GloriaComandini/QueEnFan_Corpus · Datasets at Hugging Face

'Dear Lord Elrohir,

Your presence would be greatly appreciated at breakfast; to be taken on the rooftop terrace at the private residence of Lord Artelwë of the Noldor, at just after 7 o’clock in the morning, two weeks hence.'

“Ah, it seems I have a date,” Elrohir said, trying to conceal the amusement that crept on his face. Though Celebrían quirked an eyebrow at her son. “But seven in the morning is a bit early,” he said, re-reading the short invitation.

“Seven in the morning? That is a bit early,” she said, trying her hardest not to peer at the gold lettering that skimmed effortlessly across the paper. “Who is it with?”

“I’m not telling,” Elrohir grinned and held the invite to his chest so his mother couldn’t see.

Celebrían rolled her eyes and shook her head as her son smugly walked off, still momentarily holding the letter to his chest before reading it quickly a third time and carefully slotting it back into its envelope.

The party swelled and ebbed as all festivities among the elves were want, with people breaking out into mirthful song, fantastical tales of ages long past were recited, more food than one could think possible was continually served to the guests, of which some meats, fruits and vegetables were never seen before within Middle Earth, and copious amount of wine, mead and ale were poured into every vaguely empty glass to ensure the guests had more than their fill.

Elrohir had been making polite small talk with three persons who had once resided within Imladris, and they had been fervently discussing the gardens when the exchange had come to its natural conclusion. Elrohir had turned to find a new conversation partner when he unexpectedly met with Lord Artelwë, who seemed equally as surprised to see him.

“My Lord,” Artelwë greeted after looking momentarily stunned.

Elrohir had tried to hide the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth, and he folded his arms, leaning his weight on one leg. “One would think you are trying to contest for my attention, Lord Artelwë.”

“Oh, really? And who would they be?” he said and sipped his wine, now clear yet tinged yellow, different to the red he drank previously.

Elrohir quirked an eyebrow and inhaled slowly. “Seven o’clock in the morning is an odd time for a date, is it not?”

“I never specified that it was a date, Lord Elrohir,” Artelwë said sleekly, keeping his gaze steady, though Elrohir narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips. The tension between the pair gathered and both seemed to wait to see who would break first as they held one another's intense scrutiny.

“May I request your presence out on the terrace, where we may speak alone?” Elrohir finally said in a tone with a hint of ice.

Artelwë’s face flickered with amusement once more, and he nodded, graciously and wordlessly accepting the invitation. Elrohir turned swiftly and headed for the wide-open doors that allowed a sweet, warm breeze to blow in through the party, where wisteria and roses entwined themselves in archways above the frames.

As he walked effortlessly through the celebrations, Elrohir plucked a glass of plum-coloured wine from the tray of a passing servant and took a large sip as he continued outside, which elicited a grin from Artelwë at both the boldness and effortless nature that Elrohir seemed to possess, as if he danced between groups of people, tables, and chairs. Leading them both onto the terrace, Elrohir stepped aside to a secluded area and turned to speak with Artelwë once more.

“What I would like to -” Elrohir began, his sentence quickly being cut off as he crashed backwards, colliding with the stone wall of the citadel in a dimly lit corner

Artelwë had wasted no time in seizing the opportunity of seclusion to roughly push Elrohir against the wall and kiss him with such an intense passion that neither had felt for a long time. Artlwë towered over Elrohir, but Elrohir had no problem in draping his arms up and over his shoulders, not caring about tipping his wine glass and spilling the contents over the flagstones while Artelwë’s free hand clawed at Elrohir’s hip with an amorous desperation.

The fervid kiss enveloped them both and their wine-tainted tongues slipped against each other, Artelwë’s body pressing hard against Elrohir’s, who groaned into the blond’s mouth. Artelwë groaned back in return and pulled his lips away, moving them to whisper into Elrohir’s ear.

“Let me be the only thing on your mind tonight -” he moaned, rolling his hips against Elrohir, “- I want all of your attention.”

“Fuck,” Elrohir managed to whisper between hard breaths, feeling the solid erection pressing against his stomach.

Artelwë grinned and sucked Elrohir's bottom lip, then slipped his hand under Elrohir's thigh and lifted him. In silent reply, Elrohir then wrapped his legs around Artelwë's waist, his own straining cock now desperately seeking attention. Clinging to each other they kissed with soft and sweet lips, panting and moaning wantonly as Artelwë ground himself against Elrohir's ass.

But as quickly as it had begun, Artelwë took a small step backwards, allowing Elrohir to slip back to his feet before making more space between them and draining his wine glass. Elrohir floundered, wondering what he had done wrong to illicit such a halt in proceedings, and gawped at Artelwë in disbelief.

"Seven o'clock in the morning, two weeks from now," Artelwë said, his eyes dropping to judge the outline of Elrohir's hard cock in his hose. "I'll look forward to seeing you." And with that, he smirked and returned to the party, leaving Elrohir leaning back against the wall and breathing hard.

Standing still in a daze, trying to piece together what had just transpired, Elrohir palmed his erection and leaned his head back against the smooth stone wall. "Fuck," he moaned again.

CHAPTER 2 FINAL NOTES

[NONE]

CHAPTER 3 TITLE

When A Date Is Not A Date

CHAPTER 3 INITIAL NOTES

Dialogue heavy chapter, but trying to keep it all as real as possible. Please bear with me, it will get more interesting in upcoming installments!

CHAPTER 3

Normally on such an early morning, even on a clear summer day, the temperature would have been enough to chill the skin and make all the tiny hairs on his arms rise up. But in Valinor, it was always perfect, though Elrohir did wonder if he would begin to miss cool spring mornings where frost clung to the crisp grass or an autumn start where rolling fog lay a thick blanket across the lands. Yet this morning seemed pleasant and flawless as any other. The sun's rays crept over from the East, highlighting the sides of buildings and allowing the simple joys of early morning shadows to slip away as the day drew on, and all manner of people began to stir in the fair city of Tirion as Arien’s warmth kissed their skin.

One of the endless servants Elrohir had so far encountered called for him a little before a quarter to seven, and with an impeccable air of propriety, they escorted Elrohir to Lord Artelwë’s residence. This wasn’t a date , he had to remind himself. Artelwë had said so.

The servant stopped by a gated courtyard, whose perimeter fence ran around a white-walled house, leaving ample space for a fountain and all manner of fragrant flowers, bushes, short trees, and creeping vines. It looked like no architecture he had ever seen in Middle-Earth before. At least not in the parts of the world he had visited.

“Lord Artelwë will be on the roof terrace, Your Grace.” the servant said, indicating the topmost roof in the center of the building, where a trellised pergola could be seen, perhaps under which he would be taking breakfast.

Elrohir bowed in thanks to the servant and made his way to the roof, with more servants offering polite greetings along the way. Once he stepped out on the terrace he took in the setting: a low table covered in various platters of fruits, nuts, breads, meats, honey, and yoghurt, with jugs of fruit juice and water. Decorated cushions were spread liberally across the ornate rugs which allowed for relaxed seating, and in their midst lounged Lord Artelwë, barefoot and supping from a shallow, duck-egg blue cup.

Breathing a small sigh of relief at his own casual dress, Elrohir stepped forward into the dappled light that shone through the hanging clematis.

"Ah, Lord Elrohir -" the other man smiled and extended a slender hand. "Please, take a seat."

Elrohir could almost hear the stupid innuendo his brother would whisper in his ear. Yes, take a seat, Elrohir. His lap is looking so inviting.

"Are we expecting company?" Elrohir asked smoothly, resting amongst the cushions opposite his host and ignoring the thought that had crossed his mind. "I think you may have overestimated my appetite."

"I think I have judged your appetite well enough," Artelwë smirked and gently placed his cup onto one of the few spaces on the table. "I hope there is enough here that pleases you."

Elrohir raised an eyebrow, unsure if Artelwë was being deliberately suggestive, or if his own mind was too sodden with humorous perversions. In truth, though he disguised it well, Artelwë was a little nervous. It wasn't every day that a person could sit having breakfast with the heir of so many notable and heroic persons.

"Tea? Or would you like a cold drink?" Artelwë asked conversationally.

"Tea would be fine, thank you."

He hated to admit it, but without several large glasses of alcohol inside him, Elrohir found that much of his brash confidence had been subdued. It was Elladan who was the bolder, more outspoken twin. And in his mild awkwardness, Elrohir felt himself suddenly and uncomfortably become aware of all his limbs.

"So, er, do you invite many people around for... breakfast?" Elrohir asked curiously, ignoring the heavy, awkward feeling.

"Never. Nor do I often host guests for private meals at any other time, if you're curious."

Pots of steaming tea soon appeared and were gracefully poured by well-versed servants. But Elrohir was more intrigued by the gleam in Artelwë's eye.