Archive of Our Own

“Ada says you don’t like girls,” Arwen says, blithe and matter-of-fact, as though it’s a perfectly normal statement to layer atop inquiries about Legolas’ latest orc raids and when he might be due in Imladris next, and talk of Elrond’s upcoming begetting day.

Were Thranduil any other father, and were she any other child than Arwen Undomiel, his intrepid and precocious daughter, the comment might have surprised him more.

As it stands, he smiles as his fingers slide through her river of dark hair, carefully avoiding tangles as he weaves it into the last of several long braids the way Celebrían had taught him. Long has he been waiting for the day his little princess will tire of his assistance in this, but even now as she grows and blossoms into a fine young elleth, he cannot deny his sense of pride and covetousness whenever she seeks him out in lieu of one of her ladies.

“I suppose if his most venerable lordship insists on making black and white statements, my black and white answer is yes,” Thranduil replies, amusement cradling his words as he imagines his husband having such a conversation with their daughter. Flustering a much younger Elrond with such talk was certainly easier than it is now, but it remains a much beloved pastime of Thranduil’s. And, recently, to his utter delight, Arwen’s as well.

“And what is your grey answer?”

“My, aren’t we nosey today?”

“You both always taught me to ask questions.”

“That we did, princess.” Pausing in his weaving, Thranduil extends an expectant hand over his daughter’s shoulder, and she obliges him by placing another delicate silver bead into it. “Very well, ask your questions. I shudder to think of you attempting to drag further Facts of Life from Lord Elrond. Worse than a virgin bride on her wedding night, that one.” He flashes her a smirk in the gilded mirror before them, and receives a cheeky smile and a giggle in return.

His husband’s prowess in the bedroom had always been comically inadequate when it came to mentoring their children in such things. Thranduil remembers well his awkward stumbling through explanations of The Customs, and their merits as well as their criticisms. With the twins, his fully illustrated anatomical drawings, steps on recognizing feelings of attraction, bullet points on begetting requirements, and erogenous zone descriptions devolved into a great many eyerolls, giggles, pink ears and shared grins. Afterwards, suspicions of how the boys appeared to be so lackadaisical remained a popular topic of parental gossip, finally culminating with the eventual discovery of them tangled together by Elrond. 

With Arwen, she had insisted upon Thranduil’s presence for such lessons, taking his hand in hers and refusing to let go, even as a pang of guilt and sadness that her mother surely would have been a better choice had followed him all the way to the library. Sitting with her through another of Elrond’s clinical explanations of coming to Majority, the physical and hormonal changes of her growing body and methodology on female masturbation inevitably ended with both he and their daughter cringing and biting back snorts until a resigned Elrond had given up, shoved a stack of books and educational journals at her, and mumbled about being available for any of her questions. 

Such incidents would often end with Thranduil and Arwen in the library, a comforting plate of raspberry tartlets between them as they looked over diagrams of genitalia, bland illustrations of intimate positions and, on one memorable occasion, a rather kitchy, erotic short story buried in the frayed pages of a Gondorian periodical. At her prodding, he had read at least parts of it aloud, complete with a variety of silly voices in an attempt to soothe the awkwardness of it all. They had laughed plenty, but she had opened up to him then, asking questions at last, listening attentively, and trusting and absorbing his advice. 

Tilting her head, Arwen regards him with her deep, adularescent eyes; that penetrating gaze she gives him every so often now that makes him feel as though he is utterly bare before her, and his every thought on display for her clever mind. He suspects it is a learned expression, brought back after so many years in Galadriel’s company. But it thrills him and unnerves him both in equal measure; for the unfamiliar deep-hot feeling it stirs in his gut, and because he has trouble parsing his daughter’s intentions in it where he never has before.

“I wanted to know if… I asked him if he was certain whether my brothers and I are truly his children,” she says at length, unpinning him as her eyes drop to her lap and she busies herself selecting another ornament. “Some days I feel so very like him. And others... well, I have wondered at times if I am not, in fact, yours." She looks back up at him, sweeter now, doe-bright and guileful. The lethal effect of making him want to give her the world on a silver platter is a talent she has always possessed. 

Thranduil accepts another offered bead as their eyes meet again, and a warm bloom of affection surges in his chest. “Much as I would love to claim you as my blood, darling, and as flattered as I am that you think so, you are Elrond’s daughter.” 

“You know blood matters not to me? That you have always been my father as much as Elrond?”

He knows. He has never doubted it. Through tantrums, tears, and arguments; through laughter, love and loss. From the moment he first held her in his arms, her little fists curling so tenderly in his hair, all big, blue, starlit eyes to today; no longer his little princess, but a fine and comely woman as fair as Lúthien herself. A queen in bearing if not in title.

“Yes, dear one, and I shall always care for you as such. As you said, blood matters not. And no knight shall ever supplant my love for you, my lady.” Leaning forward, Thranduil places a kiss upon her crown. The comforting scent of lavender, bergamot and lingering vanilla sweetness of creamed sugar from an afternoon baking wild blueberry turnovers with Elrohir curls in his nose. Arwen hums a pleased trill, her ears flicking affectionately.

Fearless, strong, and beautiful beyond compare; yes, he has every confidence in her ability to take on the world, surely destined to slay the hearts of many along the way. But she will always be his beautiful daughter, his little princess, and he will always be her knight no matter how old she gets (with a ready sword for any interlopers with nefarious ideas), and he hopes, selfishly, that a part of her will always need him. For now, his hands are the honored guests of her silken, seal-dark waves. He has the privilege of her attention, nestled between his knees and trusting him with her questions as she always has in these moments that are just theirs.

“I should apologise, I was a bit glib before. Ada’s exact words were that it has never been your preference to lay with women. But… you have devoted your life to both Ada and Nana. I’ve seen you kiss her and embrace her as a lover. You all slept in the same room.” 

Thranduil ties off the final braid as Arwen passes a silver filigree hair slide frosted with amethysts back to him, a curious pink blush dusting the apple-bites of her cheeks.

“Love is not black and white, princess. It is a complex painting of many colors. Love and sex don’t have to be mutually exclusive, but they can be. There are as many unique ways to love another as there are beings on this earth. It is true, your mother and I were rarely sexual, but we… have just as deep and meaningful a bond as I have with Elrond. And as he has with her.” 

Thranduil stumbles on his tenses, but he does not like to speak as if Cel is truly gone. And she isn’t… not really. She is there in a warm afternoon spent under shady trees eating the first of the clover honey. She is there in balmy, fragrant evenings lit with sunsets of orange, gold and violet. She is there between he and Elrond, the scent of her still clinging to the sheets and the shape of her still imprinted upon their flesh. She is here, now, in the smile of their daughter, the playful gleam in her eye and in the way she scolds him often for nicking her earrings. 

“Rarely?” Arwen says, intrigued as she twists around on the pouf she’s seated on to raise an eyebrow at him.

“You are a curious little bird.” Thranduil meets her pointed look with one of his own, making note of the way her blush is spreading towards the tips of her ears and down the pale column of her throat.

“I’ve been giving a lot of thought to what I might like.”

Rising from her perch, his nightingale strokes a hand over her hair, flicking him an approving grin before settling next to him at the end of her bed.

“And?” he asks, opening his arm to her as she folds herself in close.

“I haven’t ruled girls out.”

A warm chuckle shakes loose from him as she leans against his shoulder, threading her fingers through his to lift his hand and toy with his rings, a familiar comfort that she has apparently not grown out of.

“That is good. I know I’d feel far better passing my princess’ heart to a lovely maiden rather than a filthy, sweaty, hot-blooded, foul-mouthed lordling with a complex.”

“Elrond is not a lord with a complex?”

Thranduil can’t help but laugh again, nudging her shoulder as she giggles back.

“A vexing intricacy of love, I’m afraid: the inability to control who absconds with your heart.”

Laying his head against hers, he watches her fuss with his hands, and the only sound for a long moment is the fizzy static of rushing water and countless duets of dozens of warblers beyond the open balcony doors. His task is done, but he will happily soak up every last second of this time she gifts to him like a greedy sponge.

“What do you like about men? What do you like about being with them?” Her voice is whisper-soft as a dove on the wing, tentative and timid. 

Caught up in the frankness of the question, his mouth kicks out the first response that comes into his mind without consideration. “I like cock—Ow!” he hisses sharply as Arwen immediately delivers a hard pinch to his left side that he rightly deserves, and they both dissolve into giggles. 

Oh, she is his daughter, but also his friend, who will always understand him like no other except perhaps Legolas and Elrond.

“Okay… alright,” he concedes, smiling at her disapproving moue, and attempting to gather together something meaningful rather than crass. “I like… their bodies. I like big, firm hands, angular hips, a broad chest and back. I like a strong jaw, a deep voice, and that rich, spicy, masculine scent. I like the taste… musky, tangy and sweet-sharp. I like to be taken by a strong man who isn’t afraid to be a little rough when I need it… with long, dark hair, beautiful storm-sky eyes… and apparently an unrepentant, neurotic fussiness.”

“Yes, yes… you married Elrond.”

Thranduil’s smile widens at the thought of his husband and he can feel his daughter’s grin also as she cranes up to press it along with an affectionate kiss to his cheek. Arwen snuggles closer against him, lacing their fingers together once more, but he can feel the way they clench fretfully against his, her body stiffening against his side as though she has more to say. He rubs soothing circles into the back of her hand with his thumb, letting her sort it.

“I—I’ve seen you… together.” 

Thranduil’s breath catches like fabric on a nail before he can stop it, a shiver prickling across his skin beneath the silk of his robes and the deep-hot feeling in his gut that hasn’t entirely gone away stirs curiously.

But she is his daughter, and she has always craved answers like other youngsters crave sweets; her curiosity often landing her in water that is too deep, in trees that are too high, or into dubious recipes of her own devising merely to experiment with the effects. When his initial surprise recedes, Thranduil reassures himself that this is no different. Recovering his breath and his smile from where they had fallen next to something sharp that he isn’t going to look too closely at, he swallows the curious feeling deeper.

“Have you been spying, princess?” He can’t quite look at her, both due to his height and the angle of her head against him, and perhaps that is for the best, but he gives her shoulder a squeeze, nudging her playfully to convey his ease.

“I did not mean to… I—you aren’t exactly quiet.” She keeps her head lowered in kind, as though she knows she is skirting sensitive territory, her ears darkening to the color of Cel’s favored red roses as her hand tightens around his.

“You need not feel ashamed, I am not angry. Did you like what you saw?” The last bit breaks, unbidden, from his lips. 

For why should it matter? 

He should not need affirmation from her. He should not be thinking about which time, or how many times, or what state of amorous congress she might’ve caught them in, or whether she enjoyed it, because whatever she saw or felt ought to be for her, and her alone.

And yet.

“It wasn’t much… you had your mouth on Ada’s… and then… he—he put it in you,” she says in barely more than a whisper, her ears lowering shyly as she squirms and curls more tightly against him. “Anyway, I am certainly not ruling boys out, either.”

It is all Thranduil can do to keep his arm around her in this embrace that is fatherly, familiar and protective when the images flood his mind. Indecent visions of himself, prone between Elrond’s thighs, moaning around the prick his loves to take into his throat, flashes of his husband mounting him from behind and praising his eager, willing body before fucking him into the mattress. 

She has seen it, she has seen it… Songs of Eru, she is not ruling boys out because she has seen me begging like a mare in heat.

The sudden overwhelming urge to fly out of his skin makes Thranduil writhe inwardly, his hand going clammy and bloodless where she is clutching it and the heat of her against him is stifling as a forge. But he cannot fathom the idea of her leaving or of shutting her down and sending her away. She is still his daughter, his princess, and she is here with him, offering him her trust like the gift that it is. And he cannot, will not, fail her now. So he presses his lips against her hair, losing himself in the comfort of her scent as though he might use it to shield him from the storm of himself. 

“Did you know you only wanted men before you’d kissed or touched or bedded one? Will I simply… know what I truly want even when I haven’t really… well…” Her nervous little voice, musical despite its threadiness, trails into a silence he has no idea if he should fill.

“Haven’t really what, princess?” Thranduil hears the words leave him even if he does not feel their shape against his numb mouth.

Arwen shifts again, dropping his hand and pulling away without looking at him and he finds himself desiring to reach out and tug her back in with a need that is frightening. 

“Nothing. Merely the fancy of a silly girl, think naught of it.” 

“Tell me,” he urges softly, foolishly, reckless with his own curiosity and as powerless to stop it as a green colt that has thrown its rider.

“I—I would look upon you… if you would show me…?” Finally she turns to look at him, or, more appropriately, to look into him. A dark fire kindles within the gemstones of her eyes, and he does not miss the way they flick down his body, lingering between his legs. 

He cannot say what he had expected to hear… he finds he cannot say much of anything at all as her question strikes true, burying itself deep and shattering his thoughts into pieces. He wonders if she can hear the way his heartrate has picked up the way he can hear hers. 

Powerless to lift a finger, Thranduil sits stalk-still as the silk of his robes grows suddenly too much and too heavy, the air turning stale in his lungs as his skin prickles with oversensitivity. The deep-hot feeling in his gut unfurls and stretches, sick and dark and suddenly full of teeth. But higher reasoning often flees in the face of parental devotion, and surely it is so even now as the air around them thickens with a heavy heat not unlike that felt before a summer thunder storm. A line of squall slowly materializes before his eyes and he has no idea if he should put it to his back and flee before it, or face it head-on and ride right through.

For her part, Arwen does not drop her gaze even though her body is angled away as if she is preparing to flee at a word. 

“I am sorry, Ataurë. Even now the question sounds absurd from my lips.” It is then that she releases him, rising from the bed, and it feels as if some spell of time suspension lifts as Thranduil thrusts out a hand to catch at her wrist. 

A profound surge of protectiveness and loyalty overtakes him with a potency he has not felt since her mother sailed. She is his only daughter, more precious to him than any earthly possession, and there is little he would not lay down in sacrifice for her comfort and happiness. What is a parent’s duty if not to set their offspring up for the best chance of success? And, most critically, could he live with himself if he refused to remove the mystery in this now, only to discover that her curiosity leads her to other less savory encounters later?

Stars, I sound like Elrond.

But she is asking… offering him the power to guide her experience. What a thing? For her to ask the question is truly a gift beyond measure. Moreover, she is not some strange and starry-eyed elf maiden, vying for attention that his body has never desired to give. She is his curious, beautiful, loving daughter, his princess, looking to her knight for guidance.

Love takes many forms, after all.

Thranduil’s other hand is moving before his mind has even made a final decision, trailing slowly over his chest and tugging the sash of his robes free. She turns back at the sound, her eyes widening and the plump pout of her lips parting on a small gasp. He draws the layers of silk aside quickly before he can think, laying the fabric open and baring the soft length of his prick, pale and cloaked within its foreskin where it rests against his inner thigh.

For a long moment, the only sound is the cadence of their heavy breaths and twin pounding heartbeats against the too-loud chorus of birds beyond the balcony. Arwen has not let go of his hand. So beautiful, his Evenstar, the envy of so many already, and rivaled only by that of her parents, particularly her father, Thranduil thinks abruptly as his eyes settle safely on shoulders that are the exact shape and width of Elrond’s.

He tugs gently at her wrist, a plea for her to come back as he works a tongue that feels too big for his mouth around in an attempt to gain both moisture and the ability to speak back.

The tension visibly drains from her shoulders, leaving a trail behind the train of her gauzy lavender dress as she steps back over to him until she is standing between his knees. Determined now—something of the proud, stubborn sovereign in him rallying his resolve—Thranduil raises his eyes to her lovely face. It is still stained pink all over, but her eyes are soft and reverent as she admires him without shame. A shimmery heat sets a fire to his own skin, and he watches her track it down his neck and across his chest, a shy little smile dimpling her cheeks. Like an insect caught in amber, he is helpless under her attention, but he doubts any insect has ever been such a willing captive as he. 

She drops his hand then, and he curls both of them into fists at his sides, unsure what the protocol is for such an unconventional audience, for an audience this is, between a princess and her knight. She holds the power here, this is her quest, and he shall act only as she wills him.

“Men are truly beautiful.” She whispers, her hands twitching restlessly at her sides as though she would like to touch him, but unsure of what he might allow… what he might want.

It does not matter what he wants. It should not…

Nonetheless, Thranduil’s skin prickles with gooseflesh at the thought of her hands upon him in such a vulnerable and intimate state, and a confusing thrill settles in his chest in finding that the notion is not an unpleasant one.

“How does a man touch himself, Ataurë?” She asks shyly, dark lashes fanning across her cheeks as she drops her eyes to his cock once more.

He should say something—say something, Valar help him—but his mouth will not form words, the autonomic process of continuing to draw air is difficult enough to manage as it is. But she has also been wrapping him tighter and tighter around her finger since she was little and he has always been the one to capitulate to her every teary-eyed request for sweets, or songs, or stories, or to crawl into their bed to escape her nightmares. And just as his lungs need air, so the rest of him desires to please her, and he responds to her now as he always has. 

Under her avid attention, his hand moves to cup his balls before giving his soft shaft a tentative squeeze.

A beautiful little hitched gasp tumbles from Arwen’s lips as Thranduil strokes himself, and the warm jolt of satisfaction that curls at the base of his spine is both terrifying and arousing. The familiar need to please ignites in his core, no less potent under his daughter’s adoring gaze as it is under his husband’s. Bringing his other hand into play, he rubs at the peak of a nipple until it pebbles, his breaths ticking up as his flesh responds.

Retracing the well known paths of his body with practiced touches realigns him somewhat, for this Thranduil at least has a compass for. He circles the head of his filling cock as it emerges from its sheath, thumb rubbing at his frenulum, but he keeps his movements concise and clinical, for this is a lesson, not a chase for pleasure. 

Arwen’s eyes darken as she continues to drink him in, and she traps her bottom lip between her teeth, worrying it red. In his periphery, her hands clutch fitfully at the organza of her gown, the front of her dress accented now by two tented points where her nipples have stiffened. Is she aroused by this? By him? The question taps, like a dazed insect, at the fragile tunnel of glass connecting his gaze to her face, and he knows with a mounting certainty that if he should look away from his daughter, that glass will surely break. 

“May I touch you?”

Thranduil’s eyes squeeze shut and then back open, as though it might somehow clarify the question, prove his hearing false. He can almost hear the chime of delicate shards, scattering across the floor beneath his feet. 

But you have been waiting for her to ask… you have been wanting it in spite of yourself. 

Whether it is that he wishes for her touch on a selfish level, or that he wishes simply for her to find him pleasing, or that he wishes it for the sake of her education is a question he is happy to ignore as he finds her eyes again—agleam with curiosity and something distinctly eager—and nods.

A spike of arousal tugs through his gut, the inevitable response of his physical body to the notion that he is going to be touched by a hand not his own. But it is more than that; it is her. It is the act of baring himself to her so vulnerably, sharing in such an intimate and illicit closeness that she is asking for from him, and him alone. It is absurd, he should not want this, he has never craved the touch of an elleth in all his long years, never mind that of his daughter.

Nodding his head remains the most he can manage, but she accepts it without further fanfare. Hitching her dress up, she slides one knee against his outer thigh, and then the other until she is straddling him. She keeps her eyes trained on his as though by doing so she can keep him grounded and present; reassure him that this is somehow okay. Thranduil swallows hard as she settles, surprised his traitor of a heart hasn’t cracked through his sternum with the force of its pounding. His hands come up, shaking like leaves in a breeze as her knees bracket him, unsure where to touch, but wanting… Valar help him, wanting to reach for her and feel the shape of her narrow hips for himself. As if in answer, Arwen captures his hands with her own, guiding one to rest on her bare thigh, and bringing the other to her lips.

“Are you with me, Ataurë?” she entreats, her hot breaths fanning over his skin as she kisses over his rings, his knuckles, the inside of his wrist.

“Yes,” he manages, his voice a dry whisper of a thing. “I’m with you… if you’re sure you—if you—”

She silences him gently, brushing her lips against his now, so full and sweet and soft. “Show me… show me how to touch a man.”

A man, not you. A careless word choice, or an establishment of boundaries? Thranduil does not know, he can barely think, but he reaches for it nonetheless; a last desperate grab for plausible deniability. 

Lowering their entwined hands, he curls their fingers together over the head of his cock, and his breath catches as his half-hard length twitches into the touch. Her other hand slides around the back of his neck, elegant fingers curling into the hair at his nape and sending another shimmer of need percolating through him. She has always found comfort with her hands in his hair ever since she was little, but here and now, she drags her nails against his scalp and tightens her fist in it in the manner of Elrond during bedsport and he can’t help the throaty sound that escapes him as a result.

Almost in unison, they drop their eyes to his lap, and Thranduil curls his fingers tighter around hers, working her up and down his length in a steady, pleasant pace for several strokes. He twists her grip around his head, sucking in a breath as her thumb sweeps along his slit. Guiding her back down, he cups her hand around his balls, encouraging her to fondle him gently.

He is larger than average and her hand looks smaller and more delicate than ever wrapped around him. Even more so as he slots his longer fingers between hers and shows her the speed and pressure he likes best, fascinated in turn by her enthusiasm and his body’s response. 

Fragile though the pretense of this lesson may be, it is something, and Thranduil finally finds a little courage along with his voice as his paternal instincts to nurture and inform gain the upper hand.

“That’s good, princess…a good start. But every man will have his preferences. Be you always open-minded to guidance.”

Arwen nods without looking up, but her ears flick gently at the praise and the hand in his hair tightens. Pulling his fingers away, Thranduil sits back, giving her space to explore. He can tell Elrond’s anatomy books were not a complete loss, for along with his own practical guidance, Arwen works him over thoroughly and effectively, making a tunnel with her fingers around his shaft and stroking oh so gently and carefully as though she is afraid to hurt him. Even so, he feels as though he is on fire.

“You can tighten your grip… you won’t hurt me… or… another man. Some friction is good.”

He’s beginning to stiffen in earnest under her fingers… his body betraying the lesson… betraying itself. The deep-hot feeling surges in unison with a powerful tug of arousal that he has previously only known in the company of other men. Is it the way she looks at him from under the dark fans of her lashes, the way she catches that full bottom lip in her teeth, or the way she smells so comfortingly of lavender and citrus and the sweet-spice of everything he holds dear? Perhaps it is the way her slender fingers are already familiar, squeezing and pulling on him in a manner not unlike her father and he is simply drawn to the way her shoulders, hips, eyes and hair remind him of his husband. Or perhaps it is that she is so known and beloved to him that his body has transcended all laws of physical attraction entirely to meet her on another plane. Either way, she is swiftly shattering his rule, in favor of proving herself his exception and it is bewildering and enthralling and terrifying and he does not want her to stop. 

Arwen’s eyes rove over him the rest of him now, drinking in the clench of his belly, the heave of his chest and the way his hands are stroking along the tops of her bare thighs now. He groans as a slick bead of fluid pulses from his tip and she sucks an excited breath, her thumb moving to swipe through it curiously. Raising her eyes to his, she grins, a cheeky flash of pride heating her gaze as he hearkens to her. Smearing his precome over his shaft, she leans in to peck a kiss against his parted lips.

“And here I thought I would be asking a fish to fly.”

Thranduil cannot help but huff a laugh, and it helps ease the way his body is trying to climb out of his own skin.

“Do not think for a moment you are too old to be turned over my knee, your ladyship.” 

“If only it were still the threat you think it is.” His daughter’s eyes flash mischievously at him, making his insides clench and swirl and his cock twitch.

“One thing at a time, princess—ahhh—” he gasps as another trickle of prespend leaks from him and her thumb sweeps it over his frenulum.

Oh, he’s slipping, struggling for purchase, the rock crumbling beneath his fingers, and with it all pretense, all plausibility, all capability—nay, desire—for deniability. He is gone… gone. But he is determined to let her keep charge of it, wherever this inconceivable encounter leads. Thranduil will take care of her and protect her, even from himself, because this is about practicality, nothing more… it is not as if she…

“Arwen… why me?” The question he has been trying to hold back claws its way out of him before he can stop it, breaking free of the barrier of his lips like a prisoner sprung from a cell.

Her hand falters on him, her gaze turning thoughtful, but oh so gentle. She cards her fingers through his hair, tucking it behind his ear as though she is the adult comforting him rather than the other way around.

“To be blunt: because I have two eyes in my head and you are you, your highness. But also because I love you, Ataurë. And I trust you… as I always have and always will.” She kisses him again, her lips sliding tenderly against his, chaste but sure… an invitation if he still wants it.

He leans into the feel of her mouth for a moment, but before he can make any other move she pulls back, crumpling like a sheet of balled-up paper. Sitting back suddenly in his lap, her beautiful face pinches with worry as she ducks her head and withdraws her hands, clutching them around herself. A fresh bloom of red suffuses her ears as they wilt apologetically. “I’m sorry… I’ve been so terribly forward. I know you don’t—and I understand that this is not… entirely proper. I know I shouldn’t… feel this way. If you wish to stop—”

“No. I do not wish to stop.” The answer is out of Thranduil’s mouth before he can think. 

But what is there to think about, really? Unconventional this may be, but she trusts him. He can lie to himself all he wants, but he has never lied to her, and he will not start now.

“You are not interested in girls… you need not pretend for me.”

“I pretend nothing.” Thranduil jerks his head down in the direction of his red, weeping cock. “That is a… a physical impossibility.” Looking back up, he catches her eyes again, fierce and wild as frothing seas, and dark with want… for him.  

Reaching for her hands, he folds them into his own, pressing them against his chest over his pounding heart. “I am interested in you. Inexplicably, yes. And I am not sure I should be…” He winces, his eyes darting to his lap, his traitorous cock, but he makes himself look back. He is her knight. He must be strong, even in this. “Princess, if we stop, it shall be at your command, not mine.” 

Quite suddenly, he is through the line of squall and into the eye of the storm, and there is a strange calmness here. The smile on Arwen’s face filters through the dark, warming him and she laces her hands behind his neck, bringing their foreheads together. Uncertainty, shame, confusion, impropriety all wash away in a peaceful moment of certainty that wraps him up and holds him as tight as his daughter’s arms. She smiles, dazzling and glowing like the star she is. Then her lips slot against his own and he knows, with a conviction that blazes from his core into the tips of his fingers, that there is no going back.

He wants her… his beautiful daughter. He needs her. And if the way she is beginning to rock against him is any indication, she wants him too.

Arwen’s hands are in his hair, and on his face, and roving over his shoulders now, pushing off his robe as she devours his mouth with nips of her teeth and hot licks of her tongue. Thranduil wonders dazedly where she has learned to kiss this way but it is a question for later when his hands aren’t so full of her body and his own tongue is not licking into her mouth like a man starved. Breaking away, he presses his lips along her jaw until he has the lobe of a delicate ear in his mouth and he suckles it with a pleased hum. She rolls her hips, a musical little whine letting him know she approves. He can feel her growing wet against him, soaking through his robes and pooling against his thigh, but he wishes not to embarrass her or push her in any way. This is still her experience, and he is at her service.

“Have you had your ears stimulated before?”

“A l-little, yes.”

Another question for later.

He groans at the feel of her hand on his prick once more and he mouths his encouragements against the helix of her ear, pleased as she gathers the leak of him with her thumb to ease her strokes. Tipping his head back, he lets his eyes fall closed for a moment, shifting his hips up into her touch the way he enjoys when Elrond does this. He makes sure to vocalize his reassurances as she twists her fist perfectly around the head, or when she drops her hand to play with his balls. She is plenty chatty in return, chirping happily at his praises, and checking in often that she is making him feel good.

She is… Eru on high, she is.

After several moments, the sudden absence of her hand calls his attention back and he opens his eyes in time to watch her raise it to her mouth. She sucks her shining thumb between her lips, tasting him, and if he were not already sitting down, it would have proven inevitable in that moment. A moan such as he had never heard from her bleeds around the digit in her mouth, a sound he finds himself echoing in kind as a gush of warmth spreads anew against his leg and she bears down against him.

“Oh… you have a need, my dear one… I can feel it,” he whispers, reaching to cup his hand against her cheek as her face twists with embarrassment.

“It is nothing… I could not ask you… I know it is not your wish to...” A grimace tightens Arwen’s features further, and he finds he cannot abide it. He will not.

“It is my wish to take care of my precious nightingale. Tell me what it is you need?” 

He would pluck the stars from the sky and gift them to her in a chest of gold. He would plunge into the sea and recover the lost gem of her people if she asked. He would give her any pleasure she desired of him. He would give her this… he wants to give her this. The deep-hot burn of his arousal swirls in him like an oil slick, all at once poisonous and possessive, because he wants—by the stars above—he wants to be the first to touch his daughter. He wants to be the first to feel the slick of her on his fingers, the softness of her warm cunt. He wants to feel her clit harden for him, and the clench of her tight passage as she succumbs to her pleasure on his fingers.

“A knight and king has a duty to take care of his lady properly.” Thranduil sinks his hands into waves the exact sable color of Elrond’s, careful not to disturb his braid work. “You would not deny me this chance to spoil my princess? I want to do this for you. And I think my crafty little spy already knows… I always get what I want.” Thranduil holds his breath, hoping he hasn’t pushed too hard, and counting on their thousands of years of shared history to convey his sentiments.

He is rewarded when she grinds her hips down, spreading her wetness against his thigh as she blushes anew, her dark lashes fluttering. 

“Such a king you are, even now… making demands.” Arwen’s demure, shimmery giggle is like music to his ears as she strokes his face. “Touch me, Ataurë… please.”

Thranduil groans, tilting his head to meet her welcoming mouth. Slowly, he traces a hand down over shoulder, her waist, her thigh, slipping at last under the pushed-up hem of her dress to cup her between her legs. 

“Ohhhhh, darling…” Thranduil gasps against her lips, a delicious curl of pride wrapping his thighs and making his cock twitch when he finds the thin lace undergarment she is wearing to be thoroughly saturated already.

Burying her face against his neck, Arwen whimpers needily, rocking against him as he slides his fingers under the fabric, feeling the slick, velvet-heat of her at last. 

Thranduil has never even touched Celebrían… not even in curiosity. He hadn’t been lying when he’d said he loves his wife as much as he loves his husband, but that they’ve always had other ways of showing it. Being Cel’s partner and confidant, running at all hours for ice lollies or extra pillows through each of her pregnancies, counseling her through her distraught rants about Elrond the impossible or the Elladan the imprudent, and giggling with her over his best wine late into the night before falling asleep with her in his arms had always existed comfortably outside the consuming need, frenetic desire, and overwhelming urge of the physical drive that takes him when he pushes his hands under Elrond’s robes in his haste to touch him. Even watching her and praising her in their shared bed as she succumbed to her pleasure against Elrond’s mouth, holding her in his arms as his husband buried himself to the hilt inside her, or laying prone in her lap while Elrond made good his threats to split Thranduil in half were all undertaken with the unspoken, comfortable reassurance that they need not indulge each other that way. 

And now, here he sits, wretchedly scrambling to recall every last word of Elrond’s piteously dry lecture on the clitoris.

For the moment, his daughter seems to enjoy his fluttering and circling against her wet folds. Thranduil keeps his touches light as his pulse races and his head spins. He lets her work herself on his fingers as she wishes and tries to keep from succumbing to his mounting fear of ignorance. A particularly deep grind grazes her clit against his middle fingertip and she throbs against his hand, bathing him in her slick and causing his cock to jerk and leak. Emboldened, he gently approaches the sensitive blood-hot nub once more, pleased at the way she squirms and at the hitched little breath it earns him as she clings tighter to his shoulders.

“Your fingers feel good, Ataurë. Please don’t stop.”

Oh thank fuck.

“You’re so wet… it aches doesn’t it? It feels the same for me when you touch me. Darling, I have watched your Nana and Elrond many times, but I have little practical experience in that regard. I would love for you to show me what really makes you feel good, my nightingale…” Thranduil wants this to be good for her… he needs this to be good for her.

Oh, her blush could put a pomegranate to shame, but she meets his gaze all the same, bottom lip pulled between her teeth and that heavy, dark lust gleaming in her eyes that reminds him so powerfully of Elrond, he has to catch his breath.

“It’s the most sensitive here… “ Dropping a hand down to cover his, she sweeps his fingers over the swollen head of her clit. “I move them like this when I’m ready to come.” The slippery bead of flesh slides between the tips of their layered fingers and Thranduil clutches her waist as a shiver sparkles through her. It’s as captivating to watch as it is to feel.

“Do I—do I feel good?” 

“You feel wonderful, my darling. Take my arousal as, er… hard evidence.”

His daughter giggles sweetly, a wickedly delighted grin on her face as she pulls her hand back, letting him explore her.

“What do you say to Ada… when you’re asking him for what you need? It feels embarrassing to ask for such things… it felt difficult even now to tell you what I like.” she asks, shy in voice, but certainly not in action as she takes hold of him once more.

It is Thranduil’s turn to twitch and gasp, a dribble of prespend pulsing from him as Arwen pumps a fist slick with her own wetness over his length.

“We know each other well enough by this point that physical cues are often sufficient in place of words. Ohh—do you like that?” he croons as he taps his fingers against his daughter’s cunt and she squirms, nodding vigorously at him. “It is normal to feel shy, but it will get easier with time. And you will get used to phrasing things less clinically. Oh—princess, yes—that’s good—” Thranduil’s hips arch up, chasing the tunnel of her fingers as she teasingly circles the head of his prick. “For example, I tell him when I want him to use my throat with his cock. I tell him when I need him to fuck me harder… sometimes I ask him permission to let me come when we’re playing a little rougher. Oh, sweetheart, you’re soaking me… I think you like hearing me speak this way.”

Reaching up with his free hand, Thranduil cups his daughter’s cheek as she whines and pushes herself down into his palm. A pearly thread of slick streams from her cunt, adding to the mess she has already made of his robes.

“Good girl… good girl, I love making you feel good. I love you.”

“I love you, Ataurë.” Reaching up, Arwen lays her hand over his and he reels her in for a kiss.

When he pulls back, he looks at her more seriously, slowing the movement of his hand under her skirt to ensure he has her attention.

“Most importantly of all, I always tell him if something does not feel right, no matter what. You must promise me you will use your words with anyone who is new to you, including me, no matter how embarrassing. If a knight cannot heed his lady’s requests, then he is not deserving of her.”

“Yes, Ataurë.”

Then his beautiful, utterly depraved princess releases him only to reach between her legs, and gather the wetness of herself before returning to slick his shaft.

On impulse, Thranduil slides his hand down to cup her breast. They are certainly smaller than Celebrían’s and he knows she is self conscious about them. He has heard rumors—obtained primarily from her brothers—that she used to stuff her dress. But he loves them, loves her lithe, more masculine figure. He caresses her hard nipples, watching for her reaction and delighted when she squirms against him. But he does not miss the rabbity nervousness in her eyes or the way she seems to tense as though waiting for disapproval to land. 

“They aren’t much…” 

Thranduil smiles and cards her loose hair behind her ear, guiding her gaze up. “They are yours. And you are perfect, my lady.” Her smile does not appear entirely convinced, but he is encouraged when he leans in to kiss her, and he feels it widen further. 

“Would you like me to use my mouth?” He breathes between sips of her lips, and when she nods, he reaches around to thumb open several buttons until he can push the garment off her shoulders.

Dipping his head down, Thranduil closes his lips over the pebbled bud of flesh. The slick heat of her folds throbs against his hand several times as he licks and sucks her, and she gasps as he rolls the tender nub over his teeth. Though he has had far more practice at this particular act, it is still such a unique thrill and honor to learn her in this way… to bring her such pleasure.

“I know yours are sensitive too…” Arwen breathes, reaching for him.

“You are a naughty spy…” Thranduil flicks his eyes up as she shoots him a mischievous grin.

“I saw you spill over Ada’s hand while he sucked your nipples once. I was young… too young to know what I was seeing at the time, but it has stuck with me.”

“You used to try and nurse on me when you were little… how you would fuss when nothing happened.”

“Did you like it?”

“It made me feel close to you.”

“And now?” she asks sweetly, tightening her fist on the head of his prick before leaning into his chest and sucking the hardened peak of flesh into her mouth. The noise that escapes him then is not one he is proud of.

“Arwen—” he hisses, sensation sparking along his nerves as her little teeth scrape teasingly against him, the pleased sound she hums going straight between his legs.

Valar, he loves her… he loves the impish smirk curling her lips because she knows exactly what she is doing to him, he loves the unquestioning trust she has laid at his feet, he loves the way she feels against him, the noises she makes, the warm, sweet-sharp scent of her. How could something so extraordinary and so right ever be wrong?

“Why does Ada call you a whore?”

Ah yes, he loves her wicked-sharp tongue and audacious damned questions as well. 

“Because he is a terrible man. Who knows how I love to be fucked,” Thranduil pants as Arwen laves her tongue over his other nipple, and the heat in his gut starts to build into something hot and enticing.

“Like this?” She asks, all traces of uncertainty gone as her finger dips behind his balls to prod at his entrance. 

He hisses at her touch, nodding as he pulls one leg up so she can pet at his perineum and around his hole.

“I’m sensitive here too,” she whispers in a small voice, her eyes agleam with desire as he clenches at her touch.

“Listen very carefully, my nightingale. Such names are okay during play with those whom you trust, but only if you are okay with them. Is that understood?” 

“It made me wet when Ada called you that. I think… I think I might like it.”

Sitting back up straight, Thranduil winds his hand into Arwen’s seal-dark waves, the fire in his gut blazing hot as he flutters his fingers against her drenched cunt until she keens. For he has also been paying attention to which touches send her body quivering as though it has been showered with sparks.

“You think you might like to be fucked like your Ada fucks me? Filled with a fat cock, and ridden into the mattress like a good little whore?” 

Ooohhh… the way her pupils blow wide and her breath stutters… the way she gushes and squeezes her thighs against him…

“Yes—Ataurë, oh Elbereth.” 

“I love being fucked… by your Ada and your Nana… sometimes at the same time.” Arwen’s hand has gone still on him, but he thrusts his hips up hard into the circle of her fingers with a growl. “I love feeling full. I love being used. Your Ada used to tell me he would breed me and get me with child just to watch me paint my chest with nary a touch.”

“Ataurë—oh, please—” Arwen sings, eyes squeezing shut as she reaches down with her free hand to press him tighter against her… until the tip of his finger dips deeper inside.

“So wet… so hard for me… such a good girl. Did you like hearing that? You don’t need to be embarrassed, sweetheart… you’re so beautiful like this.”

She is even hotter and slicker further in, pulsing nearly continuously against his hand, and it’s all Thranduil can do not to press in until his finger is hilted inside. His daughter shivers, burying her flushed, sweaty face in his neck and pressing her lips there as her hand resumes stroking him. If Thranduil is truly honest, his cock can remain the unspent plaything of her curious fingers for the duration, as long as his beautiful princess feels good. 

Forcing himself to breathe deeply, he leans in to press his lips to her ear. “Princess, have you had anything inside you before? Have you used your fingers?” He watches the tips of her scarlet ears twitch, feels the shake of her head against his shoulder. But he can also feel the eager pushes of her hips, the way she is angling against him in an attempt to nudge his finger inside her.

What a wonder she is, his beautiful daughter, his princess, so vulnerable and soft and tender. What an honor to catch her and hold her… to share this part in her pleasure. To be her knight once more. 

“That’s alright, my darling… you never need to do anything you aren’t ready for.” She buries her face deeper into his chest, her voice so small he barely hears it. “Look at me, sweetheart. Use your words, my pretty songbird. Tell me what you need.” 

Slowly she sits back, lifting her eyes to his. The hand that was covering his own between her legs slips up to grip his wrist.

“I want—I want your fingers, Ataurë.” Slowly she guides him up and in until his first knuckle is gripped in her hot channel.

Thranduil gasps a moan right along with her as his middle digit is slowly engulfed. She’s so tight, she can’t take more than one. He lets her direct him, lets her push down as deep as she wants, using her hand to pull at his wrist as she rocks against him. 

“Oh darling, ohhh… I can’t believe I’m inside you… oh you feel so good.”

“Don’t stop—oh, it feels wonderful, don’t stop—” Arwen trills as she abandons his cock to sink her fingers into his hair, clutching him.

“Hold tight to me, nightingale, I have you… let yourself go, dear one.” Reaching for her breast again, Thranduil thumbs at her nipple as she shivers and pants and bears down on his finger.

“Ataurë, I—I need to come.” 

“Yes, sweetheart… take what you need… let yourself feel good.” 

She’s so responsive and beautiful and emotional and truly a force of nature all in a moment as tears trickle over her cheeks, her bottom lip trembling as she fucks herself harder against his hand. Thranduil feels dizzy with it, and with the way his eyes are darting everywhere all at once, afraid to miss anything.

“There’s a good girl… yes, let it happen.”

Flinging her arms around his neck, Arwen surges against him, smothering a shattering cry against his throat as her body spasms, and his finger is squeezed tight. Thranduil wraps his arm around her as a powerful gush of warmth squirts against his hand. A second, stronger spurt sprays around his palm, bathing his cock and Arwen lurches back in alarm, nearly losing her balance as they both look down between them.

His daughter’s hands immediately fly to her face, her eyes widening and mouth dropping open in horror at the sizable wet spot around Thranduil’s crotch.

“Oh! I’m so sorry—I—I’ve never lost control of—I don’t even have to go! Oh, Ataurë, I’m so embarrassed!”

Arwen squirms in his lap in an attempt to get away, but Thranduil keeps her pinned with both hands on her hips. He can feel himself smiling even as he can’t stop looking at her twitching cunt and the dark dampness between his legs, amazed, fascinated, oddly proud and horribly turned-on. Thank Eru he’s seen Cel do this or he’d probably be as confused as she is. The look on his face must be having an effect, for Arwen ceases her wriggling, but she continues to trill a soft stream of apologies as she wraps her arms around herself.

Leaning in, Thranduil silences her in the way that has recently become his favorite; with a kiss. “It’s alright princess… it’s just come… some women can come forcefully like that.”

Pulling back, he kisses her nose, and then her tear-stained cheeks as she appears to turn his words over in her mind.

“You mean… like a boy?” 

Once again, his precocious, feral child manages to go right for the throat.

“Yes, my darling… sort of like that,” Thranduil manages as his cock twitches and prespend streams out over his shaft. 

“Did you like watching me come like a boy, Ataurë?” Arwen croons, some of her earlier confidence returning as she reaches down to wrap her fingers around him, jerking him steadily now. 

The heat in his gut hasn’t abated in the least, and the way she had felt inside… the way she had come so hard… the way she is already learning to weaponize her words means it will not take much.

She butts catlike against his cheek, nuzzling him before nipping at his bottom lip. “Did you like feeling me spend all over your hand? Did you enjoy being the first to make me come like that?”

“Yes—Valar, yes—oh, darling—faster, please—”

Thranduil can feel the pressure building at the base of his spine, the way his body starts to tingle and tighten all over as he works his hips up in tight thrusts, matching her rhythm. Her dark hair sweeps against his chest as she lowers her head to suck kisses over each of his nipples, and then she’s leaning in to lap the tip of her tongue against his ear. She always was a quick study.

“Will you come for me, Ataurë? Be the first to spill in my hand?”

“Arwen—oh fuck—” Thranduil bites out before he’s shoving his knuckles against his mouth to stifle a shout as his body convulses, orgasm spiraling out of him in powerful waves. 

“Oh—oh—ohhh—” Her surprised little sounds register through the hazy bliss as his cock jerks and spills over her fist and he wonders distantly if he ought maybe to have explained a little more about this bit. 

Feeling heavy and wrung out, his head drops forward onto her shoulder as stars glitter in his vision, and his chest expands like a bellows. He feels a hand sink into his hair, stroking his head as her fist strokes every last drop of seed from his prick.

Then, his shoulder pillow starts shaking as his daughter lets out another one of her shimmery little laughs.

“Say nothing to Elrond. For he is unlikely to find a satisfactory explanation in a book for any of this.”

Lifting his head, Thranduil chuckles, pressing a kiss to her lips.

“Perish the thought.”