More Behind The Scenes Pictures Of The LOTR Cast 🤩

- amira. 5/18/25 8:51 PM

Simon’s arms are canvases of ink — dark, intricate tattoos that twist along his skin like smoke, etched into him long before he ever imagined someone like her, entering his life. Wrapping around his forearms, crawling up his biceps, disappearing beneath the sleeves of a tight black shirt that clung to every sculpted ridge of his body. Faded scars interrupted the flow of ink — reminders of life spent in combat, discipline forged through years of military service. His hands rough, calloused. — hands made for breaking, but now, for holding, her.

He hadn’t come to that grimy little dive bar looking for anyone. Least of all someone soft, so bright-eyed, and warm. He stays tucked in the shadows, the glow of the neon barely catching the matte ink of his skin. People usually know to keep their distance. But, then she walks in. — curious, unafraid, drawn to something dangerous like a moth to a flame.

“Nice tattoos,” she murmurs, voice soft and intimate as her fingers graze the lines on his arm. Her touch light, almost reverent, but enough to make his muscles twitch beneath her fingertips.

He’s never been one for indulgence. Self-restraint is second nature — ingrained, necessary. But she is a temptation wrapped in softness, and something in him gave way.

—

Now, hours later, she’s pressed against the cold wall of his apartment, dress hiked up over her hips, tits spilling free. He drags her panties down with little ceremony, letting them dangle around one ankle. The air was thick with heat and tension, the dim light casting theirs bodies in an amber shadows.

“Wanna know something about my tattoos, darlin’?” Simon’s voice low and gravelly, vibrating against her skin as he pressed the heavy weight of his cock along her slick folds, teasing, coating himself in her arousal.

“They’re older than you, sweetheart.”

She whimpers, biting her bottom lip hard enough to sting, a breathy moan escaping as his words sank in. But she doesn’t pull away — no, she pushes back into him.

“Didn’t think you were into that,” he muttered with a smirk, and then he pushed inside — slowly at first, then all at once. The room echoed with the obscene squelch of him sinking deep into her soaked heat, her walls fluttering around him.

“Didn’t take you for someone who had a thing for older men,” he groaned, wrapping a large, inked hand around her throat, applying just enough pressure to make her eyes flutter. “Turns you on, yeah? Getting filled up by a man with tattoos older than your ass?”

Her legs tremble as he began thrusting, each snap of his hips sharp and precise. She could barely breathe, let alone speak, her brain melting under the weight of his cock.

“Already gettin’ dumb on me?” he cooed mockingly, his voice laced with dark amusement as tears welled in your eyes. “Fuckin’ hell, look at you. Cryin’ like a good girl.”

He watched every twitch of her body with greedy eyes. This — this — is more real than any night he’s spent fisting his cock in a lonely bunk, teeth gritted behind a balaclava, imagining something softer than his own rough palm. Now he has her, warm and wet and real, and he isn’t letting go.

He speeds up, fucking into her like he needs her to live, slick sounds loud and messy between them.

“C’mon, darlin’,” he murmured, tapping her cheek gently, coaxing her out of her haze. Drool trickling from the corner of her mouth. “Give the old man some respect, yeah?”

She moans brokenly, while he grins — all teeth and hungry — before burying himself deeper, like he wants to leave something behind inside her.

And maybe, he already has.

‘But there, I believe my looks are against me.’ ‘They are – at first sight at any rate,’ laughed Pippin with sudden relief after reading Gandalf ’s letter. 'But handsome is as handsome does, as we say in the Shire; and I daresay we shall all look much the same after lying for days in hedges and ditches.’ 'It would take more than a few days, or weeks, or years, of wandering in the Wild to make you look like Strider,’ he answered. 'And you would die first, unless you are made of sterner stuff than you look to be.’

Honestly, I don’t know what part to highlight about this:

1. The fact that the Shire apparently has a saying about how people look like what they do, implying that they either go by the physiognomy theory of “bad people look bad”, or they accept that people will look like the jobs they do, and it is considered a good thing.

2. Pippin joking that a few days camping will make them look weathered like a guy who has been repetitively described as being the epitome of a wild ranger. It’s kind of sweet, it feels like he has picked up that Strider is self-conscious about his looks and is trying to reassure him in a very Pippin way.

3. Strider taking it completely literally and answering with a very ominous “you’ll die before you look like me, because you need to be stronger than you look to survive what I do”. Dramatic bitch.

4. Strider talking about himself in third person. Dork.

5. Strider completely underestimating hobbits’ resilience. Just because he has been around the Shire for ages it doesn’t mean he can’t fall into the same trap every other character in this falls. No, Strider. They don’t have to be made of sterner stuff to survive what you have survived. You would have to be made of sterner stuff to survive what they can get through.

Now this is good soup

Soap soulmate AU masterlist

in progress | open to requests

Soap soulmate au

part 01 part 02 part 03 part 04 part 05 part 06 part 07 part 08 part 09 part 10 part 11 part 12 part 13 epilogue (WIP)

snippets

Soap indulging himself on you (nsfw) sick fic (WIP)

extras

alternate ending (WIP)

Absolutely feral over this oml it crawled under my skin and I fear it is going to stay there for a long while

)some graves love for graves enthusiasts like @nightunite & @grombs-blog <3 :3)

No one breathed too loudly in your court. You made sure of that.

The throne room was a thing of precision- cut glass chandeliers that dripped crystals like frozen tears, walls the color of spilled wine, and floors polished until they reflected the gleam of your wrath. Ministers spoke only when addressed, and courtiers knew better than to linger near the dais, and ladies flicked open their fans in practiced fashion so as not to raise your wrath and displeasure, for you were not kind nor were you warm, and you wore your reputation like a crown sharper than the one on your head.

But the moment the great doors creaked open and he entered, the air shifted.

Philip Graves walked with the quiet arrogance of a man who had never truly known fear- not the way others did. Shadows seemed to coil around his boots like old friends. He bowed as always- graceful, efficient, head low, almost theatrical- but those damned eyes found yours the moment he rose and a grin stretched across his face- even when yours curdled like milk.

“You’re late.” You said, voice cool enough to crack glass.

“Only by a few hours, Queen,” he replied, smiling just enough to test your patience. “And I brought you a gift.”

He held out a velvet pouch, and the court stiffened when the glint of a ring- plucked from some now-dead rebel prince-of-the-people, if you had to guess- shimmered inside. But it wasn’t the token that pleased you, for you had far more fancier rings and jewels.

It was him.

You leaned back, studying him like a particularly fine blade, and thus your finger curled to summon him close. “Come here.”

He obeyed, of course. Philip always obeyed you.

With a casualness that sent ripples of horror through the room, you pulled him to sit on the wide arm of your throne, letting one leg drape lazily over his lap. Your hand curled into his hair, tugging lightly- an unspoken warning and a familiar comfort. You felt him exhale, the only noise to be heard in the dead silence of the throne room.

This was your routine. A dance sharp as the knives he uses.

“My little pet,” you murmured, stroking his jaw with the back of your fingers, your cold rings brushing across his cheeks. “Did you make a mess?”

His lips curled, the barest echo of smug pride. “Nothing that can’t be cleaned up.”

You smiled, slow and dangerous. Ministers looked away. One of them- a particularly vocal noble from the southern isles- looked like he might be sick, but you didn’t care; you wanted them to see. Let them clutch their pearls and avert their eyes, for you and Philip were a sight unmatched.

Let them try to reconcile the brutal head of the infamous Shadow Group with the man now nuzzling into the crook of your neck like a favored pet.

They didn’t understand and they never would, because he was yours. Not just your assassin, not just your hound- yours. And no blade he carried was half as sharp as the softness he reserved only for you.

“You missed me, Queenie.” He said quietly, so only you could hear.

“I don’t miss things, much less belongings.” You replied, but your fingers still curled tighter into his shirt, digging like claws that would not let go.

Liar, he almost said. But he just smiled again for he fancied keeping his silver-tongue, eyes glinting like knives beneath silk.

The court watched, silent and stunned, as their cold, untouchable Queen cradled him with all the tenderness of someone holding a beloved cat.

Let them whisper and let them fear, for you had your throne and you had your blade.

And curled in your lap, purring like a devil in velvet, you had Philip Graves.

here’s my second piece i did for TRSB2021!!! the fic that went along was here!!

Frickin adorable

thorin being enamoured by anything bilbo says/does pt 2

Like to STAB

Reblog to STAB AGAIN

Bilbo, knowing for a fact Thorin doesn't know what flowers mean to hobbits: Can I braid some flowers in your hair?

Thorin, knowing for a fact Bilbo doesn't know what braids mean to dwarves: Oh of course, what a nice gesture of friendship.

Gandalf, a few feet away: Are they getting engaged before realizing they love each other back????