Archive of Our Own ^beta

He doesn’t like it when his archery teachers stand close to him. They do it to correct his stance, he knows that, to copy his posture and move his hands and arms and feet into the right place. But he still hates it. He wants to learn, he wants to get better and better until he is the finest archer in the realm, but their fingers are always cold and hard, and his body seizes up when they come up behind him. He has tried so many teachers over the last few decades, but none of them seem to understand him.

His father is frustrated, and Legolas doesn’t blame him for it. Thranduil is a skilled warrior; of course he wants his only son to walk in his footsteps. The trouble is, they are such impressive footsteps that Legolas is a little bit afraid to tread in them. His father is absolutely deadly with a sword, but he is also an accomplished archer, and while Legolas has been told he shows promise, he doubts he will ever be able to match the king.

Elves are not supposed to let their nerves rule them. Legolas knows he should be the master of his own fears, but he is not, and he does not think he is very good at keeping that fact a secret. His archery teachers can feel his anxiety, he is sure of it. He doesn’t know whether they tell the king that they do not want to instruct him any more, or if Thranduil sees their poor results and simply replaces them. What he does know is that he is letting his father down, and that knowledge twists him up inside.

So he keeps trying. He practises secretly, on his own, and in the moments when he allows himself to relax, he hits his targets almost every time. He feels the breath of the forest, adjusts his eyes to the sunshine on his face, and releases each arrow with ease… and then, of course, the next one turns up. Always calm, detached, always taller than him—he hates that—and every time it’s the same. Tension, irritation, disdain.

He lets his bow down at his side, sensing someone in the grass behind him. He sighs, goes to turn, and finds strong hands at his shoulders, holding him still. Those hands are warm, and so is the body at his back, not quite touching him but closer than he usually prefers. He takes a sharp breath in, and the scents of honey and lavender catch in his chest.

“Adar?”

“You have improved,” his father says, and the pleasure in his voice makes Legolas’s heart sing. “I have been watching you. May I adjust your posture a little?”

“Of course,” Legolas says, startled to be asked for permission. None of his teachers have ever asked before touching him, correcting him, and it makes all the difference in the world.

As does the gentle touch of his father’s hands, never gripping or wrenching, just guiding his arms back into position as together, they raise the bow. Thranduil leans closer, whispering warmth against Legolas’s ear:

“Drop your shoulders, ion-nin.”

Legolas obeys instantly, stomach fluttering as he feels his father’s smile. He smells so good. Why does he smell so good? Why does his skin tingle when his father slips a new arrow into his hand?

“Ready,” Thranduil murmurs, and the fingers at his shoulder make a minute adjustment.

He slots the arrow into place and draws back, but one careful hand wraps around his, guiding his fingers to touch his own face, placing his index finger at the corner of his mouth.

“I see you have been using a different anchor point, but I have always liked this one best,” his father says, and though he doesn’t touch Legolas’s face, his skin seems to heat as though he has. “Now, focus on your target, let your breath out slowly, and release.”

Legolas stares at the open target, inhales and exhales, the breath seeming to expand through him and mould his back to his father’s chest. They move as one, absorbing the kick of energy as the arrow flies out of the bow and smacks straight into the centre of the target.

Exhilarated, Legolas stares at it and turns his head to grin at his father. Thranduil is so close, though, too close, tucked in right behind him, and when his lips accidentally brush against his father’s, something inside him explodes with heat. His breath hitches and he can feel himself turning bright red, but he can’t stop himself from looking up, and the surprise in those blue-grey eyes fills him with messy warmth. Thranduil stares at him for a moment, hands still holding him in place, and then he steps back and releases him.

“That was much better,” he says, and his voice sounds strained, even as he folds his hands in front of himself and draws himself to his full height. Legolas realises that he has never minded his father being taller than him. “You must keep practising. Please excuse me.”

Legolas watches him walk away, heart beating out of his chest. There is something very wrong with him, there must be. He has no idea why he is reacting to his father this way. He has no idea why he wants to call after him, ask him to come back and do it all again, just like that. He must have shot thousands of arrows since he started his training and not one of them has ever felt like that. He goes to retrieve it from the target, legs shaking underneath him. He grips the arrow tightly, studying the green and grey of the fletching. The colours remind him of his father’s cloak, his eyes. The way they had widened after their lips touched. The way, now he thinks about it, that his breath had caught just before he turned away.

Shaking himself, he returns to his position and raises his bow. He drops his shoulder, draws his fingers against the corner of his mouth, just like his father showed him. But when he lets the arrow go, he remembers that press of heat at his back and the shot flies wide, landing in the grass miles away from the target. He tries again and again, but no matter what he does, he can feel his father all over his skin and all he can think about is… everything he shouldn’t be thinking about. He shouldn’t.

But he can’t help it.

And besides, he wants to get better. He wants to be a good archer. To make his father proud.

That’s all he’s doing. He’s asking for help, because his father has, in the space of five minutes, been the best teacher Legolas has ever had. So it’s fine that he stops Thranduil as he leaves the breakfast table the next morning and asks him to come back to the range. He asks politely, and he drops his eyes when his father stares down at him with such intensity that he wants to melt into the floor.

“Please, adar,” he says at last. “I really need your help.”

To his astonishment, Thranduil follows him out into the grounds and, after a moment’s hesitation, takes up his position at Legolas’s back. His hands are sure as he guides his son’s into position, and for a moment, Legolas thinks he is going to land the perfect shot, but then he feels his father’s breath on the back of his neck and he shivers, correcting too late and sending the arrow into the trees.

“Try again.”

Legolas tries again, but the same thing happens. The next time, the wind blows a piece of his father’s hair into his face and it tickles his skin but it smells like sunshine. The time after that, strong fingers rest at his hip and his whole body jerks at the sensation. Several arrows in a row stick into the ground right in front of the target because he manages to remember the way his father’s lips had felt against his, and when he empties his quiver without a single success, he hangs his head in shame. He has barely slept and he can’t stop thinking about what he didn’t quite do the day before and his father’s frustrated sigh is just making everything worse.

“You are distracted.”

“I’m sorry, adar.”

For a moment, they just stand there, chest to back, in tight silence, and then Thranduil takes hold of him by the shoulders and turns him around. He stares down into Legolas’s eyes, expression unreadable.

“Is this what you want, ion-nin?” he asks, and then he leans down and kisses him.

His mouth presses firmly against Legolas’s, soft and warm and deliberate. This is not an accidental brush of lips, this is one person gently but firmly kissing another. It is his father kissing him, and he lingers for long enough to send showers of sparks through Legolas’s body. He gasps and reaches up to twist his fingers into his father’s cloak. He presses up into the kiss, feeling the loss keenly when Thranduil draws away. There is a hint of unsteadiness in his eyes, as though kissing his son has set him off balance, and the idea makes Legolas want to laugh and kiss him again.

But his father is stepping back, telling him to find his focus, walking back to the palace as though he hasn’t just turned Legolas’s entire world inside out. Because yes, this is what he wants, and now he has had it, he wants it again and again. He is a mess, and all he can think about is the way that kiss had felt. Slowly, he collects his arrows and returns to his rooms. He tries to think about something else, but it’s no good.

His father kissed him. And then told him to find his focus. Legolas thinks he knows where his focus is, and it is currently nowhere near the archery range. He sits on the edge of his bed for a long time, biting his lip and wondering what it would feel like to have Thranduil do it for him.

And, oh… the thought of it crackles down his spine and makes his breath come in hot little rushes. He gets to his feet and lets the heavy weight of longing pull him along the passageways and towards his father’s rooms. Thranduil looks surprised to see him, but he quickly settles a neutral expression over his features, gesturing for Legolas to sit. He shakes his head, barely able to believe what he is about to do.

“Is there something you want, Legolas?”

“Yes,” he says, taking a step closer to his father. “I would like you to kiss me again, please.”

His father blinks. One eyebrow flickers. “Would you?”

“Yes. I cannot stop thinking about it.”

“You do realise what you are asking for?” his father says, moving closer, but just out of reach.

“Yes?” Legolas says, pulse racing when a little smile troubles the corner of Thranduil’s mouth.

“If I kiss you again, ion-nin, I might not want to stop,” he says, and he steps right into Legolas’s space, so close but still not touching. So close, and his eyes fucking burn.

“What if I kiss you?” he whispers, and with a shiver, he presses their lips together, hands flat to his father’s chest.

The warm silk leaps under his touch as Thranduil kisses back, this time taking charge of him without hesitation. He draws Legolas close with one firm hand in the small of his back and one around the back of his neck, easing his mouth open with hot, soft slides of his tongue until Legolas is sinking against him and urging him to take whatever he wants. He has never been kissed with such confidence and it feels delicious. He is floating, reaching up and spilling open, and his father holds him so tightly that he feels as though he could do anything. As though he could land a thousand arrows right in the centre of the target, just to make his king smile.

He thinks he might stumble a little bit when they draw apart; he knows he gazes up at his father in complete adoration, and the look he receives in return fills him with flickering warmth.

“No… I think that might, in fact, be worse,” Thranduil says, but he pulls him back in and kisses him again, even more thoroughly, and this time he doesn’t stop until they are both hard and trembling.

Then he tucks Legolas’s head under his chin and wraps him in strong arms. Legolas holds him right back, breathing in his warm scent and letting his father’s racing heartbeat light him up with anticipation. He is already thinking about the next kiss, and the one after that. For now, though, he is more than happy to be right here.

“I have arranged a new archery teacher for you,” Thranduil says, kissing the top of his head.

“So I can find my focus?” Legolas mumbles, wrinkling his nose.

“Something like that,” his father says, and there is a smile in his voice.

Legolas looks up at him. His father strokes a gentle finger down the side of his face and draws him into another kiss, this time teasing and unhurried. The next morning, when he forces himself down to the archery range, a tall man in green and silver is waiting for him.