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Enslaved by a King- [Oral Fixation Edition]- Thranduil Fanfiction

“Open your mouth.”

Thranduil brushes your lower lip with a glistening grape, and pushes it into your trembling mouth. It bursts, filling you with a gush of tangy sweetness. You are sitting across his lap, leaning against his arm. He twists another grape from the stem, and gently presses it against your mouth with his thumb. His expression is cool, but you see the simmering in his eyes. You part your lips slightly, accidentally flicking his thumb with your tongue. His lips curl into a half smile. He slowly pushes the tip of his thumb into your mouth, feeling the soft wetness of your tongue swirl about him.

The sweetness in your mouth is making you hungry for something else entirely.

“My lord!” Two guards hurry in front of the throne, their expressions stricken. Embarrassed, you try to pull away, but he holds you in place firmly. He slowly draws his thumb of your mouth, pressing down on your tongue as he does so. He plucks another grape.

“What is it?”

“The spiders have returned. They prowl the borders of our land.”

His eyes are fixated on you as he flicks the grape with the tip of his tongue. Then he closes his eyes and laps it slowly, as if savoring the taste. You shiver and swallow hard.

“What lies beyond our lands is not my concern." 

"Yes, my lord. But the Prince and the Captain have gone after them alone.”

The King of Mirkwood makes no sign that he has heard the guard. He places the grape into his mouth. Then he winds his fingers through your hair and closes his mouth over yours, his tongue drenched in sweetness. He kisses you hungrily, and you whimper into his mouth. Then as quickly as he had kissed you, he draws away, leaving you dizzy and breathless.

“Wait in my quarters. Wear nothing but starlight.”

Then he is gone, his sword sheathed at his waist, his guards hurrying after him.

Despite the roaring fire, Thranduil’s quarters are freezing, especially with the window open. You’ve been waiting in his room all day, glancing anxiously at the sky to see if the stars are out tonight. At this rate, you’re probably going to catch a cold. You climb into his bed and curl up in a ball, pulling his silken sheets over you. You can always slip out of the sheets when he returns.

You are not sure when you fall asleep. You dream of darkness, of icy, familiar smoke that curls around your throat, lifting you off your feet and choking you. 

You have forgotten why you are truly here, it breathes in your ear. Must I remind you?

You wake to the sound of low, angry voices. You are slick with cold sweat, your heart beating wildly. Drowsily, you poke your head from the covers and see Thranduil and Legolas arguing. The king’s arms are crossed as he stares down at his son icily. Legolas is scowling, his fists clenched at his sides.

“So what if she is a Silvan elf? I see no difference-”

“-The difference is of blood. Heritage. You are son of Thranduil, son of Orophor. And who is she?”

“What does it matter? It is our deeds that determine who we are, not the blood of our forefathers!”

“A prince cavorting with a common Silvan elf. Your deeds do speak volumes.”

 His son catches sight of you, and he glares at his father.

“…Hypocrite,” he spits venomously, and storms out.

Thranduil looks at you from the corner of his eyes and grits his teeth. He goes to the window and slams it shut. 

“…Should I take my leave, my lord?” You whisper, unable to look at him. The cold from the nightmare lingers. It claims you had forgotten. But have you not. You merely wished you had.

“It would be wise,” he says coolly, refusing to look at you.

Your stomach is in knots as you quietly slip from his bed. As you reach for your clothes, he catches your wrist.

“And when has the King of Greenwood ever been considered wise?”

He shoves you back into bed and climbs over you. In that second, all traces of the nightmare vanish from your mind, and you forget the cold and its intangible threats. Here and now, you are in the arms of a great, beautiful king. His eyes are bright and feverish, and you know he desires you above all else. Heat radiates from his body through his silver brocade, and you remember how hard he was beneath you while you sat on his lap, eating grapes from his sticky fingers.

“You have plagued my thoughts all day, distracting me from pressing issues that required my full attention,” He mutters, his breath hot against your ear. “What have you to say for yourself?”

He does not expect an answer. His mouth is over yours, his tongue flicking and plunging. Your body is electric, his touch searing your flesh and setting you aflame. You crave the smoothness of his skin against yours, the desperate ache of friction. You reach to fumble with his tunic, but he grabs your wrists and pins them over your head with one hand. His other hand is sweet torment, teasing you with practiced precision. His teeth grazes the tender vulnerability of your throat, and he leaves a passionate love bite where your neck slopes down to your neck. You cry out, your body arching involuntarily. His mouth makes its way down, savoring the taste of your aching tips, the sensitive curve of your breasts.  

“You are a sickness. An addiction.” His fingers drag down your trembling stomach. He nips you lightly. “How I wish to be sated of you.”  

He grasps your thighs, revealing you slowly. A dark smile plays on his lips. He can see how he has kept you waiting. He lifts you and shoves you up against his pillows. His lips are upon you, his tongue hot and slick. Jolts of pleasure wash down your thighs and spread like wildfire through the rest of your body. Mindlessly you clutch at his hair. He narrows his eyes and yanks off his crown, tossing it across the room. Then his fingers are digging into your thighs. He finds the source of your pleasure with his mouth, watching you gasp and squirm and tremble as he toys with you mercilessly. He knows all your secrets.

 "How shall I lead by example when you are determined to ruin me?“ He murmurs, his breath hot against you.

 You answer with choked whimper, and he ravishes you with his tongue in feverish delight. Velveteen heat builds within you, the flicking and kissing and lapping and endless sweet friction that makes you feel so delicious. And suddenly the world is tumbling and spinning and you lose yourself. You scream, your fingers in his hair your legs wrapped around his neck your body arching against him. And how he groans. How he forces you back down and how his breath catches in his throat as you cry out for him. The way he looks at you, half-mad, half lost. He aches for release, but demands your pleasure more.  

When the air has left your lungs, when you are spent and trembling, your slick legs draped over his shoulders paralyzed, he pulls himself to you and weaves his fingers through your hair. He kisses you deeply so you taste the nectar of your pleasure. He is shaking, his self control fraying and failing.

 ” Damn them all,“ he growls. He rips off his tunic and wraps your legs around his waist. "If I am to be so utterly unraveled by you, then so be it. ”

 His eyes are glazed with desire. He will devour you whole. And you know he would not have it any other way.

[posted 1.9.14]

[Note: This is a chapter from the series Enslaved by Kings and Dragons

[Check out my other work]

anonymous asked:

First Shawn tweets about how he's gonna play an ukulele and play it to his kids and then there are pics of him at the airport with younger fans like my ovaries and heart cannot take this

hahahahaha can you imagine waking up at three am only to hear a freaking ukulele? 

“kids couldn’t sleep again. had to get out my trusty ukulele.”

Enslaved by a King- [Jacuzzi Edition]- Thranduil Fanfiction

“Undress me." 

Thranduil’s voice is soft, but his command is not. You take away his empty wine glass, setting it aside in case he chooses to have more. You stand on your tiptoes and gingerly unclasp the brooch at his throat. It is beautiful, heavy and cold in your hand.

Smaug would give a scale from his underbelly for such a treasure.

But you no longer serve Smaug. The King of Mirkwood is your new master now, and he is eyeing you with cool impatience. Hastily, you put the brooch away and begin unbuttoning his tunic with nervous fingers.

You are used to polishing dragon scales, scrubbing burnt remains of the unfortunate from dragon teeth. You are not used to undressing kings. Especially one whose very presence makes your blood run hot. You can feel a flush on your cheeks as you ease the heavy brocade from his shoulders. He is chiseled flesh, with the shoulders of a warrior, the torso of a god.

"My boots. And trousers.”

You lower your head in embarrassment. You were so busy admiring him you forgot what you were supposed to be doing. You kneel and help him out of his leather boots, placing them next to his tunic. You hesitate as you reach towards his belt. He looks down at you; you cannot tell from his expression whether he is annoyed or amused.

“My trousers,” he repeats.

You swallow hard and slowly unfasten his belt. You avert your gaze as you slip his pants from his waist, gently moving it past muscular thighs and beautifully defined calves. Your heart is pounding like a drum in your ears. He steps down the smooth marble steps into the steaming pool. You quickly gather his discarded belongings and head towards the door.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

You stop in your tracks. You swallow hard and turn back to face him. He is removing his rings, slowly sliding them off one by one from long, slender fingers. Your mouth is dry.

“There is a washcloth in the basket. Help me bathe.”

You almost drop his clothes; you fold them the best you can, your hands shaking. Clutching the washcloth, you approach the bubbling pool. He is leaning against the marble, his head tilted back. His eyes are closed. You can tell he is tired, and that much weigh on his mind.

“Must I drag you in myself?” He mutters, his eyes still closed.

Your pale silk dress clings to your body like a second skin as you slip into the pool. You lather the silken washcloth with lavender-scented soap and glide it up his muscular arms, drawing it across his shoulders and then slowly down his chest. His skin gleams gold in the flickering torchlight. He opens his eyes and catches you staring at him. You quickly look away and focus intently on scrubbing his elbow. He dips his head into the gurgling pool and flicks his hair back.

The water has washed away the elven magic on his face. Where his cheek used to be is now charred, twisted flesh that exposes his teeth. He runs his fingers through his hair and leans back again against the marble. You tuck a wisp of damp hair behind his pointed ear as you begin to wash his face. He watches you from the corner of his eye.

“You do not flinch at the true face of your Master?”

“…I have served a dragon all my life. I am familiar with the ravage of dragonfire.”

“You are familiar with the sight of ruined flesh?”

“…You must possess great strength and will to live, to survive such an injury.”

He cups your cheek with a dripping hand. His touch is hot against your feverish skin. He runs his thumb along your lower lip, and you can’t help but shiver.

“I have heard Smaug is fond of flattery,” he murmurs. “Is that how you survived so long in his service?”

“Smaug is fond of jewels. I pleased him by giving him what he wanted…” Your voice trails off as his fingers run along your face and down your neck. His caress is slippery with soap, and you are suddenly aware of the translucence of your soaked dress.

“And how do you intend to please me?”

He slowly grazes the aching tips of your breasts with the back of his hand. Your breath catches in your throat, and you almost drop the washcloth.

“…My lord?” You whisper breathlessly.

“Look at me. Do not look away.”

His hands wander freely now, caressing your throat, your breasts, his fingers toying and teasing through the drenched silk. His fingers dance across every curve and hollow of your sensitive body. You breath comes in shallow gasps. and his lips curl into a dark smile. He is enjoying your reactions to his touch. His hand wanders further down, sliding between your thighs. You utter a soft cry, and look at him with desire mingled with fear. He pulls you close.

“Do not close your eyes. I want to see your lust for me.”

His hand slips beneath your undergarments. You whimper as he touches you, slowly and deliberately. With every delicate stroke, he stokes a fire within you that burns brighter and hotter. Your mouth is half open, the mewling coming from your throat unfamiliar to your ears. You look at him with eyes filled with longing, your tongue running along your lips in desperate invitation. He groans and closes his mouth over yours. He tastes of wine and honey. His tongue explores your eager mouth as his fingers explore your depths. He pushes you higher, and higher, until there is nothing in this world but the slick sweetness of his touch. Then suddenly you unravel, and all you see is stars. You buckle and shudder against him, your cries muffled in his embrace. 

“You are a feisty one.” His voice is thick. Dazed, you see that there are scratch marks all across his shoulders and chest. Scratches you left in the peaks of your pleasure.

Your mortified apologies are drowned by his kiss. 

“Do not worry,” he murmurs against your lips. “I intend to bind you when we get out of the bath.”

[posted 12.26.13]

[Note: This is a chapter from the series Enslaved by Kings and Dragons

[Check out my other work]

anonymous asked:

I noticed all the love you are giving Sanguinius - rightfully so - but what about Corrax? He's a birdboy too!!


Well then anon-san, let’s have some Corax love!

Oopsies, wrong Corvus!!!!

Oh here we go now…. @asktheravenlord

I promise you that’s Corax, not Konrad. Feathers and all. What’s the difference? Corvus has not had the life drained out of his eyes. Art by @disarmonia

Here’s another one. He really looks like Emps if you ask me.

I mean, look at that scowl, its genetic!!!! That’s Emps down there, in an image I stole from 1d4chan.

CORVUS, NOT KONRAD. I know I know they look alike. Art by Haime

Handsome fella, isn’t he? He is ^_^. Fan your damn exploding ovaries hot. Art by Cecilia Murillo Valdez.

And here he is with some birb friends…He’s not just the Raven Lord, He’s the BIRB LORD!!! Art by @buselkiy

Look at that other Emo, Goth, Pretty Birb boy. He doesn’t get enough love! You would think he would after Istvaan right? Plus he’s chill. Like colder than the iceberg who hit the Titanic chill. And he can turn invisible! Which is probably why the fans forget about him >_<

Art by @kakomicly

See, this is who you guys should be shipping, NOT ME. I officially dub thee CorKon. Or KonCor. Don’t they look so adorbs? Art by @syberfab

And it there was ever any doubt…..art by @marinaizarne

@asktheravenlord @askkonradcurze

Enslaved by a King- [Wine and Seduction Edition]- Thranduil Fanfiction

“Drink.”

The King of Mirkwood hands you a glass of wine. It shimmers under the torchlight, the color of blood and fire. You have had wine before. Thick and sour, served in jewel-encrusted goblets, under the watchful eye of your previous master. You can remember the glare of his bright amber eye as you obediently downed goblet after goblet, until the world swirled red, gold, and black. You would dance for him, his fiery breath against your bare flesh.

Thranduil grazes your shoulder with the tips of his fingers. His touch jolts you from your memory, and the glass in your hand quivers.

“Take care not to spill,” his voice is low at your ear. “This is a rare vintage. The fruit harvested under the gleam of starlight before the dawn of Tarnin Austa.”

He dips a slender finger into his wine, and traces it along your lips. The wine is cold and bittersweet. His finger is hot. Your breath catches in your throat and your heart pounds wildly. You bring the glass to your lips and gulp it down. He catches your hand and pulls the glass from you.

“Such wine is to be savored, not washed down like an inebriant.”

“…I thought my lord wanted me to forget,” you mumble. The wine is sweet; it lingers on your tongue.

A crease forms between his eyebrows. “Forget?”

The wine cellar is spinning slightly, and you blink. “Smaug would give me drink, so that I would not remember.”

“And what would a dragon be so anxious for you to forget?”

You shake your head. “…I don’t…remember.”

You stumble, and he catches you in his arms. His chest is warm and firm under his silver brocade. The wine is fire in your chest, spreading through you, warm and rich. 

“There is more to wine than relief from the past. It burns away deceit, exposing who we truly are. Both the beautiful and the wretched.”

He takes a slow sip from the wine. The world is swimming color and light. In the haze, he is beautiful, brilliant and cold like a diamond. But you know the fire that burns within him, dark and deadly. How you long to play with that fire. The burn of the wine has emboldened you, and you trail your finger down his neck, resting on the gnarled gem at his throat. You try to unclasp it. He catches your wrist.

“It seems like you’ve had too much. You should return to your quarters.”

“…No,” you whisper. “…We should stay.”

Amusement plays on his lips. “Why is that?”

You take his hand and slide his finger into your mouth. You lap at it slowly, sucking off the sweet remnants of the wine. His mouth falls open, and he knits his eyebrows.

“…And what do you think you are doing?” His voice is low and cold, but you can feel his desire growing beneath his trousers. You don’t answer. You love the sensation of his fingers on your tongue, filling your mouth. It makes you want something. Something deep. Fulfilling. It must show on your face because he draws a sharp breath. You run your tongue between his fingers, watching his eyes grow dull with lust. You nip his finger gently. He clenches his jaw, his nostrils flaring slightly. You are fire. Every inch of your sensitive skin is crying desperately for the friction of him. 

“Touch me,” your breathe.

He raises his eyebrows. “…You dare command a king? Must I remind you who is your master?”

Slowly, your tear the fragile silk of your dress, your eyes never leaving his. It comes apart like tissue paper in your fingers and falls to the floor. You wrap your arms around his neck. Pulling him close, you flick the edge of his ear with your tongue. You press your mouth against his ear. "You are, my lord. My king. My master.“

He utters something in elvish, something between a curse and a prayer. A battle rages inside him; it consumes his will and his pride like wildfire. You watch him falter, and suddenly you are entwined, conjoined. You are lips and desire and tongue and fingers upon singing flesh. You are fingers grasping, breath fast and urgent, whispers of fabric coming undone. For what is fabric but distance between you and him? You are primal strength and will. You are whole. Blissful, wonderful, and whole.

You wake, aching with sweet satisfaction. You are sprawled on top of him, naked and slick. His orange robe is splayed over the cellar floor beneath his bare, heaving body.  His usual pristine hair now in complete disarray. He is glaring at you.

”…My lord?“ You croak. Your throat is sore, as if you’ve been screaming for hours. He flips over and pins you beneath him. His eyes are dark with anger.

"Ah. You finally wake,” he seethes. “Is there anything else you’d like? Anything else you desire? Anything else your master can do to serve you?”

There are bits of twigs, leaves, and berries tangled in his hair. You gingerly reach and pull the pieces from his hair and stare at them.

“…My lord, your crown-”

He snatches the broken pieces from your hands. “Yes, I am well aware. Never in thousands of years has anyone ever-” he broke off.

You are staring at him, wide-eyed and confused.

 "…Do you not remember anything?“

You shake your head nervously.

”…Good.“ He sighs. He looks relieved. "You are not ever to drink again. Not with anyone else but me. Am I clear?”

You nod, still confused. "…Have I…displeased my lord?“

He licks his lips, as if unsure how to answer your question. Then he pins your arms over your head and kisses you roughly.

"It would please me even more to start over,” he growls in your ear. “With your pleasure purely at my whim.”

[posted 1.1.14]

[Note: This is a chapter from the series Enslaved by Kings and Dragons

[Check out my other work]