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“Beg for it.”
The voice was silk over stone, ancient and utterly sure. It filled the quiet glade, drowning out the distant murmur of the Anduin.
Legolas, spread across his father’s ornate traveling cloak, could only gasp. His back arched, a perfect bowstring of pleasure, his hips trapped by the heavy, unforgiving weight pinning him to the earth. Thranduil’s length was buried to the hilt inside him, a stretch that burned and soothed in equal, devastating measure. It was so much. It was everything.
“I…” Legolas panted, his vision swimming with the dappled light of the Ithilien moon. “Please…”
“What do you want, my son?” Thranduil purred, not moving, letting the sheer, impossible fullness do the talking. His hands, large and elegant, framed Legolas’s face, thumbs stroking his cheekbones. “Tell your king. Tell your father.”
The words tumbled out, raw and soaked in need. “Fill me. Please, Ada, fill me with your seed.”
A low, approving rumble vibrated through Thranduil’s chest and into Legolas’s own. “Good.”
Thranduil’s arrival in Ithilien two days prior had been a cold shock, a winter wind blowing through the gentle spring Legolas and Aragorn were cultivating. He’d stood in the doorway of the house Legolas had built, his gaze as sharp and assessing.
“You would bind yourself to a mortal,” Thranduil had stated, his voice anger as Legolas expected. It was worse disappointment, a weary. “You give your heart to humans, but humans will eventually die, and you will die heartbroken, my darling, sweetheart. Are you going to abandon your Ada for a human?”
“I love him,” Legolas had replied, the defiance feeling thin even to his own ears.
“Love,” Thranduil had echoed, stepping closer. The air had thickened. “A fleeting fancy. A summer bloom. What do you know lasting? You only need to be with me.” His finger had tilted Legolas’s chin up. “You have forgotten your own blood.”
That night, Legolas had dreamed of the forest of his youth, of a presence both comforting and terrifying. He woke feverish, aching with a hunger he hadn’t felt in centuries. When Thranduil found him by the stream the next evening, the day before his wedding, the fight was already gone. The older elf’s eyes held a knowing light.
“Come,” was all Thranduil said, leading him away from the settlement, deep into a private glade.
Thranduil’s hands, when they touched him, were rough, absolute. They turned Legolas, pressed him against the broad trunk, and began to undress him with a ritualistic slowness that stole Legolas’s breath. His tunic was pushed off his shoulders. The cool air kissed his skin, followed a heartbeat later by the heat of his father’s mouth on his neck.
It was a claim kiss of passion. Thranduil’s lips traced the shell of his ear, his tongue a hot point that made Legolas’s knees weaken.
“You tremble,” Thranduil murmured, his hands sliding down to cup Legolas’s chest. Legolas wasn’t broad like a man, he was slender, elegant. Thranduil handled him as if he were made of the most precious, pliable material. His thumbs circled Legolas’s nipples through the thin linen of his undershirt, rolling them into hard, sensitive peaks. A sharp gasp escaped Legolas’s lips. “So responsive. Always so eager for touch. My son, you should know that you belong to me.”
The undershirt was pulled over his head. Thranduil paused, his gaze on Legolas’s bare chest. “Look at you,” he breathed, genuine, possessive. He leaned down and took one peaked nipple into his mouth.
Ah! The sensation was electric, a zing of pure pleasure that shot straight to Legolas’s groin. Thranduil suckled, his tongue flicking, his teeth grazing with just enough threat to make Legolas cry out. His hands came up, tangling in his father’s silver-gold hair, not push away, he hold on tight. Thranduil switched to the other nipple, lavishing it with the same attention, his hand squeezing and kneading the flesh he’d just abandoned. The wet, sucking sounds, the soft smack of his lips, were obscenely loud in the quiet glade.
“Ada…” Legolas whimpered, his head falling back against the tree.
Thranduil pulled back, a string of saliva connecting his lip to Legolas’s glistening skin. “You call me that when you are needy, As when you were little, you would whine to me because you knew I would always give you everything.” Thranduil observed, his breathing slightly uneven. His hands went to his own robes, disrobing with an unhurried grace that was more intimidating than any rush.
Legolas’s mouth went dry.
Thranduil was magnificent. Tall and mighty. And his cock. Legolas seeing it, full and heavy, was a different thing entirely. It was thick, obscenely so, a weighty, proud length that curved slightly upward, the head a flushed, dark pink. It looked impossible. It looked delicious.
“It will hurt,” Thranduil said, following his gaze. “At first. You have taken something like it. I will remind you of all the wonderful times we shared, Mortal cannot satisfy you.” He stepped forward, that thick length nudging against Legolas’s stomach, leaving a wet smear. “You will take it. You will beg for it. Because you are my son, and your body knows its true master.”
He pushed Legolas down onto the spread cloak. The forest floor was soft, the fabric silken. Thranduil followed him down, covering him, their bodies aligning. And then he kissed him.
This was the sensual kiss. It soft, a brush of lips, a sharing of breath that tasted of wine and wild berries. Then Thranduil’s tongue sought entry, and Legolas opened for him with a moan. The kiss deepened, turned hungry, consuming. Thranduil plundered his mouth, his tongue mapping every contour, claiming every space. Legolas kissed back, his own tongue swirling, fighting for dominance he knew he’d never win. He was lost in the taste, the scent of him—oakmoss, cold starlight, and power. His hands came up, fingers threading through Thranduil’s long hair, holding him close as their mouths moved in a wet, desperate rhythm. Smack. Slurp. Mmmph.
When Thranduil finally broke the kiss, a thin line of saliva connected them. Legolas was panting, his mind blank of everything but the heavy cock pressed against his thigh.
“Oil,” Thranduil commanded, and a small vial was pressed into Legolas’s trembling hand. He fumbled with it, pouring the slick liquid into his palm. Thranduil watched, his eyes hooded, as Legolas reached between them, his fingers wrapping around that impossible girth.
Gods. He needed both hands. The heat of it, the solidity, the way the skin moved silkily over the iron-hard core beneath. He stroked, once, twice, spreading the oil, a choked sound escaping him as a pearly bead of pre-come welled at the tip. He swirled his thumb over it, the texture smooth and wet.
“Now yourself,” Thranduil growled. “Prepare for me. Show me how much you want your father’s cock in your ass.”
Blushing furiously, Legolas brought his slick hand back, reaching between his own legs. He pressed a finger against his entrance, circling the tight ring of muscle. He was so nervous, so tight. He pushed the tip in, and his breath caught. It had been too long. He worked the finger in slowly, the stretch a familiar burn. Then a second. He scissored them, opening himself, his hips rocking back onto his own hand. His eyes were locked with Thranduil’s, who watched with a rapt, intense focus.
“Wider,” Thranduil said. “You think two fingers will stretch you for this?” He gave his cock a slow, lazy stroke. “You need three. Now.”
Whimpering, Legolas added a third finger. The stretch was intense, a burning fullness that made him gasp. He fucked himself with them, the wet, squelching sounds squelch slosh glrk.
“Enough,” Thranduil said, his voice tight. He pushed Legolas’s hand away. He positioned himself, the broad, slick head of his cock nudging against Legolas’s prepared hole. “Look at me.”
Legolas did. His eyes were wide, fearful, yearning.
Thranduil pushed.
Oh, fuck.
The stretch was unreal. A burning, tearing, blossoming pain that stole the air from Legolas’s lungs. He cried out, a sharp, broken sound. Thranduil held still, buried only an inch, letting the muscle spasm and clutch around the invading tip.
“Breathe, ion-nín,” he soothed, though his own jaw was clenched with strain. “Breathe through it and accept me.”
Legolas dragged in a ragged breath. The burn began to recede, replaced by a deep, throbbing fullness. Thranduil pushed again, another inexorable inch. Squelch. The sound was filthy. Legolas could feel himself being split open.
“So tight,” Thranduil groaned, his composure cracking for a second. “A virgin all over again for me. My good boy. ”
The praise twisted and wrong, straight to Legolas’s core. He moaned, his body relaxing a fraction. Thranduil took advantage, sinking another inch, then another, in a slow, relentless invasion schlllp glrk. Noises constant, finally, with one last, deep push, Thranduil’s hips met his ass. He was fully sheathed. The weight of him, the completeness of the possession, was overwhelming.
For a long moment, they stayed like that, joined, breathing in ragged tandem. Thranduil’s face was above his, a mask of controlled ecstasy. Then he moved.
He pulled back, almost all the way out, the thick head catching on the rim, making Legolas yelp. Then he slammed back in.
The pain flared, then melted into a pleasure so sharp it was agony. Thranduil punishing pace from the start, each thrust a claim, a punishment, a blessing. The hard, thick length dragged against Legolas' sweet spot with every stroke.
“Whose are you?” Thranduil grunted, his hands grabbing Legolas’s hips, fingers digging in.
“Yours!” Legolas screamed, his back bowing. “Yours, Ada!”
“You were made for me,” Thranduil panted, his thrusts becoming harder, faster. “Made to take your king’s cock. Look at you. A prince of the wood, riding his father’s dick like a common tavern slut.”
The degradation was a fire in his blood. “Ada…uh…”
Thranduil’s hands slid up, their fingers lacing together, squeezing tight. Thranduil pulled their joined hands above Legolas’s head, pinning them, using the leverage to fuck into him even deeper. The angle changed, and Thranduil’s cockhead began to hammer directly against his prostate.
Oh, gods, oh fuck—
The pleasure became a tidal wave, building, cresting. Legolas felt a pressure unlike anything he’d ever known, a swelling deep in his groin. He was going to… he didn’t know what.
“I’m… I’m going to… Ada, something’s happening!”
“I know…” Thranduil snarled, fuck rhythm becoming erratic, frantic. “Squirt for me. Soak your father’s cock. Show me what I do to you.”
With a scream that tore from his very soul, Legolas came. But it wasn’t just his cock that pulsed. A hot, gushing flood erupted from him, squirting out around the thick shaft buried in his ass. It was a warm, soaking release, a fountain of clear fluid that slicked their joining, drenching the cloak beneath them. The sensation was mind-breaking, a full-body convulsion of ecstasy that went on and on, his channel milking Thranduil’s cock through it all.
“Fuck! Fuck!” Thranduil roared, his own control shattering. Legolas’s tight, fluttering, soaking heat was too much. He drove in one last, brutal time, hilting himself, and erupted.
Legolas felt it. A hot, thick pulse deep inside him. Then another. Splurt. And another. Gloop. Thranduil’s seed flooded him, a scalding torrent that filled every space, claiming him from the inside out. Thranduil groaned, a long, low sound of utter satisfaction, as he pumped his release into his son’s well-used ass.
They collapsed, a tangled mess of limbs and sweat and spent. Thranduil stayed buried inside, soft but still present, their intertwined hands still locked. Legolas felt the warm trickle of seed escaping around the softening shaft.
For a while, there was only the sound of their breathing. Then Thranduil shifted, his lips finding Legolas’s ear.
“Tomorrow,” he whispered, his voice thick with satisfaction, “you will go to your mortal. You will say your vows. But you will walk down that aisle with my seed deep in your belly. You will sit at your wedding feast feeling it leak onto your thighs. And you will remember,” he bit the earlobe, not gently, “this is your wedding. But you are mine, Legolas. First and always. Aragorn's lifespan is limited, he will die, and you will return to me. I have the patience to wait for that day, but I will also visit you often, just as we do now.”
He pulled out then, with a soft, wet shlorp. The loss was profound, a sudden emptiness that made Legolas feel hollow. Cool air rushed into the used, slick space. He felt the warm gush of their combined fluids escape him, soaking the ruined cloak.
Thranduil rose onto his knees, looking down at his handiwork. Legolas was a wreck—flushed, trembling, his eyes glazed, his body glistening with sweat and spit and come. Thranduil’s gaze was possessive, triumphant.
“Clean me,” he said, his voice a low command. He gestured to his cock, which was softening but still glistening with Legolas’s slick and their mixed release.
Legolas pushed himself up on weak arms. He leaned forward, his lips meeting the sticky, spent flesh. He licked slowly, cleaning the length with his tongue, tasting himself, tasting his father. The act was submissive, final. Slurp. Lick.
Thranduil tangled a hand in his hair, holding him. “My good, sensitive sweetie,” he murmured. “You take these so beautifully.”
When he was clean, Thranduil lay back down, pulling Legolas against his chest. They didn’t speak. The moon climbed higher. Somewhere, in the halls of Minas Tirith, Aragorn slept, dreaming of his tomorrow.
In the glade, Legolas felt the warm, wet proof of his betrayal seep steadily from his body, and he knew, with a certainty that thrilled and shamed him, that his father was right.
He would never forget.