What You Deny – Chapter 14, "The Bath and Departure"
Pairing: Thranduil x half elf!Reader
Word count: 3.4k
Summary: The King stumbles to the baths injured to try to shake off the battle from the cave and your near kiss. Meanwhile, you try to unpack the events with Navë. Denial begins to crumble in the face of temptation.
AO3 Link
Previous Part: Chapter 13
Author's Note: This marks the beginning of Act III – The King's Wound. Love you guys so much! Thank you for your support and comments! Also, this chapter is the first true NSFW chapter. MDNI!
Warnings: smut, bath masterb4tion, injuries with venom, cursing, intense pining, and yearning elves
I do not use generative AI in my writing
Scene 1 – Aftermath
The Elvenking strides back to his wing of the palace, outpacing Galion by furlongs. The air is so heavy. Every place you had touched on him burned, singed. That spider bite on his leg. It aches, stings, he needs to wash the wound.
His palm meets the massive door to his wing. Ignoring the guards, he forces it open. He must bathe. He must free himself from this dizziness. It had to be the spider poison, right? Why he almost took you, right there in the avalanche?
Once Thranduil hears the door slam shut behind him, he begins stripping, leaving a trail of black ichor stained boots, fabric, and his swords. The trails lead to his private baths. It was a smaller pool than the palace’s main ones, but it was for only those who stayed in his wing. Meaning, only him and Legolas. Though Legolas is staying with him, usually, it’s just him.
Strolling through the pointed archway after a long turn down some stairs, and pushing through the wooden door, Thranduil enters his private hot spring area. Even with small cracks for the steam to escape, the room still did fog up quite a bit. Twenty feet tall from above the water’s surface, the naturally textured cave ceiling dipped and bowed errantly, holding in this fresh, mineral scented steam. He winces as he peels off his pants, the left one singed with the acidic venom.
Thranduil steps down into the water. The immediate step into three feet of hot water stings the venomous wound, but the stinging keeps dully throbbing. Wading as far as possible into the hot spring over to the back wall of the room, he releases a shaky breath as the warm water lick up his legs, up his torso, embracing his shoulders. The shoulders that slammed into the wall to save her from the small avalanche. They are so sore, and that was yet not the biggest source of tension in his body.
The back wall has an elevated, shallower, more tub-like basin of even hotter water. Lifted above the main pool of this spring, the hot water of the tub gently waterfalls over the edge. The ends of the white-blonde hair of the elvenking dip into the hot water as he steps up into it. The water stings him again before becoming blissfully numb in the heat.
“My lord?” He hears Galion call after him.
“Leave me!” Thranduil growls. The footsteps turn around. He removes his crown, setting the silver ring upon the stone. Thranduil tips his head back to rest on the edge of the pool. He finds a red bottle on the side. He grabs it, dumping some of the liquid on his chest where you touched him, pressed against him as you so desperately looked up at him. And he scrubbed with his hands…his hands are filthy, and yet they touched you.
Doing anything to snap out of this, his hands roughly scrub at his legs. The sting that pains his leg runs up his thigh as he lets the pain sink in, tightening his abs, gritting his teeth, tensing the thigh that split your legs, that brushed against your core. Valar, he wishes he could have watched you ride his thigh over and over, the way the touch made you gasp. Your head would be back, looking up at him, your mouth so pliant for him.
Wanting, Thranduil curses at how fucking hard he is underneath the now silken and perfumed water. He would have tasted the blackberry on your lips if not for Galion. The Elvenking unravels as he allows his hand to drift below the water to where he is fully erect. The upper pool is only three feet deep. With every measured pump of his fist, he allows himself to fully surrender to his dizzy mind, and a syncopated slosh of water falls from the edge of the smaller upper pool into the larger spring below. The water is quickly replaced by two small fountains along the other edge of the pool, coming from spouts about three feet up from the edge of the tub.
Pleasure pulses through the dull pain of the venom, seeping into his system. He thinks of you. Of course he does. Círdan’s weapon against him, sharp, sharp thing. Made to tempt him. Made to impress him.
You took care of his soldiers but he’s seen you with that soldier before. Fergrath. You knelt so quickly for him, bending to your knees to heal him. He imagined you, so loyal, your lips smeared with the blood of the wretched creatures of the world, as much a victim to your blade as he was a victim to your touch, your feel. Would you ever kneel for him? He wonders. You, so loyal to Círdan and Elrond.
He continues to fuck his fist, rolling his wrist at the top, imagining it was you over him. Tending to him slowly, that it was your hand holding him with two hands as you held your Breeze. Using him to your will. You had to be playing him, using him. Otherwise what would explain how perfect you are for him?
Irresistible, your blackberry taste, your beautiful mind capable of such cruelty with the restraint to avoid using it. Legolas’s words swim in his head, ‘You want her, everyone can see.’
And now you know too. ‘You must know,’ he thinks. Even if you didn’t feel him through his pants, him almost kissing you proved how much his resolve has frayed. His resolve frays now. Every joyful memory of his past fades from his mind, and joy becomes blackness. Then it’s you far away in the darkness, naked, mirroring his gaze. Your head thrown back, in rapture. His hips hitch at this idea. His hair begins to stick to his face as he gasps, chin raised to that jagged ceiling.
The pain of his leg turns sharp again as he gets closer and closer, but instead of hurting it curls into a filthy sort of pain that winds tighter and tighter, his shoulders raising as his abdominals contract.
With a gasp, and your name moaned through gritted teeth, Thranduil spills out into the silken water. First, it’s euphoria, then something like realization. He can wash off the blood. He cannot wash off the wanting.
When the rapture ends, the rounds of pulsing, electric feelings from his length through his fingertips fade slowly. He is left gasping for breath, and still incurably desperate for you.
The Elvenking tries to stand to jump back to the other pool, but can’t. Has he ever come so hard? To even just the idea of someone? Is it even that? He feels like he is standing on stilts without straps connecting them to his feet. With a sudden bout of vertigo, his large pupils shrink as his eyes roll back. He falls into the pool.
“My lord!” Galion shouts.
Scene 2 – A Mess
Spent from the battle, spent from your mind spinning desperately, you drag yourself back to your room. Fergrath had not rejoined you, and Candaer is out with the other rangers or sleeping between shifts. In your room, Navë waits for you, sitting cross legged and examining her cuticles. When you stumble in, exhausted and bloodied, she gasps, jumping up from her seat.
Once the door closes behind you, you catch yourself on a dresser to your left, coming out of the doorway. “Are you — what happened?” She shouts, desperately checking you for your own wounds. You smile as she checks you over in the order you had taught her.
“I’m fine, I’m fine. I didn’t get hurt,” you weakly insist. Navë pulls back to give you a skeptical look. “I really didn’t,” you reiterate, wincing as you take another step. You are already sore from swinging Breeze and from going so far beyond with your healing. Though, you had no regret in pushing yourself this far, possibly saving Fergrath’s life and finally proving to the king that you could heal some of the corruption, hopefully also proving your spider-slayer title.
“Fine, but you look a mess,” your apprentice scolds you, crossing her arms.
“That’s fair,” you manage a half smile, acknowledging the mess of you. You turn to catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror of your vanity. It’s a step away. You move to step further into the room, but Navë stops you.
“Ah ah, no. I’m taking you to the baths,” Navë warns, blocking your path. “You will absolutely not be stepping any further into this room.” You unhook Breeze from your belt laying it across the dresser.
Without much protest, you allow her to guide you to the bath. You make your way to the bath hall for this wing of the palace, the one nearest to your quarters, even though it is still not wildly close. Along your journey, several guards and nobles turn to speak to their companions, asking if you are well or what hole you might have crawled out of. The new one, you wish you could retort.
Your boots, you are sure, leave residue with each step you take. You make your way to the baths, arm in arm with your attendant. She encourages you to drink water from a small water skin on her belt. Desperately you chug from it. You feel far better. Unfortunately, sometimes healing is as simple as that. But your head still feels light, knowing you need more time for your strength to recuperate.
The cocktail of bottled smells wafts down the hallway you use to access the baths. Once unfamiliar, now it is so very welcoming. You strip along with Navë, though your outfit sticks and peels from your body with all of the dried blood. The humidity in the air helps with peeling off the black ichorous blood which oxidizes, darkening further if possible, adhering itself to your skin.
You — wobbly-kneed — sink into the hot water of the baths.
“Here,” your elleth apprentice hands you a simple white cloth. You thank her and begin to scrub at your fingers, then up your arms, flaking off some of the black spider blood. Redness swells where you scrub it off, but it doesn’t hurt much.
“I feel like I am always asking you what happened,” Navë murmurs after some moments of silence and you scrubbing, the water sloshing against the sides of the basin for the spring. Her eyebrows knit together in concern, she says, “Since being here, you have seen more of my kingdom than I have, and certainly gotten into more danger than I ever have. It makes me nervous.”
“I do my best to keep myself safe,” you say automatically.
“Do you?” She raises, exasperated.
You pause, letting the washcloth drop from your shoulder to gently plunk into the water.
“No,” you admit quietly. Navë groans in response, shoving a palm forward, halfway out of the water. She pushes a small wave your way, splashing your face.
“Hey!” You exclaim, wiping your face off. You watch as your face drips inky tendrils into the blue bath water, your body leaking inky swirls from your skin as the venom swirls off of you in the bath water.
“I swear that being your attendant, friend, or worse: your apprentice, is such a stressful occupation,” Navë sighs, swimming over to the side of the bath. There wasn’t anyone else in here at this early hour; it is hardly mid afternoon on an unceremonious day, a possible reason that she did not mince her words.
The golden haired elleth pulls a light blue bottle from within a small basket of vials. Begrudgingly, Navë relays, “I found a new scent. It should remind you of home, my lady.” As she uncorks it, it does remind you of home. It is sand, docks, and bliss.
“Come here,” she says, walking behind you, walking along the floor of the bath with her toes, the tops of her shoulders skimming just above the water’s surface as she stands. She drags her fingers through your hair, undoing your braids and rinsing the blood and violence out of your hair. The elleth gently massages at your hands which held your mighty blade, and your arms that swung it.
You almost cry from the relief of relaxing. The feeling of her touch on you, so gentle and forgiving is so kind. You are sore, overstimulated, and fuck, you are confused. It is no secret that your face is clearly reading as distressed, and you can tell your discomfort is clearly setting off your attendant who seems genuinely concerned.
“It worked, you know,” You say. “The healing with his memory. We finished the whole trading channel.”
“Hareth was right?”
“She’d have your head if she knew you doubted,” you giggle.
“You’d best not tell her then,” Navë hums, focusing on lathering your hair, then making a cup with her palm, bringing the hot water over your scalp, rinsing the cleansing oil from your hair. “But what did end up happening? I would figure you would be…better off, if that was truly all that happened.”
“Perceptive,” you grumble. Sighing, you ready yourself to tell her. “Myself and the king went below, to the trade channel. It’s been closed for many decades. He told me about a memory with himself and Legolas. Then, it worked. The vines shrunk away.”
“I can’t imagine that that’s why you are in such a state, even though this is wonderful news. Dunk.” You dip your head below the water as she says, using your hands to push away any lathering from the bath tinctures in your hair.
Resurfacing, you reply, “No, it’s not. I’m not sure if you heard, since we were in a different area of the palace but spiders came and split the ceiling more than it already was. Fer came sprinting down to us. I killed a few spiders. I saw the king kill a few,” you pause, thinking of his broad frame, all lean muscle, powerful attacking the spiders with cruel precision. Shaking your head, you snap out of your daydream, resuming. “But then Fer got hurt, then the ceiling collapsed.”
“Collapsed? Fergrath? Is he okay?” Navë holds your shoulders, using you to pull herself back in front of you in the water. Her eyes search yours, begging for more information. “I told him to get to the healer’s. I think I removed all of the poison. Anything left should be pure wound treatment, which I know they can handle.”
“I should have been there,” Navë pinches her nose bridge. “I’m going to check on him.”
“I’m grateful to have you here, now. He needs rest. Let’s check up on him in the morning,” you take her wrists in your hands. “Breathe.” She looks at you, watery-eyed, then closes her lids. Dark eyelashes brush the top of her cheeks. With a deep inhale and a long exhale, she slowly opens her eyes again. You gently let go of her hands.
“I should be calming you,” Navë says guiltily.
“I’m obviously doing much better,” you offer a smile with moderately more fortitude behind it.
She rolls her eyes, changing the subject, “You skimmed over the ceiling collapsing part.”
“He…saved me,” you reply. Your heart speeds up thinking of him turning from a wild force of honed violence into your rescuer: shouting your name, his long legs powerfully striding over to you, knocking you into the wall, him using his body to shelter yours, sacrificing himself for you so as not to be buried in the avalanche.
“The king?” She asks, eyes wide. You nod.
“Then the walls collapsed around us, and he was pressed against me, and our lips,” you raised your fingers to brush your lips where a ghost of his lips lingered but did not touch. You think of how his head bowed down to yours, almost like a swan from your mother’s pin. “We almost kissed. I was too scared to actually close the gap between us but he was right there. Then the soldiers came; Galion came and climbed over to the one area where we could climb out, and he looked in to find us. That’s when he pulled away. But then, when we were out, he stormed away.”
“That certainly meant something,” Navë says, recalling the last time you said there was a moment between the two of you in his garden. Stop, you want to say, don’t give me hope. You shake your head, and refocus your attention on scrubbing the remaining black speckles of dried blood on your skin. Your apprentice allows the silence to sit for a moment. She washes herself, though she bites her lower lip. You know when she does that she has an urgent question.
“What is it?” you relent.
“Do you know when Legolas leaves?” Navë asks gently.
“I —” you realize you hadn’t even thought of Legolas. For fuck’s sake, you almost kissed his father! “I’m not sure, but I should surely ask.” Unlike his father, hot and cold, the warmth of Legolas feels easier, steadier. But something about the boiling sun and plunging into an icy ocean appealed to you more than these temperate waters you are treading in. Thranduil feels like the ocean to you; dangerous, cold, and to your shocking realization, like home.
“Being desired by the king has consequences, you realize,” Navë warns, pursing her lips.
“He walked away from me. Even in the heat of the moment, he didn’t kiss me,” you argue. Though, you don’t even know if you believe yourself.
“Oh, but he wanted to,” Navë pokes your arm. “You know I’m right.” Her warning hangs in the air.
By the time you are done scrubbing the last of the necrotic sludge from your hands, you get out of the baths and head back to your room. You get ready for bed, donning a white, warm, satin night slip. You try to write, read, anything to occupy your racing mind, a bid to dream of anything else but the
Laying flat on your bed, you allow yourself for a moment to imagine the consequences of the king desiring you. Consequences like him finally kissing you, claiming you with his mouth. His body pressed against yours again as he held you tighter and tighter as he claimed you in the truest way. Your hand drifted underneath the covers of your bed, gathering the skirt of your night slip up to bunch at your waist in order to access the sensitive bud between your legs.
But before you can do much more than experimentally rub against your hand, cupping your hand around the outside of your core, you imagine consequences of the most dire sort. What would your Lords say? This wasn’t your purpose, your mission. It couldn’t have been.
You had caught yourself before it went too far. Good. You know you should try to sleep before dealing with the fallout of this. The most lustful parts of your mind beg and plead with you to reconsider the more delicious consequences of the king’s possible desire. You debate, paralyzed between giving in to the heartbeat in your clit and the wetness pooling between your legs or denying yourself the hope of allowing yourself to believe he could desire you.
After five minutes of this turmoil, images of him hovering over you, his smell haunting your memory, the growl of his voice, the inky darkness of his pupils, you mutter, “Fuck it.”
Bam! Bam! Bam! A sudden pounding at the door. Your heart lurches to your throat and you shove your skirts of your night slip down, throwing the sheets away and flying out of bed.
As your feet touch down, Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam!
“I’m coming!” You rush to the door. Fergrath and Candaer are still not there — a risk you don’t consider after jolting from your compromised position.
You hear an all too familiar voice groan your name from behind the door. You fumble with the latch of the door, opening it in a rush.
“My lord,” you suck in a breath.
Next Chapter: Next Friday!
Tag List: @cassandra-reborn-anew @gerudolivinliv @avdogknight @kohoutkof01 @ladyoflindon @entishramblings @neoono @goldenreaper08 @lumiiiiiiiiii @writersnook11 @minolka08 @juliejess109 @antisocial-dogmom @chxrrybomb-1 @emysan12 @generalgoldfishldrm @urmomdotcom2000 @whimsicallywayward @xxladysquishyxx @possums-things @maddiedrmr @itsangelic @dreamtheatre
Always love when people want to be on the taglist! Feel free to comment if you do want to be a part of it or if I forgot you!
