Craving Dreams by Sleepless_Malice

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Chapter 1

Craving Dreams

*

Gil-galad feels like a boy again, not like the king he is, fair and noble, with blue and silver banners fluttering above his throne in the newly built halls of Lindon.

Often, especially when formal meetings drag on for hours, he thinks he is rather made to spend his life outdoors than in vast rooms and gloomy hallways. Of late, he feels it more than ever. Despite the fact that it is not even full summer, it is hot already, a dry heat within the city walls that makes it hard to breathe, paralyzing the entire kingdom. Himself included.

Whenever his tight schedule allows it, he rides out of the city towards the nearby shores, letting the soft breeze dance about his hair, letting the sunshine tan his skin.

Sometimes, Elrond accompanies him, on other occasions he goes alone. Like today. It was not that he does not want his herald’s company, quite the contrary, he just basically couldn’t find him anywhere no matter how hard he tried.

 

*

Even before he rides through the carven gates, a strange happiness fills him. For a few hours there are no advisors around him, no pretense, just the wonderful thrill of being himself. Something, Gil-galad isn’t granted all too often these days. No courtly robes, no intricate braids, are necessary, and a plain tunic of light blue and black breeches are more than enough to set out.

When he dismounts at the beach, he smiles, relieved, taking in the scenery laid out before him. Flashes of blinding white dot the ocean as the ship’s sails flutter in the gentle breeze.

Immediately after his feet touch the sandy ground, he rids himself of his restricting clothes as apparently no one else has escaped the smothering city, something he couldn’t quite understand. With haste, he kicks off the heavy riding boots with an exaggerated sigh, amazed to feel the warm sand against his bare feet. The tunic follows immediately; carelessly thrown onto the ground next to his boots whilst his hands are already busy unlacing his breeches. Gil-galad rolls them down to his ankles and frees his legs of them, letting the warm breeze dance about his naked skin.

Yet there is something else he craves even more. With a few quick steps he crosses the distance to the gentle surf, literally running into the pleasantly cool water in a rather unkingly manner, squeaking in delight. He couldn’t care less as he jumps, head first, into the turquoise waves, savoring the refreshing cold against his skin. For a few moments he allows his body to float back with the waves towards the shores before he turns around and ducks down under every wave that rolls towards him. Only when he begins to feel slightly chilly and gooseflesh spreads along his skin, he considers with some reluctance getting out of the sea.

Well, he always can go for another swim later on, Gil-galad tells himself, having all the time in the world this day.

When he sets his feet on the sandy shores again he shakes his head like a dog, sending the cold water flying in every direction. Oh he feels heavenly with nothing else but the salty droplets against his skin and the sun caressing him, relaxing and soothing.

Wet as he still is, he lies down on his clothes, letting his eyes travel along the shore towards the horizon until his eyes widen in surprise and a soft chuckle falls from his lips.

No wonder that he couldn’t find Elrond anywhere – he had already come to the sandy beaches and is now resting idly a good distance away, almost hidden from prying eyes. Perhaps he sleeps, or reads, Gil-galad can’t see exactly from the angle as Elrond’s back points towards him. He doesn’t even know if he had been there already when he arrived, so much the sea had called to him, if he had watched him as he went in for a good swim.

What a fortunate coincidence, Gil-galad thinks with an indulgent smile as his gaze persistently lingers on Elrond’s form.

That he likes the Peredhel’s body is nothing new; that he probably likes it a little too much isn’t either. The curves of his torso, the thickening of his arms, even the alien hair starting to grow just beneath his navel which right now he can’t see is beautiful. The hair was something intriguing and more and more often Gil-galad finds himself wondering how it would feel against his fingertips. The thought alone lets his cock become half-erect already, yet he doesn’t even notice so occupied he is in the sight Elrond presents.

Well, there are more things about which he wonders in private, none of them appropriate to be shared. Often, he finds himself thinking how Elrond’s lips would feel against his own; how his skin, his hair would feel against his fingers when his mind goes astray in yet another council meeting. Before Elrond had joined his court, he never was so easily distracted from his duties.

Absently, his hand begins to wander along his still wet skin, his fingertips connecting the water drops to little lines running towards his navel before his hand slips between his legs. Unsurprisingly, he finds his cock already semi-erect, something that can certainly be blamed on Elrond’s naked form upon which his eyes still lingered.  From head to toe his gaze wanders, and Gil-galad does not fail to notice the perfect shape of his buttocks. The fingertips of his other hand trace the curve of his lips, and when his tongue brushes against it, the salty taste all but reminds him of come.

It is absurd how desperate he had become – and perhaps obvious in his desires.

Often, when they were dining together, Gil-galad shook his head, eyes flitting to examine if Elrond had noticed him staring. Sometimes, he feels as if he had caught a special look in Elrond’s eyes, yet he was never entirely certain and therefore never speaks about his thoughts. Aye, Elrond had his little peculiarities, some of his advisors going so far as to call him strange, but who would have not, being raised by those who are infamous for their committed crimes? When they play chess together afterwards, Gil-galad swallows more wine in an attempt to cleave whatever foolish yarns his mind spins. Even when he pretends he doesn’t stare, he watches him over the rim of his goblet, showering him with generous and flattering smiles, with laughter that was just a nuance too loud. Afterwards, he always feels some sort of guilt. 

Still, in the solemn hours of the night, caught in a blissful state between sleep and wakefulness he dreams about Elrond coming to him with desires as arousing as his own, a certain nervousness visibly spread across his face. Right now, with bright sunlight drying his skin, Gil-galad dreams exactly the same, and imagines to lick away the salty remains from Elrond’s body, inch by inch.

The thought alone elicits a jolt of excitement. Gil-galad’s eyes fall shut as he gives his cock a gentle stroke before he slides his hand up, running a finger hard against the slit in the head, wet with tiny pearls of come already. Yet not wet enough for what is on his mind. Savagely he spits into his hand for better lubrication before he strokes himself with strong, rhythmic movements until his breath matches the frantic pace he sets. For the sake of a better range of movement, he spreads his legs a bit further and lifts his hips, sand trickling down from his most private parts. He’s already far beyond caring. Not even the abrasive grains could extinguish his lust once sparked, not when in his mind Elrond’s fingers lace with his own around his erection. Oh so wonderful the palm of his hand feels against his sacs, so heavenly the fingertip against his opening.

Would it be entirely foolish to just proceed?

By all means, no. Gil-galad doesn’t know if he could stop, even if he wished to.

Elrond’s physique is still somewhat slender, but with sleek muscles beneath his skin, steeled from long years of training with the sword and bow. A pity, that those are most often veiled by fluttering robes, Gil-galad thinks not without a hint of regret as he carefully eases his fingertip inside his quivering hole. Lost in his fantasies, eyes transfixed upon Elrond’s arse again, Gil-galad pushes the finger further inside him, rubbing his erection frantically all the while until a searing heart starts to build.

Who allowed the Peredhel to be such an incarnate temptation?

Who allowed him to present himself in such a shameless way, giving him an unobstructed view?

For a few moments, Gil-galad’s eyes linger before they flutter shut again, and his mind turns towards Elrond’s lips, the ones he dares to imagine against his slick cock. Lips, so tender and soft, wrapping around him so seductively that his body jerks in approval, a mouth so skilled – not only with words. A mouth adorned with spit and remains of come. Automatically, his hips jerk upwards into his hand. As his dreams evolve, he fists his cock all the harder, pumping up and down in a rhythm already close to frenzy. Gil-galad spreads his thighs wide and wider, feet flat against the soft sand as he fucks into his fist, moaning shamelessly. He barely recognizes his own voice, hard and heavy with arousal, panting his herald’s name.

Distant footsteps bring Gil-galad out of his blissful reverie, and he opens his eyes reluctantly, stilling his hand around his cock. Undoubtedly it is Elrond who stalks towards him, a towel gracefully wrapped around his waist to shield him from prying eyes, a thought that leaves him choking on his own spit as he had spied indeed. There are two options: hastily trying to gather his clothes and pretend his red-tainted cheeks are to be blamed on the sun alone, feigning ignorance – or doing nothing at all.

Gil-galad considers. What harm would come if Elrond discovers him as such?

He isn’t ashamed of his body, nor of what he does – even kings have physical needs and everyone knows that he’s unwed. Well, he is remotely ashamed of what his mind usually concocts, fantasizes about when he touches himself, but then, who doesn’t fantasize? Surely it is not such an alien concept? Can’t his fantasies be also deemed rather flattering than inappropriate?

When he makes up his mind, it is too late to hide anyway as Elrond almost stands in front of him, cheeks adorned with a feverish blush and hands rather nervously twitching in front of him. Gil-galad feels he should say something now, for the sake of his friend who looks down on him.

“I– I am terribly– My king– Ereinion,” Elrond begins to choke out his apology. It is obvious that his friend is lying, rather looking foolishly excited than apologetic.

Gil-galad interrupts him, surprised by his own reaction, wondering from what hide exactly he takes the words from.

“Do not apologize for something you do not feel sorry for,” he says, voice steady and clear despite his inner turmoil. How on Arda he had managed to, would remain a mystery, even centuries later. “What is it?”

Elrond nods, hands still twitching. “Right. Well, I– .. I– just thought,” he began. “That you look rather inspiring.” The smile that follows the words is irresistibly smug. 

Gil-galad’s jaw drops open, his heart nearly ceasing to beat in that very moment.

What Elrond confesses is actually the last thing he had expected to hear (not that he minds, of course, quite the contrary as so often he had dreamt about exactly this), something that renders him speechless and leaves him staring. Before rather ungracefully he bursts out laughing as his gaze wanders from Elrond’s face towards his twitching hands and everything falls into places all of a sudden. Until now, he hasn’t noticed the massive bulge under the towel, truly believing Elrond is nervous when indeed he’s not. Where he had thought Elrond is flustered, he is merely excited.

Now it is Elrond who stares at him with utter disbelief, freezing to the spot as if he’s rooted to the ground. Gil-galad is half convinced that he has ruined it.

Wildly, his heart thrums in his chest, worries mingling with excitement. “Sit down if you desire to,” at last Gil-galad says carefully, gesturing beside him just before he extends his arm and offers Elrond his spit-adorned hand and his most generous smile, and adds: “I cannot deny that you’ve been rather inspirational yourself.”

Elrond nods tentatively, before he gives him his most radiant smile. He sits down with crossed legs beside him, edging immediately a little closer with just an inch of space between their thighs left. Oh how Gil-galad wishes to lean right in then, getting closer to the one he has desired for so long. The realization that he perhaps could – would – sends the butterflies caught in his stomach flying, a silly grin adorning his lips.

Without thinking, Gil-galad rests a hand over Elrond’s bared chest, right there where the hair he so much fantasized about begins to grow, the hair that now gleams in the soft sunlight of the late afternoon. He had thought about this so many times, more times than he actually can remember, and despite the physical affirmation he somewhat still doubts his senses. Yet, somehow, he manages to marvel at the sensation his fingers against his herald’s skin bring, and happily Gil-galad keeps drawing idle patterns across Elrond’s chest. The first touch of skin on skin is like an electrocution, something he is certain he will not forget as long as he lives. Marvelous and so arousing, at least until, rather surprisingly, Elrond reaches out and takes his hand into his own, kissing it lightly.

Everything seems so surreally bizarre. But it isn’t, everything he sees and feels is breathtakingly real. Elrond’s skin against his own, his shining eyes looking expectantly down on him, a knowing smile gracing his lips.

When asked later, Gil-galad won’t be able to tell if it was him who leant in and brushed his lips against Elrond’s or if it had been the other way round. All he ever knew is that a surge of contentment filled his heart as desire delights the world around them, and he could swear that Elrond doesn’t feel so dissimilar, mutual longing bottled up far too long finally unleashed.

As if a magic unknown rolls against him in gentle waves, Elrond’s hand feels against his sides, drawing unexpected patterns against his skin for a while, leaving glorious shivers in its wake.

Elrond pulls away, reluctance flashing in his eyes upon the loss of contact, as he rids himself of the towel, with an incredible self-assurance Gil-galad hasn’t expected. He hums in approval, gaze fixed on Elrond’s length, just before he curls his fingers around his cock again, stroking it lightly.

There are so many words Gil-galad wishes to say right now, words he had said so often in his dreams. There are so many questions he had never dreaded to ask threaten to spill past his lips. Well, his attention is soon diverted when Elrond pushes him down into the sand with all his weight, covering Gil-galad’s hand with his own. Gil-galad surges forward, so close to coming already when all his fantasies evolved into sweet reality. He had never thought it possible that his longing could be returned, not even in his wildest dreams.

“Stop thinking,” Elrond scolds him, nipping at the crook of his neck.

For once, Gil-galad obliges. How should he not when Elrond swings his legs across him, straddling him just below his erection? He nearly faints when Elrond spits into his hand and wraps his hand around both their cocks, fisting them so exquisitely, mimicking the movements he had used on himself just a while ago.

“Elrond,” he whispers under his breath, almost forgetting half what he had even intended to say. Almost. “Do you know how long I have dreamt about this?” The words trail out of Gil-galad’s lips like wafting smoke, soft wisps intended for Elrond’s ears alone.

He couldn’t last.

Wouldn’t last.

Doesn’t even want to last.

Not when Elrond sets such a frantic pace, obviously aiming for nothing more than to send him over the edge. He had been close, so close already when Elrond had, luckily, interrupted him and now? Well, now he thrashed beneath him, rolling his hips into his hand as much as Elrond’s weight on top of him allows.

“Fuck yes,” Gil-galad almost screams, arching his back against the soft sand as undignified whimpers spill past his lips. “More, Elrond, please.”

Where words fail him, his touches do not as all the while he runs his hands up and down Elrond’s back, almost scratching him. As his climax begins to shoot through him, he wraps his arms around Elrond’s waist, holding him flush against his body, tight and perfect. And then he kisses him, hard and rough, just like had always wanted to his tongue demanding access and more than willingly Elrond opens his mouth for him.

He has always prided himself of being capable of being in control no matter what – well, right now he isn’t, doesn’t even wants to be as his warm seed spurts over Elrond’s hand, between their heated bodies which are so deliciously entwined, all the more when Elrond follows him into oblivion shortly after. There is so much more Gil-galad wants to do, most likely so much they want to do, to explore together, that he nearly faints from the realization alone.

For many hours they linger on the sandy shores, dissolving in fantasies each one had thought forlorn and therefore kept private. When they returned to Lindon late at night with nothing else but the stars as their witnesses, foolish grins are spread across their lips.

 

 

 

Chapter End Notes

Thank you, @amyfortuna, for beta-reading this story for me <3

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