Title: Green
Author: Khylaren
Contact: khylaren@yahoo.com
Fandom: LOTR
Rating: [NC17]
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters; they are the property of JRR Tolkien and his estate. I am not making money off this story; it was written for the pure pleasure of it (mainly mine!).
Warnings: Slight angst, graphic homoerotic (slash) content
Beta: The Wonderful Larien Elengasse
Cast: Erestor/Thranduil, Glorfindel

Summary:  Erestor sees Thranduil. Thranduil sees Erestor. Any questions?

Note: This plot bunny bit me hard right where it counts, challenging me to not only write a story with Erestor in it (a first!), but to do it entirely in first person, present tense (another first!) God help me, I gave it a go. Feedback is always appreciated!

< > < > < >

His eyes are green.

Green like the moss on the trees of Mirkwood, green like the grass in the meadows, and green like the finest jade. Funny how his eyes are also the color most associated with jealousy.

I watch him, knowing he does not notice me as I stand behind the golden warrior that represents Imladris. My hair is not golden, nor my eyes the stormy blue of Glorfindel’s. I do not have the warrior’s presence, his grace, or his strength. I am but a shadow compared to him, and I know that the King’s eyes will never rest upon me the way they do on my companion. They will never hold the kind of lazy, speculative contemplation, as if he were considering the sounds I would make in the throes of passion, or how my skin would taste beneath my robes. 

Glorfindel’s rich voice carries clearly across the room, and I can see he holds the King’s attention while I shift impatiently, my feet beginning to ache from standing in one place for so long.  My eyes cannot seem to leave behind their fascination with the golden splendor that is the ruler of Mirkwood, and I wonder what it would be like to be at his mercy. He would be forceful, I know, and persuasive, and utterly irresistible in his demands. Would I yield to him, if given the chance? Oh yes. 

Completely.

The thought makes me shiver slightly as I imagine the feel of his lips against mine, the touch of those powerful hands against my skin, sliding beneath my robes and discovering how many different ways he could make me writhe at his touch. His lips would be like iron silk, soft yet undeniably firm, and hot, oh yes, like fire that would ignite me with their touch. 

I shift again, this time to adjust my robes, to hide the arousal that has grown in response to my wicked thoughts. Glorfindel explains for the third time the reason we are here, and I am beginning to suspect that Thranduil is playing with him, simply because he can. The king is like great cat, sinuous and predatory, his green eyes half-narrowed as he reclines regally upon his throne. His robe has fallen open at the neck, and I can see the barest hint of golden flesh peeping through the gap.  

My mouth practically waters at the sight.

I want him. But he does not see me.

< > < > < >

He thinks I do not see him, but he does not know that as King, I have long learned to observe others without their being aware.  I watch him as I listen to Glorfindel, hiding my amusement at the seneschal’s obvious irritation at having to repeat himself. I nod in the appropriate places as I observe his companion, watching him, as he watches me. I am curious to know what is going on behind his oh, so carefully neutral expression. I would very much like to know what he is thinking that makes him shift behind his golden companion, what makes his fair skin color so beautifully.

He thinks I do not see him, but how could I not notice his dark beauty, so rare among the gold and silver of my kind. How could I not see the richness of the color of his hair, nor the fairness of his skin? The bright splash of red that is his mouth, full and lush like the petals of a blooming rose, their softness I can almost taste from across the room. I wonder what it would be like to crush their rosy softness against my own, to feel them yield against me, to spill sweet cries and moans in my ears. 

His body is hidden beneath his robes, and my fingers itch to peel them away, to reveal his form to my knowing gaze. Will he be soft, like the scholar I think he is? Or will his body be lithe, toned, like that of a warrior?  I want to know if his skin will be as silken as it looks, and if it flushes the charming way his face does when he is in the throes of passion. Will he yield to my touch with soft sighs and moans, or will he be silent? Has he ever given himself to another the way that I would demand of him?  

I answer Glorfindel’s question, my eyes hooded as I observe his companion’s intriguing movements; he pulls at his robes, as though he was trying to hide something from my gaze. A smile curls my lips; I know what he is hiding.

I see him. And I want him.

< > < > < >

Our audience with the king has finally concluded, and I am free at last to retire to the chambers I have been assigned during our stay here. I cannot leave his presence quickly enough, my arousal presses urgently against my stomach, aching to be released. Yet something compels me to glance back.

The king has risen from his throne, his robes swirl about him as he stands. He catches my look and gives me a slow and heated perusal in return. My cheeks burn and I nearly stumble when he raises a hand, gesturing for me to come back.

My legs are shaky as I cross the short distance, but I cannot look away from that green gaze. It holds me captive until I stand at the bottom of the steps, watching his graceful and deliberate steps as he approaches me.

“Erestor.” His throaty voice is like the rumbling purr of a lion. His face tilts slightly as he looks at me. 

I cannot speak. My tongue refuses to move, though my mind is screaming at me to say something in reply. He does not seem to want one, or need one, however. The expression I wear must be enough.  He steps closer to me, the edge of his robe gently brushing against mine, and I can feel the heat radiating from his body as he touches my face.

“You were watching me.” His voice a mocking whisper as his fingertips explore my heated face, brushing with the softest of touches against my lips. “Beautiful, dark one.”

I swallow anxiously, undone by his presence and his touch. I try to speak, ‘my lord’ hovering just at my lips, but the words leave me as his hands slide down the front of my robe and gather the loose folds in his grasp. He uses it as leverage to pull me closer, until I can feel his hips press against mine, can feel his arousal beneath his robes. 

“I want to see you.” 

I am both startled and enflamed by his words. His lips curl into a predatory smile, and his green eyes hold me once more. 

“I want to taste your skin.”  

I am frozen, unable and unwilling to move as he presses the briefest of kisses against my lips, the quick touch of his tongue makes me shiver. 

“Come.” His velvet voice caresses my ear, and I follow.

< > < > < > 

Black.

His eyes are black in passion, though he closes them when he sees me looking. He intrigues me, this scholar who is both wanton and shy. He is a paradox that I must unravel.

His lips are soft, softer than I had imagined, and warm beneath my own. His tongue is velvet and as shy as his gaze, though I coax it into play with my own. His body trembles beneath his robes as I bend him to my kiss, and I feel the hard edge of his maleness press against mine.  He utters no sound of complaint as I pull his robes roughly from him, baring his flesh to my gaze, and I see that I was right. 

His skin does flush most beautifully.

My hands are on him, forcing him back onto the bed, and again, he utters no sound, and I wonder what it will take to make him give voice to his pleasure. I spread his limbs to my satisfaction, my fingers lingering on his silky soft skin, and he looks up at me silently, his dark eyes eloquent.

I know what it is he wants.

I regard him thoughtfully as my hands explore, discovering his flesh, the secret heat between his thighs. My eyes hold his when I penetrate him with my fingers, so carefully oiled, and he closes those beautiful eyes against me.

I push my fingers deeper into his tightness – again I think I am not wrong in my guess that he is untouched, for his body is tense, unsure. I slip my fingers from his heat and sit back on my heels. 

I do not want him this way.

“Erestor.”  My command makes him open his eyes. Slowly I rise from the bed and undo the many clasps that hold my robe, letting it fall gracefully from my shoulders, revealing my body to his blackened gaze. I see uncertainty in them, and lust as well, and I smile my most seductive and alluring smile.

Too well do I know how to play to a body’s lust. 

His eyes widen as I crawl back onto the bed, pushing his thighs further apart and settling between them. His desire is still obvious to see, and I smile again, taking its silken length between my fingers. I stroke it gently, watching his face, and once more he closes his eyes against me.

“Erestor.” My words are sharp. “Look at me.”

His teeth are white in contrast to the red of his lips as he bites them. But his eyes are open, and I hold them once more.

“Beautiful Erestor,” I whisper, sliding his length between my fingers, the slickness of his arousal coating his flesh and my hands. My fingers trail in teasing touches across his stomach, fluttering lightly over the rosy dark skin of his nipples, and they harden so nicely beneath my touch.  His face is wonderfully expressive, a shifting myriad of emotion; one moment uncertain, the next, beautifully wanton. I lean over him, my hand still working the hardened length of flesh between his thighs, and I deliberately pinch one rosy nipple, my eyes never leaving his face.

I am rewarded for my efforts with a sweet groan, and he arches into my touch. I press my mouth against his, pinching his nipple more forcefully, and swallow another moan from his lips.

< > < > < >

I am on fire.

He has left the tormenting of my nipples for other pursuits, finding other places on my body that will wrench a cry from my lips. His lips are relentless, as are his hands, and I literally quiver beneath him each time he discovers yet another place on my body I did not know could give me such pleasure. He watches my reactions with an intent that I find both frightening and painfully arousing. I have never had another look at me that way. 

He takes my hand and places it on his arousal, and I feel the heat throb beneath my fingers as I tentatively stroke it. He gives a soft groan of approval and I repeat my action, working his length as he works my own, my confidence and pleasure growing with each growl and gasp from his lips. Slippery oil is poured over my fingers and I coat his length with it. I know what will come next, and I want it, though the thought fills me with a sense of dread.

Fingers touch me again. His knees press my thighs further apart until I am opened before his gaze.  His eyes meet mine once more and hold me. I cannot look away as his fingers press into me, widening me, stretching me, and I cannot help the whimper that escapes my lips. More oil is added to his fingers before he presses them into me again, sliding deeper inside of me, while his hand strokes my length with increasing friction. I can feel his fingers sliding in and out of my body, but I am lost to the pleasure of his hand on my arousal, my body beginning to tighten as my peak grows near. 

His fingers touch something deep inside me and it sends a bolt of pure pleasure through me that makes me cry out, stiffening against him. He makes a pleased noise in the back of his throat, and I feel the same shock of pleasure from deep within me once again. Sometime during this he has added another finger, but I do not care; my need is so close, the pain and pleasure cannot be separated. I am panting, groaning, and pleading my need shamelessly. My thighs tremble, aching from the strain as I arch against him, driving his fingers deeper until he strikes that spot within me again. 

My pleasure is wordless. Breathless, I cry out, the warmth of my seed coats his hand as I shudder beneath him, and my eyes finally close.

< > < >  < >

He is more beautiful when lost to passion than I could have imagined.

His body yields utterly to my touch. He is breathless, flushed, wanton. Full of need that he cannot express beyond the soft moans he gives.

This is how I want him.

I push his hand away from my arousal and slide my body against his, claiming his soft, bruised mouth with my own and plundering its depths. His tongue is no longer shy; it reaches for mine eagerly, and I savor the moment as he returns my kiss.

The shy scholar is gone.

I feel him tense beneath me, his dark eyes so uncertain as I push the tip of my arousal against the opening of his body. I cover his mouth again, silencing his cry of pain as I push into him, claiming his body with mine.  I groan into his mouth as his heat surrounds me with its exquisite tightness, and I close my eyes for a moment, loosing myself to the sensation.  

He is mine.

I hear his muffled whimper and open my eyes again. His own are tightly closed, and I see a single tear has escaped to trail over his cheek. I release his mouth to taste the salty wetness, and to press gentle kisses against his closed eyes. I am careful not to move, though need urges me to. I refuse to hurry, to cause him further pain. He has given me the gift of his body, and I will not misuse it.  I want nothing more than to see him lost in passion again.

“Erestor.” My voice is husky. “Look at me, my dark beauty.”

His eyes flutter open and they are wet.

Something makes me want to reassure him. “It hurts the first time.” My voice is tender, and I stroke his face gently with my fingers. “It will get better.” 

He does not nod or acknowledge my words. I see only pain and confusion in his eyes. I reach between our bodies and find his flagging arousal, still slick with his seed. His mouth opens with a soft gasp as I begin to stroke it, and it hardens slowly beneath my hand. I kiss him again, with slowness, my length still deep in his body as I stroke his arousal. It is firm now in my hand, and his eyes are darkening once more. 

I move back slightly to give me more freedom of movement, my hand never ceasing its slow and steady strokes to his arousal. The first soft moan escapes his lips when I begin to move, timing my careful thrusts with the strokes upon his length. His expressive face wavers between pain and pleasure as I work his body. I angle my thrusts slightly and am rewarded by a sudden cry of pure pleasure, his beautiful face lost in rapture as my length strikes my mark. 

This is what I want.

His body opens to mine and I slide deeper into him, fueling the fire within me with each delicious stroke, his cries coming more frequently as I run my length over my mark again and again. I feel him tighten beneath me and his eyes close, his body arches into mine. He is close, and so am I.

He is so beautiful this way. Had I the power I would hold him on the cusp of his pleasure for eternity, just to see the flush on his cheeks, the rosy redness of his open mouth giving such sweet groans. But I cannot hold back my own pleasure any longer.

It sweeps over me in a wave as I bury my length in his body, the tightness of it sending me quickly and blissfully over the edge. I hear his cries added to my own as he finds his own release, and feel the warmth of his seed coat my hand once more. He shudders beneath me, his dark eyes closed tight, his breathing harsh and ragged.

For a moment, I behold him in his beauty, lost to it.  

How could he think that I did not see him?

< > < > < >

His eyes are green.

Green like the moss on the trees of Mirkwood. Green like new leaves, green like the grass in the meadows. Green like the color of fine emeralds.

And they see me.

-Finis