Chapter Text
In the sitting room right outside of the private bed chamber, within his father’s chambers, that were across the hall from his own, Legolas found himself seated on one of two couches that sat with a low table between. Upon the table was a familiar board game. Any Elf would recognize it. It was a game that he’d grown up playing. Only when he was nearly two thousand did he understand it completely. It was a game of strategy. It was a game that had many levels, many campaigns, many many different ways to play. It was a game that could last many months, a year even in some cases.
The entire surface of the table was the game board and after a few moments, Legolas was able to deduce which side his father played. As the pieces were in far more aggressive places. Seeing the setup? It was how he had played the game in the past and based on the other pieces? He knew that you were playing his father. Because in say…thirteen? Possibly fourteen moves? You would sweep the board near entirely. And he knew this because you’d done it to him several times over the past.
Seeing it and hearing you enter the rooms that had always belonged to his father, for as long as he could remember? Well, it filled him with a sense of things being right in the world. A real sensation of being well and truly home. This was home. Mirkwood had always been home to Legolas.
After dinner he had gone to his own rooms that were across the hall. Bathed. Changed and come over here. Hoping to speak with his father. Who he rose up on his feet at the sound of.
His father had such a distinctive voice that the Elf could not be mistaken for another.
It was not long before his father wandered into the sitting room. Nearly soundlessly. Perhaps there was a hint of a sound that became explainable when his eyes fell upon his father’s wet hair. Robes hung in a way that indicated they too held water from down below.
You followed. In an equal state of saturation. Though a smile broke out over your features that reached your very eyes. All words about keeping your smaller room died. “Legolas!”
And, you pushed past his father, who did look genuinely pleased at the sight of Legolas here. Although it was his father who walked over to the game. As if concerned that a piece may have been moved by his son.
Not a comment could be made. Not when you brushed your thumb over his cheek, then smoothed your fingers over the silver fabric of his tunic. An older one. It was comfortable. It moved well. It was a favorite and when he had changed, he’d pulled it out from underneath two others. “I’ve always loved silver and grey on you.” A sigh followed, one that had you clasping your hands together, pressing them to your chest. “All those browns and greens do nothing for your eyes.”
Yes, yes, he knew how you felt about his usual attire.
“As I have told him for some time now,” intoned his father, who had yet to look up from the game. Who even reached down to move a piece. Only then, only after that, did Thranduil stand back upright. Making a move that Legolas himself had made many times previously. Only to lose several valuable pieces in the next four to six moves. It all depended on how you played. “How did you find the Rivendell Delegation?”
Such a phrasing of words had you turning to face his father, shoulder to shoulder. Your head tilted in curious way.
A great many things were discussed with those who had travelled here with Lord Elrond. They’d been quite vocal about this whole adventure. Leading Legolas to tell the both of you details that stood out most. “They told me about the Man-Orc’s that they encountered. It took nearly three of them to bring it down.”
Such talk made his father’s lip curl in a hint of a scowl.
At mention of the Man-Orc. Of which you had heard far too much, you lifted a hand that you patted Legolas’s shoulder with. Dismissing yourself. Having little desire to hear more and so, you excused yourself. Turned. Wound back towards a nearly dark entranceway carved from the stone, as was the rest of this palace.
Into it and out of the sitting room you went. Turning the corner and stepping down towards a soft glow.
Entering Thranduil’s private chambers.
Not that it was missed by Legolas, who trailed your journey with his eyes, before he looked back to his father. Who by now had plopped himself down onto the settee. Reclined, really.
Ever since he could remember, there had been a closeness between you and his father. A companionable friendship, one could say.
How many times had he set his own eyes on you in these chambers? Too many to count. Reading. Playing games. Merely relaxing or talking with him, his father, both. Undoubtedly there would be times that you and his father were in here, alone.
But in his father’s private bed chambers?
That was new.
He lifted his brows in a question. One that his father dismissed with a flip of his hand. Clearly unbothered with your entering such a private space.
Something had changed. Something shifted since he was last here.
All thoughts of the Rivendell Elves seemed to have vanished from his mind. Lowering his voice, Legolas stepped closer.
Inquiring as his father inquired as well.
Simultaneously.
“Was that all the Rivendell Elves had to share?”
“Have you taken her as a wife?”
Thinking about such a thing made Legolas’s head feel funny. It was a surprise. One to both his body and what he knew to be true. An Elf fell in love once. Only once. In life as well as death, here and in the Undying Lands.
He loved his mother. He did. Truly. There was deep love for a person that he could not remember. For you? There was love. There was affection. There was connection. Two She-Elves brought out these strong feelings. His mother who had given him life. You who had nurtured him. His memories were entirely of you.
From the lounge his father peered up at him. Silent. Arms stretched across the back of it. One long leg crossed over the other, across the thigh attached to the slippered foot that rested on the floor.
He too remained silent. Wanting an answer. Wanting to know. Unconcerned with what he had learned from the Elves from Rivendell.
Suddenly it occurred to him. As did the sight of sunlight breaking through a storm to light the way. A realization. His face burned hotly. It had his father tilting his head at his son’s sudden awareness that what had happened had perhaps not been so straightforward. How could his son? Grown? Yes, Legolas was an adult by their standards. He had seen combat, experienced loss, lived longer than any man ever dreamt. The young Elf that took a seat across from him was no innocent. His son knew of the nature of intimacy. Especially among their people. Though…it was clear his son had not experienced it.
A thought was taken on how he would share this, because he would not hide it from Legolas. He would not lie to his own flesh and blood.
One arm came down to rest on his lap. Fingers tapped lightly on top of his thigh.
“We were not as mindful as we should have been…” and to be honest, Thranduil did not particularly like how that sounded, and so, he went on. Well aware of how alarmed his son appeared. “Although, I do not regret a moment. It has been between only her and I. I am sure you understand why.”
Legolas blinked. A true indication that he had been taken aback by the unconcerned declaration.
His son’s mouth parted, though nothing followed. Not for a moment. Not as he seemed to sort through all the implications. Every last thing that this meant.
A look was even cast over at the entranceway that you had disappeared into. Off to oil your hair, brush it, dry it. As you had said you would. Using his oils, his brush. Things that were his in such a simple, yet close, act.
Finally, his son came out with words.
“Is there, is there no way to absolve this compulsion? Before it goes on too long? Before it takes?”
The smile that the king found coming over his face was one of amusement. It was also one at the audacity of such a notion. That a union of two souls, two physical bodies, could simply be excused. His son knew better. Perhaps his son was hopeful? Perhaps his son was concerned? His son had never shared physical intimacy with another, of course he would ask such a question. Only those untouched would ask such a question.
“Son.”
The word was spoken in such a way to speak volumes about the question. As if asking his son to think, to consider what sort of things should be asked that were indeed plausible.
As a result, Legolas countered with an exasperated, “Father.”
It was almost amusing. In a way.
“No. There is no going back. Although, I cannot say that I would even if it were possible.” No. He most certainly would not. The mere thought that you might have found yourself in this predicament with someone other than himself? It was enough to make Thranduil feel as if he could breathe fire!
To allow such thoughts that someone he held so dear, someone he had shared so very much with over the countless centuries, could belong to another? That another could come and intrude, to know how your skin felt or the sounds you made when you were consumed? Hold the memory of the exact face you made when he had entered you for that very first time? Sealing a bond between you both, more than any touch could ever? How you held onto him, that feeling of pure satisfaction in knowing that he had been your first and would be the only? Never would he relinquish such experiences.
“What will you do?”
What would he do?
The question would have made him laugh had it been anyone other than Legolas who had asked it. Thranduil considered, as well as took stock of the life that his son had led. Of all Legolas had seen and known and come to experience? Some things were very much unknown.
“What will happen in future days?”
Concern was real, it colored each word. Even if Thranduil was not at all worried. Not about what might become of you both over time, when the bond further developed. Nor was he over concerned about discovery. He was king, after-all.
“Legolas, this is not some great peril or insidious threat from the outside world. Do not trouble yourself. I am not bothered, nor do I have any fear or worry. I am prepared to face any consequence.”
Such was the face of youth. His words puzzled his grown child, one who he hoped greatly would never know the heartbreak that he himself had felt. Oh, how he hoped that Tauriel was not the one love of his son’s life. How he hoped that one day Legolas would find that true person. Preferably not a Dwarf. Though…what would be would be.
A slow hint of a nod followed. More from surprise than any sort of disapproval. “Does anyone else know?”
Thranduil considered, inhaling deeply as he did so. “No announcement had been made. There will be no Queen of Mirkwood other than your mother. Aside from you? Perhaps the servants who change and wash my bedding?”
A hint, a touch, the slightest bit of a bewildered narrowing of Legolas’s eyes. As he had done since he was waist high. At that last bit too. Clearly there was some sort of a question. Though none followed. What followed amused Thranduil greatly. More than greatly, perhaps.
“Make the bed before they come, then. I do not think that there would be any sort of reprisal should the court come to find out? One can never be sure though.”
What was more amusing?
The notion that someone in his realm would dare punish you? Or the idea that a messy bed would give away what had occurred, instead of the bodily fluids that stained his sheets? It was not something that he would explain. Not something so deeply personal. Not something meant for only him, only you. To speak so openly about what was shared between you and him, whether or not it was nothing more than your very nature contaminating him? He did not care.
“Do not concern yourself. We should focus on the intruders within our forest.”
A far from entertained expression clouded over Legolas’s face. “I am sure that it is within our capability to do both.” And then, he sighed, pressed his hand to his chest, “I am concerned. I care greatly. She…she is dear to my heart.”
Such was the truth.
He could feel it nestled deep. Both of his own hands pressed to his chest, over his heart, expressing that deep emotion that could not be put into words. A feeling that could not be expressed with mere words.
“Are either of you in pain? Have you been affected?”
Such was to be expected. Your nature was incredibly uncommon. So much was unknown.
A shake of Thranduil’s head came, though if there was? Would he notice? Would he care? What he did know for sure was so long as you were here, he would be too. If you were to make the crossing? He would too. If you were to die? He would not live long after. “No. No harm has come to either of us, Legolas.” A gesture was made to conclude the matter. As it was not something that was up for discussion, debate or any manner of reversal.
At that, Thranduil rose to his feet. He peered down at Legolas who remained seated. Peering up at him with concern. A concern that he did not care for, nor wish to see. And so, he went to pour some wine. One for himself and one for Legolas.
.
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Meanwhile…in the south of Mirkwood…
One of the men was unsure.
He had not been keen on this plan back when it was discussed on their hasty ride here, and his feelings toward it had not changed. It seemed too risky.
Now, let it be known, Garren had no issue sneaking into the Palace of the Elf King. Not after getting a detailed map from the son of one of the Dwarves who’d carved the palace from an underground cavern system. Especially not after hearing about where the King’s treasure was kept, or knowing that the She-Elf who could heal by touch was hidden away in there as well.
He'd heard about that particular She-Elf.
An Elf that could heal or steal away life with a single press of her hand.
How was it fair that the Elf King kept her locked away? Hidden? When there were so many who needed help?! How many places would they be welcomed? If they were to have such an Elf in their party? What would people offer or pay for Elf Healing such as this?
A She-Elf whose skin was like bliss upon being touched? A single touch that could bring the purest feelings of pleasure, of happiness, or the greatest joy imaginable? By only one touch!
What would it be like to touch her? To simply reach out and feel her skin? To see if it were true, if the man from Gondor was correct? Also, that She-Elves could give up their immortality? Why should you not be able to give them more years?
From what he had heard? You had been born in Doriath, thousands and thousands of years ago! Up in the forested Elven Realm that was no more. What sort of healing knowledge did you have? All that time alive? Time there? Time spent with other Elves until you settled in Mirkwood? What sort of wisdom did you have that was kept hidden away in the lair of the Elf King, Thranduil?
It simply was not fair!
Why should you be allowed to be kept all for the Elves? Now that they had a map, now that they knew how to enter the Mirkwood Palace? There was no need to take the baby in your place.
Although this part? This plan?
Garren was unsure. He truly was. He did not like small spiders. Nor did he like the idea of capturing these beastly ones that lived in the southern parts of this forest.
Only the thought of setting them loose in the palace to create a distraction spurred him on.
That, and the thought of getting you to touch him. To touch this wound that festered on his leg, never fully closing up, to touch it and make it close up.
He’d heard of such things in various places around. Drunken tales and stories passed down, whispered about, discussed in such places where people came and went freely in their own travels. Talk about Elves. About their She-Elves, who were kept hidden away so often.
Beauty of the Elves was incomparable and though he’d never seen a She-Elf up close, he’d barely been able to stomach looking at the ones they had hunted down and slaughtered in their quest for the Elfling. He’d heard of She-Elves so beautiful that they could not be looked upon for longer than a heartbeat or two.
He himself wanted to touch their ears. To touch that pointed tip. Ears so different from his own rounded ones.
Well! If Garren was going to capture a spider the size of two horses, carry it through Mirkwood and release it in the Elven Palace? He fully intended to see if what he had heard was true. Who knew if Vorq’s plan to distribute your immortality would even work? All the other Elves they had captured had died during the process. What made Vorq think that he could do it with you? Especially when there were much better uses for you! Perhaps they would luck out? Perhaps the Elves would kill Vorq?
.
.
To be quite honest, down in your private quarters, you had the same hair oils that Thranduil had in his private chambers. They were a smell that reminded the both of you of Doriath. A pine scent that mingled with the scent of an aromatic tree. It was a powerful scent. One that always brought you back to the woodland kingdom where you were born. The smell alone was enough to bring you somewhere long gone, to tighten your stomach at the memory and therefore, you liberally wet your hands with the oils. Hoping to smell them for some time into tomorrow. Before you began to rub them into your hair. Working them in. Running your fingers through, bottom to top. As your hair was longer than it had ever been.
A damp cloth that you had used to pat dry your hair sat on the stone ground. Warmed from the springs below. To catch any oils that might escape.
For some time, you patiently sat on the end of Thranduil’s bed. Oiling your hair. Legs folded beneath you. A particularly loose garment that you had found in a drawer that you’d not seen on the king in some time puddled around you. Sleeves rolled up to your elbows. It reached your very knees. As your damp robe hung to dry over in a corner.
It took the longest time.
Once you had done that, you picked up a clean cloth to dab at your hair. Pressing for any excess oil that had not soaked in Toweling dry whatever parts needed and then, you began to brush it out. Not a task you had wished to complete this night. Yet, it needed to be done. Or else your hair would be unmanageable come morning.
A hint of a sound caught your ear.
Though you did not look. Not when you were so familiar with such a noise. One that could only come from your king. From his near silent footsteps on a part of the floor that was rougher than the rest.
Not a moment later, your lord came in. A bit drier than when you last set eyes upon him. Though some time had passed.
A bit curious if Legolas was still out in his chambers, a question was on the tip of your lips.
Though it quickly was no more at the sight of your lifelong friend casting off his robe. Sending it to the floor without a look. Leaving him in his most natural state, as you slowly eased his brush through your now dry and silky hair. More for habit and comfort as your task was complete.
Penetrating eyes wound their way over you. Taking time to consider the article of clothing you had pulled on that billowed around your frame.
You yourself looked Thranduil over as he approached his bed. Took in the powerful lines of his long, broad form. Muscled exquisitely. Not as slim as other Elves. His was a commanding body. One that was strong. One that was incredibly knowledgeable. As he came to sit beside you, wanting his hair oiled as well. Without the words needing to be spoken. As they simply were between you. A feeling. A knowing. Connection that went from him to you, you to him. A sharing that went far beyond physical.
How you would have loved to say that it was common for your kind. A nature of the Elves.
Instead?
It was but a symptom of the festering between you and Thranduil, an unnatural connection of two. A sharing that should not be. A sharing that would start simply. A finishing of thoughts between you and him, a knowing of what the other thought or wanted, felt.
It would grow. It would strengthen. It would further consume till it forever joined you both together, unable to live without the other. Connecting your bodies, minds, souls together without a say of either of you. Like some manner of moss that covered trees, eating them, attaching to them, becoming a very part of them.
Behind him you knelt.
Reaching out to rest your palms on Thranduil’s broad shoulders for no other reason than you could. No other reason than you wished to feel the warmth of his skin against your own. Against the back of his head, you pressed your forehead. Paused. Felt his very love for his son, the irritation at the day’s events, a swirling of covetous want directed at you. Such a feeling had taken you some time to grow accustomed to. After so many years spent untouched. To be touched was a whole new way of living.
So as to keep your focus, you lifted your hands.
You picked up the bottle of oil to pour a little bit onto your palm and then, rubbed them together. Collecting the damp length of his blonde hair all together. Easing fingers through the length, slowly starting the process that would be like your own. A timely process.
In doing so, your fingers brushed over his ears.
When Legolas was a child and you’d oiled his hair on occasion, he’d always giggle at such a touch. His own ears being incredibly ticklish. He had his mother’s ears. Rounder. Not so long as Thranduil’s, nor quite so pointed at the tip.
Oh, you hoped that Legolas was not upset. You hoped that he was not angry. It would have been your own fault if he was, you had been the one to come in here so father and son could talk privately. To tend to your hair as well.
“Legolas is fine,” your king assured you. Head tilted back. Eyes closed. Allowing you to do as you willed. “Concerned, but otherwise unbothered. I do not think he would be capable of being angry at you.”
Hearing such pleased you. Though you did not say as much. Knowing that such a statement was not needed.
Instead you focused on your task. At rubbing scented oils into Thranduil’s long hair. At dabbing at the few parts that were too wet and then, brushing it out. Bit by bit. Dabbing in the rare places where it was needed. Though as it was, his locks absorbed the oil well. There were few, if any, knots. And every once in a while, you’d hear a soft moan of enjoyment come from him.
Eventually, his hair hung silky. Catching a soft glow in the candles that lit his room.
There was a small desire to braid his hair. To see how it looked pulled back in such a way. As you had only ever seen it loose.
On the other hand? If you were to braid his hair? You would be unable to grip handfuls of it, wind it around your hands to hold him close. Or even feel it on your bare skin. Skin that was covered with one of his own articles of clothing. Making it safe to lean against the back of him. To slide your arms over his shoulders and down his muscular chest. Even rest your cheek against your own shoulder, so you could see him from the corner of his eye. Drawing parts of his hair forward, over his shoulders as you did so.
“Come along, you know what must be done if you wish to be intimate.”
For the cocky way he spoke? So confident, so assured? You should have denied him in order to teach him humility. Though he would not be the only one to suffer. You too would have to endure a night without rapture. You too would have to wait to feel that now known, incredibly exquisite feel of being trapped on his body. Unable to go anywhere until the swelling went down.
“Don’t sulk. You adore me as I am, even if you would refuse to admit it.”
Oh! How strong that desire was! To go to your own chambers for the night! In order to not hear from his lips how much you adored him and his ill behavior. Such had you lifting your head and leaning backwards. Narrowing your eyes as you swatted his hair from you. Easing off his bed and onto your feet, onto the woven rug on the floor of his own private bedchamber.
Alas, you were weak. You were a great number of terrible things.
“Parts of you, yes,” was your concession, doing as was expected. The initiation. The first part, the part in which you let your desire be known and in doing so, you eased yourself up onto his bare lap. Set your hands around his corded neck. Praised him lavishly. “Parts of you bring me unimaginable joy, my lord.” And that part was indeed true. “Such unimaginable joy.”
He gave you a smirk. One meant only for you. Shared only between you and him. Both amused by you, excited by you. A sensation that overcame you in a rush of heat. Lust was indeed powerful. A heavy exhale escaped from you. It sent your head backwards to embrace it, to savor the feel of the loose clothing lifted upwards and off. Leaving you bare. Finding the skin of your thighs flush to Thranduil’s at the loss of that final barrier. That final layer of protection.
A blanket of sensation overcame you. Pulling you down, finding you pressed against your king and exhaling out every lonely moment you lived. Your arms came around him to hold him tight, to drink in each second. A smattering of decades of this could never wash away the many millennia without. To think of such? To imagine the rest of your days as such? It was an unbearable thought.
A stroke of his thumbs along the backs of your ears summoned a shiver. Right up along your back. Making it very difficult to breathe. Making thoughts in your head go sluggish when you should have given heavy consideration to this, though…such was your nature. Such was what had come over you.
Out came his name from the tip of your tongue. Holding so much in that one word.
A brush of his face against your own felt like being kissing by an open flame. Thranduil’s voice was velvety in your ear. “Do not think about before. Look at me. Be with me here, now.”
A thought of something was gone. Vanished. Replaced only with him, your king, how he felt beneath you. The want that filled him made your eyes burn wetly, pulled a gasp from you, sent your mouth down to brush over his throat. To feel feverish skin against your lips. Taste him till you heard the ocean in your ears. Till you pressed your mouth along the steady thrumming of his pulse. Nearly hearing it beat inside your head. So very alive, steady, pounding.
Feeling so very much like the feel of his organ against the back of your thigh.
Thick. Solid. Filling you with heat, with a gnawing hunger that grew and grew and grew. Unbearably so. Sending your cheek along his shoulder. Rubbing along that curve of his neck, like one of those cats you’d seen in your travels between Doriath and Greenwood. You closed your eyes and felt the firmness of his skin. Felt the warmth. Savored. Drank him in as much as was possible, to tide you over when you were alone without. For tomorrow, when you would spend your day acting as if not a thing were different, that you had not intimately known Thranduil.
Out came your name from his mouth. Imploring you to lift your head, to look him in the eye. Where but for a moment, he looked at you and you him. He drew his fingers through your hair and you eased your hands around his neck. Wanting so very much to feel him still. Needing so very much to know, “do you hate me?”
“I could never,” he confessed. Drawing his hands down over your face, down your throat, down further along your body. “Nor would I go back, if given a choice to break free from you.”
His hands travelled down to caress along the sides of your waist, to brush along your breasts. Making it incredibly hard to breathe, to focus, to do more than relish the way his hands felt. You could not even tell him that his mind was not his own right now. That his body only wanted one thing. Which happened to be exactly what your body sought.
And so came the very feel of him lifting you from his lap. Nearly tossing you off onto his bed. Where your naked side found the soft bedding to be abrasive against your sensitive skin. Anything would have been rough against your skin right then, as you reached out for your lover to pull him back against you.
Thranduil quickly found you and came over you. Capturing your hands, pinning them up above your head. His hands so easily encompassing your wrists in one hand.
Down you peered at where he sat on you. Straddling your pelvis. Sitting upon you. Allowing you to see his member. Easing out of the foreskin in its aroused state. The crowned tip no longer able to fit with its sheath. Tipped with evidence of his excitement, which dripped down onto you.
“I know what I want. I am your king, after all.”
The smile that snuck up on you could not be hidden and so, you allowed your head to fall back on the bed. “Yes, that you are, my lord.”
Down. Down, down down over the smooth skin of your stomach, down over your groin, your king’s hand travelled. Down where you parted your thighs with an arch of your back. Never looking away from his eyes. Trapped. Captured by such pale blue.
Evidence of your want came in a slick sound, a wetness that was excessively evident when his hand found your entrance. Heat burned your cheeks though not in shame. No. In a deep, twisting, powerful demand for what was only for a husband and wife. No other. It was not something that was given without a marking upon ones soul.
“Would you deny your king?” He inquired, spearing you with his finger, two of them you suspected. As one would not feel that way. One would not feel so full. One would not make you inhale deeply as you did, or bow your back and open your thighs as you had, to allow for room. Lower, so that his hair curtained down and tickled your neck and breasts, he spoke nearly against your ear. “Would you deny your husband?”
A shaking of your head came, “I would never deny my king.”
His teeth razed your ear, his fingers sank up to their knuckle and had you near gleeful at the prospect of coming. Of soon finding yourself trapped on his swollen shaft. Unable to do more than wait for the swelling to go down. Pinned down. Filled. Both of flesh and seed. Simply the thought was enough to have you push down on his hand, searching for what could never be mistaken for anything other than his cock.
“Thranduil…” came out in both a plea, a demand, a want and need, everything beneath the moon and stars.
He withdrew his testing digits to take hold of his erection, to ease back the foreskin and press that wide head against you. Shaped as some sort of forest mushroom though of rigid flesh.
At the feel of it…utter relief. Slowly though he eased through the slippery arousal your body had prepared you with, you felt yourself tense, you made yourself relax. Knowing that he would need to work himself in the first time. As he would take you several times. Your king had an appetite that had been dormant for some time and now? Now it had been awoken.
A sound became trapped in your throat at being entered. Even slowly. Even with care. Even with your arousal, Thranduil was not small. Nor was he lean. Not even willowy. Every last part of him was difficult on the best of days. Being entered, being filled and entirely consumed…having him ease into your body both stole away your very breath. It made small helpless sounds escape and when you realized that your hands were free, they were tangled up in his hair, all twisted around and grasping handfuls. Crying out nonsensical things as he eased in deeper, a hand grasped your own face.
What came next? What always rendered you completely at a loss for thought, breath, words and basic understanding? The feeling that followed of ownership, of total knowing, of pure belonging. Him. Yourself. That what you were had been given to him and he belonged to no one else here other than you. It was a powerful sensation that made the ground tilt.
Following by the feel of great discomfort. Not pain, not quite. Somewhere on the sharp edge of a blade. It balanced so delicately. You were filled so much your breathing was labored and you cried out, you held his hair tightly. A tingling warmth grew over your skin that in time also allowed you to feel nearly unbearable tightness, warmth, a soft plush you’d never felt once in your life wrapped all around you. Such feelings were what Thranduil felt, how he was so tense up above you.
Hot tears rolled wetly down your face as he began to move, to rock into you, out of you, against you. Moving within you. Creating a friction that had you gasping as well as moving, arching, rubbing against him. Seeking what you knew would be exceptional as he sank deeper and deeper. Filling you truly. More and more, further, until there was no more space, till your own heels pressed down to both meet every thrust that he drove in and to angle yourself more comfortably.
A purr of approval, or delight, was husky and satisfyingly enough that you drank it in. As desperate for his sounds as you were his body. Loving the hungry ones most. Devouring how he looked down at where he entered you, where he vanished into your body.
You cried out when your lover took hold of your legs and pulled them up, resting your ankles up nearly behind his ears, over his strong shoulders. Digging white teeth into his bottom lip and grunting at the sight of penetration.
This new angle made you cry out. It had his erection going in at a different angle, in a different way, running along inside of you entirely differently. You cried out. You warned him, you attempted to pull your feet down. Though your ankles were grabbed and held snug. A wicked expression came over his features. Into you he continued to drive.
Somehow, both uncomfortably thick and long, but also leaving you feeling breathless and tingly. In this position you could feel yourself beginning to clamp down, to tighten around his girth. So soon. Too soon!
Both of your bodies slapped lewdly when coming together.
A shriek came from you.
It escaped! Leapt from you before you could stop it. Leaving you shaking and flushed in its wake, face burning and your very core squeezing down from the orgasm that came over you so quickly! You gasped, unable to breathe. Flushed with liquid fire. Grasping his bedding. Squirming, coming undone. Taking whatever you could in hand as your body tightened up, then released in the most exquisite manner. Making this Elf look incredibly pleased with himself.
Though, as wonderful as it was and it was indeed wonderful enough to make you cry out, to make you shrill his name and bow your spine till you were afraid it might break?
Something was not quite right. Something was missing. Something important. Something that you knew for a fact only Elves possessed. Only the male of your kind had this part of their anatomy here in Middle Earth.
It made you keen out. It sent your hands up to push into your own hair. Deep breaths were taken, even gasped out at the feel of Thranduil sinking into your clenching body, squeezing down on his in such a way that he made faces of enjoyment, even hummed out.
His voice was teasing. Almost mean. Almost. Certainly taunting, when he asked of you. “What is it? Are you missing something?”
He knew. Of course he knew.
It was not the act unless you took his cock deep and felt it swell within you.
And Thranduil knew what you needed. He knew what you wanted. In fact, he could feel it deep in his very chest. Without having to ask. Though saying the words to feel your need grow was pleasure in itself.
His knot.
You needed to come on his knot and he greatly wanted to fill you with his cum, knot it in deep for as long as his cock would be trapped due to the band of swollen flesh.
It may have been your flesh that found both he and yourself in this predicament? However, he was not upset about it. Nor did he regret it. If anything? Thranduil wished it would have begun sooner. Because you were exquisite. The feel of your soft warm flesh wrapped around his member was a blessing from the creator. How could this be wrong? How could what was so natural be forbidden?
And now? When you looked at him as you did now? All he could think of was bringing you pleasure again. All he wanted to do was put you on hand and knee, like some sort of forest creature. Mount you. Take you like that, here in his kingdom. In his palace. In his bed. Surrounded by stone and wood.
Speaking your name with reverence, his gaze fell over your smooth flesh. Trailed along the curves of your shape. So very different from his own. A paradise. One he had denied himself for some unknown reason. Until his temper flared, until he touched you and touched you and touched you, finding himself overcome and bettered. If this now were not real? If it were only your essence capturing him and stealing his will? He would not care. Perhaps it had and that was how it worked? Truly, he did not care.
Collecting your ankles in his hands, he lowered them from his shoulders, pressing his lips to the soft skin there as he did so. One ankle. Then the other. When he began to withdraw, a sound of protest came from your mouth. Such was silenced with his own. With a stealing of your breath and a taste of your tongue. Drawing out such pretty sounds that came with a shaking of your hands, a true shock of surprise that made his skin goosebump. Your hands danced lightly around his throat at the affection.
From your mouth came out guttural words. Words formed a lustful plea.
“Please, husband. Please.”
Such words could not be ignored. Not in how they burnt red, left a fire inside that scalded in its wake.
One last kiss was stolen away. Hastily. Greedily. As he wanted to savor every second with you to prepare for the time that he was not allowed to touch you, to act as if he were not taking you to his bed, to pretend that he did not know the sounds of ecstasy you made when pleasured by his hand.
Despite the fact that he pushed you over, sent you from your back over on your hands and knees, he never fully left your body. The twist around his engorged flesh was rapturous. ‘Twas only his crown that remained fast within. Unwilling to part. Holding on tight.
A hurried action came from you, a situating of yourself on your knees. Lowering down to your elbows. Peering back at him. Hair fanned out in every direction. Eyes both hopeful and longing. When he drove back in, seating himself once more to the very root of his cock? You shouted out in surprise, though it turned into a moan. A deeply satisfied one that pleased him greatly.
Yes, he knew how to please a wife still.
And that was what you were regardless. Despite the fact that there had not been any feasts, no rings, not even vows. Although…perhaps that was wrong? So much had been spoken between you and him when together, during joining. Alas, the most important part, this part? Consummation.
Most all of your hair was pushed aside, gathered up in his hand as he leaned over you. Rested his other hand down on the bed above your shoulder. Mounting you how he liked. Taking what was his in deep thrusts that had you filling the room with cries, throaty sounds and these beautiful gasps.
The soft curve of your backside pressed against his groin. Leaving him slippery. Causing the most obscene sounds to follow, to grow louder as his pace increased. An urge to take and mark and claim you as his own grew. It festered. It made him tighten his grip on your hair, till it wrapped around his hand twice, nay, three times. Till the side of your face rested against his bed, pinned down. Your body pinned beneath his own. Belonging to him, after all.
You were his servant. You were a member of his kingdom. You had stolen him away from loneliness and he had taken you for his own.
You were bliss.
Warm. Snug. Slippery enough to take him with ease now.
A warmth, a tingle, one that started at his toes and fingers, traveled up quickly.
Capturing him as he knew it had you. It came to both Elves during climax of the act. Completing everything. Sealing yourself with him in brightness and warmth, in the stars and seas. Stealing away his pleasure within you. Somewhere distant he heard you scream, or that could have been him, as he felt your very heart beating within his own. Thranduil could feel a coming together of you and him, your form taking up residence inside his own. A oneness. A scaredness. A knowing all your thoughts and memories, fears and how you felt in this very second. He heard what you heard, smelled what you smelled, felt your very soul become one with his own. A true moment of peace. Joining. Something both he and yourself would feel. A rapturous coming together between two souls.
It was powerful. It swept even him up, as it always had, before with Calathiel and now with you. It surged through his body like lightning. Consumed. It both created and reforged, until he found himself collapsed against the back of you. Buried as deep as possible, locked within you by swollen flesh. Gasping, heart pounding and wrapping his arms around you to keep you close, to ensure that you felt safe and felt all of him.
Thranduil pressed his mouth against your shoulder. Knowing that your skin would undoubtedly feel alive, that all of this would be far too much. That you would feel utterly consumed.
Soon you would be able to speak to him. Soon you would find your way back to him. Soon you would once again be able to relish how he felt, plugged up within you.
Until then? He would be more than content to hold you in his arms. To speak softly against your ear. To savor these sacred moments himself. Unfortunately, the moon would not last forever and eventually, he would have to share you with the rest of his people.
Not right now though. Right now? You belonged to him, as much as he belonged to you.