#elven king

[camilleflyingrotten]

Part 1/?

[xyrw]

Thranduil, King of Mirkwood

[bohnerrific69]

i'm the happiest woman alive right now 😭 one of my favorite characters is coming back after 12 years. atp i don't care if the movie is good or bad, i just want to see my love again 🥹💕

[rdmasevi]

"Where Silver Meets Skin"

Title: "Where Silver Meets Skin": The Hobbit fanfiction

Pairing: Thranduil x Reader Male ( human )

Genre: Fantasy | Romance | Slow Burn | Tension/Enemies-to-Lovers vibes

Warnings: none.

Summary: While patrolling the edges of Mirkwood, King Thranduil encounters a bold, tattooed human living alone in the forest. What begins as suspicion quickly turns into fascination, sparking a tense and dangerous attraction neither of them expected.

The forest grows quieter the deeper Thranduil rides into it.

Mirkwood knows its king. The trees bend subtly toward him, the undergrowth parts without protest. Yet today, the silence feels… watchful. Wrong. Tracks have been found—booted feet, not orc, not elf—and so Thranduil leads a small party beyond the usual borders of patrol.

They expect a trespasser.

They do not expect a cabin.

It sits in a small clearing like it has grown there, timber walls darkened by age and smoke, stacked firewood lining one side. Human craftsmanship—crude compared to elven halls, but solid. Lived-in.

Thranduil raises a hand, halting his riders.

Then he sees you.

You stand near a chopping block, back to them, an axe rising and falling in a steady rhythm. You are shirtless despite the cool air, skin warm and marked, muscles shifting beneath inked stories. A full sleeve wraps your arm—black lines and symbols twisting with every movement. Across your shoulders, dark shapes stretch like wings caught mid-spread, disappearing down your spine. Sweat glints along the curves of your back, catching the sunlight that filters through the canopy.

You are wholly unarmored.

Unafraid.

The axe comes down with a solid crack. You pause, sensing something, and turn.

Your eyes meet his.

“Well,” you say, voice rough from exertion, mouth tugging faintly at one corner. “You’re either very lost… or very confident.”

Several elves raise bows instantly.

Thranduil lifts a single finger.

You don’t flinch. You don’t bow. You don’t scramble for decency. You just stand there, sun-warmed skin and ink on full display, studying him with open curiosity.

That, more than anything, is a mistake.

Or a challenge.

“You stand on elven land,” Thranduil says, dismounting in one smooth, predatory motion. His crown glints as he approaches you, pale and cold as winter moonlight. “Unarmed. Uninvited.”

You glance down at the axe. “Unarmed feels inaccurate.”

A murmur ripples through his guard.

Thranduil’s lips curve—not a smile, but something dangerous. He stops a few paces away, close enough now to see the faded edges of older ink beneath the newer lines, the scars hidden among the art.

“You cut wood as if you expect trouble,” he observes.

“I’ve learned to,” you reply. “Forests don’t care who you are.”

“Mine does.”

Your gaze flicks briefly to his crown, then back to his eyes. “Ah. That explains the attitude.”

That does it.

Thranduil steps closer—too close, by any sensible measure. His presence is overwhelming, ancient, sharp as frostbite. He reaches out without warning and grips your tattooed arm, fingers cool against heated skin.

You tense instantly.

Not in fear.

In readiness.

Interesting.

“These marks,” he says quietly, thumb tracing the curve of black ink over your bicep. “They are not decorative.”

“No,” you answer, jaw tightening. “Neither are scars.”

For a heartbeat, neither of you moves. The air between you hums—elf and human, eternity and inevitability colliding in a forest that has seen both rise and fall.

Thranduil releases you slowly, as if doing otherwise might shatter something.

“You live alone?” he asks.

“Not anymore, apparently.”

That earns you a sharp look—and then, unexpectedly, a low, breath-soft laugh.

“You are bold,” the Elvenking says. “Or foolish.”

You meet his gaze evenly. “Same thing, depending on how long you live.”

Something shifts in him then—something dangerous and alive. He straightens, authority settling back into place like a blade sliding home.

“You will not leave,” he says. Not a question. “And you will not cut another tree without my knowledge.”

You tilt your head. “That a threat or an invitation?”

Thranduil mounts his elk again, eyes never leaving you.

“Be careful, human,” he says coolly. “Curiosity is a costly thing.”

As he turns his riders back toward the forest, you call after him-

“King of the Woodland Realm!”

He pauses.

“If you’re going to keep watching,” you add, voice carrying, amused and unapologetic, “you could at least say you like the view.”

For a long moment, the forest waits.

Then Thranduil rides on.

But the tips of his ears burn, and he does not forget the way the sunlight loved your skin.

Nor the unsettling certainty that this—you—will not be a passing curiosity.

It will be a problem.

And gods help him—

He wants it to be.

My main masterlist

The Hobbit / Lord of the Rings - masterlist

[thranduilsdove]

.𖥔 ݁ ˖🦢˚. ᵎᵎ

Your blonde haired lover has you bent over the arm of his throne. Hands gripping the soft flesh of your hips. Thrusting into you at brutal pace. Your soft cries and moans echoing throughout the large room. The guards outside hearing everything but knowing better than to interrupt or ever say a thing. Thranduil pulls a hand from your waist, bringing it up and tangling it in your hair, yanking you against him roughly. For a typically composed ruler, he sure does fall apart as he gets lost within your walls. The way your pussy grips him like a vice, the warmth, and the mess you make as orgasm after orgasm washes over you..and it’s all because of him

•∘˙⊹. ꒰ঌ ᧔ෆ᧓ ໒꒱ .⊹˙∘•

[mushroomates]

I need you to know that I Am Obsessed with your headcanons and you are so right. Legolas is lactose intolerant. Gandalf picks fights with birds. why are there no cows in Lothlorien. I need more Legolas hcs pls I crave blorbo content >:3c

more legolas headcanons per request:

cannot spell. have you seen elvish? sindarian or quenya doesn’t matter. dislexic nightmare. with all those dialects? no thank you

had a biting problem as a kid

also had a hitting problem. this was enabled because thuranduil found it hilarious. plus it’s hard to stop kids on a positive feedback loop.

sequence of events: legolas swats someone. thuranduil cracks up. legolas is happy his dad is happy and is receiving attention. repeat.

can only wear one specific type of shoe without losing his shit. is like a dog where he gets all weird and forgets to walk with new things on his feet. he really doesn’t like slippers.

is constantly making bets with other elves. it’s so stupid. he eggs on his dad the most. (bet you can’t shoot an arrow, blindfolded and drunk, and extinguish a candle) (this is how galion shot in the shoulder)

talks in a weird accent because aragorn talks in a weird accent and he thinks that by mimicking it they they can bond :)

skins his food. like, will eat the peel of apple then flesh. will remove the white of a boiled egg methodically before he gets to the yolk. will eat the crust of a pie and then the filling.

eats a sandwich layer by layer.

mimics sounds. if he hears a new noise he will immediately try and replicate it. has gotten really good at that.

can mimic gandalf clearing his throat really, really well. to the point where everyone stops and looks at gandalf expectantly.

loves to try and stick things in gimlis hair unnoticed. almost lost an arm that way.

is very good at pickpocketing. uses this to take things from someone and plant it on someone else. ex: plant gandalfs pipe on pippin.

[belladonna-nights]

Currently obsessing over an elven king with no more than ten full minutes of screen time in an entire trilogy.

Just…. god damn.

[pulpsandcomics2]

Thranduil