#thranduil victorious

[fel-09]

Hello there! Hi, hey I really like your Thranduil x Reader stories! I have a suggestion if you are taking any!

Thranduil is used to others trying to get close to him, being overly kind to get a favor. Or even the most bold being unnecessarily flirty in hopes of getting his favor. Why does reader stand out? Because they are kind to his son, his young son Legolas. Most usually brush the young prince off, but you? You actually listen and care for Legolas like he was your own.

And what better way to get into the heart of a King than through his son?

Through the Eyes of a Child

The halls of Thranduil’s grand palace had always been filled with whispers. Elves seeking favor, nobles using honeyed words, warriors boasting their latest victories in hopes of earning his approval. Thranduil had seen it all—flattery, manipulation, and, at times, even seduction. Yet, none of it impressed him. None of it mattered.

What did matter was the boy who ran through those halls, golden-haired and bright-eyed, a prince who was often overlooked by those vying for the king’s attention.

Legolas had grown up in a world where he was acknowledged, respected even, but rarely truly seen. He was a child, and in the courts of the woodland realm, children were meant to be well-mannered, obedient, and silent. Most elves bowed to him as they passed, speaking to him only when necessary, their interest feigned.

But then there was you.

From the moment you entered Thranduil’s court, you had been different. You had not tried to charm him, nor had you sought to curry favor with his advisors. Instead, your attention had gone to the one who needed it most—the child left in the shadow of a king.

You had knelt before Legolas the first time you met him, speaking to him as an equal rather than an obligation. You had asked about his training, about his interests, about his thoughts, as if they truly mattered. And to him, they did.

The first time Thranduil had noticed, it had been a passing observation. He had been seated upon his throne, listening to reports from the border patrol, when he caught sight of you in the courtyard. Legolas had been talking—excitedly, passionately—and you had been listening, nodding, smiling, engaging in a way that no one else had bothered to do.

His son had laughed then, and Thranduil had paused mid-sentence. He had not heard that sound in quite some time.

That was when the king first took notice of you.

Legolas had always been an eager learner. He adored archery, much to his father’s pride, and he had a sharp mind when it came to strategy. But he was still young, and youth, no matter how noble, carried uncertainty.

“I do not think I will ever be as good as the others,” Legolas had confessed to you one evening in the training yard, his small hands gripping his bow tightly.

You had crouched beside him, adjusting his stance with gentle hands. “Great warriors are not made in a day, little prince,” you had said. “They are made through patience, through practice, and through belief in themselves.”

Thranduil had been watching from the shadows, unseen, unheard, as he so often was. He had expected you to offer words of encouragement, but what he had not expected was the unwavering sincerity in your voice, the depth of care in your touch as you adjusted his son’s fingers over the bowstring.

No one spoke to Legolas like that. No one took the time.

That night, the boy had gone to bed with a smile, clutching his training bow like a prized possession.

Thranduil had remained awake long after.

It became routine. Every day, Legolas would seek you out. Every day, Thranduil would catch glimpses of your interactions. Sometimes, it was as simple as a walk through the gardens, where Legolas would babble about whatever fascinated him that week, and you would listen as if it were the most important tale ever told. Other times, it was training, your patience never faltering as you guided him through forms and techniques.

What struck Thranduil the most was how natural it all seemed. You did not dote on the boy in the way some might to gain favor. You did not feign interest for the sake of appearances. You cared.

And Thranduil found himself watching more closely than he intended.

There was something disarming about you, something that made him uneasy, not in fear, but in unfamiliarity. He was used to seeing others through the lens of skepticism, always questioning their intentions. But with you, he saw no ulterior motive.

That unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

One evening, Thranduil found himself in the library, lost in thought as the fire crackled beside him. It was a rare moment of solitude, one he found himself needing more often these days.

A quiet voice interrupted him.

“You are thinking too much.”

He turned, raising a brow at you. You stood in the doorway, hands folded behind your back, your expression neither intimidated nor bold—just honest.

“That is an accusation few dare to make,” Thranduil remarked, amusement threading through his voice.

You shrugged. “Few see past the crown.”

A pause. He studied you then, truly studied you, as he had so often done from afar. But this was different. This was not a stolen glance through a crowd, nor a fleeting observation from a distance. This was face to face, eye to eye.

“You care for him,” Thranduil said at last. It was not a question.

You nodded. “I do.”

“Why?”

The simplicity of the question caught you off guard, but you did not hesitate in your answer.

“Because he deserves it.”

Honesty. Again, that disarming honesty.

Thranduil leaned back, exhaling through his nose as he considered your words. “And what do you hope to gain from it?”

Your brow furrowed. “Nothing.”

For a long moment, he said nothing. He only watched. And in that silence, something shifted.

Thranduil had spent years building walls around himself, fortresses of cold logic and caution. He did not let people in easily, nor did he trust without reason. But you? You had found a way past his defenses without ever trying to breach them.

Not through deception. Not through charm.

Through kindness. Through sincerity.

Through his son.

And Thranduil, for the first time in many, many years, found himself wondering what it would be like to lower his walls just a little.

Just enough to let you in.

Time passed, and your relationship with Legolas changed. One day, as you walked along the riverbank, you suddenly heard a shout.

Legolas stood a few feet away, gripping a sword, his stance tense yet eager. His blue eyes shone with determination as he pointed the blade at you.

— I want to test myself. Fight me. — His voice was firm, though there was a trace of hesitation in it.

You blinked a few times, surprised by the challenge, before a sly smile curled on your lips.

— Your Highness, are you sure you can defeat me? ~

Legolas mumbled something under his breath, shifting slightly where he stood.

— I'll at least try... — he admitted, a little embarrassed.

But before he could react, you lunged at him—not with a sword, but with open arms. Swiftly dodging his blade, you tackled him to the ground, sending both of you tumbling onto the soft riverbank.

— Ah! — he let out a startled yelp, but his surprise quickly melted into bright laughter.

You joined him, your own laughter spilling out as you held him down. The golden-haired prince laughed so freely, so genuinely, that the very air around you seemed to shimmer.

Something was happening.

The riverbank—so quiet moments ago—now pulsed with warmth, the golden glow of tiny lights flickering like fireflies around you both. The very essence of the place shifted, embracing the joy radiating from your shared laughter. Such a phenomenon was rare. Emotions, in their purest form, could sometimes imprint themselves upon the world, leaving a permanent mark, but only if they were powerful enough to be accepted by nature itself.

High above, from a shaded path, Thranduil watched.

The scroll in his hands nearly slipped from his grasp as he took in the sight before him.

It had been centuries since he last witnessed something like this.

His lips parted slightly, and he murmured, almost to himself:

— Legolas...

At the sound of his father's voice, the young prince quickly rose from the grass, his expression alight with joy. He sprinted toward Thranduil, who, despite his usual restraint, opened his arms just enough to embrace his son.

Meanwhile, you pushed yourself up on your elbows, brushing a few strands of hair from your face as you looked up at the king. Meeting his gaze, you smiled.

Thranduil released Legolas and stepped toward you, lowering himself onto the grass beside you with effortless grace.

You raised an eyebrow.

— Your Highness, it is not proper for a king to sit like this on the grass.

He didn't even blink at your words. Instead, he regarded you for a long moment before finally speaking.

His voice was steady. Certain.

— Will you become my wife?

[earthlybeam]

I came up with this idea myself after seeing fan art from a fandom. But I hope you enjoy it. Plus you you wish for any more characters please do ask. Gil-galad, Thranduil, Elrond, Celebrimbor version below. (You are their spouse messing with them mid act of the deed of you giving them head)

🏵️𝓖𝓲𝓵-𝓰𝓪𝓵𝓪𝓭

Gil-galad is a king of immense composure—stoic, regal, and calm under pressure. But even he is not immune to being caught entirely off guard, especially by you his spouse. He had been resting against the smooth headboard of your shared chambers, the moonlight from the open balcony casting silver streaks across his bare chest. His crown had been long abandoned, along with the formal stiffness of the day, and now the great High King of the Noldor was reduced to something far more vulnerable beneath your touch—beneath you.

Your mouth had been working him skillfully, worshipping him in a way no council or battle victory ever could. For all his dignity and restraint, Gil-galad was not above letting his head tip back against the wall, letting soft, breathy groans escape him as you hollowed your cheeks and took him deeper. His large hands, usually so steady when wielding a spear, had found their way to your hair—threading through it but never pushing, just holding. Always the gentleman, even when undone.

He was watching you now, golden eyes darkened with something primal. His chest rose and fell in controlled, measured breaths, though you could feel the way his thighs tensed beneath your hands. And then—you did it. Mid-act, you pulled back, releasing him with a wet, sinful sound, and he opened his mouth to question you—only to watch in utter disbelief as you brought a delicate hand to your lips and let out a deliberately obnoxious, dramatically loud cough.

“Sorry, love,” you said, voice dripping with playful mischief. “It’s a little dusty down here.” Dusty. You had called him—the most immaculate, clean, and composed being in all of Middle-earth—dusty. For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the distant crashing of the sea against Lindon’s shores. His face remained perfectly still, utterly unreadable—so much so that you almost wondered if you had gone too far. And then… he laughed.

It was not a quiet chuckle, nor one of his rare soft hums of amusement—it was a full, rich, unrestrained laugh that shook his broad shoulders. A sound that seemed to ripple through the air, bright and free, like a glimpse of the carefree young Elf he must have once been.

“You—” he began, voice catching as he tried to regain his usual regal composure. His head fell back for a moment, exposing the elegant line of his throat as he tried to suppress his amusement. “Dusty?” His golden eyes flashed back to you, glinting like sunlight on polished steel. There was warmth there—affection—but something else too. Something dangerous.

“You dare mock your king in such a way?” His voice had dropped, smooth and commanding, though you could see the corners of his mouth twitching as he fought the smile threatening to return. “I should have you punished for your impudence.”

His fingers tightened slightly in your hair—not harsh, but enough to make your heart skip. Slowly, gracefully, he leaned forward, towering over you even from his seated position. His expression was calm, but there was a gleam of playful menace beneath it.

“And yet,” he mused softly, lifting your chin with two fingers so your eyes met his, “I find myself in awe of your boldness. To say such a thing to me… You must think yourself very brave.” You bit your lip, suppressing the smile threatening to break free. “I thought you liked my boldness, my king.”

“I do,” he admitted, a rare hint of indulgence creeping into his voice. His thumb brushed gently across your bottom lip, his tone growing darker, silkier. “But such audacity cannot go unanswered.”

Without another word, he guided you back down—slowly, deliberately—until your lips hovered once more over the very place you had so brazenly mocked. “Now,” he commanded softly, the regal weight of his voice settling over you like a velvet shroud, “be a good little thing… and finish what you started.”

And as you obeyed—lips and tongue working to draw out every sound you loved to hear—he let out a quiet, breathless laugh, the warmth of it brushing against the air. Dusty, indeed. You would pay for that.

🍷𝓣𝓱𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓾𝓲𝓵

Thranduil, the proud and dignified King of the Woodland Realm, is not a man easily shaken. He has faced down dragons, orcs, and the endless burdens of ruling for centuries—but this… this is new in what you pulled upon him tonight.

The soft golden glow of candlelight bathes the royal chambers, flickering across the elegant lines of his body. His long, silver-blond hair spills over his shoulders as he reclines against the silken sheets, all smooth muscle and effortless grace. His crown—usually worn like a barrier between himself and the world—is absent. Here, with you, he allows himself to be unguarded. For once, he isn’t a king—just a man, completely at your mercy. And what mercy you give him.

Your mouth works over him with a skill that makes even Thranduil, with his centuries of composure, lose himself. His breath hitches—quiet but audible—as your tongue drags along the sensitive underside of his length. One of his hands rests in your hair, long fingers splayed over your scalp, while the other lazily strokes the curve of your jaw, guiding you but never forcing. He is indulgent—until you push him too far.

And you do. Right when he’s on the cusp of letting a rare, pleased sound escape his lips, you stop—his eyes, half-lidded with pleasure, snap open to find you staring at him with a glimmer that immediately puts him on edge. He knows that look.

Then, with all the audacity of someone who clearly values danger, you dramatically cough into your hand. Fake cough. “Sorry, love—” you murmur, your voice dripping with playful innocence, “It’s a little dusty down here.” The room falls into stunned silence.

For a moment—just a moment—Thranduil does not react. His expression is perfectly blank, as though he is trying to process the sheer disrespect you’ve just committed against his very clean, very regal self. And then—his jaw clenches.The hand tangled in your hair tightens—not painfully, but firmly—tipping your head back so you’re forced to look directly into those impossibly sharp, icy-blue eyes. His gaze burns with a dangerous glint, one that promises retribution.

“…Dusty?” His voice is smooth, silk over steel, but there’s an edge lurking beneath it. A dangerous calm. “You dare.” There is no dust—you both know it. This is Thranduil—everything about him is immaculate, from the gleaming marble of his palace to his flawless body. Yet, here you are, mocking the Elvenking while on your knees, no less.

He tilts his head slightly, a slow, elegant motion that makes the long strands of his silver hair shift over his shoulders. His lips curve into the faintest of smirks—dangerous, calculating. “I invite you to repeat that,” he murmurs, his voice dropping into something lower, silkier, and entirely too calm. Oh, you’re in trouble now.

He releases your hair—only to trail his fingers lightly down the side of your neck, brushing over the sensitive skin with deceptive gentleness. His nails scrape lightly in their wake, sending a shiver down your spine. “It seems,” he continues in that dangerous purr, “you have mistaken my patience for leniency.”

His gaze drifts lower—slow, deliberate—before meeting yours again. His voice is velvet-dipped authority when he speaks next. “Since you find the air here… unsatisfactory, perhaps I should remind you precisely who you kneel before.” Without another word, he shifts forward—a graceful, fluid motion that leaves no doubt as to who is in control. You barely have time to breathe before his hand is on your chin, tipping your face up, his thumb brushing along your lower lip.

His expression is calm—too calm—but his eyes? His eyes burn with the promise of vengeance. “Let us see,” he muses quietly, “how much of your cheek remains… when I’m through with you.” And oh—he means it.

Play with fire, melleth nîn, and you will burn. “If it is too dusty for you, my love… perhaps I should have you remain down there a while longer. Until you have adjusted.” His smirk is infuriatingly elegant. And you— you know exactly what you’ve done.

📜 𝓔𝓵𝓻𝓸𝓷𝓭

Elrond, ever composed and regal, had been thoroughly immersed in the intimate pleasure of your touch—his body tense beneath your hands, his breath controlled but growing heavier with each passing moment. His long fingers, usually so steady in their grace, now tangled gently in your hair as you worked him with deliberate care, your mouth a warm haven against the cool air of his chamber.

The Elf-lord rarely allowed himself to be undone, but with you—oh, with you—he did not resist. He savored every sensation you offered him, his head tilting back slightly, yet black -threaded hair cascading down his back as a soft sigh slipped from his lips. You knew precisely how to unravel him, slow and patient, until the weight of his centuries-old control began to fray beneath your affection. And then—you struck.

Pausing mid-act, you released him from your mouth, sat back just enough to meet his gaze with a glint of wicked mischief in your eyes. With all the audacity in the world, you raised a hand delicately to your lips and coughed—an exaggerated, melodramatic sound, as if you had spent hours breathing in the dust of ancient scrolls in his study. “Sorry, love,” you said, your voice rich with playful teasing, “it’s a little dusty down here.” The room fell utterly silent.

For a breathless moment, Elrond simply stared at you—his expression unreadable, but his lips parted slightly as if he could not quite believe the words that had left your mouth. His keen, discerning eyes, bright and sharp as starlight, held yours in a gaze so intense it sent a shiver down your spine.

It was true—he was immaculate. Always. From the polished leather of his boots to the silk of his robes, though right now he just in silky open robe and certainly in the more intimate areas you now so boldly teased. The very idea that you would dare to call that dusty—when he took the utmost care of himself—was nothing short of blasphemous.

A flicker of something dangerous—amused, yet wholly unyielding—crossed his face. His brows arched ever so slightly, his lips curving into the barest hint of a smile, though his voice, when he spoke, was low and measured.

“Dusty?” he repeated, each syllable laced with an elegant disbelief. “You are bold indeed, meleth nín…” His hand, still resting in your hair, shifted subtly—fingers curling just a fraction tighter, as if to remind you precisely who you were teasing. “And here I thought your tongue could be put to far better use than… mockery.”

That soft, velvety voice sent heat pooling low in your stomach. You knew you were playing a dangerous game—a game where Elrond, with all his patience and centuries of restraint, would let you win only so much before he decided to turn the tide. He leaned forward then, the warmth of his body brushing yours as he tilted your chin up with the back of his knuckles, forcing you to hold his gaze. His face was serene—too serene—but the heat in his eyes betrayed him.

“Perhaps,” he murmured, voice like silk and steel entwined, “you require a more thorough… demonstration to remind you how well I tend to what is mine.” Oh, you had awakened something now. And judging by the way his grip firmed against you—possessive, yet achingly tender—you would be learning that lesson very soon.

💍𝓒𝓮𝓵𝓮𝓫𝓻𝓲𝓶𝓫𝓸𝓻

Your mouth, warm and eager, had been working him into a state of breathless bliss. His hands, always so steady in the forge, were tangled in your hair, his chest rising and falling with heavy, uneven breaths. For all his grace and composure in public, in private, he was putty in your hands—shivering under every slow, deliberate movement of your mouth. And then—you did it. You stopped. Dramatically.

Pulling back just enough to lock eyes with him, your face the picture of pure mischief. You brought a hand delicately to your mouth and let out the most exaggerated, theatrical cough you could muster. “Sorry, love,” you said, voice dripping with mock concern. “It’s a little dusty down here.” The room hung in silence.

Celebrimbor blinked once. Twice. His lips parted slightly, as if his brain was trying and failing to process the sheer cheek of your words. His usually sharp, calculating mind—capable of crafting the most intricate designs in Middle-earth—had utterly stalled.

“…Dusty?” he repeated, his voice uncharacteristically high, disbelief etched into every syllable. His brow furrowed, and for a moment, it was as if you had spoken to him in some foreign, incomprehensible tongue. “I—It’s not—I am not—”

His hands fell away from your hair as he glanced down at himself, as if to confirm that, no, there was absolutely nothing remotely dusty about him—least of all there. His skin was smooth, immaculate, and had he not just bathed less than an hour ago? He was an Elf, for Eru’s sake, and Elves did not get dusty.

And yet… here you were. Calling him dusty. His ears, those delicately pointed tips, flushed a pale pink—an unintentional betrayal of how flustered you had made him. He inhaled sharply, a sound caught between indignation and disbelief. “I—this—that’s impossible.”

You bit your lip to hold back a snicker, but the corners of your mouth betrayed you. You weren’t sorry. Not even a little bit.

His mouth opened again as if he intended to present an impassioned, logical defense of his cleanliness, but no words came out. For once in his long life, the Lord of Eregion was utterly speechless.

And then—you saw it. That spark in his silver-gray eyes. The slow shift from shock to something else. Something far more dangerous. “Oh…” His voice dropped an octave, smooth as polished mithril. “Dusty, is it?” Your stomach flipped at the sudden change in his tone.

Without another word, he reached forward and grasped your chin, tilting your face upward. There was no trace of his earlier fluster—only the slow, deliberate curve of his mouth as he considered you with a heated, wicked gleam in his eyes.

“You’re awfully bold for someone on their knees,” he murmured, his thumb brushing against your lower lip. “Perhaps I should give you a better reason to lose your breath, since you seem so… easily distracted.”

And oh—he did. By the time he was through with you, there wasn’t a breath left in your lungs. Dusty or not, he was going to make sure you never forgot just how clean and thorough he could be.

[dontfearrr]

Best friends father

Heavily based on best friends brother from victorious lmfao. But this is a very funny request that you can find here

(gif not mine:)

Pairing: Thranduil x Elf!reader

Summary: Legolas and Thranduil have no idea of each others roles in your life

Warnings: none

Category: fluff, fluff, and more fluff

Word count: 1.6k

----------------------

Twisting branches hovered high above her and all around her, whistles of the wind through the trees lingered through her ears like an eerie song sung just for her. She glanced around the path, knowing he was out there somewhere, he played this game with her all the time. However this time she was determined to win it. She felt chills crawl up her spine and she nocked an arrow in the blink of an eye, turning her body and releasing the arrow further up.

He felt the brush of the arrow graze his arm and he knew she had won. He swung from branch to branch and landed in front of her on his two feet, she watched his hair fall down back into place perfectly and she giggled, crossing her arms. “You know what, I'll give that one to you. I'm impressed.” He swung his bow back over his shoulder.

“Legolas it is quite rude to underestimate a lady” She told the white haired elf who stared down at her in amusement. “Sorry…if i'm not mistaken, i've won every single time, until now. So I think it was fair” Legolas joked back, only poking at you playfully.

She’d known Legolas for a good thousand years by now, they met during a trading with Imladris and since then they were glued together at the hip. Best friends some would say but if you asked her, she'd tell you he's some silly dumb ass who doesn't know how to handle his elven wine. 

“You just insist on making sure i know you're better than me.'' She gave him a playful eyeroll and began their walk back to the main palace, knowing they both have duties to tend to. “I assume once we return you'll be going off with your mystery lover?” Legolas teased, knowing lately she'd been quite infatuated and busied with her new asset. He was glad she had finally found someone in her life, he felt like a proud brother. (the irony im so sorry)

“You'd be correct, elf boy. Hopefully he's feeling extra nice today..” She teased, knowing Legolas hated hearing the descriptive details of their relationship. 

Legolas groaned in agony and shook his head at her suggestive and very unnecessary comment. “I have never met a more interesting creature.” He used his index finger to push at her shoulder jokingly as they approached the main gates. She gave him a playful smile and chuckled to herself as the guards let them into the kingdom.

“Farewell my friend, late nightfall?” Legolas spoke as he began to walk in the opposite direction of her, waiting for her reply before he turned around. 

“Late nightfall it is! Don't miss me too much!” 

She bowed to him dramatically and watched him turn around and walk off, she did the same. Only she waited until he was completely out of her sight before she began walking to the palace, her head facing the ground to hide from onlookers. Not that it necessarily mattered, however she wouldn't appreciate it if someone decided to gossip to the prince of her private whereabouts. She made her way down the main hall to the throne room, the guards allowing her through with the command of the king. 

She saw him perched upon his beautiful throne, his autumn crown complimenting his head and his blinding white hair fell down his shoulders perfectly, not one hair out of place. He was always a sight to see no matter how many times she'd see him. 

He caught her scent long before she even entered the throne room, his head positioned downward at the elf that approached him, her sweet presence instantly making his whole body relax from its usual tense state.

 “It is more than a pleasure to see you here, for I have missed you dearly.” his deep voice boomed throughout the entire room as he stood up and began descending from the stairs to meet her at the bottom.

 “It was like trying to swat a fly from your drink trying to get rid of him” she chuckled and met him halfway, looking up at him while his arms wrapped around her waist tenderly, pulling her flush against his body in a warm embrace. He ran a hand down the back of her head, smoothing down her hair as he placed a kiss on her forehead. “He seems persistent” he said, a bit jealous of her other companion no matter how many times she would reassure him it's not like that, nor will it ever be.

She just gave him a feigned look of annoyance and brought a hand up to place on his cheek, her thumb caressing his cheekbone gently. “My dear Thranduil, soon you will see the silliness of your jealousy.” she teased him, knowing he hated being called out on his feelings. “Do you insist on making me miserable, my lady?” He gave her a heartfelt smile and placed a hand on her back, gesturing for her to go to the private doors, doors which only the king and prince were allowed to use. They were passages that lead to everything, just quicker and more discrete. 

Every day, Thranduil took her to a new place, slowly showing her every beauty Mirkwood had to offer. His love for her grew every day and only made him want to do anything for her, anything he could. Today he was taking her to the Amaranthine Garden, the specific flora only visible to the royals. He was sure you'd love it for it is one of the few ethereal gardens amongst the elves.

Legolas was speaking with a royal guard, telling them about this morning’s duties, sending him off to go inform the rest. Right before he was about to walk back to the main quarters he was stopped by a messenger who handed him an envelope, he looked on the back seeing it was addressed to Thranduil. He cursed these damned messengers for not just giving it directly to his father, that was something he would also discuss with his father when he gave this to him.

He entered the throne room and found it empty..how strange. He never left his throne around these times unless it was severely important. He searched the room a bit and even called out for him but there was silence. That was until he spotted the private corridors left cracked. He could see the light emitting from the small opening of the door and approached it, he opened it fully but saw no one. Yet he got a whiff of a very familiar scent mixed with his fathers. It made him a little uncomfortable, he was determined to get to the bottom of this, something was up. So down the halls he went, peeking inside every single room, basically sniffing his father out like a dog.

She had her hand around his back and her body pressed into his side while he held her close, showing her the garden and telling her all about the unique plants she'd never seen before. There wasn't a second of this moment where she didn't have a smile on her face as her beloved spoke so gently. 

Thranduil bent down at his knees and carefully picked a beautiful bunch of Rhododendrons, pulling a thread from his pocket and tying the flowers at the stem, holding it out for her. She felt like a princess when she was with him, he treated her with the utmost respect. She took the flowers from him and smiled kindly. “Thranduil you never fail to put a smile on my face, you know that?” She set the flowers in her satchel and placed her hands on his chest.

“I live and breathe to please you meleth nin. I thought it was quite obvious.”

She giggled at this and felt his hands sneak to her waist, caressing her like a teenage boy, until his head snapped in the direction of the door that led back inside. 

“What is my sweet?” she looked at him with quite the confused look until she heard a voice all too familiar.

“Well if it isnt y/n and her mystery lover.” Legolas stood before them with his arms crossed as if he just caught a child sneaking into the cookie jar. 

Her head fell to Thranduil's chest in defeat, knowing she'd been caught red handed. Thranduil however was utterly confused, he hadn't put the pieces together just yet. Legolas approached them and she pulled from Thranduil, meeting Legolas in front of them. She sighed and placed a hand on Legolas’ shoulder. “To be completely fair, you see why i didn't tell you” she joked and looked up to Thranduil. 

“Meet the best friend.” she spoke sheepishly with a weak smile and Thranduil just simply sighed in utter annoyance at this childish situation. “So you were able to keep both of our identities secret from each other, and this is how we find out? You never fail to surprise me little one” He placed a hand on her lower back and gave Legolas an unimpressed look. 

“I think you might find yourself with an arrow in your chest while you sleep tonight” Legolas playfully threatened. “That's if you wish to go blind, you'll find me cosying up with your father in a not so friendly manner.” She shot back, earning a chuckle from Thranduil and a gag from Legolas.

 “I curse you woman.” Legolas turned around to leave them. “And I curse you father, you'll be lucky if you don't find poison in your wine tonight” He said before leaving dramatically, leaving her and Thranduil to laugh amongst themselves. 

“I think that went great!” she tried weakly as Thranduil simply shook his head and continued their walk through the garden.

[zepskies]

LOTR/THE HOBBIT MASTERLIST

(**Notes 18+ only and/or smut)

Aragorn

One-Shots:

One Promise After the battle at Helm’s Deep, you find it difficult to enjoy the victory feast. Aragorn notices your melancholy and tries to comfort you.

Eomer

One-Shots:

As Tradition Dictates** Your marriage to the Third Marshal of the Mark has been arranged, in the hopes of renewing political ties between Rohan and Gondor. The morning after the ceremony, your new husband continues to defy your expectations.

Thranduil

One-Shots:

Coming soon...

Haldir

One-Shots:

Coming soon...

Main Masterlist

✦ Want more LOTR?

⋆˙⟡ Get notified when every new story drops! Follow my fic library blog - @zepskieswrites - with notifications on. 💜

⋆˙⟡ Join My Patreon 🌟 Get early access to new stories, bonus content, and first looks at upcoming stories, send me requests, and more!

[mirkwoodshewolf]

I belong with my One; Fili x Dúnedain reader

*Author's note*

So this took me a few days to finally get finalized and write down so I hope @futuristicyouthvoid I hope you enjoy this fic. For this fic I've put that instead of Kili getting shot by the Morgul arrow, reader gets shot saving him and ends up getting sick.

Warnings: reader poisoned, near-death experience, some angst and some fluff.

Taglist:

@plethora-of-things

@waddles03

@psychosupernatural

@jd-johndeacon-or-jackdaniels

@gay-and-ready-to-cry

@queen-paladin

___________________________________________________________

So much has happened in such little of time.  First Gandalf offers me a proposition for aiding a company of Dwarves, then we’re being pursued by orcs, then get imprisoned by the Elven king Thranduil.  Now we find ourselves at the mercy of the Men of Laketown.

Thankfully another friend of mine Bard was willing to let us stay the night at his house but of course the Dwarves had to screw it all up by going to the armory to steal the weapons and end up getting caught by the Master of the Lake’s guards.  But by some miracle, we were granted the supplies we needed to get us to Erebor to complete the quest before sunset.�� Of course I knew it was because of the Master’s greediness that he agreed to help, he never was a good man.

“You do know we’re one short, where’s Bofur?” Bilbo asked.

“If he’s not here, we leave him behind.” Said Thorin.

“We’ll have to, if we’re to find the door before nightfall. We can’t risk no more delays.” Balin agreed grimly as everyone began piling into the boat.  But as I was just halfway over the plank, I felt a hand stop me.

“Not you.” I turned to see Thorin.

“What?”

“We must travel at speed, you’ll only slow us down.” He told me.

“I’m coming with you all to the Mountain. I promised Gandalf that I would.”

“(Y/n), you have been a big help to me and my kin. The first Ranger to truly stand for our cause. But lately you haven’t been up to par on your health. Stay here and rest, rejoin us when you’re healed.” Just because I’ve been feeling a bit sluggish since the river incident, doesn’t mean I’m helpless.

“Thorin—”

“I will say no more on the matter.” Without another word, Thorin went back onto the boat whilst I had no choice but to sit back down on the docks, feeling a chill suddenly come over me.

“I’ll stay with the lass, my duty lies with the wounded.” Oin said as he voluntarily got off the boat and came up to me.

“Uncle, (Y/n) has done more for this company than any other outsider could’ve done for us. You cannot repay her by leaving her behind.” Fili stepped up for me.

“Fili no.” I told him.

“I will carry her if I must!” Fili argued.

“Fili, one day you will be king and you will understand. I cannot risk the fate of this quest for the sake of a Ranger. Even if she were the only one willing to help us.” As Oin began feeling my forehead for a temperature, I soon watched as Fili stormed off the boat but Thorin stopped him.  “Fili, don’t be a fool. Your place is with the company.”

“My place is with her!” he snapped back at his uncle before taking back his arm and came over to me.

“Why did you do that? I thought you always wanted to see Erebor, you told me so yourself.”

“I’ll have plenty of opportunities to see the kingdom in my lifetime, but your wellbeing is more important to me than all the gold in Erebor.” I felt my cheeks grow warm as I softly thanked him.

“And don’t think it’ll just be Fee that’s gonna help you get back on your feet.” We turned to see Kili had also left the boat.

“Kili, you didn’t have to stay behind too.” Fili said.

“Yeah I could’ve gone but it’s my decision too.” He came up to me and stood on my right side.  “You saved my life back in the Woodland realm, I’ll gladly do everything I can to help you now (Y/n).” I smiled and looked at the brothers.

“You guys truly are the best friends I’ve ever had. Thank you.” They both nodded and as the Laketown band played a victorious fanfare to wish our friends luck, a sudden dizziness overcame me. 

My vision was going in and out of focus and as the crowd cheered as the boat with our friends departed from the docks, I suddenly fell forward, the last thing I heard was Fili’s voice calling my name.

*3rd Person POV*

When (Y/n) had passed out on the dock, Fili cried out (Y/n)’s name as Oin came up and began searching over her body for any trace of an infected wound or trace of blood.  Knowing that she had saved Kili from that arrow back when they were trying to escape the orcs on the river, there must’ve been a wound he might’ve missed before they came across Bard.

“OH, did you miss the boat too?” they soon heard the missing Dwarf, Bofur’s voice say.  But the moment he saw (Y/n) passed out, his concern grew as he asked Kili.  “What happened to her?”

“We don’t know. She just—suddenly passed out.”

“Her fever’s spiking lads. We have to get her help right away!” Oin said.

“Kee, help me out here!” together the brothers lifted her up by her arms while Oin and Bofur got her legs and they walked back towards the Master’s manor to ask for help.  After pushing through the guards, Fili cried out. “Please wait! Please, we need your help. Our friend is sick!”

“Sick? Is it infectious?” the Master exclaimed fearfully as he covered his nose with his handkerchief and fearfully cowered behind Alfrid. “Get back! Alfrid, Alfrid don’t let them come any closer!”

“Please. We need medicine.” Oin pleaded.  Alfrid walked closer as he sneered at them.

“Do I look like an apothecary? Haven’t we given you enough? The Master’s a busy man, he hasn’t got time to worry about sick Rangers! Let alone this one right ‘ere. All she’s ever done for this town is ruin the Master’s good name and turn the people against him.”

“She’s helped these people in their hour of need! Are you willing to let her die because of your own selfish needs?!” Kili demanded.

“None of our concern. She’s not a paying citizen here, therefore she’s not our problem. Now off you pop! Less we use more drastic measures.” With that Alfrid and the Master shut the doors and the guards ordered them away.

After being rejected by the Master, they tried going to other people to see if they could help but all of them were either too scared to go against the Master’s wishes, or didn’t have enough supplies to help aid her as well as their own sick family members.

With no other options left, the Dwarves raced back to Bard’s home.  Knowing of their friendship, they’d hope that at least he could help them.  Bofur knocked on the door frantically and as soon as Bard saw them, he sneered.

“No, I’m done with Dwarves. Go away!” he went to shut the door but Bofur stopped him pleading.

“No, no please! Please! No one will help us. (Y/n) is sick.” Bard opened the door further to see his good friend now sickly pale, strands of her hair stuck to her face from the profuse sweating she was doing, and her breathing was now choked gasps.  “She’s very, very sick.” Even with the grievance he had with the Dwarves for risking the safety of not only his children but the entire town of Dragon fire, he didn’t have the heart to turn his dear friend away.

“Bring her in.” Bard stepped aside and the four dwarves quickly piled in while Bard quickly looked around before shutting the door.  “Put her over there. I’ll see what I have.” Bard went to the back of the house as the Dwarves set her down on the nearby couch.  Fili took her hand between his and squeezed it.

“Hang on (Y/n), we’re all here to help you. Just…..don’t go where I cannot follow.” He whispered to her stroking the back of her hand with his thumb.  Kili watched his older brother and knowing of his feelings towards the Ranger, he couldn’t help but feel guilty knowing that it was because of his carelessness that the woman his brother loved got hurt to save him.

As the night overcame the lake, (Y/n)’s health was gradually becoming worse.  Oin did managed to find a small graze just underneath her elbow.  A graze that came from an orc arrow tipped with poison.  Already the wound (even for as small as it was) had already started to become infected and the poison was spreading fast.

(Y/n) was tossing and turning, panting as her body was glistening with sweat.

“Nothing’s working! Can you not do something!?” demanded Fili who was growing more frantic by the second seeing the woman he came to love be in such agony.

“I need herbs! Something to bring down her fever.” Bard soon came in with some more supplies and began listing them off.

“I have nightshade, feverfew…..”

“No, no there no use to me. Do you have any Kingsfoil?” said Oin but Bard told him.

“No. It’s a weed we feed it to the pigs.”

“Pigs? Weed. Right. Don’t move.” Bofur said before leaving the house.  As Kili was continuing to dab a damp, cool cloth across (Y/n)’s face and neck to ease her of her sweating, a rumble was soon heard coming from the mountain.

“Da?” asked one of Bard’s daughters Sigrid.

“It’s coming from the mountain.” Answered Bard’s son, Bain.  Bard had feared the worst, the dwarves had awoken Smaug the Terrible and soon the prophecy would come to pass, the Lake will shine and burn.

“You should leave us.” Fili said as he walked up to Bard. “Take your children, get out of here.”

“And go where? There’s nowhere to go.” Bard told him in defeat.  Little Tilda stepped in front of her siblings and asked her father fearfully.

“Are we going to die Da?” Bard looked at his youngest child and assured her.

“No darling.”

“The dragon, it’s going to kill us.” Bard then turned towards a beam just above the kitchen and gripped a thin but firm piece of what appeared to be black iron.  He pulled it down from the beam to reveal that it was a Black arrow, the very same black arrow that can only be used to kill the dragon.

“Not if I kill it first.” Bard said determinedly.  He then asked his son to come with him while the girls stayed behind with the Dwarves to help take care of their Aunt.

Time passed and (Y/n)’s fever was getting even worse.  Her breathing was sharp and panicked and she was now starting to writhe in agony.

“Durin’s beard where is Balin with that Kingsfoil!?” Fili demanded.

“I have the right mind to go out and look for him myself!” Kili snapped.

“You can’t leave! With the guards on patrol, they’ll arrest you too and aunt (Y/n) will never get better!” Bain said.  “No one is leaving this house understood!?” hearing the young man take a stand against the Dwarves made them both feel shock and admiration.

“Very well laddie. But I don’t know how long (Y/n) has got left, she’s growing weaker by the second.” Oin said to Bain.

“Tilda, Sigrid, come with me to get more rags and water for aunt Hela.” The siblings soon left while Fili gripped (Y/n)’s hand tighter.

“Fi…….li.” she choked out.

“I’m right beside you (Y/n).” he whispered to her.  Slowly opening her eyes she croaked out.

“Fili…..if anything hap-happens to me—”

“Don’t talk like that (Y/n). We’re going to heal you, Bofur’s probably found the Kingsfoil by now, he’s just probably ducking the guards and taking longer. Please don’t give in now.” He squeezed her hand between his.  “Don’t go where I can’t follow.”

Suddenly a scream was heard and next thing everyone knew orcs began dropping down from the rooftop or coming in through the front door.  The dwarves grabbed whatever they could to fight off the orcs but there were too many of them, and with the tightly constricted area the house provided, there was hardly any fighting room.

Kili got the children to duck under the table and fought off any orc that tried to come close to them, while Oin and Fili worked together to fend off any orc that came near (Y/n).  When they thought they were done for, help came from both Legolas and Tauriel who had been tracking down the orcs since they left Mirkwood.

As Fili managed to block an orc’s attack with a kitchen knife, (Y/n) had managed to crawl out of the couch and use a fire-poker to stab the orc through its spine.  But she soon let out a cry of agony as she collapsed to the ground, the poison fully starting to overcome her.  Eventually, all the orcs were either killed off or had begun to retreat from the house.

“You killed them all.” Bain said as he and his sisters got out from under the table after all went quiet in the house.

“There are others, Tauriel.” Legolas ordered but Tauriel was hesitant.  As Oin came down beside (Y/n) and felt around her neck to feel her pulse was slowing down, Fili and Kili came down beside her as Oin said fearfully.

“We’re losing her!”

“Tauriel.” Legolas said to her.  She turned back to her prince and said.

“The Ranger has done no harm to us, is there nothing we can do to help her?”

“She is beyond help. I’m sorry, there’s nothing that can be done for her.” Footsteps could soon be heard racing up the stairs and as the two elves prepared for another battle with orcs, they stopped to see that it was Bofur carrying some Athelas in his hand.

“Athelas,” Tauriel exhaled as she took it from him and admired it. “Athelas.”

“What are you doing?” Bofur asked nervously.  Tauriel looked into the room before looking back at him and said.

“I’m going to save her.” Legolas’ eyes briefly narrowed.

“Tauriel…..”

“You may go if you wish Legolas, but I cannot leave the she-ranger to perish in such agony. Not whilst she still clings to life and that I now have her only salvation.” The young prince took a deep breath then exhaled.

“What would you have me do?” the two elves raced back inside and Tauriel ordered.

“I need water fast. Get her on a solid, stable surface. Lay her flat on her back.” Every in the room reacted quickly.  Tilda gave Tauriel the bowl of water for her to mix the Athelas together, whilst Legolas and the Dwarves worked together to get (Y/n) on the table.

She was screaming and writhing in pure agony, her mouth starting to grow black with the poison.

“Where is the wound?” Legolas asked.

“Underneath her left elbow.” Oin said.  Legolas took hold of her left wrist and raised her arm above.  But when she tried to struggle, he was forced to also grab her forearm to pin it down and there he saw it.  The black graze and he could see the infection had fully spread and blackened her entire elbow.

“Hold her down.” Tauriel said.  Kili and Bofur held down her right leg while Bard’s children held down her left.  Fili held (Y/n) by the shoulders and Oin helped Tauriel brew the medicine.  Once it was brewed, Tauriel cut through the sleeve of (Y/n)’s shirt to get a better access to the wound.

The female ranger appearing like a rapid animal, screaming, grunting and thrashing about trying to free herself.  Tauriel took some of the Athelas and began rubbing it onto her hands as she chanted.

“Menno o nin na hon i eliad annen annin, hon leitho o ngurth.” She then placed her hands over the ranger’s wound and (Y/n) let out an agonizing scream.  Fili softly shushed her stroking through her hair and whispering in her ear all the while Tauriel kept chanting the spell.

Bit by bit, (Y/n)’s animalistic behavior quietened and then she went still.  Her breathing now soft and not as frantic as it had been.  Fili looked down at her worriedly and Kili asked.

“Will she be alright?”

“Athelas has powerful healing properties. With time and rest, she’ll regain her full strength. A few more minutes and she would’ve been beyond even with the aid of the Athelas.” Responded Tauriel.  The dwarves and Bard’s children breathed a sigh of relief.

“Thank you.” Fili said to Tauriel.  She gave him a soft but tight smile as well as a soft nod.  Then both she and Legolas left to deal with the orcs.

After her healing, Fili wrapped up (Y/n)’s wound with some bandages and kept vigil at her side.  Never before had he felt so scared than he had felt at that moment.  Fearing that the woman he had come to become fond of—nay love throughout this quest, he wouldn’t have known what to do had she been lost to him.

“She’ll be alright Fili. She’s strong, she’ll be back on her feet in no time.” His brother tried to assure him.

“I know. But seeing her go through all that pain, all that suffering, and who knows if she even knew she had been hit.”

“Even if she did, she’s got the stubbornness of a Dwarrowdam. Perfect woman for a guy like you.” Fili turned to his brother.  “You may try to have hide it from the others but you can’t hide anything from me Fee. I’ve seen how you’ve been looking at her since Rivendell. You care for her more than just as a friend.” Fili sighed and looked down to her.

“I don’t even know how it happened. But after all that we’ve been through, seeing her in a—domestic way. The way she was with her younger cousin, the way the sunlight seemed to reflect off her hair, and the way her eyes shone like jewels in the dark. Kee……I feel as if she is my One.”

“And you should follow through that brother.”

“But would it work? A dwarf and a human? It’s never been done before?”

“Is that what’s really troubling you? Or is it that you fear she doesn’t feel the same way?” Fili remained quiet.

“This quest has shown me that life is too fragile. And at any moment, any one of us can be taken away by any means. I want to tell her my true feelings but—not now. Not while our lives are still in danger. Perhaps when we reach the mountain, I’ll work up the courage to tell her but I—”

“I understand brother. The turmoil that must’ve been stirring in your heart seeing her on death’s doorstep, if you had confessed your love for her beforehand and it be too late to save her……I can’t imagine the pain that would’ve been.”

“She’s too precious to me.” Fili said as he stroked her cheek with the back of his finger.  “I feel like if she had died tonight, my heart would’ve died with her. My body may have continued to live on but my heart would never be full again.”

“Take comfort now that she’s alive and that she’s recovering. No more darkened thoughts need cloud your mind anymore.” Kili said as he placed a comforting hand on his brother’s shoulder, gently shaking it.  Fili turned to his little brother and nodded giving him a soft smile.

“Thank you Kili. I know I’m supposed to be the older brother here but, I’m glad that you were here to be the one to ease my mind.”

“I’m always here for you brother, and I always will be. Together forever right?” he extended his other hand out.

“Together forever little brother.” Fili clasped his other hand with Fili’s as they pressed their foreheads together, drawing in each other’s strength.

*My POV*

 All I remembered was darkness, as well as a voice reaching out for me.  Then a bright light and soon silence.  I don’t remember much after that but I do remember hearing Fili’s voice along with Kili’s.

“This quest has shown me that life is too fragile. And at any moment, any one of us can be taken away by any means. I want to tell her my true feelings but—not now. Not while our lives are still in danger. Perhaps when we reach the mountain, I’ll work up the courage to tell her but I—”

“I understand brother. The turmoil that must’ve been stirring in your heart seeing her on death’s doorstep, if you had confessed your love for her beforehand and it be too late to save her……I can’t imagine the pain that would’ve been.”

“She’s too precious to me.” I felt something graze my cheek with the most gentlest touch.  “I feel like if she had died tonight, my heart would’ve died with her. My body may have continued to live on but my heart would never be full again.”

So did Fili actually feel the same as I have come to feel for him? Oh Fili, I-I love you too. And I do hope that one day I can say that aloud, but for now I was just too weak to even open my eyes.  I soon passed out once again but it wasn’t until the sound of giant wings flying towards us had me opening my eyes.

Smaug was coming for us. And he was out for blood.

[chloesolace]

Midnight Rain - Thranduil x Reader

summary: You are an elven ambassador from Rivendell living in Mirkwood. The realm is currently celebrating a victory in battle over the dwarves when Thranduil asks to have a private word with you. The two of you share history, but his scars scared him into letting you go. A decision he clearly regrets after seeing you dance with your fiancé.

pairing: Thranduil x F!reader

word count: 1.3k

warnings: angst

a/n: Another part of my Swift series, where I write multifandom one shots inspired by Taylor's songs <3 the next series after this will be a Florence + The Machine one. Hope you enjoy this story!

Masterlist - Discord Server - Request Info - Taylor Swift Series

My girl was a montage A slow motion, love potion Jumping off things in the ocean I broke her heart 'cause she was nice

In the dim light of sundown, he watched the woman dance. Her hair cascaded loosely around her shoulders, and her red lips curved into a bright smile revealing her teeth. Giggles escaped her, the skirts of her dress in her fists so she would not stumble and fall over them as she hopped around in circles. She twirled around her dance partner, one her hand held tightly in his as she looked between him and her footing. Her bare feet moved confidently over the forest floor, soles stained with moss and earth from earlier rain.

He was sitting in his chair, a crown of leaves and twigs sprouting from his head. He could feel the weight of it pressing down even more than it usually did, although he was sure this was merely his imagination. His gaze hardened as he observed the man dancing with the woman, their arms entwined. No one besides him noticed but each time they drew close, the man whispered in her ear, eliciting blushes and giggles.

The glass in his hand shattered. 

“Oh, Your Majesty!” Exclaimed a servant girl next to him, immediately taking the glass out of his hand and cleaning his palm of shards and blood. The cloth she used soaked up the red liquid as the girl placed the shards into a basket nearby. 

Barely glancing at his opened palm, he held it away from his body, allowing her to continue cleaning up the mess he made. Hissing, he pulled it away once she informed him he was clean again. There was still a stain on his palm, but the cuts did not appear deep. He would seek out the palace healer after the festivities ended.

The music stopped when he raised his other hand, all eyes falling onto him when he stood from his seat. His blue eyes were resting on the elven girl he had watched earlier, the air thick with anticipation from his people. 

“Do not let the festivities stop. I shall have a private word with the Rivendell ambassador inside. Please, continue,” he said, his deep voice loud and collected. It radiated authority and control, all while he never took his gaze off of you.

You gave your fiancé a short nod and left him alone on the clearing that had turned into a dance floor, just as the musicians to your right resumed playing their instruments. Some of the spectators around watched you as you approached the Elven King, others joined your fiancé in dancing, and the air was once again filled with laughter. 

Thranduil extended an arm for you to take, and you reluctantly wrapped your hand around his biceps, feeling the expensive fabric of his garment on your skin. His scent was clear and familiar; a mixture of musk and wood. 

Neither of you said a word until you found themselves on a terrace, far away from the festivities and the music, which could only be heard if one concentrated very hard. You placed your hands on the railing, your eyes drifting off to the forest in front of you. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Thranduil looking at you, his gaze making you feel naked, seen, though never uncomfortably exposed.

“Why did you want to speak with me?” You asked him, knuckles white from your tight grip around the railing. You hoped he didn’t notice your nervousness. He hesitated as if he wasn’t quite sure himself. 

“You have proven to be a valuable asset in keeping an alliance between Rivendell and the Woodland Realm,” he began, his voice lacking emotion, his words sounding practiced and memorized. “I suspect now that you have found a suitable match, you plan to stay?” The words only reluctantly left his lips, and you could feel him tense further.

You clenched your teeth as you stared out into the forest, the sky darkening as dusk slowly began to blend into nightfall. There was a thickness in the air, indicating the imminent arrival of rain.

“Sharion and I have not decided yet,” you said hesitantly, the name of your fiancé now feeling strange on your tongue. You cursed yourself for the momentary feeling of shame that spread through your chest. Yet you had nothing to be ashamed of; Thranduil had turned you down. 

“I see,” replied the Elven King, and you saw him follow your gaze out of the corner of his eyes. He stood straight and tall next to you, silence resting between you. It was almost suffocating until you heard the roar of thunder above you.

You opened your mouth to say something just as he did the same, and it was the first time that evening your eyes met. You stopped yourself from speaking, gesturing for him to proceed instead. With flushed cheeks, you listened and averted your eyes again.

“I never meant to hurt you,” he said softly, the pain in his voice barely audible. Your grip around the railing tightened just as the first raindrop fell onto it. “Please, look at me.”

There was something else in his voice now; he was pleading. When you turned to him you saw the glassiness of his blue eyes, the way his thick brows furrowed and his arched lips pursed as if in agony. 

“I do not know what you want from me, Thranduil,” you whispered, his name on your lips a familiar feeling. You were one of the few who knew about his name, let alone addressed him with it so openly. “I gave you my heart. I wanted to become your wife.” Your eyes momentarily dropped to his lips before locking with his again, your hand gently rising to touch his cheek where you knew he had glamored it. “No matter the scars you bear.”

Thranduil closed his eyes, leaning gently into your touch. You saw his own hand rising, only to fall again as if he was scared to touch you. As if he feared that if he did, you would pull away. 

When he opened his eyes, he inhaled deeply with the greed of someone who had stayed underwater for too long. Underneath your touch, his skin began to fade, replaced by the deep scars you had often seen him stare at in the mirror with disdain in his eyes. 

“I need you,” he whispered, but you only dropped your hand and he let the scars disappear behind his glamor again, eyes marked by rejection. 

“I cannot be with someone who hides himself behind thick curtains of shame, Thranduil.” Next to you, you heard the falling rain quicken in unison with your heartbeat. “Are you ready to draw the curtains back?”

He hesitated and looked away. Now it was you searching his gaze, but stubborn as he was he would not meet it. The silence that followed was answer enough, only disrupted when the heavy rain swallowed it and thunder roared again. You felt as if nature itself was urging him to open himself fully to you, though he ignored its pleas.

“I do not want to fight for a heart that would stay inside its cage when it could be free,” you continued, the words heavy. “A home should not be a battlefield.”

You saw him tense before you turned your back on him, leaving him standing with only the terrace’s roof to shield him from the rain. You began shivering, the feeling of your engagement ring cold against your finger while tears streamed down your cheeks. It was painful breaking one’s own heart, but sometimes it was a necessary pain to bear. 

With a heavy heart, you entered the palace again while the rain swallowed him calling out your name. 

'Cause she was sunshine I was midnight rain She wanted it comfortable I wanted that pain

[thorns-and-starlight]

Day 19 - First Steps

Fandom: The Hobbit

Characters: Thranduil and (baby) Legolas

Words: 352

・❥・ “Well done, iôn-nín,” he murmured, pressing his cheek to the top of Legolas’s head. “You walk as though the world already belongs to you.”

Note: I need to write more peaceful moments like these, sweet and tender moments before everything shatters for the King.

*ೃ༄ First Steps .ೃ࿐ 

The chamber was warm, bathed in golden light that filtered through delicate silken curtains. Spring had come to the Woodland Realm, and with it, the soft rustle of new beginnings. The throne room might have echoed with the weight of diplomacy, but in this private moment, there was no crown, no court - only a father, and his son.

Thranduil sat on the rug, cross-legged and barefoot, silver-blonde hair falling unbound around his shoulders, his formal robes traded for soft linen and a loose tunic. Before him, on a blanket of deep green embroidered with tiny leaves, sat Legolas still more elfling than boy, barely past his first year with a fine crown of golden hair and wide, curious eyes.

The little prince had spent the better part of the afternoon babbling to a carved wooden doe, his chubby hands slapping the floor each time he toppled forward in pursuit. Thranduil had watched it all in silence, every tumble drawing a faint crease of concern to his brow but never a word of discouragement.

Legolas was upright again now, on unsteady feet, fingers curled into fists for balance. He swayed, blinked at his father, then took a wobbly half-step forward. His foot landed firm on the rug.

Then came another.

Thranduil’s breath caught.

"That’s it," he whispered, barely daring to move.

Legolas’s face lit with sheer delight. He gave a tiny, victorious giggle and took a third, then a fourth step - right into his father’s waiting arms. Thranduil caught him with a sound that could almost be laughter, sweeping the child into his lap and cradling him close.

“Well done, iôn-nín,” he murmured, pressing his cheek to the top of Legolas’s head. “You walk as though the world already belongs to you.”

Legolas gurgled and clutched a lock of Thranduil’s hair in his small hand.

And for a moment, the king did not think of borders, or burdens, or the shadows gathering far beyond his forest. He only thought of this. The scent of his son’s hair, the rhythm of his heartbeat, and the weight of a new memory settling into his soul like starlight.

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Hiiii!

Please, Tauriel X Thranduil

Solstice Feast !!🍂❄️🎄

NSFW/Smutty

Pós BotFA if possible

rough and needy, unresolved sexual tension, submissive and dominant role switching. A little bit of dog style. They're not worried about making babies... Hahhahaha

Fluffy at the end

Galion and Feren are embarrassed

Would that be possible? You are so excited! Forgive me for any mistakes, I am a Brazilian reader. Big hug.🍂🌻

Here you go! I hope you like this!

"Solstice Feast"

Pairing: Thranduil/Tauriel

Themes: Smut

Warnings: Kissing | PIV Sex | Switch aspects | Doggy style | Hair pulling

Wordcount: 1.9K words

Summary: A drink to celebrate the winter equinox and a great victory leads to something else between the Captain of Woodland Realm Guard and her king.

Minors DNI | 18+ | This story can also be found on AO3

“You did well on the battlefield, captain,” Thranduil said. He poured a measure of fine golden wine for himself and another for Tauriel. “And I grieve for your loss. Tell me. Do you truly love the kinsman of Thorin Oakenshield?”

Tauriel accepted her cup and took a sip. “Kíli was a most steadfast and amusing companion,” she confessed, studying Thranduil keenly. The Elvenking was not pleased with the mention of the dwarf’s name. She could perceive it in the way he clenched his jaw and how his hand tightened around the cup it held. It roused her curiosity. “I grew quite fond of him.”

“Fond,” Thranduil said, draining half his cup in two deep swallows, “is not a word I would have expected you to say, certainly not after you wept over the slain dwarf’s body. Come now, captain. Speak true. Do you love the kinsman of Thorin Oakenshield?”

“I do not,” Tauriel said, her curiosity growing after relief flashed in the eyes of the king. “I mourn his death, yes, but I do not love him. Why do you ask such a thing, my king?”

“I merely wished to know, that is all,” Thranduil said. He finished the remainder of his wine. “And, I confess, I would not have approved of you aligning with one of the Naugrim. They are a doughty race and uncommonly skilled besides, but as the companion of an elven captain of your high standing? I think not.”

Tauriel finished her wine as well. Outside the tent set aside for Thranduil’s own particular use, elves, men, and dwarves ate and drank to celebrate a great victory and honor the winter solstice. Someone had already begun to sing; it would not be long before the others joined, and many sweet voices rose in song. Tauriel did not dwell on that. The king’s declaration captured her attention instead.

“Do you believe Kíli was unworthy of me?”

“Most certainly. There are others, Tauriel. Elves who are truly worthy. You should consider setting your eyes on one of them instead.”

“Other elves?” Tauriel said, unable to help herself. There was far more to what her king was saying, and she was determined to learn it. “I see. Pray tell me, my king, who are these other elves you speak of? Is it Legolas, perhaps?”

Thranduil shook his head. He still clutched his empty cup, his fingers white at the knuckles. Presently, he said, “No, Tauriel. Not my son Legolas.”

“Oh,” Tauriel said, narrowing her eyes to thin slits. Legolas was the Crown Prince of the Woodland Realm, and a fearless warrior besides. He should have been one of the worthy elves Thranduil spoke of. “Then Galion, or Feren. Even Angon might suit, I think. He is quite fierce in battle, and I find only you can surpass him as a warrior.”

The Elvenking made no attempt to conceal his growl of displeasure. Tauriel, now beginning to latch onto the real cause of his conduct, strode to him. She took the cup out of his hand and set hers and his down on the little table in the center. At length, she said, her eyes twinkling with mischief, “Or perhaps there is someone else. Someone far higher than even them in rank. Is that the truth of it, my king? Is there someone other than them?”

Thranduil took a step toward her. “There is none like that,” he said, lowering his head just enough to smell her hair. The heady scent of cedar filled him with every breath he took. “But I suppose Angon would suit, should you decide to seek him out. Will you do so?”

Liar, Tauriel yearned to say after having perceived Thranduil’s falsehood. Thranduil would not have approved of her seeking Angon; it was plain in his eyes. Nevertheless, she stood still, her body enveloped by Thranduil’s taller, larger form. Then she fought back the welcomed shiver that threatened to arise after he reached out and brushed his hand against her own. She would not yield so easily. Not until he freely spoke of his own feelings.

“Perhaps,” she said with an air of forced indifference, “and perhaps not. Angon may suit me as a companion, but he does not appeal to my desires like he should.”

“Oh?” The king arched a quizzical brow. “What does appeal to your desires?”

“Boldness,” Tauriel began, her breath hitching when strong but gentle fingers laced around her own. “A dash of arrogance. The willingness to take command. Those are the things that appeal to my desires.”

“The willingness to take command, you say,” Thranduil replied, intrigued. “Does this mean you desire to surrender to your companion in every way?”

“I do not mean complete surrender,” Tauriel allowed. “But it would be liberating, would it not, to let another take the lead?”

“Indeed,” Thranduil agreed. “Tauriel,” he murmured, his lips a mere hair’s breadth over her own, “this cannot go beyond the walls of this tent.”

“I understand, my king,” Tauriel returned, her heart aflutter, “but you must tell me why. So far, you have given me no explanation as to why you comport yourself so.”

Thranduil stepped back and looked hard at her. Tauriel, returning his gaze with equal resolve, remained uncowed. Seconds slowly melted into each other as a heavy silence settled between them. Finally, the king crumbled. He sighed and said, “I desire you. I have done so for quite a while. I guarded my tongue because you were... are… too young. Then there was your position to consider and mine. This is my explanation. Are you satisfied?”

“I am,” Tauriel said, gratified that the king did not attempt to deceive her this time. She closed her eyes again when Thranduil drew near, and his presence overwhelmed her. “And, like you said, this cannot go beyond the walls of this tent. The others will not understand.”

“They will not,” Thranduil whispered. He dipped his head and let his lips glide over hers. When the captain of the Wood-elf guard tilted her chin to meet him halfway, he rewarded her with a kiss that left her skin tingling. “Are you agreeable to staying a while and sharing my featherbed before leaving for the solstice feast?”

Tauriel grinned. “I would be a fool to pass up an hour or two of sharing unbridled passion with the king. I will stay.”

Thranduil grinned as well. “That is good then. Now undress yourself and get in the bed.”

Tauriel flushed, but she did as she was commanded to do so. She fumbled with the buttons of her woolen vest, the knots of her tunic, the clasp of her belt, and the laces on her undershirt and her boots. Still, she freed herself of her garments while listening to the king disrobing himself. She could feel his eyes on her the entire time, and when she finished and turned to look at him, she found lust and hunger burning bright in his sky-blue eyes.

“In the bed,” Thranduil ordered, though not unkindly, “if you please.”

Tauriel obeyed, her cheeks aflame as Thranduil walked toward her, unclad and unashamed. He pushed her down when he climbed onto the featherbed, and he kissed her anew. There was no tenderness this time in his kiss, only a deep longing to ravage and take. Tauriel grew bold. She let Thranduil kiss her before she suddenly spun him around and moved on top of him. Thranduil laughed triumphantly.

“Do you wish to command me, Tauriel?” He husked, resting his hands on her sides when she straddled him, and her weight settled over his thighs.

“For a little while, my king,” Tauriel said. She took hold of his hands when they moved up in search of her breasts and brought them back to her sides. “No, my king,” she added after a moment. “You cannot touch me anywhere besides where you are touching me now. Later, you may do so, but not now.”

The Elvenking let out a sound of impatience. “I shall do as you say,” he uttered and bit back a groan when Tauriel took his erection to hand. “I will only touch you where you want me to.”

Tauriel nodded in approval. She stroked his cock until it stiffened and twitched against her touch. Then, she moved forward—bracing her hands against his torso to steady herself—and fit his tip against her core. When she slid down onto him, Thranduil forgot all sense of himself. He arched his back when he found himself locked within the welcomed heat of Tauriel’s body, and his fingers dug into her soft flesh, bruising and marring them as she started to move. He opened his eyes, filled with a desire to see, and found himself being greeted by the sight of his length disappearing into her, her chest heaving, and her limbs trembling from the exertion of their lovemaking. He dared not move his hands. He kept them by her waist instead while she brought down her hips and ground against him, again, and again, and again, and her breath turned to ragged gasps. When Tauriel brought down her hips harder and faster than she thought she would, Thranduil cried out his pleasure.

“Hush, my king,” Tauriel warned. “The others will hear you.”

“The others will not hear me,” Thranduil declared with certainty. “They are quite occupied with their singing.”

What he said was indeed true, for the singing was now louder than before, and each word carried through the camp without hindrance. Thranduil decided to take advantage of this. He grabbed Tauriel, flipped her onto her back, and then turned her onto her stomach after he pulled out of her.

“On your hands and knees, Captain,” insisted the king as he made himself comfortable on his knees. “The time has come for me to take the lead.”

Tauriel heeded him, parting her legs and moaning when he slipped inside of her. Her nails dug into the furs beneath her while he thrust steadily and drove her closer and closer to her release.

Someone called from outside the tent. “My king? Are you there?”

Tauriel dropped to her elbows. She bit her lower lip and buried her face in her forearm to try and silence herself. Thranduil, on the other hand, continued without ceasing. “Yes, Feren,” he barked, “but I am occupied. Captain Tauriel and I have much to discuss. I will summon you and Galion some other time.” 

“Of course, my king,” Feren answered. He paused for a moment, and then said, “Galion and I shall await your summons in our tent.”

Tauriel lifted her head not long after. “I am certain he heard.”

“Feren will guard his tongue if he did, as will Galion,” Thranduil panted. He grabbed a fistful of Tauriel’s hair and tugged at it, though not ungently. The act gave rise to fresh sensations that were more powerful than the ones before them. They tore through Tauriel’s veins like trails of fire and brought about an orgasm that overcame her and blinded her to all else. She sobbed out the king’s name while he chased after his release, and she then heard it, him grunting in satisfaction as he withdrew and spilled his seed onto the pelts. Then she collapsed onto her side, weary from what took place, and she took a steadying breath as the world around her grew still.

The weight of the featherbed shifted. “Tauriel,” Thranduil said, brushing his hand over the tousled mess that was her hair. “Are you well?”

“I am well, my king,” Tauriel said. She turned onto her back and found Thranduil seated beside her, watching her. She smiled up at him. “I am just weary by what we did; that is all.”

Thranduil was relieved. “Just so. Stay and rest a while. Later, I will help you dress, and we can join the feast.”

[fel-09]

Sorry for not posting for so long, I had no ideas .

Longing for you drives me crazy

Thranduil x reader

The evening in Mirkwood was quiet, with only the rustle of leaves and the sounds of nocturnal birds breaking the silence. King Thranduil, majestic and inscrutable, stood by the window of his chambers, gazing out at the forest bathed in moonlight. Suddenly, you approached him, wrapping your arms around his torso and pressing your face against his chest.

He tensed for a moment but quickly relaxed, recognizing your touch.

"You’ve decided to steal a moment of my peace?" he said in a low, almost teasing voice, tilting his head to look at you.

"I thought you didn’t mind when it’s me," you replied, lifting your gaze to meet his, your eyes reflecting the soft glow of the candles.

He smirked, a hint of amusement flashing in his eyes. "You’re so confident. But what if one day I become colder than you can endure?"

You smirked in return, brushing your lips lightly against his skin. "You’re cold only to others, Thranduil. With me, you’re different."

He ran his hand along your cheek, his gaze serious but filled with hidden tenderness. "Isn’t that because you always invade my peace, meleth nin?"

"Maybe. But shouldn’t a king share his peace with those who care for him?" you asked with a gentle smile, as if challenging his words.

Thranduil chuckled softly, his voice like the gentle murmur of a stream. "Are you always this bold? Or is it just with me?"

You looked at him from under your lashes. "Only with those who let themselves relax around me."

His lips curved into a faint smile. He leaned down slightly and kissed your forehead, as if sealing your words with an invisible mark.

"You’re too cunning, but don’t forget who is king here," he said softly, adding with a trace of irony, "I suppose I must accept that my crown has become your plaything."

You huffed, but before you could respond, the moment of peace was shattered.

The forest of Mirkwood trembled with the clash of weapons and the cries of battle. Thranduil, surrounded by enemies, moved with the grace of a predator, his blade flashing as it cut through the darkness. Yet even in the heat of combat, he thought of your touch, your voice that pierced through his thoughts like a beam of light.

Every moment away from you was a torment. Every day without your smile felt endless.

His hands were covered in blood up to the elbows, but his consciousness still brought him back to your room where you two were alone.

Every battle his heart begged to come to you with victory, every day he wanted to wake up and smell you,Now he had a new task - to return to you safe and sound as he promised.

When the battle was finally over and the enemy defeated, Thranduil returned to the palace. Weary but resolute, he strode through the corridors, ignoring the servants, until he reached your chambers.

Opening the door, he found you asleep. Moonlight fell on your face, highlighting the serenity he had longed for.

Thranduil quietly removed his armor, his movements almost soundless. Donning a robe, he carefully lay down beside you, allowing himself to relax for the first time in a long while.

His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer. He inhaled your scent, whispering softly, "Every day without you was hard, meleth nin. But now, I’m home."

He buried his nose in your neck, his breath warm, his touch soothing. Here, beside you, he could finally forget everything else.

[earthlybeam]

🎄🎁Merry Christmas everyone🎉✨

✨🦌🍷 𝓣𝓱𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓾𝓲𝓵 🍷🦌✨

how would the elves react to this?

↓

↓

↓

Thranduil Version below. (reader/you are his lover). Featuring what I wrote below is: Building a Snowman (With a Twist), Snowball Fight, Sledging Adventure, Snow Angel.

🍷𝓣𝓱𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓾𝓲𝓵

Building a Snowman(With a Twist):

𐂂 The frosty air nips at your skin as you stand in the center of the snow-covered clearing, the white world around you blanketed in a serene, almost magical stillness. The cold has wrapped itself around your limbs, but there’s a warmth between you and Thranduil, King of Mirkwood, that makes the chill seem distant. His regal presence, typically so composed and distant, has taken on an amusing edge today. The fact that he’s agreed to help you build a snowman—something so frivolous, so beneath him—was a minor miracle in itself, and you can’t help but feel a sense of victory. But even more than that, you feel a flicker of excitement at what’s to come. After all, you’ve never been one to shy away from pushing boundaries. You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, watching as he meticulously shapes the snowman’s face, his slender fingers delicate despite the absurdity of the task. The precision with which he works is stunning; it’s as if every movement, every little indentation in the snow, is the result of years of skill and artistry, rather than the simple task of constructing a snow figure. There’s something so undeniably charming about the sight of Thranduil, the immortal Elven king, stooping down to carefully place each detail, his brow furrowed in concentration. And yet, there’s an unmistakable sense of discomfort in the air as well—a kind of forced patience that tells you, despite his grace, he’s not exactly thrilled by this whole “snowman” business. He’s humorlessly indulging you, yet a small spark of amusement lingers behind his icy blue eyes, betraying the fact that he’s not entirely unaffected by the absurdity of it all. His movements are careful and deliberate, his back straight and regal even as he bends to shape the face of the snowman. As he smooths the snow over its eyes, you can’t help but smile to yourself. You’ve already stacked the snowballs, the base and torso towering tall. Now, it’s up to him to add the final touches.

𐂂 And then it hits you. You can’t help but smirk, an idea forming in your mind—a little bit of mischief that will surely break the stoic mask he wears. While he’s focused on his snowman, you quietly reach into your pocket, pulling out a lone carrot. With playful precision, you move it from the typical position to a far more daring one—right at the snowman’s crotch. As you step back, a quiet chuckle bubbles up in your chest. You wait, watching as Thranduil takes a moment to step back and survey his creation. His posture remains straight, his expression still composed, but something shifts in the air. His eyes flick to the snowman, and the briefest flicker of disbelief flashes across his face. For a long moment, there’s only silence. The world seems to hold its breath as he stands frozen, his eyes scanning between the snowman and you, the carrot’s placement the only thing on his mind. And then, slowly, with the precision and grace of an Elven king, he crosses his arms over his chest and tilts his head slightly, his lips quirking at the corners.

𐂂 “Well, well,” he drawls, his voice rich and smooth, like velvet, but with an unmistakable hint of amusement laced within. “I didn’t expect such… creativity from you.” He steps forward, his long, graceful strides taking him closer to the snowman, his gaze still locked on you. His movements are deliberate, measured, as if inspecting something of great importance, though the teasing light in his eyes makes it clear he’s well aware of the playful mischief you’ve injected into the moment. “A lowly snowman has become an object of much greater significance, I see.” Thranduil’s words are cutting, dry, and yet there’s an unmistakable glint of mischief in his eyes, something playful hiding just behind his regal composure. He glances from the snowman to you, and then raises a single eyebrow. “Do I dare ask why you placed that there, my love?” His tone is laced with dry wit, but there’s a subtle warmth, a hint of something more intimate, in the way he addresses you. The usual icy distance of the Elven king is slipping, replaced by something more… personal. He steps closer, his presence now overwhelming, and you can feel your heartbeat quicken. His gaze is intense as he looks down at you, his eyes holding yours with a mix of challenge and amusement. You try to keep your composure, but the playful glint in his eye is impossible to ignore. You hold his gaze, trying to suppress the mischievous laughter that threatens to bubble up. “I thought it would add a bit of fun to the creation,” you say innocently, your voice light but laced with teasing.

𐂂 Thranduil steps closer still, the space between you two narrowing with each deliberate movement. His posture remains tall, commanding, but there’s a slight softness in his eyes now, a flicker of something far more playful than you’re accustomed to seeing from him. “Is that so?” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a low, almost conspiratorial tone. There’s a deliciously teasing edge to his words, his voice like honey in your ear. “Perhaps next time, you’ll have me build a more… ‘appropriate’ snowman. Though…” He pauses, a mischievous glint flickering in his eyes as he leans in just enough for his breath to warm your skin. “This one does have… character.” You inhale sharply, feeling a flutter of excitement rush through you. The closeness of his body, the heat of his breath against your ear, sends a shiver down your spine. The playful tension between you both has become almost palpable, the cold of the snow forgotten in the wake of his intensity. Thranduil pulls back just slightly, his gaze now fully locked onto yours. His eyes are smoldering with a depth of emotion you recognize all too well—intensity, desire, and an undeniable playfulness that promises more mischief. “Though I suspect,” he continues, his voice dropping even lower, his words now a soft murmur that sends a wave of warmth through your body, “you had more in mind than a simple snowman.” A rush of heat floods through you, contrasting sharply with the cold of the world around you. Thranduil’s presence is overwhelming, his teasing words laced with something far more enticing than the playful banter of a moment ago. “We could have stayed in the palace, you know,” he adds with a devilish grin, the suggestion in his words clear and unmistakable. “There are far more enjoyable activities we could be indulging in than building snowmen in the cold.”

𐂂 His breath is warm against your neck now, and you feel the heat of his closeness more than ever. The playful challenge in his eyes flickers with something deeper, something that makes your pulse quicken, as the snowflakes drift down around you like a soft blanket, the world feeling suddenly smaller, more intimate. Thranduil steps even closer now, the space between you two nearly nonexistent. His lips brush yours in a light, teasing kiss that makes your heart race. “But…” he murmurs against your lips, his voice still thick with teasing warmth, “I suppose a little snowman… has its charms too.”For a moment, the world around you two seems to fade. The snowman, the cold, and the laughter all seem distant in the wake of the heat rising between you. Thranduil’s hands settle lightly on your waist, pulling you closer, the intensity of the moment surging in waves. You’re both caught in the shared teasing, but it’s clear to you now that the game has shifted. Thranduil is never one to let something go lightly, and you wonder just how long he’ll keep up the playful teasing before sweeping you away to somewhere far more private, where the snowman and the cold are forgotten entirely.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ ꕤ ၄၃ ꕤ ✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

Snowball Fight:

𐂂 The snow falls gently around you, a quiet blanket over the world, muffling the sounds of the forest. The trees loom tall and still, their branches heavy with the weight of winter’s chill. It’s a perfect winter day—cold enough to feel alive, yet not so biting that it’s uncomfortable. The world feels like it’s paused, holding its breath, and in this frozen moment, you and Thranduil are engaged in a battle of a different kind. A snowball fight. You glance across the distance, eyes narrowing slightly at the sight of Thranduil—so tall, so composed, his golden hair a stark contrast to the crisp white of the snow around him. He stands with a regal sort of stillness, the very picture of elegance even in the midst of what should be a playful, chaotic activity. His sharp blue eyes are fixed on you, his lips curling into a knowing smile, as if he already knows he has the upper hand. But there’s a challenge in his gaze—one that dares you to try your best. Thranduil may be a king, a warrior, and a master of countless skills, but you know there’s one thing he hasn’t mastered: losing.

𐂂 You waste no time, gathering a handful of snow and forming it into a snowball with the swiftness of a practiced hand. You throw it with everything you’ve got, the snowball hurtling through the air toward him with surprising speed. But Thranduil doesn’t even flinch. With the grace of an elf, he steps aside as if he’s seen it coming from the moment you started to form it. His movements are fluid, effortless. He’s quick, too quick for you to catch, and before you can even react, he retaliates with a snowball of his own. The shot is so precise, so perfectly aimed, that it hits you square in the chest, sending a jolt of cold straight through your coat. You gasp, a laugh escaping you even as you stagger back, trying to regain your balance. “Oh, you’re going to regret that,” you mutter under your breath, eyes narrowing as you quickly scramble to gather more snow. But Thranduil is already on the move, his eyes locked onto you, calculating your next move. You throw another snowball, but it’s almost as if he can see it coming from a mile away. With a quick sidestep and a graceful sweep of his arm, he dodges it effortlessly. You’re starting to realize that no matter how fast or how accurately you throw, it’s like playing a game of cat and mouse.

𐂂 He ducks and weaves, his movements fluid and easy, as if the world around him has slowed down just for him. His tall form moves with a predator’s precision, each step deliberate, each action purposeful. His elven grace shines through even in something as simple as this, making you feel like an amateur at best. You scramble again, trying to retreat behind a snowbank to gather more ammo. Your heart races, not from exertion, but from the sheer fun of the challenge. And then, just when you think you’ve found some semblance of safety, you hear the unmistakable whistle of air, the unmistakable sound of Thranduil’s snowball soaring through the air. Before you can even brace yourself, the snowball hits you square on the chest again, harder this time. You gasp, half-laughing, half-frustrated at how effortlessly he’s managing to outmaneuver you at every turn. The cold wetness of the snow sinks into your coat, and you give a dramatic groan, already plotting your next move. You’re not giving up yet. But then, in your haste, you misstep. Your foot sinks into a pile of snow, and for a split second, you lose your balance. You barely have time to react before your feet slip out from under you entirely, and with a gasp of surprise, you fall backward, your arms flailing in the air for any semblance of balance. But there’s nothing—just a sharp intake of breath as you tumble into someone’s arms.

𐂂 Thranduil’s arms, to be exact. His grip on you is firm and steady, and as you find yourself tangled in his embrace, you’re struck by how effortlessly he’s caught you. The way he holds you isn’t just out of necessity, though—it’s almost as if he’s waiting for you to fall. His body is warm against you, the cold air momentarily forgotten in the comfort of his hold. You can hear the faintest sound of his breath, steady and calm, even as you struggle to right yourself. “Seems you’re not as skilled at this as I thought,” Thranduil teases, his voice rich with amusement, a sly smile pulling at the corners of his lips. His sharp gaze, usually so calculated, softens in this moment—something playful, almost fond, flickering in his eyes. You glare at him playfully, trying to push yourself free, but his arms are unyielding, holding you close in the snow. The intensity of his eyes makes your heart flutter in a way that feels all too intimate, too real for something as lighthearted as a snowball fight. His face, usually so poised and composed, is now slightly disheveled from the fun. His golden hair is wild from the cold wind, strands falling loose around his face. For once, he looks… like just a man, not a king. And you catch that flicker of warmth in his gaze—the part of him that is soft, playful, that enjoys these moments with you, even if he doesn’t always show it.

𐂂 Before you can get too comfortable, another snowball sails through the air, striking you square in the hood of your coat. You squeal, caught off guard, and before you can retaliate, Thranduil’s laughter rings out—rich and deep, his usual kingly composure replaced with something lighter, more carefree. “Oh, now that was a hit!” he teases, his eyes dancing with delight as he watches your reaction. His laughter is infectious, and you can’t help but smile despite yourself, your cheeks burning with a mixture of cold and embarrassment. But Thranduil’s teasing doesn’t stop there. In one swift move, he reaches behind you, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he gathers a handful of snow. You gasp, surprised at the sudden chill as he shoves the snow down the back of your cloak, the cold seeping through the layers of your clothing. It’s a moment of playful mischief, one that sends a shiver down your spine, not from the cold, but from the way his touch lingers just a moment longer than necessary.

𐂂 His laughter echoes in the air, and you squirm in his grasp, trying to break free. “Oh, you think you can get away with that?” you challenge, your voice teasing, but there’s an underlying warmth there too—an intimacy that only he could bring out in you, even in the midst of such playful chaos. Thranduil leans in, his breath warm against your ear as he whispers, “Oh, I think I’ve gained the upper hand now, my love.” You can feel the tension shift in the air as he brushes a few stray snowflakes from your cloak, his touch gentle and careful despite the playful moment. And then, before you can respond, his lips are on yours—soft, warm, and tender, a slow kiss that pulls you into the moment, that makes the cold winter air feel like nothing at all. The snow continues to fall around you, but in that instant, it’s only the two of you—locked in a kiss, in laughter, in warmth.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ ꕤ ၄၃ ꕤ ✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

Sledging Adventure:

𐂂 The day is a rare one in Mirkwood, where the crisp winter air carries a bite, yet there’s a lightness to it, a playful quality that seems to infuse everything around you. The snow, pristine and untouched, stretches out before you like an open invitation to adventure. The trees, tall and ancient, are dusted with a fine layer of snow that sparkles in the pale sunlight, casting long, soft shadows across the forest floor. It’s the kind of day where laughter feels almost natural, a welcome break from the solemn weight of your everyday lives. But then there’s Thranduil. The regal king of Mirkwood stands beside you, tall and composed as ever, his cloak of deep greens and silvers cascading elegantly behind him. His features are sharp, his icy blue eyes scanning the landscape with a level of control that seems to extend beyond even his surroundings. His usual poise, that calm, sovereign bearing that commands respect, is present, as always. But today, it feels out of place. For all his elegance, the rigid posture and impeccable grooming don’t quite match the light-hearted potential of the moment. He’s too dignified for the antics that you have in mind.

𐂂 You glance up at him, a playful gleam in your eyes. The idea that’s been swirling in your mind takes shape, and you can’t help the teasing smile that tugs at your lips. “Thranduil,” you say, your voice light and full of mischief, “surely, you’re not too regal to try something as simple as sledging, are you?” His eyes flicker toward you, the icy blue depths narrowing slightly, calculating the challenge in your words. You can see the subtle play of amusement behind his composed expression. But for a moment, he doesn’t answer. Instead, he arches one eyebrow, his lips curling into the faintest of smiles, a look that’s part amusement and part skepticism. You can practically see the wheels turning in his mind, trying to reconcile the thought of a king, a master strategist, sliding down a hill on a humble wooden sled. “You would have me partake in such a… lowly activity?” he finally asks, his voice smooth as ever, yet there’s a teasing edge to it now. The glimmer of challenge in his eyes tells you that he’s not entirely opposed to the idea, but he’s certainly not about to let it be easy. You give him a mischievous grin, stepping closer, knowing that your words have struck a nerve. “I suppose if the King of Mirkwood can’t manage something as simple as this, then perhaps he’s not quite as agile as he’d like everyone to believe.”

𐂂 Thranduil’s gaze sharpens, the challenge in your words sparking something within him. His posture doesn’t falter—of course not—but you can see the shift in his demeanor, the subtle rise in the tension of his shoulders, the flicker of interest in his eyes. “Very well,” he says, the words clipped, his tone still regal but with the faintest hint of playful defiance. “If you believe I cannot master this, I shall show you otherwise.” The challenge has been issued. You can’t help but grin widely as you lead him toward the sled, the small wooden contraption barely visible beneath the thick layer of snow. You hand him the sled, a small, playful chuckle escaping your lips. He takes it with a level of care that would be more appropriate for a rare artifact, looking it over like it might suddenly bite him. His posture is as straight as ever as he prepares to sit, which only makes you laugh harder. “You might want to try relaxing a little,” you tease, stepping back and glancing at him with a raised eyebrow. “You know, just… let go of all that kingly dignity. It’s only a sled.” His lips twitch again, the barest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. But he sits with a stiff elegance, as though he’s about to attend a royal court, not embark on an adventure down a snow-covered hill. For a moment, he looks utterly out of place—his regal robes and pristine appearance at odds with the simple joy of the activity.

𐂂 But before he can fully settle, you push off with a sudden burst of energy, the sled gaining speed as it careens down the hill. Thranduil’s expression shifts from cool indifference to something a little more… strained. You catch the glimmer of surprise in his eyes as the wind whips past, the cold biting at your face, and the excitement of the ride overtakes you both. You glance over at him, and for a brief moment, the proud king’s usual composure falters. His hair flies out behind him in a stream of gold, his normally perfect posture now entirely abandoned as he tries to hold onto the sled, his hands gripping it tightly. The contrast is striking—the powerful, regal king fighting to maintain control as the sled bucks beneath him, the laughter and adrenaline starting to chip away at his ice-cold demeanor. And then, just as you near the bottom of the hill, the sled lurches forward, careening over a hidden bump in the snow. Thranduil lets out a strangled sound—a mix between shock and disbelief—and before you can brace yourself, the sled tips, sending both of you flying into the snow in a tangle of limbs and laughter.

𐂂 For a brief, chaotic moment, everything is white—the snow, the air, the rush of movement—and then it all comes to a halt. Thranduil lies on his back, his cloak askew, his golden hair spilling around him like a halo of sunlight. His usually impeccable appearance is now disheveled, the formality of his usual demeanor lost in the wildness of the ride. For a second, there’s nothing but a stunned silence as he lies in the snow, his chest rising and falling with the sudden rush of breath. Then, as if on cue, Thranduil slowly pushes himself up, brushing snow off his royal cloak with an air of cool disinterest. He looks at you, his eyes narrowing just slightly, though there’s something else there—a warmth, an amusement that wasn’t there before. “I have to admit,” he says, his voice a smooth baritone, the usual frost replaced with something lighter, “I did not expect such an… exhilarating experience.”

𐂂 The words have barely left his lips when you, unable to contain the mischievous spark that lights up inside you, slide toward him, your feet shifting quickly beneath you as you dart forward. Before he can even react, you knock into him, sending him right back into the snow. The motion is swift and playful, and before Thranduil can regain his balance, he’s once again lying in the snow, his eyes wide with mock disbelief as he looks up at you. You grin down at him, your heart racing, feeling the cold snow beneath you but not caring at all. “Oh, I think I’ve defeated you quite easily,” you tease, your voice low with playful challenge. For a moment, Thranduil’s eyes darken, but it’s not anger. No, there’s something else in his gaze now—a glimmer of amusement, of something more. He’s not done. With a fluid motion, his arms reach for you, pulling you toward him in a swift, powerful movement, and suddenly, you’re both tangled in the snow again. His hands find your waist, his fingers brushing against your skin even through the layers of clothing. You both laugh, the cold air mixing with the warmth of your proximity.

𐂂 “Do you think you can defeat me so easily?” he teases, his voice rich with amusement, but there’s a deeper, more intimate edge to it now, his breath warm against your ear as he nuzzles you in the snow. You feel the heat rise in your chest as you both share a breathless laugh, the playful tension between you shifting. Thranduil leans in, his lips brushing against yours in a soft, slow kiss that feels like the perfect blend of winter’s chill and the warmth of your shared moment. The snow around you no longer matters; the cold is forgotten as you melt into him, his hands gently cradling your face, his kiss deepening with a quiet intensity. In the quiet aftermath, as the snow continues to fall around you, it’s as if the world has faded away—leaving just the two of you, wrapped in the moment, the winter air filling your lungs, and the warmth between you growing with every heartbeat.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ ꕤ ၄၃ ꕤ ✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

Snow Angel:

𐂂 The crisp winter air bites at your skin, yet there’s a strange warmth in the silence that surrounds the Mirkwood forest. The trees stand tall and majestic, their branches dusted with a thin layer of snow, their dark trunks rising like guardians against the pale sky. The world feels as though it’s been frozen in time, the forest holding its breath in reverence to the rare quiet. Snow stretches out before you like an untouched canvas, glistening under the pale winter sunlight that cuts through the trees in soft beams. Amidst all this, Thranduil stands beside you—regal, composed, as always. The Elven king, clad in his intricately embroidered cloak of deep greens and silvers, the faintest shimmer of frost caught on his silken garb, seems almost part of the winter landscape itself. His sharp, yet beautiful features catch the light, as do the icy blue depths of his eyes, which scan the surroundings with the same keen awareness that has made him a master of Mirkwood. Yet today, there is something different in his gaze, something softer, something that lingers on you. He’s here, beside you, in this moment, free from the weight of his crown, his throne, his duties. The air hums with a quiet magic, one that whispers of simpler joys. And you, in this peaceful moment, feel the pull to something even lighter, even more carefree. The world seems to have slowed down, just for you two.

𐂂 You watch Thranduil for a moment, the subtle grace in his every movement, the way he holds himself with effortless nobility. There’s no escaping the fact that he’s a king, not just in title but in essence, his every gesture exuding command and poise. And yet, there’s an intimacy in the air now, one that makes your heart race with anticipation. It’s the kind of moment that feels intimate, delicate—a quiet intimacy that only the two of you share. A playful idea stirs in your mind, one that stands in stark contrast to everything Thranduil represents. You smile to yourself, the glint of mischief twinkling in your eyes. Without a second thought, you turn to him, your words light and teasing, the excitement bubbling in your chest. “How about we make snow angels?” The suggestion floats between you, and for a moment, Thranduil doesn’t respond. His icy gaze flicks toward you, narrowing ever so slightly as he processes your words. His brow furrows in the briefest flash of confusion, as if trying to decipher the absurdity of the suggestion. Then, his lips twitch, a barely-there smile teasing at the corners of his mouth. But the amusement doesn’t quite reach his eyes—not yet. He’s still trying to understand why anyone—least of all someone as regal as he—would engage in something so simple. “Snow angels?” Thranduil repeats, his voice smooth and rich, dripping with disbelief. The way he says it makes it sound as though the very idea is foreign to him, as though it belongs to a far less serious world. His gaze flickers to the snow, then back to you, and you catch the faintest edge of disbelief, mixed with genuine curiosity. “Surely you jest. You must be joking,” he adds, his tone mocking but with a hint of intrigue beneath it.

𐂂 You can’t help but laugh at the incredulity in his voice. It’s so perfectly Thranduil—stoic, composed, caught off guard by something as innocent as making snow angels. The image of the King of Mirkwood laying in the snow, creating an angel in the most carefree of ways, is almost too much to fathom. And yet, there’s a part of you that’s determined to see it through. “It’s a simple winter tradition,” you explain, your voice light and coaxing, as you step a little closer to him. “You lie down in the snow, move your arms and legs, and make a shape—an angel.” You smile, your eyes meeting his with a gleam of playful challenge. “It’s relaxing and joyful, Thranduil. It’s one of my favorite things about winter.” His gaze softens for just a fraction of a second—there it is, that crack in his cool demeanor—but it quickly returns to its typical calculated calm. The corner of his mouth twitches into a sly smile, and there’s something in his eyes now, an unreadable gleam of both teasing amusement and curiosity. “You think,” he says, his voice smooth as ever, “that I, King of Mirkwood, should indulge in such… childlike behavior?” His voice drops, tinged with playful challenge, his lips curling into a mischievous smirk. The regal authority still lingers in his words, but beneath it, there’s an undeniable spark of interest. His eyes search yours, sharp and calculating, but with something warmer beneath, a glimmer of curiosity. He’s testing you, gauging your resolve, and yet you see something deeper—a quiet amusement, a willingness to humor you, just a little.

𐂂 You step closer, the space between you shrinking, your heart quickening with the proximity. You lock eyes, and without thinking, you reach up, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. It’s brief, just a gentle touch of your lips to his cool skin, but it sends a rush of warmth through you. The moment your lips meet his skin, you feel him freeze for an instant—his breath catching, his sharp inhale betraying a sudden shift in his demeanor. His posture stiffens for the briefest of moments before he slowly exhales, a faint blush tinging his features. Pulling back just slightly, you catch his gaze again. For a moment, he doesn’t say anything—just watches you, his icy blue eyes unreadable, yet there’s something softer in them now, something warmer. The king has been momentarily disarmed, and you can see that he’s… considering it. You can feel the tension of the moment, and the air between you two feels charged with something unspoken. Finally, he smirks—just a little, enough for you to catch the amusement dancing at the corners of his lips. “Very well,” he murmurs, voice low and tinged with a teasing warmth. “I shall indulge your… ‘winter tradition,’’ he adds, the words wrapped in a teasing, half-mocking tone, but the glint in his eyes tells you everything you need to know. He’s not opposed to the idea. In fact, he’s intrigued. You can hardly contain your excitement. You smile widely, practically bouncing with joy as you take a small step back, giving him space. Thranduil sighs dramatically, his chest rising and falling with the motion, but the glimmer of amusement still lingers in his eyes. Then, with the same fluid grace he uses to navigate any royal affair, he lowers himself to the snow, his body moving with an almost otherworldly elegance.

𐂂 Even in something so simple, he moves like an artist, as though every motion is meticulously planned. His body glides into place in the snow with such precision it seems almost choreographed. He lies down with minimal sound, his back a picture of control and grace, his arms sweeping outward with deliberate care, his legs following in slow, measured arcs. His every movement speaks of a man who lives by the rhythm of his own perfection. You watch in silence, a smile tugging at your lips as you realize that his snow angel is not like yours. Yours is carefree, a chaotic tangle of limbs. But his is… almost too perfect. The arms are spread out with an artist’s precision, the legs following in symmetrical arcs. The final result is a work of art—sleek, symmetrical, and too refined to be anything but royal. It’s more of an insignia than an angel—a mark of his regal nature, even in something as simple as the snow. Thranduil rises with the same fluid grace, brushing the snow from his cloak, inspecting his work with an expression of self-satisfaction. He looks at the pristine, perfect angel and then back at you, a smug smile playing at the corners of his lips. “I believe this is the most refined snow angel ever made,” he says, his voice dripping with pride, his gaze never leaving his work. There’s a sense of accomplishment in his voice that matches the satisfaction of completing a masterpiece. You bite your lip, trying to hold back your laughter, but the sheer perfection of his creation makes it impossible. His angel is too controlled, too perfect—there’s something almost comical about it. You can’t help it. You step closer with a sly smile, your eyes glinting with mischief. Thranduil’s back is turned, his focus still on his pristine angel. That’s your opening. Without a second thought, you leap forward, diving straight into the center of his carefully crafted angel. You kick up the snow, completely ruining the symmetry, collapsing it into a messy, lopsided pile.

𐂂 Thranduil spins around, his eyes wide with disbelief, and for a moment, there’s a stunned silence. “What in the name of the Valar—” he begins, but before he can finish, you’re already laughing, scooping up a handful of fresh snow and shoving it into his face. The cold hits him, and he freezes—his regal features caught in shock as the snow drips down his face. Then, the world shifts. His eyes narrow, his lips curling into a slow smile as a dangerous glint enters his gaze. “You dare?” he asks, his voice low, rich with teasing challenge. Before you can even react, he’s on you, his movements swift and sure. His arms circle around you, pulling you into a playful but firm grapple, and in mere moments, you’re pinned beneath him in the snow. The cold bites at your skin, but Thranduil’s warmth is right there, his breath warm against your face as he hovers above you. His eyes gleam with mischief, but there’s a depth to them now, something playful and intimate. “I believe,” he murmurs, his lips curling into a smirk, “this was your plan all along, wasn’t it?” His voice drops, and the teasing warmth is palpable. “You thought you could ruin my perfect angel and get away with it?” You laugh, your heart racing with the thrill of it all, but before you can say anything, he leans down, his lips brushing yours in a kiss that is both gentle and commanding. The world around you fades into nothingness as the kiss deepens, and in that moment, you know that while his snow angel may have been perfect, nothing could ever compare to the warmth of this—this moment, this kiss, this beautiful chaos.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ ꕤ ၄၃ ꕤ ✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

[elerondo]

The worst and most inaccurate shade one could throw on Elrond is that degenerate "he didn't even want to be king" and using that to say "Thranduil is better / mightier / Greenwood had it worst". Why is this even a comparison, as though to say Thranduil had any choice in the matter? As though it is a good thing that Thranduil became king?

As though Angmar wasn't a thing in Eriador.

As though all the kings of the Noldor didn't die against Morgoth and Sauron.

If Elrond was king he would also die on the plains of Dagorlad like a Valar forsaken prophecy, and then the last of Feanorian memory, and the valour of Fingolfin's line would have died with him.

As though his own brother - a king - didn't also die and Elros' people later propelled the rise of Sauron, which caused all the mother fucking kings to also die.

Never again would a Feanorian star be bannered in Middle Earth, and Morgoth would have well and truly won against Feanor's kin.

Thus Sauron would have gotten hold of one of the Elven rings, Vilya, the mightiest of the Three.

So no shit, Elrond cannot be king. He chose to serve a king, then the realm, and all the free folks of middle earth.

He played the longest con through all of his PERMANENT LOSSES and you dare trash on that? Why even compare when the elves are all tragic, and Tolkien's main story is the victory of the little people, not the glorfication of war and heroes?

[madwomansapologist]

AUTUMN THUNDERSTORM | CHAPTER 5 — ENOUGH IS ENOUGH

check it on ao3! ★ check the pinterest board! ★ check the playlist!

thranduil thought the recent attack of spiders on a periphery village was the only thing deserving of his attention. if he could've imagined what he would found there, who he would found there, the elvenking would wait a millenia in front of that river so he could see you sooner. or: how gandalf managed to keep a secret for 14 months.

Many think the determining factor in a battle is strength. Others say that it’s strategy. A minority truly believes it to be luck. But those never saw the strongest falling or the smartest failing to plan, and they never felt that luck sided with their enemies. It’s easy to find simple and objective truths when you’re far away from the real conflict.

Moonlight spilled through the rotten trees. The gravel crunched under the elk’s paws. His beast, the creature that always protected and obeyed the Elvenking, followed the tracks of the remaining worm. Unhesitating, Thranduil led his little army throughout the night. Unhurriedly.

Thranduil could say they were strong enough to win this chase, and there is a high chance that it would turn out true. Thranduil could say his strategy is failsafe, and it was on so many occasions. Thranduil could use a deity’s name as a promise of victory. But knowing the truth of real conflict, it would be vile to make those shallow promises. 

Thranduil fought for his people, led them from survival to tranquility. He saw Mordor, felt its flames, and survived it. Protecting his realm, Thranduil kept his throne and sanity. He would never put his people in danger by relying on such ephemeral things. His soldiers would die for Thranduil like many did before, out of honor and not of fear. They believe in his judgment. They saw his sacrifices to keep their realm safe.

Exploring the forest, blending with the darkness, they hunted as one. No orders were needed, and soon it was cornered. No matter how far that wicked monster ran, he was already dead. Blood dried on Thranduil’s face. He could feel the ferrous taste. His gaze wasn’t that of a king, Thranduil was a hunter now. The long sword on his hand was an extension of his body. The orc’s snarls grew louder and louder.

The amorphous figure broke away from the shadows. A sound of glass mixed with the snarls, a bag swinging in the orc’s hands gleaming in the moonlight. With his curved body exhausted, it was almost unfair to fight such a being. What chance did it had of surviving?

And that’s why Thranduil started this chase. Thranduil saw the strongest unable to stand up, the smartest unable to protect themselves, the luckiest unable to react after a betrayal. He knows what really determines the outcome of any kind of battle. Thranduil knew they had what it takes to win.

There is no need to be faster or stronger. And there’s no such thing as infallible strategies. All you need to do is to last longer than your enemy. And Thranduil proved time after time that he and his people will always endure. No matter what, the Sindars endure unbending.

Swinging his leg against the elk, it turned at the right moment, Thranduil brought his sword down fiercely. Black, viscous blood gushed through the cut.

An attack of his bordered-on mercy now but a whisper reached him, something in the darkness luring Thranduil in. The orc continued marching forward, Thranduil and his elk remained unmoving. They watched as that beast vanished into the darkness, leaving behind a cold arm on the ground.

Thranduil had done more than enough for Elrond and his realm. No kindness, no moral reward of any kind, would make him led his people into that hungry obscurity. The White Council may not understand it yet, but Woodland knows the Enemy stands firm. And if Sauron decided to protect his army from Thranduil’s campaign, then he’ll travel back to his realm and do the same.

The War is closer, and Woodland will endure it.

The sound of shattering bones brought him back from his cautious choice making. An archer broke the cold orc’s fingers to free the bag from it. “It must be precious, my king. He held it until the end.”

Thranduil smirked. “There is nothing precious he can give to me.”

The archer opened the bag either way. A beat later, he reached out for his king once more.

Records of rivers. Counts of Ents. Marking of floods and droughts. Maps and more maps comparing old and recent constructions, studies of walls, notes in ancient, forgotten languages. There were atlases of Gondor, Rivendell, Khazad-dûm, the Shire, Isengard.

Woodland.

Somehow, those monsters were able to study the realms. How did they do it without being noticed? So many places, so much information. No. Thranduil knows they would never be able to do such a thing. All the realms were betrayed. There is a traitor between the free people. Someone trusted enough to be able to join all this information.

He took the maps out of the muddy bag to observe them, hoping to notice any detail that would show who designed them. After he took the last one from it, the dirty rag was heavier than it should have. A pendant. It was heavy and pointed, a tear-shaped crystal with a pearly liquid inside it. No. Not a liquid. Thranduil could almost feel the velvet texture of it against his skin. It was snow. In the heat of Rivendell, it had snow inside it.

The most exquisite thing Thranduil ever saw.

Back to camp, Thranduil gave his soldiers new instructions. They would spend the night there, and by the morning travel back home. They rode to Rivendell in twenty. And in twenty they will come back to Greenwood.

Thranduil went to his tent. He spread the maps out on the table, analyzed each one of them carefully. Dozens of clandestine, unsigned maps with official information. Who made them even knew even the shifts of patrols in Rivendell. The orc didn’t steal that, it was given to him.

Thranduil sat down to write letters to all leaders. He explained his return to Elrond, warned Saruman and asked him to do the same with the Ents of Isengard, insisted on Galadriel to improve the defense of her realm. At last, he wrote for the dwarves of Khazad-dûm.

Surrounded by papers, heating the wax to seal the letters, he almost did not hear when a crow entered his tent. Apparently, Aerin’s inn doesn’t have carrier-pigeons.

Thranduil longs for the moment your letter will be in his hands. Everything that happened, from the bad ones to the horrible ones, doesn’t matter anymore. Because he knows that when he reads your careful handwriting and honest words, everything will be all right.

Reading the content of that letter, seeing the picture that your words painted on his mind, a desire made it impossible for him to rest. All he did was think, unable to decide if he should do as his heart craves. Because what he read was exactly what Thranduil needed: an excuse to bring you closer to him.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ ⋆✦⋆ ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Luthien opened the door before you could knock on it. “I wonder if you are always that punctual”, she leaned against the door frame. “Or just yearning”, she whispered.

You brought a jar of honey, milk and herbs for tea. “I don’t want to waste your time”, not exactly true, not exactly lie. You gave her your most brilliant smile, not before rolling your eyes. “Are you busy?”

The healer gave you space to enter her house. It smells like buttercup. Luthien filled a teapot with water and took it to the fireplace. “I told you to not bring me food anymore, so you decided to bring me tea?”

“It’s my way to thank you. For the nursing, company and discretion. Now stop complaining.”

Luthien sat in front of you, resting her chin on her hand. “To think it took a warg to make us talk to one another. How is your shoulder?”

“Better,” you reassured her. You grabbed her teacups and spoons. “It feels heavier.”

“Give it time, mellon.” Luthien said that so many times before. She took the teapot away from the flames and waited until you prepared the teacups to fill them. It smelled good. She put a spoon of honey on hers. “Although I know you won’t hear me. You’re not exactly patient.”

“What do you mean by that?” You took a sip of tea. It burned your tongue.

“You’re here”, Luthien tried to hide her smirk. “I told you a hundred times that I’ll carry your letters to you and yet here you are, waiting for them.”

You concentrated on blowing the tea, ignoring her eyes.

Many think that words are just representations of thoughts in a way that others can understand. Such a cold perspective can make them forget that words are more than a mean. They’re feelings. They’re knowledge. And their use, or their lack of, matters way more than most people are comfortable in admitting.

Yours. A simple pronoun. When used, people know you own something. Yours convey possession. Yours convey pride. Yours convey belonging. A house is just a house, but your house is a home. A word presents everywhere, pronounced by everyone, and used before what matters.

You don’t use it very often. Technically you own a few things. You saved for two months to buy your pair of boots. And you have your own mount saddle. But you can’t say the bed where you sleep on is yours. That the roof over your head is yours. Or the dress on your body. The food digested in your stomach. 

When you collapsed on her doorstep, Aerin could’ve helped you or not. She decided on the first. She made her choice, and she kept deciding on you since then. Aerin gave you clothes, aid, nourishment. Aerin gave you dignity. She gave you all you have. Even the money you used to bought the only things you can call yours came from her.

But how can a letter addressed for your eyes to see not be yours? How can words written for your mind to imagine not be yours? Your letters, his letters, mean the word for you.

So maybe this is the reason why you hid them under your mattress. Maybe this is the reason why you didn’t tell anyone you are still in contact with the Elvenking. Maybe this is the reason why you only read them at midnight, and why you never have a great answer to why suddenly you started to use so much paper. Maybe this is the reason why you’re here. You fear that maybe someone else will open them if you’re not there to receive them, so you trusted Luthien to that task.

It's not a secret or a sin. You don’t hide them because they are wrong but because they are yours. Only yours. From small ones to multi-pages, about everything and nothing in particular. Thranduil always writes back. You lost count on how many letters you have under your bed, it’s enough for you to feel something under it when you lay to sleep. 

“Fair enough”, you sighed. “I told him about the… incident.”

“Oh.”

“Yes”, you took a sip of your tea. It burned your tongue again. “Oh, indeed.”

Lossëistar. A word that mattered more than you were ever comfortable admitting. For fourteen months you heard that word more than your own name until the moment they felt like the same thing. For fourteen months you ignored it but now you can’t take it anymore.

And now, every time someone asks you what your name is, you feel betrayed. How could they not know? How could no one know? Fourteen months. You saved those people countless times. The last straw was Aerin stuttering to call you. She almost said a different name. She realized her mistake, but not before opening her mouth. 

Enough is enough.

You walked away from her, not thinking about where you were going to. You wanted to be alone. You didn’t realize when you entered the forest, when you found the clearing, when you kneeled on the floor. You didn’t notice your tears, your fingers deep in the ground, the world shattering around you. You only noticed the cold.

The first thing you saw was the ground. Darkened, dry, lifeless. Blurs stained your vision. You blinked away the tears to see better, only to realize your vision wasn’t blurred: there were water drops floating in the air. Water taken by force from the dead grass, dead trees, dead flowers. The drops attracted each other, even your tears, forming a floating thin river. And before you could make anything, it turned into snow.

“It never happened like that”, you felt the urge to explain yourself one more time. “Without my control.”

Luthien drank the rest of her tea. “Have you ever thought about not wandering alone in forests anymore?” 

When you looked up, you saw her smirk. That made you giggle. You took a sip of your tea. “Apparently nature wants m…”

Something knocked on the window. It sounded as if pebbles were being throw at the glass. Luthien opened the window and the crow flew towards you.

Thranduil answered you. You don’t know why you wrote about what happened to him. You only realized that you did it when the crow disappeared. It was too late to change anything. All you could do was wait.

You sighed before tearing the seal and didn’t breathe again until you finished reading it. Done, you folded the letter and put it back in the envelope.

“What did he say?” Luthien reached the letter but stopped herself. “You didn’t intend on doing anything, it wasn’t your fault. If he thinks so, then he’s a stupid king.”

“He said I am powerful”, you murmured. “Naturally powerful. That he can only imagine what I would be able to with a proper education. He invited me to study in Mirkwood.”

“That is amazing!” She grabbed your hands, shaking your body. “I heard the elves from Mirkwood are so in touch with nature, it will be useful for you to understand more about you. When will you go?”

“But I”, you looked at her. “I… Aerin needs me. And Gandalf will be so worried.”

Luthien held you tighter. “You can write a letter explaining everything to him and leave it if me”, she said. “You can go, if you want to.”

“This is… This is a lot. I don’t even know where exactly Mirkwood is. I don’t know anyone there. And I… This is too much. Definitely too much.”

“You should go,” Luthien told you one more time. “Think about it, think for however long you need, and then make the right choice. Follow your heart. It already knows the answer.”

After saying goodbye, you returned to the inn glaring at the letter in your hands. You kept thinking, weighing his options, unable to come up with an answer. 

On the one hand, you had the possibility of answers, of learning, of a reunion. Thranduil. He wanted you next to him. He wanted to help you learn more about yourself. This is your chance of seeing him again. On the other one, you had your duty, your gratitude, everything you know. Your entire life, or at least what you remember of it, happened right here.

Upon arriving at the inn, you held the letter in your hand as if it were your most prized possession. Maybe it was. But how could you know? What if you accept his invitation and it turned into your worst decision? What if you don’t, and you regret it forever? How could you… Gandalf! He’s the smartest person you know. Perhaps, if you wait until his return, you can ask his opinion. He probably will be there soon.

When you entered your room, Aerin surprised you. She was there, sat on your bed, waiting for you. And she had all your letters spread out on your bed. “What are you doing here, lady Aerin?”

“What am I doing?” Her scream made you stumble backwards. Aerin pointed at the letters, gesturing towards you. “What are you doing? A king!” Aerin got closer to you. “How can you bother him? This is so disrespectful.”

She scared you for half a second. You thought she was mad at you, she’s just worried. Aerin doesn’t know that you both share a friendship. “He was the one who first wrote to me. I wouldn’t do something to embarrass myself, lady Aerin.”

“You just embarrassed yourself! Look at all those letters. The Elvenking pities you.”

You didn’t know what to say. Why was she so mean? Even if you were bothering the king, Aerin could be a little calmer. You swallowed, your throat aching. “Why are you saying those things?”

“How can you be so naive? The Sindars are dangerous!”

“I heard stories about Mirkwood too”, you tried to argue if her. “But they’re not truth. The Elvenking is not mean. He wouldn’t mock me or pity me. He is kind, and brave, and a good friend.”

Aerin sighed. You’re talking back. Since he came you have changed! How can she protect you, honor Gandalf’s trust, if you are feeding those dreams? She thought you’re mad at him. Aerin needs you to be there. Gandalf told her to do everything she can, even if you hate her for it. If you’ll be safe, then so be it. 

“You’ll stop that”, she grabbed all the letters on your bed. They folded against one another. “No more letters between you both. It’s an order.”

You have the right to keep some things just for yourself. You were never disrespectful or needy, you were just talking to your friend. There’s no need for a reaction like that. 

“I know you care about me but I can make my own decisions.”

“I did everything for you”, that hurt Aerin so much. To say such a cruel thing. But she can pretend to be mean and cruel, as long as you stop dreaming and go back to what you were. “You will obey me.” 

“No.”

Aerin marched out of your room, taking all your letters with her. You followed her down the stairs, tucking the last letter you received into your dress. She was practically running from you. “Lady Aerin, can we please sit and talk? There is no need for you to be so worried.”

Ignoring you, Aerin ran to the kitchen. You sighed. Why this is happening? It feels like you committed a crime when all you did was talk to someone. Aerin was never cruel to you. Why would she start now? Did she read your letters and thought Thranduil was as mean as in the stories about him? Aerin saw how good and kind he is, she wouldn’t believe in such nonsense.

But when you entered the kitchen, you found that your patience has limits. You’re a calm person, you try to be understanding. When you feel sad, you hide it. When you get mad, you hide it. When you get heartbroken, you hide it.

“What have you done?!”

When you got to her, there was no longer anything you could do. The paper was dissolving against the charcoal. All you could do was observe the delicate paper burning, the handwriting fading, all your memories being erased. They were yours, and now they’re gone. 

Just like your name. Just like your old memories. Just like what you were before.

Gone.

“I am protecting you”, Aerin hissed. “One day you’ll understand.”

Maybe one day you will. Maybe one day you’ll understand exactly what she meant by that. Maybe one day you’ll even thank her for that. But for now, right now, there’s only one thing you can think about. 

You had enough of this place.

next chapter!

SUBSCRIPTION: @ferns-fics @notanalienindisguiseblink @rayrlupin @elvyshiarieko @graniairish

all rights reserved to © madwomansapologist

[aspenrockymountainhigh]

Thranduil, son of Oropher, was an Elven king who ruled over the Woodland Realm in the Third Age. Though inherently cautious, his army was key to victory in the Battle of Five Armies and he defended his realm against the forces of Sauron in the War of the Ring. He was the father of the Elven prince of Mirkwood, Legolas, who was a member of the Fellowship of the Ring.

[just-some-sad-bitch]

I dont care if bagginshield is a ship of the past, if no one reads this or finds it I DONT CARE I NEED TO WRITE THIS DOWN BULLET POINT STYLE.

Ok so this is an AU where Erebor was never attacked by Smaug, the ring doesn’t exist and dragon sickness is related to like old age and long exposure to gold rather than a curse that haunts the line of Durin.

In this AU, as I said, Smaug didn’t get to Erebor but was taken down in Dale. This results on a disaster to both kingdoms because while dale was dependent of Erebor for trade, gold, etc. Erebor heavily depended on Dale for its food, sure the kingdom had cattle and what not but in the midst of the disaster Erebor begins to suffer.

Thranduil is still an asshole and states that he owes nothing to either men o Dwarf.

So, regent king Thrain strikes a deal with the only kingdom that responds to their call: The Shire

Of corse the shire doesn’t respond out of the goodness of their heart, they are in dire need of protection. It is well known that hobbits are a peaceful race, rarely conflictive and with no actual army, they see no need for it for they have no enemies, however, in the last few years goblins have stationed themselves on the blue mountains and when they see fit, they attack the shire and everyone in it.

So the Thain and King Thrain strike a deal

Erebor will send an army to provide protection against the goblins, possibly chasing them out of the Blue Mountains and getting to keep the new mountain

In return, the shire will build a road that leads directly to Erebor making sure to have a direct way of sending food and supplieas all year round

Both kingdoms sharing their surplus, strong armies and nurturing food

However the deal must be strengthened by more than paper and ink, and so a marriage is in order.

The shire will send the Thains grandson to become the master of agriculture of Erebor and marry the second son of the house of Durin, Frerin the golden

FINALLY with all this convoluted background I present you:

Bilbo arrives after years of building the great road that unites the two kingdoms, he is obvs accompanied by Gandalf the grey and dozens of caravans filled with grain, cattle and rich soil

Waiting for their arrival is the regent king Thrain who took the role from his father Thror after he fell ill to gold sickness. With him were his family

Lady Dis, known for her character, forwardness and cunningness as well as beauty and strength. and her two sons; Fili, heir to the crown eventually and Kili, his younger brother, the pride and joy of the kingdom

Thorin, crown prince of Erebor, strong warrior that fought valiantly against the white orc and in his victory earning the title of Thorin Oakenshield. Loyal to his people above anything else and commited to becoming a great king one day.

And of corse the groom, Frerin who had little to say in the matter of his marriage but couldn’t refuse. You see, his older brother will inherit the great kingdom, such promise cannot be waisted on diplomatic endeavors, and his sister, one of the smartest dwarves to ever walk middle earth had already gifted the line of Durin with two strong heirs. So what was he to do? Refuse the only thing that would allow him to show his valor? Of corse not, he was as much prince as his brother and sister, and if his father commanded he be married to an outsider in order to save the kingdom, he would a thousand times.

What he did not expect however, was having his brother fall head over hills for his betrothal upon first meeting. Of corse no one noticed, everyone was too focused of the arrival of the hobbit, but himself and his sister notice right away how Thorin could not stop looking at that creature as if he was the most beautiful being in all of middle earth

The hobbit, however was fat too focused on the king’s speech, the strange surroundings and his wizard companion to notice

He was mad, but similarly to Frerin, he found himself in a situation that he could not escape, his parents were taken by the awful goblins and if being married off is what he had to do in order to save the shire then he will marry whoever and whatever the Thain asked him to

And that’s it, that’s all I got, sorry if grammas is wonky it’s almost 2:00 am and English is my second language, also I was too lazy to review it over. I would love for this story to develop in a way in which Thorin is trying to woo Bilbo while also trying to not Interfere in the deal. Also Bilbo falling in love with thorin but also feeling guilty because were dwarfs marrying for diplomacy is super common, hobbits usually marry for love and I imagine him feeling guilty for loving Thorin while he is supposed fo be marrying Frerin. Also Frerin and Dis egging them on even though they KNOW they shouldn’t. I just imagine this ending with Thorin proclaiming his undying love for Bilbo and both of them being torn between running away and living together but also knowing they have a duty to their respective kingdoms. Of cors everything would work out in the end but Idk

If someone has a similar fic to this please please please share it with me I AM STARVING. Anyway thanks for reading bye!!!

[coopsgirl]

Thranduil Fic Masterlist

The Darkening Forest: Set in the Woodland Realm around the year 1050 of the Third Age as Greenwood the Great begins to turn into Mirkwood. King Thranduil meets a young elven woman and his life will never be the same. AO3 link

Words: 34,506

From a Far Away Shore: Set at the beginning of the Third Age just after the victory against Sauron by the alliance of elves and men, Thranduil has just become king after the death of his father Oropher in battle. He gets help from a most unexpected source as he tries to fill his father's shoes and guide his people back to peace and prosperity. AO3 link

Words: 56,048

The Shadow and the Sunrise: Ranyare, a member of the original eldar who awoke on the shores of Lake Cuiviénen, has survived into the Third Age and has lived hidden away from others in Fangorn Forest. Forced to come out of hiding, she meets the elves of Lothlórien and Greenwood. Much to her surprise, she and Thranduil become friends and together they will work through their pain and traumas to finally find peace and love. AO3 link

Words: 22,447

All fics are completed and safe for work. I hope you will enjoy them!

[ophelia-writes-things]

Once in the solitude of their chambers, the heavy door shutting behind them, Faelwen could feel the shift in the air. The weight of the day, with its battles fought in the council room and the sharp sting of betrayal still hanging over them, had left Thranduil on edge. His mind was elsewhere, his movements tight with frustration. But she knew him too well. She knew how to calm the storm within him.

She stood just beyond him, watching as he removed his crown, setting it down carefully. His shoulders were tense, his jaw clenched, but beneath the frustration, there was something darker, more dangerous. She could sense it, a side of him that both thrilled and unsettled her.

Faelwen took a step closer, her breath slow and deliberate as she closed the distance between them. Her fingers hovered for a moment, just above the curve of his shoulder, feeling the heat of him radiate even through the armor. He stiffened slightly, a subtle recognition of her presence, but he didn’t turn to face her yet.

“Thranduil,” she whispered, her voice low, the sound of his name slipping from her lips like a dark promise.

Her fingertips grazed the edge of his armor, the cold metal beneath her touch sending a shiver through her. Slowly, deliberately, she slid her fingers under the plates, just enough to feel the warmth of his skin. She moved with a practiced ease, the tension in the air crackling as she undid the straps of his armor, one by one.

Her hands were steady, confident, knowing just where to touch to draw a breath from him, the sound of his exhale like music. She could feel the muscles of his back tighten under her fingers, his body responding to her in a way that only she could invoke. The first sigh from him, soft but unmistakable, was a victory—a signal that he was letting go, if only for a moment.

Faelwen took her time, savoring the warmth of him, her fingertips trailing over his skin as she slid his robes off his shoulders. She could feel the shift in him, the subtle tension melting away as she drew closer. He wasn’t ready to speak, not yet, but she knew how to move him. Her lips brushed against the soft skin of his throat, a fleeting, teasing kiss, feeling the pulse of him beneath her mouth.

Thranduil’s hand moved almost instinctively, reaching up to thread through her hair, pulling her closer. She knew she had him, knew that her touch, her presence, was enough to dissolve the remnants of his anger, to replace the political games and the harshness of the day with something more primal, more raw.

His mood shifted, just as it always did when she was near. The cold exterior, the ice he wore like a second skin, melted under her touch. And in that moment, Faelwen allowed herself to relish the power she held over him—not in the council chambers, not as commanders or rulers, but in the quiet, intimate space where they were just two souls entwined in a dangerous, passionate dance.

Her fingers traced the line of his jaw as she looked up at him, their gazes locking with a silent understanding. This—this was where she wanted him. Vulnerable, undone, and yet still as dangerous as the night itself. This was their world, where the stakes were always high, and every touch was a reminder of the fierce love and devotion that burned between them.

As she kissed him again, deeper this time, she could feel him relax fully, his body melting into hers, the anger of the day nothing more than a distant memory. For a brief moment, they were free—free from the politics, the betrayals, and the weight of their roles. It was just them, lost in each other, in a passion that could burn the world to ash.

And Faelwen knew that even when the world outside turned cold again, they would always find their way back to this—this raw, dangerous love.