Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4058683.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      TOLKIEN_J._R._R._-_Works, The_Hobbit_-_All_Media_Types
  Relationship:
      Oropher/Thranduil
  Character:
      Oropher, Thranduil
  Additional Tags:
      Flowers, Incest, Food, somewhat_kinky_idk, Blood, not_too_much_tho,
      Biting, vicious_manipulative_thrandiddly_doo, Shota, ????_-_Freeform,
      PWP, Aphrodisiacs
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-06-02 Words: 3169
****** The Sweetness of Spring Flowers ******
by Doitsuki
Summary
     A bit of Thrandopher smut, written in the present tense. Haven't
     actually written my OTP before so um yeah this is kinda weird but was
     a good exercise nonetheless. Ayyyy
Notes
     Translations:
     Ion nin: my son
     Dithen-pen: little one
     ahehehue yes Oropher is a derp towards Randy Thrandy >v
The days are peaceful in the Greenwood when Oropher begins to wonder where he
went wrong. Day by day he watches the sun rise and fall from his carven throne
amongst the trees. The Silvan gladly serve him, and the few Sindar warriors he
brought from Doriath stand by his side, ready to defend. But Oropher needs no
guards to look after him - he tells them this, yet they insist it is proper.
His stern face and powerful build frighten off anyone who even thinks to harm
him, and so little physical pain he feels, it would be folly to try and slay
him with blade or bow. Nobody in the Greenwood tries. He is their King. The
first they have ever had.
Oropher’s realm is a place of wild, natural beauty and it is reflected in his
son, Thranduil. Young and carefree, the Prince has lived for thirty-nine years
and is no taller than his father’s thighs. He loves the creatures of the forest
and would rather frolic with deer than sit around looking regal. Oropher forces
nothing upon his son, and Thranduil enjoys life as it passes every day. Now it
is Spring, the season Thranduil was named for. Thranduil often arrives at his
father’s feet at the end of a long day, bright flowers in his hair and a sweet
smile on his face. Oropher is not accustomed to smiling, but seeing his son
happy is all he ever needs. He bends to scoop Thranduil into his strong arms
and gazes upon him with kindness.
“What have you been up to today, my little flower?” His voice is deep and rolls
like the waves of the sea over smooth stone and fine sand. It calms Thranduil’s
jittery excitement, as he is always very perceptive to his father’s tone.
Oropher rarely shows emotion in his face, unless extreme anger or mania grips
his heart. So Thranduil has learnt to listen. He never interrupts.
“I was walking in the forest, and I found these!” Thranduil takes a flower from
his hair, one with pastel blue petals and pink dust in the center. It has many
layers and richer colours when Thranduil parts the petals to show his father.
“In here, there’s something sweet. The flowers said to eat them…”
Oropher blinks, his cool emerald gaze washing over the sight he is presented
with. A little colour rises to his cheeks when he thinks of Thranduil
innocently drinking nectar from flowers like a bird or bee. “I do hope it is
not poison, ión nîn.”
Thranduil’s head tilts to the side and his soft blonde hair falls by his smooth
cheeks. “It made me feel really warm… I still do.. Ada, is it bad for me?” Now
his eyes are wide and lip caught between sharp little teeth. Nibbling at his
bottom lip, Thranduil squirms in his father’s hands.
“Be still, dithen-pen. I do not think anything would try to harm you, not when
you are such a perfect little elfling. Tell me, when did you find these?”
Oropher holds Thranduil close to his chest and his touch is soothing upon
Thranduil’s worried head. He strokes Thranduil’s hair, so gentle that his
tough, calloused hand cannot feel it but he knows he is touching his son. It
takes a calculated effort for him to show Thranduil his love. His hands will
destroy him otherwise. 
Thranduil tells his father of the sunlit glade two hours ago where a field of
these flowers caught his attention, sweet voices calling to him and the most
delicious thing he’d ever tasted. Oropher takes a closer look at the flower
while listening to his son, and notices it is shaped like woman’s sex.
‘Well, shit.’ he thinks. ‘Trust my own son to find the field of aphrodisiac
flowers.’ Thankfully, Thranduil had strayed far from the place with
psychotropic leaves and berries. Those only fell in Summer, but grew young and
fresh in the Spring. Had he eaten that sort of thing, there would not be enough
healers in the Greenwood to ease his frantic mind. Now he tries to squirm a
little more, but Oropher’s grip is firm and Thranduil cannot move. His body
tingles all over, begging to fidget and do something. Thranduil has not yet
learned the art of staying still - for he is full of youthful energy and has
not taken any sorrow from the world. He tries a little slower to crane his neck
around, and Oropher does not restrict his son’s movement there. He peers down
his hooked nose at Thranduil, only to see him part his rose-pink lips and lick
the sweetness from within the flower. The flower seems to sigh gently in
response, its petals relaxing. Oropher raises an eyebrow.
“Are you hungry, ión?” He draws the flower away from Thranduil and places it on
a branch far from his son’s reach. The leaves around them waft lazily in the
warm afternoon breeze. Thranduil feels the wind tickle his skin which now holds
sensitivity he knew not to exist before today. 
“Ada…” whispers Thranduil, twitching a lock of hair away from his face and
running his tongue over his lips. The faintest sweet taste remains there, and
he is suddenly overcome by the need to share it with his father. He has never
experienced anything quite so delicious before, after all. What good would it
do to keep it all to himself?
Oropher’s keen gaze watches and knows exactly what Thranduil is doing. ‘Oh,
no.’ He cannot let Thranduil do things he will regret, not today, when his mind
is not his own. Thranduil thinks otherwise, leaning up and pursing his lips.
How dear he looks, with his little eyebrows quirked up and eyes half-lid. 
“I will get you something to eat before you bite my lips off.” Oropher’s
attempt at humour does nothing for his son, who actually seems enticed by the
idea and bares his teeth. The Elvenking suppresses a shiver, then cuddles his
son into his chest. His bare feet make way along paths of lumpy branch and
smooth wood. The closer he gets to the cluster of trees in which his palace is
hidden, evermore does Thranduil fidget in his arms. Oropher walks a little
faster, his long strides taking them both into the privacy of his chambers. He
places Thranduil upon his own bed, where the elfling usually sleeps as he will
not separate from his father at night for any reason at all.
“Stay here. I shall get you something to eat.” Oropher pats Thranduil’s head
and hears a soft grunt in response. He leaves, for long enough to call a
servant and order some honey pastries. Thranduil loves those, and will
hopefully distract himself with proper food for long enough so that the effects
of the flowers might wear off.
Oropher walks back into his chambers to see Thranduil gleefully chewing on the
remaining flowers that he had in his hair, robes askew and eyes closed.
“Thranduil!” Perhaps a little louder than necessary, it gets the message
across. Thranduil jumps at Oropher’s voice and sees his father cringe at his
own volume.
“Ah, um. Yes, what are you doing? You shall have something proper to eat soon.”
Thranduil rolls over onto his back, limbs splayed and a provocative pose
spreading heat through his wanton form. He has not said much yet, and beckons
with an open hand to his father. Oropher wanders to sit on his bed, the silver-
embroidered dark green covers crinkling beneath his weight. Very confused and
with brows furrowed, Oropher regards his son with a strange look. He says
nothing. 
“I want to eat you…” Thranduil mutters, rolling over again until he is curling
around Oropher’s waist. Catlike and seductive he is, far too much for a mere
child. But Thranduil is no mere child. He is a Prince, spoiled and treasured by
all those he’s ever met. And he knows his father will deny him nothing at all.
Oropher scoffs and it is fake as the placating tone in his voice.
“Well, how do you think you’ll manage that? I am tough, see? You will not be
able to-” Just as Oropher touches Thranduil’s lips with his index finger, he is
bitten and rightfully so. Thranduil felt a little teased, and would retaliate
again if provoked. Oropher only feels a slight tickle at his fingertip.
Thranduil chews on Oropher’s finger, tasting both the sweetness of elven flesh
combined with something slightly metallic and meaty. His sharp little teeth
have succeeded in getting Oropher to bleed, and the scent is absolutely
intoxicating. Oropher watches as Thranduil licks and sucks at his finger, the
warmth there something he can definitely feel along with heat somewhere else.
His cheeks are flushed, no longer pure snow-white but with a splash of colour
to them.
“...Thranduil, what are you doing..?” He is transfixed upon the sight of his
son in his lap and that hot, wet tongue laving over his slick finger. Thranduil
only offers a quiet moan in response and nibbles at Oropher’s finger some more,
somewhat annoyed that it has already begun to heal. Soon Oropher snaps out of
his daze and pulls his finger to wipe it on his tunic. Thranduil goes after it
again but Oropher holds him back.
“Calm yourself, îon nin. I won’t have you turning into a vampire just because
the cooks are taking long with your food.” Minutes pass as Oropher holds a
struggling Thranduil in his arms, and then there is a knock at the door. Once
Oropher collects the plate (after sneering at the servant for making him wait)
he sits beside Thranduil and offers him a pastry. Thranduil sits up to eat and
Oropher feeds him, wondering how he’d let his son get this hungry after only a
few hours. He supposed that running around in the forest after lunch used up
more energy than he thought. 
‘How is he going to sleep tonight after eating all this sugar…?’ Oropher
thinks, careful of letting his fingers stray too close to Thranduil’s mouth. He
knows his son is affected by those little magic flowers but surely Thranduil
did not know what he was doing? As the Prince knelt upon the bed, his legs were
parted and the left shoulder of his wispy silver robe hung down to his elbow.
Now Thranduil shifts forwards and his other shoulder is bared, allowing the
shimmering fabric to fall and pool at his waist. 
“Mmmm….” he moans, openly biting at the pastry as flakes of crust fly and
rivulets of warm honey drip down his chin. Oropher stares at his son, noticing
just how lewd Thranduil is becoming. He must do something to clear his son of
this ailment, and soon. He does not think his heart can take much more of this.
How fiercely it pounds in his chest, sending all the blood from his cheeks and
brain down to his lap. Thranduil appears much the same, taking short gasps with
his hips swaying in a slow circle. Oropher dares to peek at the piled fabric
between his son’s legs and spots the dim candlelight reflecting especially
bright from a raised bump. He covers his own arousal with shame and a pillow,
just in case Thranduil decides to crawl a little closer. Oh, and Thranduil
does. But Oropher is loathe to get his robes sticky and stops his son.
Thranduil looks up, and Oropher licks his own fingers clean. His fingers are
thick, made to wield swords and crush skulls. Such power he holds in his hands,
yet he is so gentle towards his son. Thranduil feels incredibly special
whenever his father does things for him, with him, because of him. All the
time.
Oropher wipes his hands once more on his tunic and undoes the first clasp at
his chest. The heat in his body will not leave and is not so easily sated. Just
how had the brief contact between him and Thranduil turned into this? He thinks
about his bitten finger and hopes the effects of those flowers have not
transferred to his blood. Nothing good can come of his… excitement, not like
this. But Thranduil has other ideas. Leaning up to his father, Thranduil licks
honey from his own lips and ignores the sweet mess past the reach of his
tongue. Oropher, always fond of keeping his son tidy bends and presses his
tongue to Thranduil’s cheek. A high-pitched squeak escapes the young Prince now
as Oropher cleans him, licking with absolute precision until Thranduil is
perfectly clean. Oropher picks up Thranduil’s robes and pats his face clean,
then realizes he has missed a spot just by Thranduil’s neck. He goes to lick
him there and presses his thin, wet lips to the shimmering spot. And then
Thranduil throws his head back and moans as if Oropher had placed his lips
somewhere else. Oropher jerks back, but Thranduil is quicker and smooshes his
face into his father’s. His lips are succulent and hungry for more than just
food, kissing and sucking at Oropher wherever he can reach. Oropher finds
himself amidst a passionate exchange of tongues and doesn’t dare try anything
bold. He will keep his tongue where it belongs, thank you very much. And of
course, Thranduil will try to rip it out. 
‘Why is he so vicious…?’ Oropher wonders, then recalling this is his son, his
own flesh and blood, of course Thranduil will tear him to shreds, bathed in the
flames of desire. He growls in warning, low and animalistic to ward off
Thranduil’s razor-like teeth. Oropher actually feels the things above his neck,
his ears being the most sensitive with his lips a close second. Thranduil sinks
his teeth into Oropher’s lips and is treated to the Elvenking unleashing a
breathy groan unlike anything he’s heard before. Oropher felt so little
physical pain in his life that it became a sinful pleasure he could only enjoy
with a particularly ferocious lover. He has only dreamed of such things in the
past. And now, blood trickles from the corner of his lips and he aches.
“Thranduil, ah..” He grunts and pulls Thranduil’s robes away from the hot flesh
of his son - if elves could sweat, those robes would be sticking to Thranduil
like molten tar. 
“Ai, Ada… please, my body it.. It feels like it is burning…” Thranduil cries
out for Oropher to strip him and shoves a hand between his own legs to unlace
his breeches. His hand trembles and the link between his mind and his muscles
is minimal. Oropher knows his son is losing himself to raw desire and moves his
face away, pulling Thranduil like a magnet without touching him. Thranduil’s
hands grope and scrabble to rip open Oropher’s tunic, for he needs that safety,
that secure, warm place where all these confusing thoughts and feelings will
miraculously disappear. But they don’t, and upon sight of the pale chest
painted with scars and with thick muscles tensed, Thranduil is lost for words.
Oropher is already working Thranduil’s breeches open, if just to free his son
from his trapping clothes. The fabric outlines Thranduil’s soft thighs and
swollen arousal so well that Oropher must peel everything away for his son to
be comfortable.
“Oohn, there…” sighs Thranduil, pushing himself into Oropher’s large hand and
demanding to be played with like a petulant child. Oropher hesitates and his
hand goes stiff, hot flesh in his hand and creamy smooth thighs squeezing his
wrist. It is like Thranduil’s body wishes to swallow him whole into depths not
yet formed.
“Ión, I--”
“Now!!”Thranduil shoves at Oropher and nothing happens, save for his own heart
rate raising and the breaths from his lips falling a little quicker. Oropher
narrows his eyes, his hand beginning to squeeze. Thranduil’s eyes roll back in
his head and he groans loudly into the air. His breeches strain as he parts his
legs as far as they will go, and Oropher hurriedly strips the fabric away until
there is nothing left but the marks of tight seams. Now, there is no use in
Oropher trying to calm his son. There is only one way to sate this rampant
desire and it is with bedroom skill. Something Oropher only has in one
department… and he will put those talents to good use. He wets his lips and
drags his hand away, hearing Thranduil cry and gasp for him to touch just a
little more. Oh yes, Thranduil is verygood at manipulating, even more so than
Oropher can ever hope to be. But he will have to be good for his father if he
ever wants this sort of thing again. Oropher does this out of the will to put
his son’s aching arousal at rest, and hopefully quell his own. He opens his
mouth and with one hand spread holding Thranduil down by his chest, swallows
his son’s length. Oh, how Thranduil shrieks! His head thrashes to the side and
both hands grip the thick bedcovers as if he will die without their silken
comfort.
“Aaahhhnn!” he wails, eyebrows turned up and mouth agape. He bucks into
Oropher’s mouth, but does not have enough dick to choke his father. Oropher is
diligent in his work and with practiced expertise he runs his tongue flat over
the head of Thranduil’s arousal. Already he can taste fresh sweetness there,
milky and smooth it is. Thranduil is small enough for Oropher to pleasure him
thoroughly with his lips and tongue alone, being reduced to a writhing pile of
ecstasy in minutes. Oropher does not hold him to any edge or torment his son
for pleasure. No, he wants Thranduil to find glorious release by his own skill
as quickly as possible, so that his pent-up desire may end before it causes him
to explode. He’s heard of elves who suffered from that sort of thing before.
Gil-Galad once told him about Glorfindel going mad after a week without sex.
Now is not the time for recollections, he thinks. Thranduil keens and is stiff
all over as he spills himself with a final gasp, body limp and quivering
thereafter. Oropher had not expected it so soon but drinks deeply nonetheless.
Moments later, he tucks his son into bed and checks him for any signs of
injury. There is a slightly red mark on his chest in the shape of Oropher’s
hand, and his thighs are a little chafed, but there is no lasting bruising that
will bring shame to Oropher every time he looks at his son. 
“Sleep…” he whispers, and strokes Thranduil’s hair until the Prince falls
asleep. In his dreams there are many wonderful things that give him cause to
smile and toss about, and Oropher watches him throughout the night. He is still
not going to touch himself even hours after maintaining the need to do so. He
barely cares about it at all. All that matters is his son, and nothing else.
 
 
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