Elrohir stared, entranced, at the line of vivid red-purple ovals that marched down his brother’s neck and onto the smoothly muscled expanse of bare chest.
The morning sun flooded the chamber, warming both marble-pale skin and ebony hair with a golden glow, and still Elladan lingered deep in well-sated reverie, his grey eyes open, yet clouded and remote, his mind still wandering in some fanciful dreamscape, his kiss-swollen lips still curled in the smallest of smiles...
His tokens of surrender still without signature.
Moving slowly, as though drawn by some force outside his own volition, Elrohir slid closer, lowering his mouth again over the largest and most vibrant of the bruises, sinking sharp teeth into already tender skin, leaving an imprint identical to the love bites that so often graced his own throat.
A surprised hiss told him that Elladan had at last returned from the curious limbo of elven rest, even before the lazy drawl curled through the elf-knight’s mind.
And what would you be doing now, tôr dithen?
Elrohir raised his head to meet a tarnished silver gaze that sparkled with amusement and a hint of some thing more. Sliding his knee between legs that again parted willingly, he pressed a fleeting kiss to Elladan’s lips before bending once more to his task.
“I am signing my masterpiece, tôren.”
