Adult-FanFiction.org : Lord of the Rings

In the Library	By : TAFKAB Category: +Third Age > Slash - Male/Male Views: 4280 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own The Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit, The Silmarillion, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-In the Library
- 1
When Legolas went to fetch a book from his father’s private library, he thought Thranduil would be elsewhere. At this time of day he was accustomed to take his evening meal in his own rooms, or perhaps in his study, reflecting quietly upon the day with a glass of wine near at hand.

Odd noises emerged from within the room as he drew near, so Legolas, fearing an intruder, slowed his steps and proceeded with a knife in his hand, silent as the air. But then he sheathed his knife, for he recognized the voices of Elrond and his ada. Smiling, Legolas stepped through the door, ready to greet them with gladness—but hung fire as he perceived the tableau before him was not what he expected.

His ada sat before a table with a pen in hand and scrolls of parchment scattered about, looking up at Elrond with a most curious expression: defiance, lust, shame, and expectation mingled there. As he watched, Thranduil licked his lips.

Elrond stood before him, his back to Legolas. In his right hand he held a slender rod made of supple birchwood. The angle at which it emerged from his hand intrigued Legolas, suggesting it was not an innocuous thing; that it was meant to be used as more than a tool to point to maps or items in high places. It swished through the air with a snap, like a tool for correction.

That in itself rooted Legolas to the spot, his eyes wide as he watched Elrond move forward, silky.

“You have not completed your Quenya conjugations correctly,” he told Thranduil. His fingertips touched a slip of parchment, turning it and surveying it with an aristocratic tilt of his head. “You did not attend as I demonstrated the proper method of declension.”

“No, pengolodh.” Thranduil’s voice vibrated with silky promise.

“Why not?”

“I was distracted by your beauty, pengolodh.” The King of the Greenwood licked his lips; he bent his head, but fire danced in his eyes.

“You have failed this test of your concentration.” The rod moved, and Thranduil’s eyes followed it, greedy and intense. “If I say to watch my body, then you may—but you were told to focus on your work.” The rod cut the air, still slow, but with a swish that sang in Legolas’s ears.

“I offer myself for correction.”

“I will decide whether and when you are to be corrected,” Elrond responded swiftly, his voice crisp with disapproval.

Thranduil sat with his head bent, every line of him strung taut with tension, but his eyes were still lifted, and they fastened to Elrond with avarice.

“You are looking at me even now.” The voice was mild, but it might have etched steel.

“Yes, pengolodh.”

“Over the desk.”

Thranduil obeyed, moving with perfect grace as he cleared the desk of all his working materials, placing them aside with care, then unfastened his tunic and let it fall. He never took his eyes from Elrond, who stood perfectly still, the cane still poised—the single part of him that betrayed any eagerness at all, standing stiff and upright, anticipating.

Legolas swallowed hard, astonished by the unexpected turn of events, frozen in place by intrigue in spite of all politeness. His father was beautiful, his lean body heavy with a swordsman’s muscle. His arms and shoulders flexed with simple grace as he bared himself with economical, sleek motions. He let them fall and crumple, discarded—as if they were of less than no consequence, as if removing them made him more himself, not less. Legolas could not argue; even without his kingly robes Thranduil was regal and proud, burning with a beauty so fierce it seemed he might scald if touched.

His breeches followed, and he stood naked for a moment, displaying himself with acute grace, his cock filling. Then he bent forward over the narrow desk, letting his silver hair spill over his head to touch the floor, his back and his buttocks on display, pale and gleaming.

Legolas thought Elrond swallowed. He stepped forward, making a slow circuit of the desk, his body cutting the air noiselessly, but with the threat of a blade.

Legolas blinked, suddenly understanding what had compelled his father’s attention. From the rear Elrond seemed clad in all the robes and dignified layers of his office—but it was only the outer robe, thrown over his shoulders and clasped at the throat. Beneath he was naked, the rich brocade draped over flesh whose vibrant living texture and depth humbled cloth as diamond humbles coal.

He circled Thranduil, never taking his eyes off him—and Legolas’s ada did not move or flinch, laid out over the desk like a sacrificial lamb, waiting.

“How many today, pen neth nîn?” Elrond’s voice caressed the words, a benevolent threat.

“Five.” Thranduil’s voice shook ever so slightly. “Mine is a grave offense, compounded by insolence.”

Elrond paused, his brows lifting. He laid his hand on Thranduil’s back, and Legolas saw his father tremble.

“Indeed. You ask for five, but it is my custom to give double measure, for my students understate their offenses. You know this.”

“Yes.” Legolas heard his father’s tongue slick his lips, the word a bare hiss of breath.

This could not be happening. Legolas felt his breath stop in his chest as Elrond circled, the rod held taut and ready. It would stop now; it must. He could not conceive that—

The rod swung, splitting the air with a malevolent whistle punctuated by the slap of its strike against his ada’s flesh. A line of red blossomed there, and Thranduil jerked, but was silent.

Legolas very nearly cried out in his father’s stead, he was so startled; his hands clenched to fists and he sank his teeth in his lip. But Thranduil made no move to escape, still flung over the bench in helpless surrender. “One,” he moaned, and his voice held no bitterness or reproach. Rather, it sounded as if he spoke to a lover who had given him pleasure.

“Well-taken,” Elrond all but purred. “But you will not be silent long.”

The birch swung again, and again it cracked against pale flesh, driving Thranduil forward. Legolas glimpsed his father’s cock swinging between his undefended legs—it was not flaccid, but half-swollen, flushed with blood. Legolas’s hand rose, unthinking, to cover his lips. So that was the way of this: a thing he had never seen, and had heard of only in whispers. Barely even then, but all of a sudden a thousand things, half-understood incidents and words, fell into place as if he beheld a puzzle whose final piece had fallen into place and altered its aspect entirely. His father. Elrond.

He knew he had no place here, but he could not stir, staring in fascination at his ada, at the two raised red welts marring his perfect skin. He felt his own flesh stir, rousing with keen interest, and knew he could not go, not until he knew, not until he understood.

“You asked for five,” Elrond said, and his voice sounded all but dreamy. “Perhaps there is some transgression here I do not know, one so severe you believe it deserves this punishment.” The rod sliced the air and cracked against flesh; this time Thranduil uttered a low, desperate grunt, his fingers wringing on the desktop.

“Three,” he gasped, his voice taut with strain.

Elrond ran his fingertips along Thranduil’s back, which had begun to gleam with sweat, and studied them. He traced beside one of the welts, then let his fingers cross it, making Thranduil gasp.

“What have you done?”

Thranduil shook his head, his fall of hair cascading on the floor, and was silent. His hands tightened to fists, anticipating the next blow. Elrond swung, and the air hissed—but he did not strike. Thranduil jerked as though he had, and uttered a soft cry of despair when the blow never fell. Legolas felt his face flame; his ada’s cock was hard now, glimpsed between his thighs, dark red.

“Do not taunt me with silence, pen neth nîn.” This time the rod fell, crossing the marks it had left before, and Thranduil gave a throttled shout, jerking so hard the table skittered upon the floor.

“F-four!” he gasped, but before the word escaped properly, Elrond struck again and again, merciless, stripes aligning, tracing along Thranduil’s ass with cruel precision.

“Five! Six!” The words were almost a shriek, and sweat dripped from Thranduil’s flanks, from his neck and back, dampening his hair. Elrond moved, circling again, a predatory grace to the glide of him. He swung the rod by his side, letting Thranduil see it from the corner of his eye; he kept a hand on Thranduil’s back as he moved.

Legolas watched his father gasp for breath, and understood the moisture dripping from his nose and chin was tears as much as sweat; his face was red as his cock, constricted with a terrible glory of pain and pleasure.

Legolas clenched his fists so hard his nails bit into his flesh, sharing his father’s delicious agony—his cock ached, pulsing frustration and neglect inside his breeches, and he needed to touch it with an urgency that bordered on desperation.

Elrond stopped his stalking, nudging Thranduil’s feet farther apart, bringing him belly-down upon the table, depriving him of any lingering shred of control. His cock was fully visible now, angry veins pulsing in its length, dripping clear fluid from the tip, his balls drawn up tightly against his body. Elrond stroked a possessive hand down his ass—along the crack, over the vulnerable anus, the soft-downed expanse beyond, and then cradled his balls, examining them dispassionately.

“What have you done?” He murmured, his voice resonant. “You will tell me.”

Thranduil shook his head, and Elrond dropped him, stepping back. The seventh strike fell across his thighs, leaving each marked; Thranduil made an anguished sound that raised all the hair on Legolas’s neck and left him tingling with need.

“Seven!”

Elrond stilled, the rod poised, and Legolas froze; had he uttered some sound, in concert with his father’s beautiful agony? But no, Elrond drew back his wrist again and let the rod fly. Thranduil arched, nearly coming off the table, his hair flying and sticking in the sweat upon his back. “Eight!” The word was a desperate yelp, and this time Legolas could not be still; his throat spasmed, the softest whimper.

Elrond’s head rose, and their eyes locked.

“I have discovered your transgression, celebmîr nîn.” The words fell with all the delicacy of chiming bells; the rod did not waver. Elrond studied Legolas for a long moment while all the universe hung fire, quivering and desperate. Thranduil uttered a soft, helpless whimper—needy, imploring, penitent.

Legolas felt his face flood with color, but he did not back down or turn away. He knew he was revealed in all his lust: his cock so hard in his breeches a wet spot had formed at its tip, his face and ears flushed with lust. He lifted himself, proud, and set his jaw, refusing to withdraw.

Elrond turned away, the only sign of his thought the white of his knuckles upon the rod.

“Truly, you have earned your stripes today.” He kicked suddenly at Thrandil’s ankles, spreading him to his full extent, and set his hand on his back, pushing him hard against the table. The tabletop caught against his cock, pressing it down and back, against his balls.

The rod swung and caught Thranduil at the crease of ass and thigh, just kissing the vulnerable skin of his sac. Thranduil shrieked, convulsing under Elrond’s hand with such violence the table creaked.

“Count.” The word was merciless in its quiet control.

“Nine,” Thranduil sobbed, his face congested with blood, his lashes spiked from weeping.

Again the rod swung—the same precise strike, the same spot, but harder, and Thranduil screamed, writhing so violently he fell from the table to the floor.

“Ten,” he wept, and set his hand upon Elrond’s foot, trembling, a plea for mercy.

Elrond knelt and held out the birch rod, sweeping aside Thranduil’s hair; he kissed it again and again, his lips ardent.

Elrond squared himself before Thranduil. “Up and serve me.” His voice continued cool, without the faintest hint of quaver or remorse. Thranduil drew himself upright, trembling, making no effort to compose himself or hide. He used Elrond as his support, clinging to his legs and thighs, and laid his cheek against the cock he had been commanded to serve.

“Yes, herdir,” he whispered, voice trembling. He bent his head to his task, closing his mouth over the tip and stroking his tongue about the head.

Legolas felt himself sway. His father had known his presence all along, and now Elrond knew, yet he had not been dismissed. The tableau continued.

Before he knew his body’s intent, he had taken a forward step, then another, undrawn breath like fire in his lungs. He had thought of sharing Elrond with his father, of course, lying wakeful and aroused the long stretches of the night as they journeyed together. They had slept close in their tent, Elrond vulnerable and sweet between them—yet guarded, ready to push aside any arm that settled upon him in the watches of the night.

Now, though… he had seen Legolas watching, and he had not stopped, his treatment of Thranduil revealing a part of both him and his father Legolas had never guessed. He saw now that his own instruction in lovemaking had been kept within rigid, narrow limits—limits he had now broken. The thought had set a fire in him that would not quench easily.

Seeing this—seeing Thranduil submit himself to Elrond in such a stunning scene, seeing his powerful, certain father brought so humbled (so beautiful, so willing… so impossibly strong in his surrender! He could not imagine such a thing, yet having more of it seemed as needful as breathing to him now. He craved to touch his father, to verify the vulnerability of him with seeking hands and lips and tongue, to be the one to bring him to such a pass…!)

He determined this display would not continue without him.

He came forward until they stood before him, Elrond looking at him with level eyes—the barest flicker of wry emotion there, the faintest hint of resignation. Then he stopped and watched himself in disbelief as his hand rose and cupped behind his father’s head, tipping it, pushing him forward onto Elrond’s cock.

Thranduil moaned low in his throat and went willingly, eagerly. Legolas watched as his fingers knotted to a fist in his father’s damp hair and pulled him off, then pressed him back down—instinctive, merciless, using his father to worship their teacher as he deserved.

Elrond sighed—exasperation, pleasure? Both those things, Legolas thought, Elrond’s face retaining its harsh coolness for a moment as he regarded Legolas—as Thranduil’s hands rose and caught Elrond’s narrow waist, then sank in his flesh, holding him there as if expecting he would pull back.

“I will have words later for the both of you,” Elrond said, his tone dark, and a shiver coursed its way down Legolas’s spine as he pictured himself kneeling at his father’s side, both of them nuzzling at their elder, their mouths and tongues seeking. He refused to look aside, and a spark kindled in Elrond’s eyes, as if he saw the thought and desired it.

Legolas moved his hand faster, tugging at his father’s hair, making him moan.

“If you intend to venture this lesson, Thranduilion,” Elrond said, drawing the words out slowly and enunciating every syllable with careful precision, “then you will submit to my command, and obey me precisely in every detail.”

“I will,” Legolas said, though he knew not whether he would be expected to join his father upon his knees—or be given the cane that put him there.

“You will be responsible for every iota of your partner’s well-being, and you can make no error, however small. Not with him.” Elrond drew a deep breath. “He is no project for an untried novice.”

“Nor are you,” Legolas smiled, and watched the shock of it travel through Elrond, rippling consternation on his face, which swiftly smoothed back into its former mask of cold consideration.

“Behind me,” Elrond commanded, his sharp tone brooking no refusal or delay, and Legolas obeyed. He paused there, and greatly daring, he reached to slide the robe off Elrond’s shoulders and let it fall to the floor. He stepped near, letting Elrond feel him, and set his hands on his shoulders, refusing to be set aside.

“Direct him. He is recovering; he must be grounded. Your hands will do this.” Elrond’s voice resonated against his chest, and Legolas blinked, then looked down at Thranduil, who still knelt before them both, his mouth resting passive on Elrond’s flesh, his eyes downcast, his body quivering.

Legolas reached around Elrond’s body and took his father’s head between his hands. This was better; he had more control, and he could use it. Thranduil obeyed his commands, rising and falling upon Elrond to the direction of Legolas’s hands, his breathing short and labored. Legolas tried to remember what Elrond had commanded, and slowed his demand to let his father breathe.

“Good.” The praise warmed him; Elrond’s hands came to settle on his wrists. “Watch him, listen to him, be aware of his every motion—all these things and more will tell you what he needs.”

“He needs to make love to you,” Legolas whispered. “As do I.” He was hard, pressed against Elrond’s ass, his cock uncomfortably restricted by his clothes.

“Your needs come third,” Elrond instructed him firmly. “As do you,” his voice turned dry.

“Yes, herdir.”

He felt the involuntary shiver that went through Elrond, and it delighted him.

“I will correct you if you err,” Elrond murmured, and Legolas liked feeling the sensation of him this way, inside the circle of his arms, between him and his father. “And I will teach you when to listen to him—and when to refuse.”

Legolas could feel him quivering, sense the struggle in him to keep his tones measured and even, and was pleased with his ada’s skill; Thranduil was milking Elrond with his throat, making small mewling noises as Legolas used him to suck Elrond. Legolas realized he was thrusting forward, pushing Elrond into his father’s face, and made himself stop, tugging Thranduil upward. “Kiss him,” he instructed, directing his father toward the sensitive spot at the point of Elrond’s hip.

Thranduil did, long languid strokes of his tongue along Elrond’s flesh, then slow presses of lips and scrapes of teeth; Elrond shivered in a way that made Legolas’s flesh tighten again. He found himself watching them both, mindful of Elrond’s instruction—what their bodies told them, what they needed. Climax, of course, the both of them, but his ada needed more than that. His eyes were dark, the pupils blown, and a faint daze and desperation clung to him; his fingers clutched at Elrond.

“Beautiful, my ada,” Legolas murmured. “So beautiful. So strong. You took his blows so well. I would have screamed by the third of them, but you….” His heart swelled with fierce, tender approval. “And now you make him quiver, look at him; he aches to have you.” He ran his hand through Thranduil’s hair, combing out a snarl before it could form. “He is pleased,” he whispered, and watched Thranduil’s eyes close, watched him move, drawing upright, saw the pride beginning to return to him.

“Continue. Up,” he tugged, and his father came, sealing his mouth over one of Elrond’s nipples. He flashed his silver-grey eyes toward Legolas as he did, and Legolas swallowed hard at the unfocused heat there, piercing him and holding him as Thranduil sucked—tongue laving the nipple, teeth scraping it, making Elrond shiver with gusts of pleasure.

“His is the first need,” Elrond whispered, then gasped, his thought broken. “What else, before…?”

“A salve for his hurts,” Legolas guessed, and Elrond purred approval to him, to them, to both of them.

“On the shelf,” Elrond stroked Thranduil to soothe him as Legolas stepped aside. Elrond guided Thranduil to lie on a wide couch by the fire. He went gingerly, lying on his belly, his hard cock trapped beneath him.

Legolas returned and folded his legs beneath him, sitting by his father’s waist, hesitantly reaching to stroke his back. The stripes stretched from the small of his back to the upper quarter of his thighs, angry red, standing proud of the pale flesh that surrounded them.

“This will hurt him.” Legolas hesitated.

“He will not mind.” Elrond set his hand on Thranduil’s back, possessive. “But go easy; use a light touch, and move slowly. The salve will sink in on its own; do not fear to use too much.”

Legolas scooped out a measure of the salve on two fingers and hesitated. Elrond stroked Thranduil’s hair, murmuring soft endearments, and bent to press a kiss against the tip of his ear. Thranduil gave a soft moan, shifting on his belly—languorous, sensual, a half-thrust.

His ada’s sensual response gave Legolas courage, and he reached to one slender thigh, spreading the cream along the welt.

Thranduil gave a low hiss, and Elrond frowned displeasure. “You are not painting a wall. Try harder to be gentle. It is not a race to finish.”

Legolas did, hesitant, imagining that he was handling the petals of a flower, and Elrond’s frown soon faded. Thranduil kissed at Elrond’s fingers and palms, fawning, his gleaming tongue visible, his eyes closed, an expression of perfect rapture on his face.

Gaining confidence, Legolas ventured higher—spreading the salve on Thranduil’s back, on his buttocks, hesitating for a long moment before he tended the last wounds, the flaming double-stripe at the crease. He remembered his ada’s frantic cries, and slowly pressed his thighs apart so he might reach the last reddened bruise and anoint it, his heart thundering in his ears so fiercely he could hear nothing else.

His ada was moving, more of the needful half-thrusts, and Legolas could not tell if they were protest or pleasure, not until he looked up and saw Elrond looking at him, and realized Thranduil’s lips formed words, barely audible but very distinct.

“Ion nîn, ion nîn,” he moaned on each breath. “Please….” He parted his thighs wider, pushing against the bedding, lifting himself at the end of every thrust in a needy plea, and Legolas’s heart stopped.

Elrond watched, eyes glittering, weighing him in the balance.

“He needs,” Legolas stopped, slicking his lips with a tongue suddenly gone dry.

“Yes,” Elrond said, Thranduil’s head pillowed on his thigh. He made no command, offering no judgment. “Shall I?”

Legolas looked down at his ada, his heart in his throat. He knew how he should answer, and yet, the words would not pass his lips. Thranduil writhed, a low whimper in his throat, and Legolas remembered how he had looked at Elrond when the beating was finished, his eyes glazed, his face slack, all the control and dominance in him undone.

He swallowed hard. His greedy heart would have that; he would put that look on his father’s face himself.

He reached into the pot of salve and anointed the swollen spot once more, then let his fingers slide upward, ghosting across the puckered skin, which tightened, amost clutching at them. Thranduil drew a harsh breath, a half-sob, and when Legolas tentatively sank one finger inside him, he pushed back, taking it at once to the last knuckle.

Elrond clucked his tongue and sighed. “Do not press Legolas for more than he will give, celebmîr nîn. It is his choice now.”

Face flaming, Legolas looked down, concentrating on what he was doing. It was not as if he had never done this; his body knew the motions well, and he watched as he prepared Thranduil to receive him, feeling dizzy, almost faint.

Then it was done.

“Ada?” He set one hand on his father’s shoulders, putting the other at his waist, the faintest suggestion of pressure.

Thranduil answered the silent request and pushed himself upright on quivering thighs, offering his body, his head still pillowed in Elrond’s lap, moans in his throat.

“Go slowly,” Elrond said, that resigned look back on his face again. “And be gentle, or you will drive him beyond what he can bear.”

Legolas gave Elrond a helpless look, aware how he must look—like a child again, half-terrified, swallowing hard, eyes too wide, pale and nervous and… determined to have what he would, the cost be damned.

“Adar nîn,” he whispered, and opening his breeches, he took himself in hand, spreading the thick, oily salve over himself, lining up, ready to press in.

“Do not move,” Elrond said, his voice hoarse and thick with lust; he put his palm beneath Thranduil’s chin and made him lift his head. He studied him for a long moment with sober, searching eyes, then looked to Legolas.

“As you will,” he said.

Legolas pressed forward and his head fell back as he was engulfed by clutching, eager heat. He cried out and did not know if it was his voice or hisada’s he heard echoing in the room; Thranduil clenched tight, nearly wringing orgasm from him with the shock of his tight, hot body.

He stopped, only the tip of him buried inside, and forced himself to calm. He could feel Thranduil shuddering around him, as if he would shudder himself apart; he comforted his father with slow strokes of his hands along his flanks, his chest, the front of his thighs. Gradually the tightness released, and he rocked himself in bit by bit, making slow and patient progress. Thranduil moaned and whimpered, clutching at Elrond, who crooned in his ear and stroked his hair, soothing him.

Never had control been such a struggle; never had the tight clasp of a body meant so much to him, never had it resonated through him with so much need for sweetness and care. He could feel the heat of his father’s welted flesh against his skin and the quiver of him when the welts were touched. He could feel every breath his father drew, gusting through Thranduil and quivering in the tight sheath that held Legolas inside.

Legolas had begun life inside his mother, expelled from just such closeness in joy and pain…. Now he had come full circle as he claimed his ada, welcomed in again.

Legolas laughed, sudden and soft, and drew back: slow and certain, careful, then back in once more, tilting, thrusting forward in a delicate press against the sensitive spot he knew he would find inside.

Thranduil gasped, and Elrond lifted his face, turning it aside, displaying to Legolas what he had done. Thranduil’s skin was wet again with tears, his lashes spiked, his mouth open and trembling.

“Ada,” Legolas whispered, low and reverent, amazed that this could be his doing, and withdrew again, gliding back in as smoothly as silk.

Thranduil’s head turned, and his mouth groped blindly for Elrond, who was hard and waiting for him. Legolas watched his father sink down on their teacher’s cock, and smiled, pressing to rock him forward, withdrawing to let him pull away again, moving him gently between them—delicate, slow motions, measured with loving care, yet burning with pure pleasure.

Elrond offered no correction, his hands gentle on Thranduil’s face. Legolas mirrored those tender touches with his own hands, keeping the pace so slow he thought he might ignite and burn away.

His father’s pleasure must come first; Legolas knew it without being told. He slid his oiled palm around and took his ada’s cock in hand, stroking it, feeling moisture gathered at the tip.

The sounds Thranduil made were unearthly; throttled, desperate cries deep in his throat, escaping around the muffling gag of Elrond’s cock. Sweat coated his flanks again, and heat rose off him as though from a furnace, his muscles quivering with strain.

Legolas supported him with one arm wrapped around his middle, tenderly helping him remain upright when his legs would have collapsed. He could feel himself moving deep inside Thranduil, the faint pressure of his own thrusts against his arm where it rode low upon his father’s belly. He bit his lip, half-stifling a groan of his own, shaking his hair back.

Thranduil began to writhe, asking for more—pushing back and rocking forward, urgent and needy. Legolas gasped, clinging to control by a hair’s breadth, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, for he knew to look at his father would ruin him. He would spend too early, and he refused, would not, wouldnot! Not even as his father’s body tightened in telltale spasms, clenching hard around him, his breath hitching, his cries escalating to a crescendo of bliss.

Thranduil’s hips jerked, and his seed bathed Legolas’s fingers. Legolas all but collapsed as his father sagged, but managed to ease him down, his cock sliding out with a wet slick sound.

Elrond turned Thranduil gently and reached to bring Legolas’s hand to his face. Legolas watched, whimpering low in his throat, as his father’s clever, wicked tongue flickered and darted, curling around his fingers, cleaning away the seed that had made him.

“Ada!” Legolas all but fell on him, his heart cracked open and overflowing with love and need, darting his tongue into his father’s mouth, seeking the bitter salt of him and licking it from his lips and tongue. Thranduil moaned and kissed him back.

“Enough, Legolas. Let him rest,” Elrond commanded, and sank his hand into Legolas’s hair, pulling him away. Legolas could hardly focus, resisting the hand, filling his eyes with the sight of his father, exhausted and undone, spent and quivering, such pleasure on his face, such open, vulnerable love….

But Elrond would not be denied, and Legolas remembered of a sudden that this was not the hesitant, diffident Elrond of his memory, always deferential even when he took command as they shared their bed.

This was the elf who had taken a cane to his father, and now he bent Legolas to his will, dragging him forward to share the taste of Thranduil, his tongue hard and possessive.

Legolas gasped, tempted to struggle, but Elrond drew back, and his eyes burned, so Legolas delivered himself, going slack in Elrond’s arms.

Elrond turned him, reaching for the salve, and jerked his breeches down to his knees before preparing him with swift, deft fingers, ignoring Legolas’s cock, which swung heavy between his thighs, urgent and needy and completely neglected.

Elrond pushed him forward, turning his cheek to the couch, and mounted him in a swift stroke that made him cry out—not courted, not coddled, but used hard and fast and forcefully, still shamefully half-clad. He mewled, begging, prostrating himself with his arms outflung as he took the hard fucking his ada could not—took it and loved it and pleaded for more of it, whimpering and crying, his toes curling, his fingers clutching at the bedding as if the world tilted under him and might throw him off.

Then Elrond shifted, changing the angle of his thrusts, and he struck against the pleasure point with each brutal thrust, and it was too much, too good, making white light flash before Legolas’s eyes, but Elrond did not relent, making Legolas bite his lips and shriek until Elrond rutted forward with a last fierce push and spent, crying out with satisfaction.

Legolas collapsed under him, whimpering, his cock untouched and angry, pulsing at the point of pain with urgent want.

He lay still, unable to move for a long moment, spasms of tension quivering through him, wracking the long muscles of his thighs, which threatened to cramp, so he slowly forced himself to turn to his side, wincing—he would have bruises upon his hips from Elrond’s fingers.

The thought made him shiver, and his cock twitched, pleading.

Elrond reached for him, fingers wrapping around him with welcome strength, heedless of the mess.

“What do you wish?”

“Please!” Legolas whispered, unable to think.

“Please what?” The hand was merciless, unmoving.

“Please, herdir!” Legolas lifted his hips with the last strength that was in him, and Elrond gave a reluctant, half-admiring laugh that was still somehow also dark and delicious, and his fingers moved, relentlessly stripping orgasm from Legolas with a fierce, pumping grasp.

He striped his stomach, tilting his head back, sense failing him as he wept his pleasure and relief; the rain of his own orgasm felt scalding hot on his belly, spoiling his tunic.

Then he felt his father’s hands, and knew it was his father’s tongue caressing his skin and licking away his issue, his father’s hands and Elrond’s removing his clothes and laying him down upon his back. Legolas moaned and reached for both of them, his lovers. They came into his arms, nuzzling at his throat, and wrapped him up between the two of them, cradling him close before the world swam away.

Sleep claimed him, and Legolas let consequences await the morning.

NOTES:

Fanfic for the incredible story "The Teacher" by Pippychick: http://lotr.adult-fanfiction.org/story.php?no=600080231

Pengolodh: Teacher
Pen neth nîn: My young one
Ada, Adar: Daddy, father
Celebmîr nîn: My silver treasure
Herdir: Master
Ion nîn: My son
Adar nîn: My father
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In the Library