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sanisse · 1 year

Text

lay my heart down with the rest at his feet (read on AO3)

Pairing: Elrond/Gil-Galad

Fandom: The Rings of Power

Spice level: 🌶🌶🌶🌶🌶 (ghost pepper)

Tags/warnings: power dynamics, Dom/sub undertones, explicit consent, very minor dacryphilia, very minor verbal humiliation, rough sex, oral sex, rimming, aftercare — also includes references to Eldritch peredhel & maia typical levels of obsessive behavior

Gift for: @thesolarangel 💕💕

Elrond needs to get taken apart a bit. Gil-Galad is more than happy to oblige 😏

(Surprise I guess I’m unmasking my actual AO3 on this one)

Elrond’s finding it embarrassingly difficult to focus on the conversation at hand. He and Gil-Galad are taking their customary end-of-the-day turn about the king’s garden as Elrond gives Gil-Galad a basic report of all that day’s comings and goings — all the little affairs at court that Gil-Galad likes to keep apprised of but doesn’t have the time to attend to personally. Elrond will pause here and there to ask his advice on how to handle a matter. Gil-Galad will give his opinion: stated firmly as always, but lately his advice has softened, drifting away from direct commands on how he would like a certain concern handled. More and more, he leaves things up to Elrond’s discretion. It makes Elrond happier than he can express that Gil-Galad trusts his judgment like this.

Their conversation lulls. Elrond steals glances up at Gil-Galad as they walk when he feels certain Gil-Galad isn’t looking. He admires the way he glides, fluid as a great cat, across the path. Admires the way his eyes glint like steel in the evening light, sharp and strong. Admires how easily Gil-Galad carries Aeglos with him. The spear is huge but he holds it effortlessly, tucking it close to his body as he drifts into thought. Elrond’s eyes travel to Gil-Galad’s hands: ring-bedecked and clever. To that steady grip. Elrond wants that grip wrapped around his hip, digging into his flesh. Wants it as a fist in his hair, a vice around his throat.

He swallows and quickly looks away.

“You have something you wish to say?” Gil-Galad prompts.

Elrond can feel how red his cheeks are turning and refuses to look up at him, instead studying the trees. “No, my king.”

“Indeed,” Gil-Galad says, and nothing more.

There is a note of humor in his voice. Barely detectable.

Gil-Galad goes on after another stretch of silence: “You seem distracted today.”

“I apologize.”

“Would you like to go back to my chambers?”

Elrond pauses. Stops walking entirely, boots crunching on the gravel walk. Gil-Galad turns to look at him and sees the way Elrond ducks his head, trying to disguise a little smile. Then, Gil-Galad steps into his space and takes his chin, drawing Elrond’s gaze up to his own.

“You are not particularly subtle with your glances,” he says. And there: a real smile crosses Gil-Galad’s face.

Elrond stomach quivers at the warmth in Gil-Galad’s expression. He turns even redder and breathes a laugh. “No, I never did have an ounce of guile.”

It has been a while since the two of them have spent any time with each other in any sort of personal way. Elrond’s heart quickens at the thought of what Gil-Galad might have in store for him, and at this: at how close Gil-Galad is standing to him, at the way he is still holding Elrond’s chin, commanding his attention.

(He does not have to command it. Elrond adores him. Loves looking at him. Loves the ground Gil-Galad walks on. Loves. Loves. Loves. Something in him sees Gil-Galad and says: follow, obey, worship, adore, enchant ensnare ensnare ensnare; my king; MY king and no one else’s – sometimes he’s dizzy with how Gil-Galad radiates presence and power, enigmatic, magnetic, half-hypnotic in his authority.)

They are staring at each other, Elrond and Gil-Galad. Quietly, Gil-Galad whispers: “Release me, please, Elrond.”

Elrond lets out an embarrassed laugh and looks away.

“Take me?” Elrond asks softly. “I would like that very much.”

Greedy little thing, Gil-Galad thinks fondly. How can he resist?

Gil-Galad places a hand on the small of Elrond’s back, undemanding but assertive as ever, and together they go to Gil-Galad’s chambers. Elrond is the one to shut the door behind them and lock it. When he turns back, Gil-Galad steps once more into his space, takes his face in both hands, and pulls him in for a kiss.

Gil-Galad's kisses are consuming, far more teeth than tongue; he swallows the whimper that bubbles up from Elrond’s lips. When they part, they’re both panting. Already Elrond looks so debauched, hair falling into his eyes, chest heaving, that plush pink mouth bruising. Divine. Elrond leans up —almost on tiptoes— locking his hands around Gil-Galad’s wrists.

“Again.”

“Are you commanding your king?” Gil-Galad teases.

Elrond’s eyes burn as he looks up at him. He doesn’t say anything, but once again Gil-Galad is rooted to the spot as if Elrond’s pinned him there by his feet, and so Gil-Galad leans down to capture his mouth again, sucks on his bottom lip and then sinks his teeth into it, and relishes the way Elrond whimpers again and presses the whole length of his body along the whole length of Gil-Galad’s like he wants to slip inside his skin and live there... or perhaps swallow him whole.

Gil-Galad shifts his grip, grabbing a handful of Elrond’s ass and wrapping his other hand around Elrond’s throat. He doesn’t squeeze, he just holds him that way, pushes his head to the side and drags his mouth along Elrond’s square jaw, scrapes his teeth over it, bites his ear, says: sweet thing, you’re going to be so good for me. You are always so good for me.

Elrond nods, clinging to fistfuls of Gil-Galad’s gold robe in an effort just to stay upright. His brain’s starting to buzz in his skull like he’s drunk as he turns weightless, liquid, as the world narrows to this room, to the space between their bodies, to Gil. Gil. Gil. This is all he has wanted all day, and Gil-Galad is giving it to him. He wants Gil-Galad to tear him apart at the seams so he doesn’t have to think for an hour or two. Gil-Galad knows how to do it, can split him straight to pieces in his hands and then fit him back together again. Like metal refined in a furnace: the stress, the anxiety, the little bothersome decisions Elrond might otherwise obsess over — they will melt out of him like dross. Burned away, leaving him fresh and new, with a clear head and a body that sings.

When his knees buckle, Gil-Galad releases him so Elrond can sink down to the floor. He folds himself against the lush rug, and the sight is almost too much for Gil-Galad to bear. Elrond’s blue gown fans around him like a midday sky as he looks up with those luminous, star-flecked gray eyes. Mouth slightly parted. Cheeks spotted with poppies. Gil-Galad reaches down to trace the shape of his bottom lip with the pad of his thumb and groans when Elrond locks his mouth around him and sucks. Gil runs his thumb over Elrond’s teeth, presses down on his tongue, pushes in as deep as he can into that wet, willing heat and feels light-headed.

When he pulls his thumb free, Elrond whines at the loss and Gil-Galad's eyes glitter. He admonishes: “Be patient."

Elrond answers that by reaching up to palm Gil-Galad through the fabric of his robe and squeeze, delighted to find how hard he is already. He wants to take him out, to feel the grounding weight of him on his tongue.

Gil-Galad hisses, hips stuttering. “Wicked thing.”

“I want to taste you,” Elrond says. His own cock twitches at the thought.

Gil-Galad nods, indulgent, lets Elrond part his robe and unlace his trousers and take him out at last. For a second, Elrond just sits there on his heels, admiring, wanting, mouth watering. Then he tucks his hands behind his back and simply mouths him, darts his tongue out to lick at the vein on the underside, glides in to kiss Gil-Galad’s thigh, to nuzzle closer still, breath hot and ghosting along Gil-Galad's skin until Gil-Galad’s so hard his stomach hurts.

“Please,” Gil-Galad whispers, voice strained and rough.

It will never stop being intoxicating. The rush that floods through Elrond at how Gil-Galad, mighty in power and scion of kings, will turn to putty in his hands. All of Lindon may belong to Gil-Galad. All of Gil-Galad belongs to Elrond.

Elrond obliges him, draws back up, admires the bead of moisture that has welled up on the cherry-red head and darts in to lick it up, relishes the taste and the way it makes Gil-Galad hiss again. Then, he engulfs him.

For a moment, all Gil-Galad can do is simply toss his head back and feel. He tilts his hips, slides along Elrond’s tongue. Elrond mewls around him and sinks down further until Gil-Galad hits the back of his mouth. Then further still. Tilting his head until he finds that perfect angle that lets Gil-Galad’s cock slip right down his throat.

Gil has to grip onto Elrond’s hair just to steady himself. A curl has fallen into Elrond’s eyes. He pushes it back for him with fingers that tremble with desire. Elrond swallows around him, lets his throat seize and clench and relishes the pleased sound, the whispered: good boy, that shoots straight down his spine to his cock and makes him ache.

Gil-Galad traces the shape of Elrond’s face with the crook of his finger. Takes in the sleek lines of his body, the way his mouth stretches around his cock, and demands: “Look at me.”

Elrond obeys. Gil-Galad moans again for how his eyes glitter with stars and unshed tears. He grips Elrond’s hair again and slides deeper still, makes Elrond take him to the root, coaches: “Breathe through your nose, good, gwinig. Good. How pretty you look like this.”

When Elrond’s eyes flutter shut, Gil-Galad’s grip in his hair tightens. “Do not look away from me,” he scolds.

The way Gil’s tone drops sends a sweet shiver down Elrond’s spine. He whines something apologetic, stuffed full as he is, and opens his eyes again.

Gil-Galad releases him to let Elrond set his own pace. Lets him take it slowly, rhythmically, almost meditative in how languid it is. Elrond’s eyes turn glassy as he focuses on this task and this task alone, head emptying, warmth stealing over him like an eiderdown blanket.

Gil-Galad simply relaxes into it, lets himself float on the pleasure. As Elrond works him, Gil-Galad shells himself of his rings, slipping them from his fingers one-by-one, setting them on the bedside table. With each heavy clink of metal against wood, the tension at the base of Elrond’s spine grows. He’s imagining it: how well Gil-Galad can fill him with his fingers alone.

Gil-Galad comes down his throat without warning and Elrond drinks him down. Stays there as long as Gil-Galad bids him to. Lets him soften in his mouth while Gil-Galad sinks his hands back in his hair and pets it, lets Gil-Galad harden again. His knees will bruise. He doesn’t care.

“Look at me,” Gil-Galad commands again.

Their eyes lock. Gil-Galad stabs forward. Elrond chokes.

This time, Gil-Galad doesn’t give him time to breathe. He just fucks his throat, makes Elrond take it, watches how his eyes glaze and turn hazy with lust, welling up with every single delicious spasm of his throat around Gil-Galad’s cock. Elrond’s spine to turns to jelly. He just tips back further still, gracious, welcoming, mewling when he can, mind turning razor-sharp to focus on nothing but breathing through his nose and accepting what his king will give.

Gil-Galad comes the second time with a shout and a litany of praise. Elrond swallows just the same, half-choking on it, writhing, hips canting up into the air despite his best efforts to keep still. He doesn’t need to try and seek any friction. Gil-Galad will give him exactly what he needs, exactly when he needs it. He always does. Elrond knows he is in capable hands, so he surrenders to the need coursing through him, simply rides each heartbeat that pulses like a hammerstroke in his cock.

Gil-Galad releases him to breathe at last. Elrond coughs. Gil-Galad coos and strokes his face, rubbing at the tears streaking down his cheeks, says it again: you’re doing so well. So good for me.

Elrond floats.

Gil-Galad asks him something that he doesn’t quite register over the way his brain scrambles and buzzes. Gil-Galad asks it again. Then sinks down to the floor next to him, crouching, says: “Gwinig,” and then: “Elrond.”

Elrond tries to focus on his voice. Gil-Galad offers him a smile and then says: “Use your words. I need to hear you talk. Do you wish to be fucked tonight?”

Elrond lets out a long, filthy noise at that.

“Words, elig nín,” Gil-Galad insists.

Elrond fishes for his voice. It takes him a long time and he can see the way Gil-Galad’s face darkens with concern, and Elrond knows that if he can’t give him an answer then they’ll go no further, but he also knows he’ll die if Gil-Galad doesn’t give him what he wants right fucking now.

“Fuck me, Ereinion. Please.”

The expression on Gil-Galad’s face softens with relief. He drags Elrond up to his feet, claims him for another kiss, and then half-tosses him onto the huge bed. He climbs on after him, stripping off layers as he goes. Elrond makes quick work of his own gown and lets it fall, forgotten, amidst the rest of the carnage of fabric and bedding. Elrond gasps and laughs when Gil-Galad grabs him by hips to tug him to his hands and knees. Gil-Galad yanks his trousers off him, settles down to his elbows, and then Elrond has to drop his head and bite down on the duvet when Gil-Galad spreads his cheeks and presses the flat of his tongue to Elrond’s hole.

The sounds Elrond makes are exquisite and all the sweeter for how he’s so wound up and loud he tries to muffle them, to be good. Gil-Galad works him open with his tongue and hand until Elrond can take four of his fingers and he’s dripping, clenching around him, glistening with spit, rim puffy and pink and gorgeous.

Gil-Galad sits back on his heels and strokes himself, just admiring for a moment, imagining what it’s going to be like to sink inside his herald at last. Elrond always takes him so well.

Elrond, by now, has dissolved into half-tearful begging. He feels empty and wanton , collapsed down against the mattress, trying to do his best to be patient, but rocking into the silk duvet despite himself just for a bit of friction. He yelps when Gil-Galad brings his hand down on his ass with a sharp crack and admonishes him, once again, to be patient.

“So greedy,” Gil-Galad teases. He reaches for the bottle of lubricant in the bedside drawer and pours a generous stream directly onto Elrond’s hole and pushes it inside.

Elrond flushes red and moans, says it again: “Please—“

Gil-Galad climbs on top of him, drapes Elrond’s body with his own, and eases inside him at last.

For a second he just stays there, just barely inside, and strokes Elrond's hair, rubs circles on his hip. Soothes: “Deep breath in through your nose, elig. Out through your mouth.”

It’s so hard to focus. Gil-Galad’s splitting him apart already. Elrond’s dizzy with it. But he whines and tries. When Gil-Galad feels him relax a bit more, he pushes in deeper. Lets him adjust. Repeats it in little thrusts until he’s fully seated inside of him and Elrond’s trembling, moaning again, body gilded with sweat and perfect.

“How good you feel,” Gil-Galad tells him. “Like you were made for me.”

“Yours, always.” Elrond babbles back, half incoherent.

That makes Gil-Galad snap his hips.

Finally, Elrond thinks. Elbereth above, finally!

No one fucks him the way his king can. No one consumes him like this with reckless abandon. Gil-Galad sets a near-feverish pace that has Elrond screaming to the ceiling until Gil-Galad wraps a hand around his throat and cuts off his air. And then he’s weightless again. Immaterial. Nothing matters but Gil-Galad and how utterly full Elrond is. The pleasure shoots through him like a spike of lightning every time Gil-Galad hits that spot just there. It's so rough that it almost hurts: the way he drives into Elrond’s prostate again and again and again until he can hardly see from how good it is, can’t do anything but feel as the pain mingles with the praise falling from Gil-Galad’s lips. Elrond can’t really understand what he’s saying anymore but it doesn’t matter. Somewhere in the middle, Gil-Galad hauls him upright by his hair and demands imperiously: “ Is this what you wanted?” And Elrond manages to laugh, to say yes, yes, thank you, thank you, thank you—

“Come, Elig.”

Elrond shoots straight up into the atmosphere.

He thinks he blacks out for a second. He only barely registers the long, pleased moan that Gil-Galad spills into his hair as he hits his peak, too.

Elrond’s limbs give out and he melts like snow in Gil-Galad's arms. Gil-Galad simply lets him stay there, clenching around his softening cock, riding through the last aftershocks, watching him as Elrond’s hair smokes like ink and his eyes bleed starlight into the dim light of the room.

They’re both tacky and the room smells of sex, but they can clean up in a bit. Gil-Galad just slips out of him at last and eases Elrond to his back on the mattress. He doesn’t mind when Elrond locks his arms around his neck and whines.

“I am not going anywhere,” he reassures. "Be at peace."

Elrond’s forehead smooths at that. His eyes slip shut. His breathing slows.

Slowly, slowly, he begins to coalesce.

When his eyes finally open again, they are once more quicksilver and kind.

Gil-Galad’s mouth turns up in a soft smile.

“There you are.”

Elrond stretches. Yawns. Gil-Galad gets up to go to the washbasin in the bathroom to wet a cloth and then sits back on the edge of the bed to wipe the cooling sweat from Elrond’s body, to clean the seed dripping out from between his legs, Elrond’s own splattered on his stomach. Elrond reclines, feline, and submits to it without complaint.

“You were in quite deep,” Gil-Galad remarks.

Elrond nods. He feels stripped down and utterly gelatinous, sore in all the best places. “Thank you.”

Gil-Galad discards the washcloth and pats Elrond’s hip with another one of those barely-there smiles and an affectionate hum.

That makes Elrond blush. He truly is back: the unassuming herald who sometimes wonders how he managed to capture the attention of his king. Hopelessly devoted. Soft beyond measure.

“Shall we have a bath?” Gil-Galad asks.

Elrond lazily reaches for him and weakly chuckles: “Please.”

Gil-Galad collects him. Together, they wash each other’s hair and just soak for a bit in relaxed silence. Elrond stays close to him, pressing up against him at every turn — Gil-Galad does not begrudge him this. He is always like this after they’ve had one of these nights.

He’s sleepy, too. Demands to be held after they’re out of the bath and the sheets have been changed. Gil-Galad obliges him, simply asking that he not face him directly — only because he finds that peculiar way of sleeping Elrond has with his eyes closed to be a little uncanny. Elrond doesn’t really have any objections at the stipulation. It gives him an excuse to bury his head in the crook of Gil-Galad’s neck anyway.

They stay like that, entwined, the rest of the night.

#elrond #gil galad #elrond x gil galad #the rings of power #rings of power #lotronprime #spicy

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