Threads - Part 15
Explicit (slow burn, 18+ only) - Rings of Power - Gil-galad x OFC (Elf)
Includes S2E8 of Rings of Power - spoilers ahoy!
Gil-galad had only taken a handful of steps when his gaze passed over yet another collapsed building. From the looks of things, it had once been an open, airy shop that had faced directly into the plaza. The roof had caved in, creating dusty shadows, and even his keen eyes might have missed the slumped figure had he not heard the tiny whimper from the darkness.
Eregion has been destroyed; Sauron is gone. And yet, the sun still shines, as the ruined city holds the last thing that High King Gil-galad had ever expected to find.
Themes: #Idiots in love, #love at first sight, #soulmates, #smut with feelings, #fix-it, #everybody lives
Content Warnings: Explicit content (parts 9, 11, 13, and 15), canon-typical violence; loss of parents; grief/mourning. This part contains smut! Please do not read if you are not of age to do so or if such is not your cup of tea.
Tag List: @morganas-pendragons, @stellar-solar-flare, @the141bandicoot; @inyx-writes44, @melmel-fandom, @hufflepufferine, @shadows-and-flowers, @xcrybaby555x, @bespectacledhuman
Face claim: Keri Russell as Linnea
Part 1 (includes A/N and credits), Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9 (contains smut), Part 10, Part 11 (contains very brief, light smut), Part 12, Part 13 (contains smut), Part 14
Part 15
For such an occasion, the trappings of state are largely absent, but Gil-galad is accustomed to that from Oropher. His hall is functional, and its simplicity is still beautiful in its way. The food is good, and plentiful, but a far cry from Lindon’s talented cooks. He has dressed as plainly as possible for the visit - as has Linnea - to attempt to put Oropher more at ease; it does not seem to have much effect.
But Linnea would look beautiful anywhere, in anything - and he sees the relaxation on her face at the surroundings. Two years in Lindon has made her more accustomed to the life that will be hers for the rest of her days, but he knows that she still cherishes the memories of her home in Eregion, the peaceful and quiet times with her parents and their shop.
She fits in well here. Tinnaril has come to court for their visit, and while he spends endless hours arguing with Oropher, Linnea disappears to pass her time with the Woodland queen. They clearly enjoy each other’s company; Tinnaril joins them for dinner regularly, speaking to Linnea about her music and ignoring the rest of the room.
At night, in their rooms, she tells him about her days. She has brought a chest full of fabrics with her, gifts to Tinnaril that have been received with gratitude. Oropher may be difficult, but there is still goodwill to be had here, and Linnea is doing her part to nurture it.
And before they leave, there is an agreement. A fragile one, but a pact to come to the aid of one another when the enemy stirs. It is not everything Gil-galad had wanted; Oropher is proud, and refuses to surrender any command of his own forces when Lindon and the Woodland join together. But it is a start.
Gil-galad had always been partial to the council chambers. They were on the ground floor of the palace buildings, and they were open to the air, allowing him to breathe the smell of the trees and hear the song of the birds. More than once, such had allowed him to settle his mind before saying something he likely would have regretted later. And perhaps, that had been the intent of its designers when the rooms had first been built.
And over the last years, necessity had demanded that the rooms be expanded. The council had grown, augmented by representatives from the artisans of Lindon, the smiths and the growers and the weavers and the others that were contributing to the preparations for war. The city administrators had always had seats at the table, but Linnea had observed that perhaps the artisans might wish to speak on their own behalf - and he had immediately seen the sense in it.
And of course, there was Linnea herself. The High Queen.
She had taken her seat after their wedding. And they had not always agreed - as he had foreseen, there had been times when her wishes and the realm’s needs diverged - but he had always welcomed her opinions. And she had never failed to stand by his side.
Just as she did now.
They had ridden back at speed from the training grounds. He had sent runners ahead of them to begin assembling the council, but the room was still empty as he and Linnea walked in. The large table was strewn with maps and scrolls from previous meetings, although someone must have been notified of their approach. The lanterns had been lit, and water and wine had been laid out on the sideboard.
He paused at the head of the table, resting his hands on it and suppressing a sigh. But Linnea could tell he worried; she always could, and she came up to his side, leaning against him and covering one of his hands with her own.
“Meleth nín,” she murmured.
He turned, kissing the side of her head gently. “We knew it would come,” he said softly. “We have had ample time to prepare. And yet, so has our enemy.”
“Oropher asked,” she reminded him. “You were unsure that he would.”
She was right; he had been wary that the Woodland King would hold to the agreement they had forged. He spread the scroll out to read it again, the message written in Oropher's own hand.
High King,
The enemy presses against our southern borders with a great force. We have them held at the edge of the Greenwood for now, but your aid is necessary to maintain our defense and mount a counterattack. I look forward to your speedy arrival.
Simple and direct, as was Oropher's way. Yet his message told them nothing of the numbers they were likely to face, the disposition of the enemy, or their equipment and arms. Perhaps Oropher did not consider such as important; Gil-galad did not like to think about the alternative, that Oropher had deliberately withheld details that might have given Lindon pause before coming to assist. Or perhaps he was being uncharitable - Oropher might simply have entrusted Arondir with the information.
It made no difference, in the end. He would hold to his word.
He left the scroll and crossed to the sideboard, pouring water for himself and Linnea. She joined him, taking the second glass in hand; they were both still in their training attire, having taken no pause upon arrival and coming straight to the council chambers. The refreshment was welcome, as were these few moments alone.
Inside him, he felt the ósanwë tremble, as if it were a candle flame sputtering in a passing wind. And he did not have to consider long to know its cause - they had had five years of relative peace. His hand had not taken up Aeglos save for training.
This would be the first time he had ridden into battle since they had wed.
“Linnea,” he said quietly. “Melethel. Rîn vuin.”
“I know,” she whispered. “As King, you must lead. And doubly so now, else Oropher might take offense were you to send someone else to command in your stead.”
Her eyes were cast downward, and he smiled softly at her, reaching for her chin and tipping it up so that she had to look at him and see it.
“We shall go together,” he murmured. “Let this be a show of Lindon's strength as well as the Woodland Realm. You shall be with us, you and the Pilino Tarí.”
Her blue eyes widened. “Ereinion…”
He could feel her surprise, and again, it was not hard to know its source. She had expected to have to press him to include her and her company; he had been protective of her from the very moment they had met. And indeed, that great beast inside him that she had first awakened was even now growling at the idea of her being put in danger.
“A sword is not forged to be left in the armory,” he said. “And you have not trained all these months for me to leave you here, awaiting news.”
Gil-galad could see that he had pleased her. She took no pleasure in the thought of battle; her nature was not formed of such stuff. But she was pleased by his respect for her, and the sober look in her eyes said that she understood the responsibility he was sharing with her.
“Thank you, my love,” she said softly.
They were still alone. And there were no warning sounds from outside that they were about to have company, no approaching footfalls or crunching of leaves. It was safe to slide his arms around Linnea and to draw her close to him.
“You fear for me no more than I fear for you,” he whispered. “Do not think that I am not tempted to keep you safe in Lindon. But I would not dishonor you so, my queen.”
He dared not speak of his other reason. It felt as fragile as the thinnest cobweb, spun overnight and sparkling in the morning with fresh drops of dew. But that vision of Linnea with child, the one that had not yet come to pass - it wrapped itself around his heart, soothing the beast in him, saying no, there is no danger, this yet lies before you.
Perhaps she knew. She had not seen it for herself; it was not as close for her as it was for him. But perhaps it was in her mind as well.
Her hand reached up, cupping his face and drawing his head down. Gil-galad smiled again as their lips met; five years ago he had wondered if he would ever get used to such, the sheer joy of a kiss. And even with what they were about to face, he was pleased to reaffirm that no, he was not used to it.
“Aran vuin,” she murmured against his lips, when they separated slightly. He kissed her once more, quickly; they would have company at any moment, and as little as he cared for anyone else's opinion, it would not do to be perceived as disrespectful of the situation at hand.
But on the other hand, he still remembered Celebrimbor's wise counsel.
It is not strength that overcomes darkness, but light.
They were joined soon enough by the rest of the council, at least what could be assembled of it so quickly. The commanders of the armies, the representative of the smiths, Master Círdan as the master of ships, and of course, himself and Linnea. And Arondir as well, representing Oropher.
And so he kept his hand nestled at the small of Linnea's back, even as they stepped back to the table.
Gil-galad waited until they all were gathered around the table before speaking. A great map was spread before them, carefully detailed and lettered, and he looked first to Arondir to begin.
“What is known of the disposition of our enemy? What numbers has he brought forth?”
Arondir contemplated the map for a moment before reaching for the box of tokens to the side. He looked through it briefly before extracting a handful of black towers, carved from ebony, that were made to represent the enemy - representations of the fortress that had risen in the land of Mordor. Their scouts had, at great peril, reported that the tower was yet incomplete, but that was scarce comfort.
And it was no comfort at all how many of the black tokens that Arondir plucked from the box. They filled his hand, and he placed them deliberately, one by one, along the southern and eastern borders of the Greenwood. They formed a line that snaked around the forests, nearly to the Celduin in the north and the Anduin to the west.
“Each represents five hundred orcs,” Arondir said softly. “We estimate their total force to be forty thousand. They have no cavalry, but their infantry is fierce and reasonably well-armed. Their archers have a short range, and thus far, our longbows have kept them at bay.”
Gil-galad barely heard the last part; he was too busy staring at Arondir. And across the table, he could see the army commanders doing the same thing.
“Forty thousand,” he breathed. “How has such a thing come to pass in so short a time?”
Arondir signed, his shoulders drooping, as he looked down at the table. “We know not,” he said softly. “It may be that Adar’s forces at Eregion were but a small part of the orcs at his command. And that Sauron, when he took control of Mordor, seized what was left behind.”
Rúsiel, commander of the Eastern Armies, stepped forward. Her eyes were glued to the line of black tokens, and she gestured at the box. “And what numbers has the Woodland Realm fielded, to keep such an army at bay?”
Arondir nodded at the question. He delved back into the box, coming out with a new handful of tokens. They were trees this time, wrought of bronze, and he set them in a pattern along the edges of the forests. There were not as many as there were of the towers - perhaps a ratio of three to one - but the positions were advantageous.
“Amdír has come to our aid as well,” Arondir added, once he was finished with the tokens. “A small force from Lórien, under the command of Prince Amroth. Perhaps a thousand, no more. But they have assisted with our efforts admirably, harrying the enemy’s supply lines and barring them from advancing farther to the north.”
A thousand from Lórien. And ten thousand from the Woodland Realm itself. Fewer than Gil-galad had hoped for, but more than he had anticipated. The odds were not insurmountable, and he forced himself not to think about how events might have been different had he been able to summon Oropher’s aid to Eregion.
He looked to Rúsiel, raising a brow. “We dare not leave Lindon undefended,” he said. “How much can we commit to assisting our allies?”
Rúsiel did not answer right away. Instead she stepped around the table, bringing her attention to the south.
“The path to the Greenwood is long,” she mused. “Commander Arondir, what route did you take through the Misty Mountains?”
“The High Pass,” he answered. “The better to reach the safety of Imladris. Lord Elrond provided me with a fresh horse and supplies for the remainder of my journey.”
Rúsiel nodded slowly. “Yet one Elf, alone, may move both more swiftly and quietly than an army,” she observed. “High King, I would advise we make the largest part of our journey by ship. We dare not advance to the Anduín, it is far too close to Mordor. Yet our smaller, swifter vessels might make their way up the Angren.”
He saw the sense in it - and more, the strategy. “And come at the enemy from behind unawares,” he said.
Rúsiel nodded. “We can spare half our cavalry. And a detachment of the infantry. And…” She paused, inclining her head to Linnea. “The High Queen’s company of archers. Altogether, six thousand.”
Gil-galad had not been High King for so long without understanding a key principle of ruling: that of asking questions he already knew the answers to. This had been one such, and the answer Rúsiel had given was the same as in his mind. He nodded his assent to the number and then turned to his right, where Linnea stood, and beyond her the one who spoke for the smiths.
“How quickly can such a force be supplied and ready to sail?”
It was the smith, Hinnor, who answered first - but not without a quick glance at Linnea, who nodded her encouragement to him.
“The army has been well equipped, High King,” said the young smith. “Their armor and weapons are in readiness. There will be no delay on account of the smiths of Lindon.”
Hinnor looked once again to Linnea, seeking her approval. She rewarded him with a smile, and then turned to face Rúsiel.
“How many ships to transport our forces, Commander?”
Rúsiel had plainly been calculating in her head; she answered with barely a pause. “A fleet of twenty, High Queen.”
Linnea inhaled, thinking for a moment as she contemplated the map. Gil-galad could see her measuring distances in her head, thinking about the time needed for the journey as well as the fight itself. “Two days to outfit the ships,” she said, but there was a question in her voice, and she looked across the table for confirmation. “With your agreement, Master Círdan.”
“I agree, High Queen.” Círdan's voice was quiet and calm, as was ever his way. “Two days is time enough.”
Linnea nodded. “There are ample stores at the ready,” she said. “And we may rely on Imladris for ongoing support. We need not carry all with us.”
“Lord Elrond anticipated as such,” Arondir said. “I have dispatches from him as well, High King. He has already set a guard on the High Pass, to ensure Imladris is not cut off from the east.”
Two days to supply the ships. And the army itself would muster swiftly; most of Lindon's forces were gathered in the training camps much like the one he and Linnea had been at that morning.
“We depart in three days, then,” Gil-galad pronounced. “Arondir, I must ask that you return to the Greenwood with all haste, to alert Oropher of our coming. He must hold his defenses until we can attack.”
“Arondir, might you journey by sea as well?” Linnea reached out, tracing a finger along the coast. “A light vessel would allow you to reach Oropher quickly, more so than traveling overland.”
Arondir paused, considering. “I have little skill with a sail, my lady queen,” he said carefully. “But I agree, it would be the swiftest way to travel.”
“We shall find a craft that suits your needs,” Círdan said. “Return to the Havens with me once this council concludes, and we shall have you on your way.”
Arondir nodded, undaunted by the task that was being asked of him. He had barely arrived in Lindon and now he was being asked to make the return journey at once. But he stood straight, and his eye was determined. Not for the first time in his long life, Gil-galad felt the weight of his kingship; how often had he asked the same, or more, from his subjects? How was it his right to make those demands, and what repayment had he ever made for them?
But Linnea, as she ever did, knew his mind.
“Tarry for a few moments before you depart,” she said softly. “Lindon will not send you away empty-handed, Arondir. We shall supply you with lembas for your journey.”
Arondir's eyes widened.
“You honor me beyond my deserving, High Queen,” he murmured, casting his eyes downward. “Your generosity will not be wasted.”
Gil-galad had to stop himself from smiling with pride. It was indeed an honor, granting Arondir the lembas that had been made by Linnea's own hands. Yet he saw the second purpose behind her gift; the lembas would provide Arondir with strength and vigor beyond any other foodstuffs. It would lend speed to his journey, allowing him to return to the Greenwood well ahead of Lindon's army.
He spread his hands on the table, leaning forward and taking the box of tokens. The pieces that he plucked out were cast of gold; golden stars, the same as his sigil.
“Then all that remains is for us to decide upon our plan of attack.”
It was hours yet before they left the council chambers. Some had been dismissed before the work of battle planning began; Hinnor the smith and others had been sent to tend to their labors. Despite the army already being well-supplied, none would lack for tasks during the next two days. And those that had remained were equally as occupied, detailing each aspect of how the journey would unfold, where precisely they would hope to strike the enemy forces. Arondir's contributions had been invaluable, for he had scouted the enemy's lines before leaving the Greenwood.
And now he was on his way, leaving for the Havens with Master Círdan.
Despite the gravity of the task ahead, Linnea smiled as Gil-galad offered her his arm to depart the council chambers; five years of marriage, and yet, he still deeply cherished the small graces of a husband. They walked together through the quiet halls; the hour was late, although Linnea fancied she could feel a restlessness beneath the silence. Soon enough, many would stir from their beds and turn their hands to the plans that had been made that night.
But these last few hours were still theirs.
She found herself not wanting to leave his side, not even to return to her own rooms and prepare for the night. And he seemed to know her mind; he was leading them to his rooms without a word needing to be spoken. He led and she walked with him, their guards behind them, his arm warm beneath her hand even through his clothing.
And when his door had shut, leaving everything else outside it, he offered her a soft smile as he turned fully towards her. She saw the mantle of the High King fall from his shoulders, as it did when they were alone; it had come easier over the years, the change more natural for him as he grew accustomed to it.
“What is your will, my lady?” Ereinion murmured.
She smiled. “You seem to already know it, my love. My desire is only to spend this night with my beloved husband, before we must take up our roles once more without knowing how long before we may put them down again.”
His lips curved ruefully, in acknowledgment of her words. Privacy would be precious once they departed Lindon, and even when it was achieved, they would both have many cares intruding on their time. But that was the nature of a royal marriage, as they had learned - the important thing was to seize what time they were given.
“Then let us begin with our tea,” he murmured. “It has always soothed my mind, and I shall use such tonight to focus solely on my wife.”
That sounded like an excellent beginning.
Ereinion’s servants had visited prior to their return from the council chambers. The fire had been laid and lit, as had the candles and the lanterns, and the rooms had been set to rights. A silver jug of fresh water awaited her by the hearth; all that remained for Linnea to do was to fill the steel kettle and swing it over the fire to boil.
Yet, as she did so, she saw the traces of dirt upon her hands, still left from training. It was a simple matter to remedy - but her hands were not the only thing in need of cleaning. She smelled of the practice field, and of Súrë, and while the smells were not unpleasant she did not wish to bring them to bed.
And so once the kettle was positioned, Linnea stood.
Ereinion had been standing at the window, looking out at the night, but turned in curiosity as she walked to the door and opened it. The guard outside snapped to attention as she leaned out.
“Send for Hrivend, please.”
At the name of his body servant, Ereinion left the window, taking a step towards her as she shut the door. “Are you in need of some assistance, melethel?”
Linnea smiled at him, raising a brow slightly. “I thought we might enjoy a bath together after our tea.”
His eyes lit up, and her smile widened as she saw it. She wondered if he had had similar thoughts of making use of his gift to her.
His gift.
It had been shortly after their wedding. Her begetting day had been only a few months later, and she had known better than to try and protest a gift. And Ereinion had outdone himself, taking advantage of the two weeks she had been gone visiting Khazad-dûm to have the work performed.
And when she had returned, he had shown her. The bathing tub in his rooms - generously sized already, to accommodate his tall form - had been removed and replaced with one much larger. A tub large enough that they both could fit in it, if they desired; a prelude to love, or after it, or simply another way of being close.
It had delighted her then, when she had first beheld it. And the thought of using it now brought equal delight.
The door opened just as she was lifting the kettle from the hearth and adding the tea leaves to it. Hrivend entered and bowed, and she offered him a smile of greeting. “Thank you for coming. Would you fill the bath, please?”
Hrivend nodded, and without any need for words, proceeded into the bathing room. A moment later she heard him pouring water and stoking up the fire; like her own, Ereinion's bathing room had a hearth.
Linnea washed her hands while the tea steeped, listening to the soft sounds of Hrivend working. Ereinion had gone back to the window, still looking out at the night; she knew what he was seeing, the glimmering lights of Lindon twinkling in the dark like a sea of fireflies. She could feel his mood from the ósanwë, his resolve and his strength like the greatest of mountains. But also his grief, that this time of peace had come to an end.
The tea, and the bath, were finished at approximately the same time. She thanked Hrivend and then, as the servant departed, poured the tea into their customary cups. The earthy aroma filled the room, and Ereinion turned from the window, smiling softly.
“I am sorry,” he murmured, as he came back over to the hearth. “My thoughts are…”
“...are where they ought to be,” she finished, handing him one of the cups. “With our people. But I believe I was promised that our tea would allow you to focus on other things?”
He chuckled, raising the cup to his lips. “Indeed, my love. Indeed.”
Hrivend had added oils to the bath, and Linnea smiled at the mixed scents. Cedar and pine, and a hint of lavender - not too much, but just enough to add a touch of softness to the stronger smells of the trees. She settled into the hot water with a happy sigh; Ereinion was doing the same next to her, draping his long arms over the edge of the tub.
His eyes were closed as he leaned back. He had knotted his hair up with a golden stick to keep it from trailing in the water, and Linnea let her gaze rove over him.
“I can feel your eyes on me,” he whispered, smiling. “What is it that you stare at so?”
He was teasing, but she did not mind. It was a sign that he was indeed turning the direction of his thoughts, and so she reached up, tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear.
“You,” she murmured. “Ereinion. Artanáro. My husband, and my love.”
He didn’t miss that she had deliberately avoided any hint of his titles, his rank. This moment was for them.
Ereinion opened his eyes, meeting hers, and reached out to repeat her gesture. She had put her hair up as well, but there were several curls escaping the silver stick she had used, and he smoothed one of them back for her.
Linnea leaned in, brushing his lips with hers. Softly, enjoying the moment, sitting together in the hot water with the scented steam rising around them. He returned the kiss, equally as gently, and she felt his hand cup her face tenderly.
“Come,” she murmured, when their lips parted. “This is a bath. Allow me to help you wash.”
It was not the first time by any means, but the smile and the delight on his face said that it might as well have been. It had taken time over the years to accustom him to being cared for, but she had been patient, and slowly he had learned to surrender himself to her loving attention.
Ereinion slid forward, making space for her, and Linnea moved to settle herself behind him. There was a sponge resting in a small basin on the edge of the tub, and she loaded it with scented soap before beginning to gently run it over him. She started where his neck met his shoulder, squeezing the sponge to let the soapsuds trickle over him, and then rubbed in a slow, soft circular pattern. He groaned softly, leaning back against her, her legs on either side of his hips and his back against her chest.
She dropped small, soft kisses on the other side of his neck. And with her other hand, she reached around him, clasping him to her, her hand splayed out on his bare, damp chest. He took that hand in his, lacing their fingers together and holding the hands against his heart, and she both felt and heard a deep purr of contentment rumble from him.
“You are too good to me,” he whispered. “Melethel…”
“Hush,” she murmured. “This is for you, my love. Enjoy it.”
She continued washing, taking her time, deliberately avoiding any touch that might arouse him too greatly. Lovemaking would happen that night, she was confident of that, but there was no cause to hurry into it. Far better to savor it, savor him, and allow him to do the same. And so she moved the sponge slowly, down each arm in turn, and then to the broad chest that rested against her. But her hand did not rove too far beneath the water; instead she shifted, sliding the sponge down the outside of his thigh and to his knee, and he bent his leg to bring it above the water so that she might continue.
And every so often, she kissed his neck, his ear, his face. Reminding him that there was more to come.
Although, perhaps he needed none of that. His hands were growing more restless, seeking beneath the water to find her thighs. She kept them tight around him, denying him any more than to stroke his palms down the tops and the sides of her legs, and another purr escaped him - this time, one of gentle frustration.
“Enjoy,” she admonished, and he laughed.
“I am,” he muttered. “And I shall enjoy you even more, before the sun rises.”
Linnea shivered at that, smiling. But his hands did fall still, allowing her to finish with the sponge, and he even leaned forward enough so that she could wash his back. And when she was done, and had set the sponge back in its basin, he leaned up and back for a soft kiss that she gave him gladly.
He had been patient. He deserved a reward for it.
He had been patient, but his body had responded to her. When she finally let her hand wander below his waist, his sex was hard and hot, and he moaned as she took him in hand. The sound made her core clench; she was not immune to his closeness, to the feel of him against her, to the soft, low whimpers that escaped his lips as she stroked. It was not always easy, making him solely enjoy his own pleasure rather than giving to her, but when she managed it, his response was gratifying indeed.
“Let me touch you,” Ereinion groaned quietly. “Please, my love…ah, oh…”
She had squeezed his sex - gently, but the pressure had driven the words from his lips. “Not yet,” she whispered. “I have more for you. Sit here.”
Here was the edge of the tub against the wall. Just wide enough, as it happened, to perch on and to lean back. Ereinion let out a long, shuddering breath as he guessed her intention, but he did as she asked, levering himself up out of the water and taking a seat. Linnea moved between his legs, kneeling in the tub, and she smiled as she watched him watch her.
Love was many things. It was the flowers that still appeared fresh in the vase by her hearth every day, even after five years. It was the respect that Ereinion had shown her in the council chambers, not leaving her behind and not even making her argue for it. It was the war-cloak she had made him for their wedding, the cloak that would be around his shoulders when they departed Lindon three days hence. It was the time they spent together riding, or training, or having their tea in the evening.
And it was this. This elemental connection, as she took him in her mouth, closing her lips around the thickness of him. Linnea ran her hand up his thigh, slick with the oily water, the scent of cedar and pine and him filling her nose. He moaned as she took as much of him in as she could, swiping at the underside of his sex with her tongue, sucking gently until it was almost too much for him - and that was a point that she knew very, very well.
Ereinion's hand tunneled into her curls, grasping gently. But he wasn’t controlling her movements; he was simply looking for something to hold onto. She kept her motions slow, languidly licking him from tip to base over and over, before taking him in again. At one point, in between licks, she quickly glanced upward, and it made her preen inside to see his head thrown back against the wall, eyes closed, mouth open and gasping for air.
Beneath the water, her core clenched again, longing for his touch. For him.
But the longing was manageable, especially when he looked like that, lost in the feeling of her mouth on him. She kept going, playing his pleasure like the finest harp, feeling the tremble of the thick muscles of his thigh beneath her hand as a way to gauge his tension. He was close, and she began wondering if she wanted to finish him this way or…
But before she could decide, he reared up. In a moment she was on her back, the water crashing up and spilling over the edge of the tub, Ereinion pushing her legs apart even as his hips settled between them. His hand cupped her and sank two fingers into her, testing her readiness, and she moaned a ragged, eager yes into his ear. He needed no more encouragement; his hand moved out of the way and one push buried him inside her to the hilt, and then he was thrusting with long, slow strokes.
“Melethel,” he groaned, leaning down for a hard kiss. “You…by the Valar, you…”
Linnea lifted her legs, wrapping them around his waist, caring nothing for the water slopping again onto the floor. Their lips met again, and again, Ereinion’s hands gripping the edge of the tub as he moved, and she could tell he was not going to take long to reach the peak. Her legs tightened, heels locking at the small of his back to hold him closer, her fingers sliding into the knot of hair at the back of his head. The feel of him inside her, stretching her open and filling her, as close as it was possible to be to another living being -
And the ósanwë. That candle inside her heart, flaring up as he found release. It could not be described, not with words, not if she had the rest of her days to try. The sheer love and joy that she felt from him in that moment that lasted an eternity, his body trembling in her arms, hips pressing and stuttering, spending himself within her.
Linnea trailed her hands over his damp back as he came down, his head buried in the crook of her neck. Once again, she feathered soft kisses over the side of his face, easy and unhurried, savoring the feel of him still inside her.
At last Ereinion sighed, and backed off, settling back against the empty side of the tub and opening his arms. Linnea went, curling herself against his side; the water was low as a result of their activities, but it was far too much effort to even think of replenishing it. They would be out soon enough.
She had no expectations, at least not at that moment. She knew he would not leave her unfulfilled, although the pleasure she had taken from his pleasure was quite satisfying all on its own. But his hand was restless again, his fingers trailing up her side and seeking her breast, and she hummed and stretched.
“Come, melethel,” he murmured, his voice still the tiniest bit rough. “Come here to me.”
She went, settling herself in the same position on him as she had that morning, his hands on her waist guiding her. Now it was her back against his chest; now it was his arms wrapping around her.
Ereinion's breath teased her ear. “It is your turn to enjoy,” he whispered. “Just as you cared for me, now I shall take care of you.”
She trembled. There was promise in that low whisper, a promise she very much wanted him to fulfill. Immediately.
He did not make her wait. He slid a hand between her legs; he was being gentle, mindful that she would be sensitive from having him inside her. Instead of sliding his fingers into her again, he teased the tender flesh with the very tips, tracing the delicate folds with maddening slowness. Linnea rocked against him, pushing, craving more; her pleasure had ebbed but came roaring back to life with a vengeance at the soft stroking, and he chuckled. His fingertip circled her entrance, still teasing and tempting, denying.
As his finger moved, so did his lips. He nibbled the side of her neck, holding her in place with his free hand cupping her breast, and she moaned as he lightly pinched her nipple between two fingers. Sensation coming from everywhere, neck and breast and core, everything moving and flooding her senses. It threatened to overwhelm, and yet, he knew her as well as she did him - he could play her just as finely.
Just when she was about to scream from it, he slid the teasing finger inside her. A second joined it a moment later, the pair of them easing first in and then out, setting a rhythm that was still careful of her. It was relief, if only for a moment; his wrist shifted slightly and then his thumb was rubbing, rubbing, soft circles along with the thrusts. Not hurried, not at all; the pace was even and steady, taking her towards her peak one slow second at a time.
A kiss on the shell of her ear. “I can feel it, how close you are,” he whispered. “There is no greater pleasure for me than to give this to you. Take it, my love - go ahead, take what you need…”
His voice, his love, was enough. Linnea shoved her hips against his hand, crying out, needing just that tiny bit of extra friction to fall off the edge. As she shook with the force of it, she felt his thumb slow but not stop, continuing its gentle rubbing of her in order to draw out the release. Another thing to savor, knowing that it would likely be long weeks before they returned to Lindon and could enjoy one another like this again.
She did not let fear into her heart, as she had in the council chambers. Not at that moment. Tomorrow she could worry about losing him; tomorrow she could fear that one of them, or both, might not come back. But those fears had no place here, or now, not with Ereinion's strong arm around her, his lips caressing her neck, his fingers easing out of her tenderly. Not with the glow of love covering her like a warm blanket.
“We have made a mess,” he rumbled, and she laughed, opening her eyes. It was true, there was water all over the floor, and they would need to fetch towels to mop it up before making their way to bed.
But that was another thing that could wait.
TBC...
