Archive of Our Own ^beta

"May I ask where we are going, my lord?" 

A small smile ghosts around the corners of Námo's mouth, hidden underneath his veil. His hand rests on top of Manwë's as he's led through the gardens of Lórien, away from Irmo and the other Valar who are enjoying the evening together. 

"To a place where we won't be disturbed," Manwë answers, sapphire eyes gleaming in the twilight. "Your brother recommended a lovely place he thought you might like."

"You are too kind," Námo says, lowering his head in an attempt to hide his bashful expression. It feels like a dream come true – his beloved wishing to be alone with him and spend time together. Wanting his company out of all the Ainur, many of whom are certainly more pleasant to be around. 

Manwë leads him to a small pond away from the main pathways of Lórien, and they sit down on a small bench together, taking a moment to admire their surroundings. The gardens are silent, safe for a few crickets chirping in the distance and the occasional rustling of leaves whenever another warm summer breeze passes through. Specks of light float around the lake – a species of luminescent beetles, Námo recalls – like tiny lanterns, making it feel almost like home, but warmer and friendlier. 

It takes him a few moments to notice that they're still holding hands. 

"Do you like it?" Manwë asks softly, careful not to disturb the peaceful scenery. 

"It is beautiful," Námo responds. 

He wonders if his lack of eloquence is bothering the other Vala, but before he can begin to worry about it Manwë speaks up again. 

"Just like you." 

A simple statement, yet it manages to rob his breath for a moment. To think that someone would see him this way... 

Manwë squeezes his hand and turns towards him. The wind surrounding him at all times feels like it's gently tugging on the Fëantur's veil and caressing his skin underneath. Námo finds himself mirroring the gesture, gazing into those wonderful blue eyes reminiscent of a cloudless sky on a beautiful summer day. 

He doesn't know how long they look at each other like this. It is only when Manwë slowly removes his veil and leans in for a kiss that Námo closes his eyes and welcomes the tender brush of warm lips against his own.

"Thank you for accompanying me." 

Námo chuckles softly in response, and you feel his long, cool fingers squeezing your hand as he continues to walk beside you. 

"The pleasure is mine, little raven. It has been a while since I took a break; my dear siblings were already threatening to drag me out of my halls by force." 

It fills you with a sense of pride and happiness – seeing Námo smile, making him laugh, knowing you were able to convince him to leave his work be for a while. Now you're walking on the western shores of Valinor together, hand in hand, enjoying a warm summer evening together and watching the sunset and the waves. 

"Has work been treating you kindly?" you ask, sensing that your lover's thoughts were not yet at ease. 

"I suppose things are mostly alright, given we are enjoying a time of relative peace," Námo sighs, "even so, the past and its problems remain." 

"Has Fëanor complained again?" 

The corner of his mouth twitches underneath his veil, eyes twinkling with amusement. 

"Several times in fact. I may or may not have finally relented... and given Navëquen permission to deny petitions until further notice." 

You shake your head, but fail to suppress a laugh. It's almost ironic; most people view Námo as cold, stoic and devoid of fun and joy, yet despite his reputation his dry humour never fails to make you laugh. 

"It was long overdue," you say after catching your breath, trying to give him a strict look. "You can't possibly keep having the same arguments time and time again over the ages." 

"I would rather not, but at times I must," Námo sighs, "as exhausting as it is." 

He gazes at the sea for a moment, then turns back towards you and smiles. "But fortunately I always have something to look forward to." 

You give him a questioning look, only to see him lifting your hand to kiss it. 

"You, my little raven. Now that I have you, I know what joy feels like."

It's good to be home.

Bilbo hums to himself as he waters the flowers in his garden, relieved to see that none of them seems to have been neglected too badly in the weeks of his absence. 

Except...

He sits down in the grass once his work is complete, his watering can resting on his lap. 

I miss Thorin.

Oh, how he loves that stubborn, temperamental, tough, awkward and utterly gorgeous man for bringing chaos and joy into his life – well, admittedly not so much the chaos, he's never exactly been the spontaneous type, but they're patient with one another, and with Thorin by his side, he feels like many things that used to be daunting for him are much easier now. 

Thorin is part of a rock band, and to this day Bilbo can't help chuckling a little whenever he remembers how he, Bilbo Baggins, who has been called everything from boring to bourgeois by most band members throughout the early days of his and Thorin's relationship, has unexpectedly and inevitably become a part of this life. He smiles to himself as he remembers how Thorin asked him - or rather begged him, due to his own stubbornness – to join him on his last tour. Bilbo gave in eventually, swayed by his boyfriend's earnest attempts at helping him pack and plan and making sure he was comfortable throughout the whole ordeal. 

Admittedly, he has never liked travelling. He has been on vacations before, naturally, but he's always found it to be rather stressful – so many things to organise, so much to worry about. How some people are able to just hit the road without meticulously having planned everything has always been a mystery to Bilbo. 

But for Thorin he wanted to try, wanted to show him that he too can adapt and go outside of his comfort zone, and he never imagined it could be so fun. Chatting and joking around with Thorin and others, taking breaks in-between gigs for some sightseeing and couple activities, enjoying each and every performance and after-party – including the time Thorin surprised him with a song written for him that left Bilbo speechless, blushing like crazy in public and utterly smitten by him – and becoming part of the group... it made Bilbo feel more alive than ever before. 

The telltale sound of his mailbox interrupts his spontaneous bout of reminiscence, and he sets aside the watering can to investigate. 

To his surprise, he finds a cute postcard depicting a seal with a funny hat and a little gift box attached to it.  

"Hey Bilbo,

hope you're doing well and enjoying home.

We're currently on our way to the Grey Havens Festival and things seem to be going alright so far. Wish us luck – this'll be a big gig. Can't wait!

I decided to get you something to celebrate our last tour and many more to come. Hope you like it!

Love, Thorin

P.S.: I don't know how to write postcards, but I remember you said you love getting them so I tried my best."

Bilbo holds the card close to his chest after reading, a huge smile lighting up his features. 

He remembered-!

They call and text each other regularly of course, but Bilbo has a certain faible for some things people consider to be old-fashioned these days, and postcards are one of them. 

Curious and excited, he swiftly opens the gift box and finds a seashell bracelet and a small note inside, reading "For my brave boyfriend who made our last tour the best of my life". 

Bilbo puts the bracelet on without hesitation, practically glowing with pride. It's one of the sweetest and most thoughtful gifts he's ever received, and he already can't wait to add the card to his cherished picture wall and take pictures for Thorin.

It's been a while since he left the Halls of Mandos. 

Navëquen squints as he takes a moment to look up at the evening sun. The world outside is so different, bright and noisy – not necessarily unpleasant, but his fána needs time to adjust. Today, however, he deliberately seeks out the ambience of the outside world; he doesn't want his drawings to be lifeless, so life around him is what he needs. 

He finds a comfortable spot in the middle of the plains of Valinor and sits down cross-legged, placing his sketchbook on his lap. 

Now what to draw...

A small smile appears on his lips when Navëquen flicks through older drawings to find the next blank page. Maybe he could try something new... or something familiar for comfort. Maybe a portrait of Námo on his throne, maybe his little Lilómelda in her rose garden, maybe Vanimóre... oh, he could fill an entire sketch book with drawings of his smile, showing those adorable little fangs... 

Thankfully, he has time. Day and night matter little to him, and Mandos is peaceful at the moment. He can sit here long enough to draw whatever his heart desires, until he's content with the result and feels like returning home. 

The sun slowly sets, and the world around him quiets. Navëquen hums a few stray notes of his song while losing himself in his work, the sound of pen on paper music to his ears. His left eye darkens as he focuses on yet another memory to capture it in a drawing, fleeting images taking shape with every movement of his hand. 

Whatever sense of nervousness compelled him to leave the halls soon vanishes. Here, by himself and only his sketchbook to keep him company, he feels content and at ease.

"So," Tulkas laughs and leans closer, his cheek rubbing against Melkor's. "We both know what people are saying about you–"

"I don't care. What do you want?" Melkor hisses and pushes him away. Consequences be damned, he won't let this oaf of a Vala drool all over him. 

Tulkas has never been good at leaving him alone, but the issue tends to be vastly exacerbated whenever he starts drinking. 

The champion of the Valar huffs. "Well, let's just say I know you're always up to something, but I'm willing to let it slide if you... stop pretending and do me a favour or two as well." 

His hand firmly plants itself on his thigh, and Melkor shoots him a withering glare before seizing his wrist to remove it. Of course he knows what rumours Tulkas is referring to; his proclivity for carnal pleasure with male and female partners alike is well-known at this point. But the Mighty One has standards, and his least favourite enemy neither meets them, nor does he wish to inflict anything that isn't excruciating pain upon him. 

And even though Tulkas can be persistent, Melkor has other plans. 

Smiling, he pushes his own drink closer to his enemy. "Well, I might consider it, but unfortunately I still need to drink up–" 

As expected, Tulkas immediately snatches the glass to empty it for him. Eyes gleaming with triumph, Melkor whistles a quick tune to freeze the liquid, causing his rival's lips and beard to become frozen to the glass and its contents in the process, and smacks the bottom for extra emphasis. Tulkas yowls in pain and attempts to free himself with little to no success. 

"I'll never touch you!" Melkor cries and turns into a cloud of smoke, fleeing as fast as he can. 

"Naughty," Melkor says while Mairon sets up the camera and adjusts the lighting to better illuminate the inside of their tent, grinning from ear to ear. 

"As if you weren't planning to spice up Yavanna's silly festival with a fun little performance anyway," Mairon retorts and shoots a glare over his shoulder; as expected, he catches his beloved husband in the middle of staring at his shapely backside. 

"What can I say? The camping thing is fun and all, but they won't let me on stage so I have to find other ways to entertain myself." 

"You poor thing."

Mairon finishes the set-up, presses the record button and crawls over to sit on Melkor's lap. His patience for banter has run out, and he sees the same reflected in his husband's eyes, idle amusement being consumed by lust and hunger the second he presses his heated body against his. 

No matter how many ages pass and which forms they take, their passion remains. Be it sweet lovemaking on the silken sheets of a king-size bed or quick coupling in a hidden corner, they come together like fire and lightning – a whirlwind of hands touching, lips meeting, teeth and nails nearly breaking skin, bodies rutting against each other with increasing urgency. 

Mairon soon finds himself facing the camera, proudly seated upon Melkor's lap as if it was a throne, taking his cock like it was as easy as breathing. He throws his head back and moans, smiling to himself; he already knows he's giving a wonderful performance, and their loyal subjects, as he secretly refers to their viewers and followers, will appreciate his efforts greatly. Spiting the other Valar with such illicit acts makes things even better – and he can practically feel the enjoyment in Melkor's movements too. 

He rides his cock fast and hard and shamelessly strokes himself, making sure to moan and show off his enthusiasm for his husband's and their viewers' pleasure. Neither one of them is in the mood to take their time; the thrill of being discovered only heightens their lust and passion. Melkor is already tense – barely holding on – by the time Mairon arches his back and artfully spills pearly liquid all over his chest and stomach, causing him to follow suit shortly after. 

Through the haze of post-orgasmic bliss, they don't notice the footsteps approaching, only turning their heads when a breathless gasp rings out. A pair of wide brown eyes is staring back at them. 

"Sorry! I-I was just looking for Mairon and didn't know I was interrupting something! I-I'll come back later!" Aiwendil squeaks and disappears as fast as he can, resembling a startled rabbit. 

"Now Yavanna will definitely know," Mairon purrs quietly and winks at the camera. 

"I bet she will. Also make sure someone clipped that," Melkor mumbles in his ear. 

"Will do." 

"What is this? Another attempt at gaining my favour?" 

Fëanor sneers at him when he looks up from his notebook, but Fingolfin can't help staring at him regardless.

How is it that his half-brother, so proud and unapproachable, can still draw him in as if he's under some kind of spell, like a moth to a flame? He's beautiful, brilliant, everything, making him feel small and insignificant, but in a way that makes his skin tingle and his heart race.

Oh Fëanáro, what are you doing to me...

Taking a deep breath, Fingolfin places the basket on the ground in front of his half-brother. 

"I brought you something to eat and drink," he says, attempting to stop his voice from shaking. "I thought you could use some refreshment after working all day." 

"So I was right," is all Fëanor says, referring to his previous question, and he shifts his attention back to his notes, ignoring both his half-brother and the basket. 

"You can go." 

Fingolfin hesitates. He doesn't know why he's still hoping for more in these interactions, and yet – 

"I said you can go. You know I won't be swayed by a few petty gestures." 

"Of course not," Fingolfin mumbles and with his head lowered, he turns to leave. Perhaps Fëanor is right and he's just a fool, but he knows already that he will try again and will keep trying until maybe one day he receives affection instead of contempt in return. 

He had been resting against the mossy bark of a great tree, nearly dozing off, when he heard soft footsteps in the grass. 

She was barely clothed and her feet were naked, deceptively delicate and vulnerable, yet she walked with the poise and elegance of a huntress prowling her domain, knowing exactly what she wanted. 

Eöl held out his hand, a smile tugging on his lips. It seemed as though she had been looking for him, and he would most certainly not decline her silent invitation. No matter how tired he was or how much his muscles ached, the need for her would always be greater. 

Aredhel sat down on his lap, straddling his hips. Her smile was soft, yet her eyes shone with hunger and triumph alike. She knew her desired prize was hers the second her nimble fingers took hold of his shoulders. 

"Out hunting without me?" she teased, bringing their foreheads together. 

"I would not dare," Eöl mumbled. His lips search for hers. "I know you will always find me." 

"Indeed," Aredhel whispered. She toyed with him for a few more seconds, denying him as part of her game. "And now that I did, I believe I deserve a reward."