Work Text:
He’s an exceptionally handsome man, Lord Elrond, though the years have worn him more than most, and it’s a different sort of beauty than Thranduil’s own. It’s softer, subtler, mature and gentle. He can’t use his looks to crumble elves to their knees the way Thranduil can, but when he stands at the edge of the balcony with the orange evening light silhouetting his strong frame, he’s still a sculpture. A work of art. Thranduil stands back to watch him, while the low breeze plays with his dark hair and the sun glints off his silver circlet. He looks very much a lord, worthy of a king.
Thranduil comes closer with quiet steps, his robes slinking silently along the tile. Elrond doesn’t stir, though he must’ve heard. Anyone else would turn and bow, and it strikes Thranduil anew how strange it is that he must try so hard. He should be able to have anyone he wants, and before this, he always has. Yet Elrond doesn’t rise to the same bait as others. Thranduil is unaccustomed to having to put much effort into seduction.
But Elrond doesn’t even move when Thranduil is right behind him, and instead of shifting to his side like he must expect, Thranduil comes flush against Elrond’s back. Elrond continues eyeing the flowered platforms below and the rushing river beyond it and not the gorgeous man behind him. Bolder, Thranduil lifts his arms to Elrond’s sides, his hands landing on the slender curve of Elrond’s hips. There’s too much fabric over them to stroke them the way Thranduil would a lover, but Elrond’s ears, fortunately, are exposed. Thranduil brings his mouth to the nearest shell and allows his lips to skim the surface, tracing the pointed tip. Elrond’s breath finally hitches, and it feeds Thranduil more fire—he wants to hear this man completely short of breath, crushed into the sheets beneath him and gasping for air and mercy—and he curls his tongue against the base.
As one arm loops tightly around Elrond’s waist, the other climbs Elrond’s chest, reaching his stiff collar, fastened higher than it need be. Thranduil pops the first clip open and brushes his fingers along Elrond’s bared throat, while he purrs in Elrond’s ear, “When will you give into the inevitable?”
To Thranduil’s irritation, Elrond merely clucks, “You have had too much wine.” The words sting, but not so much as the absent tone, as though Elrond isn’t even tempted by Thranduil’s roaming hands. The hand along Elrond’s waist tilts and splays, pressing back to force Elrond’s rear into Thranduil’s crotch, where the sight of Elrond alone has aroused him. Surely, Elrond can feel it. Unlike the isolated elves of Imladris, Thranduil’s people know how to enjoy themselves, and they take no shame in pleasure. He shows Elrond his interest and sweeps some of the long hair back from Elrond’s neck so he can run his teeth along it before he answers. Elrond, for all his stubbornness, tilts his head aside to give Thranduil room.
“I have had none yet,” Thranduil promises, his voice a sensual coo, rasped along Elrond’s delicate skin. He tightens his grip on Elrond when he hisses, deeper, “But I could be persuaded to lick my first glass off your body.”
Elrond says nothing in return. Thranduil fills the silence by rocking gently into him and scraping blunt teeth along the arc of his throat and up along his jaw. Pulling a thin braid aside, Thranduil presses a forceful kiss to Elrond’s temple, growling in its wake, “You must learn to enjoy life more, my friend. Immortality is a dull road if you do not avail yourself of the few opportunities for pleasure worthy of an Elven lord...”
Elrond doesn’t mention how he’s managed his long life until now, but Thranduil can only imagine how boring it must be, never tasting the sweetness of other Elven bodies. It’s almost inconceivable to him that for all their intellectual differences, Elrond won’t at least sample Thranduil’s body. He has no match in Middle Earth. And surely Elrond must know that he knows how to use his beauty; his talent is legendary.
But Elrond is quiet, neither succumbing to or discouraging Thranduil’s touch; his eyes are drawn elsewhere. Thranduil sees it: on the terrace just below them, three figures have wandered into view, half shrouded through the blossoming trees. Between pink flowers and brown-green leaves, Thranduil can see their sons mingling, Legolas first drawn to one twin, then the other.
With how far below they are and how similar they appear—and how little Thranduil sees or pays attention to them—it’s difficult to tell which of Elrond’s sons is which. Elrohir, he thinks, is the one to first bring Legolas closer, cupping his face and leaning in to kiss his lips, the action unmistakable even from this distance. Legolas is swiftly locked in a fierce embrace, only for Elladan to approach from behind and flatten in just the same. Legolas barely has room to tilt his head over his shoulder and meet Elladan’s mouth. Then they both press into him, and Legolas’ head tosses back, his eyes closed and his mouth open. Whatever sound he’s made is lost on the wind, but it’s clear enough what they’re doing. Thranduil can’t help a subtle spark of pride—his son is nearly as beautiful as his father, and of course it would be easy for him to seduce whomever he wished, even two foreign lords at once.
“We should meet them,” Elrond murmurs, though Thranduil doesn’t give him any room to retreat. There’s a note of disapproval in Elrond’s voice, but not, Thranduil thinks, for Legolas. He most likely wants to scold his own sons for their actions, converging on and corner such a pretty creature.
But Thranduil merely purrs in Elrond’s ear, “Why?” He wraps his fingers around Elrond’s throat to feel the pulse of his breath, the other set teasing the seam of Elrond’s robes, down between his thighs. As Thranduil trails the ghosts of kisses along Elrond’s neck, he sighs, “I allow my son to experience life’s pleasures. I can only pity yours if you do not do the same.”
Inwardly, he can’t help his annoyance, minor though it is. He doesn’t blame Legolas for being such an alluring prince, but it is frustrating that the person who gave him all his sensuality can’t seem to win the same response. Not for the first time, Thranduil entertains the wild notion of pursuing the twins instead, who would likely spread their legs for him far easier than their stoic father.
Unfortunately, it’s now become personal, and it’s grown to where he wants Elrond with a fierceness that he hasn’t felt for any other. And he can feel Elrond slowly shedding armour with each new visit. When Thranduil twists his fingers in Elrond’s silken hair to sweep it all aside, Elrond tilts his neck, arching it for Thranduil to run his lips over. He opens his mouth and laves his tongue over the warm flesh, his arms holding Elrond at his mercy. Below, the twins have begun to tear at Legolas with an almost feral longing—their hands roam everywhere, pulling him by his hair into whatever position they choose, while Legolas flows into every movement, willing and wanton. Thranduil pulls Elrond’s robes as far down as he can, until he’s exposed part of Elrond’s shoulders, and he closes his mouth over it, applying just a little bit of suction. Elrond lets out a feather-light noise, so quiet that mortal ears would never hear it, but Thranduil snatches the tail-end of a moan.
Legolas’ clothes are being stripped away. As the twins rip open his tunic and tear it from his body, biting him all over each patch of skin they reveal, Elrond breaks away. He exercises the subtle strength he so rarely shows, snapping free of Thranduil’s hold. He leaves Thranduil’s arms and circles around Thranduil, fingers already flying to refasten his robes. Thranduil bitterly looks over the balcony, wanting to growl like a beast denied the kill.
Elrond only takes a few steps towards the awnings before he pauses, looking over his shoulder. Thranduil meets his eyes with fire. For once, Thranduil finds a spark waiting for him, and Elrond lifts one arched brow, asking coolly, “Are you not coming?”
He doesn’t need to say where or why. For that first second, Thranduil is genuinely surprised, though too regal to ever show it. Then a smirk twists its way onto his lips, and he sweeps over to Elrond, leaving the view of the courtyard behind.
They pass Lindir in the hall, and Thranduil stops the attendant to order, “Have wine sent to Lord Elrond’s quarters—Dorwinion, the best.”