Hey hi, (⌒‐⌒) if that's okay, I was wondering if you could do the idea I presented to you earlier, about how Elves would treat their pregnant partners during their pregnancies, I'm particularly curious about how you would write Thranduil, thanks in advance (〝⌒∇⌒〝)
(By the way, English is not my native language, so I apologize if I made any mistakes.)
Hi there! No need to apologize at all—your message was perfectly clear, and I really appreciate the thought you put into it! That sounds like a fascinating idea, especially exploring how Elves, and Thranduil in particular, would care for their pregnant partners reader. He has such a strong yet deeply protective nature, so I can imagine he would be both regal and incredibly attentive in his own way. So enjoy 🥰🫶✨ Thranduil version below (Reader is Female within this.)
🍷𝓣𝓱𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓾𝓲𝓵
𐂂 The moment he learns of the pregnancy, he insists that you stay within the safest parts of the palace, away from stress and potential danger. If you try to argue, he simply states, “I will not risk you. Or our child.” in a tone that brooks no argument. He assigns trusted healers to monitor your condition and personally ensures they have the best remedies and care available.
𐂂 Thranduil fiercely protective and his vigilance now borders on obsession. No one is allowed to overburden you, not even yourself. Any duties of the court you insist on attending are met with a sharp glance. “You are my queen, not a soldier in battle. Do not test my patience, meleth.” He refuses to let you walk the palace halls alone—whether it is his hand on the small of your back or a silent guard at your side, you are never left unprotected. He does not allow you to partake in any travel, no matter how much you insist. His voice is firm when he states, “You will not set foot beyond the borders of our kingdom until our child is born. I will not risk you.”
𐂂 Your comfort becomes his utmost priority, and he ensures that everyone in the kingdom knows it. He has chambers redesigned for your needs, making sure every cushion, every chair, every inch of your space is as luxurious as possible. If your body aches, he massages your shoulders, your feet, your back with a tenderness that few ever witness from him. He commissions tailors to craft the finest silks that will not restrict you, personally selecting the fabrics himself. “Only the finest for the mother of my heir.”
𐂂 While his love has always been strong, there is a newfound softness in the way he treats you in private. He often runs his hands over your stomach, as if memorizing the life growing inside. “I wonder if they will have your eyes.” You wake up to him whispering to your belly in Elvish, telling your child of the kingdom they will rule, of the strength they will inherit. If he catches you struggling to get comfortable, he immediately adjusts your pillows, pulling you into his embrace. “Sleep, my love. I will not rest until you do.”
𐂂 Thranduil has never been one to tolerate disrespect, but during your pregnancy, his temper becomes even sharper. If anyone so much as hints at questioning your ability to rule while carrying his child, they are swiftly put in their place. “My queen carries the future of our realm. Watch your tongue before you speak ill of her.” He dislikes when others crowd you, even if they are simply well-wishers. His hand rests on your waist, a silent but clear warning: you belong to him, and he will allow no one to overstep. If another Elf dares to flirt, even jokingly, they will find themselves on the receiving end of Thranduil’s coldest glare. “You forget yourself. Do not mistake my patience for tolerance.”
𐂂 Thranduil does not often voice his fears, you notice the way his gaze lingers on you when he believes you are not looking Late at night, you feel the way he tightens his arms around you, as if grounding himself in your presence. One evening, he confesses, voice hushed “I have lost too much in this life. I will not lose you. I could not bear it.” He refuses to let you see the weight of his worries, but you can feel it in the way he kisses your forehead longer than usual, in the way his touch lingers when he brushes your hair back.
𐂂 To Thranduil, you are not just his queen—you are the mother of his heir, the most sacred being in his world. He treats you as though you are made of the finest glass, ensuring that you are never burdened with anything unnecessary. When you are emotional, he does not dismiss your feelings but pulls you into his embrace. “There is no shame in your emotions, meleth. Let them flow.” The way he looks at you is reverent, as though he cannot believe you exist, as though you have gifted him something beyond his wildest dreams.
𐂂 When You Feel Insecure or “Fat” Thranduil will not tolerate you speaking ill of yourself. The moment you express doubt about your appearance, he is cupping your face, tilting your chin up so you must meet his gaze. “Meleth nîn, you are carrying my child. You are the most breathtaking being in all of Arda.” His voice is firm, leaving no room for argument. He runs his hands over your body, lingering on your belly with reverence. “You shine brighter than the stars themselves, and I will hear no more of this nonsense.” If you continue to fret, he distracts you—perhaps by pulling you into a slow dance, his lips pressing against your temple as he murmurs, “Do you not see what I see?”
𐂂 When You Crave Something Strange, No matter how odd your cravings, Thranduil ensures you have what you desire. If it is something the palace kitchens lack, he personally sees to it that it is found—whether it requires sending his guards to Lake-town or scouring the forest for rare fruits. He watches with amusement as you indulge, a slight smirk playing on his lips. “I do not understand how you find this appealing, but if it brings you joy, then so be it.” If the craving is truly bizarre (say, honey-dipped cucumber or salted berries with wine), he might raise an elegant brow, but he will not deny you. “You are a mystery, my love, but I would have it no other way.” He may even humor you by trying your strange food combinations—though whether he enjoys them or not is another matter entirely.
𐂂 When You Ache and Feel Sore well Thranduil refuses to let you suffer in silence. The moment he sees you wince or shift uncomfortably, he is at your side, guiding you to sit or lie down. “Tell me where it hurts.”He massages your feet, your shoulders, your back—his hands skilled and patient, working away the tension with slow, deliberate strokes. He draws a warm bath infused with elven herbs, carrying you into the water himself if necessary. He stays by your side, washing your hair with careful fingers, pressing kisses along your shoulders. If you cannot sleep due to discomfort, he stays up with you, rubbing soothing circles on your back, whispering soft lullabies in Elvish. He refuses to let you lift a finger, insisting he will handle anything that causes you strain. “You will rest, meleth, and allow me to care for you.”
𐂂 Thranduil, ever composed, is patient with your shifting moods. If you burst into tears over something small, he does not question it—he simply pulls you into his arms, rubbing slow circles on your back as he murmurs, “Cry if you must, my heart. I am here.” If you grow irritated or snap at him, he does not take offense. Instead, he chuckles softly, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You are fierce, even now. I admire it.” If you feel overwhelmed, he takes you somewhere quiet—perhaps a secluded part of the forest, where you can breathe freely, his hand never leaving yours.
𐂂 Thranduil knows the weight of carrying an heir, and he makes sure you never feel alone in it. He whispers soft words of encouragement against your skin at night, his hands splayed protectively over your belly. “You are strong. You are radiant. And you are never alone.” He calls you his queen with even more reverence than before, treating you like the most precious thing in his world. He reminds you, time and time again, that this child is not just yours, but his as well. “You do not bear this burden alone, meleth. We are in this together.” If ever you doubt yourself, he lifts your hand to his lips, pressing a lingering kiss to your palm. “There is no one else I would trust to bear my child. You are everything to me.”
𐂂 Talking to Your Belly of course Thranduil may seem composed and regal, but when he thinks no one is watching, he kneels before you, pressing his forehead against your growing belly. “My little leaf,” he whispers to the unborn child, his fingers trailing delicately over your skin. “I await your arrival with great anticipation.” He talks about the things he will show them—the golden leaves of the forest, the hidden waterfalls, the beauty of the night sky. If you giggle and tease him about it, he only smirks. “They should know their father’s voice, should they not?”
𐂂 On particularly lazy afternoons, Thranduil insists you rest in his lap, reclining against him as he reads aloud from old Elven texts. His voice is smooth, lyrical, carrying the weight of ages, but it holds a gentleness meant just for you. Occasionally, he pauses to press a kiss to your temple or stroke a protective hand over your belly. “Are you listening, meleth?” he asks, amused when he notices you dozing off against him.
𐂂 Any time you so much as stand up too quickly, Thranduil is immediately at your side, hands on your waist. “You should be resting,” he chastises, but there’s no true scolding in his voice, only concern. If you attempt to brush him off, he lifts a regal brow. “Do not fight me on this, meleth. You carry my child; it is only right that I tend to you.” When you sigh in exasperation, he chuckles, kissing your knuckles. “Indulge me, my love. Let me care for you.”
𐂂 Every night, Thranduil pulls you close, one arm draped protectively over your belly. His touch is reverent, his lips brushing against your temple as he whispers sweet nothings in Elvish. If you wake in the middle of the night, you often find him already awake, watching over you with quiet adoration. “Sleep, meleth. I am here.” Even in the quietest moments, Thranduil’s love surrounds you—soft, unwavering, and endless.
𐂂 Overreacting to the Smallest Discomforts is to be expected all the time during your pregnancies, as the moment you sigh, wince, or even shift in your seat, Thranduil is at your side in an instant. “What is it? Are you in pain? Do you need a healer? Shall I fetch warm water? More pillows? Wine—oh, no, you cannot have wine. Tea? Blankets? A new chair? A different throne entirely?” He once nearly ordered an entire section of the palace remodeled because you mentioned the cushions weren’t as soft as they could be.
𐂂 What starts as a simple request for a crib turns into an entire wing of the palace dedicated to the baby. The room is adorned with enchanted starlight, handcrafted furniture, and silk curtains woven by Elven artisans. There’s even a tiny throne. When you point this out, Thranduil shrugs. “They are my heir. They deserve the best.”
Just a cute moment with thranduil
The air in Thranduil’s chambers was warm, the golden glow of candlelight flickering softly against the polished wood and stone. The scent of aged parchment and ink mingled with the faint aroma of the fresh flowers he had insisted be placed near your bedside—your favorites, of course. You lay reclined against a mound of silken pillows, your swollen belly rising and falling with each slow breath. Sleep eluded you, as it often did in these late stages of pregnancy, but the quiet company of your husband made the sleeplessness bearable.
Thranduil sat at his ornate desk, his silver head bent over a stack of parchment, quill in hand. His robes draped over the chair, his posture elegant yet ever watchful, even as he attended to his duties. Though his gaze remained fixed on his work, you knew his mind was never far from you—his ears attuned to every sigh, every shift in your position. You smiled softly, watching him. Even now, a king burdened with the weight of his realm, he had chosen to remain close, forsaking the grand halls of his court to work in the privacy of his chambers—because you were here. Because he would not leave your side.
And then it happened. A sudden, distinct movement within you. Not the fluttering sensations you had grown used to, but something stronger. A push. A kick. You gasped, one hand flying instinctively to your belly, fingers pressing against the place where the tiny foot had made itself known. Thranduil’s head snapped up immediately, the sharp scratch of his quill against parchment ceasing at once. His piercing blue eyes locked onto yours, and in an instant, he was by your side, moving with the silent grace only an elf could possess.
“What is it?” His voice was low, urgent, his long fingers brushing against your wrist before settling gently on your belly. “Are you in pain?” You shook your head quickly, your lips curving into a breathless smile. “No, meleth-nîn… the baby—our child—just kicked.” For the first time, all the centuries of poise and control Thranduil had mastered seemed to melt away. His usually composed expression softened into something wondrous, something almost boyish in its astonishment.
He said nothing at first, only watching your face as if needing to confirm the truth of your words. Then, hesitantly, he spread his hand over your stomach, his fingers splayed wide, reverent. “Again,” he murmured, almost a command. “Let me feel it again.” As if obeying their father, the baby stirred once more, pressing against his palm in a firm little kick.
Thranduil inhaled sharply, his lips parting in silent awe. His fingers flexed slightly, stroking over the place where the movement had been, his usually cool touch warm against your skin. His eyes—wide, unguarded—lifted to meet yours, and in them, you saw something raw and unspoken. A love so deep, it stole the breath from your lungs. “Our child,” he whispered, as if the words themselves were sacred. “They are strong.” You laughed softly, resting your hand over his, holding him there. “Just like their father.” Thranduil’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, his gaze dropping back to your belly. He remained there for a long moment, simply feeling, simply being with you and the life you had created together. And then, in a gesture so tender it made your heart ache, he leaned down and pressed a lingering kiss just above where his hand lay.
His voice, low and laced with emotion, murmured words in Sindarin—words meant for only you and the child within you to hear. And for the rest of the night, the king who ruled a great woodland realm never returned to his desk. Instead, he stayed with you, his hand resting over yours, waiting for every kick, every sign of life, his heart entirely, irrevocably yours. His hand remained on your belly, long fingers tracing delicate circles over the fabric of your nightgown. Every so often, his touch would still, waiting, hoping for another sign from the child nestled safely within you. When another tiny kick pressed against his palm, his lips curved into the faintest of smiles.
“So eager, are you?” he murmured, his voice softer than you had ever heard it. His head tilted slightly as if listening, his keen elven ears attuned to something beyond what you could perceive. “Do you hear me, little one?” His voice was low, smooth as flowing water, laced with a quiet reverence. He leaned closer, shifting onto his side so he could cradle you and your swollen belly with both hands, his warmth seeping through the thin fabric of your gown. He stroked gentle patterns along your skin, his touch featherlight yet possessive, as though grounding himself in the reality of what lay before him.
“You are strong,” he whispered, his breath warm against your skin. “Already, I can feel it.” A quiet pause, his thumb brushing along the curve of your belly. “And stubborn… like your mother.” You let out a soft laugh, swatting at his shoulder, and he chuckled, a rare and quiet thing, his usual sharp edges softened by the intimacy of the moment. He pressed a kiss just below your navel, his silver hair cascading over your skin like silk. “But you will also be proud,” he continued, his lips grazing against you as he spoke, “and wise, and fair. You will walk among the trees and hear their voices as I do. The stars will know your name before you have even spoken your first words.”
You felt your heart swell at the tenderness in his voice, the devotion in his every movement. This was Thranduil as few had ever seen him—unguarded, vulnerable, fatherly. His fingers resumed their slow, reverent caress, his voice turning softer still. “I wonder… will you have your mother’s eyes? Will you share her smile?” His gaze flickered up to meet yours, and his hand briefly left your belly to trace along your jawline, his thumb brushing your lower lip. “I hope so. For she is the fairest thing in all of Arda.”
Tears pricked at your eyes, but before you could respond, the baby kicked again—this time with more insistence. Thranduil let out a quiet breath of amusement, his forehead resting lightly against your stomach. “Ah, you grow impatient already, ion nîn…(my son) or sell nîn (my daughter),” he mused, his voice laced with affection. “We shall see soon enough.” You combed your fingers through his silver hair, and he sighed softly, pressing one final lingering kiss to your belly before looking up at you once more.
His gaze held something deeper than love—something eternal. “I will protect you both,” he vowed, voice firm, resolute. “Always.” And with that, he held you close, one hand never leaving your stomach, as though he could already cradle the life within.
Thranduil’s fingers continued their slow, reverent path over your stomach, tracing idle patterns, as if committing to memory every curve, every sign of the life growing within. His touch was warm, soothing, carrying the weight of an unspoken devotion that needed no words. But he gave them to you anyway. “You are a vision,” he murmured, voice rich and low, the barest hint of awe laced within it. His gaze flickered up to meet yours, the intensity in his eyes making your breath hitch. “Even now, especially now, you are more radiant than ever.”
Before you could protest, before you could even entertain the thought of disagreeing, he leaned down once more, his lips pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your belly. And then another. His lips moved with a gentleness that sent warmth spreading through your chest. He kissed the place where your child had just kicked, a reverent touch as though in silent greeting. “Ah, little one,” he whispered, his breath fanning against your skin, “you make your presence known well. Already, you are like your mother—fierce, full of life.”
Another kiss, just above your navel. “And yet, so small still… so fragile. But fear not, my love, you will be safe, always.” His lips trailed higher, slow and unhurried, pressing feather-light kisses along your ribs, his hands still cradling the swell of your belly as though it were the most sacred thing in all of Middle-earth. Then his mouth moved to the space between your ribs and sternum, his breath warm, his lips reverent. “And you, meleth nîn,” he murmured, his voice softer now, as if speaking directly to your heart, “do you know how precious you are to me?”
He did not wait for an answer. His lips pressed against the curve of your collarbone, lingering, savoring. His hands ghosted over your sides, up your arms, pulling you closer as he continued his slow ascent. A kiss against your throat, just where your pulse beat strongest. Another along your jawline. And then—finally—his lips brushed against yours. The kiss he gave you then was deep and lingering, a silent declaration of love that words could never fully capture. He kissed you as if you were something sacred, something eternal. As if you were the very air he breathed. When he pulled back, his piercing blue gaze held you captive, raw emotion flickering within their depths. “You are everything,” he said, voice hushed, meant only for you. “Everything.”
He shifted, gathering you gently into his arms, maneuvering you so that you rested against him, your head tucked beneath his chin, your body cradled securely against his. One arm wrapped protectively around you, the other remained over your belly, palm resting possessively over the life you carried. His thumb brushed slow, rhythmic strokes over your stomach, lulling you into drowsy contentment. “Sleep, meleth nîn,” he murmured, pressing a final kiss to the top of your head. “I will watch over you.”
And so he did. The scrolls, the letters, the weight of the kingdom—all had long since been forgotten. For now, there was only this. Only you. Only the life between you. And the king who would never leave your side. And for the first time in weeks, you found sleep, safe in the arms of your king, your love, your forever.
