Lee Pace Space

“My king,” you murmured, your voice soft, almost melodic, as you climbed the last of the steps to stand before him. “You carry too much. Let me bear it with you.”

His lips twitched, not quite a smile, but his hand extended, long fingers curling around your own. “You think to ease me, meleth nín?” he questioned, voice like velvet yet laced with the day's exhaustion. “The burdens of a king are not so easily lifted.”

You stepped closer, standing between his parted legs, the throne’s grandeur framing him like a god. “Then let me try,” you whispered, your hands moving to rest on his shoulders, feeling the tension that coiled within his lithe frame.

His eyes darkened, a spark of intrigue cutting through the fatigue. “On my throne?” he inquired, his brow arching as he asked the question. His hands, however, were already sliding to your hips, pulling you towards him. “Bold, even for you.”

You leaned in, your lips brushing his pointed ear as you spoke. “You need this, meleth. Let me serve you.” Your fingers worked the clasps of his robes and tunic, the fabric parting to reveal the pale, sculpted planes of his chest. He didn’t stop you, instead, his grip on you tightened, a low hum of approval rumbling in his throat.

Straddling his lap, you settled onto the throne, the hard wood beneath him a stark contrast to the warmth of his body. His hands guided you, lifting your gown to pool around your thighs, exposing the bare skin that awaited beneath. “No undergarments?” he commented, a rare playfulness in his tone. “My consort plans her seductions well.” 

“Only for you,” you replied before kissing him deeply, your tongue teasing his own. He tasted of wine and elderberry, a sweetness that had you craving for more. He kissed you back with just as much passion, fierce and possessive, fingers digging into your hips that urged you to grind against him. You did.

You shifted in his lap, feeling his strained arousal through his garments. With practiced ease, you freed him, hands traveling along the length of him. Long, slightly curved, and elegant, just like the rest of him—perfectly suited for the Elvenking. His eyes connected with yours, intense and commanding, as you positioned yourself above him, teasing his tip with your slick entrance.

“Ride your king,” he ordered, voice low and rough, hands moving to help guide you, careful instead of forceful. He wanted you to take control, to take care of him as much as he takes care of you, to ease his worries and remind himself of only you, if at most for a fleeting moment.

You sank down slowly, savouring the stretch, the way he filled you completely. A moan escaped you, echoed by his sharp intake of breath. “Thranduil…” you gasped, bracing yourself on his shoulders as you began to move, your hips rolling in a slow, deliberate rhythm.

His head tilted back against the throne, eyes half-lidded but never leaving yours. “Yes, meleth… like that.” His voice was a caress, but the strain beneath it told you how close he was already. He’d hold out, though, for you. His hands roamed up your sides, cupping your breasts through the gown you wore, thumbs lightly brushing over them until they peaked against the fabric.

You moaned, loud and uncaring. Your nails clawed against his chest as you rode him faster, adjusting your position until he pressed against the spot that made stars appear in your vision. Every twitch and throb had you clenching around him, the new angle making you feel even fuller than before. You knew you weren’t going to last much longer.

The entire time he watched you, as if you were the embodiment of all that was ethereal. And to him, you were. He watched as you slid yourself along his length, slick glistening along the base. He watched as your breasts bounced with each movement, hands still caressing them gently. And lastly, he watched as your eyes fluttered shut, face contorting into pure bliss as you came around him, crying his name like a prayer. “My queen,” he rasped, the word a vow as much as it was an endearment. 

“Let go for me,” you whispered, coming down from your high, leaning onto him to nip at his sensitive ear, a gesture that always drove him wild. His hands took over, fully guiding you along his aching length. His hips bucked up to meet your own, an attempt to drive himself deeper. A guttural moan tore from his throat, echoing throughout the throne room as he finally let go, body shuddering as he spilled into you. His hands gripped your thighs, pulling you flush against him as he pulsed within you, giving you the last of his warmth. You collapsed against his chest, both of you panting as he finally stilled, feeling your combined juices leak from where you were still connected, creating a mess along your thighs.

You could stay like this for hours if he’d let you, with his arms wrapped around you, his lips brushing against your temple as you both basked in the afterglow of your shared time together. “You’ve saved me tonight,” he murmured, voice soft enough just for you to hear, the king now replaced with the man who loved you. “This throne feels lighter with you upon it.”

You kissed his jaw with a tender smile, resting your head along the crook of his neck. “Don’t get too comfortable,” you hummed, pressing a kiss to the sensitive skin that laid there. “I’m not done ruling you yet.”

He laughed, a rare, rich sound that warmed you more than the rays of the sun ever could. “My insolent wife,” he teased, but his eyes shone with gratitude and love. “I am always yours to command.”

The news that Lee Pace will be back as Thranduil has re-ignited something in me.