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With many of the Elves in Lindon preferring the night over the day, it is not unusual for some to go to bed in the early hours of the morning. Glorfindel tends not to be one of them, but he has nothing against it to take the night shift. With a nod, he greets the early risers - the cooks, the servants and those heading to shift change. Beyond the walls, the city slowly wakes. There's enough to be done that sleeping the day away feels unwise.
Glorfindel slinks into the rooms, shutting the door behind him.
They are not his own; his rooms are located at the other end of the second floor. Not here, tucked away into a quiet corner. A part of him berates himself for coming here at all. For a moment, it looks like his arrival went unnoticed, but a second later, Erestor steers.
"Look what the morning sun dragged in," Erestor drawls, closing his eyes after getting a peek.
Shuffled beneath the blankets, he doesn't look like he wants to move just yet.
"I go away, if you want," Glorfindel offers. This thing between them is strange ... and new, recent enough to feel unsure of his welcome.
It doesn't help that Glorfindel can't seem to grasp what Erestor does all day; the Elf is rarely forthcoming about anything of a personal nature.
"Nnhh, no, I don't mind," Erestor says. He stretches, revealing he slept bare-chested as always. "I meant it when I said that you are welcome in my bed whenever you want."
The last part is said with a hungry expression, the only kind of smile Glorfindel will receive. There's nothing soft about Erestor, certainly not when Glorfindel undresses swiftly and lets his clothes fall to the floor when he climbs onto the bed.
The sheets separate them, for now, but it feels good, straddling Erestor's legs.
Glorfindel's hands end up on his chest, fascinated by the collection of scars on his skin. He still hasn't found them all, let alone gotten the stories behind them. Some scars make sense, cuts and old scraps where armour broke. Marks of arrows and stab wounds. The row of teeth on Erestor's shoulder, too large to be anything human, Glorfindel traces but shies away from asking about. Just like the tattoos, old and new, which describe a history Glorfindel isn't privy to.
Compared to Erestor, a violent history of centuries carved into skin, Glorfindel feels naked. Even before his death, he did not carry many scars, and Mandos healed anything. So Erestor's hands find only smooth skin, too soft and sensitive to be truly real.
"Eager today?" Erestor asks after they break their kiss. He's still on his back with Glorfindel bending over him, now slowly rutting his hips against the rising bulge beneath the sheets. "What do you want, Laurefindel?"
Erestor has his hands placed on Glorfindel's thighs, and the rough texture of his hands already drives him crazy. A lifetime of work and war turned them into maps, into tools Erestor deploys to forge his way through the harsh world outside. It always feels like nothing fazes him, certainly not the naked Elf on top of him.
The curious thing is ... Glorfindel likes to be given a direction. He feels more comfortable with a setting he can work with, but taking the lead and choosing for himself turns him shy. Too many options, too many wondrous choices to pick from.
It's even more true inside the bedroom.
For this entire idea of sleeping with male Elves is ... new. Fascinating and exciting, a far cry from the solitary life he led in Gondolin, where he had not even come across the idea.
"I want you inside me," Glorfindel says. Already, his breath turns short, and another kiss steals a low moan from his lips.
"So, like always?" Erestor asks, humming beneath his breath. He looks pleased. They had established early on that Glorfindel likes their dynamic in a certain way.
Experiments had shown that Glrofindel prefers to have Erestor's cock inside him, caring little to switch things around. A high note leaves his mouth when Erestor twists their position with a quick manoeuvre, acting like the confident battlefield captain he pretends not to be, here in Lindon.
"I could have just made you ride me, but unfortunately, we don't have time for that," Erestor murmurs into his neck. It's so easy for him to direct Glorfindel onto his stomach, finding no resistance at all. Not even when he presses a finger against the entrance. "We need to be quick about it. I have a meeting with Elrond."
Which was still two hours away, but Glorfindel learned that Erestor likes to collect the opinions of certain individuals beforehand. Those who have no voice in Gil-galad's council. Elves who had followed Celebrimbor and his family, even if they had lived in Lindon before the fall of Eregion.
"Please." Glorfindel buries his hands in the pillows, the fingers entering him banishing all thoughts about Elven Politics.
Erestor is ... simple and straightforward, compared to the political climate in Gil-galad's court. It's one attribute that Glorfindel likes about him.
That, and ... "Ahh."
The fullness Glorfindel experiences every time. The pace makes his head dizzy sometimes, how quickly his body opens up for Erestor. His heart beats faster, anticipating the stretch. One day, Erestor vowed to take his time, doing nothing but use his mouth and fingers on Glorfindel for the entire night.
Glorfindel is not sure if he's going to survive the experience.
But that had been his thought when Erestor approached him in the first place, a few weeks ago.
The thrusts are fast and welcoming, driving deeper into Glorfindel than anything else he has ever felt. The hands he adores so much stay away from his hair, a request Glorfindel hasn't found the courage to voice just yet, but they push his shoulders down. The other hand stays on his hip until Glorfindel arches his back, his thighs shaking with the effort to deal with the depth of arousal crashing over him.
"That good, yes?" Erestor groans and moves faster. He sounds like a craftsman admiring his handiwork.
It's like these hands are stitching Glorfindel back together, carving decorations into his skin through bite marks and bruises on his hips as they drag Glorfindel back. His head falls into the bed, the noise of his moans barely muffled.
There's no way Glorfindel can answer verbally, not in coherent sentences.
It's too overwhelming, but he welcomes the way Erestor holds him. It's harsh and demanding, but at least he's safe. Here, Glorfindel doesn't have to care about the rumours and the whispers. The expectations laid upon him as the only Elf to ever come East since the End of the First Age.
He can let himself fall, at the small price of granting Erestor free rein over his body.
The idea should scare him.
Instead, Glorfindel finds himself missing the Elf immediately when Erestor finishes coming and pulls away to get dressed. The Noldor grants himself a minute where he stays on top of Glorfindel, breathing hard and still buried inside his ass. Just long enough to grow soft.
Glorfindel wants him to stay, wants to ask for a second round. He misses the weight, the hands on his skin. Mournful, he watches Erestor clean himself up and dress for the day. The robes appear simple; they are not made to draw attention. Erestor's entire appearance looks mundane. Until a battle calls for sword and armour, those he wears like a second skin.
"Can we do it again when you come back?" Glorfindel asks, as if the trail of wetness pouring from his backside doesn't exist.
It marks his soul far more than the bruises Erestor left behind.
Erestor grins, "I'm never going to say no when you beg so pretty."
He leaves before Glorfindel can ask again. Before Glorfindel can find out what he has to do to stoke the fire in Erestor's eyes until the glimmer turns once again into an inferno, brazen and willing to ruin the hero of Gondolin.