He had taken it as a jest.

When you first suggested it—offhand, with a smirk and a tilt of your head—he had given you a look, that cool, unreadable narrowing of his eyes that always meant I am listening, but I am not amused. You had laughed, breezy and bold, and moved on.

But you meant it.

He should have known.

And now… here you were.

Not beside him. On him.

His throne was wide enough—golden and pale like bone, with antlered arms that rose high on either side—but he’d never shared it. No one sat with the king. Not even Legolas had dared to perch near the edge of it. It was a place of solemnity, of ruling. Of power.

But the curve of your hips rested squarely across his lap now, your back leaned gently against his chest, your fingers toying absently with the embroidery on your own sleeve like you hadn’t just undone the atmosphere of the entire court.

The hall had gone… quiet.

So quiet.

The councilors who had stood with scrolls and tablets now faltered, lips parted, eyes flickering between you and the king like they could not quite believe what they were seeing.

Thranduil didn’t say a word.

Didn’t flinch. Didn’t correct it.

He sat with perfect stillness, crown glinting in the filtered light above, one arm loosely draped along the armrest, the other resting just behind your back as if to steady you—but not claim you. Not quite.

You were warm.

And soft.

You fit against him like you were meant to sit there, like the throne had been carved with your shape in mind and no one had ever realized it until now.

And gods help him, you looked good.

You always did. But there was something devastatingly perfect about the way you carried yourself now—not coy, not apologetic. Just comfortable. Confident. Like you belonged here as much as he did.

Most men, he knew, would have been clumsy about it. Shy, awkward, afraid of what it might mean to hold so much of you, to bear the weight of your body like a secret they weren’t allowed to enjoy. But not you.

You didn’t ask for space. You took it.

And Thranduil—possessive, ancient, and carved from the cold marble of a thousand winters—was unraveling beneath you.

He could feel the shape of you against his legs.

He wanted to be dignified.

you had made a throne into your chaise lounge.

He leaned forward, just slightly, so that his voice—low and intimate—could fall against the back of your neck.

“I trust,” he murmured, “that you are enjoying your little experiment.”