing throughout the room as his darkened eyes peered into yours.

The dwarven king would never vocalize it, but he loved watching the subtle reactions your eyes held as he pounded into you. He loved the ways your eyelids would flutter when he grazed your most sensitive spot, how you would go slightly cross-eyed when you neared your peak, and the way your eyes glistened with tears when he had pushed you to the breaking point one too many times.

Your reactions were routine, and the dwarven king needed routine just like a fish needed water or a wolf needed to hunt. You were his routine, and he needed you like he needed air to live.

──────

-fili

Facesitting. The golden-haired prince was far more free when it came to routines, unlike his uncle. The prince found routines constrictive.

Though he was the heir to the throne, the eldest prince of Erebor preferred to have freedom in his life. He wanted to joust with fellow warriors, to drink ale and dance, and to be free to slip away to breathe whenever he desired.

Yet, his yearning for breath seemed far distant within the realms of his quarters. As much as the dwarven prince enjoyed his pleasures, he favored pleasuring his beloved above receiving his own.

A fact that left you taken aback when the prince had confided in you that he found giving pleasure far more rewarding than receiving it; you had stood there for what had felt like ages to the poor golden-haired dwarf as you blinked mindlessly at him. Had you been dreaming? A man who wished to pleasure another rather than receive it?

"Are you jesting?" The question was quickly met with an amused snort from the prince; the corners of his lips curved into a lopsided grin as his thick, calloused hand cradled the side of your face. "I'll have you know that I take eating cunt very seriously, my love." The dwarven prince promised you.

A promise he showed swiftly.

It was not exactly perfect the first time—though, no first time truly was perfect—but it was unlike anything you had experienced prior. You were not a pure maiden, you had your fair share of lovers before the golden prince, and he had some prior flings as well, yet none of your previous lovers had ever been so eager to feast upon you before.

The prickle of his bearded face sent shivers down your spine as his lips hungrily sucked upon the wetness of your cunt. His hands tightly gripped your thighs, keeping you steady upon his face as his thick tongue lapped up the entirety of your cunt as he devoured you like a starved man with a meal.

Your thighs quivered around the sides of his head as you attempted to hover above him, worried he was not receiving enough air as he drowned himself in the wetness of your core. His skilled tongue delved into your crevices, lapping up every drop of your sweet, pure nectar as he snarled in pleasure.

"Sit on me." The heat of his words caressed your throbbing cunt, making it twitch from the arousing sensation. "But—" Before you could begin your protests, the golden-haired prince tugged you down upon his face.

A surprised gasp fell from your lips as the prince dipped his tongue into your core, happily spelling his name upon the walls of your core as his hairy face ground into you—drenching his beard and mustache with your essence.

The soft prick of his nails would dig into the plump flesh of your arse as his calloused hands held you steady, ensuring that the fullness of your weight would not leave his face until he made it so.

He would continue to feast at you, rocking your hips as he continued to swirl his tongue around your walls. Occasionally, he would slip his tongue out of you, allowing his lips to encase your pretty little bundle of nerves—hungrily sucking upon your throbbing clit until your sweet squirt gushed down upon his face, soaking his beard with your juices before he delved his tongue back your twitching core.

He would drink you like water—and if he had it his way, he would drink you more than he drank water.

──────

-kili

Cowgirl. The youngest prince of the Misty Mountains, Prince Kili, was not the most presentable royal of the line of Durin.

It was not a matter of his looks, though many would claim he was prettier to elves than he was to dwarves: it was a matter of his maturity. The younger prince was reckless, finding pranks and training far more entertaining than the duties of the dwarven courts.

Or, that is what he would claim when asked of his wavering sense of duty. The truth was that the young prince required guidance.

He yearned to be told what to do. The brunette prince despised how he had to ponder decisions, wondering if he would make the proper one or if he would make a fool of himself in the process; he preferred being told what to do and when to do it.

A yearning that had trickled into his nights of passion as well.

You were a breath of fresh air for the dwarven prince. The hopeless romantic of a dwarf thanked his lucky stars each night with you, as you were always to the point and told him verbatim what you wanted from him—and he was more than happy to oblige.

When you had first told Kili of your preference to be on top during sex, it was like a whole other world had opened up for him. He was not necessarily a virgin, but he was not the most experienced of his kin either. He had a few messy encounters that left him feeling less than satisfied and embarrassed.

Regardless of how hard the dwarven prince had tried, sex never felt right to him before his first night with you.

His honey-colored eyes bore up into your gemstone-colored ones, pupils dilated with affection as he watched you climb on him. The roughness of his calloused hands would encase the softness of your hips, lightly holding onto them as you lowered yourself onto his throbbing cock. The sensation was new to him, the warmth of your walls gripped him in all directions as the wetness coated him entirely as you began to glide on his length.

The bed creaked and groaned with each motion of your hips, his gaze falling from your eyes and onto the flesh of your chest which bounced and jiggled with each motion you made. He was utterly entranced.

A soft slew of moans would fall from his lips, the weight of his head tilting back against pillows beneath him as you continued to pleasure yourself upon the thickness of his cock.

"Fuck, please thrust up, Kili." A request the dwarven prince would eagerly comply to, his hips thrusting up to meet the plumpness of your ass each time you lowered it down upon him. "Just like that. Good boy."

Good boy. A simple name that further fueled the dwarven prince into abiding by your commands, doing everything within his power to please you in and out of his bed in the hopes of being called that delicious name once more.

And a good boy he was.

The dwarven prince was more than eager to please you. Never touched himself without your approval, nor did he touch you without approval—even now as he stared at your pretty breasts as they jiggled in front of his face, bouncing tauntingly as you bounced upon his aching cock.

His balls were filled to the brim with seed, becoming nearly painful from their fullness yet he did not dare release a single droplet without approval from his beloved. He simply lay there, allowing his cock to be used as a device of pleasure for the woman he loved most as she continued to coat the throbbing, aching length with her essence.

"Fuck...that's a good boy." The purred praise of your pleasure would cause the dwarf's cock to stir within your walls, desperately twitching for release. "Alright, alright. You've waited long enough." Your chuckled words would quickly turn to moans as the prince's hips began to thrust up.

His aching cock carved its way deep into your walls, hitting the most special spongy spot within your core in a repeated pattern—as if he was trained to give you pleasure even as he chased after his own. The prince would manage to milk a final orgasm out of you, the essence of your pleasure dripping down and coating his filled balls before he emptied his seed deep inside of you.

The weight of his body sank back into the plush bedding beneath him, as the corners of his lips would curve into a lopsided grin as your soft hands caressed the roughness of his stubbled face while you cooed soft praises to him.

He needed guidance, but he sought it most from you.

──────

-thranduil

Doggystyle. Unlike his dwarven counterparts, the elven king of Mirkwood found solace in his busy schedule.

Where some found stressors in royal life, the elven king found peace and comfort. He would never vocalize it, but he found the hustle and bustle within his daily duties as king soothing.

Perhaps it was how quickly everything transpired, never allowing him a moment to dwell upon the past and all the mistakes that lay dormant within it. Or he sought the chaos of life while others shrunk away in fear of it. Regardless of what it was, the elven king found himself entranced by things done quickly—and this extended into the realms of his chambers.

Though many elves were romantic by nature, playing sonatas of their love for one another, writing endless poems, and spending a tedious amount of time courting, the king of Mirkwood was rather forward.

He saw no point in the pleasantries of courting. After all, he was king of Mirkwood—in his mind, he had done more than enough just by holding that title. However, the king was wise enough to never vocalize his opinions on the matter, as he bit back any snide remark he had on the matter with a bitter grin as he focused on what was important: you were his.

A fact that was well-known to all within the woodland kingdom, as the sounds of your pleasure were ever-playing throughout the twisted halls. Morning, noon, and night. A tune that none could forget, one which the elven king seemed to orchestrate whenever he caught a guard's gaze lingering upon you for a moment too long.

The position was like second nature to you, engraved in the very cells of your body after so much time together with the elven king. Your arse was up in the air as your chest was pressed firmly against the smoothness of the silk sheets under you while the elven king slowly entered you. His thickness parted your wet walls, wetness you were ever thankful for, as the elven king did not seem to give you a moment of breath before his hips snapped forth, meeting the plumpness of your flesh.

His motions were sharp yet poised and precise.

The thickness of his length would delve deep inside of you, as his slender hands would grasp upon the plumpness of your rear. A grasp tight enough to hold you in place, ensuring that your hips never dropped as his thickened length continued to carve into your inner walls, yet loose enough to allow your ass to jiggle as his hips bounced off of it.

The elven king loved watching your ass bounce, it was something that left him hypnotized. The sight of your sweet, plump flesh reacting to his possessive thrusts allowed the weight of his days to melt away—as well as the anger he held towards that damn guard.

The cries of your pleasure would be muffled, either by a pillow or the very sheets you laid upon, as the elven king would lean forward—adding more of his weight into each harsh thrust of his hips.

Yet, there were times when you could not muffle the sounds of your pleasure—even when you desperately yearned to.

At times, the elven king enjoyed proving a point to those he caught with lingering gazes towards you. He would instruct they fetch you from your shared quarters, insisting they bring you to his throne room for something of urgency. And like a good servant to the king, they would.

Within the blink of an eye, you were bent over the twisted throne—your hands desperately clawing at the variously curved wooden throne as the elven king hoisted up your skirts; your dripping cunt on display for all to see, including that damn guard.

The elven king's motions would be swift and fluid, his cock buried deep within your wet, welcoming walls, yet his gaze would not be upon the plumpness of your arse. Instead, his cold, pale sapphire gaze would be locked upon the armored man who dared gaze upon you for too long.

His gaze would be piercing, never leaving the other man as the bones of his hips would snap against the plumpness of your ass, making each thrust sharper than the last—ensuring the swollen tip of his cock would hit against the most pleasurable spongy spot within you.

As your cries of pleasure danced throughout the air, it carried a weight throughout the woodland halls. A reminder to all those who inhabited them that the elven king moved swiftly, and could have you just as swiftly.

──────

-legolas

Kneeling. Due to the ever-changing nature of Middle-Earth, there were very few within it that gave the elven prince a sense of control.

Perhaps it was the nature of irony: a prince who believed he lacked control, heir to a throne yet yearning for more. His logical mind reasoned with this sensation, rationalizing it as nothing more than a search for stability amongst the most recent chaos within Middle-Earth. Yet, the emotional sphere of his mind yelled that it was for something more.

It was a thirst that the elf could not quench nor ignore.

The yearning within him was further than matters of the mind; it felt as if it was in his blood and bones. An unspoken birthright, one burned deep into the very essence of his being—he craved, no, he needed control.

And he found that control in you.

You were one, if not the only, consistency in the elven prince's life. Regardless of what transpired within the woodland realms—or realms outside of it—you were always there, waiting within the secure walls of his chambers, eagerly awaiting him upon the plush bed.

To him, you were a beautiful little doll. His perfect little plaything, the one he adored and showered with affection and treasures. He ensured that you were never left yearning—unless you had been bad that is.

On the days you were good, the elven prince would pull you to the edge of the bed, kneeling between the plushness of your thighs before he buried his smooth face between them. The wetness of his tongue would caress the outerness of your entrance, as the fullness of his slender fingers delved inside of your core.

As the fullness of his fingers would stretch your inner walls, carving and curving into the most pleasurable spots within your textured core, his eager tongue would lap up any droplet of your sweet nectar his fingers would push out. The squelching click of your damped cunt would echo throughout the air, accompanied by your soft mewls of pleasure as the elven prince took his time pleasuring you.

He was precise and calculated with each stroke of his fingers: he knew the inner workings of your cunt better than he knew the back of his hand—knowing exactly which sensitive, spongy spot to press into to make your sweet thighs tighten around the sides of his head. How fast to pump his fingers within you to make your breath hitch from pleasure, and when his lips needed to wrap around that sweet little clit of yours to make you drench his hand—and forearm—with your juices.

But on days when you were bad, or life merely felt bad to the prince: it was you who knelt.

His slender fingers, the ones that once gave you such immense pleasure, would be tangled within the softness of your hair. The grasp he held upon your head depended upon the circumstances of the day—but more often than not, it was firm.

The fullness of his cock would push into your mouth, tainting it with the bitter, salty tang of his precum as he would sink in as far as your throat would allow him—stopping when the vibrations of your gag would echo on his thickened length. Slowly, he would puppet your head upon his cock, making it bob back and forth as he slowly sunk more of his cock into your throat until the plumpness of your lips met the flesh of his abdomen.

"That's it, pretty girl." The elven prince would coo, his sapphire gaze boring down upon you, watching as the thickness of him forced the saliva out of your mouth—stained the faintest hue of white from the mixture of his precum—watching as it rolled out of the inner corners of your mouth and down your chin. "Such a messy little thing." He would continue to puppet your head at an increasing speed, the bones of his hips meeting the flesh of your face as he jutted his hips into your mouth; ensuring he was as deep as he could be within it.

If you had been particularly bad, then he would hold your head firmly in place—thrusting in your mouth at a quickened pace, allowing the weight of his balls to bounce upon your chin, coating them with the sticky mixture his cock forced out of that pretty mouth of yours. As you would cough and gag at the sensation, the elven prince would simply shush you. "Ah, ah, ah," He'd taunt, a purposefully harsh thrust making his balls slap against your chin as he held you steady. "you had such a nasty mouth earlier, why not keep it nasty?" He'd coo, one filled with fake care and compassion—a taunt at your previous actions as he continued to fuck your throat until he painted it white with his seed.

But on the days when you were good and the world was bad, he was far more tender.

Though his grasp remained firm and his thrusts a bit rough, the elven prince was not punishing you. With each gag, cough, or whimper that vibrated upon his cock—he would pull back until the throbbing tip rested upon your plump lips. "That's my pretty girl, such a good girl for me." He'd praise, a hand dropping from the back of your head to softly caress the side of your face until you gave the okay to continue.

A slew of pleased praises would fall from his lips as he fucked your mouth, the weight of his head tilting backward as his grasp remained firm on the back of your head. "I'm going to fill your mouth." He'd gasp out, the tips of his nails digging into the back of your head as his hips stuttered into your mouth. "Swallow it and I'll give you anything you want, my pretty girl." And he did, the warming rush of his salty seed would flood your mouth—making you down it with a choked gag, yet it was still done.

The elven prince would continue to praise you for being a good girl, his good girl, as he pulled his cock from your mouth. The tightness of his grasp dropped from the back of your head, one hand meeting the side of your face to return to the earlier caress as the other wiped away the remnants of his previous actions from your lips—giving him a sense of control as he came down from the highs of his pleasure, the same control he had once sought after.

──────

Want to read one part at a time? Read separately on AO3

Thorin, Fili, Kili, Thranduil, Legolas

Want to read it as book chapters? Read separately on Wattpad

Thorin, Fili, Kili, Thranduil, Legolas

[rivendell-poet]

Omg okay… so I had this thought randomly and now I wanted to know if you were open to writing the scenario… The Hobbit/Lord of the rings… Thranduil, Legolas, Kili (and honestly anyone else you want who isn’t human if you’d like) and their reaction to their pregnant human s/o’s cravings. Like I don’t know if pregnant elves and dwarves had those cravings (they probably do??) but like their reactions to the really weird human cravings, because I bet there is definitely ones they aren’t used to due to cultural differences, right? So like those cravings that genuinely make them question and maybe cringe because it seems so gross to them?? Genuinely just those weird food combo cravings lmaoo.

No pressure to write this btw! I don’t know if your request are even open?? If they aren’t then please ignore this- I’m so sorry 😭! Either way I love your writing/posts and have a great day🥺🥰.

Hi anon - and yes, I am willing to do so. I imagine elves and dwarves probably do have pregnancy cravings, although this was written more on the idea that they don't. Also, I have never been pregnant. I have incredibly limited experience when it comes to pregnancy, so I am so sorry if this is inaccurate. Hope people still enjoy!

(this fic is also centred a lot more around support and reactions than actual pregnancy)

*･༓˚✧ ❝𝐧𝐨𝐧-𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐧𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐠𝐧𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐲 𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬❞ ‧͙⁺˚༓˚✧ « headcanons »

○ Thranduil ○ Legolas ○ Lindir ○ Elrond ○ Thorin ○ Kíli ○

𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐮𝐢𝐥

✧ Probably the most concerned out of all of the elves.

✧ Thranduil has experienced a loved one having a pregnancy before, of course. But it’s still so… different.

✧ He still loves you, of course, but when he first encounters it there is heavy staring. A brief ask of if you are okay.

✧ When you explain it’s just a sign of human pregnancy then he nods, before realising no-one has told him this.

✧ You only seem him immediately leave (off to yell at the royal doctors for not informing him of this. And asking what other details they are holding back.)

✧ Comes back a little later with a checklist of different symptoms, and asking if they are happening or might happen.

✧ Does consistently get a curious face when he sees you do something.

✧ As you’re eating an odd craving you can tell if he’s there, because you suddenly feel watched. Thranduil doesn’t seem to entirely realise how off-putting this is.

✧ After hearing reports of you sneaking into the royal kitchens to grab a specific sauce (to put on your blackberries, of all things). He quietly pulls you aside and says that you don’t have to sneak around.

✧ All cooks and kitchen workers are under royal orders to make you whatever (there’s a slight haunted look as he says that word) you please.

✧ Will also certainly import a specific food if it cannot easily be found in Mirkwood.

𝐋𝐞𝐠𝐨𝐥𝐚𝐬

✧ Definitely depends on the time being post or pre-Fellowship.

✧ If it’s pre-Fellowship he’s a lot more perplexed by it. He won’t question you, but he’s politely curious about it.

✧ “You mean to say that these things… taste nice together? But, meleth nîn, how?”

✧ Goes to ask his father. Which is entirely unhelpful, as Thranduil has few answers either - at least on the odd cravings side of pregnancy.

✧ Comes back to you with a smile, and whatever food you’d recently been angling, before presenting it to you and giving you a small kiss. 

✧ “I hope you enjoy it, my cestaedas.”

✧ Post-Fellowship he’s a lot more accepting and less immediately confused about it.

✧ You want a flavour combination that he would only eat a knife-point? You have most adventurous taste, and of course he’d be happy to get it for you.

✧ Will sometimes try a bit of your random concoctions if you allow him (he has a surprisingly good record, helped mainly by the use of puppy-dog eyes).

✧ It always makes you smile to see his face afterwards, either a polite attempt to hide disgust or genuine, obvious shock that it tastes nice.

✧ Has joked once or twice, while eating one of your cravings he enjoys, that you’re corrupting him.

𝐋𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐫

✧ Lindir really, truly loves you. Which is why he’s willing to put up with all of the combinations that you’re craving.

✧ As an elf, he has heightened senses. Heightened senses that do not particularly agree with some of the combinations you consume.

✧ He’s slightly more sensitive to the aromas (and imagined tastes) than some elves are, so it can occasionally be a struggle for him depending on what you’re eating.

✧ Still completely supports you, and reminds you everyday that just because his body reacts adversely to it doesn’t mean he loves you any less.

✧ (Also makes you promise to indulge your cravings if you want to; don’t make his slightly discomfort a priority in your pregnancy.)

✧ Privately, he asks Elrond if cravings are a sign of anything wrong. Feels better after being well-informed, that it’s natural. A sign that often comes up in a healthy pregnancy.

✧ Stands up against the watching eyes in Rivendell as well. None of the elves are judgemental - merely curious - but he knows how eyes on you can feel.

✧ Validates any worries or insecurities that it’s wrong or gross very well, with reassurances that all of this is natural, and that he loves you regardless.

𝐄𝐥𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐝

✧ Has witnessed enough pregnancies to know the body can be… unusual during the time period.

✧ Also researches a lot about human pregnancies to ensure that he can safely provide for you.

✧ So, when cravings come he’s prepared for it. And slightly… disturbed isn’t the right word.

✧ Because he knows it’s natural, but in all the pregnancies he’s assisted it hasn’t really happened. So he simply refers to it as ‘new’.

✧ There’s also a tiny bit of curiosity as a healer. Some questions are peppered in here and there, because you are his living, breathing loved one - not just some words on a page.

✧ If you mention you have a craving, it’s often him who will go and get something for you.

✧ Becomes a usual sight to see Lord Elrond in the kitchen, with ingredients that only look slightly insane, while muttering something and taking far too much care in their preparation.

✧ Sometimes, he’ll try and present this dish formally (he’s the kind of person to make a decorative fruit plate with apples carved into swans and so on).

✧ Is rewarded by your slight laugh, which in returns puts a large smile on his face.

𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐧

✧ Is a lot less concerned that most of the elves are.

✧ That still doesn't mean that - the first time you tell him about a craving - he’s not slightly concerned.

✧ Of course he’ll help get it for you, but why. Why do you need this?

✧ As you dig into your food, you see him watching you out of the corner of his eye. A small smile on his face as he watches.

✧ When confronted he simply says he’s curious, and that you look so happy. Even when eating… that.

✧ Thorin does ask the royal physician afterwards, but he does so privately. Still makes quite a lot of notes on it.

✧ Whenever you ask for something, he will always make sure that you can get it as fast as you can.

✧ Even if that means importing things - Erebor isn’t great for a lot of foods - because it’s worth it for his queen.

𝐊𝐢𝐥𝐢

✧ Only thing he’d be truly concerned about is if you started craving non-edible items.

✧ He reads up on a few journals, and discovers some accounts of pregnant women asking for clay or coal.

✧ Does take you by surprise when he asks, with complete sincerity, for you to not eat any minerals while you’re pregnant. Or to at least let a doctor examine them first.

✧ Kíli doesn’t get why you’re so confused when he says it, and he explains to you the journals he’s read.

✧ After preparing for you to eat rocks or dirt for a week or so, Kíli is fairly unfazed by most of your requests after that.

✧ Often he’ll be the person getting your new combos for you - it always makes him smile when you light up at the sight of whatever food he’s made you.

✧ Of everyone, he is also most likely to try and steal it.

✧ “Please, can I just have a little taste? If you and the baby like it so much I’m sure I will!”

A/N : Also - just a heads up, while writing this I've come to the realisation I don't particularly like writing pregnancy fics, and I won't be writing any more centred around pregnancy. I'm pretty sure I'm fine with kid fics, or fics asking what a certain character would be like as a parent - but I don't enjoy writing the pregnancy aspect. Thanks for understanding, and hopefully some people can still enjoy this.

Oh - I forgot to say this, but the term Legolas uses (cestaedas) is intended to mean curiosity, although technically it's a neologisms from various other reconstructions, so this is not official tolkien Sindarin. Still, it's a pretty interesting word.

« masterlist » thank you for reading *･༓˚✧

[backhurtyy]

thinking about an elrond x durin reveal situation where when legolas comes home having shotgun married gimli during the war, thranduil is like. ‘oh shit. legolas is a prince. he got married. i have to throw them a wedding even though i would rather fall on my sword than throw a dwarf a party. but Policy Dictates It.’ so he swallows his pride and throws the party and everyone comes to the greenwood for it, including elrond, who when he sees legolas is like ‘dwarves, amiright?’ and legolas is like. HUH. and elrond with this far away look is just like ‘ahhhh durin… what a lover he was…’ legolas walks away from him with a horrified and bewildered expression and is like ‘gimli. gimli. i think elrond and durin…. i can’t even say it.’

gimli of course is very tipsy, because it’s his wedding and his family would hardly pass up the chance to drink thranduil’s cellars dry, and therefore has no decorum and sees no fault in shouting at elrond across the party “DID YA FUCK A DWARVEN KING YA POINTY EARED SCOUNDREL!” and elrond’s just like ‘actually he was a prince at the time’ *sips wine*

the whole situation is ten thousand times more confusing for legolas than finding out that bilbo and thorin got married. tauriel is laughing her fucking ass off at him.

[merrysithmas]

i love how thorin took his opportunity to tell thranduil to go fck himself because he was confident enough that bilbo would jailbreak them and he didnt need to take the deal

[welikeimagines-andfandoms]

Imagine Thorin, Thranduil and Bard falling for you when you manage to mediate between Thorin and Thranduil

Thorin: "He turned his back on my people when the dragon attacked, he did not help us"

Y/N: "Would you have?"

Thranduil: "Hah! She's right, dwarf."

Y/N: "Look I'm not taking sides here, but to me, you both pretend you don't care about what the other thinks, and yet you sure do waste a lot of energy on hating each other. So either, you do care what the other thinks, or you're both too hard headed to get past this like the adults and kings you are. You both focus so much on your differences and don't realise your similarities."

Y/N: *walks away*

Bard: "She's not wrong, she's just braver then I to say so.”

Thranduil: "I don't care to admit this, especially to you, but I find her very attractive."

Thorin: "I fear I agree with you."

Bard: "As do I.”

[kat651]

hobbit characters realizing and confessing their love to you.

🤍Kili

He is the kind of guy to fall and fall hard. He first realized that he loved you when he saw you effortlessly take out a massive amount of orcs then just smile smugly at him.

his love only grew until it was too much and he had to tell you so he walked up to you when you were sharpening your sword. “Y/n, I- there’s something I wish to tell you…” he said. “What is it, Kili?”

he led you out of ear shot of the others and looked up so you with fear and hope mixed in his eyes. “Y/n… I love you…” and of corse you’d just have to lean down and kiss him.

🤍Fili

By the time he realized he was falling for you he was already half the way in there was no turning back now. So, he knew he had to tell you before he went mad. Thing is, every time he tried, his words got jumbled and he made a fool out of himself so instead he settled on a dwarfish custom that would express what he wished to say.

he sat next to you and began to weave a braid into your hair. You knew instantly what it meant and turned to kiss his cheek, causing him to blush madly. “Took you long enough,” you whispered softly in his ear.

🤍Thorin

He realized he loved you when he was facing Azog on the frozen lake. (Movie version) he was in his back, Azog hovering over him with a blade inches from his chest. You ran and knocked the pale orc away from Thorin before killing the foul beast. “Thorin! Are you ok, are you hurt?”

he just jumped to his feet and pressed his lips on yours. “You saved my life, y/n…”

🤍Bilbo

he realized he loved you when you, quite literally, walked into his life. “I’m so sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going, are you ok?”

he immediately was a blushing mess and by the end of the week he had brought you a bouquet of wild roses.

you received them with a smile and gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek. “Thank you, Bilbo…”

🤍Thranduil

He realized he loved you when he was riding into the city of Dale (movie ver) on his elk. (Which of corse got killed ☹️) he was immediately surrounded by the enemy. An arrow was notched but he noticed a second too late and would have been shot in the chest if you hadn’t thrown yourself into him, pushing him out of the way. But -if done at any other time would have likely gotten you thrown in a cell- unfortunately you now had an arrow in your abdomen.

The last thing you saw was Thranduil catching you before you hit the ground then, black.

when you woke you were in a tent, covered in some sort of silky, highly expensive, fabric. You realized after a moment that it was the king’s silk cape.

you looked over when you heard the rustle of fabric, king Thranduil knelt next to you and you went to sit up but only ended up clutching your side. “Lay down, you need to rest…”

you blushed and looked up at your king. “My lord I-”

you were gently cut off by a kiss to the forehead. “Rest, melith nin, you need it.”

🤍Elrond

he is the strong type he doesn’t confess that he loves you for some time. When he realized it was when he saw you in the garden, helping a baby bird back into its nest. it was such a small act but he found it endearing.

he confessed his feelings on a star lit night. You were out on a walk and the moon was lighting your face so perfectly that he could no longer just watch, he joined you in your walk and by the end of it his lips had met yours more than once.

[socksracoon10]

Being an Elf and falling in love with Thorin

Headcanons below the cut!

When Gandalf had first summoned you, it wasn't a very easy decision to make.

Being a Sindar elf yourself, the choice of having to derail from your own beliefs bruised your ego... especially since you were entrusted with overseeing Thorin and his company.

"My dear (Y/N)," Gandalf sighed, "I can not trust any other elf with such an arduous task. I know you are capable of setting aside your prejudices and aiding these dwarves."

"You saved my life once from the Uruk-hais. I am indebted to you for that, Gandalf. But I believe that this will be the one time I shall repay you for your kindness in this manner. Do not expect more from me." You muttered with a bitter tone.

"I do not plan on it." Gandalf reassured you.

When you first met the company under Bilbo's roof, there was silence. An eerie amount of silence.

The hobbit before you seemed enchanted by your presence.

You learned his name was Bilbo; he was the most sensible out of the bunch at the moment.

Your eyes traveled across the room and landed on Thorin, who had a nasty scowl on his face.

He wasn't expecting you to actually show up. He had hoped that for once that elvish pride would've saved him from having to face another individual of the same kind that had betrayed him years ago.

The silence continued, and you made your presence known. You were here to help the dwarves, nothing more and nothing less. You would accompany them to The Misty Mountains, but you would not step foot into their sacred lair. Not out of respect, but out of the sheer disgust you had for the dwarves.

Not even Eru could force you to enter their dwelling; it seemed as if death was the better option.

The journey there was not an easy one.

And Thorin didn't make it any easier.

He'd pass sly remarks every so often about you, try to demean you in front of everyone. He was constantly fighting a battle to ensure that you were beneath him in every aspect, despite being one of the most skilled elves to traverse Middle-Earth.

"Ah, it's best not to anger (Y/N), Thorin," Gandalf would quip from the background, wanting to ease the tension.

It did nothing.

There was an instance where you had left the group to gain more ground and a safer pathway for the dwarves through the forests.

Yeah, biggest mistake ever and Thorin wouldn't stop nagging you about it.

Those stupid trolls had gotten to them and Bilbo had managed to stall them long enough before Gandalf used the sunlight as a weapon.

"I left for one day... forgive me, I was merely trying to secure a safe path," You hissed at Thorin as he shoved past you.

"A safe path will only do if the company itself is safe first, elf," He spat, glancing over his shoulder. You so desperately wanted to spear your blade through his heart.

The rest of the trip resumed its unsteady silence. You glared at the other dwarves, not wishing to say anything to them. Occasionally, you'd offer a helping hand to Bilbo.

That didn't go unnoticed by Thorin. He didn't really like Bilbo as much, but compared to you? Bilbo was far better, and the stupid burglar was mingling with the wrong person.

However, his concerns of Bilbo shifted to his two nephews - Fili and Kili.

While they still harbored some resentment towards you for being a Sindar Elf, they were still young. They were naive, they did not experience that devastating day when Thranduil's forces abandoned Thorin's desperate cries for help.

And so what did they do?

They talked. Talked, and talked. Especially, Kili. Fili would add a joke once or twice, but if he ever caught Thorin's watchful eye, he'd gulp his words and nudge Kili to quit.

And then slowly, one by one... the dwarves were opening up to you.

Balin was more sympathetic, he was a very kind and wise dwarf. You actually enjoyed his presence.

Bofur was a bit reluctant to talk to you at first, but slowly came around. You noticed this when he asked you if you needed more food on your plate when you were dining in Rivendell. That was enough to tell you that perhaps there could be friendships between the dwarves and the elves.

You saved their asses a couple times, especially with the Goblins. Killed some orcs led by Azog. And then watched Azog brutally wound Thorin.

And then something switched in you. For a moment, you felt your breath hitch at the sight of him, dazed and unconscious. Something began to stir inside of you, and you couldn't place your finger on it. It almost felt... unworldly.

And that feeling continued... even when you ended up facing Thranduil, who was so puzzled at the fact that one of his own kind was helping those dwarves...

"I am repaying a debt that I owe to Gandalf," You explained, your head jutted up high into the air.

"What a terrible way to repay it, (Y/N)." Thranduil grimaced, "If you wanted an opportunity to keep yourself occupied, you could've turned to Legolas and he would've found you a wonderful position among my kingdom. We could use elves such as yourself, you know."

"Ah, but I could not say the same for you," You bit back, noticing the way his eyes widened at your audacity.

Word of your defiance quickly spread to the dwarves as the elves guarding them gossiped about it with such eager interest.

It fell onto Thorin's ears.

He almost thought they were lying to him. He couldn't believe it.

And as you passed Thorin's cell to enter your own, much farther away from the dwarves, you noticed something different about him.

He was smiling at you, a twinkle in his eyes. He seemed... proud? Ecstatic?

When the company and you had escaped via the barrels, you had almost hit a rock down the river. It was surreal to see the way Thorin's hands stretched out to warn you.

It seemed as if he cared.

You took a daring risk to climb off the barrel to kill some orcs, almost slipping across the branch in the process as you jumped back into your barrel.

"Be careful, elf!" Thorin cried out, "You could've gotten yourself killed!"

"And what does it matter to you?" You snapped, furrowing your brows.

He did not respond.

He did not need to.

Because you sort of knew the answer by the way he glanced back at you with a soft smile.

You mattered to him.

More than reclaiming the Mountains? The answer was obviously no.

But when you climbed up and watched him excitedly open the hidden entrance to the inside of the Lonely Mountains, his eyes flashed towards you for a split second.

As if he was waiting to see your reaction as well.

And when you gave in and smiled.

With or without the gold, the Arkenstone or the throne,

He felt as if he was the richest dwarf to ever live.

You mattered to him.

He mattered to you.

And thus began, the love between an elf and a dwarf.

[leavesonthetrees]

Lessons in ‘Don’t Piss Off Your Hobbit’

CW - Mentions of injury & death, swearing

Summary - Not only is Thorin is still injured from the battle but he’s missed elevensies, luncheon and now afternoon tea on top of having to represent Erebor in the peace negotiations; so his day isn’t wonderful anyway. Thranduil then decides to open his mouth, this is very bad.

When Thorin started courting Bilbo, it genuinely hadn’t occurred to him that he would hold a genuine title as the king’s boyfriend. So imagine his surprise when Lord Dain greets him jovially after the battle with “Bilbo Baggins! An honour to meet Erebor’s Royal Consort!” His booming brogue leaves Bilbo’s ears ringing slightly but not as much as the statement.

“Ah, Lord Dain I presume? An honour to finally meet you.”

Dain holds Bilbo’s face in his hands before tapping their foreheads together, which is more like a one-hit K.O. for the poor hobbit, who stumbles backwards while Balin rushes forward, chiding Dain and holding the slightly damaged Bilbo upright.

“He’s a hobbit my Lord, not a dwarf! We don’t need him concussed for the negotiations!”

Dain’s laughter fills the air as a solid hand drops onto Bilbo’s shoulder. Bilbo thinks it momentarily to be a second round of dwarven affection but Dain pats his shoulder with an amused “Sorry your highness, didn’t realise my own strength.”

In the next tent over, Fili and Kili are wounded but alive. Kili may never walk properly again but a dodgy knee is a small price to pay for living through the fight. Fili’s right eye is covered by a thick layer of bandages wrapped around his skull and so is his leg, broken in the fall. Both, however, miraculously still alive. Thorin remains unconscious. His skin hued grey, taking shallow breaths that Bilbo has spent hours counting at his bedside; each rise and fall of his beloved’s chest. Despite his present condition, Oin seems to relax with each passing day and is confident that the King under the Mountain will rule again. As Bilbo and Thorin have been courting, it has been assumed that Bilbo is the next highest authority within Erebor and as such will be the representative at the post-battle negotiations. Bilbo was not aware of this until now.

“Isn’t Fili the crown prince? He has training for this. Or-or you Balin, you’re his advisor. I’m just a simple hobbit.” Bilbo protests weakly but it’s a fruitless cause because Dain is already steering him out of the tent and towards the centre of the camps where the meeting is being held.

“Nonsense! I know my cousin, he wouldn’t court some soft-hearted fool!” Without further ado, Dain and Bilbo enter the tent to a wall of noise.

It’s packed in there, elves, dwarves, men, Gandalf; a variety of generals, advisors and of course leaders. Lord Bard of Dale as he’s now become is sitting having a close, quiet discussion with King Thranduil while Gandalf puffs on his pipe in the corner. Dain and Bilbo take their respective seats at the table, Balin slipping in to sit beside Bilbo and giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

Gandalf spots them and gets what he might call mischievous but what Bilbo would call ‘This is why the Shire have labelled you a disturber of the peace’ glint in his eyes.

“I call this meeting to order!” Gandalf calls, getting to his feet, the tent quietening instantly.

“The purpose of today is to draw up treaties that protect and strengthen relationships between your kingdoms. Each kingdom has its leader to represent the people as a whole.” Thranduil interrupts here which Bilbo notes becomes a running theme.

“What about the halfling? He is not king, nor does he hold sufficient status here. Unless the Shire is involved in some way, I see no reason for his presence.” Indignation and insult bubble beneath Bilbo’s skin.

You see, to Big Folk and other races, ‘Halfling’ is just a descriptor for hobbits, merely another name for them. To hobbits, it’s a rather rude way to refer to them as they are half of nothing thank you very much and it’s the quickest way to never receive another invite to afternoon tea. So with Thranduil starting like that, it doesn’t look promising.

“King Thorin is currently indisposed due to injuries sustained during the battle. Bilbo Baggins is being courted by Thorin and as such holds the unofficial title of Royal Consort until further notice.” Gandalf shoots Thranduil a withering look while another blonde elf who looks suspiciously like Thranduil seems to melt with embarrassment behind him.

This is a precedent for the meeting to come, hours and hours of talking in circles, thinly veiled insults from all sides of the table and quite frankly a little too much rudeness for Bilbo’s liking. Travelling for months with 13 dwarves and a wizard does wonderful things for your tolerance and patience but Bilbo is finding his temper stretching thin in the face of this hoity-toity elven bitch. It must be mid-afternoon by now which means Bilbo has missed elevensies, luncheon and now afternoon tea, he’s fully aware he didn’t get 7 meals a day on the journey but he feels like being petty and regardless of the details, he’s hungry. All of this he can deal with until Thranduil opens his mouth again.

“King Thorin has still not given me what I am owed. I commissioned the White Gems of Lasgalen for my late wife and yet they remain in Erebor. Are the dwarves selfish and greedy enough to keep a grieving husband’s last memory of his wife from him?”

Bilbo takes a steady breath in.

“No my lord, you have my word that the Gems shall be returned to you in due time however I believe we have more pressing matters. Erebor is in ruin at present, the dragon did much damage to a lot of the livable space and we therefore have higher priorities such as sourcing clean water, providing shelter for our people. Not to mention that the people of Laketown have nothing but the clothes on their backs.”

“What worth does your word have to me? Thranduil raises a manicured eyebrow and lazily waves a hand in Bilbo’s direction.

“By whose decree are you Erebor’s Royal Consort? Holding hands with a dying dwarf doesn’t make you king?”

There’s immediate outrage from the other dwarves in the room, getting out of seats and calling insults at him, Bilbo vaguely recognises the Khudzul words for ‘tree shagger’ somewhere in there.

“The intricacies of Dwarven politics are not up for debate at this time, it is not appropriate nor relevant to this meeting. What concerns me King Thranduil is your focus on your wants rather than your people’s needs, our needs and theirs.” Bilbo gestures to the surrounding dwarves and men. Thranduil sits straighter in his chair, the mask of disinterest gone.

“Do not speak to me of greed halfling.” Thranduil spits, the blonde elf from earlier tries to intervene but Thranduil puts up a hand to silence him.

“Those dwarves-“ he uses the word dwarves like one would use a slur, perhaps it is to him “- holed up in their great rock and shut themselves off to the rest of the world. They took my last gift to my wife from me and all I ask is to have it back. I care not whether Oakenshield lives or dies, perhaps then you will know the loss I have endured.”

The stunned silence rings throughout the tent as if all persons present cannot believe what was said. Bilbo for his part has gone eerily pale. Balin would describe it to a very amused, slightly scandalised and a little turned on Thorin later, calling it the calm before the storm except the storm was actually a hurricane.

“You have the nerve to call dwarves, greedy? I ask you oh high and mighty king if you care to get off your massive elk and your head out of your own arse, what happened when the Great Wyrm came? Did you help the survivors flee the dragon’s fire? Did you offer medical attention to those burned or injured? Did you offer shelter or support to those dwarves who were now without a home?”

Bilbo gets to his feet, a dark red flush spreading from his cheeks to his ears.

“No. You let hundreds die because you can’t get over your dead bloody wife! She’s been dead for how many years if not centuries at this point and you have a living son! You were arguably complicit with Smaug in the desecration of their home over some shiny glass. How cruel and cold you must be, King of Mirkwood to watch children die and just turn away.”

Bilbo takes a great, deep gulping breath before carrying on, now in the swing of things.

“Thorin and I are not married, no. But I can say with a great amount of certainty that in the 300 years he may live, he will be a greater king than you could accomplish in your immortal lifespan! I am honoured to stand here in his stead, to represent the Kingdom of Erebor which is something to be proud of. Unlike Mirkwood- apologies, the Greenwood, which has become cursed with rot and disease. That is what you shall be remembered for, you will be written in our history books are the king who couldn’t give less of a fuck! About our people or your own!”

Gandalf’s eyebrows are in his hairline, Bard’s jaw is practically on the table and Dain looks like he’s going to burst something from how hard he’s trying not to laugh. Thranduil has the most undignified facial expression that Bilbo has ever seen on an elf; mouth open like a fish, face flushed and eyes bugging out of his head. Bilbo clears his throat, straightens his coat and glances around the tent before focusing on Thranduil once more.

“I believe tempers are running short, I think a lunch break may be in order.”

The entire room seems to stand to attention, eager to flee the surprisingly feisty hobbit’s ire.

“Oh, and your majesty?” Bilbo’s tone is casual but Thranduil turned like the grim reaper himself had called him.

“Halfling is a very serious insult in the Shire, we are not half of anything. If anything, I’m twice the man you could ever hope to be. Call me a Halfling again and I’ll return those Gems to you, shoving them so far up your arse that you’ll be picking bits of them out of your teeth for a week.”

Thranduil just nods stiffly and sweeps out of the tent, his elegant glide seems less like a swan and more like a goose right now. The remaining eyes swivel back to the hobbit who’s brushing the dust off his coat.

“He was walking awfully strangely, I wonder if he’s soiled his small clothes?”

Dain guffaws, tears streaming down his face, clutching the edge of the table for support.

“Aye, I think I would’ve too if you’d been talking to me like that. Mahal, dinnae know you pulled that from.” Dain is practically wheezing, thumping a fist against the table. Bilbo just smiles, rather entertained.

“Oh please, he’s not even half as uptight as Lobelia Sackville-Baggins. As Bofur once said, she’s so uptight that you could shove a lump of coal up her arse and it’d be a diamond within a week.”

Funnily enough, Thranduil isn’t present for the rest of the peace talks and instead his son Legolas who had been trying to get Eru to take him there and then from the confrontation earlier, takes over. Legolas does attempt to apologise on behalf of his father but Bilbo waves it away. After all, Legolas seems like a polite young fellow who understands the joy of a crisp, cucumber sandwich and also isn’t anywhere near as much of an infuriating bastard as his father.

[overthinkinglotr]

People always say “Thorin could never retire in the Shire because he has to be King” — and I think the funniest way to handle that plotline would be for Bilbo to convince Thorin to eliminate the monarchy.

Bilbo has lived all his life in the Shire, where they elect their main leaders in a democratic system. Thorin is the first king he ever meets. Bilbo would initially think monarchy was very storybook-like and fantastical, like the things he’s read about in tales from distant lands…..but he would quickly find the reality of monarchy underwhelming, baffling, and annoying. Thorin/ Thranduil/Bard would make Bilbo decide that all monarchies are terrible. Being a king makes you self-important, haughty, greedy, and warlike. Kings are too powerful and use that power to fight over utter nonsense. They’ve got no one to keep their stubbornness in check. He would come to decide that the Shire really did have it right by holding elections.

I’m imagining a scene where Thorin dramatically confesses “I suffer under the burden of my duties; heavy is the head that bears a crown” and Bilbo flatly responds “don’t be king, then. >:/Elect someone else. If your people don’t want you then they won’t choose you! Im very tired of this whole affair and I wish I were back in the Shire, where folk are more reasonable >:(“

Thorin is enchanted by the strange foreign Hobbit custom of “elected leaders.” He has never considered this as a possibility. Overwhelmed by the Hobbit’s wisdom after the Battle of the Five Armies, Thorin converts his kingdom into a democratic republic and retires from public life.

This causes a domino effect. Other kingdoms across Middle Earth are inspired by Erebor’s example, and band together to reject their monarchical systems. Revolutions ensue.

Thorin’s consort “Bilbo Baggins,” known only as “the dwarf-king’s advisor who first set off this wave of revolutions,” becomes one of the most controversial and reviled people in all of Middle Earth. Bilbo becomes a figure of mythic proportions, loved by the democratic republicans and despised by the royalists, each of which invents their own wild legends.

To the democratic republicans “The Great Baggins” is glorified as a great warrior sent from Valinor to restore the long-forgotten wisdom borne out of The West— he snaps his fingers and with a poof of smoke he washes away all the old corrupt systems of the world, just as the Valar washed away Numenor.

But to the royalists, “The Mad Baggins” is a scheming shadowy monster who crawled up from the deep places of the world to burn the very foundations of Middle Earth to the ground; he’s a monster more powerful and terrible than a dragon or a balrog, who threatened Thorin into submission and brought the world into chaos. he snaps his fingers and monarchies collapse in a puff of smoke.

Meanwhile elderly Bilbo grumpily putters around the Shire with Thorin, mostly oblivious to all of this.

[rottencherrypie]

R-18+; Hidden Touch (Thranduil x Reader)

Summary - In the midst of a meeting with the dwarves of Erebor, Thranduil decides to entertain himself with your hole.

Warnings - Smut, language, fingering (reader receiving), implied afab reader (though could possible be read differently), slight name calling (once), technically voyeurism, public fingering, bad descriptions (I tried).

Pronouns & POV - None, third-person

Word Count - 900+

A/N - Another smut I wrote on my phone and polished up a little bit. This was originally meant to be a Thorin smut, but I realized he does not wear that many rings...and rings were important to the smut or at least to me. There is only one translation in this smut, and Y/N is not used once (look at me, not relying on Y/N). I tried to keep this as vague as possible, only thing really note worthy is the reader's nails can dig into their seat. I am still in the midst of writer's block (save me), but thankfully had a sip of creativity while waiting for a package to arrive. I finally got a new vibrator. I will add the translation below. Smut below.

Translation - mui ithil (my moon)

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The roaring boom of the dwarven king's voice echoed throughout the mountain halls. His voice rumbled deep with emotion as he paced back and forth in front of the large, stone table. His gestures were sharp, full of rage as he rambled on and on about, well, you were not aware of what.

Perhaps need for supplies? The winter had been rather harsh, the nip of the chilled air against your cheeks reminding you of its presence. Or was it a discussion of trades? You could not seem to remember for the life of you what this meeting was of.

And despite how loud the dwarven king's voice was, all you could hear was the sound of your own heartbeat within your skull. Thumping at a rapid pace as you attempted to remain composed.

The tips of your nails dug into the plush seat beneath you, the inner flesh of your cheek sucked inwards and now resting in a snug pinch between your back molars as you desperately attempted to stay silent. Yet, your silence was not kept for long as the elven king's fingers continued to move within you.

The stretch of his slender fingers was deep and calculated. He knew every spot within your body like the back of his hand—knowing exactly how hard to press and which spongey spot to aim for to force you to whimper.

His large, slender fingers curved within the dampened walls of your core—curving up to meet one of your sweet spots, the tips of his nails grazing against it ever-so-slightly forcing a hitched gasp to fall from your lips.

The room had suddenly gone silent at the sound, all eyes falling upon you as you awkwardly shifted within your seat. A familiar heat began to spread throughout the flesh of your cheeks as you quickly masked the sound with a slew of coughs, excusing your gasp with the excuse of being unused to mountain air, diverting attention from you as most gazes fell back to the pacing dwarf.

"Careful, mui ithil," The heat of the elven king's breath grazed your ear as he leaned down to you, his voice no louder than the softest whisper—ensuring only your ears heard him amongst the loudness of dwarves. "We wouldn't want our hosts to know what a slut you are, would we?"

All moisture within your mouth dried at his question, and your gaze quickly shifted from the now-pacing dwarven king to your elven lover. His position was calm and composed, as regal as he always was. An air of respect surrounded him, commanding attention and intimidating all with a simple glance.

He appeared as composed as he was from the moment he sat upon the plush chair—as if he was not currently fingering you beneath the dwarf's table.

"You do not think I am trying?" The question was choked out between gritted teeth, a quivering whisper as you desperately clawed at the plushness beneath you. A soft hiss was soon to follow the strained question as you felt his fingers almost fill you—only stalled by the metal rings that rested upon the base of them.

Rings you knew all too well. You did not need to glance down to be able to tell which one specifically was grinding into the outer dampness of your sensitive flesh.

It was one of silver, it sprawled out in various directions with the appearance of sharpened edges but was relatively smooth. Upon the center of the ring laid a hefty white stone, one in which the reflection of your sopping hole could be seen as it had recently been polished.

A ring that constantly jabbed at your sensitivity, pressing against the outer ring of flesh that surrounded your receptive hole each time the large, slender lengths of flesh dove within you.

The soft squelching click of his fingers exploring the depths of your wetness danced throughout the air, thankfully being masked by the annoyed thumps of the dwarven king's booted feet. A false sense of security arose within your chest at this; perhaps you would be able to remain as composed as your lover was. Perhaps he would stop toying with you as all focus now resided on the furious dwarf.

Yet, as soon as the secure sense arose within your chest, it was ripped away at the sensation of his fingers curling within you. A familiar static sensation arose within the pit of your core at the sensation, the size of your eyes widening as your nails sunk into the softness beneath you—likely pricking holes in the lavish upholstery.

"Thranduil—" His name clung within your throat, escaping as a choked whisper as you could not help but sink in the ministrations of his hand. The chilled metal of his rings scrapped against your dampened entrance, as the smoothness of the various parts pressed around the sensitive hole. A sensation accompanied by the steady sway of the elven king's fingers dancing within you—swaying to the same beat of the angered dwarf's thumps. It was far too difficult to speak, and it was just as difficult to think of anything other than remaining silent, or else the dwarves would know.

The corners of the elven king's lips lifted upwards into a slight grin—he had you exactly where he wanted you. Weak. Malleable. And desperate.

"Try harder." The words left his smug lips in a taunted whisper as his gaze drifted back to the king he was there to meet by your request—or rather nag. "This is of utmost importance, is it not?" The taunts continued, his voice remaining low and steady as the sway of his fingers did not cease. Pumping, curving, and carving their way inside of you in sync with the evergoing rants.

This was going to be a long meeting.

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