Something heavy rested atop of his body. Something warm and familiar, yet his vision was so blurred, Thranduil did not recognize. The fragrance was indication enough however, he knew this scent and he knew this soul. At first he wondered why the person was seated on him, then his body squirmed almost on it’s own accord. Oh—but this felt so good.
He wore no robes he noted, hands roamed his torso, over smooth moonlit skin and a rosy bud which coaxed a pleased hiss out of the Elvenking. He found, there was no strength left in his form, he barely even managed to handle the pleasure. Fine lips parted to moan into the darkness and he felt Sadron’s hair tickle his cheek.
He wore no breeches either, nothing covered his form but his mithril tresses pooling over his soulders and the pillow and the potion master who kissed him now, a greedy kiss and Thranduil yielded, found he had no prowess to react differently.
All of a sudden there was a slight pain and he gasped, writhed as if to shake off a biting insect and he noted what it was as his legs were parted by certain hands. Another moan, the Elvenking voicing his pleasure weakly without being entirely certain what was occuring.
"Sadron." he inquired later, after he had awoken in his bed, dressed, without company and stained sheets for as obscure it had been, the pleasure had swayed him. "I had an odd dream." It was not unusual occurence for Thranduil to share his dreams and nightmares with the potion master. He after all, was the one who graced the King with sleeping potions and soothing mixtures. "Why does my rear hurt?"
