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b2memB2MeM Challenge: Other Silmarillion-based locations: Tuor & Voronwe huddling for warmth on their way to Gondolin.
Format: Short Story - 700 words
Genre: Slash, PWP
Rating: Explicit Adult
Warnings: none
Characters: Voronwe, Tuor
Pairings: Voronwe/Tuor
Creators' Notes (optional): This really is just a shameless PWP with a tiny flash of angst.
Summary: Voronwe and Tuor 'huddling for warmth' on their way to Gondolin.
Voronwe shivered in the darkness and drew closer to Tuor, who wrapped the Cloak of Ulmo closer around him. They lay together in silence, Tuor’s arm around Voronwe’s slender frame, his head against Voronwe’s shoulder.
The sky was clear above them; and Voronwe thought the stars had never looked so bright and beautiful as that night. Where Tuor was pressed against him, he was warm, and although they lay on the cold ground with only Voronwe’s cloak beneath them, Voronwe was, in a strange and solemn way, happier than he had ever been since his long-ago childhood years.
Tuor’s eyes were closed, his golden head lying against Voronwe. Warm breath caressed Voronwe’s neck and Tuor slept peacefully. Voronwe tightened his arms around him and drifted into reverie under the starlight.
Gondolin was far away; Gondolin was a dream of a fire on a winter’s night; Gondolin, where Doom waited for them both, if ever Voronwe managed to get them there. He could see in his mind her lights and hear her music, the city on a hill, hidden, safe.
Far off in the distance, a wolf howled and Tuor stirred in his arms. Voronwe petted his hair soothingly, “Shh, go back to sleep, it’s only a wolf,” he whispered, wide awake, looking up at the stars.
But Tuor did not go back to sleep; he stirred softly, eyes opening, not moving from their shared warmth. His lips brushed faintly over Voronwe’s throat, and Voronwe could not quite restrain a gasp, his whole body coming alive with warmth at the merest touch of Tuor’s lips.
“Should I not -?” Tuor began, drawing back a little. Voronwe held him, drew him back again.
“You should,” he whispered. And like lightning, their mouths met in the darkness. There was no pretence of shyness; the kiss was entrance, surrender, abandon.
It was like fire raging between them, Voronwe arching against Tuor, scrabbling for contact. Still under the cloak, Tuor climbed on top of Voronwe, pressing their clothed bodies together. Voronwe could feel Tuor’s hardness pressed against his own, stoking the flames. He was burning, burning on the cold ground, and Tuor burning with him, hands in his hair, drawing their mouths together again, the only place where skin touched skin.
Tuor was moving against him, and they were swallowing each other’s moans as they kissed. This was no gentle lovemaking, this was desire sparking into need and burning out of control without warning.
Clothes were little hinderance. Voronwe reached between them, removing as few as possible in the cold, but mad to feel Tuor against him, for their shafts to touch and rub together. At last he touched Tuor between their bodies, and Tuor went still of a sudden, desperate need written on his face. Voronwe brought them both into his hand, stroking both pricks together. His other hand wrapped around Tuor’s shoulders, holding him close.
Tuor arched into him, biting his neck to keep from moaning aloud. The small pain was intensely pleasurable - Voronwe could hardly keep quiet himself but settled for panting harshly against Tuor’s ear.
It did not take long to reach the end for them both. Tuor came first by a breath, his face buried against Voronwe’s shoulder, and at the feel of his release, warm and wet on his hand, Voronwe could no longer hold back and came himself, lips pressed together hard, eyelids fluttering, toes curling.
He came back to himself with a sigh, eyes opening to see Tuor looking over at him, a warmth and a tenderness in his eyes. A soft smile crossed his lips as he snuggled into Voronwe.
Voronwe wiped his hand off and deftly tucked them both back into their clothing, then curled against Tuor, warm and sated, both arms holding him close. He took a moment to memorise Tuor’s face, peaceful and calm, and above him the ever-shining stars, heart struck by foreboding. If all went ill, if lust was not in fact love, if friendship was not dear, if their errand went astray, yet until the end of Arda, he would have this moment, perfect warmth in the bitter cold, perfect stillness within the chaos.
Format: Short Story - 700 words
Genre: Slash, PWP
Rating: Explicit Adult
Warnings: none
Characters: Voronwe, Tuor
Pairings: Voronwe/Tuor
Creators' Notes (optional): This really is just a shameless PWP with a tiny flash of angst.
Summary: Voronwe and Tuor 'huddling for warmth' on their way to Gondolin.
Voronwe shivered in the darkness and drew closer to Tuor, who wrapped the Cloak of Ulmo closer around him. They lay together in silence, Tuor’s arm around Voronwe’s slender frame, his head against Voronwe’s shoulder.
The sky was clear above them; and Voronwe thought the stars had never looked so bright and beautiful as that night. Where Tuor was pressed against him, he was warm, and although they lay on the cold ground with only Voronwe’s cloak beneath them, Voronwe was, in a strange and solemn way, happier than he had ever been since his long-ago childhood years.
Tuor’s eyes were closed, his golden head lying against Voronwe. Warm breath caressed Voronwe’s neck and Tuor slept peacefully. Voronwe tightened his arms around him and drifted into reverie under the starlight.
Gondolin was far away; Gondolin was a dream of a fire on a winter’s night; Gondolin, where Doom waited for them both, if ever Voronwe managed to get them there. He could see in his mind her lights and hear her music, the city on a hill, hidden, safe.
Far off in the distance, a wolf howled and Tuor stirred in his arms. Voronwe petted his hair soothingly, “Shh, go back to sleep, it’s only a wolf,” he whispered, wide awake, looking up at the stars.
But Tuor did not go back to sleep; he stirred softly, eyes opening, not moving from their shared warmth. His lips brushed faintly over Voronwe’s throat, and Voronwe could not quite restrain a gasp, his whole body coming alive with warmth at the merest touch of Tuor’s lips.
“Should I not -?” Tuor began, drawing back a little. Voronwe held him, drew him back again.
“You should,” he whispered. And like lightning, their mouths met in the darkness. There was no pretence of shyness; the kiss was entrance, surrender, abandon.
It was like fire raging between them, Voronwe arching against Tuor, scrabbling for contact. Still under the cloak, Tuor climbed on top of Voronwe, pressing their clothed bodies together. Voronwe could feel Tuor’s hardness pressed against his own, stoking the flames. He was burning, burning on the cold ground, and Tuor burning with him, hands in his hair, drawing their mouths together again, the only place where skin touched skin.
Tuor was moving against him, and they were swallowing each other’s moans as they kissed. This was no gentle lovemaking, this was desire sparking into need and burning out of control without warning.
Clothes were little hinderance. Voronwe reached between them, removing as few as possible in the cold, but mad to feel Tuor against him, for their shafts to touch and rub together. At last he touched Tuor between their bodies, and Tuor went still of a sudden, desperate need written on his face. Voronwe brought them both into his hand, stroking both pricks together. His other hand wrapped around Tuor’s shoulders, holding him close.
Tuor arched into him, biting his neck to keep from moaning aloud. The small pain was intensely pleasurable - Voronwe could hardly keep quiet himself but settled for panting harshly against Tuor’s ear.
It did not take long to reach the end for them both. Tuor came first by a breath, his face buried against Voronwe’s shoulder, and at the feel of his release, warm and wet on his hand, Voronwe could no longer hold back and came himself, lips pressed together hard, eyelids fluttering, toes curling.
He came back to himself with a sigh, eyes opening to see Tuor looking over at him, a warmth and a tenderness in his eyes. A soft smile crossed his lips as he snuggled into Voronwe.
Voronwe wiped his hand off and deftly tucked them both back into their clothing, then curled against Tuor, warm and sated, both arms holding him close. He took a moment to memorise Tuor’s face, peaceful and calm, and above him the ever-shining stars, heart struck by foreboding. If all went ill, if lust was not in fact love, if friendship was not dear, if their errand went astray, yet until the end of Arda, he would have this moment, perfect warmth in the bitter cold, perfect stillness within the chaos.
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Date: 2015-03-12 12:19 am (UTC)no subject
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