Scorched by polutropos

Elrond

Chapter contains graphic sexual content. The sex is consensual, but power dynamics between characters are blurry. 

Did Elrond want this? Yes.

Does he want it now, with the pulse of Maedhros’ arousal evident through his breeches, thickening in the crease of Elrond’s hipbone?

Elrond shudders. He is being dragged under by a tide of sensations. It is nothing like the simple pleasure he coaxes from himself with a hand. It is enormous, looming as the press of Maedhros’ larger body against his. The lust is rooted between his thighs, hard and heavy, but it rages through his limbs, clamps around his lungs, blurs the boundaries of flesh and spirit.

Is it always so when coupling with another? Elrond has no experience with such things — not like Elros, who brings back giddy tales from the secret places to which he disappears, arm snugged around the waist of some leaderless Green-elf or unmoored Noldo widow.

There is nothing stopping Elrond from engaging in such trysts: indeed, Maglor believes he does, and Elrond and Elros both smile and do not correct him. But since Elrond’s body first stirred in yearning, it is Maedhros he has wanted. His brother knows, for he can hide little from his twin, but the secret is one of those sores their love skirts around. Maglor certainly does not know.

Maedhros releases his lips, and Elrond gulps for air. He cannot keep from keening when a hand pushes up under his tunic. It is large enough to cover most of his chest, and his own skin feels too thin, too smooth, beneath the rough pads of palm and fingers. Maedhros’ other arm is hooked around the curve of Elrond’s back, yanking him flush against him.

With animal instinct, Elrond’s hips buck and chafe against Maedhros’ leg. Sliding the arm over his ass and under his thighs, Maedhros hoists him up, supporting his back against an obliging tree. Then the hardness of Elrond’s shaft is pressed against Maedhros’ own and Elrond is unable to stop himself, cannot keep the whimpers pouring from his throat, though he is afraid with every jerk of his hips that he will spill too soon, that the moment he has ached for all these years will slip away, never to be offered again.

Elrond’s feet hit the ground, scrambling for purchase on the uneven tree roots. Maedhros holds him steady, hand to hip; hand sliding down, pausing over the bulge of Elrond’s cock.

Then Elrond gasps: not in pleasure, but because Maedhros drops to his knees on the wet brown leaves. Drops to his knees, like a mountain falling, and Elrond’s pulse thunders, untethered by the sight. It was always himself Elrond imagined on the ground, choking on Maedhros’ spend, for he was certain that was what Maedhros wanted, and Elrond’s pleasure would be in fulfilling. In healing.

He had never considered that Maedhros, towering and terrible, might need the same of him.

Maedhros tips his chin back to look at him. Eyes like burnished silver lance Elrond’s heart. Maedhros sees him, sees into him, and Elrond is stripped, his idolatry laid bare. But Maedhros does not seize on this vulnerability as Elrond fears. Instead, his lips part, the hard lines at the corners of his mouth fade. His fingers hook on the fastenings of Elrond’s breeches, and he reaches up with his blunted wrist. He rests it over the skin at the base of Elrond's throat. Claiming, but reverentially, gratefully.

Concern glazes Maedhros’ eyes, as if he is for the first time aware that Elrond’s wishes might not align with his own. Elrond reaches to cup his chin. He nods, silently: Yes. Maedhros swallows, nods also, then buries his face between Elrond’s thighs, breathing the scent of him, hand and wrist caressing the lines and curves of his hips, his legs, his back.

Then with abrupt and hurried motions he releases the hooks securing Elrond’s breeches, yanks them down around his knees. Elrond whines and clutches the tree bark when his erection is suddenly freed, exposed to the cool air, but Maedhros does not leave him there for long. He swallows him to the root, and gags, but does not pull away. His eyes are pinched shut, tears seeping from their corners. It seems to hurt him, and Elrond wonders if he has ever given pleasure in this way, or if it has been so long his body has forgotten, or if there is always an element of endurance to giving—but Maedhros sucks him deeper, until his fine cheekbones glisten with tears.

Elrond cannot contain the onslaught of pleasure when his shaft hits the back of Maedhros’ throat, and he throws his head back, fisting his hands in Maedhros’ hair with a strangled cry. He shivers when Maedhros pops his mouth off, kisses the raw tip of his cock and licks up the last of his spend.

Elrond sinks to the ground. The forest floor is cold and rough on his bare skin. He clutches his knees to his chest, waiting out the confusion clotting his thoughts. Maedhros rises and not even as a child cocooned between Maglor’s chest and his horse did Elrond feel so small.

Elrond comes to his knees, pulls up and fastens his breeches. He is eye-level with Maedhros’ waist. Nothing remains of the arousal that had been so prominent when their hips were pressed together. He bites his lip, furtively looking for a damp spot, a sign that Maedhros had found fulfilment also.

“Did you—?” Elrond mutters, when Maedhros looks his way.

A smirk flickers at one corner of Maedhros’ mouth. No, Elrond realises, he did not. His need for Elrond fled as quickly as it came. The loss rips through the cavities of Elrond’s heart like an icy squall.

Maedhros offers his hand. “Come, young prince, let us hunt some orc.”

Elrond staggers to his feet without Maedhros’ help, brushes past him and shoulders his quiver with a dark backward glance.