My Lord, My King

BY : Pilgrim
Category: Lord of the Rings Movies > Hobbit, The
Dragon prints: 1308
Disclaimer: I do not own the Lord of the Rings, the Hobbit or any of the characters featured in them. I do not make any money from the writing of this one-shot.

The river’s flowing quietly beneath your feet, its soft movements steadily wearing down the stone that contains it. Your life is too short to have seen much of it change, compared to others who walk these halls of the Greenwoods. Your hands rest on a warm stone balustrade, you’re standing at the pinnacle of a bridge, at the far end of the secure cave system that makes up the King’s Halls. The bustle of the main areas is a distant background noise, it’s never really called to you, preferring the peace, quiet and tranquillity of the farther halls. Few elves wander these paths, yet you hear enough passing to not be disturbed by the quiet steps approaching. It’s only when those footsteps pause that you start to leave your thoughts.

“Why do you stand here alone?” a soft voice you don’t recognise queries.

“To avoid annoying questions,” you quip back. The attitude has always been a problem, you’re sharper than most of the elves here. Preferring your own company, training alone in the courtyards in archery and hunting. It’s always brought you peace.

“Really? Tell me, am I… annoying… you?” the voice continues, it has a familiar lilt. One of the guards, perhaps. You contemplate checking your tone but decide against it. The majority of the guards know you well, you’ve trained with them, hunted with them and spent the occasional night, under the stars with them.

“Greatly, if I wanted to talk, I would go to the nearest inn and engage in a similar level of intelligent conversation,” you sigh in frustration.

“Is that so?” the voice has dropped slightly, a hint of a threat within its notes.

“Absolutely, why don’t you go and check your weaponry, bother someone else. I am finding you tedious,” you snap, in no mood to tolerate an uptight guardsman.

A hand levels on your shoulder and fingers tighten, pressing into your collarbone with not so gentle force. “What are you…” A body presses up to yours from behind, the hand now strokes your throat, and you catch a glimpse of silver antlered ring. There are only two elves in the Greenwoods that possess a ring with antlers and your heart catches in your throat. The beat coming too quickly, his fingers tracing over it, registering that rush of adrenaline now coursing through. Excitement or fear, the emotions war together. A breath caresses over your left ear as his other hand brushes against your waist, stroking down and around, fingers splaying over your lower half. Gentle enough to not move you but firm enough that you know you can’t escape. You swallow in anticipation, you’re just not sure what of, his fingers flutter over your throat, feeling every breath you take. The heat of his body is close but not quite touching, you already know it’s only one of two elves though. You can’t decide which you would feel safer holding you in place like this.

The prince, with his calm demeanour and underlying passion… or the king with his dominance and almost dismissive confidence. Either could punish you for your tone with them, this doesn’t feel like punishment though. The touch too gentle, too curious. You’ve only seen either from a distance, being so inconsequential in court life. They may not have noticed you, but you have noticed them, both. Their names, their titles, the focus of many elves for many reasons. Yours are simpler, but no purer, curiosity… curiosity and appreciation of what you know they are. Well trained warriors, beautiful and deadly. Your attraction is nothing to do with their positions in the world.

“Tell me what I should do to you, for your tone,” the words whisper against your ear, lips almost close enough to touch the sensitive tip. Your own fall open, unsure of how to respond, how to plead your case, your approach would vary depending on which elf currently held you captive. Do you beg, plead, or offer something you know you won’t regret but may be met with repulsion and your punishment multiplied. “Tell me,” the lips touch your ear this time, fleetingly. Your knees tremble slightly, your fingers tightening on the balustrade for fear of falling or giving away more than you wish to.

“My Lord,” you try to turn but his hand tightens on your throat and waist, forbidding it. He steps closer, his body against yours now. “I…”

“Are you lost for words?”

“No, I… my Lord, who am I addressing?” you hear him inhale, face almost pressed into your throat now. You know you’re losing control of your body, imagining all the things that could happen right now if you just asked and he agreed.

“Who would you wish to be holding you like this?” the words fall into your mind painfully. Another trap for you to fall into, answer wrong and you know the elf will retreat, if you favour one over the other or neither… quickly you try to determine who is holding you. “Perhaps youthful vigour is your dream… or experience, knowing just where to touch to make you shatter,” the voice whispers and you draw a shuddering breath. You know who holds you now, as the fingers on your stomach trail higher, cupping your breast gently, pressing the loose-fitting dress into your body.

“I would wish for my King,” you finally respond, trying to piece together your fractured thoughts at the realisation. Fear rides predominantly in your mind, you know the prince would be more lenient and careful. Where King Thranduil is concerned though, all bets are off. You’ve heard the stories from some of the maids that worked in the Kings quarters. More than a handful had spent a night with him, others, a brief interlude, none had been disappointed, but a few had sported bruises for several days that they had to take great pains to keep concealed.

“Why would you wish for him?” the elf queries, a deadly intonation in his voice now. Have you chosen wrong? Is it indeed the prince? The hand leaves your breast, trailing lower but so slowly it’s excruciating.

“I…” lips press to the sensitive skin where your neck ends, and the slope of your shoulder begins. Your thoughts focus in on that one sensation, the gentle pressure, the heat that seems to spike from it and you suck in a breath. It’s a promise of gentleness but the grip on your throat tightens imperceptibly at your breath, a rush of desire, his body pressing closer. You’re well aware that he knows exactly what you’re feeling and thinking.


“My Lord…”

“You say that so sweetly, but I want to know why you wish for the King of the Greenwoods to be here.”

“I…” his fingers have dipped past your waist, resting gently over your pelvis, drawing your attention down to the promise of their stroke. “I… would wish for my King because…”


“For the love of the Valar, let me finish my sentence,” you snap despite yourself. Immediately tensing but instead of a rebuke you can feel him laugh silently against you. You groan despite yourself, leaning back into the firm muscle of whichever elf has you. His fingers still, but his breath is still brushing your ear.

“My apologies, lady, please, tell me why you wish for your King to be stroking you, like a pet?”

“My King, I wish for it to be you touching me because I have longed to be seen by you,” you know the King has a weakness for flattery, his pride is one of his main downfalls. “I have longed to feel your hands upon me, claiming my attention for a few moments, being considered worthy enough of your attentions…”

“Is that all? To be noticed?” his fingers trace lower, pressing against your core, his grip tightening about your throat. Was that the wrong answer? You contemplate how brave you’re feeling.

“No, I want to feel every part of you against me. I wish to breathe you in, taste you, feel you…” his body presses closer to you know and you can feel the beginning of his arousal against your behind. “I would wish to worship you, my King. As you should be worshipped.”

“Tell me how,” verbal honey, his fingers are stroking over the material of your dress now, pressing gently against you. Your breath hitches and you can feel him smile, knowing exactly what he’s doing. You can already feel your body preparing itself for him, a heat steadily growing from your core and infecting the rest of your body. Subtly you tilt your hips, pressing back against him. His hand leaves your throat, trailing down your body with exaggerated care until he can grip your hips and pull you more tightly to him.

“I would start with his lips, pressing mine to his, letting him feel me against him. Then I would trail my hands down, much like you’re doing to me, my Lord, and let him feel how my hands could feel upon his body without clothing to deaden the feeling,” you pause, feeling your skirt begin to raise, slowly, being bunched under the hand holding your hip. The other still stroking.


“I… I would stroke him, my Lord, gently at first, letting him feel how I could be on him. My lips would leave his and I would find his pulse, keeping my pace to match it until he was ready for me,” your skirt is now at your waist on one side. The hand holding it bunched presses into your skin and your heart loses itself. “My Lord?”

“Continue,” he states calmly. The only betrayal to his rising arousal is the pressure against your back and the grip he has on your hip.

“I would drop to my knees if he would allow me to and I would worship him with my lips, my tongue and my mouth until he could no longer breathe. My name would fall from his lips, and I would know that I had him captive for those few moments, that I was bringing him pleasure,” his fingers slip over the last fold of your bunched skirt. You didn’t put any underwear on this morning, intending on heading to the bathing pools but instead getting distracted by the bridge and the sound of the water. You feel him take pause at the sensation of skin and not more material.

“Tell me, what would you do when he grasped your head?” the elf whispered.

“I would follow his rhythm,” you riposte quickly. Growing more confident, until his fingers slip between your folds. The gentlest of caresses over your core before trailing lower, testing you, seeing if you’ll refuse him. When you don’t he continues the gentle caresses that send shockwaves down your legs and into your core, words leave you, just the sensation of his skilled fingers remaining in your mind.

“How would you have him take you?”

“My Lord…” you try to wrangle a semblance of comprehension back into your flustered, lust consumed brain.

“Take you, how would you have him take you?” he repeats, the repetition not helpful as you flounder through your own mind.

“I would ask him to lay back,” you finally choke out, he rewards you by pressing closer, a kiss on your throat, his fingers dipping lower and clearly contemplating if you would allow them to enter you. “I would straddle him, but slowly, so slowly that he loses his patience and tries to pull me down.” Your knees go weak as two fingers gently probe into you, pressing skilfully against the spot that makes you see stars, a thumb still stroking over the bundle of nerves. The only reason you stay upright is because your waist is pressed against the balustrade and the king has an arm still on your hips. His breath hitches at the slickness he encounters, you know he’s aroused and you’re faring no better. You push your hips back against him, drawing out the quietest of moans, he doesn’t want to relinquish control just yet and you’re rapidly losing your own.

“You would ride your King, like a horse?” You can’t decide if he’s amused, angry, aroused or all of the above.

“I would worship him like the King he is, why should he work for my pleasure when I can satisfy us both?” his fingers withdraw from you. You moan at the loss of contact.

“You do not believe he would be capable of satisfying you both?” there’s a definite threat in that phrasing and you still against him.


“Perhaps you require a taster before making that assumption?” the words are dangerous, falling down your spine with a cold chill, almost quenching the fire that had been growing. Your dress is abruptly pulled up to your waist, you hear laces coming undone rapidly and then you’re being pushed forwards until your chest touches the stone. Hands grasp your wrists and place them either side of your body before trailing down your back, over your hips and then in between your legs. There’s no caution this time, immediately he’s touching the places that will make your legs give way again. Quickly you tighten your grip on the balustrade. He makes light work of restoring the fire, fingers probing and stroking and igniting fireworks behind your eyes. You moan despite yourself and can practically feel his victorious smile. You’re getting close, when you feel his knee press against your inner knee, requesting you spread your legs wider. Fingers retreat only to be replaced by his tongue, the surprise crumbles your last defences, and you orgasm harder than you have in your life before. Simple heated pleasure races up your spine as his mouth works over your core, tongue tasting and exploring as if you are a fine wine. Your legs tremble, threatening to give way as the waves overtake your senses. Hands press against them, keeping them open and supported so you can’t collapse. You cry out in desire and pleasure, a single finger pressing into you to wring out the last wave as his tongue licks at you, claiming every last drop of you.

As it fades, he retreats as couple of steps, admiring his handiwork as you try to stop the world from spinning and regain some semblance of strength in your legs. He doesn’t let you rest for long, stepping back closer he strokes over you once before sheathing himself inside you completely in one gentle push. You curl in on yourself, words and sounds lost to you, no longer capable of vocalising them. One hand lightly grips your hip, the other on your shoulder, keeping you low and supported on the balustrade. With the softest moan he withdraws and slides back in, slowly, feeling every millimetre of you encasing him. You slowly realise that he’s pinning you to ensure you can’t claim any effort towards pleasuring either of you. He’s going to prove his point. With measured care he begins to move to a rhythm that has you panting for more but never reaching quite where you want to be.

“Tell me, how would you have the King take you?” You don’t get chance to respond as he presses his hips into you as deep as possible, you moan feeling him stretch you, push against your tolerance, practically consume you. “Like this?” he repeats the movement, drawing a longer moan from your throat. “Or perhaps like this?” this time he moves in short, quick pulses that make your breath catch as the movement stimulates your g-spot. Building to a pressure that you can barely tolerate. “Or even… like this?” his hand leaves your hip and wraps about your body, pulling you up flush against him as he trails his fingers across and down to press into the bundle of nerves just above where he’s buried into you. Your back arches further, driving him in deeper and giving him better access, his fingers playing you like a violin.

Gently he presses your head back, to rest on his shoulder, surrendering you completely to his whims. Lips press to your throat, biting at your pulse, making you tense in anticipation as his fingers drive you ever close to completion. You could cry when his fingers slow, drawing out the build up even more as he thrusts slowly into you, working you into a mental frenzy with his retreat. “Please,” the word falls from your lips without thought.

“Please… what?” he whispers against your ear, sending tremors down your spine as his fingers slowly increase the tempo.

“Please, my King, come for me,” you finally gasp out and glance sideways at him, looking straight into the ice blue of Thranduil’s steely gaze. “Please,” you plead, not caring for dignity anymore, just wanting that moment of release.

A hand clamps on to the back of your neck and your flung forwards to grasp against the balustrade once more. Pressing into your lower back, you arch into a new angle and gasp for breath as he goes deeper still. The thrusts go deeper, pushing you up against the balustrade, you know you’re going to have bruises on your thighs and hips by the end of this. You also know you’ll love looking at them and remembering. You grip the stone tightly, pushing back against him, moving your hips to drive him closer and are rewarded with a moan of appreciation and pleasure. He leans over you now, a hand on your neck and hip, keeping you in the position he wants you in. You tilt your hips again and he loses his rhythm for a second, the sensations changing and stalling him.

“You first, my Lady,” he growls against your ear, driving himself into you. He releases your neck to reach between your legs and plays with you mercilessly until your moaning without care for who hears. Teeth brush against your ear tip as the heat builds to an almost uncomfortable level and with one final deep thrust into you, you implode. Heat ripples through you, your thighs become coated with a slickness that drives him to a new urgency, working into your body relentlessly, wringing every sensation out of you before allowing himself to join you. A groan, a tightening of his grip on your hip, his body almost collapsing on yours, he catches himself at the last moment, his hand resting beside yours on the balustrade. Your breath shudders from you as he presses deeper into you, feeling every twitch of him inside you as he joins you in the aftermath.

For a moment neither of you can move, enjoying the last sensations of your mutual pleasure before he retreats. The sound of his laces being redone finally filtering through to your senses. Slowly you stand straighter, allowing your dress to fall back down and cover the evidence of what had transpired between you. Silently you face the King, he looks you up and down slowly before inclining his head slightly and striding away. With a shuddering breath you make your way to the baths, feeling your knees still trembling with every step.


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