Chapter Text
Legolas wants to cry. He won’t, but he wants to. It just won’t stop. It has happened before, sort of, a little bit, just for a few minutes at a time, and he has managed to imagine it away, to ignore it completely even though the sensitive little ache and the feeling of his blood rushing downwards wants to have all his attention, even though it makes him blush and want to do things he has never done before. In the end, it always stops, but this time, he has been like this for hours and nothing he has tried has helped. In fact, he thinks it’s getting worse, because now he feels sticky and every step he takes creates shivers of friction and he just wants to sob. Or throw things.
And he is not supposed to throw things, because he is a prince. And he is not supposed to fling himself on his bed and sob with frustration because he is forty years old and he is far too grown up for that sort of thing. Instead, he stares at himself in the mirror and sighs, because his eyes look all strange and dark and his skin is pink and he has to pull hard at his tunic to hide… everything that is going on down there. He wonders if he is sick, if he should ask a healer for help, but it feels so private, and he thinks he might die of embarrassment if he had to actually…
“My lord, your father would like to see you.”
He turns around and stares at Galion. He looks just like he always does, calm and efficient, with his neat hair and his steady gaze and oh, Legolas just knows that he has never had a problem like this. And his father, well… Legolas tries not to think about that.
“Now?”
Galion gives him that little smile, the same one he has given Legolas since he was a small child. It helps a little.
“Yes.”
Legolas nods, and when Galion turns away, he darts an agonised glance at his groin before following him. He knows there is no use delaying; if his father wants to see him, he wants to see him immediately. If he is in a good mood, he may not even notice his son’s distraction. If he is in a bad mood, making him wait will only make it worse. If he is drunk… well, anything is possible.
Galion leaves him at the door and he takes a deep breath before he steps inside. His father is lounging on a low couch in front of the fire, and Legolas isn’t at all surprised to see a goblet in his hand. Thranduil turns to look at him, and his eyes are bright but not yet glassy. A little drunk, then. Drunk enough to smile at Legolas as he waves him over but not drunk enough to hide the fact that something has irritated him. Legolas stands in front of his father and folds his hands in front of his shame.
“Adar,” he says, with a respectful nod of his head.
“What is the matter with you today?” his father asks, raising his cup to his lips.
“Nothing,” Legolas lies, looking away from his father when their eye contact makes the ache in his private parts even worse.
“Your archery tutor tells me that you were extremely distracted during your lesson today,” his father says, and his severe tone sends a little ripple down Legolas’s spine as he continues to stare at the floor. “You were uncooperative in your literature study, also, and at dinner you were very short with Galion when he tried to take your plate. Is there anything that you would like to tell me?”
Legolas bites his lip. Once again, he feels as though he is going to cry, and this turmoil inside him is just too much. He had tried to concentrate, had tried so very hard to be a good student, and he had never meant to upset Galion, but he feels as though he is being pulled so tight that he might come apart at any moment. Every part of him is too hot and too heavy and he can barely breathe with the intensity of it, and now his father is looking at him like that, and he doesn’t need to raise his eyes to see it, to feel it, and when he speaks again, he can’t help a tear of frustration from spilling over, tracking down his cheek and splashing to the floor.
“Ion-nin, what on earth is the matter?” he says, and his voice is soft now. Gentle. Concerned.
He squirms on the spot. “Adar, I cannot.”
He hears his father rise, drain his goblet and refill it. Instead of returning to the couch alone, he wraps a hand around Legolas’s wrist and pulls them down together. The goblet is held to his lips and he shakes his head before taking a tiny sip. Thranduil hums to himself and swallows half of the rich liquid in one go. He doesn’t let go of Legolas’s wrist and his touch only seems to make the problem intensify.
“Legolas, speak to me.”
“I… there is something wrong with me,” he says, and the words come out all in a rush.
His father’s thumb rubs the inside of his wrist and he shivers. Smooth skin, cold rings, a brief pause and then he does it again. And Legolas shivers again.
“What is wrong with you?”
Legolas squeezes his eyes shut. Every time his father touches him, it gets a little bit worse. He feels a little bit harder, a little bit hotter, a little bit more desperate, and all he wants to do is wrench out of his grip and run from the room. He just shakes his head again, and his father sighs.
“If you cannot say what is wrong, can you show me?” he asks, and the feeling of want that slashes through Legolas is so shocking that he does pull his hand away, and he wraps his arms around himself.
“No!”
“Then, ion, I do not know how I can help you,” Thranduil says.
Legolas glances at his father from under his eyelashes, watching him drink his wine and lean back, crossing one long leg over the other. He grips his own arms tightly and squirms on the couch, wishing this feeling would just go away. Wishing that he could just look at his father and say ‘there is something wrong with my… with my cock, alright? I’m scared and I want to do things that don’t make sense, and nothing is helping.’
Thranduil drapes an arm along the back of the couch and gazes at him, head on one side. His eyes are a little hazy now, and his smile is lopsided, like someone is pulling at one corner. His hair is spilling all down the front of his tunic and Legolas presses his thighs together as something hot and wet leaks onto the inside of his trousers.
“You know you can tell me anything,” his father says, and Legolas is getting up before he can stop himself.
“There,” he says defiantly, heart racing as he shoves his trousers down his thighs and holds up his tunic, letting his hard, quivering cock bounce free not twelve inches from his father’s face. He is terrified, face flaming red, but he just stands there, because he’s done it now, and if there really is something wrong with him, at least he will know. “Please just tell me. Is it bad?”
His father’s face is impossible to read. Legolas thinks he looks surprised, but not horrified, and there is something else there that makes him want to cover himself up. But he doesn’t, because Thranduil is touching his hip lightly and pulling him back to sit beside him. He is still exposed, and the air feels cool everywhere that he is sticky, which is… a lot of him, because he keeps leaking, and once again, his father’s touch just seems to make everything worse.
“Oh, darling,” he says, sipping his wine with a real smile. “It’s alright. There is nothing wrong with you.”
Legolas frowns, caught between relief and confusion. “But it…”
“It is natural,” his father says. “I promise. Everything will be fine. It will settle down.”
“It has been like this for hours,” Legolas whispers, curling up so that he feels less exposed.
Thranduil lifts an eyebrow. “Oh. Perhaps a cool bath?”
“I tried that,” Legolas admits.
“Well, when it happens to me, I—”
“This has happened to you?” Legolas hisses, unable to stop his eyes from flicking to his father’s groin, currently covered by layers of rich fabrics and surely not subject to this kind of humiliation. He is a king, and surely kings do not… swell and shiver and leak on their trousers. Surely they don’t.
To his astonishment, his father smiles. “Yes, of course. How can I explain… you are growing up, and your body is preparing itself for… intimate activities.”
Horrified, Legolas curls into himself tighter, but the thought of his father engaging in such things—things he has heard about but never actually considered—only makes the strange feeling deepen. He has a vague understanding that his parents coupled in some way to produce him, but the thought of doing such a thing… just because… makes something new catch in his chest and deep in the pit of his stomach.
“Adar,” he whispers, following the press of his father’s lips to his goblet as he drains the contents and sets it on the table.
“Yes,” he says softly. “Sometimes it happens when we think of something that excites us, and sometimes for no reason at all.” Thranduil gazes at him, concern in his eyes. “Are you uncomfortable?”
Legolas wants to laugh. He lets his feet slide back to the floor and stares into his lap. “I am sitting here with my… with this… and with my trousers down, and you are staring at me. Of course I am uncomfortable.”
“No,” his father says with a little smile. “Does this…” he grazes Legolas’s cock with his fingertips, just for a moment, and he almost collapses in on himself with the intensity of the sensation, “… feel uncomfortable?”
“Oh,” he whispers, and then, “because it’s hard or because you touched me?”
“Because of the state you are in, little one,” Thranduil says, and something about the address, about the softness of his eyes, makes Legolas feel so small that he covers himself with his hands.
“Yes,” he admits.
His father looks out at the darkening evening. “Why don’t we go for a walk?” he suggests. “It is cold outside, and perhaps—”
“I have been for a walk,” Legolas interrupts, because the idea of the cold air on his skin is just… it is just no. His nerves are shredded, and he is too desperate to care about his father’s astonished expression. “Adar, I cannot. I have have two baths. I have ignored it and I have tried to… press it down, and I have tried to go to sleep, and nothing works. Please. There must be something you can do.”
Thranduil stares at him for a long time. Eventually, he closes his eyes and says, “Have you tried stroking it?”
Legolas feels the way his cock twitches against his hands and he presses down firmly, just as his father opens his eyes again. He looks, just for a second, and even though he cannot possibly see anything, Legolas flushes an even deeper shade of pink.
“Won’t that make it worse?” he whispers.
“For a little while, yes, and then…” his father shifts beside him and sighs. “Legolas, this conversation is no easier for me than it is for you, I assure you.”
“It is, because you aren’t… like this!” Legolas hisses, and something in his father’s expression makes him catch his breath. “Are you? Adar?”
Thranduil’s eyes seem to burn him. They do that sometimes. His father always seems to look into him, not at him, and most of the time, he can look away or look right back, but now, he is so exposed and drawn so tight and his father’s fingers are sliding over the couch towards him, slowly, like he is trying not to spook a nervous horse, and he has no idea what he is going to do when they touch him.
“Let me help you,” Thranduil whispers, and Legolas has never heard him sound like that. Rough. Desperate.
Legolas stops breathing as those fingers slide over his thigh and then wrap gently around his cock. The sensation is delicious, the pressure makes him want to groan with relief, but those are his father’s fingers, and they should not be there, even if he is flushed and dripping and so hot, and every bit of his arousal-crazed body wants to push into that perfect grip.
“Adar, what are you doing?” he whispers, even as he shivers and bites his lip.
“Just let me,” his father insists, shifting closer and pushing aside his tunic with his free hand.
He is… he is hard, too, straining against his trousers, insistent and so big that Legolas wants to hide his stupid tiny cock and never let anyone see it again. His mouth is dry and he wants to do things… things he doesn’t really understand, but he does not want to do them with his father, even if he is beautiful and even if his hand feels so perfect right there. He doesn’t want to.
“Please,” he says, when Thranduil grips his shoulder firmly. “Adar, please, I don’t think you should touch me like that.”
“Breathe, Legolas, everything is going to be fine,” his father says, catching the sticky leak as it drips from him and spreading it from tip to root and back again.
He moans out loud, he can’t help it. It feels so good, too good, but he twists in his father’s grip and shakes his head. “I can’t… please, Adar,” he cries, tears stinging his eyes. “Please, Adar, I need to… we can’t...”
His breath is quickening now and he can feel something unravelling inside him as he leaks faster and trembles harder. He can smell the warm, fresh scent of his father’s hair and he wants to pull it hard. To make him stop. To make this stop. Or not. He has no idea any more and the tears start to fall.
“I’ve got you, little one,” his father murmurs, “Just let me—”
“Stop!” Legolas cries, pulling his legs up to his chest and squeezing his eyes shut.
The hands fall away, and he stares up at his father, face streaked with tears. Thranduil sits back, hands lifted in mute apology. His breathing is rapid and his face is flushed, and he looks so repentant that Legolas wants to curl into a ball on his lap. He wants to apologise for ever speaking of this. He wants to apologise for the way he had enjoyed it. He wants to apologise for saying stop when his body had been screaming please.
“Forgive me, ion-nin?” his father pleads, slipping onto the floor in front of him and letting his head dip down in supplication.
Legolas stares at him, horrified and thrilled, and cannot quite stop himself from sliding a hand through his father’s beautiful hair. Thranduil shudders, and Legolas wonders if he is still… like that. If it is because of him.
“Did you want to touch me like that?” he asks.
His father looks up slowly. He looks a little less drunk now. His eyes are clearer and his voice is firm when he says, “Yes.”
“Why?”
He smiles. Sits back on his heels in such a majestic way that Legolas wants to copy him, but he stays where he is, perched on the edge of the couch with his fingertips tracing the line of his father’s jaw.
“The truth?”
“Yes, please.”
“Because you are beautiful. Because you grow more handsome with each year that passes, and to watch you do so causes me great pride, but also great anguish, because I desire what I can never have,” he says, cautiously leaning into Legolas’s touch. “Seeing you in such a vulnerable state was a test of my resolve, and I failed that test. I am sorry, ion-nin. I never meant to cause you distress, but what I did was very wrong. I hope you can forgive me. I understand if you cannot.”
Legolas stares at him. His cock is still throbbing and desperate for attention, but now there is an ache in his chest that he cannot quite identify. It feels warm and deep, and it makes him want to fling his arms around his father and never let go.
“I forgive you,” he whispers. “Do you still love me?”
Thranduil smiles and reaches for him and then pulls his hands back, letting them settle on his lap.
“I love you, Las-nin, in every way it is possible to love another,” he says. “Every way.”
“Is it not… wrong?”
“Love is never wrong,” his father says. “But I will never touch you like that again. I promise.”
Legolas frowns, fingers slipping away from his father’s face when a tiny pang of disappointment presses itself into his heart. He is sticky again, he can feel it pooling against his palm, and the thought of his father’s gentle stroking fingers sets up a lovely little flutter in the pit of his stomach. He looks at that pretty mouth, at the way the king himself is kneeling at his feet, and he wonders if maybe he does want his father to touch him.
“Will it go away? If you...?” he asks, suddenly terrified to meet his father’s eyes, but when he does, he is thrilled to see them darken and glitter with excitement.
“Yes, little one, but I really—”
“Please,” Legolas says, and then he says it again, because his father makes the most wonderful little sound and he wants to hear it over and over. “Please, Adar.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes,” Legolas whispers, and he leans back in what he hopes is an inviting manner, letting his legs fall open and pulling his father towards him by the front of his tunic. He has no idea if he’s doing any of this right, but Thranduil looks hungry as he descends on him, and when those fingers wrap around him again, there is no doubt in his mind that he wants this. “Please, please help me, Adar.”
His father lets out a rough little growl as he strokes him, one hand wrapped around his cock and the other rubbing up and down his bare thigh in a gentle rhythm. This time, he lets his fear float away and just allows himself to enjoy it, to bask in every sensation and the promise that everything will be alright. Thranduil whispers to him constantly, soft words of love and admiration and encouragement, and he devours them all, wanting nothing more than to be good for his father, to be that sweet little thing for him, to let go and come for him, whatever that means.
He’s still not sure what is going to happen at the end of all this, but it doesn’t matter, because nothing has ever felt so wonderful in his life, and before long he is writhing and moaning under his father’s touch, begging for more and don’t stop and kiss me, ada, and he doesn’t know why he says that, but his father leans in and brushes their mouths together, and Legolas feels as though he is floating. Thranduil’s kisses taste like sweet wine and his tongue is soft and agile, and who knew that would be a thing, but it is a blissful thing, and Legolas thinks that he is going to want to feel it again.
When he feels like he has no breath left in his body, he buries his face in his father’s neck and holds on tight. He is a mess, sticky and panting and unable to keep still, but the words of praise never stop, and as he starts to feel as though he cannot hang onto his sanity any longer, that soft voice presses to his ear.
“Does that feel nice, little one?”
“Yes, yes, it’s… oh, Ada…”
“What does it feel like?”
Legolas whimpers, looking down through hazy eyes to watch beautiful, decorated fingers stroking him into madness, his flushed little cock sliding into his father’s fist over and over.
“It feels strange, but… I’m sorry it’s so small,” he whispers, pressing his face back against that warm throat.
He feels his father’s soft laughter. “Las-nin, it is perfect. It is beautiful. Tell me how you feel.”
“Ah… it’s like… it’s warm in my belly and tight and heavy and… it’s a little bit like I want to pee,” he admits, flushing and jerking into his father’s hand. He wants… he wants something, and he’s pretty sure it’s going to be messy, but his father just keeps going, pressing kisses to his hair and cradling him close.
“You won’t, I promise. You’re going to come, and it’s going to feel lovely,” Thranduil says.
He eases Legolas back and leans down between his legs, gently taking him into his mouth as he continues to stroke him. Astonished, he stares as his father swallows him whole, so shocked that he opens his mouth to protest, but then the heat and the pressure and the flicker of his tongue is just too much, and all he can do is wind his fingers into his father’s hair as a sound he has never made before wrenches out of him.
“That’s it, just let it happen,” Thranduil murmurs, and then there is that tongue again, those lips, every velvet soft pleasure he had felt on his mouth is now caressing his cock and the thing that has been building and winding around his spine ever since his father touched him is yanking tight, and he wants to fight against it, to hold on, but then those pretty eyes catch his and he hears it again:
Just let it happen.
So he does. He drops back against the couch, lets his arms fall loose at his sides, and pushes into his father’s mouth with a rough scream that seems to pull him up to the crest of a wave, delicious and almost painful as it swells around him and sends dizzy pleasure spinning out through his body. He feels something leave him, a violent, spurting sort of release, and then a soft groan that doesn’t belong to him, and he is falling, crumpling, and a gentle tongue is lapping around him and he doesn’t know whether to laugh or moan or squirm away.
“Did I pee?” he asks vaguely, and Thranduil climbs onto the couch and pulls him into his arms.
“No, meleth. You were wonderful,” he says, kissing Legolas’s forehead. “Did you like it?”
“Yes,” he sighs, eyes still closed as he reaches for his father’s mouth. “Oh. You taste strange.”
Thranduil licks gently into his mouth. “That is your taste, and I like it very much. Do you feel better?”
“Mm,” Legolas sighs, and pulls away to gaze into his lap. Everything is still rather flushed and a little bit sticky, but the maddening pressure has been replaced by a hazy sort of warmth, and the whole area seems much more like it should be. “It worked. Thank you, Adar.”
“Please do not thank me, my behaviour was inexcusable,” he says, and Legolas has the feeling that his father is going to torture himself about this for some time yet.
“I forgive you,” he whispers, scrambling onto his knees to throw his arms around his father’s neck. “I love you.”
“I love you, Las-nin,” he whispers back, holding on tight. “It is late. Shall I ask Galion to make you some tea?”
Legolas smiles. He gets unsteadily to his feet and redresses himself. “I think I will sleep very easily tonight.”
Thranduil lounges on the couch and watches him, pulling him back for a soft kiss before letting him go. Legolas wonders how long he will sit up, drinking wine and worrying.
“I promise you, I do not regret what we did,” he says, and his father smiles at him, already feeling around for his empty goblet.
“Nor I. Goodnight, little one. Sweet dreams.”
Legolas walks slowly back to his rooms, drifting in a cloud of warm satisfaction and the scent of the forest. He sheds all of his clothes, climbs into bed, and is asleep within seconds.