Fevered
By Oakenshield
Heated skin, incandescent in the darkness. Strong fingers, everywhere and
nowhere.
A wet tongue and dry lips. Nipping, licking, sucking, probing...
Gasping, groaning, a gutteral cry. Bodies quivering in perfect parellel,
melting, joining...
Sable twining with gold in intricate tangles on sweaty flesh. The flushed
skin of a half-mortal against the glowing skin of the Elda.
The ghost of hands upon his hips.
A searing pain, hotter than the fire of Morgoth's demon, burning as much,
scarring as deep. A slip, a slide, a shudder.
Elrond's name upon his lips.
And he awoke, altogether too early, and altogether too late.
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