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Smoke clings to everything left alive after the battle like a thick, grey shroud. It coils itself around your hair and clothes, a mantle of victory, of pain, of loss. You can feel every bruise, every hit, every tremble of your muscles, every cut and tear of your clothes.
Legolas finds you under a tree, half alive himself, barely standing on rough, solid, blood-soaked ground. His eyes lock onto yours, then your bleeding forearm, then onto your scent; spiking with fear and relief.
Your ears ring and his heartbeat is far too loud as he kneels beside you and takes your arm in his stained hands, running half on adrenaline, half on instinct, not unscathed and composed like his usual self. You see his face up close in the hazy light – pupils blown, every muscle tense and taut, instincts slamming forward.
“I found you through scent alone.” He says, voice rough and cracked, eyes not meeting yours. “Blood and fear. I thought I was too late.”
“I’m here. I’m alright.” You bring your hand to his face, fingertips soft against his cheek. He leans into your touch, his eyes closing.
“You should never smell like fear.” He pulls you against his chest, clinging to you like he’s afraid you will vanish if he lets go. His arms shake slightly from exhaustion and leftover rage, but still strong, still holding you close to him. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, breathing in your scent, each heave of his chest ragged, each rise as if to imprint you into his thoughts. He murmurs your name into your skin, in a tone akin to a warning and a plea. Your scent changes then, softens, sweetens – at his proximity, at his warmth, at his exhaustion. Trying to soothe. To calm. To break through the smoke.
You feel the restraint snap before you see it. He makes a sound that is not polite, not elven, not princely. A low, guttural, territorial growl, under his breath as it fans across your neck. The look in his eyes as they meet yours stops being “concerned” and becomes “mine”.
His self-control is dead. Buried somewhere under orc corpses. And in this, he becomes even more dangerous.
He cups your jaw with one hand, tilting your head back to bare your neck, teeth grazing along your collarbone. Not asking. Not claiming. Just taking what instinct demands.
Your breath catches in your chest, your scent blooming into something warmer, hotter, calling out to him. He shifts and pins you against the tree behind you, caging you in like he is blocking the whole world from touching you again.
His lips meet yours like he is starving. A messy, breath-stealing clash that is all desperation and his battle-high adrenaline. His hands roam and drag – your waist, your hips, your thigh – mapping you like he needs proof you’re alive.
He lifts you without thinking, body moving of its own will, and presses you flush against him, lips at your pulse. You groan as you arch into him, every roll of your hips met by his, your hands clinging to his shoulders, hair undone, breath uneven. Each one of your whimpers answered by him with a low snarl.
“Mine,” he gasps into your pulse, movements rough, needy, unsteady from exhaustion.
“Yours.” you murmur back, against his hair. His breath breaks against your throat with every thrust, his grip on you tightening. Your legs shake, hips bruising under his hands. You welcome it.
He’s not fully conscious of the details.
He’s conscious of you.
Of how you feel alive beneath him.
Of the way your body answers his without hesitation.
Of your moan, soft and desperate, right against the shell of his ear.
He shifts –
Mouth at your pulse,
Breathing ragged,
Grip tightening to keep himself upright,
– and bites down, hard enough to mark, deep enough to claim, right at the crook of your neck.
You mewl, and your body arches deeper into him, tightening around him. Electricity shoots up your spine as you feel the bond slam into you, gasping his name like you’re falling apart. He does not even realize what he has done for a second, too lost in the high, in your scent, in the heat of your body around him.
He thrusts deep once more, and something inside him swelled, locked, held you tight and close to him in a way that drove you over the edge, his name falling from your mouth like a benediction, over and over again. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Could only feel him pulsing, filling, claiming. Legolas froze with a ragged sound, half moan, half growl, as instinct seized the rest of him.
You try to shift, but you can’t–his arms wrap around you instinctively, protective and possessive all at once. Your breaths come in whispers, as if you ran through fire, both your bodies burning. He slowly comes back to himself.
“Breathe, omega. I have you.”
You press your forehead to his, panting at the sensation of being filled, claimed, protected.
You don’t let go.