Elronduil drabble

“I have the lingering sense I’m doing something I oughtn’t be,” Thranduil said with some amusement when he managed to separate from Elrond to breathe again, which took several efforts at pulling out of Elrond’s chasing kisses. Elrond blinked stupidly at him, his mind admittedly not presently running on all four wheels.

“You think your council would disapprove?” he asked, beginning to gather an argument. Thranduil let out a brief, sudden burst of laughter and his lips twisted into a smile.

“I think Glorfindel would disapprove,” he said. “Surely there must be more pomp and ceremony involved before touching a son of Eärendil this way.” Understanding spread across Elrond’s face at the thrust of Thranduil’s jest—for he assumed it was, though perhaps not in whole—and his eyes narrowed fractionally.

“This son of Eärendil shall be most unhappy if you cease touching him for Glorfindel’s sake,” he replied at once, trying not to put real annoyance into his voice as he climbed pointedly onto Thranduil’s lap. “You may do whatever I say you may do,” he added more imperiously, cupping Thranduil’s face between his hands.

“Very well, my lord,” Thranduil demurred easily, that smile still tugging at his mouth. Elrond could not decide if he was pleased or not by that title, so he simply sealed his lips over Thranduil’s again, and moved the king’s hand where he wanted it best, and Thranduil generously obliged him.

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