Pairing: Thranduil x Fem!Reader x Legolas
WC: ~3k
Warnings: NSFW, SMUT, Oral, P in V, B U T T S T U F F, DP, Threesome, reader is Human, Minors DNI. No plot just pure filth
A/N: Sorry I was bored and Iām obsessed with Thranduil and Legolasā¦..
The air in Thranduilās private chambers was a living entity, thick with the scent of aged Mirkwood wine, the sweet, resinous perfume of ancient wood, and the faint, clean scent of the forest after a cleansing rain. It was a scent that spoke of deep time and unyielding stillness, a stark contrast to the frantic rhythm of your own mortal heart. You stood on a sprawling rug of deep emerald green, the pile so thick it swallowed your bare feet, a human island caught in an ocean of Elven majesty. Before you, the great carved doors were shut, sealing you within this opulent prison of desire with the two most breathtaking beings you had ever seen.
Thranduil, the Elvenking, was a study in controlled power. He moved with a predator's grace, his silver hair a cascade of liquid moonlight that fell over the pristine white of his tunic, a slash of ethereal color against the dark, polished wood of the walls. His eyes, the color of a winter sky just before a storm, held a wisdom and a sorrow that was ancient, but tonight, it was eclipsed by something far more dangerous: a deep, simmering hunger. He stood by the grand stone fireplace, one hand resting on the mantel, the other holding a goblet of deep red wine, his gaze fixed on you with an unnerving intensity.
His son, Legolas, was his opposite in every way. Where Thranduil was the cold, majestic night, Legolas was the vibrant, untamed day. He was closer, his golden hair a halo of spun sunlight, his sapphire eyes burning with a fire that was both youthful and ageless. He wore simple leathers that did nothing to hide the lean, corded muscle beneath, a warriorās body built for speed and grace. He watched you not with the predatory stillness of his father, but with an open, almost reverent awe, as if you were a rare and precious flower he was afraid to crush.
"You tremble," Legolas said, his voice a soft melody that soothed even as it thrilled. He took a step closer, the sound of his soft boots on the rug barely audible. He reached out, his fingers hesitating for a moment before they gently brushed your cheek. The touch was electric, a spark of warmth that spread through your entire body. "Do not be afraid."
"I am not afraid," you whispered, the words barely audible. It was a half-truth. You were not afraid of them, but of what they made you feel, the way your own body seemed to awaken under their gaze, a foreign and terrifying power stirring within you.
A low, resonant chuckle came from the fireplace. Thranduil set his goblet down with a soft click, the sound echoing in the silent room. "She should be afraid, ion nƮn (my son)," he said, his voice a low purr that vibrated through the very air. "Fear is the spice that makes the feast sweeter." He moved towards you, his steps silent and fluid, and you found yourself holding your breath. He stopped behind you, so close you could feel the coolness of his aura, the faint scent of frost and pine that clung to him.
His hands settled on your shoulders, and you gasped at the contact. His touch was cool, impossibly so, a stark contrast to the feverish heat of your own skin. His long fingers were strong, pressing into your muscles with a possessive weight that was both comforting and intimidating. "A mortal," he murmured, his lips so close to your ear that you could feel the movement of them against your hair. "So fragile. So warm. So temporary." He leaned in, his nose tracing the line of your neck, and you shuddered, a wave of goosebumps rising on your skin. "We will handle you with the utmost care. And then we will break you."
Legolas shot his father a look, a flash of something unreadable in his eyes, before his gaze softened as it returned to you. "He speaks in riddles," he said, his hand moving from your cheek to the back of your neck, his touch warm and firm, a direct counterpoint to his father's cool possessiveness. "We will not harm you. We will show you pleasure you have only dreamed of. We will worship you."
As if to prove his point, he lowered his head, his golden hair falling like a curtain around your face, shielding you from the room and focusing your entire world on him. His lips met yours, and it was like a dam breaking. The kiss was not gentle; it was a desperate, hungry exploration. It tasted of honey, of sunlight, of a wild, untamed joy. His tongue swept into your mouth, claiming, tasting, dueling with yours in a dance as old as time. Your hands, which had been limp at your sides, rose to grip his arms, your fingers digging into the hard muscle of his biceps as you tried to anchor yourself in the storm of sensation.
At the same time, Thranduil's hands began to move. They slid down your arms, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin of your inner elbows, making you moan softly into Legolas's mouth. He found the laces of your simple gown, his fingers nimble and sure as they began to work the knots. You could feel the fabric whispering as it loosened, the cool air of the room beginning to seep through the gaps. He was slow, deliberate, drawing out the moment, making you wait for the inevitable.
The gown finally gave way, pooling at your feet in a whisper of silk and shadow. You stood naked between them, the firelight painting your skin in hues of gold and crimson. You felt a surge of vulnerability, an instinct to cover yourself, but it was quickly extinguished by the heat in their eyes. They looked at you not as an object of lust, but as a masterpiece to be admired, a canvas upon which they would paint their desires.
Legolas broke the kiss, his chest heaving, his lips swollen and glistening. His eyes, dark with a primal fire, roamed over your body, taking in every curve, every hollow. "You are more beautiful than I imagined," he breathed, his voice thick with emotion. He dipped his head again, this time his lips finding the sensitive skin of your throat. He pressed a series of open-mouthed kisses down the column of your neck, his tongue leaving a wet, warm trail that made you arch your back in pleasure.
Thranduil's hands resumed their journey, his cool palms flat against the heated skin of your back. They swept upwards, tracing the delicate line of your spine, making you shiver. His fingers brushed the sides of your breasts, a teasing, ghost-like touch that had you whimpering with need. "Patience, ion nƮn," he chided softly, though there was a smile in his voice. "One must savor the appetizer before the main course."
His words sent a fresh wave of heat through you. He was toying with you, both of them were, and you were a willing participant in their game. His hands finally moved around to your front, cupping the weight of your breasts in his cool palms. His thumbs brushed over your nipples, which were already hard and pebbled from the cool air and Legolas's heated kisses. The contrast was exquisite, a jolt of pure pleasure that shot straight to your core. He rolled the sensitive peaks between his fingers, pinching them just hard enough to make you gasp, a sharp, delicious pain that mingled with the pleasure.
Legolas, meanwhile, had dropped to his knees. He looked up at you, his sapphire eyes burning with adoration, before he leaned forward and pressed his lips to your stomach. His kisses were soft, reverent, as if he were paying homage to a sacred altar. His tongue dipped into your navel, a brief, teasing flick that made you squirm. His hands were on your hips, holding you steady, his grip firm but gentle.
You were lost in a sea of sensation, the cool, possessive touch of the king at your back, and the warm, worshipful ministrations of his son at your front. It was a perfect, intoxicating balance. Thranduil's hands continued their torment of your breasts, while Legolas began to kiss his way lower, his golden hair tickling your thighs.
And then, his mouth was on you.
You cried out, your head falling back against Thranduil's shoulder as Legolas's tongue found your clit. He was skilled, impossibly so, his movements a perfect blend of pressure and speed. He licked and sucked, his tongue delving into your wet folds, tasting you, drinking you in. Your knees buckled, but you were held upright, caught between them. Thranduil's arm snaked around your waist, pulling you back against his hard chest, his other hand never ceasing its manipulation of your breasts.
"That's it, little mortal," Thranduil purred in your ear, his voice a low, wicked rumble. "Let go. Let my son taste your pleasure. Let him feel you come undone on his tongue."
His words, coupled with Legolas's expert mouth, were your undoing. The coil of pleasure in your belly tightened, a spring winding tighter and tighter until it snapped. Your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, a blinding, all-consuming force that ripped a scream from your throat. Your body convulsed, your inner walls clamping down on nothing as waves of ecstasy washed over you, leaving you trembling and breathless in their arms.
Legolas held you through it, his mouth never leaving you, his tongue lapping at your juices as you rode out the storm. Thranduil held you, his grip like iron, a steady anchor in the tempest of your release. When the final shudder subsided, leaving you limp and pliant, Legolas finally pulled away, his face glistening with your essence. He looked up at you, a triumphant, feral grin on his lips, before rising to his feet.
He captured your mouth in a searing kiss, and you could taste yourself on his tongue, a musky, intimate flavor that was both shocking and deeply arousing. "You are delicious, melamin (my love)," he murmured against your lips, his voice husky with satisfaction.
Thranduil chuckled, a low, wicked sound that vibrated through your back. "She is indeed," he agreed, his hands finally releasing your breasts. They slid down your body, his cool touch a soothing balm on your fevered skin. He took your hand, his long fingers entwining with yours. "Come. The bed awaits."
He led you towards the center of the chamber, where a massive bed rested on a raised dais. It was carved from the same dark wood as the walls, the posts intricately carved with scenes of forest and hunt. It was covered not with linens, but with a mountain of furs in various shades of grey, white, and black, a soft, inviting nest that promised both comfort and decadence.
Legolas followed, his hands already working at the laces of his leather tunic. He shed his clothes with an easy grace, his body revealed in the firelight. He was all lean muscle and sun-kissed skin, a warrior in his prime, his cock already hard and jutting proudly from a nest of golden curls. He was beautiful, a perfect specimen of Elven masculinity, and your breath caught in your throat at the sight of him.
Thranduil released your hand and began to disrobe as well. His movements were slower, more deliberate, a slow, sensual striptease that held you captive. He removed his white tunic, revealing a chest that was pale and sculpted, his muscles defined but not bulky, the body of a king who commanded with his presence as much as his strength. A faint, silvery scar ran across one shoulder, a testament to battles long fought. His trousers followed, and you saw that he was as magnificent as his son, his cock long and thick, rising from a thatch of silver hair, its impressive size a promise of the pleasure to come.
They stood before you, naked and unashamed, two perfect beings of light and shadow, and you felt a surge of desire so potent it was almost painful. You wanted them, both of them, with a desperation that bordered on madness.
Legolas was the first to move, climbing onto the bed and settling among the furs. He held out a hand to you, his eyes soft with invitation. "Come to me, Y/N."
You went to him, your movements hesitant, and he pulled you down onto the soft furs, rolling you onto your back and settling over you. His weight was a welcome pressure, his body warm and solid against yours. He propped himself up on his elbows, his golden hair falling around your face, creating a private world for just the two of you. "Are you ready for more?" he asked, his voice a low murmur.
You could only nod, your throat too tight with emotion to speak.
He smiled, a slow, sensual curve of his lips, and then he was kissing you again, a deep, drugging kiss that stole the very air from your lungs. His hands roamed over your body, relearning every curve, every dip. He cupped your breasts, his thumbs stroking your nipples, bringing them back to aching peaks. He kissed his way down your body, his lips and tongue paying homage to your skin, until he was settled between your thighs once more.
He looked up at you, his eyes dark with lust, and then he entered you in one smooth, powerful thrust. You cried out, the sudden, exquisite fullness a shock to your system. He was thick and hard, stretching you, filling you completely. He paused for a moment, giving you time to adjust, his gaze locked with yours, a silent question in his eyes.
You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, a silent invitation to continue.
He began to move, his hips rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm that was both tender and possessive. Each thrust was a deliberate act of worship, a claiming of your body, your soul. He watched you as he moved, his eyes drinking in your every expression, every gasp, every moan. It was an intimate, intense connection, a dance as old as time, and you were lost in the sensation, the world narrowing to the feel of him inside you, the weight of him on top of you, the scent of him in your nostrils.
You were so lost in the pleasure Legolas was giving you that you almost forgot about Thranduil. But he was there, a silent, watchful presence at the edge of the bed. He watched you, his winter-sky eyes burning with a hunger that was almost frightening in its intensity. He stroked his own cock, his long fingers moving slowly up and down the hard shaft, his gaze never leaving the sight of his son moving inside you.
The thought of him watching, of him pleasuring himself to the sight of you being fucked by his son, was a potent aphrodisiac, and you felt a fresh surge of wetness between your thighs.
Legolas felt it too, and he groaned, his thrusts becoming faster, harder. "You like being watched, don't you?" he growled, his voice strained with his own rising pleasure. "You like knowing my father is watching me take you."
You could only moan in response, your hips rising to meet his, your body demanding more.
"Then you shall have what you desire," Thranduil's voice cut through the haze of your passion. He moved onto the bed, his movements fluid and silent, and settled behind Legolas. You watched, your breath held, as he ran a hand down his son's back, a gesture that was both paternal and undeniably sexual.
Legolas froze, his body tensing. "Ada (Father)..." he breathed, his voice a mix of surprise and something else, something darker, more forbidden.
"Hush, ion nƮn," Thranduil murmured, his hand stroking Legolas's flank. "I am not here to interrupt. I am here to join." He looked over Legolas's shoulder, his eyes meeting yours. "Are you ready for true pleasure, little mortal? Are you ready to be claimed by us both?"
The question hung in the air, a forbidden, tantalizing promise. You knew what he was asking, and the thought of it, of being filled by both of them, was both terrifying and exhilarating. You took a deep, shuddering breath, and then you nodded, a silent, breathless consent.
A slow, triumphant smile spread across Thranduil's face. He reached for a small vial of oil that sat on a table beside the bed, pouring a generous amount onto his fingers. He then moved behind you, his cool hands parting the cheeks of your ass. You tensed, a flicker of apprehension shooting through you.
"Relax, melamin," Legolas murmured, his lips brushing your forehead. "He will be gentle. We will take care of you."
He kissed you, a slow, soothing kiss, and as he distracted you with his mouth, you felt Thranduil's cool, slick finger press against your tight hole. He circled the puckered opening, his touch gentle, teasing, before slowly, carefully, he pushed a finger inside. The sensation was strange, a burning stretch that was not entirely unpleasant. He moved his finger, stretching you, preparing you, and then he added a second, the stretch increasing, a delicious ache that had you squirming beneath Legolas.
"Please," you whimpered, your body begging for more.
Thranduil chuckled, a low, wicked sound. "As you wish."
He removed his fingers, and you felt the blunt head of his cock press against your entrance. He pushed forward slowly, inexorably, and you cried out as the thick head breached the tight ring of muscle. The pain was sharp, a burning, intense stretch that was almost overwhelming. He paused, giving you time to adjust, his hands stroking your back in a soothing rhythm.
"Breathe, Y/N," Legolas whispered, his voice a lifeline in the storm of sensation. "Just breathe. It will get better. I promise."
You took a deep, shuddering breath, forcing your body to relax, to accept the intrusion. As you did, the pain began to fade, replaced by a deep, aching pleasure that was unlike anything you had ever felt. Thranduil took your acceptance as an invitation and pushed forward, sinking deeper and deeper until he was fully seated inside you, his hips flush against your ass.
You were so full, stretched to your limits, stuffed with Elven cock. The feeling was incredible, a pressure so intense it was almost painful, but it was a pain you craved, a pleasure you never wanted to end.
And then they began to move.
It was a symphony of motion, a perfect, intricate dance of flesh and desire. As Legolas thrust up, Thranduil would pull back, creating a delicious friction that had you moaning and writhing between them. They filled you completely, stretched you to your limits, and the pleasure was so intense it was almost agonizing.
Legolas's hands roamed over your body, his mouth finding yours in a desperate, hungry kiss, while Thranduil's hands gripped your hips, his touch a brand of cool fire against your skin. His lips left a trail of icy kisses down your spine, each one a counterpoint to the feverish heat building within you. They were a study in contrasts, the sun and the moon, and you were the earth caught in their glorious, devastating orbit.
The rhythm they established was hypnotic, a seamless ebb and flow that pushed you to the very brink of sanity. When Legolas withdrew, Thranduil pressed deeper, and when Thranduil retreated, Legolas filled the void. There was no moment of emptiness, no second to catch your breath. You were a vessel, perfectly and completely filled, stretched to your limits by their combined size and strength. The sensation was overwhelming, a dense tapestry of pleasure woven from threads of burning stretch, aching fullness, and a deep, primal satisfaction that resonated in the very marrow of your bones.
Legolas's kiss became more frantic, his tongue plunging into your mouth in time with his thrusts, as if he were trying to consume you, to merge your very essence with his. His golden hair, damp with sweat, clung to his temples, and his sapphire eyes, usually so clear and bright, were now dark and unfocused with lust. "You feel... incredible," he panted against your lips. "So tight... so perfect. Taking us both."
His praise was a potent drug, sending a fresh wave of arousal coursing through you. You clenched around him, a deliberate, involuntary squeeze that made him groan, his hips bucking against yours.
Thranduil felt it too. A low, guttural sound rumbled in his chest, a predator's purr of approval. "She learns her place quickly," he growled, his voice a dark, velvety command in your ear. He increased his pace, his thrusts becoming harder, more demanding, each one driving you forward onto Legolas's cock. One of his hands left your hip, snaking around your body to find the sensitive nub of your clit. He began to circle it with his thumb, the cool pad of his finger a shocking, exquisite sensation against your heated flesh.
The added stimulation was your undoing. The coil of pleasure in your belly, which had been tightening steadily, snapped with the force of a thunderclap. Your orgasm crashed over you, not as a wave, but as a cataclysm. A scream was torn from your throat, raw and primal, as your body convulsed between them. Your inner walls clamped down like a vise, spasming around their cocks as wave after wave of blinding ecstasy washed over you. Your vision went white, your mind blissfully blank, and for a moment, you were nothing but pure, unadulterated sensation.
Your release triggered theirs. With a final, powerful thrust, Legolas buried himself deep inside you, his body arching as he found his own release. He roared your name, a sound of triumph and possession, as he poured himself into you, his hot seed flooding your core in a series of pulsing jets.
A moment later, Thranduil followed. He drove into you one last time, his grip on your hip tightening almost to the point of pain as he stiffened, a low, guttural groan tearing from his throat as he emptied himself into you, his cool essence a stark, thrilling contrast to Legolas's heat.
For a long moment, the only sound in the room was your combined ragged breathing, the three of you locked together in a tangle of limbs and sweat-slicked skin. They collapsed against you, their weight a welcome, grounding pressure, and you lay sandwiched between them, your body humming with the aftershocks of your pleasure, your mind a peaceful, blissful void.
Slowly, gently, Thranduil withdrew, followed by Legolas. The sudden emptiness was a shock, but it was quickly replaced by a bone-deep satisfaction. Legolas rolled to the side, pulling you with him until you were nestled against his chest, his arm wrapped protectively around your waist. Thranduil settled behind you, his body a cool, solid presence, his arm draping over both of you, completing the circle. A fur was pulled over your exhausted bodies, a soft, warm weight that sealed you in your intimate nest.
You lay in the comfortable silence, listening to the steady beat of Legolas's heart beneath your ear and the soft, even sound of Thranduil's breathing behind you. The firelight had died down to a soft glow, casting long, dancing shadows on the walls, and the room was filled with a profound sense of peace.
Legolas pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, his lips gentle and reverent. "Are you alright?" he murmured, his voice soft with a tenderness that brought tears to your eyes.
You could only nod, your throat too tight with emotion to speak. You were more than alright. You were whole.
Thranduil's hand, which had been resting on your hip, began to move, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin. "She is more than alright, ion nƮn," he said, his voice a low, possessive purr. "She is ours."o
He shifted, moving closer, and you felt his lips press against the back of your neck, a soft, cool kiss that was a promise, a brand, a seal of ownership. "Ours," he repeated, the word a whisper in the dark.
Legolas tightened his arm around you, his chin resting on the top of your head. "Always," he agreed, his voice a soft echo of his father's claim.
And as you lay there, safe and sated between the Elvenking and his son, a mortal held in the embrace of immortals, you knew, with a certainty that settled deep in your soul, that you were exactly where you were meant to be. You were no longer just a visitor in their world, a fleeting moment in their endless lives. You were a part of them, and they were a part of you, a bond forged in fire and ice, in pleasure and pain, a love that would transcend time itself. And in the quiet darkness of the Elvenking's chambers, you finally felt like you had come home.
Soā¦.. how was it..? š«£
