#Twoyh

[aramblingjay]

The weave of your hands (part 1/6)

Tags: Aragorn/Legolas, friends to lovers, canon era, braiding Words: 2.3K (so far)

Written for @aralas-week Day 1: Before Fellowship

Legolas’s skin was warm where he brushed against it, and his shoulders rose and fell in steady breaths as Aragorn’s fingers worked. Occasionally he would make a sound if Aragorn pulled a strand too hard or fumbled the flow of the braid—not a sound of pain, but that of a teacher, guiding the hand of his student. Or: 5 times aragorn does legolas’s braids + 1 time it’s the other way around

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I. Rivendell

Aragorn found Legolas, as he knew he would, sitting on a bench in the outer courtyard gardens. He had not successfully approached Legolas without discovery since he was but a young boy whose footballs were too light to be of any notice, and therefore did not try. If Legolas did not welcome his presence, he would not be shy in saying so.

Legolas said nothing, so Aragorn took a seat at the opposite edge of the same bench.

They had not seen each other in several long years, though he still held great fondness for the memories they’d shared in the last decades, many in these very gardens. That Legolas was here appeared to be the only silver lining among the very grim tidings that had resulted in the Council being assembled at all. The guest rooms of the Last Homely House were already teeming with the Men, Elves, and Dwarves who would be present at the meeting, and a good many more besides. He had no doubt he understood only a part of what was truly at work here, but certainly the reappearance of the Ring, the emergence of the Nazgûl, and the gathering of the races all spoke of another desperate alliance against the powerful oncoming evil.

But all of that felt somewhat far away sitting here, in the comfort and security of his first home, alongside one of his first friends. Gandalf had passed along the news that Frodo had awoken in good health, and the Council was therefore set to take place the following morning. There would be time enough to think of the march against evil then. In this moment, he rather intended to focus on the good.

“I was surprised to hear you had come,” Aragorn opened, opting for the simplest of his thoughts. In truth, he wished to converse with his old friend but had little idea where to start, and pleasantries had never been their way.

“A pleasant surprise, I hope.” There was a strange tension in Legolas’s frame, a bowstring pulled taut when it should have been relaxed.

“Always, my friend.”

“I would not have been allowed to come had the circumstances not been so dire. And still worsening, if all I have heard since my arrival is true.” At last Legolas turned to face him, his lips curving into a small smile—what, on his elven features, amounted to the equivalent of a full-toothed grin from a man. “But it is wonderful to see you, Estel.”

Aragorn smiled back, as much at the sentiment as at hearing his childhood name. It had been a long time since he had been addressed as such, for nobody outside the realm of Elves knew him by that name. It seemed he was destined to collect names the way Dwarves collected jewels or maidens beautiful gowns, but there would always be a special place in his heart for this one, the first and simplest.

Legolas’s thoughts appeared to follow in a similar direction, for he continued with mirth in his voice, “Or should I say Strider? Thorongil?” Legolas’s voice lowered, turned serious. “Or have you at last embraced Aragorn, perhaps?”

No matter how long he lived, he would never, ever understand how his friend always seemed to cut to the heart of a matter as though guided there by Ilúvatar himself.

“I don’t believe I will have a choice, tomorrow, and I have made my peace with that.” His rather frosty encounter with Boromir, son of the Steward of Gondor, seemed to him a sign of what would continue to happen if he did not shed the cloak of the Ranger. Whatever was to come next, it could not be Strider or even Estel who stepped forward to face it, but Aragorn. The question was only who would introduce him, and in what manner. “But for today, let me remain Estel.”

“I shall call you by any name you like, my friend, not just today but tomorrow as well. Know that it does not change who you are.”

Aragorn would not tolerate any other speaking to him about this topic in this way—indeed, even Lord Elrond was more careful in discussing his supposed destiny. But Legolas Thranduilion, Prince of Mirkwood, understood his specific circumstances in a way few others could, and as a result they had spoken of this particular topic at length. Aragorn understood Legolas’s words as both a kindness and a familiar reminder that embracing his ancestral name did not mean he had to walk the same path as his ancestors did. Between Legolas and Arwen, he had heard a version of that wisdom often enough that it had started to put down roots in his mind.

“I would that you call me Aragorn, tomorrow,” he said finally. “Of all who could do so first, I would be honored for it to be you.”

Legolas gave him a single nod, agreement and gratitude in one, and Aragorn knew they would speak no more this evening of things yet to pass.

They settled instead into pleasant silence. The time that lapsed before another word was spoken could have been mere minutes or a matter of hours, for it passed both slowly and in a great rush, as all moments of calm seemed to in his life. He could remember with vivid detail the battles, the injuries, the days of chasing or being chased, but memories of peacetime always fell through his fingers like grains of sand, fragmented and fleeting. With that in mind, Aragorn was determined to savor this moment—the chirp of birds, the rustle of trees, the golden glow of Imladris’s famed marble arches under the setting sun; and above all, the comforting presence of a friend beside him. There was no telling what the next day would bring, but this day, despite the series of solemn events that had led to it, was all the sweeter as the last port before the storm.

None came to disturb them. The moment could have extended until moonrise, if they had let it.

The Elves of Imladris, he had learned, had a patience to match the millennia of their lifespan. But not Legolas. Whether wood-elves themselves had a different comportment than the rest, or it was simply Legolas who was singular, he had not spent enough time in Mirkwood to say, though he suspected the latter. That Legolas did not act as though he was merely stepping where he had already trodden before, that he was willing to seize a moment rather than simply wait for it to find him as though floating through a life already lived, was likely one of the reasons Aragorn had been drawn to him as he had to no other Elf.

It also meant, more practically, that Legolas was willing to be the first to break their gentle silence.

“Tell me, Estel, did you walk here all the way from the keep merely to admire the trees with me?”

“And if I had?” He had not, but he had missed joking with his friend.

“I would say you have changed much indeed from the last time I saw you, if you have such a newfound appreciation for the forest. And that perhaps there is some wood-elf in you after all.”

Aragorn chuckled. He had long ago made peace with being a Man among Elves, always an outsider to their unique ways of interacting with the natural world. Even among Elves, he knew the Mirkwood bunch to be uniquer still, able to commune with the trees in a way that seemed closer to magic than anything tangible. “We both know there is no chance of that.”

“Indeed.” Legolas’s voice was light and dry, but the request for honesty could not have been clearer if he’d said speak freely aloud. That strange tension remained in his tight shoulders and hard jaw.

Aragorn chose his words carefully. “You are not braided,” he said at length. There was no need to voice the questions or implications contained therein.

“You saw that from your rooms and came rushing to fix it, did you?” Still light, but with a sharpened edge.

It seemed more elaboration would be necessary. Well, Aragorn had been called many things, too many, but shy to speak his mind had never been one of them. “If you are laboring under some guilt that the creature Gollum was allowed to escape Mirkwood, I hope I am not the first to say it is unfounded.”

“If I am unbraided, it is because I rode from Mirkwood as a messenger, not a warrior. Perhaps what you perceive as some window to my inner thoughts is merely a reflection of your own ignorance.”

If Aragorn had been any other, he would have backed slowly away from the topic and indeed this corner of Imladris entirely, such was the dark undercurrent in Legolas’s voice. But that had never been the manner of their friendship.

“As I think you know, I came rushing here from my rooms merely because I had hoped to see you,” Aragorn said evenly, and Legolas’s stony expression softened. “I will certainly not claim to know all the customs of your people, but I believe I know you, mellon-nin.” They had spoken thus far in the common tongue, for Aragorn did not want any who might drift through these gardens to learn just how deep his connection to Imladris and its elves truly went. Perhaps all the more for being the only Elvish they had exchanged, the Sindarin endearment had a clear effect on Legolas, who looked away and bowed his head. “I have seen you in times of both war and rest, and never have you been without some manner of braid.”

“Forgive me,” Legolas said quietly. “I should not have been cruel.”

“It is already forgotten.” Legolas did not have a cruel bone in his body, this Aragorn knew well. Whenever his usual composure slipped, it almost inevitably had to do with his father. Aragorn could imagine King Thranduil’s displeasure at the escape of Gollum, and certainly could imagine how he might express that displeasure to his only son, regardless of whether Legolas was truly to blame. “Mithrandir himself told me he believes Gollum has yet some role to play. Leave the past where it belongs, Legolas. Let us enjoy this relative peace while we can.”

The tension that he had noticed in Legolas from the beginning of their conversation seemed, finally, to dissipate. “When did you turn so wise, Estel?”

“I’ve had many a good teacher,” Aragorn said, meaning it. Legolas himself had been one for much of his youth. “Besides, it’s mostly selfish—I don’t like seeing you without your braids.”

Something twitched across Legolas’s face. Aragorn waited for it to take shape, employing what he had learned of patience over the years.

“Would you like to put them back in for me?” Legolas asked at last.

Aragorn could not stop his surprise from showing. “I think you’re overestimating my skill.” He gestured vaguely at his own hair, which looked a sight better than it normally did while he was out in the wilds, but remained, stubbornly, an unruly mop of tangles and curls. “Although I don’t see how you could.”

Legolas smiled. “Proficiency requires practice, does it not? Come, Estel.”

“If you are sure—”

“I am.”

“—then it would be my honor.”

Aragorn rose from the bench and walked around it to stand at Legolas’s back. He reached out and tentatively ran a hand through the fine elven hair, attempting to learn its form. As a child, he had perhaps attempted to braid Elladan or Elrohir’s hair, but it had been many years since his fingers had been put to such a delicate task. He had a Ranger’s hands, large and coarse and shaped for strength, not the nimble dexterity required for this.

But Legolas had asked. And indeed, despite not knowing any of the customs involved, he could guess at the significance of being extended such an invitation.

Closing his eyes, he attempted to picture Legolas’s usual style. It was easier than he imagined, for he had spent more than a little time contemplating that lovely face—most of his hair would always hang free, held in place by narrow braids along his ears, and the rest would be gathered into a thicker braid that ran down his back.

He didn’t have the skill to attempt the more complicated main plait, and settled instead for weaving the thin braids at Legolas’s temples. It was not entirely dissimilar to tying knots, with which he was very familiar, but this was decidedly more intimate. Legolas’s skin was warm where he brushed against it, and his shoulders rose and fell in steady breaths as Aragorn’s fingers worked. Occasionally he would make a sound if Aragorn pulled a strand too hard or fumbled the flow of the braid—not a sound of pain, but that of a teacher, guiding the hand of his student.

It had been a long time since his hands had learned a new skill. Aragorn enjoyed the time it took to shape the braid around the curve of Legolas’s ear and down to his nape almost as much for that as for what he was quickly realizing was the magnitude of this gesture.

Men were not so easily shown an Elf’s back, or allowed to place their hands so close to an Elf’s neck and ears. Or indeed to engage in a ritual so deeply steeped in a custom and culture to which they did not belong.

“There are few others permitted this honor,” Legolas said, as though he could read the thoughts in the very movement of Aragorn’s fingers. “But none more deserving. If not for you, I would have arrived at the Council entirely unbraided.”

Instead, he wore to the Council his usual half-braid of an elegant fishtail down his back, nimbly fashioned as the sun rose—and two narrow braids at his temples, wispy and a touch messy in parts, unchanged from how Aragorn had weaved them the previous evening.

[lcksndkys]

Finished reading twoyh and no lie I got to say it's one of the best fics I've read! It definitely made me feel things like ahhh!! Don't know how to explain it but the details and way you described jk & everything made it feel realistic if that makes sense 😊

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[aramblingjay]

The weave of your hands (part 6/6)

Tags: Aragorn/Legolas, friends to lovers, canon era, braiding Words: 16.6K (finished)

“Forgive me. But I will not allow myself to deceive you.” Aragorn reached out, meaning to take Legolas’s hand, his arm, something, just to feel as though his very life was not crumbling before his eyes, but Legolas stepped back. It hurt worse than if Legolas had taken a knife and driven it straight between his ribs. “I did not wish for you to find out like this, on the eve of battle. But—” Legolas’s eyes closed. He seemed at war with himself. “I have heard the gulls.” Or: 5 times aragorn does legolas’s braids + 1 time it’s the other way around

previous parts

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+I. Minas Tirith

The thought first came to him on the fields of Pelennor, a fleeting idea conceived in one breath and dismissed in the next in favor of more immediate priorities. Legolas looked radiant as he dismantled the Mûmakil, bow aloft, hair billowing elegantly in the wind—the first traces of what if drifted into his mind at that exact moment, then slipped away with the next Orc to come into view.

He did not think of it again until hours later, busy in the Houses of Healing tending to his people. For those who were physically wounded, he helped apply bandages and salves. For some, his mere presence seemed to give them strength and spirit, little though he felt he had done to deserve such an honor. For Éowyn, there was nothing to be done but wait, for hardly anything was known about the effects of a Nazgûl upon the body. He lingered at her bedside each time he made his rounds, wiping the sweat from her brow, praying to every Valar he could name that breath return to her body. She, who had saved them, deserved most of all to live.

Éomer remained faithfully at his sister’s side throughout the day, holding her hand, speaking to her in quiet undertones in hopes his voice might reach her. Once, Aragorn glanced from a few beds down to see Éomer running his hand so carefully through the strands of her hair, so gently, that even if Aragorn had not known them to be brother and sister, Éomer’s affection would have been impossible to miss. Éomer did it again and again, brushing out the golden strands until they lay on the pillow like a crown around her head, and the gesture tugged at Aragorn’s heart in a way that nearly hurt.

Legolas had never touched his hair, and Aragorn had a fair idea why. What if—would Legolas—

He did not even complete the thought before someone groaned in pain a few beds down and he was called away.

The thought came again as he saw a couple embrace in relief upon finding each other alive; again as a woman wept uncontrollably beside a body covered with a white sheet; again as Pippin brought Merry into the tent to be checked, shaking with equal parts relief and terror. There was no more profound place to experience love than in the aftermath of war—love in all its beauty and horror, the sweet and the bitter.

Aragorn did not sleep that night. Even if he had been afforded the time, he did not think he could have with the echoes of men’s cries in his ears and the knowledge of how many had died to keep Minas Tirith from falling. He was kept company by the single, constant thought that had finally taken full shape in his mind, that of what the future would look like for him and Legolas.

Éowyn woke sometime after moonrise, a victory in itself, but there were scores of men who needed tending, and few hands were as skilled as his. It was not a boast; few in Minas Tirith would have even heard of the Lord Elrond, never mind had the opportunity to learn the healing arts under his tutelage.

There was enough work to be done, therefore, that he did not see Legolas until the following morning, when Mithrandir summoned them all to the throne room to decide what would come next.

Even as their eyes met across the room, he could tell that Legolas did not look his usual self. He appeared diminished somehow, pale and wilted like a plant starved of light. Dread seized Aragorn like the talons of a Nazgûl beast. It occurred to him then, as sudden and terrifying as a lightning strike, that victory against Sauron himself would feel no different from failure if something had happened to Legolas.

But in front of all these eyes, what could he do? Aragorn bade his tongue and focused instead on the problem at hand.

To assault the Black Gate in the hopes of lending Frodo time was a crazy, foolish plan, and one likely to leave no survivors, but he could not see another path froward. When Legolas spoke in that unwaveringly direct manner of his—a diversion—and put Aragorn’s idea into simple words, not a man protested further. They had come this far; with the fate of Middle Earth at stake, they had no choice but to see it through.

After the plan was agreed, Mithrandir and the others slowly began to leave. There were preparations to be made, men to be rallied, goodbyes to be said.

Aragorn lingered, making his way to Legolas.

As a rule, they did not lie to each other. To his knowledge, they never had.

But not lying was not always the same as telling the whole truth, and of obscuring the entirety of a situation, keeping private thoughts and emotions that would have great bearing on the other, they had each been guilty exactly once. Their secret had been the same secret, and its eventual revelation in the bowels of Helm’s Deep had brought forth the greatest joy of his life.

In this instance, there was no such luxury to wait and allow the truth to unfold. If all went to plan, and certainly if all did not, they were not promised a single minute past the following dawn.

Four words. A simple, monumental request. There was no more time left, so he would ask, come what may.

Aragorn came to a stop. Up close, it was even more obvious that Legolas was suffering, dark shadows under his eyes and within them, his usually indomitable spirit shrunken as if under some great weight. “Are you hurt?”

Legolas lifted a shoulder, deflecting. “I do not wish to lie to you, meleth nîn.” Aragorn’s heart skipped a beat at the new endearment, then dropped at the raw vulnerability of the words. Even Legolas’s voice was thin, weak. “Please, do not ask me to lie to you.”

“Very well.” He trusted that if Legolas were gravely injured from the battle, or otherwise in imminent danger, he would not make such a request. Perhaps it was only natural that the weight of the last several weeks had taken a visible toll on Legolas; he had been strong for so long, but even Elves had a breaking point. Though he disliked letting this go, he resolved to revisit the topic at a later moment.

Legolas stared expectantly at him, clearly having realized he had more to say. Aragorn stared back. His tongue felt as though it had been twisted into loops more complex than the ones in Legolas’s hair, and the words he needed stilled on his lips.

“Estel?” Legolas prompted. “Are you well?”

It was the preposterousness of such a question, when Legolas so clearly looked the worse of them both, that spurred him onward. In his heart of hearts, he knew that Legolas would never ridicule him, whether he embraced or rejected Aragorn’s request. He knew, too, that Legolas loved him, and did so with strength enough to stand at his side on the morrow in face of certain death.

Still, his heart was pounding so loud he was certain it could be heard throughout all of Gondor. Aragorn took a deep breath. Four words. “Will you braid me?”

Legolas’s eyes widened. It took a long time for him to speak, and when he did, the words were careful. “You have braided me many times. Do you know what it would mean for me to braid you in turn?”

Aragorn did not know for certain, but he had an inkling. The same inkling that had followed him doggedly since the battle and all through the night, that had taken hold of his heart and refused to let go.

“I can see in your eyes that you know,” Legolas said, reading him perfectly as ever. Then, quieter, “Say it, so I may not have to.”

As Legolas spoke, Aragorn found that he did know, with greater certainty than he could have imagined just a moment ago. “It would mean we were wed.”

After another long pause, Legolas nodded, looking miserable in a way Aragorn had never seen. “Forgive me,” he whispered. His voice broke. “Estel, forgive me.”

A cold, sinking feeling spread through Aragorn’s bones. What had he done? “Legolas—”

Legolas held up a hand to forestall him, and just as well, for Aragorn had not the faintest idea what he could say to fix this.

“Forgive me. But I will not allow myself to deceive you.”

Aragorn reached out, meaning to take Legolas’s hand, his arm, something, just to feel as though his very life was not crumbling before his eyes, but Legolas stepped back. It hurt worse than if Legolas had taken a knife and driven it straight between his ribs.

“I did not wish for you to find out like this, on the eve of battle. But—” Legolas’s eyes closed. He seemed at war with himself. “I have heard the gulls.”

The world itself came to a halt.

“Oh, Legolas.” Aragorn surged forward and took Legolas’s hands in his own, desperate to have him close, desperate to hold him. This time, Legolas did not pull way. “Oh, Legolas, by the Valar. How—when?”

Legolas did not open his eyes. “At Pelargir, when we seized the corsair ship. As soon as I saw the shore, I could feel the song of the sea in my heart.”

The way Legolas looked, haggard and frail, suddenly made sense. Aragorn had heard many tales of Elvish sea-longing over the years, usually told in hushed tones by the friend of a friend of a friend of someone who had purportedly experienced it. It was said to be a force of unimaginable might, powerful enough to pull even the most legendary of Elves back across the sea to Valinor. If Legolas had been fighting such a pull for days—

Aragorn could feel his heart splintering into pieces even as he asked the question, but he could not stomach the thought of Legolas in pain for his sake. “Are you—are you sailing?”

He could hardly bear to hear the answer.

Legolas squeezed his hands hard enough to hurt, as though he too needed something to hold on to. “No. No. I will not leave you to stand alone against Sauron.” Aragorn’s traitorous heart calmed just a fraction—he had nearly been preparing himself to have to put Legolas on a ship before supper. “The sea calls to me, yes, but its pull is not so strong yet.”

Aragorn heard what was not being said. “You believe the pull will grow.”

Legolas nodded. Still his eyes were closed, but a tear leaked from the corner and carved a path down his cheek. Aragorn longed to brush it away, for he so hated to see Legolas cry, but he did not wish to let go.

“I do not know how long I can give you. Perhaps years, perhaps only days. So you must forgive me, Estel, for I dearly wish to braid you and wed you in the way of my people, but I cannot.”

“I thank you for telling me.” Legolas made to pull away, but Aragorn did not let go. Where in the past he had been blind to Legolas’s inner thinking, this time, he felt certain he understood what was happening. “But if you think this changes my desires, you would be wrong.”

“How could it not?” Legolas asked.

“Has the sea-longing replaced what you feel in your heart? Or do you still—do you still love me?” And though he was sure, almost entirely sure, that he knew what the answer would be, still his voice wavered.

Legolas’s response was immediate, and forceful. “You are my Elven mate, Estel. I love you, just as I will to the end of my days in Valinor.”

Aragorn released a breath. Somehow, it felt both fitting and jarring that they were having this conversation in the throne room of Minas Tirith, before the very seat he would be expected to ascend if all went to plan. “Then that is all I need.”

“Only in children’s stories is love always enough. I implore you to set that aside and think rationally. We may not have long. Even in the little time we have, I may continue to grow ill. That is no life for a King, Aragorn.”

Where he had thus far in the conversation been Estel, the switch to Aragorn felt pointed, landing exactly where Legolas had likely hoped it would. What Legolas described certainly was no life for a King, or the husband of a King. But with Legolas, he had never been Aragorn, heir to the throne of Gondor—only ever Estel, a young boy alone in a large world, desperate to belong.

“We may not live past sundown tomorrow, meleth nîn.” Aragorn was pleased when Legolas melted a little at the endearment despite the situation, the lines of his face softening. “The forces of Mordor may destroy us long before the sea parts us. It matters not to me. Whether we enjoy this happiness together for a day or for a lifetime, it will be worth it.”

“Elves mate for life,” Legolas pressed. “If I—if the sea calls to me, our customs would prevent you from ever wedding another.”

“I do not want another. And I do not want forever. I want only you.” Aragorn cupped Legolas’s face and stroked the rise of his cheek, demanding that he hear these words. “Legolas, open your eyes.” Legolas did not. “Lassë,” he whispered, a plea and a prayer. “Open your eyes.”

Legolas opened his eyes. They were filled with tears, and a pain so deep it cut Aragorn to the bone.

“I want only you,” he repeated. “So I ask you again—Legolas, son of Thranduil, will you braid me?”

“For us to be wed, you would wear my style,” Legolas said. “Is that—is that what you wish?” Is that what you wish still, he was asking, as though he thought that Aragorn could ever want something else.

“Yes, I wish that.” Aragorn’s voice did not shake. He had never been so certain of anything.

The ensuring seconds might have been the longest of his life. Every heartbeat thudded in his ears.

Finally, finally, Legolas smiled. The pain in his eyes did not dissipate, but nestled alongside it now was an equal part of joy. “Then I shall braid you by my hand, as you have braided me by yours. Let the weave of our hands tell of our love, and let us be wed.”

The happiness that burst forth in his chest could barely be contained. Unable to help himself, Aragorn leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to Legolas’s lips. “Let us be wed,” he echoed, giddy with the prospect of it.

Aragorn remembered his promise to himself in the gardens of Imladris, that he would endeavor to savor the moments of peace and happiness that otherwise too easily slipped through his fingers. Each moment with Legolas was even more precious now that there remained no guarantee how many more would be coming, and if their fleeting time together would have to sustain him for a lifetime, he was determined to commit every single detail to memory.

Indeed, he did not think it would ever be possible to forget the way Legolas reached forward, never once looking away from Aragorn’s face, and deftly fashioned a braid at each temple. His fingers brushed lightly against Aragorn’s skin as he worked; each point of contact left Aragorn tingling from head to toe. With each twist of the braid, Aragorn felt as though his very fëa was changing, shifting and growing to make space for another. The feeling of the moment was indescribable—headier than the strongest strongwine, warmer than the blazing heat of a fire, gentler than the lightest caress.

“It is done,” Legolas said, in a voice that sounded as though it came from the very earth, and so it was. Bound together forever—Aragorn could not imagine a better fate.

And so it was that the Estel who had long lived inside him, searching for a home and a family of his own, knew peace.

And so it was that when Aragorn rode upon the Black Gale to battle Sauron for the very soul of Middle Earth, it was with Legolas at his side, Legolas’s braids at his temples, and Legolas’s fëa in his heart.

[aramblingjay]

The weave of your hands (part 5/6)

Tags: Aragorn/Legolas, friends to lovers, canon era, braiding Words: 13.8K (so far)

Do you want something else to focus on? Legolas had asked earlier, seeing the way he had trembled with the aftershocks of having Sauron crawl through his mind. Gandalf had taken Pippin somewhere to calm down after his ordeal with the palantir, and the rest of the group had taken the opportunity to catch what few hours of sleep remained before dawn; only Legolas, always, always Legolas, who watched him as closely as he watched back, seemed to remember that Aragorn had touched the palantir as well. Or: 5 times aragorn does legolas’s braids + 1 time it’s the other way around

previous parts

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V. Edoras

Kissing Legolas was different than he had imagined. Aragorn had expected it to be life-changing, shifting the ground beneath his feet in some fundamental way that would separate the man he had been before tasting Legolas’s lips from the man he was after. Instead, it did not feel so different from all of the other ways in which they had long been connected. It was profound, undoubtedly, but no more so than knowing where Legolas was in the midst of every battle. No more so than speaking with him in a tongue few around them understood, never mind their shared second language of gestures and glances. And certainly, it felt no more profound than having woven braids into his hair, a privilege that had never been offered to one outside Legolas’s family.

In truth, kissing Legolas was wonderful, and Aragorn stole every opportunity to do so that he could, though they were rarely alone for long. But it seemed almost a natural thing, an inevitable conclusion that among all that they already shared, they would share this too.

Perhaps that was why, in this moment when his mind longed for something good to hold onto, it wasn’t memories of kissing Legolas to which he turned, but rather the peace of that evening in Imladris, his fingers in Legolas’s hair.

Would you like to put them back in for me? Legolas had asked that day, as though braiding an Elf was something so simple, as though with that one question he had not permanently altered the path they both would walk.

It was that evening and those words Aragorn thought of now, as he undid what remained of Legolas’s braids with deft, sure movements. He had been so hesitant then, so unsure of what he was doing, reverent without fully understanding what it was he was revering. Today—

Do you want something else to focus on? Legolas had asked earlier, seeing the way he had trembled with the aftershocks of having Sauron crawl through his mind. Gandalf had taken Pippin somewhere to calm down after his ordeal with the palantir, and the rest of the group had taken the opportunity to catch what few hours of sleep remained before dawn; only Legolas, always, always Legolas, who watched him as closely as he watched back, seemed to remember that Aragorn had touched the palantir as well.

Let’s go somewhere private, he had suggested when Aragorn had not been able to come up with a response, and that was how they found themselves here, secluded away in what appeared to be an old storage room. There were empty shelves lining the walls but no furniture, so they had settled on the floor, Legolas elegantly cross-legged, Aragorn behind him with legs sprawled to the side. He was old enough and achy enough that the position was not entirely comfortable, but he did not move. Would not, until the braid was complete.

Today, he felt only calm and peace as he combed his fingers through the fine strands the way Legolas had shown him until it lay smooth and silky, tangles undone. In his mind’s eye, he could see Legolas’s fingers making the same movements as he carefully parted the hair along the midline and gathered a section to begin the main braid. Focusing on those images, more than anything else, seemed to push the last lingering tendrils of Sauron’s malice from his mind.

How could he waste any time picturing Middle Earth as a desolate wasteland, or indeed that flaming, writhing eye, when he could think of Legolas instead?

“Your thoughts are far away,” Legolas said all of a sudden, pulling him abruptly away from mind-Legolas to the one sitting directly before him.

“Though my mind strays, it does not turn to Sauron any longer. Only to you.” Aragorn’s hands continued their steady work. There was a time when he could not converse and braid in the same breath—indeed, he did not think he ever had before, always pausing one action to take up the other. But as the braiding had grown more frequent, so too had his comfort—every motion felt so natural to him now that hardly any thought was required for each once-inscrutable movement.

“I am right here, Estel. Stay with me here.”

The combination of his old name and the honest request drew honesty out of him in return. “I keep thinking of our time together in Imladris. That last evening, when I found you unbraided and we first embarked on this journey.” He did not specify which journey, that of the fellowship or their own hands and hearts, for the one was as interwoven with the other as any two strands of Legolas’s favorite fishtail plait.

“What of it? Surely you do not miss those times.”

“I do not.” He would be a fool to, with all that had been gained in the months since. He would be a fool not to, with all that had been lost. “And I do. They were simpler times, certainly.”

“You were not meant for a simple life, Aragorn.” The use of his birth name was deliberate, he knew, and he understood the message well. He had not been born into a simple family with a simple fate, and the choices he had made since he had been old enough to make them had done nothing to steer him toward a simple path either. “But would you not prefer the complications to be of your own making and choosing?”

“Certainly.” Whether Legolas referred to his decision to join the quest of the fellowship, or his more recent decision to seize for them both this messy, unlikely, complicated chance at happiness, he did not know. The answer was the same. “But you are a fool if you think I see you merely as a complication.”

“You have long claimed it is I who can read minds. But in recent memory, I believe it is you who has mastered the art.”

It was a very long means of saying that Aragorn had guessed Legolas’s fear correctly. But Legolas would not be himself, the version of himself that Aragorn loved so dearly, if he spoke any other way—or was any more reticent in admitting an insecurity.

“No, I merely know your mind as you know mine. I said it before and I will say it now, Lassë—I would change nothing. I regret nothing. Any complication this shall bring to my life is a welcome one, and far outweighed by the joy.”

“How fortunate I am, to be loved by such a poet,” Legolas teased, but the words rang with sincerity. Aragorn continued braiding, one strand over the next over the next, working his way to the end of the plait, even as Legolas spoke. “How fortunate, to be chosen by you,” Legolas continued, quietly. “You are singular, Estel. Aragorn. Elessar. How fortunate I am.”

For all that Legolas claimed not to be the poet between them, sometimes words would fall from his lips like nectar from the sweetest of fruits, and Aragorn was left dumbfounded at the simple joy of being held in such esteem by the one he loved.

But the truth was, he was the fortunate one, for there had been and would be many great Men—he had met some of them just in the past few months. There were none like Legolas. None so loyal and generous of heart, fierce in war and peace alike to defend those he loved, none so willing to not only live in and fight for the world of Men, but embrace the opportunity to be changed by it. None so wise but steadfastly deferent, none who burned so bright and with such skill but readily promised his bow to a Hobbit and his fëa to a Man. There was none other Aragorn loved, or imagined he could love, for Legolas was the singular one, amidst Men and Elves alike.

Aragorn, having completed and tied the braid he had been working on, opened his mouth to express something of those thoughts—only to say nothing at all, for Legolas seized that precise moment turn his head for a kiss.

It was a chaste one, just their lips pressing together for several heartbeats before Legolas drew away with a small smile. The kind of kiss that seemed commonly associated with Elves, for all that Aragorn knew aloof detachedness had never been Legolas’s way. But it felt like a kiss worthy of this moment—not the blazing passion of a wildfire, new love running free, but rather a torch in the dark, steady and familiar.

“Your hands shake, still.” Legolas took his hand in his own, and Aragorn realize it to be true. As soon as he had stopped braiding, the trembling had returned. “We have yet to discuss what you saw in the palantir.”

Sauron’s presence had seemingly retreated from his mind, and Aragorn had no desire to bring it back, or indeed put words to the horrific visions it had imposed on him. “I saw many things, all to terrible to speak of. I felt him in my mind like the darkest, vilest shadow.”

Legolas remained silent, and he continued.

“I know only that whatever comes in the forthcoming weeks, I will fight until my last breath to ensure the future Sauron desires does not come to pass.” Aragorn looked down and saw that his hand, even wrapped in Legolas’s own, was still far from steady. He doubted it would be for some while yet. “My hands shake, yes, but he no longer lingers in my mind. We need not speak of him any further. All I need is to know you are with me in this fight.”

“Finish braiding me, and I shall be nowhere else.” Legolas tipped his head to expose his temple, just as he had done in the armory before the battle at Helm’s Deep. There was greater lightness to his tone today than there had been then, their promises now well enshrined, their love exposed to the light.

Aragorn huffed. “If I remember rightly it was you who distracted me.”

“And like any good teacher, I shall now steer you back on course.” Legolas turned his head away and re-settled into his earlier position, his back to Aragorn and his hair presented as a half-painted canvas, waiting for the finishing strokes. His playfulness faded into something far more serious, however, as he said, “You honor me, each time you weave my braids. You should know that.”

“I know.” Aragorn squeezed Legolas’s hand, then released it. “Never doubt that I know.”

He could not predict what the morning would bring, or indeed how this all would end. But of their place at each other’s sides, of them, he was certain.

[aramblingjay]

The weave of your hands (part 2/6)

Tags: Aragorn/Legolas, friends to lovers, canon era, braiding Words: 5K (so far)

Written for @aralas-week Day 2: To Lothlorien

They passed the night with Aragorn’s fingers working away at the golden tapestry before him, guided by Legolas’s quiet words of tutelage. The hours slipped by and he did not feel himself tire, or grow restless, merely more determined as the moon dipped lower and lower in the sky—Legolas would leave Lothlórien wearing braids worthy of him, and he wanted them to be fashioned by his hands alone. Or: 5 times aragorn does legolas’s braids + 1 time it’s the other way around

part one

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II. Lothlórien

Night fell over the forest, and Aragorn busied himself as long as he could with seeing to the needs of the fellowship. There was food to eat and weapons to sharpen and spirits to lift at least enough to carry on the next day, and with Gandalf lost to them, the burden of ensuring his companions were looked after fell ever-more-firmly on his shoulders.

But eventually, the Hobbits were all asleep, or at the very least feigning it well enough, collapsed next to each other on Elvish bedrolls for what would be their first comfortable slumber in weeks. Aragorn himself was looking forward to lying down on a surface that wasn’t the rocks of a mountain pass or the twigs and brambles of a forest floor, for all that he had no doubt sleep would not find him this night. Not after the loss they had borne.

It appeared Boromir shared his view, for he was neither sleeping nor attempting any approximation of it. But he had at least eaten and settled at the base of a tree, looking as though he did not plan to move from his spot until the sun rose to force him, and Aragorn left him to it. They had already exchanged, earlier in the evening, all the words he had to offer.

He understood Gimli least of the fellowship, but that was unsurprising, given they had never met before the Council. Still, he could not help his relief to see the Dwarf sound asleep and deadened to the world when he returned from speaking with Boromir. Whatever guilt Gimli bore for Gandalf’s loss having occurred in the place of his kin, and whatever grief he suffered at learning of the deaths of his cousin and friends, Aragorn did not know how to fix any of it.

Instead, once he had seen to every member of the fellowship except the one who loomed, always, largest in his mind, Aragorn went to find Legolas.

It did not take long. His friend’s preference for high places well-surrounded by trees was no secret, and Aragorn found him in exactly such a place, balanced on a slender branch and looking ethereal in the silver light shining through the leaves. His long, elegant fingers were busy undoing the braids in his hair—the sight made something swoop in Aragorn’s stomach that he could not explain.

“Are you attempting to make this, too, your fault?” he asked Legolas in Elvish, scaling the tree Legolas had chosen and sitting next to him in what felt like a distorted reflection of that peaceful evening they’d shared in the gardens of Imladris. There was no need to specify what this referred to, for even though the Elves had finished their lament, only one thing was on any of their minds.

“No more than you.”

He could not argue with that. Gandalf’s fall was an open, gaping wound among the entire fellowship, and so it would remain. He was a good enough healer to know when there was no salve or remedy that could soothe a pain.

“I suppose we each bear some blame, for surviving in his place.” Even as he said it, however, Aragorn knew that wasn’t entirely true. He would place no blame on the Hobbits, who were above all else innocents in their care, and especially not on the Ringbearer, who carried a heavy enough burden as it was. “Or none of us. Indeed, I do not know what to think.”

“Perhaps it is not for us to know,” Legolas said, with a conviction Aragorn would not have believed from anyone else, and turned so he was facing Aragorn, leaning back against the trunk of the tree whose branch they were sitting on. He stretched out his legs until his feet were nearly in Aragorn’s lap, balancing expertly. “Our task remains, and we can only continue forward.”

“I do not know how we can do so without Mithrandir,” he admitted. None other would see this side of him, the side that doubted and despaired. But Legolas’s face was open and kind, his eyes so piercing Aragorn would not have been surprised if Legolas could read his very mind, and the admission came easy.

“Estel,” Legolas said softly, with emphasis.

Aragorn scoffed. He had been named for hope, yes, but hope seemed very far away in this moment.

Out of nowhere, Legolas’s foot stretched forward and nudged him lightly in the thigh. The action was so unexpected Aragorn couldn’t help his spluttered laugh. “Lassë, what—”

Legolas gave him a small, warm smile.

Aragorn mirrored it, feeling an equal burst of warmth in his chest, and decided to accept the distraction. “You are several hundred years too old for such antics,” he teased, embracing the first lightness he had felt since watching Gandalf disappear into the chasm. “I would have expected this from one of the Hobbits, not you.”

Legolas did it again. He was barefoot, his usual shoes likely somewhere at the base of the tree, and Aragorn could feel each of Legolas’s toes through the thin linen of his leggings, five bright bursts of heat on his thigh like a brand.

“Lassë—” Aragorn did not know why he was suddenly inclined to keep using what had once been Estel’s childhood nickname for Legolas, back when he was first learning Quenya and had read that it meant leaf. He hadn’t used it since leaving Imladris for the first time as a young man, but here, after so much else had changed, he found he liked the comfort of it in his mouth, and the thought that no one had ever called Legolas this but him.

“You have not called me that in a long time.”

“You do not like it?” Aragorn would stop in a heartbeat if Legolas felt it was somehow disrespectful, or diminishing of his status as a Prince and an equal. Estel as a child would have had much more leeway to address Thranduil’s heir however he liked than he did now, as Aragorn the man.

Legolas shook his head immediately. “I did not say that. You have collected so many names, perhaps it was inevitable you tried to give me a few.”

“I can stop,” he offered, more to keep the light mood going than because he did not take Legolas at his word.

“Don’t,” Legolas said, soft and serious, more serious than the moment deserved.

“Alright.” Whether he understood or not, he wouldn’t deny his friend something so simple.

Heaviness descended upon them again. It was impossible to hold at bay for long, oppressive on all sides, the inescapable feeling that what had always been a fool’s hope of a quest was now pure folly. Perhaps it was Gandalf who should have been named for hope, Aragorn thought with some derision, for without him it seemed there was none left.

In search of a distraction, he watched Legolas. His long hair gleamed silver-white in the moonlight as he combed through it with his fingers, slow and methodical, though Aragorn couldn’t spot a single strand out of place. His brow was creased with a grief that had not left his face since Moria, but the rest of his expression was settled in a sort of placid stillness not unlike a calm lake. Whatever stirred beneath, there was no trace of it on the surface. Aragorn had grown so used to the bow and quiver perpetually slung over his shoulders that it felt odd to see Legolas without them, though he knew any threat they faced in Lórien could not be countered with arrows. If the Lady Galadriel or even Haldir withdrew their favor, the fellowship would not last long.

When Legolas finished his finger-combing and began to section his hair to re-weave his braids, the words bubbled up.

“May I?” Aragorn asked before he could think better of it. Perhaps Legolas’s offer in Imladris had been a special circumstance, but he could do with something to busy his hands and occupy his mind even just a little. And if he was honest with himself, it had not been an unenjoyable experience, being close to Legolas like that in a privilege afforded to few others.

Legolas gave him a long, searching look in reply; he did his best to hold steady under the weight of that heavy gaze.

Finally, Legolas nodded—once, with a significance Aragorn did not fully understand.

They stared at each other for several beats; Aragorn felt his cheeks heat and looked away first, turning their attention to the matter most immediately at hand.

“How—” He gestured loosely to the way they were sitting, attempting to convey that he couldn’t even reach Legolas’s hair in this position.

In a sudden whirlwind of movement so fast he could barely follow each step with his eyes, Legolas swung his legs around and spun so that he was straddling the branch, his back now to Aragorn. “Better?” he asked, smug in a way that should have been unbecoming but only stirred a heat low in Aragorn’s stomach that he had spent many, many years convincing himself was unrelated to his friend.

The fact that this particular reaction only happened when the Elf was near, usually in direct response to something he had done, was a truth Aragorn had not yet reconciled.

“Much.” Aragorn slid forward until he was sitting directly behind Legolas. Like the last time, he ran his fingers carefully through Legolas’s hair first, re-accustoming himself. The rest of them were ragged and dirty from all the trekking so far, and none more than himself—but not Legolas. His hair was exactly as soft as before, and exactly as straight, and exactly as smooth. Aragorn might have been upset if not for how clearly he could see the marks of their journey in other ways—the shadows in Legolas’s eyes, the grief that hung over him like a dark cloak. “What would you have me braid?”

One shoulder rose and then fell in an elegant shrug. “Anything you’d like.”

It had not escaped Aragorn’s notice that Legolas had worn the braids he’d weaved into his hair to the Council, despite them looking like the messy first attempt of a young Elfling still learning how it was done. The gesture had touched him more than he could express, and indeed he hadn’t expressed it, unwilling to call attention to something that he didn’t entirely understand himself.

What he needed, Aragorn mused suddenly, was to speak to another Elf familiar with all these customs. A wood-elf, preferably, but he doubted he’d see one save Legolas for a very long time—and perhaps never at all, if this quest ended the way it seemed doomed to. They were surrounded by elves here in Lórien, but there was none he trusted enough to divulge something which appeared, at least given the way Legolas had not spoken of it since either, quite private.

Anything you’d like. The issue was that he did not know what he might like, for he did not know much about Elven braiding. And in truth, what he really wanted had little to do with braiding at all. “I would like—I would like for you to teach me,” he said finally. It was perhaps as close as he could come to what he truly wanted to say.

“Teach you?”

Legolas did not sound mocking as he repeated Aragorn’s words, merely curious; shame licked up his spine all the same, and he was suddenly glad Legolas was facing away from him.

“Yes. Show me how you—with your hands, how you do it.” He did not want to feel like a child, praised for his intention rather than his execution—did not want Legolas to feel as though he needed to wear Aragorn’s braids out of pity, or indulgence, as much as his friend would never admit to such a thing. “I would like to do you justice.”

“You already have. You always have, mellon. But if you wish to learn my style, I will show you.”

“Please.”

Legolas’s hands came up to his hair. He had long, sturdy fingers, built for archery and sword-fighting and survival—they looked not unlike Aragorn’s, a resemblance which filled Aragorn with an inordinate amount of possessive glee. They were alike, in this way.

“I prefer to fashion my main plait first,” Legolas began, parting his hair cleanly down the middle. “It is easiest to part the hair first, then gather even sections from both sides.” Legolas spoke in the calm, patient manner of a true teacher, demonstrating each step as he went. “Pull the hair so it lays flat, like so, and comb your fingers through to smooth any bumps.” When Legolas had perfectly gathered about a third of his hair at his nape, he suddenly released his fingers, letting the hair fall free. “That is how much I would gather. Now, your turn.”

Aragorn took to his task clumsily, attempting to emulate the motions Legolas’s hands had made with his own. Where Legolas’s fingers had been swift and sure, however, letting nary a strand slip out of place, Aragorn knew his own were slow and awkward, like a child play-acting the motions of his betters with no understanding of form or technique.

Proficiency requires practice, does it not? Those had been Legolas’s words to him in Imladris, and they rang in his ears now, a fitting reminder. He too had once been a child swinging a toy sword in a way that would’ve had him torn from limb to limb if he’d faced any true enemy, much as one might not think it now, when the sword felt as much a part of his body as the arm which wielded it. And practicing this particular art would not require the blood and bruises and grueling hours that sword-wielding had—indeed, spending time like this with his dear friend, his mind for once occupied with something other than weariness and despair, could better be described as pleasure.

With that thought, he finished his first attempt at parting and gathering Legolas’s hair, knowing even before he was told that it was not sufficient.

“Again, mellon.”

Any sharpness that could have been interpreted from the command was belied by the endearment, which spoke of fondness and patience and kindness, not of frustration or scorn. Yet another way in which learning this art would be infinitely more delightful, Aragorn decided, than his experiences learning the art of the sword. Softer words for softer arts.

Thrice more he worked through the beginning steps, each time corrected in this way and that by Legolas’s gentle voice—until, on his fourth attempt, Legolas deemed his work sufficient.

“Well done, mellon-nin.”

Warmth swelled in his belly like a gathering tide, and he allowed himself to bask in the feeling of it. Such a small task to accomplish and be praised for, but solace was rare to come by these days, and he was not fool enough to turn it away.

Legolas angled his head slightly, just enough so Aragorn could make out the upward curl of his lips. Another wave of warmth crashed over him at the reassurance that these trivial comforts were nonetheless a comfort to them both.

“Now on to the plait,” Legolas said, bringing his hands up to demonstrate, and Aragorn watched with rapt attention.

They passed the night with Aragorn’s fingers working away at the golden tapestry before him, guided by Legolas’s quiet words of tutelage. Elves did not need much sleep, and Aragorn found he needed less when he was around Legolas, buoyed with a strange, frenetic energy in his veins. The hours slipped by and he did not feel himself tire, or grow restless, merely more determined as the moon dipped lower and lower in the sky—Legolas would leave Lothlórien wearing braids worthy of him, and he wanted them to be fashioned by his hands alone.

Thoughts of Gandalf and the Ring and all the troubles waiting for him at the base of the tree lingered ever-present in his mind, for never would they disappear—but in those late hours they were merely a whisper in the background, quiet enough to be ignored.

[aramblingjay]

The weave of your hands (part 4/6)

Tags: Aragorn/Legolas, friends to lovers, canon era, braiding Words: 12K (so far)

Aragorn stepped through the doorway and was greeted by the sight of a large wooden tub in a room that appeared untouched by the battle. Walls intact, floor clean, a pleasant floral smell in the air rather than the overwhelming stench of blood and bodies that lingered everywhere else. The tub was filled to the brim with steaming water—genuinely steaming, for he could see the tendrils curling into the cool air from the surface. It was the most beautiful sight he had laid eyes on in weeks. “You are a miracle, Lassë,” Aragorn said in Elvish, reverent; he meant it in more ways than one. Or: 5 times aragorn does legolas’s braids + 1 time it’s the other way around

previous parts

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IV. Helm’s Deep

Heavy were his legs as Aragorn made his way through the decimated fortress, taking stock of the damage incurred. Crumbling stone and scattered bodies greeted him at every turn, a reminder that while the Orcs had been defeated, what had transpired here could not be described with a word so simple as victory. He did not look too closely at the fallen, knowing he would be haunted by this night just as well without seeing their mangled faces in his dreams. Such destruction, such death. Was this how they were doomed to fight this war—pyrrhic victory after pyrrhic victory, until even triumph was merely another loss?

He did not dare check if Haleth had survived the battle, or any of the others he had come to know during his time in Rohan. There was only one whose whereabouts he knew instinctively, and even that mainly because Legolas trailed him like a shadow as he made his initial rounds through Helm’s Deep. They did not exchange words, or even look at each other—Legolas remained far enough away that indeed Aragorn could not see him at all, but merely feeling his presence nearby was comfort enough.

Aragorn had much to say to him, now that the battle was done. But he had duties to attend to first.

It took hours. Théoden was the King, certainly, but there were too many tasks for one man to handle alone, even one so capable. Wounded to be ushered toward makeshift healer’s tents, where Aragorn would normally have devoted his energy if not for the wealth of other responsibilities calling for his attention; women and children to be reunited with their husbands and sons, both living and fallen; damage to be accounted for future restoration; burials to be planned; spirits, as always, to be lifted; accommodations to be found; rationed food to be distributed; and on and on it went, the price of victory.

He saw Legolas once, entirely by accident—kneeling beside the body of a fallen Elf with his head bowed in grief. Aragorn looked on for a beat, drawing a strange sort of strength just from the reminder that Legolas still lived and breathed to feel grief at all, before turning away. He did not think Legolas was aware of being watched, and did not wish to intrude on his private mourning.

Aragorn did not feel his presence for the rest of the day.

As night fell many hours later, it was Éomer who found him deep in the bowels of the fortress. The few times he had caught glimpse of Éomer earlier, the Rohan rider had been tending to his men and their horses, marshaling the wounded in his ranks and retrieving the dead who lay strewn on the fields. Immensely grateful, Aragorn had left him to it; nobody would be better suited to the task. Now, it was Aragorn who was directing efforts to move the last of the fallen so they could be given a proper burial, when the felt the hairs stand up on his neck with the warning that someone approached.

He turned, and came to face an Éomer who, unlike himself, had shed his armor for clean clothes befitting his station.

“Rohan thanks you for your efforts,” Éomer began, with a tone of utmost sincerity. Their last meeting had not been an entirely civil one, but such was war—petty disputes withered in the light of a common enemy. “I have heard much of your endeavors during the battle and after.”

“I merely did what any would have done in my place. On the contrary, I believe it is to you that we all owe our gratitude.” None of them would be alive if not for the timely arrival of Éomer and his riders, that he knew.

“Let me offer a compromise, then, that it is the wisdom of Gandalf we should all thank.”

Aragorn smiled. He could see himself being great friends with Éomer someday, if fate remained kind to them both. “Accepted. Though I do not think you came to find me here to trade debts of gratitude.”

Éomer inclined his head, a sharp acknowledgment. “I bear a message from the King that we ride at dawn to Isengard. A small group only—the King, Gandalf, myself, yourself, and your companions.”

“I understand.”

It seemed this was the outcome of Théoden and Gandalf’s discussions, then. Aragorn did not mind, for Isengard was where, he dearly hoped, they would find Merry and Pippin again. He had not forgotten, though their mission had since been diverted, that he and Legolas and Gimli had initially set out across the plains of Rohan in pursuit of their friends.

“I am surprised you chose to come as a messenger,” Aragorn said when Éomer did not move from where he stood, as though his business was not yet complete. “Or is there a further matter?”

“Have you even taken a seat since the battle ended?” Éomer asked, abruptly.

Aragorn felt the surprise show on his face; he had not expected such a personal question. In response, he gestured behind himself toward a Rohan soldier who was, even at that moment, hoisting a fallen comrade onto his shoulders. “There is much to be done.”

“And many to do it. Every man who fought beside you on the walls has already been sent to a room or a tent to rest. You should do the same. My Rohirrim are fresher for not having faced the brunt of the battle, and more than capable of handling what tasks remain.”

His legs were weak. His spirit battered. Every muscle in his body ached more than he had ever thought possible. Rest sounded like bliss—but how could he? Men and Elves had given their lives so he could stand here now and feel tired; it would be the highest act of disservice not to ensure they and their families were appropriately honored. “I thank you for your concern. But if we are to ride at dawn, there is even less time than I expected to finish what needs to be done. Tired as I may be, I cannot abandon my efforts.”

“Why do you think I came in search of you? I did not fight through the night as you did, and I am certain you will be needed for what is to come next. Rest. You have done your part. I shall personally see to whatever else must be done for my people.”

He did not understand where this unexpected benevolence came from. “I—”

“Remember that in these walls, I outrank you.” The words were said in jest, but with an undercurrent of steel that promised Éomer would not hesitate to make good on his words. “You would do well to listen to me.”

Aragorn relented. In truth, he was exhausted, and grateful for the respite. “Very well. I thank you, my Lord Éomer.”

“Leave the titles, friend. From what I hear, it is I who may need to address you with honors soon enough.”

“You should not believe everything you hear, friend,” Aragorn said, moving toward the half-intact stairwell that was the only exit from this room. As he spoke, he could not help but think of the last man to call him friend instead of his name or his title, could not help but think of Boromir’s eyes as the light left them on the banks of the Anduin—his heart was not in the barb. “The future is as yet uncertain.”

But Éomer only smiled knowingly as he left.

Aragorn made it up the crumbling stairwell, already on his long list of locations that would need significant repair before Helm’s Deep could house any sort of contingent again, then ascended another that was so destroyed only every third step remained, before—

“You look absolutely terrible.”

Legolas’s voice was like nectar to the ears. Aragorn would have drawn him into an embrace immediately if he had thought such physical affection would be welcomed.

“And you are, as ever, a sight for sore eyes.”

While Legolas looked dirtier than Aragorn had ever seen him, even the near-magical ability of Elves to remain untouched by their environment no match for the rain and mud and filth of the battle they had endured, he remained unfailingly beautiful.

Had he thought of his lifelong friend in such terms before? Aragorn could not say, even though to do so now felt as natural as the breath in his body.

“Flatterer,” Legolas teased, but there was heat in his voice. “I see you were finally convinced to set aside your duties.”

And with that, the mystery of Éomer’s behavior appeared solved. “I see I have you to thank for sending such a convincing messenger.” He should have known from the start that Legolas would never have allowed him to work too far past exhaustion, no matter that the Elf should have held no sway in these lands. It seemed the men of Rohan were no more immune to Legolas’s charms that he himself.

“I admit to nothing,” Legolas said with a little smirk, which was better even than an admission. “I will say only that my Lord Éomer appeared himself very invested in your well-being. As am I.”

Aragorn met Legolas’s eyes, and saw in them an emotion he could not name but understood intimately. They teetered on a precipice. “I am gladdened to see you, mellon-nin.” There were other words he wanted to use. Friend did not seem sufficient for the way his heart leapt in his chest at every sight of long golden hair, or for the way it had lurched every time Legolas disappeared from view during the battle.

“Perhaps it will gladden you even more to learn that I have acquired, for the hero of Helm’s Deep, a warm bath.”

Legolas could have told him he had pulled the sun from the sky and hidden it in the palm of his hand, and Aragorn would not have been more impressed.

“How—you—I thought Gandalf the only Maiar on our side, but I see I’ve thought wrong.”

Legolas laughed.

Aragorn could not remember the last time he had heard Legolas laugh. The sound ran through him like liquid sunshine, fever-bright and warm.

“Lead the way.”

Legolas did not take his hand—would not, of course, for the very idea was preposterous. Aragorn could not explain why he even thought of it, only that he did. But he felt as though they were connected all the same, tethered by an invisible string that meant their feet marched in step. When Legolas turned he turned. When Legolas stopped he stopped. When Legolas told him with a sharp look to wait outside a particular door that, by some miracle, appeared one of the few still on its hinges, he stood in place and waited and not once felt as though he could do otherwise.

He had much to say. But perhaps his feet were saying it for him.

Legolas appeared through the door again, only his head poking through. His brow was furrowed strangely; Aragorn would have characterized it as nervousness on any other. “Ready.”

Aragorn stepped through the doorway and was greeted by the sight of a large wooden tub in a room that appeared untouched by the battle. Walls intact, floor clean, a pleasant floral smell in the air rather than the overwhelming stench of blood and bodies that lingered everywhere else. The tub was filled to the brim with steaming water—genuinely steaming, for he could see the tendrils curling into the cool air from the surface. It was the most beautiful sight he had laid eyes on in weeks.

“You are a miracle, Lassë,” Aragorn said in Elvish, reverent; he meant it in more ways than one.

Legolas looked away too fast for Aragorn to catch his expression. “Come, before it cools.”

Aragorn reached for the laces of his jerkin, then stopped. He had not—fully considered this part of the bathing process. The disrobing. He had been bare before others and seen others bare, certainly—Elves did not share the shame around nudity that seemed intrinsic to Men, and he had been a Ranger besides, camping beneath trees and bathing in rivers with no privacy to speak of. It wasn’t the act itself, therefore, but the company present to witness it—he had never been bare before Legolas, nor Legolas him, and the moment felt significant.

After a brief hesitation, however, Aragorn began pulling off his jerkin and mail. A hot bath was incentive enough to do just about anything.

When Aragorn had only his underthings left, he realized Legolas had not been following suit. In fact, Legolas remained faced away entirely, making a show of examining the shelves lining the walls.

“I did not think Elves shy in such matters,” Aragorn said lightly.

“No,” Legolas agreed, but still he did not turn or move.

Aragorn discarded his breeches and stepped into the tub. He could not stop the moan that fell from his lips at the warmth of the water, and sank blissfully to his knees, attempting to submerge as much of himself as he could manage. “Join me,” he called, still in Elvish. There would be no common tongue between them tonight. “While the water is warm.”

Finally, Legolas began to undress.

Aragorn did not look, but neither did he look away. Both actions came with implications he was not ready to face just yet. Instead he focused on scooping water over his face and neck and armpits, relishing the feeling of weeks’ worth of grime washing away, and what little he caught in the edges of his vision—acres of skin, a flash of corded muscle—was entirely unintentional.

Entirely.

He tracked the movements in his periphery as Legolas slipped into the tub with his characteristic elegance. Aragorn watched his face as he sank languidly into the water, tracing with his eyes the twists of the braid he himself had weaved into Legolas’s hair just the previous day, and looked no lower.

“How did you manage this?” Aragorn asked, after several minutes passed in which the only sound in the room was the both of them washing themselves as vigorously as they could. There was no telling when, or if, another opportunity such as this would present itself, for all that Aragorn still could not understand how Legolas had conjured this one. “I cannot imagine it was easy.”

“No. But many under this roof were eager to help when they heard who would benefit. Your actions have earned the support and trust of the people of Rohan.” Legolas’s head was tipped back against the edge of the tub, his eyes closed. He looked like an Elf basking in comfort, leisured and relaxed. But Aragorn could read the signs of tension in his body as well as any foliage in the forest, better even, and was not fooled.

The hero of Helm’s Deep, Legolas had called him earlier. He felt anything but. “I am nothing special. I did nothing special.” Indeed, he knew exactly what he had done—could count his supposed achievement in the bodies he had retrieved with his own hands, and in the blood that stained his skin so deep no amount of scrubbing in a bath would ever remove it. “So many are dead, Legolas. So much loss.”

Legolas sat upright, eyes opening. “But it was your efforts in marshaling the soldiers, defending the gates, and calling for the final charge that saved those who remain.” Legolas exhaled, long and unusually shaky. “And perhaps there would not have been so much loss if those you trusted were capable of carrying out your commands.”

It took Aragorn several seconds to cast his mind through the men who had fought by his side in an attempt to understand Legolas’s accusation, before coming to the realization that there was only one he would speak about in such a manner.

“You cannot possibly be referring to yourself,” he said. If he had the pick of every living creature in the world, there was still none other he would choose to stand at his side. And he could think of nothing Legolas had done during the battle to dishonor himself in such a way—indeed, he could only think of instances to the contrary.

“The flame-bearer. You called on me to bring him down, and I failed.”

With all that had happened since, he had forgotten entirely about that moment. “I called on you because there is no one else I trusted to attempt it. That you did not succeed means to me the task was not achievable.”

Legolas shook his head slowly, as though he could not accept that reasoning.

“Would you feel better that I shouldered the blame instead, for placing an impossible task at your feet?” Aragorn asked, pleased when Legolas leveled him with an absolutely withering look that proclaimed exactly what he thought of that idea. “I know your people have been fighting against the shadow for longer than I have been alive, so I do not presume to tell you the reality of war, Legolas. I ask only that you allow yourself the same grace you would so easily extend to me, or to any warrior under your command.”

“You trusted me, Estel.” Legolas’s voice cracked straight through the middle, and took Aragorn’s heart with it. “You trusted me. I failed you, and Men died. Elves died.”

“I know. Believe me, I know. Just as I know you pierced the flame-bearer with two arrows. I watched them fly myself—your aim was true.”

Legolas raised his shoulder in a way that said he, too, knew this to be fact. “But they did not stop him.”

“They did not, but he wore an armor I have never seen before. It is the fault of neither your arrows nor your aim that Saruman’s wickedness has turned him inventive.” If there were other archers equal to Legolas hidden in the trees of Mirkwood, Aragorn had yet to meet them. It was as he had said—if Legolas’s best efforts had not been enough, he did not believe there was an archer alive who could have done better.

Legolas inclined his head, not quite an acceptance but an acknowledgment. “We shall not resolve this tonight. But I thank you for your kindness. I shall think on your words.”

“When you do, think as well on this—never once have you failed me, Legolas. You have my eternal trust for I, too, shall be with you until the very end.” It felt right to echo back Legolas’s words from before the battle, here in the aftermath when much had changed but his belief in the bedrock of their friendship had not so much as wavered.

Legolas gave him a single, sharp nod in response. His eyes shone.

The bathwater was somehow, impossibly, still warm, and they settled after that into a somewhat comfortable silence. It seemed their pattern to exchange emotional words and retreat into the safety of silence thereafter, careful not to push too far past a boundary that Aragorn had only recently started to realize even existed. Normally, he did little to disturb or challenge this familiar pattern, but he was not the same man who had stood before Legolas and proudly vowed to die among the men.

He did not regret those words; indeed, he would swear by them still. But he had since felt Haldir’s blood on hands. In this very bathwater was likely the blood of Orcs and Elves and Men alike whose last moments had splattered across his skin like gruesome streaks of paint. He was increasingly aware of how easily the battle could have claimed himself or Legolas as well, and it strengthened his resolve as nothing had before that he could not go freely to his death with lingering regrets.

And so, he gathered his resolve and found his voice.

“I learned much from Haldir regarding the braiding customs of Elves,” he said carefully, cautious both at the weight of invoking Haldir’s name and the prospect of the conversation he was broaching.

“You found such time to speak in the midst of battle, did you?” Legolas asked after a moment, forcibly light.

“We spoke briefly before it began. It did not take long for him to tell me what I wished to know.” It would not have taken long for you to do the same, he stopped himself short of accusing, for he understood exactly why Legolas had not spoken. The same reason he himself had not voiced anything before now. Part fear, part resignation—what this might become could not ever be, not in their world, not with who they were.

But all of that seemed to matter less and less as the world itself threatened to crumble beneath his feet.

“And what did Haldir teach you?” Still forcibly light, still giving nothing away.

“That Elves mate for life.”

“I did not think you needed Haldir to know such a thing.” Legolas would not look at him.

Aragorn could not look away. “And that among some Elvish people, such a bond is often offered, accepted, and shared through the weaving of braids.”

Legolas’s eyes snapped to his with a force that hit him as though it were a physical blow, and Aragorn knew Haldir had spoken true. Or rather, he had known ever since Haldir had uttered the words that this was what he’d been missing this whole time, what he had suspected but never dared to put into words, what Legolas had been skirting around without ever naming for fear of where it might lead. He had known from that moment, but this confirmed it beyond any chance of doubt.

Still he asked, needing to hear it from Legolas’s lips. “Is it true?”

Legolas held his gaze for several beats. The answer was clear in his eyes, but it wasn’t until he spoke, voice whisper-soft and thin, that something fundamental shifted in Aragorn’s stomach. “Yes.”

“Lassë.” The name, the nickname, came punched out from somewhere in his stomach he could not control. “By the Valar, Lassë.”

Whatever Legolas read in his face and his voice, it seemed to cause him immediate panic. “I never intended for—you were not to—it was meant for me,” he settled on, near pleading.

Aragorn’s heart constricted something painful in his chest. He had not expected such a reaction. “Legolas, I—”

Legolas continued as though he had not spoken, rattling frantically through the words with none of his characteristic eloquence. “In Imladris, when we first—it was meant as a token of gratitude for your kindness, nothing else. I never intended to ask more of you than that. But when you—in Lothlórien, when you—I could not say no, for here was all I had ever wished for laid like an offering at my feet. I am not so strong or so good that I could have resisted such temptation, and I thought—you seemed to enjoy the act of braiding, and I thought if you did not ever know what it could signify among my people, it could—for myself, it could be a small taste of what could not ever be. A shadow passing for the real thing. I beg that you forgive me my selfishness. I was craven, but I never meant to harm you.”

And the murky waters cleared. With only half the truth laid bare, he had mistakenly assumed Aragorn displeased by what Legolas had seemingly tricked him into doing—oh, his lovely, foolish Elf.

That could not stand.

“I have known you the whole of my life. And loved you ever since I was grown enough to understand such things.” Legolas’s expression was impossible to describe, shock and desperation and longing and joy and grief, and perhaps every other emotion he could think to name, all flashing across his face in rapid succession. Aragorn understood the tumult well, for he felt the same. “I suspected in Lórien, and even more so in the armory, that the braiding had a deeper meaning than hair and honor. I hoped, even, that it meant affection or bonds of friendship. But this—I never expected this.”

Legolas opened his mouth as if to speak—Aragorn knew before he did that it would be another apology, and raised his hand in interruption. “No, before you utter another word, hear me this. I am not angry. I am not disgusted. I would change nothing. I wish only that you had told me yourself.”

His heart pounded in his chest. For all they had just said, they stood bare before each other in a way that had nothing to do with the absence of their clothes—divested of all armor, stripped of every pretense, the vulnerable inner tangle of their hearts and souls offered plainly to the other. Defenseless against acceptance or destruction, whichever came forth.

“You speak truly?” Legolas asked finally. “You would want—this?”

“As true as I have ever spoken about anything in my life. I have long loved you, Legolas. First as a friend, and then, though I did not know it myself until recently, as much more.” He was not unaware that Legolas had not yet said, in plain words, how he felt, but did not pose the question.

A tear fell from Legolas’s eye as he answered it anyway. “To love you has been the greatest privilege of my immortal life.”

Yes, it felt fitting—he had always been the one prone to grand ideas and winding speeches, where Legolas could ever be counted on to cut to the heart of a matter with a single, poignant sentence.

Aragorn hesitated for the space of a breath, more to find the right words than because he lacked the conviction to say them. “I know not where this leads, but I do know that in this war against darkness, tomorrow is promised to none of us. Let us not deny ourselves any happiness that could be found today for fear of a tomorrow that we may never see.”

“Yes,” Legolas said, calm and plain, as though with that single word he had not just changed the course of both of their lives. And then he smiled, not the small Elvish smile Aragorn had grown so accustomed to seeing, but something wide and wild and free, a caged bird finding its wings. “Yes.”

Yes. Yes. Amidst all the sorrow of this day, of this journey, came a moment of such profound and shattering joy that Aragorn found himself trembling. Yes. He could only think of one remaining question, one remaining act, with which to seal this moment.

“Then I ask you, Legolas—will you allow me the honor of braiding your hair?” Now that he knew the full implications of what was being asked and offered, he could not stop the smile that threatened to split his face in two as he spoke the question.

“The honor would be mine,” Legolas replied, weighted, as though completing the words to an ancient ritual.

Joy blossomed in his chest like the first flower of spring. Aragorn thought of the night they had shared in the forest of Lórien, where he had asked Legolas the same request and wondered at the intensity of his response. He understood, now. Even then, long before he had begun to suspect the deeper meaning of these moments, Legolas had known. And offered it, and himself, gladly—with no expectation that Aragorn would ever come to know the truth, never mind reciprocate.

But much had changed. Never again would he allow Legolas to feel as though he stood alone.

“Come here, Lassë.” Aragorn gestured to his side of the tub, and a splutter of frantic, excited laughter burst from his throat. “For the love of Varda, come here right now!” For a moment, he felt young and impossibly naïve, a wide-eyed boy who had seen little of the horrors of the world chasing after a fool’s hope at love.

But then here was Legolas, with all his charm and wit and kindness, golden hair and long limbs and callouses on his hands like a mirror to Aragorn’s own—here was Legolas, his longtime friend and most trusted companion, whose braids he had weaved, who lingered ever in his awareness as though his very fëa could sense the other. Here was Legolas, and his fool’s hope seemed real hope at last.

Legolas floated across the tub, graceful as he was in all things. Aragorn trailed a hand from Legolas’s shoulder up until his cheek, resting it there lightly. He was permitted to do such a thing now. Not just permitted, but invited, for Legolas closed his eyes and let out a sigh that signaled deep contentment when Aragorn stroked his thumb lightly across the arch of the bone.

Aragorn reached for Legolas’s hair, and knew when he grasped the fine strands in his fingers that he had in fact gained hold of something far, far more precious as well.

[aramblingjay]

The weave of your hands (part 3/6)

Tags: Aragorn/Legolas, friends to lovers, canon era, braiding Words: 7.2K (so far)

Written for @aralas-week Day 3: Between Anduin and Rohan

“I see Hope, for he stands before me. And as long as he stands, there is no room in my heart for despair.” Aragorn had thought the time of words past, thought himself beyond the reach of them, but he was not beyond this. “Come, Estel. Come, Aragorn. Braided by your hand, I shall be with you until the end, whether it may come on this day or any day hence.” Or: 5 times aragorn does legolas’s braids + 1 time it’s the other way around

previous parts

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III. Rohan

There was no time.

In the beginning of their journey, it had seemed as though every day stretched for as long as an age, the slow trudge through the mountains, the endless darkness of Moria. Even their brief rest in Lórien had stretched long and languid in the ethereal aura of the forest. At each turn, there had been moments of quiet and rest, time allowed to camp and replenish reserves.

But every moment since leaving the forest seemed to pass like the hoofbeats of a galloping horse, relentless and steady and uncomfortably swift, no time to parse one apart from the other.

Boromir fell.

The hobbits, whose welfare they had been charged with protecting above all else, were lost.

They ran across the plains of Rohan, Legolas and himself and Gimli, on and on and on in pursuit of their friends, no thought of rest in their minds, stopping only when they were stopped by Éomer.

Even then—there was despair, then joy, then despair again, and then the most profound of joys deep in the heart of Fangorn at the return of Gandalf—but still no time, to pause or reflect or linger for longer than the space of a single breath in the embrace of any moment before they were urged once again onwards.

This time to Rohan, to set right an ailing King. And then, still before he truly had the chance to catch his breath, they rode toward Helm’s Deep and straight into a warg attack.

Aragorn might have collapsed at the first sight of the beasts if he had not been bolstered by his companions—Gimli, who he had come to understand and love simply by the resolve with which the Dwarf had run across the plains for Merry and Pippin, despite being entirely unsuited to the endeavor. Gandalf, who had disappeared with words of hope, and whose continued presence on Arda had itself bolstered his waning strength. And Legolas, always Legolas, the first to follow his pledge at the Council, the first to defer to his lead at the banks of the Anduin, the first to notice when he was flagging and offer an encouraging nod.

He watched Legolas perhaps as closely as Legolas appeared to watch him—it was easy enough to track that golden hair no matter how far in front of the group Legolas went to scout, Ranger’s eyes or no. As such, he did not miss when Legolas lingered on the approaching hillcrest, still and wary, just before the attack. If something was amiss, none would likely notice it before Legolas, sharp-eyed and elven-eared and intensely aware of the nature around them.

Once the attack began, it was the sight of Legolas up ahead, standing down the oncoming wargs as though he would fight them all on his own if need be, that spurred Aragorn onto his horse and lent him the energy to join the fray in earnest. There had been no time to rest thus far, but there was certainly no time for it now.

They were all separated in the battle, but his awareness never strayed far from his friends—the tracker in him was always attuned to where Legolas was, but he was newly aware of Gimli as well, having spent days running just a few paces in front of him. It felt good coming to Gimli’s aid in the skirmish, etching deeper the bond that had grown between them.

And then, all too soon, he was caught on a warg and falling.

Legolas will be the first to notice my absence, he thought wildly as the ground approached rapidly closer, and then he knew no more until his dear horse and even dearer sister conspired to breathe awareness back into his limbs.

Once atop his horse, he rode to Helm’s Deep like a man possessed, for still there was no time to take a breath—the Orcs were coming in numbers greater and more terrible than anything they had dared to imagine, and Théoden King had to be warned. The journey was hard on his aching limbs, but he did not let up until the stronghold soared into view. No time, no time.

When Gimli welcomed him back with a vigor that suggested he had truly thought Aragorn dead, he had only a moment to wonder—did Legolas—had Legolas thought—before he walked straight into the friend in question.

They had but fleeting minutes to reunite, though he saw the darkness in Legolas’s eyes that suggested he had, indeed, thought Aragorn dead. And if his fingers lingered over Legolas’s as they exchanged the Evenstar, if he basked in the feel of those archer’s callouses on his skin for every fraction of a second he was allowed, he was certain not even Éowyn’s watchful eyes had noticed. The rest of his fleeting seconds he would relinquish, and had; this one he kept for himself.

Then it was a blur of motion once again; there were defenses to prep, men to outfit, swords to be distributed, plans to be drawn, and above all else hope to be ignited—Legolas himself commented on how drained he seemed, and Legolas was right, of course he was, but if Aragorn admitted his exhaustion he thought he might keel over and simply collapse.

So he continued on. He fought with Legolas, who seemed already to court with despair, for the first time in years. He gave what words of inspiration he could to Haleth, son of Háma, though Aragorn could not say what hope he held himself—not for Haleth’s survival, nor for his own. In barely any time, tens of thousands of Orcs would be at their gates. No amount of preparation would be enough, but he did all he could.

Hours and hours after he’d been dragged from the clutches of certain death, he finally found himself in the relative privacy of the armory, knowing there was nothing left to be done but wait for the battle to begin. For what seemed to be the first time since the fellowship had set out from Lórien, there was time enough to take a breath.

He took several, lingering over the familiar steps of pulling on his mail, lacing his jerkin, tightening the straps of his vambraces—Boromir’s braces—until he reached for his sword, and a stirring in the air drew his attention. Only one person could come this close to him without drawing notice.

Aragorn turned, already expecting the fair face that greeted him.

Legolas’s apology was unnecessary, but appreciated all the same. They clasped shoulders, the oldest gesture of familiarity they shared, and it was then that Aragorn noticed only one of Legolas’s side braids was neatly in place. While Legolas did not speak the words, the very crook of his head to expose his unbraided temple was a clear offering.

He wanted to. That much should have been clear from how he had asked for this very favor in Lórien, not only asked but begged that Legolas teach him. Still, the air felt strange between them. They had not fought in years, and he regretted that they’d done so for the first time in Elvish—necessary, due to the audience they’d had, but it had always been a language of joy between them, not a tool to cause hurt. If it was pity or remorse behind Legolas’s offering—

“If this is because you feel a need to further apologize—”

“Aragorn.” Legolas was quiet, solemn.

They did not need to say the words for this either, to know it was more than likely neither of them would live to see the sun rise. That he might live, but lose Legolas to the Orcs, was a possibility he feared down to the marrow of his bones but refused to contemplate.

“Very well.”

Legolas did not move, merely watched him steadily with those piercing eyes, and Aragorn once again had the strange sensation of being laid bare.

“I am so tired, Lassë,” he confessed in Elvish, unable to keep back any longer the thought that had been his constant companion for days. And certainly not when faced with that expression. The weariness was in his very bones, an ache too deep to dig out, and while he would fight with every last ounce of strength he had to protect the people of Rohan, he was no longer sure how much strength truly remained. “So much loss already, and even more to come. I counsel hope, but I know not if I have any left.”

If Legolas thought it hypocritical for Aragorn to confess such a thing just hours after they had argued over the very issue of despairing, he said nothing of it. Indeed he said nothing at all.

Instead, Legolas sank in one fluid motion to his knees.

Time stopped.

Aragorn’s breath caught in his throat, spellbound. He didn’t—he wasn’t—what in the name of—

Legolas began to speak. “I see Hope, for he stands before me. And as long as he stands, there is no room in my heart for despair.” Aragorn had thought the time of words past, thought himself beyond the reach of them, but he was not beyond this. “Come, Estel. Come, Aragorn. Braided by your hand, I shall be with you until the end, whether it may come on this day or any day hence.”

Aragorn could not explain the feeling in his body. There was no word to describe it in any tongue he could speak. Joy was too simple, grief too heavy, supplication too divine to explain something that felt so very grounded, a vow bound up in the everlasting truth of dirt and root and tree. He was still so very tired, and hope seemed so far away, but he felt a profound sense of sureness, as though he had no greater purpose than to fight this night beside his friends. And stand with his dearest friend of all, who had known him by every name, who had seen unfailingly past each one to the core of him, who had pledged something so valuable as the immortal life of an Elf to service at his side.

Unable to speak, Aragorn could only act.

He walked as if in a trance to stand behind Legolas and brought his hands to the unbraided side of his head. With Legolas kneeling, the angle was surprisingly comfortable to fashion the thin braid Legolas himself had taught him in Lórien, one he had practiced so many times that night he could likely weave it in his sleep.

Indeed, it felt as though he was, for still his mind traced over the words—braided by your hand, I shall be with you until the end—unable to let them go, unable to accept the magnitude of them, unable to fully face their implications.

If they both survived—if, if—there was so much to be said between them, if that moment came.

In this moment, he simply braided. The repetitive motion calmed some of the maelstrom in his mind.

When he was nearly finished, Legolas suddenly tensed. He thought at first that he had forgotten himself and pulled too hard or otherwise ruined the braid, but a quick glance over his handiwork suggested otherwise.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Gimli approaches,” Legolas said, neutral. He did not make to rise from his knees, and Aragorn understood the decision to be in his own hands.

To continue, or to stop? This moment felt private in a way that even their previous ones had not, but the Dwarf had become a fierce friend and companion to them both. Besides, if even he did not fully understand the significance of what they were doing, only knew that it was significant in some way, more than likely Gimli would not either.

And he did not wish to hide, as though they were doing something wrong.

Aragorn continued braiding. Legolas did not move.

A few moments later, Gimli appeared in the entranceway, so comically drowning in his mail that Aragorn felt his spirits briefly lift and a genuine smile curl at his lips for the first time in far too long.

Gimli said nothing as Aragorn secured the braid the way Legolas had shown him and stepped back. Legolas rose to his feet. Still the Dwarf did not speak.

Aragorn glanced between them and realized he and Legolas appeared to be locked in a battle of wills, holding a conversation with their eyes alone that Aragorn could not parse. It seemed Legolas eventually won, for Gimli looked away first and lightened the mood with a quip about his ill-fitting mail.

That sureness settled ever firmer in Aragorn’s chest. Whatever occurred this night, he felt certain this was exactly where destiny had designed for him to be.

From nowhere, a horn blew in the distance. Legolas’s eyes met his, and understanding came to them both at the same time.

Hope kindled.

[lcksndkys]

Oh my... DAWN!!!!!!!! This review blew my socks off. How dare you make me cry this early in the morning 😭😭😭

Ok, so I’ll let you in on a lil (dirty) secret. The flashback of how everything started with this couple was inspired by dream I had of randomly bumping into JK who was initially flustered and shy, but then cornered me later suggesting I take sexy photos of him in his room. Another fun fact, I’m currently writing their origin fic and maybe about.... 70% done with ch1. 

I love how you bring up some of my favorite lines and scenes!!! Like the fact that JK pours his cereal into his milk (an abomination really), the back kiss, the crotchless panties, the listen vs solution discussion, the pillow for her knees when she goes to give him head, the creampie line HAHAHA, the emotional intimacy... I can’t believe you listed them all and I’m just so ugh.... SO IMPRESSED with your reading of this fic. Especially with the way you picked up on all these intricacies of JK’s characterization. I wanted to write him in a way that reflected how I see him as a person/lover in the setting of this particular story!

This is my first attempt at writing, but tbh I had been day dreaming of different scenarios for a while now. And when you first asked if I ever considered writing... that was just another push I needed to get my thoughts down on er... paper/google doc heh. So thank you, THANK YOU, THANK YOU for encouraging me to pursue writing. In retrospect, you def had a role in this piece being written and posted. 

And thank you again for leaving this lengthy, amazing, thoughtful review!!!! I am on cloud 9. I hope you’re happy and healthy, my friend. Please accept all my love 💕💕💕

Pairing: JJK x reader

Rating: 18+

Genre: smut, fluff, tiny hint of angst

Word count: ~8k

Summary: Save a drum, bang a drummer. 

Warnings: one tasteful semi-nude sext, brief flashback of male masturbation, discussions about conception, an unholy amount of nipple play, blowjob, fingering, pussy slapping with a dick (but like, romantically), unprotected sex within an established relationship, multiple orgasms, creampie

A/N: This is my first attempt at creative writing… ever. Borne from my horny imagination and a thirst dream, this piece is an epilogue of sorts. S/o to @jinpanman ​ and @wwilloww ​ for being the wind beneath my wings and the floaties around my arms. Also, big thanks to Willow who made the banner <3

There are two things you know are happening tonight. One: Beyond the Scene is out celebrating the completion of their newest EP. Two: your husband, the drummer of Beyond, is going to come home, high off the adrenaline of a successful night, and fuck you into oblivion. Your period tracking app that you both have been studiously monitoring over the last few months has notified you that you were going to be ovulating over the next couple of days. 

You slip into one of Jungkook’s oversized cut-off tanks and a pair of crotchless black lace panties that you know he likes. Checking in the mirror, you see a generous view of side-boob due to the cut of his shirt and you turn around and decide to forgo bottoms entirely—they’ll be discarded soon anyways. Your husband may be out with the boys tonight, but you’re determined to wait up for him. It’s not that late after all. You roll over, pulling a bottle of lube from the nightstand and set it out for later.

Keep reading

[lcksndkys]

Pairing: JJK x reader

Genre: smut, angst, minors DNI

Word count: 7.2k

Warnings: brief allusions to past cheating, protected sex, nipple play, fingering, male masterbation, handjob. 

Summary: In a time when love seems out of reach, you are only ready for no-strings-attached companionship, but Jungkook is persistent and seeks to show you that true love is patient and kind. Starting from the beginning, this is the story of the TWOYH couple.

A/N: wow never thought i’d actually start this series, but here we are with ch1 finally done! thank you to @jinpanman​ @wwilloww​ @sahmfanficbts​ for your continued encouragement, without you wonderful humans, i would never have started/continued writing <3 and to anyone who read this, i would love to hear your thoughts, so please feel free to hit that ask button and talk to me :)

Feet aching, you glare daggers at your best friend. It’s been a few years since you’ve been to a venue like this- small and cramped with sticky floors and abysmal air circulation. You had a very long and arduous week at work finalizing the acquisition of a small underground band that ended up falling through at the last moment. Disappointed to have nothing to show for your efforts, all you want to do is go home to a hot shower and then fall asleep to the next episode of whatever true crime docu-series you have lined up on Netflix. 

But Yeona had begged you, claiming the band was really good and she was sure you would enjoy their sound. And of course you caved to her. Part of you wanted to collapse into the peace of your quiet home, but if you were honest with yourself, you also didn’t want to be home alone in an empty apartment on a Friday night. 

Tonight, there’s a local band lined up to play at The Magic Shop, and from the looks of it, they’re already pretty popular. You scan the crowded bar looking for Jeon Yeona’s unmistakable electric blue hair. 

Spotting your roommate at one of the few tables off to the side, you make a bee-line for her. You drop into the only other bar stool at the small table. “I can’t believe I let you drag me out to this dump,” you grunt, flicking her ear in greeting.

“Oh come on, you love me. Plus, I promise they’re good!” she retorts, slapping your offending hand away. 

You catch up over the next half hour while waiting for the band to perform.

The sudden clamor of girls screaming alerts you to movement on the stage. Your eyes widen in surprise at the sight before you.

Five men begin setting up various instruments, mics, and amps, occasionally throwing shy smiles and waves to appease their crowd. Each man is beautiful in his own right, but there is one in particular that catches your eye. You squint in disbelief. Is that-

“-Jungkook?!” you exclaim, eyebrows shooting up into your hairline in surprise.

You hadn’t seen much of Yeona’s little brother since graduating high school, only hearing small tidbits from your friend over the years. The last time you saw him, he was a sweet but shy, gangly teen with teeth too big for his mouth and a nose too big for his face. 

Puberty sure was generous with him.

Tonight, he’s dressed in a black-on-black casual ensemble. Ripped black jeans and a cut off tank expose his muscular arms and some of his ribs.

And is that an undercut? 

You sputter for a moment, thrown by the sight of him.

As a kid, Jungkook used to tag along with you and Yeona, but as he got a little older, stopped hanging around you altogether. You always wondered what happened to him.

You turn to Yeona who smiles sheepishly at you. 

“I was hoping that you’d pass on Beyond the Scene’s mixtape to those R-Kive execs,” she confesses from behind her glass.

Your mouth gapes in equal parts indignation and shock. 

“Please, babe, I wouldn’t ask you this unless I really thought they had a chance. Just watch them play and decide for yourself,” she pleads, hands clasped together, giving you her signature doe eyed pout.

At your hesitance, she grabs both your hands in hers, swinging them innocently between you, pouting childishly.

“Fine,” you sigh. You were already here and clearly the show was about to start. 

The stage lights start to brighten and you note, belatedly, that all band members have taken their positions on stage. 

Beyond the Scene begins to play, starting off their set with an upbeat number. Their music is a blend of catchy riffs, eloquent lyrics, and a perfect blend of vocals and rap. You’re surprised by the musicality of this small band. 

Critiquing the band internally, you reluctantly agree with Yeona. Highly energetic. Performance focused. Relatable music. Also, it doesn't hurt that all the band members are incredibly handsome.

You can already tell Namjoon would consider pursuing this band as an acceptable replacement for the botched acquisition this week. Yoongi would be a harder sell since you knew he was still pushing to sign a rapper instead.

You are captivated as Beyond the Scene engages with their audience, transitioning from song to song with the seamless experience of a band who has been together for years. The first several songs are energetic and bright and you unconsciously bop your head to the beat, swaying in your seat as the thrum of the music seeps into your bones. 

Winding down the song, you’re confused when the band suddenly starts clearing the stage. There’s unidentifiable murmuring caught on the mics as the friends exchange a few words. The keyboardist sets up a stool center stage while the prettiest man you’ve ever seen drags over a mic stand and winks into the crowd.

The excitement is palpable. It’s clear they’re expecting something.

Jungkook stands from behind his drum kit, pausing to take a deep breath before slowly creeping into the spotlight.

He takes a seat, fiddling with the rings on his fingers as he addresses their audience. 

“How’s everyone feelin?” he asks shyly. Jungkook’s greeting is met with loud approval. He smiles down into his lap as if unaccustomed to the praise.

Your eyebrows rise hearing the deepened timber of his voice. He sounds like a man now. 

“Um, I’m kind of nervous tonight,” he admits to the cooing audience. “There’s someone special here.”

His dark eyes sweep over the crowd a couple of times, finally flickering to your table where he holds your gaze for a split second before darting away. Heart in your throat, you belatedly realize you had been holding your breath.

What is happening?

“So, I decided to cover Never Not, by Lauv.” He speaks quietly into his mic, adjusting it to the appropriate height.

Surprising you yet again, Jungkook leans over to grasp the acoustic guitar, slinging the strap over his head and settling his fingers against the strings. He plucks at the strings a few times, tuning the instrument to his liking. But the way he clears his throat a few times while fiddling with his guitar has you thinking he’s nervous.

Tattoos blur into grey as his hand flies over the strings, his eyes slip closed as he loses himself in the song. 

You’re captivated by his voice, both melodic and soulful, as he sings about love long lost. With some coaching, his talent could lead to something real. This band could be big. 

Jungkook’s eyes stay closed for most of the song, only peeking open briefly on the chord progressions. With brows furrowed, he concentrates on expressing the emotion behind the lyrics.

With a final strum over the strings, the song ends and the crowd bursts into cheers. Jungkook’s head is still ducked, a small smile hanging off his lips, as he sets the guitar back on its stand.

Your eyes track his figure as he makes his way back out of the spotlight, getting comfortable behind his drums again. The rest of the band, who have been sitting scattered randomly on the outskirts of the stage, return to their posts.

“Isn’t our Jungkookie talented?” the pretty one asks the crowd. “Do you want to hear him sing more often?” He cups his ear to encourage the roaring of their fans to the chagrin of their drummer.

The boys giggle at Jungkook’s expense.

The bassist leans forward, bringing his heart shaped smile towards his mic. “Everybody! Did you see his muscles?” he mock-whispers salaciously while puffing out his chest and flexing his forearms and biceps. He turns back to get a glimpse of their shy drummer bashfully shaking his head. 

You cover your ears at the crowd’s raucous approval, laughing at the band’s antics. It’s clear that they adore embarrassing their friend.

There are a few more words thrown around, and someone calls Jungkook their “golden boy”. Behind him, Jungkook ducks his head, tucking some of his dark locks behind his ears. 

Eager to kick off the last half of their show, he clacks his drumsticks together, counting down into the next song and effectively ending their teasing.

The band launches into the final few songs, seeming to pick up in momentum the closer they get to the end of their set. Feeding off the energy from their audience, Beyond the Scene plays every verse and chorus like it’s their last song of the night.

Sweat dripping down his face and pooling in his clavicles, Jungkook’s exposed arms flex with the power he pounds into his drums. The rest of the night your eyes flick to and from Jungkook’s form as you fight the urge to watch as he performs.  

By the end of the show, you admit to yourself that this band has appeal. They’re clearly talented and passionate about their music. And having five good vocalists in a five-piece band was unheard of. They’re definitely unique. You decide you just might include BTS’s mixtape in the next talent acquisition meeting.

Entering the bar, Yeona immediately picks a small table in between two larger ones while you order drinks for the two of you.

You’re about to ask about the extra seats when- 

The doors fly open, accompanied by squeaking laughter and a flurry of limbs in dark clothing as five men playfully shove at each other.

Tilting your head in interest, you watch the band banter as they make their way into the bar. 

Yeona follows your gaze with a sheepish smile. 

“I hope you don’t mind, but I invited the boys too,” she shrugs. 

You sigh, swirling the slowly melting ice in your drink. You know what she’s playing at now.

The loud squeaking laugh rings out again and you trace it back to the keyboardist. He playfully punches Jungkook in the side, following up with a neck chop causing the younger man’s face to krinkle in laughter. 

They play-fight all the way to the bar where Jungkook wraps his arm around his friend’s neck, placing him in a chokehold. Peals of hysterics carry across the bar, a palm smacking repeatedly on the smooth table top in surrender.

From a distance, you observe the interactions between the band members. 

As Jungkook shadow boxes with the keyboardist, your gaze wanders to their bass player who is leaning halfway over the bar top to flirt with the bartender. 

The two guitarists are sipping from each other’s glasses as if trying to determine if they want to swap. One makes a face after drinking from both glasses while the smaller framed man laughs and accepts both drinks. 

Yeona follows your gaze, watching you watch the friends.

“Tae always makes Jimin order two just so he can try them. That dumbass never actually wants anything more than a sip though,” Yeona laughs. 

You raise a brow at her. It seems she is well acquainted with the band.

She tries to wave them over, but the boys are too busy ribbing each other and fiddling with their drinks to notice.

“Chim!” she calls out, arms up overhead and waving more aggressively. 

Snapping his head towards a familiar voice, the pretty guitarist spots Yeona across the bar. With a drink in each hand, Jimin leads the men towards your table with a confident grin. He takes the remaining seat at your small table while his friends scatter to pull up bar stools and rearrange the furniture to accommodate a larger group.

Setting down his drinks, he wipes a palm on his jeans. Extending it, he grasps your hand and introduces himself with a soft kiss to your knuckles. “I’m Jimin, but you can call me whenever.” 

You giggle at his ridiculous eyebrow wiggle, clearly joking with you. 

Somewhere behind him, Jungkook rolls his eyes at his friend’s outrageously flirtatious behavior. 

Next to him, their other guitarist sips from a glass bottle of coke. “We’ve heard a lot about you from Yeona. I’m Taehyung,” the guitarist says, reaching a long arm across the table to shake your hand delicately.

“All good things, I hope.” You lift a brow at your best friend who nods along genially. 

Jungkook peers over, partially hidden behind Jimin’s slim figure. “It’s nice to see you again,” he says quietly with a grin.

“It’s been too long,” you agree, nodding warmly. “You’ve grown up so much!” 

Shifting back behind Jimin, he frowns. 

Caught up in Yeona and Jimin’s analysis of tonight’s show, you completely miss how the crooked smile on Jungkook’s face falters. 

“Never Not isn’t what I thought Jungkook had been planning to cover tonight,” Jimin says thoughtfully. “He usually picks something more upbeat, but it seemed like people really liked it.”

“Oh, does Jungkook always perform a solo cover?” you are intrigued, looking between Jimin and Jungkook. It is highly unusual for a drummer to also be a vocalist, let alone proficient in guitar. You try to catch his eye, but Jungkook seems to be more interested in the condensation beading on his glass.

This seems to catch their bass player’s attention. “We started it years ago when Jungkookie was still a shy baby. It was just a joke; a way to get him used to the attention!” he laughs cheerily. 

Somewhere in the background, you hear the drummer groan in protest while everyone else cackles goodnaturedly. 

You tip back the rest of your drink, beginning to feel the warming effects of the alcohol. 

Diverting the attention off himself, Jungkook starts introducing you to the rest of the band, silently hoping none of his other friends would blatantly flirt with you the way Jimin had.

“Hobi came up with the idea and the rest of the band kinda just pushed me into it.” Jungkook rubs a rough hand up and down his cheek, remembering how uncomfortable he had initially felt.The first time, he covered a popular pop song. With the familiar song, he had hoped that people would help sing along to drown out his vocals. Instead, the buzz of the venue seemed to dim, his clear voice cutting through and touching the hearts of the few dozen people present. 

“And the old man is Jin,” Jungkook says, eager to change the subject and points to their keyboardist. “He’s not funny, so please don’t feel obligated to laugh at his jokes.” 

“Yah! I raised you better than that!” Jin squawks. He’s waving a frantic finger at Jungkook, leading to another round of play fighting.

You giggle at their silliness, cheeks lifting with laughter as the group joins in on their shenanigans.

“Could I…” you trail off briefly to organize your thoughts. “Could I get a group shot of you guys and maybe individual pictures?” 

You fiddle with your phone, fingers clumsy and head light, tapping open the camera app and looking expectantly at the boys.

Five pairs of eyes shift around the table. 

It’s Jimin that breaks the silence. “You’re not obligated to anything, you know?” He shifts in his seat to square up to you. “We know Yeona asked you to put a good word in for us at R-Kive, and just to set the record straight, we don’t expect anything.”

Your head tilts in curiosity. “So, you’re passing up an opportunity to have your mixtape reviewed by a music agency?”

“We want it to be real,” comes Jungkook’s quiet, but assured reply.

The rest of the group nods in agreement. 

“We want to be signed for our talent, not for who we know,” he continues. “But thank you, I- we- appreciate it.”

You take a moment to analyze the band in front of you and chose your next words wisely. They could be the next big group.

“Look, we just met but I think you guys have the talent. I think you could make it big; get your music out there,” you raise a brow at Jimin. “Why not have a meeting with Joon and Yoongi, before you make a decision.”

You fumble through your purse for a business card, sliding across the table to the lead guitarist.

The rest of the band looks to Jimin as he studies the information on your card. Reaching a tentative hand out, he picks at a corner of the card while he looks around the table before pocketing it. 

Jimin crosses his arms. “We’ll think about it.”

The table is silent for a few moments, then Jin passes a napkin to your best friend. “Don’t lose this. I’m going to be famous,” he hoots. 

Yeona unfolds it to reveal the vague outline of his lip print in tinted lip balm, laughing at his zeal.

And just like that the awkward tension is broken. Midnight comes and goes as you enjoy getting to know the boys and reacquainting yourself with Jungkook. You find that Jungkook is good company, making you laugh with his quiet jokes and competitive behavior.

Seokjin with his squeaky laughter easily charms you with his dorky jokes and wild gestures, made even more entertaining after he bought the next round of drinks. Hoseok is warm and bubbly, an interesting contrast to his more aggressive rapper stage persona. Jimin, the pretty one, is naturally flirty and affectionate, often draped over his bandmates. With his outgoing personality, you’re not surprised that he seems like the unofficial leader. You have a more difficult time analyzing Taehyung; he seems friendly enough, but somewhat guarded with you. 

And Jungkook. Jungkook is the same boy you knew growing up- easygoing and goofy- only now he looks much more mature. You’d even call him manly, you can’t help but think with a shiver. 

He’s lost in the haze of the alcohol and the sweet cadence of your voice. Seeing you in the crowd tonight had his heart thumping and stomach twisting like he was 13 years old again. 

You’re all happily buzzed and it starts feeling more and more like you’re catching up with some old friends rather than making new ones. 

“Come on, let’s take your photos,” you raise your phone up and beckon to Jimin who poses with one arm across the back of Taehyung’s seat, a teasing smile directed at you.

You snap a few shots before turning to the band’s rhythm guitarist. Legs spread wide, Taehyung stares deep into the camera unblinking, before succumbing to giggles when Jimin jabs him repeatedly in the side.

Taking headshots of Hobi and Jin goes much like it did for the two guitarists. You get a couple of serious pictures before they dissolve into laughing fits. Although incredibly handsome, most of Jin’s photos come out goofy with his eyes wide and mouth open in the midst of yelling at a band mate.

Inspecting the initial photos for quality, you quickly text the photos to Yeona so the boys could review and approve them. Gathering around Yeona, they dwarf her smaller figure with their enthusiasm. 

“Jungkook, you’re last. Smile,” you ask, focusing on his boyishly handsome face. 

He looks past the phone aimed at his visage, seeing the tip of your tongue poking out from behind your teeth as you focus on getting the perfect angle and lighting. 

Head spinning and endeared with your familiar habits, his eyes drop to his hands in his lap. 

“Come on, Kook-ah,” you urge him to look up. Reaching out, you tip his chin up. 

Bolstered with liquid courage, he catches your wrist as you let go. His palms feel large, fingers long, wrapping delicately around you and pulling you closer.

You stumble a little, easily thrown off balance by the alcohol in your system. Throwing out a hand, you catch yourself on Jungkook’s shoulder. 

Oh, he’s built.

“You can take more pictures of me alone in my room later,” he whispers playfully against the shell of your ear. 

“Jeon Jungkook!” you sputter, scandalized. “You can’t-” your eyes flicker towards Yeona who is still distracted, “say things like that.” You laugh it off, hiding your flushed face behind your phone as you capture the typically shy, but alluring drummer. 

“I’m a man now,” he replies simply. Wry smile on his face, he tips his head to the side looking past your phone and directly at you. 

Heart pounding in your ears, you focus on taking his photos, refusing to linger on the mischievous, albeit crooked, smile on his face.

You take a short series of group photos of Beyond the Scene, getting a variety of silly and serious ones.

Deciding on one last drink, you stand and offer to buy the next, and likely last, round. 

“I’ll help you carry them.” Jungkook is quick to offer his assistance. With a gentle hand at the small of your back, the two of you make your way through the crowd and towards the bar. 

“Oof,” you grunt, taking a hasty step back when someone roughly bumps into you.

A strong arm wraps protectively around your waist helping to steady you, but it all fades into the background at the sight in front of you. 

A sudden weight in your chest drops heavy on your legs as if cementing you in place. 

“Taewoo.” You feel your mouth moving, lips curving around the familiar syllables.

Your ex-boyfriend looks momentarily stunned, eyes that used to shine with love now widen in shock. You hate that he’s still as stupidly handsome as the day he left you.

“Oh, do you two know each other?” says a feminine voice.

Torn from your haze, your eyes flick over to the pretty brunette wrapped around his arm, who’s sweetly (re: cluelessly) looking between the two of you. 

“We-”, Taewoo begins.

“- go way back. College friends.” You cut him off. Feeling hot pressure behind your eyes, you feel the frustrating yet impending tears threatening to spill over.  You need to get out of there ASAP.

She coos, hand rubbing up and down his arm. “Almost 8 months together and I still haven’t met all your friends!” 

Eyebrows flying up into your hairline, your head snaps back to look up at your ex who is looking more and more uncomfortable. You had only broken up several months ago, the sting of heartbreak still a familiar pang in your chest. A taped up box of his leftover belongings still sits in your closet, haunting you from its cluttered depths. You feel foolish to think he’d ever want you back.

“We just celebrated our anniversary and Taewoo wanted to stop by this bar for a drink,” she beams up at him.

The low lighting hides the shine over your eyes and the quivering of your lip. Taewoo had broken up with you earlier this year- citing a change of heart- after dating for three years. While you had thought you were about to take the next step in your relationship, he was clearly exploring other options. Instead of a ring, you got a cardboard box of your personal effects.  

Hand still on your back, Jungkook feels the way you tremble under his light touch. One look on your devastated face and he has a pretty good idea what’s going on.

“Ah, sorry, but we were just leaving,” he steps in, quickly steering you away from the happy couple and towards the safety of the outdoor patio. 

In a daze, you let the pressure on your spine lead you through a sea of bodies. 

Once outside, you breathe deeply allowing the fresh, crisp air to cool the aching in your chest. Jungkook stands closeby, running a soothing palm up and down your back. To his surprise, you lean into his touch allowing him to comfort you.

Breath shuttering, you look up at Jungkook with sad, watery eyes. Taewoo had been the most recent in a string of men who made promises they didn’t keep.

“Why doesn’t anyone want me?” 

It’s a rhetorical question, but in this moment, gazing down into your sorrowful eyes with alcohol lowering his inhibitions, it's one that he feels compelled to answer. Pulling you gently against his chest, his arms wrap around your shaking frame. 

If sober, Jungkook would never had the confidence to utter the next few words. You feel him inhale against you deeply. In, then out. “I want you,” he whispers into your crown. “I want you.”

You gulp. You can’t, right?

Pressing you against the wood, his hands wander under the hem of your top to eagerly map out your curves. Connected at the lips, you open your mouth wider sending your tongue deep into the recesses of his mouth to lap against the wet heat of his tongue. You suckle at the lipring curved around the bottom corner of his lower lip making Jungkook growl into your mouth and pull you into his chest.

You blindly feel for the doorknob, desperate for privacy on the other side. Jungkook groans into your neck, sucking harshly at your skin when you break from him to dig your keys from your purse. Eventually, you get the stubborn door unlocked sending the two of you stumbling across the threshold in a tangle of limbs.

Heart racing and breathless, you drop your purse to the floor and pull him by the hand towards your bedroom. 

His voice is deep when he chuckles. 

"For the record, I never thought this would actually happen," he rasps, winding his strong arms around your waist. He pulls you in to reacquaint your lips.

"Shut it," you snap and push him towards the bed. 

"Make me," he bites back with a smirk.

Kissing him one last time, you step back to pull your top off and quickly make work of your bra as well. Breasts bouncing as you haphazardly discard your clothing.

Going momentarily quiet, Jungkook’s gaze is drawn to your exposed chest, eyes roaming from your clavicles down the slope of your breasts taking in your topless figure. Heat tingles through you, lighting up every nerve ending at his blatant appreciation of your body. Your nipples pucker under his intense gaze.

His attention inflates your ego. Jungkook makes you feel desired. Your stomach lurches at the thought.

You roll your eyes and push the feeling down.

“Come on. We have to be quick,” you urge him. As you left the bar, you had texted Yeona letting her know that you were headed home early and she had responded that she would drive the rest of the band home. Which meant you had limited time alone.

Your fingers are quick to pull his shirt from his pants, quickly unbuttoning to push it from his broad shoulders. 

Jungkook just smiles down at you pleased with your enthusiasm. 

It takes no further encouragement for him to remove the rest of his clothing as you watch. 

“Be a good boy for me and lay down on the bed,” you command.

Happily obliging you, he settles atop your sheets propping himself up with his back against the headboard. 

Completely nude and wearing nothing but a smile, he laces his fingers and tucks his hands behind his head.

Your eyes roam his lithe body. Thick neck sitting atop a well muscled torso and held up by powerful thighs, he truly is a very attractive man. Tattoos cover his entire right arm and most of the right side of his chest, extending down his ribs, and you can’t help but feast on the black and grey art decorating his body.

“Take a picture. It’ll last longer,” he says cockily, spreading his legs wider to showcase his rapidly fattening cock. 

You laugh at his pseudo arrogance, rolling your eyes at his snark and trying to forget that this is Yeona’s brother. You focus on his body and ignore your conscience. 

“I want you to touch yourself,” you instruct as you peel off your skirt.

Eager to please you, he begins obediently stroking himself while watching as you sensually undress for him.

“Faster,” you demand, joining him on your bed. Reclined with legs spread, you reveal the dampness that has gathered between your thighs.

Eyes dropping to your center, Junkook whimpers, but compiles, hand speeding up as he jerks his thickening length. 

You watch as he pleasures himself for you, eyes roaming his impressive physique, you rub yourself through your panties. 

“Do you want a taste?” you slip your fingers under the scrap of underwear to your slippery folds. Gathering some of your arousal, you offer him a sample of your wetness.

Craning forward, his tongue greedily laps at your fingertips groaning at your flavor. The hand fisting his cock speeds up as he cleans the slick off your digits. 

He pants, feeling precum dribbling generously from the slit and using it to swirl his hand on the upstroke to tug on the sensitive tip. 

“Don’t cum yet,” you command.

You let Jungkook pump his cock for another minute, mesmerized by the black ink that blurs with the speed of his hand. Satisfied that he’s fully hard you deliver your next command.

“Stop.”

He whines, but obeys your instruction, letting go of his throbbing erection as it bobs above his abdomen, heavy with his desire.

Jungkook is incredibly pliant for you, attention focused entirely on your movements. You preen under his amorous gaze, fingers going back under your panites to swipe at your clit. “What do you think of when you touch yourself?” you ask him.

He answers truthfully. A fantasy he’s had since he learned how to touch himself.

“You, in my clothes, with nothing on underneath,” he whispers. 

Making a show of rubbing yourself under your panties, you moan at his confession. 

“Are you going to let me fuck you?” he breathes. 

You regard him for a moment reveling in his fucked out expression. Eyes dazed with desire and cock leaking for you, Jungkook is the epitome of sin. And he wants you, unlike someone else. 

“No- ”

You smirk at his pout.

“- You’re going to let me fuck you,” you simper at him. You peel off your panties and flash him a quick glimpse of your glistening cunt.

Crawling the short distance to him, you swing a leg over him to straddle his lap.

His eyes drop immediately to your tits. With your newfound proximity, he can feel the heat coming off you in heady waves. 

“Do you want me?” you ask him.

His eyes shoot up to meet yours. “More than anything,” he groans. “Please let me touch you.”

Confidence soaring, you grab his hands and place them atop your breasts, encouraging him to play with your tits. 

“Oh fuck, you’re so hot,” he whines, feeling the fullness of your chest in his hands. “And all mine.”

Mine. But only for tonight, you think.

Giving him free rein to touch your body as he pleases, you wrap your arms around his broad shoulders and send one hand into his hair. With a firm grip, you lean back a little and direct his panting mouth towards your breasts.

Feeling his warm lips wrap around your nipple, your eyes slip closed as you moan out wantonly. Gently suckling it to a peak, his tongue laps against your pebbled bud sending jolts of arousal to your cunt.

Jungkook’s hand trails down the front of your pelvis, slowly creeping south giving you ample time to stop him. The other wraps securely around your waist. 

“More,” you pant. “Touch me.”

Eager to fulfill your request, Jungkook slides his tattooed digits against your slickened folds. Finding your clit, he rubs gentle circles spreading your slick around your sensitive pearl making you whimper in pleasure. Jungkook kisses across your chest to suckle at your other nipple, temporarily diverting your attention from his wandering fingers. Muffled against you, he grunts in appreciation when you tug at his long hair. 

He slides a lone finger into your tight passage, cock twitching in excitement to finally feel you around him. Pumping slowly in and out of you, he basks in sounds of your delight.

“Another,” you demand, hips grinding against his hand.

Unwilling to unlatch from your nipple, he expresses his enthusiasm with a harsh flick against you. He obeys you quickly, slipping another finger into you feeling the way your pussy stretches to accommodate him. 

“Ah- fuck. You’re doing so good,” you praise him while he curls his fingers against your sweet spot.

With the way Jungkook pleasures you, it’s not long before you feel your climax begin to crest. Flattening out his hand, Jungkook grinds his palm against your clit as he curls his fingers, rubbing deliciously against your G-spot. The combination of his mouth lavishing your tits and his hand defiling your cunt has you tipping over the edge.

You moan into his ear as you cum, walls clenching rhymically around Jungkook’s digits. He continues to fuck you through your orgasm to help you ride it out. 

He unlatches from your breast when he feels your hand push at his arm. Pulling out of your cunt, he slips his glittering fingers into his mouth to polish off your essence. 

You bury your face into his neck, nipping and kissing up and down the thick muscles until he’s a whining mess under you. 

Unwinding your arms from around his shoulders, you slide your hands up and down his chest watching as his breaths come out shaky and uneven. You let your nails scratch lightly over his tattooed skin and catch over a nipple causing his cock to quiver where it rests against his groin.

Smiling, you reach between your bodies and grip his dick in a firm hold. He gasps as you jerk him a few times.

“Condom?” you ask.

“Wallet- back pocket,” he croaks flopping onto his back against your pillows.

You lift off his lap and quickly locate his discarded jeans. Digging through the pockets, you find his wallet, and as promised, a thin square packet. 

Returning to Jungkook who’s eyes have not left your figure, you sit atop his lap again. Ripping open the foil, you pinch the tip and place the condom against the dusky head quickly rolling it on and wipe the excess lube off your hand off on your sheets. 

“Tell me you want this,” you ask one last time, lining him up to your fluttering entrance.

“More than anythin- ahhhh!” comes his reply, cut short when you start to slowly sink down onto him.

You feel Jungkook tighten his hold around your hips letting your control your descent, fingertips dimpling the soft flesh as he fights against his instinct to sheath himself into your depths.

You moan at the initial pinch of his thick length stretching your walls apart. Hands on his chest, you stabilize yourself as you take him shallowly at first. Your hips rise and fall, slowly fucking him deeper and deeper into you.

You feel him shudder when he finally bottoms out. Ass flush against his thighs, your toes curl feeling the way Jungkook fills you.

Head tipped back, you pant quickly becoming addicted to the feeling of his turgid length, stuffing you full.

You set a fast pace, grinding back and forth, rubbing your clit on his pubic bone with his cock nestled deep within your walls.

“Ah, fuck. You’re so sexy… feels so, ah- so good,” Jungkook babbles, overwhelmed.

Looking down at him, you see a man in the throes of pleasure. Brow furrowed and jaw clenched, his eyes shine as he gazes longingly up at you while your silken walls tighten around him. Further south, his hair is matted to his skin, sparkling in your slick as you continue rocking back and forth. 

He pants your name repeatedly, hands wandering up and down your back, catching on the curve of your shoulder, down the column of your spine, and cupping your ass as you start bouncing, knocking a low groan from his soft lips.

Dropping your hips forcefully against him, you fill your bedroom with the sounds of moaning and slapping skin. 

Pliable beneath you, Jungkook whimpers desperately. Sweat beads on his hairline as he fights off his orgasm, refusing to cum before you. He’s fantasized about this moment for years and would be damned if he disappointed you.

Above him, you enjoy the control. After everything you’ve been through, you need it. 

“I’m getting close,” he warns.

You reach down feeling for the crux of your coupling to gather some of your slick off his cock using it to rub tight circles around your clit while you continue to bounce on him. 

Mewling in pleasure, you urge him to lift his pelvis to drive deeper into you. 

Leaning back, your hand settles on his thigh giving him the perfect view of your jiggling tits as you continue to impale yourself on his cock. The change in position presses him snugly against your front wall as you pound on him.

He looks from your blissed out face, to your breasts, and ultimately lands on your glittering pussy that’s stretched around his throbbing length. 

Wanting to give you everything, Jungkook plants his feet against your bed for leverage and wraps an arm around your hips, pulling you close as he pistons his pelvis up to meet your downward thrusts. 

Pushing your hand aside, he brings a hand down to your mound and uses his thumb to rub at your clit.

“Oh, fuck Jungkook,” you cry out as he swirls in tight circles around your sensitive bundle of nerves. “I’m gonna-” you gasp, feeling yourself fall over the precipice.

He growls, feeling your cunt tighten around him. Thighs quivering, your fingers rake across his shoulders, desperate to grasp onto something to ground yourself. Jungkook doubles down on thrusting up into you while he uses his strength to help keep you upright. 

Head thrown back and moaning wantonly, pleasure surges from between your legs, consuming you. Seeing white, your body tingles in rapture as you unravel for the second time tonight. Your walls spasm wildly around him, milking his length and encouraging him to his end.

Your ears ring in the aftermath of an intense orgasm while Jungkook pants laboring to bring himself to climax.

“Cum for me,” you urge him. “Come on, cum for me.” Caressing his neck and shoulders, you feel his muscles ripple with urgency. 

You remember how his dick twitched earlier and you stealthily card your nails down his pectorals before landing on his nipples. Taking them between your thumb and index fingers, you gently roll and twist making him howl in ecstasy.  

Jungkook cums with a pitchy whine, wrapping strong arms around you to hold you close as his cock erupts deep inside you. He thrusts shallowly into your heat several more times to draw out his pleasure while he fills the condom with his release. 

Heavy with post orgasm endorphins, Jungkook’s arms slacken from their vice around your waist allowing you to climb off him letting his slowly wilting length land with a soft splat against his thigh. 

Still panting, you amble into the bathroom on shaking legs leaving a smiling Jungkook to clean the mess between your legs and search for something to cover your nude form. 

Finding a hoodie and pair of lounge pants, you tug them on. You spare a glance at Jungkook who is carefully removing the soiled condom and wiping himself off with some tissue from your bedside table. He tosses both into the trash and he settles back into your sheets.

“Come back to bed?” he asks with a shy, but sweet, smile. 

Hair mussed and chest flushed, Jungkook offers his open arms to you, inviting you into his warm embrace. Your heart stutters over a beat, surprised to find yourself wanting to return to his comforting hold. But seeing you suddenly dressed makes him feel strangely vulnerable. Maybe you aren’t into post-coital cuddling.

“Here,” you gulp, pushing down the swell of emotions in your chest. You toss him something dark and soft. 

He looks down at his clothes, confused. Maybe you just aren’t into cuddling with him. 

“You should leave before Yeona gets home.” You’re already standing by your open doorway, ready to usher him out of your bedroom.

“Oh, um, I just thought that- but, okay,” he says, fumbling his words. This isn’t how he was hoping tonight would end. 

Your heart pangs in your chest upon hearing the thinly veiled disappointment in his tone. 

Jungkook pulls on his shirt and stands to tuck his still wilting length into his briefs. He chances a quick look at you only to see that you’ve averted your eyes. He finishes dressing quietly.

He makes to slide between you and the open doorway, but you catch him by the elbow before he can escape to lick his metaphoric wounds. 

You desperately want to put that sweet smile back on his face, but your mind and heart are a mess. You’re not ready to open up again. Not now. Not to him or anyone else, and you desperately try to put together the words to express that to him.

Even after what the two of you just did, you can’t seem to meet his eyes. You opt to look just left of his ear as you explain yourself. 

“I had a lot of fun tonight, Jungkook,” you admit softly, as if afraid to be heard by invisible ears. “I want you to know that it’s not you, Jungkook. It’s just- I’m just not looking to start anything with anyone right now.” You gesture uselessly with a hand as if trying to pull words the right words from thin air.

That’s not exactly what he wants to hear, but it’s a start. He heard that you and Taewoo had a rough breakup, though the details had always been kept vague. 

“If you want, I can do casual. It doesn’t have to be serious,” he offers. If he can only have your body, well, that’s better than not having you at all, isn’t it?

You find yourself entertaining his offer. No strings attached pleasure is tempting, but you look at Jungkook and all you see are strings.  

“I had a lot of fun tonight, Kook-ah. You’re really- you made me feel really good, but I don’t think that would be a good idea,” you say gently.

Jungkook smiles halfheartedly in response, having no words with which to reply.

Things could get complicated fast, and you weren’t willing to risk Yeona’s friendship.

Jungkook makes to leave, but you grab onto his wrist with a last minute request.

“Please don’t tell anyone. Please, Kook-ah.”

He hesitates for a split second. 

“Yeah, ok. Thank you for tonight. I’ll see you around,” he mumbles. Eyes downcast, he exits your apartment, shutting the door quietly on this way out. 

Hearing his steps retreat into the night, you close the door and sag against the wood, drained emotionally and physically by the turn of events. 

Disappointed in yourself, you curl up in bed and breathe in the lingering scent of Jungkook on your sheets. That night you dream of flashing lights, nimble fingers on guitar strings, and buck teeth.

[lcksndkys]

©️ Lcksndkys, 2021. 

Do not repost, translate, or edit.

(s) smut     ||     (a) angst     ||     (f) fluff

Red Tulips || f, SFW. f2? au. Written as part of the btsghostiewriters drabble marathon!

Namjoon has been gifting you flowers for years. As a good friend, he brings yet another offering to spruce up your new apartment. Tonight, he brings you tulips and the promise of change.

Official || s, f. Secret dating au. Written as part of the btsghostiewriters drabble marathon!

You can only hide your new relationship from your friends for so long.

Reciprocate || s, f. New relationship au. Follow up to Official.

Namjoon is head over heels and wants to show you just how much he adores you.

Nothing yet...

Not in the Same Way || s, a. bed sharing au.  Written as part of the btsghostiewriters drabble marathon!

You have shared a bed with Yoongi before, but never like this.

Permission || f, s. dancer!hobi au. Written as part of the btsghostiewriters drabble marathon!

Hoseok wants to audition for a position as an exotic dancer at The Pied Piper, a new strip club that provides entertainment for all. He wants your opinion of his routine.

01.

02.

Here For You || f. SFW. medical au, fwb au. Written as part of the btsghostiewriters drabble marathon!

After an especially hard day at work, Jimin tries to comfort you, except you don't seem to respond to his usual tactics. 

Nothing yet...

The Whole of Your Heart || s, f. husband au. Save a drum, bang a drummer.

Leave Me Loving You || s, f, a. best friend’s brother au. Prologue to TWOYH.

In a time when love seems out of reach, you are only ready for no-strings-attached companionship, but Jungkook is persistent and seeks to show you that true love is patient and kind. 

01.

02

03

[lcksndkys]

Content Tag Game

tagged by @augustbutwinter <3333

1. what fandoms have you written for (but do not currently)? 

i have been a long time reader of ff, and recently made the transition to writing, but i have never written for any other fandom! 

2. what fandoms are you currently writing for? 

bts!

3. how long have you been writing? 

i mean... i’ve written a lengthy research proposal and some research papers, but i dont think anyone is interested in reading those!! my first fic ever was TWOYH and i wrote that in spring 2021!

4. on which platforms do you post your stories? 

just here

5. what is your favourite genre to write? 

hm i’m not sure? i haven’t been writing long enough to have a specific preference, but so far f2l seems to be my jam 

6. are you a pantser or a planner? 

for a longer fic or series, i’m a plantser. i plan the basic plot and then fly by the seat of my pants. for short drabbles like red tulips, not in the same way, and here for you i just had a basic idea and went wild

7. one shot or multi-chapter?

hm as a reader i think i prefer series. as a writer, i’m not sure yet! i’ll get back to you when i have some more content under my belt 

8. what is the perfect chapter length in your opinion? 

when the message is conveyed

9. what is your longest published story? is it complete?

the whole of your heart! it’s a complete epilogue for these particular character! series about their origin story is comin up vvv soon ;)

10. which story did you enjoy working on the most?

they have all been fun!! if i had to pick one, i have a soft spot for official. also, i’m pretty invested in the upcoming jjk series if i’m being honest!

11. favourite request you’ve have written and why (if any?) 

i have not yet had the honor of writing any requests

12. are there reoccurring themes in your stories? 

pining, mild angst with a happy ending, and f2l HAHAHAHA

13. current number of wips?

hmmm about 3-4 ;)

14. three things you have noticed about your own writing? 

i have to be in the zone, i can write fast if i know the direction of the plot, i keep gravitating to that f2l au but wanna branch out to something different!

15. a quote you like from a published story. 

There’s the familiar pull of your gaze and his heart races with fear and love. He’s drowning, but finds that he doesn’t want to be saved.

red tulips- knj f2???

16. a quote from an unpublished story

Tattoos blur into grey as his hand flies over the strings, his eyes slip closed as he loses himself in the song.

ch1 of leave me loving you- jjk series. coming next week?

17. space for you to say something to your readers 

i’m honestly so humbled that anyone reads my writing! i’ve just started out, but i’m excited to see where this journey takes me. you’re all welcome to come for the ride <3333

tagging: @wwilloww @cutechim @triviafics @joonscore @junghelioseok @joheunsaram @hobidreams @hobiandsprite @propinqxity @kithtaehyung @jinpanman @yslkook +anyone else who wanna play :)

[lcksndkys]

has anyone asked about Leave Me Loving You yet?? i'd love to know more!! 🥰

Sweet Hana!!! No not yet, but I’d love to tell you more!! 

So, LMLY is the origin story for the couple in The Whole of Your Heart. So, we see that they are in a loving, committed, healthy relationship in TWOYH, but they def did not start out that way. She’s got emotional baggage, he doesn’t know how to communicate, they’re just kind of a mess initially. It’s lightly hinted at in TWOYH, but it’s a best friend’s brother x drummer!JJK au. 

The whole idea started with a dream I had where I bumped into Jungkook (I somehow knew him). I asked him if we could take a pic and he got real shy in front of everyone and declined. Later, he pulled me aside and said “you can take pictures of me when we’re alone in my room” and I woke up as he pulled me into his bedroom. 

Here’s a lil (NSFW) snippet just for you cus ilysm and cus I just finished writing their first smut scene recently >:) 

"For the record, I never thought this would actually happen" he rasps, winding his strong arms around your waist. He pulls you in to reacquaint your lips.

"Shut it" you snap, pushing him towards the bed. 

"Make me," he bites back with a smirk.

Kissing him one last time, you step back to pull your top off and quickly make work of your bra as well. Your breasts bounce as you haphazardly discard your clothing.

Going quiet, Jungkook’s gaze is drawn to your exposed chest, eyes roaming from your clavicles down the slope of your breasts taking in your topless figure. Heat tingles through you lighting up every nerve ending at his blatant appreciation of your body. Your nipples pucker under his intense gaze.

His attention inflates your ego. Jungkook makes you feel wanted. Your stomach lurches at the thought.

You roll your eyes and push the feeling down.

“Come on, we have to be quick” you urge him, pulling at his shirt and tugging it over his head. 

He just smiles down at you pleased with your enthusiasm. 

It takes no further encouragement for him to remove the rest of his clothing as you watch. 

“Be a good boy for me and lay down on the bed” you command.

Happily obliging you, he settles atop your sheets propping himself up with his back to the head board. 

Completely nude and wearing nothing but a smile, he laces his fingers and tucks his hands behind his head.

Your eyes roam his lithe body. Thick neck sitting atop a well muscled torso and held up by powerful thighs, he truly is a very attractive man. The tattoos that cover his entire right arm and chest extend down his ribs and you can’t help but feast on the black and grey art decorating his body.

“Take a picture. It’ll last longer” he says cockily, spreading his legs wider to showcase his rapidly fattening cock. 

You roll your eyes at his snark and try to forget that this is Yeon-ah’s brother. You focus on his body and ignore your conscience. 

“I want you to touch yourself” you instruct as you peel off your skirt.

His spits into his hand obediently goes to stroke himself while watching you undress for him.