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legolasbadass · 1 year

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Shelter From The Storm

Relationship: Thorin x reader

Summary: After leaving the Iron Hills and finding yourselves in the middle of a snow storm, you and Thorin find shelter in an inn and find more than one way of keeping warm until the storm passes.

Rating: E

Word Count: 2.7k

A/N: This fic was written as part of the @officialtolkiensecretsanta 2022 for my dear @lathalea ❤️ (Ah! I fooled you, didn’t I?) I had the best time writing this for you and I’m so glad the secret is finally out because I almost blurted it out way too many times and I don’t think I could have kept silent any longer 🙈

I hope this fic will keep you warm on cold winter nights, but fair warning, you may need a bucket of ice (or snow) to cool down after this one 😈

Khuzdul translations:

Amrâlimê: My love

Bunnelê: My treasure of treasures

You let out a deep sigh of relief when you entered the inn and, at last, left the cold, snowy night behind you. Now, you love snow as much as anyone else—that is, when it has already fallen, and the sun shines bright in the sky, turning the land into a field of glittering diamonds, or better yet, when you can admire it from the safety of Erebor, preferably while sitting in front of a roaring fire, the loving arms of your husband wrapped around you. But to be trapped in the middle of a storm while travelling through the wilderness? Well, let’s just say that made you speak curses that would have made even Dwalin blush.

It all started this morning when you left the Iron Hills. A fortnight had passed since you left Erebor, and since then, you had attended more dreadful, pointless council meetings than you could count (most of which dealt with matters that could have been explained in letters, mind you) and an even greater number of feasts, which you found difficult to enjoy because the ale was so much better in Erebor, and your husband had a tendency to drink too much when he was with his cousin.

Your husband. You huffed in annoyance. It was all his fault! Thrice, Thorin delayed your return home, and when at last the negotiations between the two kingdoms came to a close this morning, a storm was brewing in the grey sky. And yet your husband—the stubborn fool!—was now intent on returning home and thus ordered your company to make haste despite how obviously unwise that decision was.

And now here you were, completely frozen after plowing through the stupid snow all day, snowflakes stuck to your disarrayed hair and numb cheeks. If it was not for the thick fur collar around your coat, you were sure you would have frozen to death on that road, and now you prayed to Mahal that the inn had enough rooms available for your small company, for there were so few inns between Erebor and the Iron Hills, and who knew if you would even make it to the next?

Thankfully, when the owner of the inn discovered the identity of his latest customer, he assured you that there was more than enough room for your company. Thank Mahal! As soon as everything was arranged, you rushed into your designated room as though your life depended on it—which it did, as far as you were concerned, you could barely feel your fingers! The innkeeper hastened to start a fire for you, and you could have sworn you could feel your muscles thawing as its warmth enveloped you, though some of your limbs had been so frozen that standing too close to the fire burned your skin.

You were shaking out the ice from your hair when Thorin stepped into your small room, making sure to lock the door behind him. He was still in his travel clothes, but his hood was off, revealing his reddened cheeks and unruly hair, and despite how annoyed you were with him for forcing you to accompany him on this trip and then forcing you to travel in these conditions, you couldn’t help but melt at the sight of him, and when his gaze met yours, it made you feel warmer than any fire ever could.

“Hopefully the storm does not last and by this time tomorrow we will be back in Erebor,” he said as he began to take off his cloak. You could only muster a hum in response. “Mahal, you look half-frozen to death.”

“That’s because I am half-frozen to death!” you groaned, despite knowing full well that he was not to blame for the unforgiving weather.

Thorin watched you in silence for a moment, then slowly made his way over to you and wrapped his strong arms around your still-shivering body. His warm breath caressed your skin before he pressed a tender kiss onto your cheek; you could feel the shards of ice trapped in his beard, and you shivered, both from the cold and the intoxicating tenderness of your husband’s touch.

“Amrâlimê,” he purred softly, pressing a few more kisses on your cheek and temple.

“Why must I even accompany you to these negotiations, Thorin?” you asked suddenly as you sunk deeper in his embrace, desperate for warmth.

He raised one hand to cradle your head, his fingers gently caressing your golden braids as he said, “Because I do not wish to be parted from you. And more importantly, I value your opinion.”

“I do not wish to be parted from you, either,” you replied, your eyes fluttering closed as Thorin slowly began to unplait your braids with his skilled fingers. “But we hardly spend any time together the fortnight we spent in the Iron Hills… And I would still feel all my limbs if I had remained in Erebor,” you added teasingly.

His chuckle reverberated through you, warming your heart, and as you looked up at him, you found him gazing at you tenderly, the flames in the hearth dancing in the depth of his irises.

“Well, I am certain we may find some way to warm you up,” he replied, the timbre of his voice sinking even lower.

“You mean sitting by the fire?” you replied innocently, even as your heart began to beat faster in anticipation of what you knew would follow.

“Aye,” Thorin replied as he leaned in closer, his forehead coming to rest against yours. “But are you not always saying that I am as hot as a forge?”

You could not help but giggle, and though you were still cold, you already felt better than you had in days. “You are!”

“Then perhaps … you should come closer to this forge to be properly warmed.”

“That is quite an interesting proposition,” you said as you wrapped your arms around his neck, “but I believe a demonstration is in order.”

Thorin smirked at you in a way that made your whole body yearn for him, and when he leaned in to kiss you once more, parting his lips to tease you with his tongue while his hands found their way to your back to pull you flush against him, you whimpered. A stab of desire shot through you when he pulled you onto his lap, his large hands coming to rest on the swell of your hips; the many layers of skirts you wore kept you from the contact you so desperately craved, but you did not need to feel Thorin against you to know just how much he longed for you in return. His groans against your lips and nearly bruising grasp on your hips told you all you needed to know about the insatiable hunger brewing inside him.

To your surprise, rather than hastening to disrobe you and pin you to the soft furs on the mattress to have his way with you, Thorin urged you to stand up. Your skirts were already terribly wrinkled, but there was nothing you could do about it; you stood, eagerly awaiting his next move, trapped between the flickering fire and Thorin’s broad frame as he watched you with hungry but tender eyes.

You remembered how nervous you had been the first time you had found yourself in this position, on your wedding night. You had been with a few men and women before Thorin, but still, you had felt so vulnerable under his piercing gaze, and not least because of all the rumours circulating about Thorin being a very intense lover. But now, you felt a thrill and eagerly submitted to his will.

“This wool dress is ideal to keep you warm,” Thorin mused as he raised a hand to caress the high collar of your travelling dress, “but I have something else in mind….”

You smirked, for you were sure you would approve of what he had in mind.

With agonizing slowness, Thorin spun you around and reached for the ties of your wool dress, leaving feather-light kisses on your neck. You relaxed under his careful touch and let your eyes flutter close. No words were spoken between you as your dress fell to the floor at your feet; only the crackling of the fire and your increasingly heavy breathing filled the room. Then, when Thorin snuck a hand under your skirts and trailed it along the length of your stockings to reach your bare thighs, you could not help but lean back against him, suddenly finding it very difficult to maintain your balance.

“You are trembling, amrâlimê—are you still cold?” Thorin asked, and you could almost hear the mischievous smirk you knew graced his face.

“Oh, very, very cold, My King,” you replied, using the title you knew enticed him so when spoken in a low, breathless voice.

He groaned and squeezed your thigh before removing his hand and letting your skirts fall back in place. Disappointment surged through you, but then you felt his hands fiddling with the ties to your skirt, and you shivered in anticipation. He struggled for a moment, perhaps due to the lingering numbness in his fingers, but he refused any help you offered him, so you were forced to stand there, desire simmering under your skin.

When at last, all your layers of skirts lay in a puddle at your feet, Thorin instructed you to face him once more. In his eyes, you saw all your desire and love reflected, and you exchanged a soft smile as he closed the space between you, then reached for the ties of your corset. You sucked in a breath as the tips of his ringed fingers brushed against your bosom through the thin fabric of your chemise. Thorin halted for a moment, his eyes fixed on your heaving cleavage, painted golden in the low light of the fire, then began to unlace your corset, passing the ties through each eyelet until the corset released its hold on your bosom and hung loosely about you. Without losing a second, Thorin pushed the garment off your shoulders and dragged your chemise along with it, leaving you in nothing but your stockings. You expected him to hasten to take them off, but he did no such thing.

Reading the confusion on your now flushed face, Thorin said, “I want you to keep your stockings. After all, we would not want you to get cold.”

You shivered, somehow finding the suggestion scandalously alluring, and then before you knew it, Thorin stroked one of your beaded nipples, and you whimpered. That simple, teasing touch was enough to drive you wild with need, and Thorin knew it—oh, how he knew. But you also knew that you had just as much power over him; you had not touched him at all, and yet his eyes were dark with lust, his sensual lips half-open, as though begging you to taste them, and when you stole a glance lower, you noticed the significant bulge in his leather trousers. You licked your lips.

That was all it took. In an instant, Thorin’s lips crashed against yours, devouring your mouth as though he had not tasted your sweetness in months. Your tongues tangled, getting lost in this dance you both knew by heart, tightening the knots of desire deep in your belly. His cheeks were warm now, but his beard was slightly damp from the ice that had melted, and you welcomed the coolness of it. One of his hands got lost in your now loose hair while the other continued to lovingly caress your curves, his rings cold against your now burning skin. A muffled mewl of surprise escaped you when he squeezed your buttocks and pulled you flush against him, his belt and leather clothes rough against your belly.

“Not fair,” you managed to wine between two fervent kisses. “You are still fully dressed.”

Thorin pulled away just enough to meet your gaze and raised one eyebrow. “Then by all means….”

You smirked. It was your turn now to tease, er, warm him. With nimble fingers, you pushed his fur-lined coat off his shoulder, then reached for his belt. Thorin’s eyes grew heavy under your ministrations, and when you unlaced his tunic just enough to plunge your hand into the loose neckline and graze his skin, he groaned into your ear. Heat pooled between your thighs at the intoxicating sound, and you pressed your thighs together, desperate to release the growing tension in your core. Thorin helped you by pulling his tunic and undershirt over his head, revealing his broad, sculpted chest to your admiring gaze, but left you to take care of his boots and trousers. His boots you tossed away impatiently, almost carelessly; his trousers, on the other hand, you took your time to remove, letting your fingers caress the trail of dark hairs just above the hem before grazing his bulge with the tip of your fingers. He groaned again, and fuelled by your own arousal, you caved in and pushed his trousers down his legs, allowing his impressive hardness to spring free.

The next thing you knew, Thorin was pinning you into the fur-covered bed with all his glorious weight, his manhood rubbing against that secret place between your legs, leaving you breathless, and Thorin moaned when he felt just how aroused you were.

“I do believe you are warming up, dearest,” he said playfully as he raised himself on his elbows to admire your body. “Mahal, you are so beautiful, bunnelê.”

You sighed upon hearing the endearment he knew you loved, but your expressions of pleasure grew louder and more breathless as he explored your curves anew, caressing you in all the right places. All the while, you splayed your hands on his sculpted chest, following the lines of his raven tattoo and tangling your fingers in the curls covering his pectorals. Then you sank your hands into his dark mane, cradling the back of his head to bring him closer to you as he bent down to suck on your nipples, drawing a breathless cry from you. Instinctively, you spread your legs apart, offering him access to that secret place between your thighs that desperately needed to be filled by him, and after caressing your folds and sensitive pearl until you thought you would burst, he entered you. Impossible warmth spread through your limbs as he stretched you, and the tenderness in his deep blue eyes was like a warm blanket around your heart on this cold winter day.

The whole world faded away, and the endless day of walking in the storm seemed to belong to another lifetime as you became one with your husband. Your One. His calloused hands caressed your thighs, then grasped your ankles to wrap you around him, bringing you even close to him, and even through the thick wool of your stockings, you could feel the warmth of his flexing muscles. Together, you abandoned yourself to this familiar passionate dance, moving perfectly in sync, the flames in the hearth the only witnesses to your love. It did not take long for both of you to reach your peaks of pleasure, and when that wave washed over you, licking you from the inside out, you cried out, uncaring that the other guests in the inn could surely hear your passionate laments. Your whole body burned with pleasure, and when Thorin spilled himself inside you, groaning in your ears and cradling you close, you thought that you actually looked forward to the day you would find yourself once more in need of such treatment after a wintry storm.

Eons later, you lay on the soft furs, your limbs entangled as you shared a languid, open-mouthed kiss. The fire burned more gently now, and except for a few flickering shadows on the stone wall, darkness submerged the room, but you could still see the soft, content smile on Thorin’s face, and your heart was warmed by the sight. As though he could feel your gaze on him, Thorin leaned in and buried his face in the crook of your neck, causing you to giggle.

“Perhaps it would not be so terrible after all it the storm kept us locked up in here for a few days more,” Thorin said, his voice muffled as he pressed myriad kisses into your neck. You smiled and pulled him even closer to you. No, that would not be terrible at all.

Tag list: @lathalea @linasofia @mcchiberry @fizzyxcustard @bitter-sweet-farmgirl @i-did-not-mean-to @xxbyimm @middleearthpixie @myselfandfantasy @notlostgnome @laurfilijames @enchantzz @swoopswishsward @quiall321 @dianakc

Let me know if you’d like to be added or removed from my taglist!

#the hobbit #thorin fanfic #thorin x reader #thorin x you #thorin x oc #thorin oakenshield x reader #thorin oakenshield x you #thorin oakenshield x oc #tolkien secret santa #tss 2022

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piyo13sdoodles · 1 year

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my gift for @adanedhel as part of the @officialtolkiensecretsanta exchange this year! celegorm learning how to speak the languages of the birds from oromë ^^ i had a lot of fun drawing this and i hope you enjoy!! happy holidays :)

#tss2022 #tss22 #tolkien secret santa #celegorm #orome #lotr #silmarillion #silmart #tyelkormo #turcafinwe #oromë

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ela-draws · 1 year

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MERRY CHRISTMAS @the-quiet-fire-of-defiance !!

Here's Celebrian for you ;) I hope you like her ! I wish you lots of hapiness for this Christmas and 2023 <3

@officialtolkiensecretsanta

#tss #tolkien secret santa #celebrian #tolkien #silmarillion #Elrond #tss22

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solmarillion · 1 year

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❦ land of bow and helm

“Then many who went leaderless, dispossessed but undaunted, took heart again, and came to seek the Two Captains. Dor-Cúarthol, the Land of Bow and Helm, was in that time named all the region between Teiglin and the west march of Doriath.”

Here’s my Tolkien Secret Santa piece! Happy Holidays, @lentilmento, I hope you enjoy your gift!

I drew Beleg and Túrin at Dor-Cúarthol, protecting the land together. The poses are taken from official art for The Legend of Zelda: The Wind Waker, which had its 20th anniversary this month. I like combining my interests together, so I thought I’d give an homage to one of my favorite Zelda games and my first Silmarillion ship! Turleg is one of my favorite ships and I was so excited to draw them! ♥

Thank you so much to the mods at @officialtolkiensecretsanta for organizing this event. I had a lot of fun creating for this exchange!

(Artist notes below the cut)

One of the fun parts was drawing the Dragon-helm of Dor-lómin. I wanted a simple design that would work well for the art style, yet with enough detail to capture the eye. All of the other illustrations of the Dragon-helm, where the dragon is standing on its legs atop the helm, were at an angle that didn’t match my drawing. It would be hard for me to imagine it at a front angle, and it wouldn’t look as good. So I went for a more serpent-like design for the dragon. Drawing Túrin’s hair flowing underneath the helm was really fun, and that confident smirk on his face as he looks up at Beleg really warms my heart. Let them be a badass battle couple!☆

Beleg was really difficult to draw, mostly because I insisted on making his hair style a bit complicated. I challenged myself a lot when drawing him and pretty much taught myself how to draw braids. I realized it’s a bunch of lopsided heart shapes and you alternate which side is fatter. And of course, even though I prefer him with silver hair, I can’t forget the boots. Though drawing Beleg was a challenge, I definitely got a confidence boost from this work.

#tss2022 #turleg #turin turambar #beleg cuthalion #children of hurin #tolkien secret santa #silmarillion fanart #beleg #turin #soleil's artwork

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sexyleon · 1 year

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Happy Holidays @phantom-september !! Here is your @officialtolkiensecretsanta gift! I hope you like it :-)

#tss2022 #legolas #lotr #lord of the rings #tolkien secret santa #idk why the quality deteriorated #plz no sexyleon

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melestasflight · 1 year

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Stay, Forever

If Elrond is the serene stillness of winter, Celebrían is a bright summer, brimming with life like a wildflower meadow in the evening warmth. What can winter offer one such as her?

The first snow brings bittersweet memories for Elrond. Through remembrance and song, he reveals a feeling that has been budding in his heart for a long time.

@officialtolkiensecretsanta 🎁 gift for... to be revealed. 😉

#elrond #celebrian #celebrian x elrond #maglor #rivendell #amon ereb #tolkien secret santa #tss2022 #gift fic #my writing #silmarillion #lotr #tolkien

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thatfeanorian · 1 year

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Tolkien Secret Santa Advent Calendar Day 3: Gift Giving

“Mai’mo?” Maitimo glanced up from his book to see his young cousin standing in front of him, shuffling his feet nervously and clutching something in his hands. Somewhat apprehensively, he shut the novel and tilted his head to the side, meeting Findekáno’s enormous blue eyes.

“What is it, Findekáno?” He asks, keeping his voice much more gentle than he might had it been Tyelkormo or Carnistir who approached him with an unknown object held behind their back, and Findekáno’s eyes, if possible, grew even wider and he held out his arms, the object still hidden between closed hands.

“Got you a gift. I climbed all the way up a big tree ‘n got stuck ‘n Atar had to get me down ‘ecause I’m small.”

“Because,” Maitimo corrected softly and Findekáno screwed up his face in concentration, repeating the word back slowly.

“Want it?” He asked hopefully, thrusting his hands even further forwards and Maitimo fought to keep a smile off his face.

“Of course!” He replied and Findekáno grinned, placing an acorn in his hands.

“Atar says it grows big ‘n lives forev’r just like you be-cause you’re big ‘n I love you.” Maitimo swept Findekáno into his arms and kissed his forehead, smiling and tucking the acorn into his pocket.

“I love it, little one. Would you like to help me plant it?” And when Findekáno nodded enthusiastically, Maitimo picked him up, balancing him on one hip as Findekáno leaned in to press a wet kiss to his cheek.

“You’re my favorite Mai’mo.” He said seriously and Maitimo let out a bright laugh against his will, admitting,

“You’re my favorite too.”

–

“Russo?” Findekáno’s voice was soft and hesitant in a way Maitimo wasn’t used to as he intertwined their hands and Maitimo let out a soft happy sigh, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek.

“Yes, beloved?” He asked, and Findekáno’s lips curled up into a smile as he held out a small wooden box, delicately carved and so intricate that Maitimo could hardly believe it was real. He placed it into Maitimo’s open hand, their fingers touching and sending a shiver down Maitimo’s back. Even after all these years, Findekáno never failed to undo him utterly, even with just a brush of his finger tips.

“For you,” Findekáno said simply and Maitimo’s face lit up with an adoring smile,

“Oh, Finno, it’s beautiful,” He cried out, and Findekáno laughed, pressing a kiss to his lips,

“Open it up, you giant ginger atrocity,” He said teasingly and Maitimo felt his face heat, untangling his fingers from Findekáno’s and feeling only a small pang of loss in his chest as the warm disappeared from his hand and he lifted the lid carefully, scared to break the tiny ridges and valleys of the lid, but when he saw what was inside, his breath was utterly stolen away.

“I um,” Findekáno said, his voice barely above a whisper, “I was wondering if maybe you wanted to marry me?” His heart thumping wildly in his chest, Maitimo felt his eyes grow wet as he reverently removed the ring from the box, a bright emerald sparkling in the low candlelight and raised his eyes to meet Findekáno’s blinking rapidly as tears tumbled out of his eyes and he surged forwards to pull Findekáno tightly into his arms.

“Oh, darling,” He whispered, “I would love nothing more in the whole of Arda.”

#tss2022advent3 #my writing #gift giving #russingon #fluff #marriage proposal #tolkien secret santa

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melkors-big-tits · 1 year

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Merry Queermas to @officialtolkiensecretsanta and especially to my giftee @skaelds! (I sincerely hope you'll like your gift) Here are the promised goods; Fake redemption arc Angbang porn! with a side of size difference~ >;3 So the story behind the pictures is that Melkor and Mairon have been re-embodied and are living in Valinor but they're unaware that they're both in there. The other Valar decided that it'd be best to keep the two separated and not tell them. That is until, by a fucking miracle, they happen to run into each other and then there was no stopping them <3 Why's it a fake redemption arc? Because there's no way that those two would just bend over backwards for some stick-up-their-arse-holier-than-thou Valar! No, they're playing along until an escape plan is hatched and now that they found each other the planning can start >:3 But first; Time for some much needed "reconnecting" <3

(These are their Valinor robes, they did Not pic the horrible colors but they Did modify the robes to suit their liking) The smut is below the cut Enjoy~>;3 (I hc Mairons hair to be like a flame, as in it changes color depending on his mood >;3)

Mairon wasn't allowed to wear jewelry but the Valar did a very poor job searching him XD Or then they didn't think to look at his dick, balls and butt for rings >:3

#tss2022 #melkor #mairon #sauron #morgoth #angbang #silmarillion fanart #the silmarillion #tolkien fanart #tolkien art #the dork lords are in love #traditional art #my art #mairon is a mood ring #size difference #happy husbands in love #tolkien secret santa

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searchingforserendipity25 · 1 year

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For @arofili from your @officialtolkiensecretsanta Secret Santa - some Russingon being cozy and delighting in each other. Hope you enjoy it, happy holidays! <3

Also on AO3.

Beta by the wonderful @mayfriend.

Content warning: Explicit content, mentions of past trauma.

"Liberty at last," said Maedhros grimly, leaning against the bedpost and holding a pillow for defence.

Fingon, with empty arms still stretched across the pillow to grasp him, snorted his laughter against the sheets.

The Fire of Life

In the Ice, they had learned to sleep in short shifts, with one always watching for danger and to wake those in danger of becoming too cold in stillness. It had stayed with Fingon, that rhythm, sank into his bones like the cold that returned, in times of fear or grief or, indeed, when he stood too still and idle for a time.

The only exception was when he laid down with Maedhros. With Maedhros, he never needed to fear the cold, nor did he hunger for it. This was quite excellent, considering how dearly they loved each other, but his husband was no more restful in body or spirit than him.

Maedhros had a habit of accusing Fingon of having an embrace like iron, and a fondness for such a number of blankets and furs as to be unnatural.

In his defence, Fingon could not be held responsible for whatever measures might be taken to keep Russandol from tampering with the closed shutters - not when he was naked, in bed, during wintertime, in the high and narrow chambers set aside for him atop the tower of Himring the Ever-Cold.

"Liberty at last," said Maedhros grimly, leaning against the bedpost and holding a pillow for defence.

Fingon, with empty arms still stretched across the pillow to grasp him, snorted his laughter against the sheets.

The canopy was drawn back only enough for the air to sound of the burning timber and the smell of smoke on warm stone. The ever-bright lamp by the bed cast gentling shadows on the hard lines of the bed, and the master of the fortress, and Maedhros leaned against the bedpost, arms crossed.

Fingon’s eyes lingered on the movement of his shoulders, the pooling of half-light over the inkings around the twin scars over his chest, flush high on his cheeks - the corner of his mouth, where it creased with a scar.

He shifted, and to mask it rose enough to rest his chin over his folded arms, and looked up at his beloved with as much matching seriousness as he could harness.

“Is my embrace so very unwelcome?”

The crease deepened. Maedhros' heart, never far from Fingon's since their marriage, and well before then, warmed and flickered, as Fingon had known he would. “Yours? Always welcome, dearest; but you seem comfortable enough with your bedmates already.”

Fingon’s knees ached - his toes, his nose, the still-damp ends of his ribbons weighing down his head and neck. The numbness was past, and the rush of blood that prickled the skin in coming back to life; he was warm and sleep-heavy now, drunk on warmth and unhurried passion, and it made him magnanimous enough for Fingon to nudge away the pillows, the furs, the wealth of blankets. In part because the room was quite warm enough, but mostly to watch Maedhros’ nose wrinkle as he sat himself down besides them.

Always he brought out the coverings and the tapestries whenever Fingon visited, the ones that smelled strongly of the cedarwood chests, but he had no patience for the excess of stifling textures himself, and would do with the plainest wickerr rugs and sweet-smelling rushes if left to his own devices, as if Himring was not so chill anyone half-sensible went around bundled in layers of furs and fleece and wool.

“No need of that; my beloved shall keep me warm, always.”

Maedhros looked so stolid and fey, as if set to suffer the great trial of being held in bed as a true concession to Fingon’s rank. It was all nonsense, of course; but for the modest dip of his head.

“My prince is most wise and cunning.”

“Yes, of course,” Fingon said. “Alas, for my long plot for revenge for the Ice! I wed you not for love, nor to unite our people in peace, but for your merits, which are only really very useful when turned against the Enemy, or occupying my blankets as a bedwarmer at the end of a dreadful journey.”

Maedhros lifted his brows in the most officious manner, as if to say Yes, of course, most naturally, and Fingon could not help it - he laughed.

To the space between their thoughts, a thought like the premonition of a shiver, passed nearer than a whisper, he told him, So what if I did? I intend to have joy enough from my reward, and skimmed his fingertips over Maedhros' cheeks until his mouth eased out of whatever emotion masked as the teasing pretence of disbelief. Only lightly, and only because he knew it would not pain him, and because he knew he would thaw at his touch as he often did.

How hungry he was for Fingon! And how unashamed of it. Fingon knew it; he was no less glad to see Maedhros always, and all the better like this, wry and easy in his skin, the feverish glint of his countenance the more bearable for being wasted in love.

And Fingon was no less fierce himself for him! For him, for the homecoming, the rare curve of Maedhros’ lips. The cup of tenderness, alive and rich between them - a task no less strange and dire and valuable than any feat of bravery he ever accomplished.

Aloud, half-severe, he said, “If that be my purpose, I wonder at your temerity in bringing such a matter to my attention! My business lies upon needs of state; I come to Himring in the persuit of diplomacy.”

The fey brightness was on him, that in certain lights and Fingon's company was a fierce thing near to joy, and little torment. It would have been horrible cheek, in someone ten times less formidable and even half as old. “Am I a not a matter of state, dear cousin? Does not my good prince concern himself with justice and friendship in all his dealings?”

“You certainly are in a state,” Fingon said dryly.

He knew well why Russandol went around his fortress of ice and stone bare-sleeved and bare-headed, his long spill of hair held up with wood sticks when an unprotected neck would be madness for anyone walking the walls of the city or the wilderness outside.

There were times, hours, entire days when Maedhros was over-warm with himself, stifling, the matter of his soul tempered into constant working flame constrained by the matter of his skin, and the flesh itself too tight. For this reason also orcs marched without furs or care for the inclement weather; for the fire of Angband was upon them still, a maddening head that blunted the body to all other feelings, and made a mockery of relief.

Not now. Not with Fingon.

Fingon had been waiting for this homecoming all the long while - all through the weary ride through the snowstorms, through the wasting of the dark hours clustered around the fire, and the fire forever dwindling and in need of Song to call it again to life. In those nights time passed slowly and strangely, a thing as voluminous and changeable as the howling of the wind, swelling the deerskin of the tents and shelters.

Fingon could withstand the cold; he knew it well, too well. He had not even been surprised, the first time he had gone riding with his father’s hunters to the groves of Lindon where their kin was welcoming and even the green leaves sang, rustling with the voice of the wind, and found himself seeking out the high, cold steppes instead, those places where the deer did not tread, that even the proud elk herds found too barren.

He knew, even, that he was not alone in it. Often when he visited Himring, many among his household volunteered to accompany him, as court or guards, for those that had crossed the Ice had a hard longing in them. Not for the Ice itself, or the dark horror of journey, but the testing of the self, the hröa's claim to itself and the fëa's strength in life.

And at the end, Maedhros: his hair in the snow like the wings of a cardinal, let loose and curling for Fingon, only for Fingon, his joy rising taller than the fortress towers, calling out across the waste the heights and the long, strong thread between them: best beloved! His limbs spread out on the pillows, his arms the very heart of the world, where all holy quiet resided.

Truly, Fingon had no complaints on the welcome of Himring; only that the lord of Himring was a restless sort of bedfellow, even when Fingon would rather rest from his journey and make the most of the satisfying prize it had won him, for a little time at least before making love again.

“Let the dues fit the duty,” Maedhros said piously; he had to bite his cheek not to betray himself. Fingon knew it, for he felt the taste of it in his own mouth, their spirits near enough that Maedhros shuddered with Fingon’s own shiver. “Himring seeks always the pleasure of the lord of Mithrim. How would my prince have his hospitality?"

Warm yourself if you dare, you coward, Maedhros thought, mouth curling into an open smile at last.

Fingon leaned back on the pillows and smiled slowly to himself. “I think I shall be able to think of something.”

He moved fast. Too fast, for anyone less attuned to the movement of his muscles; Maedhros ducked his grasp, rolled, clasped his wrist and sought to press it away.

Russo's breath hitched, warm and shocking against Fingon's jaw, and squirmed his wrist to freedom by tangling their legs and rolling them over again. They fell off the bed in a storm of linen, brocade, silk and laughter.

He did miss this! Feeling his fingers and calves and nose sting to life, the wondrous rush of blood that he could almost see when he lowered his lashes, a red warmth, the spirit joined no less closely than the flesh. He could feel Russo's heart singing, the force and speed of it, feel the ease of his muscles, the languid cunning of his thoughts.

Fingon tugged him closer, close enough to bite the flesh of his neck, and smother the sound that shuddered out of Maedhros with his mouth. They moved against each other with the aching urgencythat rose and swept them through, when only touch would suffice to ease the biting hunger of long hunger. He pressed inside Russo easily, for he was open and slick still. Russo, panting against his neck with abandon, clenched around him with delicious heat, drew him closer and held him tightly.

He did like to be bourne down and held, Russo; he liked the bed sport, and Fingon's hands like iron on him, the safest of bonds. He liked to please him. And Fingon liked being Maedhros’ lord-prince very well, in truth.

(He had wanted to be Maedhros’ prince, his champion and companion, since first his elder cousin gave him a ribbon from his braids to wear as his favour in the first competition Fingon presented himself as a grown Noldo, the first time he defended himself with a claim to recognition in his own right - a prince restless in the making of himself.

All the eyes in Tirion had been on him, Nolofinwë’s the heaviest, but Maitimo had given him his favour and his faith under the eyes of the world and the discouragement of his own lord-father, because he had known - he had known the courage Fingon had been marshalling, and how small it had seemed to him in the eyes of the world, enough to be brave in return.

Fingon had sworn in his heart to do him honour for the gift of that faith: he had worn the memory of it like sunlight in his hair ever since, and wept with joy when Russandol first unbraided it with trembling hands on their wedding night.)

How I burn for you, Russo said, or thought, their minds reaching out to each other with their bodies and minds so close it made no difference. Oh, Fingon, how I miss you, how I burn for you always. For an instant, he saw his arrival as his beloved had wished, and longed, and waited for: the glinting of the armoured guard and the rider charging recklessly ahead, and Russo's heart, which was entirely Fingon's own, leaping in his throat, his skin prickling alive and maddening even with the biting wind against him.

“There,” he whispered, and kissed his brow, brushing his hair and swallowing against the knot of emotion nestled against his throat. He pressed close, and then again.“I have you now, dearest.”

Maedhros laughed. It was a sound that made the steel in the grate sing, and the fire leap, and scurried the cool night out of the window, and banished the last of the cold fear, even as he moved against him. “Finno, you fool! One day more, and I would have ridden myself - could you not have waited till spring if you meant to make the journey -”

“No,” Fingon said, very honestly, because it was true and because he was mad, wild, dizzy with the way Meadhros moved when he laughed - he would have died for it, and happily. “Ai, Russo. My shining flame, my burning star, my sweet love. You keep me warm all my nights, even in your absence.”

The fire wasted itself through in the hearth, unattended, unnecessary. And afterwards, spent and comfortable, his husband sighing sweetly into his mouth, he curled up in Russo's arms and they dreamed the same dream till dawn.

#russingon #fingon #maedhros #fic #tolkien secret santa #the silmarillion #thesis: the burning white flame of maedhros' spirit is great for cuddling in the cold #fanfiction #tss2022 #gift fic

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