Aragorn

The fire crackled low, its embers casting a faint orange glow over the camp. The Fellowship slept in scattered bundles, their soft snores blending with the rustle of leaves in the night breeze. Aragorn sat perched on a fallen log, his keen eyes scanning the shadows for any sign of danger. But his attention was divided.

You lay nearby, your body curled into the warmth of his cloak, the rough fabric brushing against your skin. His gaze lingered on you, dark and hungry, as though the weight of it could rouse you from your slumber. And it did. Your eyes fluttered open, meeting his, and in the silence, something unspoken passed between you. A promise. A demand.

Without a word, he rose, his movements silent and deliberate. He knelt beside you, his breath warm against your ear. “Come,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, like the growl of a wolf. His hand closed around your wrist, pulling you to your feet with a firmness that left no room for hesitation.

The others slept on, oblivious, as Aragorn led you away from the fire, deeper into the shadows of the forest. His cloak was spread on the ground, a makeshift bed beneath the canopy of trees. He pressed you down onto it, your chest and face to the ground, your hips raised. The cool night air kissed your skin, raising goosebumps, but his body behind you was a furnace, his heat seeping into you.

His hands were everywhere at once, rough and possessive, mapping the curves of your body as though he needed to relearn you. One hand tangled in your hair, pulling gently but firmly, tilting your head back to expose your neck. His lips found the sensitive skin there, nipping and sucking, marking you as his. You gasped, the sound swallowed by the night.

“Quiet,” he commanded, his voice a whisper against your ear, but the authority in it sent a shiver down your spine. His other hand slid down your side, over your hip, and between your thighs. His fingers teased at your entrance, already wet and aching for him. He growled low in his throat, a sound of pure satisfaction, as he pushed two fingers inside you, curling them in a way that made your breath catch.

“Fuck, you’re soaked for me,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire. He withdrew his fingers, only to push them back in, setting a relentless rhythm that had you biting your lip to stifle your moans. His thumb found your clit, rubbing slow, deliberate circles that made your hips buck.

But it wasn’t enough for him. He withdrew his fingers entirely, and you nearly whimpered at the loss. But then his hands gripped your hips, lifting you higher, and his face was between your thighs. His tongue lashed against you, hot and hungry, and you buried your face in his cloak to muffle your cry.

He devoured you, his tongue exploring every inch of you as though he were a man starved. His hands kept you pinned in place, his grip firm and unyielding, as he feasted on you with an intensity that left you trembling. His lips sealed around your clit, sucking hard, and you saw stars.