Pairing: Thranduil x Reader
Warnings: S M U T, p in v, secret relationship, no plot really
WC: ~3k
A/N: enjoyyyy🫢
The stone corridors of the Elvenking's halls are silent, lit by the soft, ethereal glow of lanterns that seem to breathe with a life of their own. You move through them like a shadow, your heart a frantic drum against your ribs, a rhythm of fear and anticipation. Every footfall is muffled by the thick carpets, but you feel as loud as a war drum. You are a human, a creature of fleeting years and clumsy limbs, in a place of timeless grace and predatory beauty. And you are walking into the lion's den.
You reach the great doors of his throne room, carved from the very wood of the forest and inlaid with silver and gold. They stand ajar, a silent, mocking invitation. With a trembling hand, you push them wider and slip inside.
The room is vast and cavernous, a testament to power and age. At its far end, upon a throne carved from the living root of a great oak, sits Thranduil. He is not looking at you. His gaze is fixed on some distant point, his profile sharp and regal, a study in arrogant perfection. His silver-gold hair cascades over his shoulders like a frozen waterfall, and his robes, the color of deep winter twilight, pool around his feet. He is magnificent, terrifying, and entirely yours in these stolen moments.
"You are late."
His voice cuts through the silence, not loud, but impossibly clear. It's a low purr that vibrates through the marble floor and up your legs, settling as a deep, throbbing ache in your core. You flinch, stopping in your tracks.
"My lord," you begin, your voice barely a whisper. "I had to ensure the way was clear. The guards—"
"The guards are of no consequence," he interrupts, finally turning his head. His eyes, the piercing blue of a winter sky, lock onto yours. There is no warmth in them, only a cold, assessing fire. "You are late because you enjoy the thrill of disobedience. You enjoy the thought of my displeasure."
It's an accusation, but it's also the truth. A slow, dangerous smile curves his lips. "Come here."
You obey, your feet moving of their own accord, carrying you across the vast expanse of the floor until you stand at the foot of the dais, looking up at him. He leans forward, his elbows resting on the arms of his throne, his chin propped on his steepled fingers.
"Remove your dress."
The command is simple, direct, and leaves no room for argument. Your fingers shake as you fumble with the laces at the back of your simple, serviceable gown. The fabric pools at your feet, leaving you naked and vulnerable in the cold, grand chamber. You feel his gaze like a physical touch, a caress of ice that burns. He takes in every detail: the swell of your breasts, the curve of your hips, the dark triangle of hair at the juncture of your thighs.
"Turn around," he orders.
You do, slowly, presenting your back to him. You hear the rustle of silk as he rises from his throne. His footsteps are silent as he approaches. You feel his presence behind you, a towering force of contained energy. Then, his hand is on your shoulder, tracing the line of your spine with a single, cool finger. The touch sends a shiver through you, raising goosebumps on your skin.
"So fragile," he murmurs, his lips close to your ear. "So warm. So mortal."
His hands grip your arms, turning you to face him. He is so close you can feel the chill radiating from his body, can see the faint, ancient scars that mar the perfection of his face. He cups your face in his hands, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones.
"I have thought of this all day," he confesses, his voice a low growl. "Of your taste, your scent. Of the sounds you make when you are lost to pleasure."
He crashes his mouth down on yours. It is not a kiss of romance or affection. It is a claiming, a brutal act of possession. His teeth nip at your lower lip, drawing a small bead of blood, which he laps away with his tongue. His tongue invades your mouth, a relentless, demanding force. You kiss him back with equal desperation, your hands tangling in the silk of his robes, pulling him closer.
He breaks the kiss as suddenly as it began, his chest heaving slightly. His eyes are dark with a primal hunger that makes your breath catch. He takes a step back, his gaze sweeping over you once more before he makes a sharp, dismissive gesture.
"On the floor," he commands, his voice cold and hard as steel.
The words hit you like a physical blow. You hesitate for a fraction of a second, and his eyes narrow. "Must I repeat myself?"
You sink to your knees, the cold, unforgiving marble a shock against your skin. He watches you, his expression unreadable, as you lower yourself onto your hands and knees before him. It is a position of utter submission, and the humiliation of it mingles with a dark, thrilling excitement.
He circles you slowly, like a predator surveying its prey. He stops behind you, and you feel the heavy weight of his boot as he places it between your shoulder blades, applying a gentle but firm pressure. You gasp, your arms trembling as you struggle to hold yourself up.
"You are a sight," he says, his voice thick with satisfaction. "A human, on her knees for her Elvenking. Does it excite you? This degradation?"
You can only whimper in response, your face burning with shame and desire.
He removes his foot, and you hear the soft whisper of silk as he sheds his robes. Then, he is kneeling behind you, his hands gripping your hips, pulling you back against him. You feel the hard, thick length of him pressing against your slick folds through the thin fabric of his leggings. He is huge, a fact that has both terrified and thrilled you in your previous encounters.
He grinds against you, a slow, torturous rhythm that has you moaning and pushing back against him, desperate for more. "Tell me what you want," he demands, his voice a harsh whisper.
"You," you gasp. "Please, Thranduil, I want you."
A dark chuckle rumbles in his chest. "As you wish."
He fumbles with the fastenings of his pants, and you hear the rustle of fabric. And then, you feel it, the hot, velvety skin of his cock against your entrance. He teases you for a moment, rubbing the head of his shaft against your clit, coating himself in your wetness. You are squirming, panting, desperate for him to fill you.
He doesn't wait. He doesn't prepare you. With a single, brutal thrust, he buries himself to the hilt inside you.
A sharp, searing pain tears through you as his immense size stretches you beyond your limits. It's a white-hot agony that steals your breath and makes you cry out, a raw sound of shock and pain. Your arms give out, and you collapse onto the cold stone, your cheek pressed against the marble as tears spring to your eyes.
He stills for a moment, his body a heavy weight over yours, his chest heaving against your back. You can feel his heart beating, a slow, steady rhythm against your frantic pulse.
"Be still," he murmurs, his voice surprisingly gentle against your ear. "Breathe. The pain will pass. I did not intend to hurt you."
His words are a balm, but the pain is still a raw, throbbing fire. You try to obey, taking ragged breaths as your body struggles to adjust to his impossible size. He is still inside you, a hot, hard presence that fills you completely. The pain begins to subside, slowly, replaced by a deep, aching fullness that is not entirely unpleasant.
He starts to move then, slowly at first, his hips rocking in a deliberate, careful rhythm. Each movement sends a jolt through you, a mix of lingering pain and an undeniable pleasure that begins to bloom in your belly. He is being gentle, a stark contrast to his earlier brutality.
"Are you alright?" he asks, his voice laced with a rare hint of concern.
You nod, your face still pressed against the floor. "Yes," you whisper, your voice hoarse. "Don't stop."
His response is a low growl of approval. He picks up the pace, his thrusts becoming harder, deeper. The sounds of your coupling fill the vast throne room, the slap of skin against skin, his ragged grunts, your desperate cries. He is relentless, his grip on your hips tightening as he pistons into you, driving you closer and closer to the edge.
"You are mine," he growls, his voice thick with possession. "Every inch of you belongs to me. This body, this pleasure… it is all mine to give and to take as I please."
His words are your undoing. You shatter around him, your inner walls clenching tightly as waves of pleasure crash over you. It's a powerful, all-consuming orgasm that leaves you trembling and breathless. He follows you over the edge with a loud groan, his body tensing as he spills himself deep inside you, his hot release a soothing balm to your abused flesh.
You collapse onto the floor, your body trembling and spent. He stays inside you for a moment longer before withdrawing, his essence leaking out of you and onto the stone beneath. You feel empty, aching, but strangely sated.
He rises to his feet, adjusting his clothing before looking down at you, his expression once again cold and unreadable. "We're not finished," he says, his voice a low command that sends a fresh wave of anticipation through your exhausted body.
He reaches down, his hand closing around your upper arm. His grip is firm, almost bruising, as he hauls you to your feet. Your legs are unsteady, trembling from the intensity of your release and the lingering ache from his rough entry. He doesn't give you a moment to find your balance, instead half-dragging, half-leading you across the vast expanse of the throne room towards the dais.
You stumble up the steps, your bare feet slapping against the cold stone. He stops before his great throne, a monstrosity of carved wood and ancient power, and pushes you down onto it. You land with a soft gasp, the hard, unyielding wood a shock against your bare skin. The carved arms dig into your back, but the discomfort is a distant sensation, overshadowed by the look in his eyes.
He stands before you, a towering figure of silver and shadow. His gaze sweeps over you, taking in your disheveled hair, your flushed skin, the marks he has left on your neck and breasts. He looks at you as if you are a prize he has just won, a treasure to be admired and then consumed.
"Spread your legs," he orders, his voice flat and devoid of emotion.
It's a humiliating command, given here, in the seat of his power. But you obey without hesitation, your body responding to his authority even when your mind reels. Your legs fall open, exposing your glistening, swollen sex, still slick with your arousal and his release. The cool air of the room feels like a caress against your heated flesh.
A slow, predatory smile spreads across his face. He kneels before you, his movements fluid and graceful, a predator descending upon its prey. His eyes are fixed on the most intimate part of you, his gaze so intense it feels like a physical touch. You can feel your heart pounding in your chest, a frantic, desperate rhythm.
"Look at you," he murmurs, his voice a low, husky rumble. "So wanton, so beautifully debauched. My human queen, sitting on my throne, her body open and waiting for me."
He leans forward, and you feel his hot breath against your sensitive flesh. You gasp, your hands flying to the carved arms of the throne, your knuckles turning white as you grip them tightly. Then, his tongue is on you, a hot, wet flame against your clit.
He devours you with a hunger that borders on feral. His tongue is a masterful instrument, swirling and flicking, lapping at your folds, tasting the mixture of your arousal and his own release. He is not gentle. He is rough, demanding, his mouth working you with a single-minded purpose that leaves you breathless and begging.
Your hands find their way into his hair, your fingers tangling in the silky strands as you grind your hips against his face. He growls against you, the vibrations sending shivers of pleasure through your entire body. He brings you to the brink again and again, his tongue and teeth driving you wild, only to pull back at the last moment, leaving you dangling on the precipice of release, desperate and begging for more.
"Please, Thranduil," you whimper, your hips bucking wildly, your body aching for release.
He chuckles against your skin, a dark, satisfied sound. "Please what?" he teases, his tongue flicking against your clit in a feather-light touch that is almost painful.
"Please… let me come," you beg, your voice a hoarse cry of desperation.
"Again," he demands, his voice a low growl of command. "Beg me properly."
"Please, my lord," you cry out, your body writhing in ecstasy and agony. "Please, I need to come. I'll do anything, just please… let me come."
This time, he grants your wish. He sucks your clit into his mouth, his tongue swirling around it as he slides two long, elegant fingers inside you. He curls them, hitting that magical spot deep within you that makes you see stars. You scream his name as your orgasm rips through you, more intense than the last, a tidal wave of pleasure that threatens to drown you. Your body convulses, your back arching off the hard wood of the throne as wave after wave of ecstasy crashes over you.
He continues to lick and suck at you, drawing out your pleasure until you are a whimpering, trembling mess. Only when you are completely spent does he rise, his face glistening with your juices, a triumphant, possessive glint in his eyes.
He unfastens his trousers once more, his cock already hard and ready, standing proud and erect. It's a magnificent sight, a testament to his Elven vitality, and a fresh wave of desire courses through you despite your exhaustion.
"Turn around," he commands.
You scramble to obey, your movements clumsy and uncoordinated. You turn to face the back of the throne, your hands gripping the carved wood for support. He positions himself behind you, his hands gripping your hips, pulling you back against him. He enters you in a single, smooth thrust, this time with more care, but no less intensity. He is still impossibly big, and you feel a familiar ache as he stretches you, but it's a good ache, a pleasurable ache that speaks of his possession.
He sets a punishing pace, his hips slapping against your ass with each powerful thrust. His hands grip your shoulders, pulling you back to meet his powerful strokes, driving himself deeper and deeper inside you. The sounds of your coupling fill the vast throne room, a symphony of flesh and desire, of gasps and groans and the creaking of the ancient throne.
"Look at you," he murmurs, his voice thick with desire, his lips against your ear. "Taking me on my throne. So wanton, so shameless. You are a disgrace to your race, and yet you are the most exquisite creature I have ever laid eyes on."
His words, combined with the feel of him inside you, push you to the edge once more. You can feel another orgasm building, a slow, creeping heat that starts in your toes and spreads through your entire body. He reaches around, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing it in time with his thrusts.
"Come for me," he growls, his voice a harsh command. "Come for your king."
You shatter around him, your body shaking with the force of your release. It's a powerful, all-consuming orgasm that leaves you weak and trembling. He follows you over the edge with a loud groan, his body tensing as he spills himself deep inside you for the second time, his hot release a comforting warmth against your inner walls.
He stays inside you for a moment longer, his forehead resting against your back, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Then he withdraws, helping you to your feet. Your legs are like jelly, and you stumble, but he catches you, pulling you into his arms.
For a moment, his embrace is surprisingly tender. He holds you close, his hand stroking your hair, his touch gentle and caring. You lean into him, your body sated and content, your head resting against his chest. You can feel the steady beat of his heart, a slow, calming rhythm against your ear.
But the moment is fleeting. He pulls away, his expression once again cold and distant. He straightens his robes, his movements precise and economical, as if the passionate, primal creature of moments ago had never existed.
"You should go," he says, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. "Before you are missed."
You nod, your heart aching at the sudden change in him. You reach for your discarded dress, your movements slow and clumsy. As you pull it over your head, you turn to look at him one last time. He is already back on his throne, his gaze fixed on some distant point, as if you are no longer in the room.
You slip out of the throne room and into the shadows of the corridor, your body aching and your heart heavy. You are his, body and soul, and you wouldn't have it any other way. But as you make your way back to your humble chambers, you can't help but wonder if you will ever be more to him than just a fleeting pleasure, a temporary distraction in his long, immortal life.
The thought is a bitter pill to swallow, but you push it aside. For now, you have his attention, his touch, his possession. And for you, that is enough.
I need him sb 😫
