“You... didn’t let me rest,” she breathed, barely coherent.
Thranduil only chuckled—low and dangerous, his breath hot against her skin. “Because you are not meant to rest, melamin. Not yet. Not while you still come apart so sweetly for me.”
And then he devoured her.
Mouth and tongue worshipping between her thighs, slow at first—too slow—until her back arched and her hand flew to his hair, gripping the silken strands in a silent plea. He did not rush. He feasted. Every flick of his tongue, every low growl against her sensitive flesh made her body writhe. She tried to close her legs, to escape the rising heat that threatened to undo her completely—but he only hooked his arms under her thighs and held her open.
“You will stay exactly where I put you,” he growled. “You will take what I give you.”
And stars, he gave. Until her hips bucked helplessly, and she shattered around his mouth, crying out, fingers digging into the furs, into him.
The favorite holiday in Greenwood is Mereth Nuin Giliath which translates to “Feast under the stars,” and since there is no actual mention I have been able to find anywhere in Tolkien’s legend I have decided that its a celebration for Thranduil's Begetting day. Its what Oropher and Thingol used to call his celebration (because it was 1000% Oropher and Thingol that went ape shit on their kids begetting day celebration and you cannot change my mind) and the name just carried over when they moved to live among the Silvan Elves.
The second favorite holiday is not Legoals’ Begetting day celebration, surprisingly. It's a celebration for Galion and all the other elves who do important jobs that never get recognized. The name roughly translates to ‘Best/most needed assistance’ celebration.
The entire realm…….. Goes so hard. They have a collective hangover for like 4 days afterwards and they always promise not to get as dramatic next year but it literally never works. Especially because Thranduil and Legolas are always so excited to show Galion how much they appreciate him.
And how acutely aware that they would probably be a starved mess talking to themselves and eating their own hair in the corner.
thranduils replied to your post: “okay so tumblr decided to give me my old blog back (@mishacolins) and...”:
might be the new owners making changes and actually keeping up with things, i reported a couple of nazi blogs the other day and for the first time EVER got back responses back that they violated the TOS
The world was hushed in the wake of them—like the forest itself dared not disturb the sacred silence that followed such reverent ruin.
Faelwen lay draped over Thranduil’s chest, her limbs boneless, her breath feathering soft and slow against his skin. Outside the carved stone windows, the woods shimmered in late golden light, birdsong softened by distance and drowsy heat. The scent of wildflowers and warm skin clung to the air, laced with faint notes of honey and sweat.
He was still inside her, though barely moving now—just the lazy shift of his hips when he couldn’t help it, more a whisper of closeness than desire. One of his hands traced idle circles along her spine, fingertips reverent, like he couldn’t bear not to touch her even for a moment. The other rested at the small of her back, holding her there, pressed against him like she belonged nowhere else.
She murmured his name again—not in need, but in wonder. And he answered her with a kiss placed just below her ear, his breath catching like he was overwhelmed by the simplicity of it: her skin, her voice, the quiet joy of having her.
"Lie still a while longer," he said, voice velvet-soft, threading through her like poetry. "Let the world wait."
She smiled sleepily against his chest. "You’ll be late for court."
He huffed a breath of a laugh, but it held no urgency. “Let them sit on their cold thrones and argue in circles. My throne is here.”
He ran a hand through her hair, fanning it out over his chest like a silken offering. His gaze wandered over her face—her lashes brushing her cheek, the faint flush on her skin, the ghost of a smile still playing at her lips—and he kissed her again, slower this time, lingering like he could taste the stars in her breath.
“I will never grow tired of this,” he whispered. “Of you.”
She curled closer to him, hand resting over his heart. “Then take me to the woods after court,” she murmured. “When the heat fades. When the stars come out.”
His lips curved, and he tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.
“I’ll take you wherever the stars dare to shine,” he said. “And further still.”
He shifted, just slightly—meaning only to reach for the linen wrap thrown carelessly over the edge of the bed—but the motion caused him to slide partway out of her, and the reaction was immediate.
Faelwen gasped, her whole body twitching in a shiver, hands fisting in the sheets as the sudden loss of closeness left her aching and tender. Her breath caught in her throat, her hips rising instinctively to follow him, as though her body refused to let him go.
Thranduil stilled.
His jaw clenched as a tremor ran through him, and he dropped the cloth he’d meant to retrieve. A growl curled low in his chest, the sound rougher than he intended, almost pained.
“Don’t,” he murmured, voice tight and ragged, eyes heavy with hunger even in the aftermath. “Don’t look at me like that. I’ll never leave this bed again.”
He lowered himself back over her, chest to chest, foreheads nearly touching, his length still nestled against her heat, slick and sensitive. She whimpered when he brushed against her, and he shuddered—visibly, helplessly—as though the ghost of her around him was almost too much to bear.
“By the stars, Faelwen,” he breathed, reverent and ruined. “You undo me. Even now.”
His hand slid down her waist, smoothing over her thigh. He pressed her leg higher along his hip, letting the closeness linger, letting her feel all of him again—just not quite enough.
“You feel like a spell I cannot break,” he whispered, his lips brushing her temple. “Even when I should go. Even when the realm calls me away.”
She opened her eyes to meet his. “Then don’t break it.”
A beat of silence passed between them. He exhaled slowly, as if already resigned to what he’d known all along.
“I won’t,” he said. “Not yet.”
And he slid back into her—slow, deep, deliberate—drawing another gasp from her lips and a curse from his own. The kind of union that had nothing to do with need anymore, and everything to do with staying just a little longer in the dream they had made together.
He sank into her with a groan that shook the breath from his lungs, burying himself to the hilt as if he could lose himself inside her and never have to come up for air again. Faelwen arched beneath him, her fingers sliding into his hair, pulling, grounding herself as a ragged moan spilled from her lips.
The tension coiled again, slow and decadent, not the frantic hunger of earlier but something deeper, ruinous—a kind of worship wrapped in heat.
Thranduil’s breath stuttered against her throat as he moved again, his hips rolling in a rhythm meant not to rush, but to linger—to taste every moment of this surrender. His hands roamed her body like sacred ground, thumbs brushing over her ribs, fingers splayed across her hip, holding her open for him, guiding her to match his pace. He watched her the whole time—lips parted, brow furrowed, lost in the way her body welcomed him again and again.
“You are mine,” he said lowly, the words etched into the shell of her ear like a vow, each thrust punctuating the truth of it. “My queen, my fire, my undoing.”
She tightened around him at the sound of his voice, that deep velvet ruin, and he choked on a gasp, forehead dropping to her shoulder.
“Don’t—” he rasped, “don’t do that unless you want me to—”
She did it again.
And the noise that tore from him was near feral, his grip on her hips bruising now, as he lost his careful control, pace quickening until every movement left her gasping, clawing at his back, moaning into his neck.
The room felt enchanted, thick with heat and the heady perfume of pine and sex and wildflower honey. Shadows danced on the stone walls, flickering with the rhythm of their bodies.
Faelwen’s voice broke as she cried out, trembling beneath him, and Thranduil followed a moment later with a groan like thunder through the trees—low, deep, final.
He collapsed against her with a shuddering breath, his weight a comfort, his hands never stopping their touch—tracing over her shoulder, down her spine, like a man trying to memorize the shape of his heaven.
And when he finally shifted again, still inside her but slower now, he whispered, “If this is indulgence, let me drown in it.”
hering soft and slow against his skin. Outside the carved stone windows, the woods shimmered in late golden light, birdsong softened by distance and drowsy heat. The scent of wildflowers and warm skin clung to the air, laced with faint notes of honey and sweat.
He was still inside her, though barely moving now—just the lazy shift of his hips when he couldn’t help it, more a whisper of closeness than desire. One of his hands traced idle circles along her spine, fingertips reverent, like he couldn’t bear not to touch her even for a moment. The other rested at the small of her back, holding her there, pressed against him like she belonged nowhere else.
He ran a hand up her back, slow and steady, until his fingers tangled in the mess of her pinned-up hair. One careful tug and it spilled down like silk, cascading over her shoulders and brushing against his chest.
“Beautiful,” he murmured, voice low and rough, reverent. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
Faelwen blinked lazily, a sly smile curling at the corner of her mouth. “Oh, I think I have a very clear idea.”
He chuckled, then rolled her gently beneath him, their bodies shifting effortlessly into new alignment. Her legs parted to welcome him without hesitation, but he didn’t move to take her yet.
Instead, he lowered his mouth to her neck, trailing slow, open kisses down to her collarbone, to the swell of her breast. He lingered there, tongue flicking against a peaked nipple, then sucking it softly until she gasped and arched beneath him.
“Thranduil…” she breathed, voice trembling.
“I want to taste all of you,” he said, lips brushing the curve of her waist. “Slowly. As you deserve.”
And he did.
He kissed lower, reverent and unhurried, savoring the way she writhed, the way her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling softly at first, then with desperation. He dipped his head between her thighs and drank her in like something sacred, his hands holding her hips steady as she bucked beneath him, a low moan escaping her lips.
“Please,” she whispered, voice frayed. “Please, I need—”
He didn’t stop. Not until she shattered beneath his mouth, crying out his name, thighs trembling around his head.
Only then did he rise, his mouth slick with her pleasure, his eyes dark with devotion. He kissed her—deep and slow—letting her taste herself on his lips.
Then he entered her again, with an aching, agonizing slowness that made them both groan.
This time, there was no teasing. No games.
Only need.
He moved within her with long, deliberate strokes, their hands tangled together above her head, their foreheads pressed close. Faelwen met every thrust with a softness that broke him open, not just with her body—but her gaze, her whispered moans, the way she said his name like a secret.
It was too much.
Too deep.
Too good.
And when they came again—together this time—it was quiet, breathless, trembling. A release that curled through them like fire and faded into something golden, something safe.
He collapsed beside her, pulling her into the curve of his body, their legs still tangled. One hand slid along her thigh, possessive and tender.
Faelwen turned her head slightly, her voice soft and hoarse.
“Do you surrender again, my king?”
Thranduil smiled against her hair, his breath a warm exhale against her ear.
Not with Thranduil pressed against her, his hands uncovering her inch by inch like a secret the stars had whispered to him alone. Not when he dropped to his knees with a reverence that stole her breath.
A king—on his knees.
For her.
His palms slid up the backs of her thighs, slow and claiming, his mouth trailing behind them, brushing along the inside of her leg with maddening patience. She pressed her head back against the stone, eyes fluttering closed, one hand finding his shoulder, the other gripping the folds of the tapestry behind her as if the wall itself might vanish beneath her.
“I should be furious with you,” he murmured against her skin, his voice vibrating through her bones. “But all I can think about is how utterly mine you are.”
Her fingers tightened on him. “Then claim me. Ruin me, if you must.”
“Oh, I must.”
And he did.
He touched her like a man starved, mouth and hands worshipping every place that made her gasp, that made her beg without shame. Her teasing had lit a fire in him, and now he fed it—with lips, tongue, teeth—until her legs trembled, until her breath hitched in that way he loved, until her entire body arched for more.
Faelwen’s control unraveled in layers, each one stripped away by a kiss, a murmur, a growl of her name against flushed skin.
And when he finally rose, drawing her into his arms, his face was flushed with devotion, not fury.
