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creepychan08 · 1 year

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Thranduil x Reader- Period Pains

Prompt: Thranduil comforting you during your time of the month

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You wake up that morning with a massive cramps, sensitive breasts and a slight headache. The ray of sunlight filtering through the curtains and falling on your form normally would have made you smile as you wake up happily but not today. It only serves to make your headache worsen.

You groaned and shifted your body, back facing your husband.

"Good morning, my love. Did you sleep well?" Thranduil's gentle voice greeted you as he plant a soft kiss to your shoulders.

You only grunted in response. Not in the mood to talk with anyone today as the pain in your lower abdomen increased. Its normally not like this. Your time of the month usually just pass by like a breeze, save for a slight cramps. But this month was the worse.

Sensing your discomfort, Thranduil embrace you closer from behind.

"Are you in pain, meleth nin? Is something bothering you?"

His sensitive nose finally picks up on a smell.

Blood.

Immediately, his senses were on alert as he check over your body. He saw the big, red stain of blood on your bottom and his eyes widen in shock.

How did this happen? Did someone harmed you while you were asleep? And you were even sleeping beside him. How could he fail to sense the intruder and protect you?

"Its nothing. Its part of human anatomy of a woman. We bleed like this every month and with it comes the cramps. Although I admit, its the worst today" You patiently explain to him, gritting your teeth when another wave of pain pass through your body.

He furrowed his eyebrows in confusion but decided not to further ask you as he can see you were already in pain. He decided to do research on his own about this topic later after he tends to you.

"I'm sorry you had to go through this, my love" He pressed a kiss on top of your head as he rub his hands up and down comfortingly on your arms.

"Please tell me what can I do to help alleviate your suffering. Anything you want or desire YN."

He paused and continued, "I'll call the healers right now"

"No wait" you grasped his hand tightly. "No need for the complete check up. I just need them to give me pain killers."

He looked at you seriously, debating his decision as he feels it would be best to have the healers check on you thoroughly but after seeing the determined look in your eyes, he figured you know more on how to deal with your pain.

After the healers came and gave you pain killers, you finally relax as you felt the pain decreasing to a tolerable amount.

Thranduil still hovered around you in concern, constantly asking how you're feeling and you can't help chuckle at his antics.

"Why are you laughing, YN? Do you find it humorous to find me in great worry over your condition?" If you look closely, you can almost see a small pout on his face.

"Oh Thranduil, my love, I do not mean it like that." You cup your hands on both his cheeks as you smile at him in apology.

"I am most flattered and grateful for your concern but I am feeling better now. And I find you fussing over me quite adorable in my eyes"

He blush slightly and hides his face in your neck. You hummed in delight while gently brushing his soft hair.

'Who would have thought that the stone cold, Elven King would have this side of him' You thought with a smile.

"You don't have to worry a single thing today, YN. Ease your mind. I'll take care of you and make you forget about your monthly misery"

After a whole day of being pampered more so than your usual days, eating your favorite foods, endless cuddling, massages and a special bath prepared to sooth your body, you can say for the first time that you were already looking forward for your next month's red days.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

So I just finished my period and can't help but wish Thranduil to be there and care for me as well lol. Really sucks to be in love with a fictional character.

Anyway, this one is shorter as its just imagine scenarios for when the reader was in her painful time of the month and what I think Thranduil would be like in those case.

That's all! Hope you like it and you can comment what you think about the story so far. Stay safe, guys! :)))

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coopsgirl · 2 years

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I am still working on Chapter 10 and it may be another week but it's going to be a really fun turn in the story. Thranduil and Thalieth will be invited to Rivendell/Imaldris and it's going to be a very interesting time. I have a lot I'd like to do with that so the next couple of chapters will probably cover their time there as they meet Elrond and Glorfindel.

If you're new to my blog, here's the link to the full story so far. Thank you for all the likes/comments. I appreciate everyone who has read and enjoyed it!

#thranduil fanfiction #thranduil fan fic #thranduil x reader #thranduil #tolkien elves #elven king #greenwood the great #greenwood elves #galadriel #celeborn #celebrian #galion #fluff fic #romantic thranduil #sweet thranduil #protective thranduil #cirdan

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shirefantasies · 15 days

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Hey, babes!

Honestly I have brain rot for the idea of the ‘woman of the group does sexy dance to help mission’ trope and like LOTR boys. I also have brain rot for them hearing her sing ‘I Wanna Make Love To You’ by Etta James.

Anyway can I request the elves reactions to reader do a sexy burlesque/strip style dance? Like they in the audience and how they’d react.

By elves I mean: Elrond, Lindir, Thranduil, Legolas, Haldir and Arwen

OK I’M YELLING (I went ahead n threw our girl Galadriel in there cuz gotta catch em all right? 😁) there’s not really a mission lol but hope this does it justice! My latest D&D session the other night ended with burlesque performance so this feels like the perfect time to post this hehe

The Elves Reacting to F!Reader’s Burlesque Performance

Warnings: suggestive obviously 😆

Thranduil

Sure, he knew you’d all but been dared to set foot upon the stage, but something in your resolute expression and the long robe you wore had Thranduil’s eyebrows raising. Nary did he expect the way your hand shot out, grabbing the pole the moment the lights dimmed, or the way your robe dropped, revealing the lowest-cut, highest-slit dress he’d ever seen you in. Breath hitching, he watched as a long wave of fabric draped between your gorgeous legs, which wrapped around the pole as you climbed it. Eyes darkening as you spun, he could hardly help imagining what, or whom, else they could wind around so, and if he would ever be so blessed to see the confident air overtaking you again…

Legolas

Frowning, Legolas disappeared further into the gathering crowd. Gimli was the one who’d dared him to attend the show, telling him he was sure no pointy-ear could handle it. How could it be so, simply a performance? The crowd looked far too eager for you to be putting them into any sort of- oh. You emerged onto the stage, forearms and down covered with feathers like the wings of a great bird. Your legs were almost entirely bare, skirt minimal and bodice little more than a corset. Twirling and pirouetting into poses the woodland prince could only describe as suggestive, you beamed innocently at the crowd and hid behind your feathers, lashes fluttering. Another performer emerged behind you, hands on your waist and fingers deftly loosening your corset… Gripping the arms of his seat tighter, Legolas leaned in, a yearning in his own fingers readily accepting his friend’s latest challenge.

Haldir

A dancer you were. That was a known fact whispered among those familiar with you, often calling you something of a knife-dancer. Curiosity got the better of Haldir when scandal colored whispers of your performance right outside the woods. Was it dangerous, perhaps? Pride flowed into the little smile of anticipation he wore as fast-paced music filled the room and flames were snuffed, leading you to slide gracefully into the dim. Crouching, you crawled to the edge of the stage with a bloodthirsty grin that sent shivers down Haldir’s spine. Flicks of your wrists revealed your famed blades, which you twirled, tossed, and dragged gently along the length of your tongue. Brows raising, he found himself leaning forward with new interest. What sort of dance was- Coherent thought ceased immediately when you tossed your blades, caught them, and began slicing away at purposefully shoddy seams upon your outfit, revealing more and more until the elf was on the edge of his seat…

Galadriel

Hearing of a new form of entertainment served only to pique Galadriel’s curiosity and draw her from her frequent solitude. After all, if it was making her people happy… She did not expect to see a lone performer upon a platform, elaborately feathered fans covering most of her figure, but there you were. Clad all in white, at least from what she could see near your feet, you slowly closed the fans. The long swaths of fabric that hung near the ground begun only at your hips, the expanse of your legs utterly bare as you extended them, moving gracefully across the stage as your fans accentuated every curve and undulation of your body. Jerking, you rotated, hips swiveling as you happened to face the Lady of Lórien, and watching you through her lashes Galadriel felt a devilish smile rise to her lips. She saw exactly why there had been such a buzz…

Lindir

There had been talk of you giving a performance of some kind, but all Lindir had been able to retrieve on the subject was that he should quite like to be in the audience, so with a light heart he shuffled into the crowd, pleased to be quite close to the stage set up for you. Perhaps you’d learned a new instrument under his nose and wishes to surprise him with a performance! Perhaps- You slunk to the center clad in, oh dear, quite a sheer skirt. Feeling a rush of heat to his face, he tried to focus upon the swell of music, largely successful until you ripped your top off, hips swinging lower as your layers thinned and thinned… You froze momentarily, wearing little more than your corset, and made direct eye contact with Lindir, whose eyes widened and body felt quite faint. Slowly, deliberately, you took up your dance once more, grinning at him as you began unlacing the back of your garment. His hands shot up, half-covering his face, but he couldn’t help himself peeking again and again.

Elrond

Housing a troupe of performers was certainly an unusual set of circumstances, but not in the slightest beyond the reach of the great homely house. Indeed, at encouragement from Lindir to let music fill his halls, Elrond acquiesced to a performance, unknowing of the so-called ‘dancers’ who would emerge after the exuberant wind section. In fact, it wasn’t until they called you out that Elrond’s eyes widened, brows expressive as ever as they flexed in great shock. You were lowered down on ropes, sitting with your legs largely bared and swinging. Garments- quite the loose term- of drapery covered the rest of your form, but as you leaned back in your swing, you began twisting, swiveling, removing one veil after another… Elrond found himself looking this way and that, but his eyes could never leave you for long. Feeling his gaze darken and his hands flex, he wondered what he had gotten himself into…

Arwen

How scandalous could it be? Many a friend or even a family member or two had rolled eyes and whispered harshly about your performances, but Arwen was not afraid. No matter what it was said to be, she would experience it for it to be so in her mind. Thus she found herself in the audience of the very subject of contempt, the somewhat smaller ratio of maids to men not lost upon her. A great fount was all Arwen could see at the center of it all, at least until one bare leg slowly arched from its edge. Blinking, Arwen watched as it was followed by another, each of them kicking some water onto the crowd before your hands gripped the other side, flipping over to render most of your body visible. Hanging from the sides, you swiveled your hips, head innocently rested upon your folded arms as if your…ahem…rear end were not moving so. Sitting up, you let go, dropping back into the water with a splash before emerging again and grinningly tossing water on more patrons. Arwen found herself mirroring your expression, following your every motion with interest and a strange sense of elation.

Taglist: @lokilover476 @fuckyoumakeart @mossthebogwitch @ibabblealot @kilibaggins @stormchaser819 @pirate-lord-of-narnia @datglutengoblin | Reply/Ask/Message to join 🥰

#lord of the rings #the hobbit #lotr imagines #the hobbit imagines #lotr x reader #the hobbit x reader #thranduil #legolas #haldir #galadriel #lindir #elrond #arwen #female reader #ask #fly-on-my-sweet-angel #requested #suggestive #this was a fun one thank you 😌

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bakuliwrites · 2 years

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Upon a Forest Throne, Thranduil x Reader

Rating: 18+ (MINORS DNI)

Fandom: The Hobbit/Lord of the Rings

Relationship: Thranduil x Reader

Summary: As Thranduil's Queen-to-Be, you worry his subjects will not accept you. So the Elven King takes it upon himself to show you just how worshipped you are.

Read here in this post or over on my AO3.

The air in the dining hall is stifling. A cacophonous din of voices swirls through the air, weighty and suffocating. Eyes fall on you: some curious, others disdainful.

Interloper, they speak wordlessly, glaring pointedly, Fraud. Thief.

From where you sit at the head of the table, you can sense every guest, every dignitary, trying to feel you out. Attempting to figure out the woman who has claimed their King’s heart, and is soon to claim the throne beside his. Thranduil seems to take no heed of the accusatory glowering and inquisitive gawking. His cool and collected gaze sweeps over his guests before settling on you. You try not to show your discomfort, smiling softly at your betrothed, but the way your hands fidget with the sleeves of your gown betray your growing unease. Thranduil’s dark brows crinkle, his striking azure eyes awash with concern. But before he can say anything to you, he’s interrupted by an attendant furtively whispering something in his ear. He nods in understanding and the attendant scampers off.

“Esteemed guests,” the Elven King’s commanding voice rings through the room, voices falling away to silence, “I invite you to join us in the adjoining salon for after dinner drinks.”

One by one, people rise from their seats, followed by the clink of silverware being abandoned on plates and the scrape of chairs scooting out from the table. You and Thranduil are the last to rise, trailing after your guests as they file into the room next door.

“Meleth nîn,” your voice sounds, barely above a whisper, halting your beloved in his tracks. He looks to you, handsome face scrunched with concern.

“What troubles you?” he hushes, taking this private moment to pass his thumb gently across your cheek.

“Might I have a moment on my own? I’ll join you when I’m finished. I just need a few minutes of quiet,” you request. The crease between Thranduil’s brow deepens. Air falters in your chest, lungs constricting with the anxiety of having to face that whole room staring you down. This is supposed to be a private dinner meant to introduce you to other Elven dignitaries from across Middle Earth. To test to see how you might get along with them as Mirkwood’s Queen-to-Be. Yet, here you are, wanting to escape. The tension is too much to handle. You’ve put on a brave face all night, made small talk with people who obviously don’t want to get to know you, and have been scrutinized like some sort of wretched specimen. You need just a few undisturbed moments to gather yourself before you repeat this all over again.

“You need not ask me for permission,” Thranduil reassures, softly beaming, “Take as much time as you need.”

You slip your hand into his, giving it a small squeeze before you flit through the hallways in search of a more tranquil place. Lost in thought, you allow your feet to carry you where they may. Your steps echo through the grand halls of the palace as you wander aimlessly, mind fixated on the piercing gazes that still seem to prickle along your skin. You find yourself standing before the throne. Swirling tendrils of branches creep their way up the sides and back. Large antlers hang imposingly at the top, mighty and grand. A reminder of the power of the Elf King, himself.

You imagine Thranduil, draped languidly across the throne, his robes spilling over the sides. His subjects look adoringly upon him, admiration and respect in their eyes. And then there’s you. A foreigner and a thief to them. They glare at you from your place beside your soon-to-be husband. Their distaste for you is clear. They’ve made no attempts to hide it. They’d grown used to a kingdom with one ruler. And now here you are, a usurper. Parvenu, you heard one whisper once as you passed them in the hallway. Your sudden fame and status seem hardly fair to them. Earned only because you’ve somehow managed to “bewitch” their King. Though you are an Elf, you are not of Mirkwood, nor are you of any important lineage; and, this troubles them.

“You radiate sorrow tonight, meleth nîn,” Thranduil’s velvety voice sounds from somewhere behind you, startling you out of your thoughts. You whirl around to face him, mouth pursed and brows crinkled.

“I didn’t realize how tragic I must appear,” you return, chuckling ruefully. He smiles softly at you, gracefully ascending the staircase to meet you before his throne.

“Not tragic,” he reassures, his silver-blonde hair cascading down around his shoulders, “But melancholy enough for your betrothed to notice. What troubles your heart?”

“Shouldn’t you be with our guests?” you venture, feeling guilty for taking him away from his royal duties. And knowing his guests must be gossiping about you this very moment, horrified that you would take their King away from them, blaming you for his absence.

“They can wait,” Thranduil responds, cupping your cheek in the warmth of his palm, “I have far more important matters to attend to.”

You allow your eyelids to flutter shut, pressing your cheek further into Thranduil’s touch, comforted by his quiet presence. To many, he is unapproachable, aloof and intimidating. But he has shown you a tenderness and gentility most others are not privy to.

“I fear your subjects do not accept me. And never will,” you breathe, inhaling his familiar scent. Your nose fills with autumn spice and forest rain, settling your racing heart and laying to rest some of your most fretful thoughts.

“Why do you say that?” your betrothed’s even voice inquires. You feel him place his hand on the small of your back and draw you into his chest. You lean your cheek against him, listening to the quiet thrum of his heart.

“I see the way they look at me when I am at your side,” you explain, wanting so desperately to remain locked in his embrace for the remainder of the night, knowing full well that you will eventually have to return to the party, “I’m an intruder to them. Someone who has stolen the affection of their King and used it to rise in their ranks. I sense their disdain for the strange woman who’s dared to promise herself to their royalty and take the throne as her own.”

Thranduil leans back, a stern look cemented firmly on his face. His eyes are serious as they meet yours, filled with their usual regal sheen.

“They will warm to you. Many of them have only known one of their own to sit atop this throne,” he gives a sweeping gesture towards his chair, guiding you up to it, “But as they come to know you, I expect their hostile sentiment to dissipate. And for those that remain disdainful of you- well, their ignorance is truly without end.”

“What if they feel I am not worthy?” you fret, allowing your fingers to graze the end of one knotted arm of the throne, before pulling away as if scalded by it.

“You have proven your worth to me, and more,” Thranduil reasons, gently taking your hand in his and placing it back on the throne. He holds it there for a moment, grasp firm but not too tight, making sure you feel the wood grain beneath your fingertips. Ensuring that you feel that this throne is just as much yours as it is his.

“In time, my people,” he goes on, correcting himself, “-our people will see this. And they will know your worth through your actions. Worry not, meleth nîn. Change is hard for those who have lived long enough to become complacent. They will come to see you as I do.”

“But what if-” you begin, but are silenced when Thranduil lays his lips against yours, swallowing up any protests you are about to unleash. You delight in these private moments with him, when he lets down his guard and shows affection as if no one else is watching. You know there are probably guards around. They trail him through the hallways and now, they trail you, too. Ensuring your safety as the palace's newest resident. You take comfort in knowing that they seem to accept you. It could be through the command of their King, but you sense a genuine interest in your protection from them.

Thranduil pulls back, sweeping aside strands of your hair that have fallen into your eyes. A loving beam tugs at the corners of his thin lips, affection glittering in his blue irises.

“You concern yourself with their opinions far too much,” he chuckles. His look shifts to one more contemplative. He searches your face for something, though you’re unsure of what.

“In some hypothetical world, even if they do not accept you, that will not change how I feel about you,” he finally says. You feel a pang of relief, breathless and free. Your unspoken worry has been recognized, one you never thought to share. One you couldn’t admit, even to yourself. If Thranduil’s people cannot accept me, what if he decides he cannot love me?

Tears bead in the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill down your flushed cheeks. You cling to Thranduil’s robes, grasping tight at the fabric, afraid to let go.

“Is this what has troubled you all these sleepless nights?” he goes on, running his elegant fingers through your hair, “I feel you beside me, lying awake, staring off into the darkness. I’ve sensed how crestfallen your heart has been. Why did you not tell me?”

“I was afraid,” you admit through shuddering breaths, voice muffled against Thranduil’s chest. He raises your face, tips your chin up so you may look upon him.

“Fear not,” he breathes, voice soft and low, his look consoling, “My love for you lies not in the will of my people. It resides resolutely in the chambers of my heart. The threads of my soul. There will not be a day that passes where I will not adore you.”

What little composure you have left shatters with Thranduil’s ardent proclamation of his love for you. His arms envelope you in their warm embrace as you weep shuddering breaths into his chest. He whispers reassurances, hushes your quiet sobs with feather-light kisses peppered across your cheekbones. You need him closer, yearn to show him just how meaningful his words are to you. But your voice catches in your throat, so you do the only thing you can: you press your lips firmly to his, feeling him melt into you as you try so desperately to occupy the very space he inhabits in Middle Earth. His mouth moves fervently against yours, tongue testing your parted lips. You permit him entrance, allow him to graze the underside of your teeth as his hands work to tangle themselves in your hair.

“You are more than worthy of being my wife,” Thranduil utters through shallow breaths in between crashing his lips into yours, “More than ready to be my Queen.”

“My King,” you huff, cheeks blooming with heat, body alight with anticipation, “Are you sure you want to do this here? With all your guests in just the other room?”

He practically snickers. You can feel him grin devilishly against you. You’re nose-to-nose, his brilliant eyes shimmering with impish glee. There’s something breathtakingly sly, dangerous in the most wonderful of ways in them.

“Let them hear,” he whispers, lips tickling the sensitive spot just behind your ear. You can hardly help the pleasured moan that escapes your throat as he trails searing kisses down your neck.

“You deserve to be worshiped as my Queen,” he purrs, breath ghosting along your collarbone. He lifts you into his arms with ease and carries you towards the throne. Gently, he lowers you into it, kneeling before you and slipping off your satin shoes.

“May I?” he asks, his gaze pleading and hungry. You glance around, wondering if the guards are still there, worrying that just about anyone could walk in. Yet, there’s an electric thrill that runs through your veins, an excitement over the thought of Thranduil being so cavalier, so wild and reckless.

“Yes,” you permit, feeling your heart skip a beat as Thranduil presses his lips to the top of one of your feet before trailing more up the length of your leg. With his kisses, he slides his hands up your silken gown, elegant fingers tickling your skin as he reaches higher and higher. Your skirt is bunched around your waist now and you wonder if you ought to just take the whole thing off. Before you can do anything more, Thranduil grasps your thighs and hoists you closer.

“Th-Thranduil!” you yelp before dissolving into bubbly giggles as he nibbles at your inner thighs. He smiles coyly before his fingers start to tug at the ties that hold your undergarments together. They fall away, exposing your heat to the cool air. You shiver at the contact; but, don’t have to suffer for long, for a moment later, Thranduil’s lips meet your clit. He kisses you softly, honoring the sensitive nub with his soft lips. You gasp as he pulls you ever closer, burying himself in your folds. His tongue swipes along them, warm and languid, fingers gripping your thighs as his nose bumps against you.

“Ah, Thranduil,” you moan, your hand tangling in the pristine threads of his golden locks. He hums pleasantly into you, lapping you up as if you are the sweetest succor that has ever graced his tongue. His motions are always so precise, so predetermined. Though he is no less meticulous as he attends to you, Thranduil’s actions today feel so spontaneous. His giving in to pure impulse and passion are certainly enough to show you how deeply he feels for you. To throw caution to the wind, abandon his regal sensibility just to have you right then and there- in the throne room of all places- well, that alone is enough to bring you to ecstasy.

Thranduil’s skilled tongue circles your clit, sending electric tingles through your whole body. He chuckles when you gasp, passes shimmering, mischievous gazes your way when you sigh contentedly. Fingernails tickle the tender flesh of your hips as he kneads and massages. His eyelids flutter shut in satisfaction, icy-blue occasionally peeking through frosted lashes when he deigns to steal a glimpse of your enchantingly flushed face.

“My King,” is all you are able to keen through labored breaths, Thranduil’s tongue darting in and out of your entrance, teasing you terribly.

“You are a vision, meleth nîn,” he whispers before gliding along your folds one last time, “Worthy of sitting upon this throne.”

Thranduil ensnares your lips with his, kisses fervent and astonishingly sloppy. You welcome his vigor, returning his motions with equally impassioned ones. Your hands tug at his silver-gray robes, tossing them to the floor and letting them pool around his feet. He works to quickly undo your gown, discarding it gracefully at his feet as your fingers find their way to his trousers, unlacing them with ease. A throaty gasp escapes his lips as his cock springs free. Swiftly, he lifts you into his arms, twirling the two of you around before settling down into his throne. You straddle him, breasts pressed to his chest, his erection grazing your inner thigh as you position yourself over him.

Thranduil helps lower you onto him, grabbing handfuls of your thighs and ass. As you sink onto his hardened member, you clutch at his back, nails digging into his shoulder blades. He sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, groaning sinfully as he slips into you. He allows you a moment to adjust to his length before slowly rocking his hips against yours. With each bounce, you feel his tip hit deeper and deeper, sparking a fire deep in your core. You cling to him, tongue tracing the outer shell of his pointed ear, suckling on his earlobe and trailing love-bites down his neck.

“What will my guests think with all your little markings?” he growls teasingly, thrusting deeper into you, “They’ll see you’ve claimed me. And they should know better than to question that. Perhaps I ought to leave a few of my own on you.”

“Please,” you whimper, the fire in your core burning brighter, stomach fluttering with each husky grunt that rumbles through Thranduil’s chest. He lays his lips to your neck and you know he’ll leave more than just a small marking there. Sighing into him, you direct one of his hands to your breast, silently begging him to fondle and massage. He obliges, a merciful King, indeed. You grind your hips into his even harder, your walls quaking with each movement. His cock quivers inside you and you can feel that he’s close.

“Meleth nîn,” you manage to utter, tone desperate and needy, “I’m so very close.”

He pulls away from your neck, savagely smashing his lips into yours as he mercilessly slams his hips upwards. You grip him tight, teeth biting down hard on his bottom lip as you feel yourself coming undone.

“My Queen,” Thranduil cries, bucking his hips erratically, spilling into you as he reaches ecstasy.

“My King,” you return, the fire in your core bursting brighter than any star in the sky, filling you with euphoria and warmth. Thranduil spills himself inside you, his essence trickling down your thighs as he gives his last few final, languid pumps. Collapsing into him, you allow yourself a moment to catch your breath. Thranduil keeps you close, arms wrapped protectively around you as you settle your heart. When your breathing, and his, is deep and even, you slowly pull yourself off of him, settling into his lap and snuggling close. You feel empty without him inside you, but fulfilled in this private moment.

“You’ve earned this throne. Claimed it as your own, there’s no doubt about that,” Thranduil murmurs, lips brushing featherlight against your temple, fingers carding gently through your hair, “Heed not the misguided words of the people that doubt you. Know that my trust in you and my love for you is perennial.”

His kiss is firm, conveys a light that brightens with each passing moment. His words are genuine and infallible.

“I promise to do right by your people. And you,” you return, taking his hand in yours and weaving your fingers together.

“I know,” he reassures with a knowing smile, “I have the utmost faith in you.”

The two of you take a few moments to enjoy the vast silence of the throne room. Once echoing with your shared moans, it holds now a quiet peace that you could bask in all night long, were it not for your guests no doubt growing antsy with yours and Thranduil’s absence. As you smooth out your disheveled hair and clothes, Thranduil rises to dress himself. You pass him an impish look.

“Perhaps your guests are right,” you venture, pulling back your hair once again. Thranduil looks to you, perplexed.

“Oh? How so?” he questions, one eyebrow quirking up in confusion as he slips his robes back on. A teasing smile tugs at your lips.

“Perhaps I do encourage poor behavior in their King,” you giggle, brushing aside some of his golden hair just to get a look at the love-bites you’ve left behind on his neck.

“Perhaps you do,” he returns with a grin, taking you by the hand and leading you back towards the party, “But I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

#thranduil #the elven king #the hobbit #the lord of the rings #thranduil x reader #spicy #fluff and spice #i think Thranduil is capable of being sweet #and quite mischievous #lemon #minors dni #my fanfiction #my writing #ao3 #dani writes

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shierak-inavva · 1 year

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once upon a time, 🌿 at the end of the second age, an elven prince and a great granddaughter of finwë are engaged in an extended courtship—but in the end, her love for the mortals of middle earth was greater than his desire to keep them safe and hidden, and their engagement was broken. but, for a time, there was happiness between them.

i have over 8000 years of elowen’s life to account for and this makes up for at least a good few 😮‍💨 their breakup was mutual, their engagement rings were melted, and he married someone else--but then, so does she, later on.

#my ocs #thranduil #thranduil x oc #elowen lenbereth #elowen of the green gaze #teladriel the lady of bronze starlight #she's aloratari to him but no longer uses that name after this #one day she'll hear it again though #and things will change #idk what their ship name is but they were very sweet

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beauteousthings · 9 months

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Heylo! Okay well, as some of you know, my main blog where I solely post my art is over at @g-m-kaye … I seldom post my stuff here as this is a side blog for everything else/ obsessions/ reblogs. But today I stumbled across some ancient scribblings on Pinterest that I had forgotten about - like, I’ve not even got the original files anymore due to hard drive death & the passage of time 👀 …We’re talking decade old art here, guys… embryonic stuff…

Anyway, I found a couple of very dumb, very early fanart cartoons I drew for the LOTR/ HOBBIT/ SILM fandoms back in 2010 or so. Prepare yourself for unbridled dorkery from the early years of g m kaye..

(Sharing this nonsense particularly for @sotwk so we can have a good giggle over it 😅 I have no idea if this thing will even be HD enough to read .. but let’s have a go…)

I présent: SMIRKWOOD

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i-did-not-mean-to · 1 year

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Tripping

So, @lordoftherazzles, of course, it was my honour and my pleasure to write this for you!

I love you dearly!

Words: 2.6

Characters: Bard x Thranduil

Prompt: City slicker vacationing in small town

“Wait…you’re breaking up,” Thranduil almost screamed into his phone as he stepped off the rickety, old bus that had taken him from the picturesque train station to the main square of the small town he was to spend the week in.

No doubt, his son had meant well when he had decided that his suave, overworked father needed a small break from his gruelling office job.

“Mirkwood Inc. will be fine without you,” Legolas had grinned around a particularly irregular apple. Ever since he had gotten that hairy, uncouth boyfriend, Thranduil barely recognised his youngest child; suddenly, Legolas ate organic food and went mountain-climbing in his free time.

It had apparently also been that infamous Gimli who had impressed upon Legolas that a healthy work-life balance was primordial in order to be happy and thrive rather than die prematurely of a cardiac incident.

Unable to resist the worried gaze of his beloved son, Thranduil had finally been convinced to accept their gift – an all-expenses paid trip to a quaint, scenic little village – and had not even made a huge fuss when they had confiscated his work laptop as well as all his personal electronic devices except his phone.

In the course of the long and uncomfortably slow train ride to his destination though, he had soon started to sincerely regret having been talked into taking the week off; defying his son’s wishes and his own good resolutions, he had thus ended up making a few business-calls on his private phone just to pass the time.

“Sly kid,” he cursed under his breath now as he looked down at his phone in dismay; no wonder that the quality of his call had been deteriorating steadily, there was no cell service in this rotten nest.

With an impatient huff, he strode out onto the square in search of the place Legolas had booked for him…and promptly stepped into a steaming, hot heap of manure.

Loosening a string of expletives, he would never have spoken aloud in polite company, Thranduil shook his prohibitively expensive Italian shoe frantically, hopping on one foot like a madman through the square.

“Oh hey,” a middle-aged man called from across the street and hastened towards the newcomer. “Ah, the people who offer carriage rides on weekends are not always good about cleaning up after themselves.”

He was grinning good-humouredly and extended a broad, calloused hand to Thranduil who promptly shook it fiercely.

“I wanted to relieve you of your bags,” the man said sheepishly, but his smile softened and deepened charmingly. “I am Bard, innkeeper and general dogsbody around here.”

At the sight of the twinkling eyes set like gems in an astoundingly comforting and beautiful face, Thranduil felt a bit of the perpetual tension drain from his defensively drawn-up shoulders; Bard, in his worn flannel shirt and his torn jeans, looked so invitingly cosy and welcoming that even the devastating loss of his best pair of shoes suddenly didn’t strike Thranduil as all that tragic anymore.

“Thranduil,” he then replied in a clipped voice, forcing himself to dig deep into whatever humour he had buried within his soul in favour of relentless productivity, “self-destructive workaholic, if my son and my son-in-law are to be believed, on the solemn mission of finding some peace and relaxation.” His tone made it very clear how little he cared for these things which – ironically – conveyed much more weight and realism to his words than he even knew.

“There’s plenty of that to be had here,” Bard chirped encouragingly and – snatching Thranduil’s fancy leather bag – made his way back to the cosy building he had issued from when he had seen the tall, fair-haired stranger get off the bus, engrossed in his phone conversation and unheedful of the dung he was about to step in.

The obvious distaste on that fair, stern, and exceedingly handsome face made Bard want to defend his town; he understood that, for a city slicker such as the man trudging sullenly behind him, it might not have been exciting or busy enough, but Bard loved his little corner of paradise and would not allow a stranger to disdain and disparage it before having spent a single evening here.

“Thranduil,” he repeated, bent over his bookings – neatly penned into a big, old, leatherbound book – as if he had not been staring at the same name the whole morning in giddy anticipation of his sole customer of the moment. “You’re lucky; you’ll get our best room.”

It was not as if the business was bad – and Bard had enough other things to do besides running the small lodge – but he was nonetheless glad to have a paying guest; ever since his own children had left the town for further schooling abroad, his days had been long and lonely.

“Indeed,” Thranduil commented, one eyebrow cocked haughtily, and looked down miserably at his ruined shoe.

“If you want, you can put your shoes outside of your door,” Bard prompted softly. “I know the cobbler and he will tend to them as soon as possible. I can bring dinner up to your room if this is the only pair of shoes you have brought. Alternatively, I could lend you a pair?”

In the face of so much casual helpfulness, even the usually so careful and impassive Thranduil could not keep up his already wavering scowl.

“I am quite tired,” he admitted, “and I have some phone calls to make. When is dinner?”

“Whenever you want after 7:30,” Bard answered. “It’s just you and me, so we can have dinner in the small smoking parlour if you’d prefer that to eating alone in the dining hall. As you wish.”

His dark eyes flashed as if he instantly regretted this burst of logorrhoea; Thranduil forced his cheeks to relax and his features to soften to express how grateful he was for the warm welcome he had gotten.

Too often, people mistook his efficiency for arrogant impatience and his natural reticence for indifference or disdain; of course, he could be haughty and brusque, but he did not believe himself to be a bad person at heart. He sincerely hoped that he wasn’t and that the years spent in the arduous pursuit of the next success, or another big sale, had not robbed him of his more tender and precious emotions and instincts.

Maybe his son and that accursed Gimli had been right after all and he had really needed a break to find his way back to his true self.

“I shall come down,” he said with as much warmth and kindness as he could muster; he felt indeed quite rusty as it had been many months since he had last had a conversation with a stranger that had no direct purpose or measurable impact. “My son has insisted on choosing, buying, and packing a whole set of garments for me that – hopefully – will magically induce a state of deep relaxation.”

Thranduil made a face; it was well known that he was a smidgen vain, and he was doubtful that garishly patterned, badly cut shirts and cargo shorts would make him feel anything even remotely akin to calm joyfulness, but he was certainly willing to try.

“I cannot wait to see them,” Bard smiled and winked good-humouredly. “Shall we say 7:30 in the parlour? I can serve cocktails if that is to your liking; I am afraid we don’t have a real bar like some of the bigger establishments do.”

“Oh yes,” Thranduil agreed sheepishly and lifted a hand to his cheek without truly noticing as a discreet wave of heat rushed to his face; the idea of having a quiet drink in a cosy parlour at the end of the world with a handsome stranger sounded so ludicrously delicious that he believed himself to have fallen into a Christmas Hallmark movie.

The distance – geographical and metaphorical – lying between his realm of steel and glass and this sleepy, little valley without so much as full network coverage struck him in all its severity and his fingers tightened fitfully around the strap of his bag which he had picked up and was playing with idly.

“It’s just up the stairs,” Bard explained and motioned to the broad stairwell at the end of the foyer, “and to your right. Here is the key. I am looking forward to our dinner.” Something in his voice drove shivers of anticipation and excitement down Thranduil’s elegant, straight spine; if he hadn’t known better – he was a stranger and a man past his prime after all – he could have sworn that the ruggedly handsome part-time innkeeper and full-time hero had been flirting with him.

When he pushed open the door to the chamber allotted to him, a soft sigh escaped his tense lips. The room was charming, dark wood with accents of different shades of green and gold, and so shockingly unlike his own impersonal, functional bedroom that Thranduil once again felt as if he had been transported into another world.

The view out of the high, narrow window was strangely touching to him as well; the sun was going down in an ocean of pink and blue extending along the horizon and the town looked like a postcard cut-out in its stillness.

Rolling his shoulders, Thranduil sat down on the huge four-poster bed – much too big to be occupied by a single, solitary wretch such as he was – and took off his ruined shoes; he did not have much faith that any small-town cobbler would be able to salvage them, but he was by no means disinclined to let them try.

Then he took a deep breath before opening his bag and discovering the unbelievably odd outfit his beloved son had picked out for him.

“Oh Legolas,” he groaned, “do you really think me that old?”

He should never have trusted that imp! The present wave of bitter bile and sour panic rising in his throat could not be laid at his son’s feet though; nobody else could be blamed for his deplorable omission to check his bags before leaving his home.

Truly, Thranduil should have known better and – as he had failed to double-check everything – he deserved to be in this situation; pulling himself up to his full height, he decided that he might as well meet the disaster head-on.

As his alternatives were growing scarce, he consequently only sighed and resignedly donned the dark grey golf trousers made out of soft, flexible fabric and the white polo shirt without further ado; he even extricated the cable-knit sweater and tied it around his shoulders in an ironic adherence to the stereotype of the “dad”.

“Tennis shoes,” he muttered as he pulled out the white sports shoes that had been tucked at the bottom of his bag. “Sneakers,” he then corrected himself and – after putting them on and admitting that they were incredibly comfortable – he turned to the antique mirror in the corner and looked at his reflection with critical attentiveness.

It took exactly 3 seconds before he broke into bellowing laughter; he looked ridiculous!

Only when he wiped a tear of mirth out of the corner of his cool, grey eyes did Thranduil realise that he had not laughed like that in a long time either, and he felt elated and relieved to have found that part of himself in the most unexpected of places.

A glance at the clock told him that he had to hasten if he didn’t want to make his host wait, and so he accepted his ludicrous outfit and squared his shoulders; he had sold worse products with perfect success, he would not falter and fail because of an ugly sweater.

“Oh,” Bard gasped and almost dropped the glass he was holding as soon as Thranduil’s impressive silhouette appeared in the doorframe. "That is quite a change!”

When he had first seen his patron, Bard had been taken slightly aback by the bespoke suit and the Italian shoes, but this preppy fantasy of a suburban father was just as confusing.

“My son…” Thranduil sighed and shrugged. “He’s a fully grown man too so I can’t even pretend that this is the practical joke of an unruly teen. Ah, I guess he thought this was funny nevertheless.”

“Well, you are certainly handsome enough to pull it off,” Bard praised distractedly while letting tiny balls of ice fall into the glass before handing it to Thranduil with a slightly embarrassed smile. “Is it comfortable?”

“Incredibly so,” Thranduil confessed eagerly, “the trousers are fake. They look like formal wear, but they’re actually made out of this soft, stretchy material.” Without thinking, he took Bard’s now free hand and put it on his thigh to underline and prove his words.

Blushing furiously, Bard sputtered and coughed but didn’t retract his hand. “Indeed,” he finally managed to say, “how ingenious. Maybe I should get a pair, so I don’t embarrass my children when I go to visit them. I am afraid that I am the opposite of you in that regard, I tend to look like this.” He motioned at his messy bun and the rough button-down he was wearing over a worn, soft-looking shirt; his jeans were so old that they were white and fraying in strategic spots and his work boots were scuffed in a way some city youngsters paid good money to emulate.

“You look comfortable,” Thranduil opined. “You look exactly right, and I am sure that our kids would find us ‘cringe’ no matter what we do, but we can swap wardrobes. I’d love to surprise Legolas by coming home sporting an outfit like yours.” He could hardly believe the words coming out of his mouth; he hated clothes shopping and habitually let his assistant take his measurements to his tailor without him ever darkening the tradesman’s doorstep. And yet, the fresh air, the unexpectedly sweet company, and the laughing fit in his hotel room had shaken Thranduil up so much that he felt energised and eager to find a new adventure and make it his own.

“I see how you’ve become a really successful businessman,” Bard grinned appreciatively. “You’re not easily cowed, huh? Meet every challenge head-on and then vanquish it.”

“That’s right,” Thranduil smiled and took a step closer towards his host who was licking his lips nervously now.

“Food should be ready any minute. Is everything all right with the room?” Bard whispered, staring up at those luminous eyes – molten silver and swirling starlight – helplessly; he had never seen anyone half as sophisticated and unearthly as that stranger who had waltzed in here in a cloud of dismay and electrifying anger.

The relaxed, playful, wicked expression playing across that statuesque face now was just as enthralling and sublime though, and Bard felt his compounded loneliness and all the desires and wishes he had never even dared consider unfurl within his chest like wreaths of fire.

“The bed is too big for me…alone,” Thranduil whispered back, holding Bard’s gaze and cocking his head infinitesimally.

“Oh, oh,” Bard stammered automatically, “after dinner, I shall see what I can do about that.”

“What an excellent service,” Thranduil purred. “I am sure that I’ll be ever so thankful. You are really aiming for that five-star review, huh?”

This exchange of half-spoken invitations and veiled promises was harshly interrupted by the beeping of Bard’s alarm and the worrying smell of smoke mixing into the delightful aromas of homemade food.

“I’ll be right back,” Bard promised and hastened out of the room.

“Don’t worry,” Thranduil called after him, sitting down in a comfortably worn armchair and stretching out his long, slim legs towards the merrily dancing fire, “for once in my life, I have time.”

@fellowshipofthefics here is another one for the sweet sheet :)

Lots of love from me...

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