I feel a stranger to my own body as I sit here in the shadows away from the fire, sipping my wine. I allow the talk and laughter, the snatches of song, to pass around me unheeded. I feel naked within my clothes. My skin is too sensitive, self-aware. I move and cloth brushes a nipple and the flesh whispers of another, harsher touch. I adjust my position on the cushioned bench and an unexpected, throbbing ache takes me back to just a few hours ago, crouching on hands and knees, filled, stretched, ridden to a rhythm of grunts and gasps and curses. The high collar of my tunic hides the brand of his mouth upon my skin, the fabric’s touch a reminder of moist heat.
I sip the wine, remembering the taste of his tongue in my mouth; delving deep, invading and conquering. The back of my scalp tingles still from the pressure of his hand wound within my hair, holding my head still, underlining my willing submission.
It was so quick, so unlooked for. A chance meeting in one of the storerooms, he in search of unscented candles for his room, I seeking … it matters not what. Talking, casual flirtation, the way it has been between us since he came to live here in Imladris a few short years ago, restored to life after an unimaginable ending. We were both latecomers to the Valley of Rainbows and, although our paths crossed less often than might be expected of people living under the same roof, we always got along well enough – but no more, never more.
We moved through the storeroom, talking, laughing a little. I found the candles for him, waited while he made his selection. We shared a joke and somewhere amongst the words, the humour, something in the air around us slowly seemed to change. Other Elves were present when I arrived, but finally they left, their footsteps fading off down the corridor. We were alone. I stood with my head tilted to look up at him. Tall, golden Elf… they seemed to breed them for height in previous Ages. My king had been tall, too. Something moved in the warm blue eyes, a spark behind the laughter. His gaze considered me thoughtfully, taking in my face, fastening on my mouth.
Breathless. He made me breathless and hard without so much as a touch. Just looked at me, his thoughts slowly writing themselves clear on his face, the face of a bronze-cast warrior, all planes and shadows, generous mouth. He put the candles back down on the table, his movement slow and deliberate, then turned back to me, the motion sucking air from the room. No sound save for our breathing and the whisper of cloth. We stood still, staring at one another, searching for… laughter? Denial? Then his hand was in my hair, his mouth bruising my own, forcing my lips apart, his questing tongue wet, alive, hungry.
A kiss lasting a lifetime, a confusion of tongue, teeth and low-growling urgency. Hands rubbing, circling, seeking flesh hidden beneath clothing. He cupped my backside, kneading a cheek, fingers biting into startled flesh, while I placed open mouthed, sucking kisses down the side of his face, his neck. He pushed against me, grinding and thrusting his hardness against my own aching need. A cloth’s distance between us, no more, heat rising to engulf us. ‘Large,’ I thought incoherently, ‘oh gods, he’s so big, I can’t…’
We found a side room – no talking, no questions, only kisses and stifled moans – and we closed its door upon the world. Rain without, summer’s heat within. Rolls of matting occupied a corner. He kicked one open with an impatient foot, his hands all over me.
“Need you…” he whispered.
I knelt, drawing aside clothing, offering compliant nakedness to him. He dropped behind me, his fingers running over my buttocks as though tasting me with his fingertips. I felt his breath warm and swift upon my skin, then he spread me, penetrated me slowly, firmly, no lubricant save his own slick wetness. I heard myself making sounds like an animal in pain; grunting, husking, half demurrals, almost-fear, but all the while pushing back against him, taking him in deeper, deeper still.
“…you… perfect – made for me to fuck,” he whispered. “Tight, hot… skin like cream… The way you move, the way you sound…. You like to fuck? You want me to fuck you?”
He thrust hard on the final words, and I yelped, and then there was movement and heaving as he rode me. One large hand bruised my hip in an iron grip, the other dipped below to wrap itself around my straining cock, the place where I now lived, where all my senses were focused. He clasped me, stroking hard, fast, in time to the rhythm of the steel ploughing deep inside me – so deep – no one had ever… no one… He struck white sparks off the secret place within and my mind stopped working. All that remained in the world was sobbing breath, searing lust and my voice hissing, “Yes, do it, yes yes, do it, do it…”
“Good evening, Lord Glorfindel. We missed you at dinner this evening.”
The words cut across my memories and I return to a present that holds far less colour and sound and reality than the recent past. I glance up, unable to stop myself. As though knowing where to look, my eyes are drawn unerringly to a place near the fire where a tall, blonde Elf stands beside Celebrían’s chair. He is dressed in shades of green, his hair fastened back from his face to hang in golden waves down his back, and he holds a wine goblet in one large hand.
“I had a few matters to attend to that should have been settled this afternoon,” he explains casually, sipping his wine. Smiling as though to himself, he adds, “I should have been finished in time for dinner, but I unexpectedly found other things that needed attention first.”
Heat rises up around me and I feel colour flush my face. I look down, praying no one is paying attention to me in my quiet corner. ‘…things that needed attention’…. Indeed.
When I finally raise my head, it is to find him standing in front of me. I meet smiling blue eyes and discern something beyond the amused warmth – uncertainty? Could he be as unsure as I? There was no time earlier to speak of what had passed between us. We had collapsed into a wet, sticky, gasping heap only to be forced apart, scrabbling for clothing, pulling hair straight, thrust back into reality by the sound of voices in the main room. Now he says quietly in that light, faintly accented voice that has half the maidens of Imladris swooning, “I hoped to find you here. May I join you? You’re not… you don’t regret…? I have no idea how – but I know why.”
I stare at him through this rush of disconnected phrases and find myself smiling, my heart warming to him much as my body did before.
“Sit down and join me then,” I say, making space for him on the bench I occupy alone. “No regrets. Things happen as they should when the moment comes. Winter moves to spring in its own time.” This is true. I have lived through a long winter of mourning and healing. Now spring beckons, and I am glad to put aside winter’s quiet and explore this new season.
He sits down beside me, touches his cup to mine. “To spring then, Erestor,” he says gently, his smile comfortable and reassuring. Amazingly, he seems to understand. “An end to the past and a beginning to the future. For us both.”
Beta: Red Lasbelin