Adult-FanFiction.org : Lord of the Rings

Prince in Training	By : Pippychick_TAFKAB Category: -Multi-Age > Slash - Male/Male Views: 24084 -:- Recommendations : 4 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: We do not own Tolkien's world, Middle Earth, Lord of the Rings or any of the characters. We make no money from this.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
- 3
Chapter Two

When Legolas awoke, he actually felt warm. He moved slightly and found he was resting on his father's robes, which had dried beneath their combined body heat as they slept. He'd also turned around, and his father's hand was splayed over his chest, holding him close.

“No wriggling away, melethron,” said his father, his voice a tickle behind Legolas's ear. “You are mine now.” Legolas gasped in sudden awareness. His father was dreaming! Of being with some favourite of his. Legolas could feel his father's erection, pressing against him.

“Ada,” he whispered urgently in the darkness. “Wake up!”

Thranduil shifted, the gesture abrupt, almost irritated – pressing Legolas closer, hand behind his head, turning Legolas and pushing his mouth against his chest to silence him. “Hush, anira nín.” His hips lifted, languorous and insistent. “You are always chiding me for one thing or another, but I have you where I want you now.”

Legolas squirmed, alarmed by the power of his father’s hands, though he did not truly fear; he could fight free, and Thranduil would swiftly wake. Yet the warmth of him felt good against the chill air of the cave and the dank moisture of the dripping walls, and he did not truly wish to push his father away.

When he pressed against his father's body, Legolas felt the prison of his hands ease, so that he could stretch his neck, moving up slightly. He bent his head near Thranduil's neck to speak directly into his ear.

“Wake up, please,” he begged, louder now than his original whisper. “It's me. It's –”

That was as far as he got before his father moved his head and kissed him, still dreaming. Legolas gave a sound of stunned shock, but it made no difference. The feel of his father's lips, Legolas knew, but not like this. Not hot with his own breath and demanding – yes, their kiss had been that when Thranduil was desperate for air – but now it wasn't life Thranduil sought: it was an answer. An answer Legolas couldn't possibly give, even though – no.

He whimpered into the kiss, struggling, but his father seemed to relish his struggle, containing him easily. His hair swept forward to curtain around Legolas’s face as he pressed him down against the cavern floor, covering him, nuzzling at his throat with insistent confidence.

Legolas stared up into blackness, his hands fluttering loose, not knowing where to settle. Would he have to hurt his father to awaken him? Perhaps the suffocation or the cold had done more damage than he thought – but then all rational thought fled from his mind as Thranduil’s thigh slid between his, pressing his legs apart and pushing insistently against his cock.

As Thranduil continued to dream, he moved his thigh rhythmically against Legolas, his body weight and heat was bearing down, pleasurable if stifling. Not at all like the weightless cold they'd escaped. His kiss was like life: vital and biting and lusty. Legolas heard himself sigh in pleasure, and thought that maybe it wasn't his fault. Didn't he know the gossip about his own father? He was a good lover, and he was bringing all of that to Legolas's attention right now.

The thought of pushing all this away, of awakening Thranduil to his actions only to face his dismay and self-recrimination, probably putting physical distance between them at the same time. Legolas did not want that. He wanted the affirmation. He wanted this feeling that meant he'd survived, that meant he was alive. This need.

Then Thranduil stiffened, and Legolas felt him draw back – leaving Legolas’s mouth feeling hot and swollen. His father’s hair ghosted across his cheeks as Thranduil tried to see, to penetrate the darkness that surrounded them. He could feel his father’s memory flooding in – manifest in the sudden stiffness of Thranduil’s body, the flinch at the core of him, then the extreme haste as he slid off Legolas and pulled completely away, leaving him cold and bereft.

“Ada,” Legolas blurted, and he did not know if it was relief or dismay.

“I am sorry, Legolas,” Thranduil said, his voice deep with regret. “I was dreaming. I did not mean to...” He gave up speaking, and Legolas suddenly felt very alone in the dark.

“I know.” Legolas sighed heavily. “Won't you come back and lie with me, Ada?”

“You do not know what you ask,” Thranduil said quietly.

“Perhaps not. But I would dare your touch in any way if only you are close to me. We may have nothing else until our end. Would you spend such time keeping pointless distance between us?” Legolas waited, then suddenly Thranduil was next to him once more, close so that Legolas could feel his erection, still hard and unresolved.

He took a low, slow breath and tried to force himself to think, accepting his ada and slipping an arm about his shoulders. “This chamber seems small. There is no breath of air. We know not how the caverns have changed – I think the cave-in would not have disturbed the upper levels, but there is no way back now through the river channel, at least not until the river recedes. Who knows when that might be?” Legolas groped for the pouch he wore slung at his side. “There is little in my bag that we might eat, and much I brought is doubtless spoiled. The matches are soaked and the lantern lost.” He hesitated. “We know not how much air remains.”

He lifted his head, wishing he could see his father’s face. “It may be we will never live to see the light again, but perish here together.” Delicately, slowly, he reached out, hoping his father would not rebuff him. He drew Thranduil into his embrace, bringing their bodies to lie side by side on the rumpled robe. Greatly daring, refusing to think too deeply, he turned ever so slightly, bringing his own shaft to lie against his father’s – half-erect.

Thranduil sighed in his embrace, but did not move away at all. “Your fear has removed your inhibitions, ion nín,” he said, considering. “And mine too. Though I hope you shall live to regret your invitation, I will not refuse it. Think carefully, for I will not listen to a late refusal. You will not tease me here at the end of things.”

Legolas gasped as his father leaned in close, skillfully licking and nibbling at his ear until he was quivering helplessly, crying out on every breath. He'd never called for his ada like this, not even when he was a child, but it didn't seem unnatural at all. And he gave no refusal. His ada seemed to enjoy it, undoing him slowly, skilfully in the dark, his dark laughter wrapping around Legolas like a warm blanket.

He could not help but wonder if it was just now, just this – had Thranduil thought of him thus before? Was it only a few meagre inhibitions, a few feelings of fear, that had stood between them and this moment? His own intrigue at hearing the tales of his father’s prowess had gone deep, he knew – he had indulged himself shamefully in occasional fantasies, harmless, meaningless, but had they gone deeper than he had let himself know?

Could he? Would he?

He had no time to think, no time to question his own motives; rational thought was shredding away under the assault of his father’s mouth and the friction of their bodies sliding together, bright heat sparking at every jolt or thrust.

Thranduil was a skilled lover, and it wasn't long before Legolas was breathless and pleading, his hands sliding over toned muscle in sheer lust, wanting to worship his father's body. To his surprise, Thranduil grabbed his wrists and held them to the ground above his head.

“Ada?” he whispered in the dark, nervous, so lost in sensation he could barely think, but he did understand the restriction.

“No refusals now, Legolas,” his father reminded him, and Legolas shook his head mutely. “If we do this, let it be my doing alone. Not yours.” And when he said that Legolas realised his father still had hope. He had not given up on thoughts of escape or rescue, which made what he was doing now extremely deliberate. Legolas gasped at that thought as his father suckled on one of his nipples, teasing with his teeth. All of it, very conscious, and suddenly extremely sinful.

How long had his father thought of him thus? Was this why Thranduil had forbidden all of Legolas’s Silvan companions to dare look to him – for jealousy? His father wanted Legolas… all of him… for himself.

Legolas moaned, his wrists wringing in his father’s grip, and arched, pressing up against the wicked mouth that tormented him. He might not touch as he willed, but he would not submit, a lifeless husk to be claimed. He would not refuse blame later. He would make himself complicit in this act with his willing cries, his pleas, with his whole heart and every motion of his body. He bucked up, dragging their cocks together. “Please, Ada – have me as you will!”

“Yes, that is right. Give me everything I want, ion nín,” Thranduil murmured, his free hand covering Legolas's mouth to silence him. “You can't stop me, can't do anything.” As he spoke he rocked against Legolas slowly, making him moan behind that hand. The same gentle rhythm that must have soothed him into innocent sleep as a child, now made him hyper-aware and restless as an adult.

Something about that thought excited him even more. This. This was like stealing sweets in the middle of the night. It was like tasting strong wine when no one was looking. It was enjoying the fruit of a tree that was forbidden. It was irresistible. Thranduil could have anything he wanted. Anything at all.

Deprived of voice, Legolas licked delicately at his father’s palm. He closed his eyes, fawning, wanting his father to take whatever he pleased. He needed it so desperately: more, now, everything.

Thranduil groaned, low and throaty, and he forced Legolas’s head back, tipping up his chin, then stuck three fingers in his mouth, gagging him effectively as he moved to bite at Legolas’s ear. Legolas sucked them in deep, accepting them eagerly, sliding his tongue between them sleekly and wriggling beneath his father’s weight.

When he had tormented Legolas's ear for a short time, Thranduil stopped to speak. “Tell me you have something in that bag of yours that will make it easier for me to fuck you.” He paused, then Legolas could almost feel the curve of his lips, pressed against his ear still. “Nod for yes,” Thranduil advised darkly, as if there could not be any other answer.

Legolas's mind set to racing through the things they had brought with them, then he remembered the first aid supplies, and he nodded vigorously, still muted by his father's fingers. “Very good, ion nín,” Thranduil said, and Legolas felt the praise race down through his arteries and veins straight to his cock. Thranduil smiled again. “Very good indeed.”

Legolas purred around the fingers in his mouth, and Thranduil nipped him. “Get it,” he commanded darkly, never removing his hand. “Do it swiftly.”

Legolas fumbled in an agony of haste, moaning low in his throat, working the clasp one-handed and fumbling through the wet things inside. He found the corked vials at once and struggled to get them out without dropping; his fingers were shaking with need and with the slow, burning pressure of Thranduil’s hips moving against him – rutting their cocks together ever so slowly. He might merely use it to aid the friction there, or – Legolas whimpered to think his ada might really choose to fuck him, might mean to make good his threat. He moaned around the invading fingers, begging without words as he pictured himself spread open and used, fucked hard.

“Ready yourself,” Thranduil purred.

It was hard to see in the dark, but Legolas managed to open one of the vials. Inside was a salve he had brought in case of scrapes and other minor injuries sustained in the cave system. He covered one of his fingers, and reached beneath himself, pressing that finger in, but it was hard, painful, and his body didn't seem to want it at all. He gasped and tried harder.

“Well?” Thranduil demanded, removing his fingers so that Legolas could speak.

“I'm sorry, Ada!” he said. “I'm trying!” Then he felt Thranduil's hand checking on him, discovering his finger buried in himself to the first knuckle. His father made a strange lustful sound, almost a growl. The hand withdrew, and returned with the fingers greasy with the same salve. One of his ada's fingers pushed in beside his own, deeper, so much deeper. Legolas cried out.

Thranduil uttered a low, throttled growl. “You are virgin-tight… you have not given your body, have you? You will be wholly mine, completely… Legolas, ion nín!” He bit his way along the cord of Legolas’s throat, that huge hard finger burning inside him. “I will fuck you,” Thranduil hissed against his skin, his voice thick with lust. His finger withdrew, then thrust in again. “I wish to hear you plead and cry and beg. I wish to hear you moan. I will be your first. I will make you whimper for more. I will make you scream.”

Legolas moaned, staring wildly at the blackness, his whole being focused on the finger inside him, which felt broad and thick and merciless, impossible. He could not take more, could not! “I can’t, I can’t–” he whispered.

“You will.”

His own finger popped out, but his father continued to fuck him with that thick digit, sliding deep so that instead of his body trying to force it out, his passage seemed to cling to it, trying to hold it in. “I feel you,” Thranduil said against his throat. “You are becoming used to it.”

Legolas moaned, realising his father was right. Now that he had accepted it, he could feel more than the pain of invasion. His father was touching him so deep, where he'd never been touched before, and there his body did not resist. Until a second finger joined the first. “Ai! Ada! Please!” he cried out, going through it all over again, the initial resistance. But then Thranduil resumed the rocking motion, his thick hard erection pressing against Legolas's and he was so big. How would he fit?

“You will take it.” Thranduil’s voice was thick and rich as summer honey. “You will take it and more.” He crooked his fingers, touching a place in Legolas that sizzled sensation through his entire body as if lightning had struck him, making him twist and jerk and keen, wailing. He clung to his father’s arm, panting with desperation.

“That is good, ion nín.” Smoky, sultry, the voice shivered him, and Thranduil’s tongue lashed along his collarbone, licking up his sweat. Then he did it again, and Legolas felt his legs spread wide, quivering as he struggled to find some way to contain the incredible, burning pressure and the flash-fire blaze of pleasure all at once. The ringing echoes in the chamber mingled with his fresh cries, and he writhed, impaled. The fingers moved – out and in, each time pressing just so and making him arch, practically levitating, his heels drumming frantically against the floor.

He hadn't been aware of what it meant to invite his father back to the intimacy of his embrace. Legolas knew that now in some part of himself. His father had known, had tried to tell him, and he had ignored the softly spoken warning. But he could not regret. Not even when the fingers withdrew, and his ada's cock was pressed against him, slippery with the salve, sliding over his entrance as if to tease him.

As Thranduil had predicted, Legolas did scream when he was breached, feeling the entrance to his passage stretched wide to accommodate Thranduil's girth. His body tried to bear down, to deny his father the angle to go any further, but his father's hands merely slid beneath his hips, lifting him to accept before pressing deep inside. Legolas felt completely possessed, wet tears going cold on his cheeks.

“Do not fight me, Legolas, ion nín,” he said on a gasp of breath. “You feel so tight! If I should die here, at least I knew this. At least I knew you.” Then he began to draw back, thrusting inside again quickly, again and again, and Legolas at last became used to that, as he had with the fingers. He moaned, over and over.

His father licked his face, tenderly removing tears from his cheeks, crooning wordlessly – and Legolas slowly felt the pain ebb as his body accepted the stretch and the fullness inside. He clutched at Thranduil’s ribs, feeling muscle shift and bunch under his hands, his legs long and coltish, spread wide on either side of his father’s body, unsure quite where they should go.

He cried out again and again – sharp wordless syllables of urgent sensation, desperate, needing to release the sounds so he would not burst from all that filled him, threatening to overwhelm him. He did not know when they turned to pleas, or when his fluttering hands turned strong and clutched his father, pulling him deeper as he was ridden. But he heard himself at last, whimpering “please, please…!” And he knew he had been claimed and broken and remade by the very elf who had created him.

“That is right, Legolas nín,” Thranduil praised. “Beg for me, beg for more.” Legolas couldn't help but oblige, feeling a pleasure he had never known before, shown it by his father. “Ion nín, so fair, I wish I could see your face as I master your body like this.”

The words seemed only to increase what he was feeling, his mind and body in agreement as he tried to open himself ever wider, but Thranduil understood that too, gathering Legolas's legs and pushing them up against his body, warm palms pressed against the front of his shins, sliding down to hold his feet. Legolas moaned as his father was able to take him deeper, and Thranduil answered him with a knowing chuckle.

“You are turning sweet and hot for me, young one. I knew it would be so.” His father kissed him for a time, every brush of lips beginning in sweetness, then turning sharp as his teeth nipped and worried at Legolas’s skin. “Have you seen them watching you with lust? All of them. Males and females alike… elves and men and even dwarves. They would like to steal away my treasure.” His hips moved faster, harder – and he struck the sweet spot inside Legolas, making sparks flash before his eyes. “They will not have it,” Thranduil hissed against his flesh, and as Legolas writhed, whimpering, he began to stroke with fierce speed, battering with punishing force against that very place that drove Legolas to the brink of sanity, devouring the cries right from his lips.

“Who is your King?” He demanded, and Legolas thrashed, weeping in helpless pleasure.

“You, Ada!”

“Your lover? Your father?”

“You again – you, only you!” Legolas cried the words out wildly, almost mad with need to come.

“I own you, ion nín.” Dark and rich and triumphant.

“Yes!”

Thranduil let one of Legolas's legs go, and moved that hand down between their bodies to curl around Legolas's cock, squeezing lightly, not quite enough pressure. “I own this.”

“Yes, Ada!” Legolas cried. “Sire! All I am is yours!”

“I hold your pleasure,” he growled, more of those nips over Legolas's throat, his shoulders, his chest. “I decide when to grant it to you. Beg me for it, ion nín, and today I may be merciful.” His hand squeezed regularly, but did not move, so that Legolas couldn't do anything else but obey.

“Please, Ada! I need it! Please!”

“I am not convinced.” The hand stilled on him, though Thranduil’s hips continued to pump with merciless force. Legolas wailed, desperate with blissful agony. “Why should I heed your desires, and not my own?”

“I will do anything – anything! Anything you wish!” Legolas babbled, his head whipping back and forth, frantic. “I will come to you on my knees after we are freed!”

“You will. Every day you will beg for your pleasure at my hand, at the end of my cock as I fuck you.” He gave his words gravitas with his thrusts, and Legolas felt his entire body tighten in response, over and over.

“Yes, Ada, I will, I promise!”

“You will beg every night for the honour of warming my bed, where I can use your sweet body as I wish,” Thranduil continued, painting a picture of their lives together after this that made Legolas ache for it to be fulfilled.

“Please, use me, please, however you want it, whenever you want it,” Legolas moaned, every part of him quivering, helpless in the grip of pleasure so strong it mingled with pain, soaring in some impossible realm of overwhelming, pulsating need. “Just do it, don’t stop, please, let me. Let me,” he clung to his father’s shoulders, Please, Ada!” He sobbed.

“Curse this dark hole,” Thranduil snarled. “I would see you, ion. I would see you come apart for me.” Legolas could feel his father’s control fraying, the thrusting of his hips becoming jerky, his muscles straining as he sought to keep control.

The hand on his cock suddenly moved, full of purpose, undeniable. “Find release, ion nín,” Thranduil ordered. “Come for your king, for your ada.”

Legolas shouted out loudly as he did exactly as his father said, feeling himself lashing outwards like a whip, his seed drawn from him in tugs of his father's hand until he was left empty and his blood moved slowly in his veins like thick wine. “Ada...” he said, feeling Thranduil gathering him close, keeping his body still in acceptance while he found the same end, releasing his essence deep inside. To Legolas it felt like a perfect loop. Yes. He belonged to his ada in all ways, even this one.

Legolas melted into a limp heap on the ground, loving his father’s warm weight pressing down on him and the sensation of slick wetness between them. Dark cavern or not, he could think of nowhere else he might wish to be – at least not until after he had slept.

Thranduil shifted, sliding out of him, and Legolas whined at the sensation of loss, of emptiness. A long moment passed, Thranduil caressing him, soothing him tenderly, mouthing kisses against his ear.

“Is there more of the salve?” Thranduil moved his thigh, the motion seeming strangely hesitant to Legolas after the intensity of their joining. “My leg aches where it was scraped upon the stones.”

Legolas's heart jolted. “How bad is it, Ada?” he asked, frightened and suddenly guilty. He should have asked, and he knew it. He raised himself into a sitting position, scrabbling for the salve as he tried to ignore the feeling of his father's essence leaking out of him. His hands closed around the small pot, and he grabbed his bag too.

Moving carefully in the space, he inched down until he could feel at Thranduil's leg, hearing him hiss in pain. There was some blood, and must be bruising, but his examination did not bring to light anything worse. It was not broken, only very sore. Working by touch, Legolas cleaned the scrapes and grazes as best he could applying the last of the salve to them. The bandages were damp and useless, so he tore strips off his tunic, which was now dry, and used them to bind the leg and ease the sprain.

“You should have spoken,” Legolas whispered, distressed.

“I did not notice until now.” Thranduil’s voice betrayed dry humor. “I was somewhat distracted by the eager young lover who fell into my arms at the slightest hint he might be welcome.” His fingertips trailed across Legolas’s cheek, then his palm settled on his jaw. “Now, at least, you need not fear dying a virgin, do you, my son?”

Legolas blushed hotly. “That is not–” But Thranduil’s hand moved, covering his mouth.

“Hush, ion nín. Do you hear?”

To be continued...

Author's Note: We hope you enjoyed it! Please leave a review! We will respond on the forum. Translations are of course: Ada – Dad/Father, ion nín – my son, melethron – lover, anira nín – my desire.
- 1
- 2
- 3
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Prince in Training