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Closer to the Last	By : ebonykain Category: +Second Age > Slash - Male/Male Views: 3506 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: LotR and all of Middle Earth are not mine, so I make notzzzzing from this; they belong to that amazing linguist John Ronald Reuel Tolkien.

Chapter List
- 1-Closer to the Last
- 1
Originally written in April 2004. This was one of those stories written pretty much as a test to myself—to see if I could write it, and convincingly well. I’m not really that into the incest thing, but an online-friend at the time was. This was sort of a gift for her.

Disclaimer: Neither Thranduil nor Legolas are mine; they belong to that amazing linguist John Ronald Reuel Tolkien. This story was written as an experiment in writing, for fun, and as a gift to a fellow writer who supported my slow entrance into the world of online fandoms.

Closer to the Last

We should not be doing this. Both of us know this.

“Ah…ah… please…”

Each time we say this is the last. And yet when the forest sleeps we find ourselves here.

“Ai! Yes… please… don’t stop…”

In the morning we’ll blame the wine. We’ll blame the full moon. We’ve never blamed each other, but we’ll blame ourselves. His pleas and whimpers fill the room as they have done countless times before.

“Ah… Ada…”

It is not frowned upon to take a second cousin as a consort or mate. And while not exactly smiled upon to take a first cousin, it happens often and is accepted. Especially among nobility and royalty. But closer than that has always been forbidden. Siblings should not go to bed together. But it happens, especially among twins because of the close bond twinning causes. Parents should never take their children to bed. I am his father…

“A…Ada… yes… there, please… more…”

…This is wrong.

“Please, please, please…”

But his body is warm, and his breath is sweet like spun sugar. His skin smells like pine, even as my own father did, while tasting of honeysuckle like his mother. His body is young and strong—a sapling that wind and rain can push and beat at yet never succeed in breaking. He bends in the wind, spine arching when—after hours of kissing, tasting, petting and teasing—I finally wrap a hand around his straining arousal. The sound that erupts from his throat is that of an injured animal. Had I no experience with him already I would have worried I had hurt him.

But I could never do such a thing. Drive him to insanity with pleasure, yes. I do that even though we must both be mad already. He is finally beyond words now. Incoherent moans, gasps, sighs, those are safer than words. Should anyone pass by outside my door and hear him crying words of passion from my bedchamber, I do not dare to think on the consequences.

Watery blue-green eyes look up into mine. Something like the calling of the sea jolts through me, but the sea is here. His eyes. His sweat. His mouth is pliant and sweet under mine. Tastes of the wine we drank by the fireside. The moan vibrates between us, I do not know from whom it came. His body welcomes two slick fingers easily before gripping hard and this time I know I am the one who moaned.

“Ada…” breathed against my lips. Again against my neck, “Ada…” before he sucks hard. I add a third finger as he works to mark my throat, branding me. It was not just a liking for the fashion that caused me to begin wearing only high-collared robes. I always take care not to mark him, my little Greenleaf, but he cannot control himself. I cannot find it within me to fault him for it. I love his passion. I feed on it.

As his body welcomed my fingers, he welcomes me. The long slide in to soft, satiny heat is easy. He arches his back again. Far enough I always worry it will snap, but it never does. A sapling in the storm. And what am I, then? The storm, buffeting and beating at him with pleasure? But I feel storm-tossed as well. Our passion for each other is the storm. Uncontrolled, unchecked, without reason, without restraint. Impossible to deny.

But we fight it all the same. His cries of ecstasy are eerily similar to his cries of battle. I do all I can to ring more from him. I drink of his pleasure as a vampire feeds off blood. I fear I live for it. His fingernails rake across my back and I feel the rivulets of blood trickle down. The pain, the knowledge of being marked, and the scream that rips from his throat as he comes are what bring me over the edge of pleasure to crash down on rocks below.

I am an Elf. Older than some, younger than others. A king. But still, only an Elf. I understand this when our harsh breathing echoes loudly in my chambers, yet the room seems almost too quiet without my son’s cries. I understand. My son, younger than most, older than a few, a sapling still will bend in the storm. Fighting to keep root below the earth while bending with the wind and standing stronger and more beautiful with the passing of the tempest. For him, there will be many, many storms to come.

As our breathing returns to normal, he smiles, eyes half closed. I kiss his mouth, almost chaste after what we have just finished. I kiss his throat, his collarbones; feel his heartbeat slow down in his chest beneath my lips. Like some great cat, I lap at his chest and stomach, cleaning his seed from his body. He tastes of the sea.

Again it feels as though my heart pauses. A dull ache behind my rib cage. Here in my arms, under my tongue my son lays quietly. My son, who smells of pines deep in the woods and tastes of honeysuckle and the sea. A sapling that will bend in the storm and not break while the gale forces me closer and closer to the edge of a precipice. I press my ear to his chest, wanting to hear his heart beat. But instead I hear waves crashing on rocks at the bottom of the cliff.

He will continue to grow. I pray that he is the kind of tree that bends in the storm even when it has become ancient. I am only an Elf. Older than some. A king. A father.

This storm will destroy me.
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Closer to the Last