gloromeien

Dear Ones,

Now in the dregs of the vacation, I just want to take this opportunity to thank everyone who's reviewed thus far so very much for the lively and apt feedback, as well as for your incredible investment in these characters. Such a pleasure to hear from you ladies, always, always, and I hope this section proves just as compelling.

As ever, the chapter is split into two parts, with the second one above. Take the best of care, and enjoy!

Title: Requiescence – Part Four
Author: Gloromeien
Email: swishbucklers@hotmail.com
Pairing: Legolas/Elrohir
Summary: No matter how our two lusty elves may play, no amount of rutting will keep Thranduil at bay.
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimers: Characters belong to that wily old wizard himself, Tolkien the Wise, the granddad of all 20th century fantasy lit. I serve at the pleasure of his estate and aim not for profit.
Feedback: Would be delightful.
Dedication: To Eresse, dearest friend, blessed writer, and shrewdest critic.

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Requiescence – Part Four

Greenwood, Year 872, Third Age

The dream had come to plague him anew, both more vivid in its explicit images and more vicious in its gutting cruelty than before. He has suffered its scrapes and taunts with such demeaning frequency that it has bled into his days, but he knew himself to be sleeping, now, from the sparkling gauze that fringed his periphery.

The plot developed as if by rote, yet he never tired of its familiar flirtations, and they never failed to rouse him to wretchedness.

At the break of dawn, he lies in a tousled bed. He becomes aware of another, worming down beneath the bundles of sheets, to where he is most vulnerable. His faint rigidity swells to purple potency at the first swipe of his tiger-tongue, so called for its rough texture. No elven male nor maid ever spoke with such a weathered implement, so he wonders, as ever, if tis a mannish trait. Yet he pities their ignorance of a peredhil lover, for he would not forgo this treat for all the mithril in a dwarven trove. The tongue makes a meal of his wrought loins, moistening his thighs with its slithery laps, tenderizing his bollocks with its flattering nips, revering his member as the most savory of meats. Before long, he is thrashing, thrusting, anything to be devoured by that decadent mouth, which heaves steamy breaths over his most sensitive skins. He grapples for hold of that silky head as if to master it to his inflamed will.

To his delight, the half-elf with the ebony tresses is only too eager to comply, expertly teasing the slick bulb of his towering erection before swallowing down the stretch of scarlet flesh until there’s not an inch for his hands to clamp hold of. Not for him, the pretty licks and squeamish lashes of maids bred to be dainty even when prostrate before a prince; this one knows the gorgeous fury of a hard suck, relishes the curses this crazed carnality wrings from a warrior renown for his silent stealth. Every chance at eruption is smote by a brute tug on his bollocks, until the pleasure is so incensing he fears he’ll sweat blood. Yet those menacing hands have ample opportunity to maul his quivering rump, until he swears he’s ripe for cleaving.

A quick smack cracks the damn, and he bursts like a geyser, flooded with such rich swells of ecstasy that he can do naught but ride out the wild roll, of wave upon wave that washes over him, drenches him, nearly drowns him in bliss.

When his eyelids had sufficient energy to lift awake, ever did he discover himself alone, the all too willing victim of an overly potent imagination.

Yet on this morn, a rustle warned him wary even in his sluggishness, then softly arms enclosed him. Chuckles tippled up a raw throat, before pillowy lips pressed into the crook of his neck. A veil of that black satin hair brushed over his face as his red-rimmed eyes fluttered open, to greet with sudden astonishment a vision so unexpected, that Elrohir could only laugh aloud at his clear surprise.

“I am well here, melethen,” the elf-knight smirked, one peaked brown in full, Elrondian effect. “I have not yet absconded for uncharted realms, nor fled into the hinterlands. Not, in the very least, until I can stride without loping about! You will be pleased to know, my sprightly wood-elf, that you have rode me quite red with merciless using!”

Taking a long moment to acclimate himself to the incredible circumstances of his waking, his mind still a delightfully heady fugue of the ghostly sensations between his legs, Legolas peered up at his beloved with a lopsided smile of deep, unequivocal satisfaction. As memories of their scarlet night seeped back, he could not help but grin rather rakishly, until his eyes crinkled at the corners.

After a borderline scandalous supper, with Elladan all too intuitive as to what had transpired between them and with his own retorts laced with such base insinuations that their verbal sparring had entirely overtaken the youths’ conversation, Elrohir had been only too glad to drag him back to their bedchamber at the earliest convenience. As the night was stormy, this was soon enough, since most in the woodland realm were unnerved by the thunder and hastily sought out a cuddle with loved ones of their own. He had discovered that his darkling dear had not heard a word of their ribald exchanges over dinner, such was his barely masked transfixion with his fair beloved. Legolas had attempted to rile him with jesting over this, but to no avail. Elrohir’s rapt focus was on one target alone, his most thorough and plentiful undoing.

Yet he had set a more languid pace than their earlier fury, embarking upon an extensive exploration of Legolas’ prone, shivering form. He had then offered himself up for similar perusal, insisting that he be plied with a few of the massage techniques the archer had learnt from his first lady lover. How they had managed to rouse the fever within them after such emulsifying sensualities, he could not fathom, but their passion had proved near insatiable. They had made up for their endless years of absence all in one red, red night, his recollections of which were so intense that he feared he would commence another round, if he did not damper his simmering desires some. For this morn, though he later intended to pounce, he had an altogether more delicate agenda. Their furious lovemaking had forged them into a hotly enamored couple, but if their molten ore was to cool solid, then he had questions that needed explication and troths that begged to be declared.

The sweetness of his smile conveyed this to his elf-knight, who endeavored to position them with comfortable, intimate conversation in mind. Elrohir wove their lax limbs into a lazy tangle, resting his head in the nest of pillows so that he might better admire his gilded love. Their faces were so close that their breaths mingled into a delicious scent, which portended a kiss that they were in no hurry to indulge in. Indeed, they were quite content to bask in the other’s comeliness, the messy, blushing, and radiant charms of their beloved one, the morn after their first bedding. Yet within the argent pools of his darkling one’s eyes was a quaver of inquiry that had yet to be stilled, while Legolas found that some questions of his own were tickling up his tongue.

Nevertheless, twas perhaps best to begin with light assurances, for he knew only too well how Elrohir had fretted in his absence, over these last days in the wilds.

“I dreamt of you, melethen, even as we slept entwined,” the archer endearingly told him. “So essential are you to my serenity that even upon the celestial path I cannot be without you, miren. *Inden*, as you so dearly named me yestereve.” His voice was soon so thick with emotion that it could barely sweep the words he would utter forth. “I sense that you must hear it spoke to know the feeling true, so I will hasten to reveal my heart. I love you, Elrohir. I want none but you, forevermore.”

“*Legolas*,” he bleat, but could not say more. He shut his eyes, as if to quell the tide of feeling that threatened to drench their day in melancholy.

As Legolas would not allow him to remain so maudlin, if touched by his troth, with a tender kiss he tempered him, then with giddy licks and culls teased him back to playfulness. He was soon laughing sheepishly at his earlier severity, such that he dared a few nips at the archer’s neck, if only to conceal his pert cheeks awhile. Yet they did not dally long, for on such a languid morn they truly preferred mutual reverence to frolicking about. The course of love between them was of such power that to move overmuch was to court a wicked bout of vertigo. Better to relax in cozy complicity awhile, heartened by the other’s constant presence.

“Melethron?” Legolas queried, once the mood had eased. “May I ask a confidence of you?”

“Ask whatsoever you may will, my beauty,” Elrohir assured him. “I keep no secrets from your ear.”

Despite this openness, Legolas demurred some before charging ahead.

“Tell me, if I may be so bold,” he gently inquired. “Why did you leave me to be plucked by Nenuial, all those years ago? Why did you not seduce me yourself, and claim my virginity for your own?”

By his stillness, Elrohir was startled by the question. Legolas implicitly sensed the caution in his answer; indeed, he had never known him to be so tremulous, even in diplomacy.

“You did not favor me then,” the elf-knight whispered, as if in fear of his return.

“I favored no one,” Legolas remarked. “I knew so little of my own mind that I marvel at how I managed to go about the world without succumbing to the most debauched fiends about.”

“You were vulnerable, as you say,” Elrohir built upon his reflections. “So green of the world. So tender, despite your adventurous streak. I was meant to be your guide, your counsel…”

“Aye, and an admirable counsel you were,” Legolas agreed. “Yet I would have been heartened if you had sought to guide me in that most vital and precarious of lessons, as I have been thrilled this past night to finally enjoy the pleasures I have so long sought to learn of. In truth, I never could puzzle out why you gave me over to another’s care. I trusted you above all others. How I would have flourished in your arms!” When Elrohir winced at this last pronouncement, he knew he would have to tread far more lightly.

“You forget how innocent you were, Legolas,” he insisted, clearly struggling to quiet his spiked nerves. “Before I spoke of Ithandir, you knew naught of loving between males. To say naught of my loyalty to him, as my lover. Of your avowed preference of maids.”

“If I thought to bed with maids,” Legolas softly countered. “Twas only because, to my fledgling mind, they were the only option. Yet for all my wretched innocence, I sensed the conflict within you, Elrohir. Though twas only in later years that I came to understand its true nature, I knew at the time that you did not regard me chastely. Even if I had denied you entirely, which I do not think would have been the case… the seed would have been sown. Twould perhaps not have come to such a bountiful bloom, which would have been a considerable regret, but I would have begun to flower much sooner, and beneath the bright sun of your care.”

“Yet you said naught of these… these leanings,” Elrohir stammered, overcome by the blighting impact of his suggestions. “Even whence in Lorien, you spoke only of exploration. Of a dalliance.”

“I could hardly insinuate that we couple before Elladan,” Legolas responded. “In truth, I was as confused as I was dismayed, daunted by the honor with which you ever respected our friendship and my confidence. When I say that I would have lain with you back in Imladris of old, I do not mean that I concealed a desire for you, Elrohir. Indeed, I could not even brand my feelings with the mark of desire until much later. If you would have presented me with the possibility of such a relation, then I feel I would have responded well to it. Otherwise, it took me a great number of years – indeed, centuries – before I first recognized this potential within myself, then resolved to act upon it. Even then… I was unsure of your own feelings on the matter. As such, I thought it best to gradually appraise you of my attentiveness to your person, then to see if you approached me. I held no certitude of you doing so. Indeed, the circumstances of our eventual assay proved so traumatic for you that you retreated anew. My only chance was to lure you with the promise of a softer emotion, which I then realized that I felt, and most intently at that.” Legolas let out an extended sigh, somewhat upset at himself for even proposing the subject, as Elrohir looked nothing less than deeply wounded. “I do not mean to condemn any of your most honorable, most kindly and gallant actions towards me, moren vain. I simply came, through our years apart, to wonder… at what might have been.”

“Do you reproach me for choosing thusly?” Elrohir murmured, unable to stifle the shake in his voice.

“Nay, certainly not!” Legolas underlined. “I know now that you could not have done ought than what you did. You would not be my most valiant, my most tender and most compassionate elf-knight if you had tempted me into a seduction. Tis merely… well, perhaps tis but a fantasy of mine, to think of you tasting my virgin flesh… to know your touch and no other’s through the endless span of my life.”

With a smirk that infinitely comforted the archer, Elrohir retorted: “I hardly think that would have been the case during our prolonged periods of distance, with you in the rabid prime of adolescence.”

“Indeed,” Legolas chuckled to himself, glad that their ease had returned. “Yet for all the wanton that I was, I could not shake the thought of you. With some of the more silly maids, the fervor I managed to conjure was entirely fuelled by my baser imaginings of our time together.”

By his clever-eyed countenance, Elrohir was mightily intrigued by this revelation.

“Verily?” he asked rhetorically, as Legolas had just confirmed the notion. “You thought of me when you coupled with maids?”

“Aye, from the first,” Legolas conceded, rather pleased with the pique this inspired in his lover. “Even as Nenuial plied my aching flesh with her mouth, I thought of your kindness in courting her for me. Indeed, this made me spend far too quickly! I became somewhat distraught, as I had nearly choked her with my spurt of seed, so she bade me think of a calming influence. I imagined your face, smiling with approval, then your arms enclosed around me. When finally I made to enter her, I conjured your hand clutched around my shaft, aiming me, aiding me to measure my thrusts. I remembered our adventures as I rode her, of the intensity I felt when we sparred.” The memories themselves made his loins flare, but he resolved to see the conversation through. “In later years, I thought of you more and more to effect my end, regardless of who I was currently bedding, until I could not finish myself without.”

With a groan of impassioned regret, Elrohir called on the gods to witness his frustration.

“Elbereth!” he exclaimed. “To think of how I ached over even the meekest insinuation, when there you were appealing to my imagination whence in your throes.”

“In thrall, aye,” Legolas amended. “Yet also when alone. Ever have I been quite bodily affected by the intensity of your presence, whether out of admiration, affection, or quickening desire. You even roused me once, upon one of your many visits, though unawares.”

“Tell me the tale,” Elrohir beckoned him, feeling rather amorous himself suddenly. “How did I rouse you?” He cinched his lithe archer all the closer, languishing decadently in the smooth of skin on skin.

“Do you recall our last Greenwood meeting before the contest in Lorien?” Legolas reminded him. “The afternoon just days before your departure, when Tonduil came back from patrol mortally injured? You quite wisely drew me away from his sickbed after a relentless vigil, down to the meadow and into the solace of your arms. I fell asleep with my head on your lap, and you were soon to follow. Yet I was not entirely peaceful. I woke on the cry of a dove in the trees, which I thought a bad omen. As I attempted to settle back into repose, I instead found your proximity quite… possessing. I stiffened to the point of pain, such that, after nearly an hour of praying that my engorgement would abate, I knew their was nothing to be done but bring myself forth. Yet I was far too proud to have you discover me pleasuring myself, so I toddled down to the riverside, but your spirit and your scent came with me. I spent moaning your name, wanting nothing more than to shake you from slumber and to beg you to use me. Twas then that I knew that I had to somehow convince you to lie with me, though twas some years yet before I thought on how.”

“Yet to our immeasurable benefit,” Elrohir grinned, with a telling wolfishness. “Your pursuit brought about an infinitely more valuable relation. Though how I wish I could have eased your ache that day in the meadow! Indeed, you are quite precocious to dangle such a treat before me, though I do suspect you of far more devious intentions. Such as your own imminent undoing.”

“Effective immediate, I do hope,” Legolas met his lurid grin with a smirk of his own. In truth, he was strung tight as breech laces on bog-scullers, his youthful exuberance far too sprightly to long bear through such bawdy tales.

“Perhaps,” the elf-knight dangled mysteriously before him, pricked by his own, oft-overlooked sense of mischief. “Though the sensual scenarios imagined by your unconscious mind do tempt even one so sage as myself to pose my own series of provocative questions.” To his slight dismay, Elrohir settled onto the pillows with such opulent repose as if to hear a grand tale recounted. “Would you not, lirimaer, care to regale me with the telling of one of your more scarlet dreams? I would be *most grateful* of any efforts you were to expend as a result. One might even say… devoted to your extended and explicit compensation.”

Under his ebony lover’s smoldering gaze, Legolas couldn’t quite time the measure of his breaths. He was suddenly aware of how brashly he had spoke, of a control and of a design to his sexual maturity that he little felt beneath those enrapturing eyes; to which he had laid claim, in impish innocence, when an elf of wealthy experience lay before him. Their molten mithril depths warned of a scorch he could not yet even fathom, of a fission so elemental, so erotic possible between them, that he would rue the morn he dared imply that ever he had wanted the elf-knight. That he had not even begun to want, to keen, to burn under the touch of his beloved one.

That an altogether more primal lesson was well underway, this dulcet morn in the Greenwood.

With a raw swallow, he rallied his courage, then gave of his most intimate self.

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