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Title: Recovery
Author: Evandar
Fandom: The Hobbit
Rating: T
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Romance
Pairing: Thranduil/Legolas
Warnings: Parent/child incest
Disclaimer: I do not own The Hobbit and I am making no profit from this story.
Summary: The drawing of the Shadow from Dol Guldur has been as the drawing of a slow and deadly poison from a wound, and it has left him weakened – though with the faint promise of strength to be regained.
AN: This was written entirely for my own ridiculous self-interests.
Thranduil barely spares Legolas a glance when he enters their chambers. There is an ache behind his eyes that seems to have installed itself with permanency, and a tingling sensation on his face that tells him his glamour is about to fall. He hears his son cross the room, and he relaxes as gentle hands lift his diadem from his brow. The tingling in his flesh intensifies briefly before fading, and he knows he is revealed – against his will, for he no longer has the strength to hide himself, but to Legolas’ credit, his son does not flinch from him. His son has seen him in this state – and worse – before.
He hears as Legolas placed his diadem on the table. He feels the air move as Legolas reaches for the wine on their table, and hears the crystal glasses ring as he pours into them. He cannot help but smile at his son’s care for him, and accepts an offered glass without opening his eyes.
Legolas returns to stand behind him and cards his fingers into Thranduil’s hair. He combs gently through the stands, moving up and up until his bow-calloused fingertips are rubbing gentle circles into his scalp. Pleasure sparks in Thranduil’s blood, and he leans back in his chair, tilting his head back to grant his son better access. Strong thumbs press against his temples and long fingers caress the back of his skull, and he sighs faintly in relief as his headache begins to fade.
“You are good to me, my treasure,” he murmurs.
The air shifts again. He feels his son’s hair brush against his upturned face, and smells his sweet breath as it fans over his mouth. Soft lips brush the ruined side of his face and the tip of his nose before pressing lightly against his own. When Legolas draws away, Thranduil cracks open his undamaged eye. His son’s ears are flushed and his eyes are dark, and there is a wicked curve to his lips that Thranduil recognises from his own reflection in his younger years. He is beautiful beyond measure and Thranduil’s in his entirety.
“My King demands the best of me,” Legolas says. His voice is warm as honey and just as sweet. “My father raised me to be my best,” he continues. “My beloved deserves all that I can give.” He seals the statement with another kiss, slow and deep and loving, and Thranduil reaches up to cradle the back of his head. He feels Legolas’ smile in the moments before their kiss deepens; he can taste wine on his son’s lips, and pears, and he twists in his chair so that he can chase the taste of him.
“Ada,” Legolas breathes. His hands tighten in Thranduil’s hair; calloused fingers stroke over his hair and his scars and trail up towards the sensitive points of his ears. His son finds his way into his lap, a familiar weight, and Thranduil knows a new ache. He draws back from his son, breathing his only child’s breath, and cradles him close even as he attempts to will the fire from his blood.
For all that Legolas has soothed the aching in his head, he cannot and has not erased the weariness from his body despite its new interests. His son may be remarkable in many ways, but sorcery is beyond his grasp.
Legolas’ thumb rubs along the edge of his scar, where smooth skin becomes wax-melted at the edge of his brow. “You are yet unwell,” he says. There is a finality in his voice that reminds Thranduil of himself, and so he inclines his head instead of arguing. “I am sorry, Ada – I should not have pushed you.”
Thranduil shakes his head and pulls Legolas closer. He presses kiss after kiss to that sweet face, until Legolas laughs softly and squirms, drawing back and raising his brows.
“Never apologise for this,” Thranduil tells him. He will not lie to his son and pretend that their relationship would be understood by any who might discover it, for theirs is a love that should not exist amongst the Eldar. Nor will he lie and pretend the link between his body and his woodland kingdom is not real either. The drawing of the Shadow from Dol Guldur has been as the drawing of a slow and deadly poison from a wound, and it has left him weakened – though with the faint promise of strength to be regained. He has been in some stage of sickness for the vast majority of Legolas’ life and his son is sadly used to it preventing him from living as well as he would. His son has suffered for Thranduil, and suffered with him, and Thranduil will not see him shamed for it – whether by himself or any other.
“Never,” Legolas promises, and he stands abruptly. He strokes his hands down Thranduil’s face and shoulders to grasp his forearms and gently pulls him to his feet. “No shame, Ada, nor regret.” He leans in to touch their lips together. “Simply more respect for your recovery.”
Thranduil rolls his eyes. He has been an invalid for much of the Third Age and is royally tired of it.
“Come then,” he says, tilting his head towards the bed they share. “And aid my recovery in comfort, beloved.”
Author: Evandar
Fandom: The Hobbit
Rating: T
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Romance
Pairing: Thranduil/Legolas
Warnings: Parent/child incest
Disclaimer: I do not own The Hobbit and I am making no profit from this story.
Summary: The drawing of the Shadow from Dol Guldur has been as the drawing of a slow and deadly poison from a wound, and it has left him weakened – though with the faint promise of strength to be regained.
AN: This was written entirely for my own ridiculous self-interests.
Thranduil barely spares Legolas a glance when he enters their chambers. There is an ache behind his eyes that seems to have installed itself with permanency, and a tingling sensation on his face that tells him his glamour is about to fall. He hears his son cross the room, and he relaxes as gentle hands lift his diadem from his brow. The tingling in his flesh intensifies briefly before fading, and he knows he is revealed – against his will, for he no longer has the strength to hide himself, but to Legolas’ credit, his son does not flinch from him. His son has seen him in this state – and worse – before.
He hears as Legolas placed his diadem on the table. He feels the air move as Legolas reaches for the wine on their table, and hears the crystal glasses ring as he pours into them. He cannot help but smile at his son’s care for him, and accepts an offered glass without opening his eyes.
Legolas returns to stand behind him and cards his fingers into Thranduil’s hair. He combs gently through the stands, moving up and up until his bow-calloused fingertips are rubbing gentle circles into his scalp. Pleasure sparks in Thranduil’s blood, and he leans back in his chair, tilting his head back to grant his son better access. Strong thumbs press against his temples and long fingers caress the back of his skull, and he sighs faintly in relief as his headache begins to fade.
“You are good to me, my treasure,” he murmurs.
The air shifts again. He feels his son’s hair brush against his upturned face, and smells his sweet breath as it fans over his mouth. Soft lips brush the ruined side of his face and the tip of his nose before pressing lightly against his own. When Legolas draws away, Thranduil cracks open his undamaged eye. His son’s ears are flushed and his eyes are dark, and there is a wicked curve to his lips that Thranduil recognises from his own reflection in his younger years. He is beautiful beyond measure and Thranduil’s in his entirety.
“My King demands the best of me,” Legolas says. His voice is warm as honey and just as sweet. “My father raised me to be my best,” he continues. “My beloved deserves all that I can give.” He seals the statement with another kiss, slow and deep and loving, and Thranduil reaches up to cradle the back of his head. He feels Legolas’ smile in the moments before their kiss deepens; he can taste wine on his son’s lips, and pears, and he twists in his chair so that he can chase the taste of him.
“Ada,” Legolas breathes. His hands tighten in Thranduil’s hair; calloused fingers stroke over his hair and his scars and trail up towards the sensitive points of his ears. His son finds his way into his lap, a familiar weight, and Thranduil knows a new ache. He draws back from his son, breathing his only child’s breath, and cradles him close even as he attempts to will the fire from his blood.
For all that Legolas has soothed the aching in his head, he cannot and has not erased the weariness from his body despite its new interests. His son may be remarkable in many ways, but sorcery is beyond his grasp.
Legolas’ thumb rubs along the edge of his scar, where smooth skin becomes wax-melted at the edge of his brow. “You are yet unwell,” he says. There is a finality in his voice that reminds Thranduil of himself, and so he inclines his head instead of arguing. “I am sorry, Ada – I should not have pushed you.”
Thranduil shakes his head and pulls Legolas closer. He presses kiss after kiss to that sweet face, until Legolas laughs softly and squirms, drawing back and raising his brows.
“Never apologise for this,” Thranduil tells him. He will not lie to his son and pretend that their relationship would be understood by any who might discover it, for theirs is a love that should not exist amongst the Eldar. Nor will he lie and pretend the link between his body and his woodland kingdom is not real either. The drawing of the Shadow from Dol Guldur has been as the drawing of a slow and deadly poison from a wound, and it has left him weakened – though with the faint promise of strength to be regained. He has been in some stage of sickness for the vast majority of Legolas’ life and his son is sadly used to it preventing him from living as well as he would. His son has suffered for Thranduil, and suffered with him, and Thranduil will not see him shamed for it – whether by himself or any other.
“Never,” Legolas promises, and he stands abruptly. He strokes his hands down Thranduil’s face and shoulders to grasp his forearms and gently pulls him to his feet. “No shame, Ada, nor regret.” He leans in to touch their lips together. “Simply more respect for your recovery.”
Thranduil rolls his eyes. He has been an invalid for much of the Third Age and is royally tired of it.
“Come then,” he says, tilting his head towards the bed they share. “And aid my recovery in comfort, beloved.”
no subject
Date: 2017-10-16 09:37 pm (UTC)From:Scarred/half-blind Thranduil totally senses things through air movement <3 And I liked the idea of him being glamour-free and keeping his eyes closed as a sign of trust.
So glad you liked it <3 <3
no subject
Date: 2017-10-17 06:16 am (UTC)From:glamour-free and keeping his eyes closed as a sign of trust.
Chosen, yet also partially involuntary vulnerability has such a kick in it, especially with Thranduil. Augh. Really good!