"You've disobeyed me," The King of Mirkwood says quietly, trailing the seam of your cloak with his bleached aspen staff. His eyes shine with displeasure behind his silver domino mask. He is Winter tonight, draped in an ivory brocade bespeckled with tiny white diamonds. His bone-white headdress of interlocked antlers make him seem even more imposing and intimidating than usual.
"…I haven't…disobeyed you," you manage, bumping up against the wall. You're trembling like a cornered rabbit. "Not exactly-"
"You were to be Brìghde for tonight's masquerade, the embodiment of the spring. I had very clear instructions. I expected them to be followed."
"My lord, the costume you gave me. It is…insubstantial."
"Is it really?" The glint in his eyes says that he meant for it to be so. His hand grazes down your throat, resting at the clasp of your cloak. With a smooth twist of his fingers, he undoes the clasp. Your cloak slides off your shoulders, pooling at your feet. You are dressed in the sheerest gossamers of white, pink, and gold. The lace clings to your flushed skin, your every curve and hollow seemingly melting through delicate snowflake and frost. As you move, your lace undergarments, along with the the garter belt and stockings flash tantalizingly in and out of view beneath the dress.
He is silent, his eyes smoldering as he drinks in the sight of you. It is incredibly hard to breathe, and you feel strangely feverish.
"…I have changed my mind," he murmurs. He grazes your cheek, his fingers hot through his leather gloves. "I believe you and I will be absent from the masquerade this year."
"Ada. I've been looking for you all over."
Legolas enters the hall, a gilded eagle mask over his face and a cape of gold and white feathers draped across his shoulders. "I've about had it with Lord Elrond. Would you please tell him-"
He chokes mid-sentence as he catches sight of you. You squeak and quickly bundle yourself back in the cloak. Legolas yanks off his eagle mask and gives his father an exasperated look.
"Is there not a more suitable time or place? There are distinguished guests waiting for you!"
"…Tell them I am otherwise preoccupied."
"Tell them yourself!"
Legolas ties his mask back on and stomps back to the celebration hall, grumbling under his breath. Thranduil sighs and reluctantly pulls away from you.
"Come. Leave the cloak."
"Please my lord," you beg, your mouth dry with anxiety. "I can't wear this…uncovered."
He arches an eyebrow. "And how shall anyone admire the expert tailoring of my Realm? The exquisite design of the lace?"
"But my modesty…" You whisper incredulously.
A corner of his lips curls slightly. He reaches into his vest and pulls out a white lace mask embellished with iridescent seed pearls he has prepared for you. He fastens it over your eyes. Then he brushes your lower lip suggestively.
"…Will be perfectly intact."
There are hundreds of masked guests crowding in the main hall, donned in elaborate outfits of feathers, leathers, velvet, and lace. The hall is a dizzy array of color, the air thick with incense and perfume.
"The gaze of the timid have been emboldened by their masks," Thranduil murmurs against your ear as he leads you into the hall. "There are far too many eyes lingering on your beauty."
You flush and dip your head uncomfortably. He laughs.
"Let them stare. Let them see how you're mine."
He takes off his gloves slowly, one finger at a time, and tucks them in his belt. He takes a goblet of wine from a passing server and takes a sip. Then he curls his fingers through your hair and presses you into him, closing his mouth over yours. His tongue is hot and sweet, his kiss slow and deep. His grip on your hair is gentle, yet just firm enough so you cannot help but surrender to him. Your knees are weak, and you clutch at him in fear of falling over. A drop of wine trickles from the corner of your mouth.
"Would you like some more?" He whispers, flicking the drop of wine from your lips with his thumb then drawing his thumb slowly down his tongue. "I could do this all night."
You can scarcely breathe. Your lips feel swollen, anxious for more. His fingers trail lightly down your neck, brushing your hair from your shoulders.
"Perhaps we should find a secluded enclave. You can sit on my lap and watch me unravel the lace that clings to you so sweetly. Or would you like to unravel it yourself?"
"Ah, King Thranduil! There you are! I was beginning to think you were not attending your own masquerade." Lord Elrond saunters over. He is dressed as a great horned-owl, with auburn feathers woven into his crown of red maple leaves.
"…I would not miss it for the world," Thranduil responds smoothly, sliding his hand down to your waist. "Although I do have…pressing matters to attend to."
His hand wanders lower down your hips, his fingers grazing the bare skin between the hem of your dress and your stockings. The sensation sends jolts down your spine, and your breath hitches in your throat. Thranduil smiles slightly, biting his lip.
"Very well then. I promise I will not take up too much of your time. Can I speak to you alone?"
A look of impatience flashes in Thranduil's eyes for the briefest of moments. Then he smiles politely and gestures towards the wine fountain. He turns and takes your hand, holding it to his lips.
"Wait for me."
The look in his eyes says that he is determined to have you when he returns. Then he is gone, his kiss tingling on your skin. You feel faint, and you stumble a bit.
"…Are you alright?" A man dressed as a ranger approaches you, his features obscured by his hood. "You look as if you could use some air."
"…I'm. Fine," you manage, your head still reeling. You manage to calm down enough to take a good look at the stranger. You notice the shadow of beard stubble on his face.
"I haven't met another human since I came to Mirkwood!" You stammer excitedly. "Are you from Laketown?""
"…And I try so hard to blend in." The stranger laughs and pulls back his hood. He is a handsome man roughly your age, with dark hair pulled back in a short ponytail. He has the sad eyes of one heavily burdened with destiny.
"I came with the Rivendell elves. Lord Elrond took me in when I was still a child."
Across the room, Elrond is chattering away at an impatient-looking Thranduil, beaming with pride as he gestures to a dark-eyed beauty by his side. You have never seen a lovelier elf. She is dressed as a water spirit, with white seashells in her long, chocolate tresses and a delicate coral necklace at her throat. Legolas stands behind his father, his arms crossed, looking as pale as a sheet.
"The Lady Arwen." The man's eyes soften as he gazes at the lovely elf. "Lord Elrond expects to make her a match worthy of her birthright. He believes a bond between Rivendell and the Woodland Realm would be most fortuitous."
"…Legolas doesn't look like he'd find it all that fortuitous. He's practically cowering behind his dad."
Thranduil turns his head slightly, and your eyes meet. He is drumming his fingers oh so delicately against the grip of the aspen staff. He is restless. Antsy. You shiver involuntarily.
"I have not proven myself worthy for her. I can only love her from afar."
"…I'm sure you're selling yourself short." You pat his shoulder absent-mindedly.
Thranduil sees this, and his eyes narrow. He grips his staff and storms towards you.
Oops.
"I-Uh," You glance at the man apologetically. "…You better run."
Before the man can respond, Thranduil is behind you, pulling you into his arms possessively. He glares at the man icily.
"…Aragorn. Son of Arathorn." The words fall from his mouth as if they were the most distasteful. "Isildur's Heir."
"My Lord." Aragorn bows, looking perplexed. "If I may be of service-"
"-If you'll excuse us," Thranduil rasps. Then he drags you off to a far corner of the hall.
"…My patience already wears thin," he growls, his breath hot against your ear. "Must you exacerbate it by lavishing attention upon other men?"
"I wasn't-" Your protests are drowned by his kiss as he shoves you against the wall. You can feel his desire pressing urgently through his leather trousers.
"I have been thinking about you all night, tracing the patterns of the lace down your skin in my mind," he murmurs against your lips. "I want to watch pinpricks dance across your flesh as I touch you. Taste you."
You feel yourself melt as he runs his hands across your body, his fingers burning through the lace.
"…My lord," you manage. "…We are still in public…"
"…We are at a masquerade. Who is to know who we are? We could be anyone-"
"-My lord Thranduil," a thin, uncomfortable-looking elf clears his throat behind him. Thranduil's fingers dig into your waist. He is seething. He straightens himself and turns, his expression as cold and still as a frozen lake.
"What. Is it. Lindir?"
"Is everything alright? Lord Elrond was concerned that you left so abruptly, mid-conversation."
Thranduil clenches his jaw so hard you swear you hear it creak.
"…My lady is feeling ill. I must tend to her."
He sweeps you off your feet and carries you towards the garden, leaving a bewildered Lindir behind.
He sets you down on a grassy knoll surrounded by dense bushes beneath a weeping cherry tree. Fragrant white and pink petals float down like snowflakes as you gaze up at him. He pulls off your mask, casting it aside. His eyes soften as he sees your uncovered face, and he tucks a fallen cherry blossom behind your ear.
"Do you know why I chose to make you Brìghde?"
You shake your head, and he brushes your cheek tenderly. He smiles a rare, warm smile that fills you with toe-curling giddiness and affection.
"…Because you are the Spring to my Winter."
He leans down and kisses you, his tongue parting your lips with urgency. The lace dress comes apart like sheets of frost melting under his searing caress, and you welcome it as spring welcomes the warmth of the sun. His kisses are rough as he makes his way down your neck, the hollow of your throat. He ravishes the curves of your flesh with an eager mouth. A soft moan escapes you, and he chuckles, his laugh ticklish on your sensitive skin. He presses his forefinger against your trembling lips.
"Hush. You wouldn't want to be discovered, would you?"
You respond by taking his fingers into your mouth, flicking and sucking and teasing in ways you know makes his imagination run wild. He utters a guttural groan and slides a second finger into your mouth, thrusting and grinding in the ways he so desperately wants you. He is mesmerized by the sight and sensation of his fingers enveloped by your lips, the way your tongue swirls and drags him in, deeper and deeper. You whimper softly, and he draws a sharp, tortured breath. He pulls his fingers from you and kisses you hard. Then he is grasping your thighs, grazing the sensitive, exposed skin between the garter belt and the stockings with the back of his hand.
"…I am torn," he mutters hoarsely. "Shall I tear everything off you, or leave them intact, so to see them soaked with your pleasure?"
He pushes your undergarments aside to brush your desire with fingers slick with your saliva. You cry out at his touch. His breath catches in his throat, and then he is upon you at once. His mouth, his tongue upon the source of your desire. His long, slender fingers of filling friction, finding and finding like the sea finds the shore. He is wicked, he is decadent. He is blinding, maddening pleasure, smooth strokes of piercing pleasure that bursts in through your core, smoothed with every delicious flick and twist of his tongue. You are on fire, engulfed in an inferno that he has stirred within you, until you are searing white light growing brighter and brighter and brighter-
You break against him, wave after wave shattering through your body like tides of a tremulous ocean. He groans, his fingers digging into your thighs, shredding your stockings as he tastes your climax.
"…Again," he breathes against you, his fingers and tongue moving in feverish demand. You are gripping his crown of antlers, your mind blank save for the unbearable intensity that dance through your being like a thousand fireflies, glowing and and growing until-
"-King Thranduil!"
Lord Elrond's voice rings out from near the entrance of eyes are wide, but Thranduil makes no effort to stop. You can practically feel him smile against you as the throes of your pleasure take hold. Your thrill and fear are drowned out by the sudden quickening of his movements, the endless, building heat that is his touch. Then you are his, shattering against him and his demanding mouth. His hand clamps over you, muffling your shriek of unadulterated pleasure.
"-I think I heard something over there," Lindir says hesitantly.
You are quaking uncontrollably, and he gives you one last luxurious lick before scooping you into his arms and wrapping his cape about you.
"Wait for me," he whispers, a dark smile on his lips. "I want you kneeling for my pleasure when I return."
Then he is on his feet, hurrying to meet Lord Elrond before he passes beyond the bushes.