The Hands, The Hands

The Hands, The Hands
By Mieren

Vexation was too timid a term for what Elrond was feeling at that particular moment. The treaties had been tedious at best, and he was the only one that seemed impatient to have the completed. Erestor’s tardiness hadn’t helped settle his mind. In fact, it only made matters worse that he seemed to be the only person at the table save Glorfindel that was being wholly ignored. Frustrated, he’d made the mistake of glancing out the window to spot the twins doing aerial acrobatics with Thranduil’s brat.

He called a halt to the meeting late into the night when his stomach growled pointedly, reminding him that his mental exhaustion was extending to physical proportions. Sing ing abruptly, he announced that the meeting was over for the day, stating that dinner would be served in exactly thirty minutes. He swept towards his own quarters to clean up, following two places ahead of the dispersing group.

In his quarters, a set of mahogany rooms embellished with a little floral carved in the corners and a few painted repasts hanging from the walls, he stripped his clothes with speed not designed for grace and threw the fabric into the corner, the silks making no noise upon impact with the hardwood. After washing in some extravagant gold edged marble tub, already filled with some floral mixture scented soap, he stood free to dry. At the sink, he worked his face into a lather and rid himself of his shadow, the whiskers a constant, daily reminder of the mortal blood in his veins. He idly wondered if the twins had the same problem, or if the increased elfish blood from their mother had rendered them immune to the little irritation.

He dressed in white leggings with a navy tunic embroidered in silver, contrasting harshly with the greens and grays the Mirkwood elves would be wearing. Glorfindel surprised him in the hall, claiming neither realm by sporting maroon leggings and a violet vest. No one had the nerve to say it, but he was something of an eyesore. The balrog slayer knew it too, the clashing colors intentionally combined to make sure that everyone would more than be aware of his presence. It was a sure fire way to keep the twins away from him at dinner. He already stood out now too much as it was for them to find something else they had to do to keep him hidden. Three elves had fallen victim to the rapacious twins that morning alone, and he refused to be the next target. He was tempted to add a lime green smock just to see if anyone would break elfin decency and comment.

The dining room was a spectacular sight, the long rectangle covered in thick rolling navy blue velvet, embroidered in ringlets of silver. Similar oak chairs, glazed darkly and studded with silver, had roils of cloth between the rungs of the back and down the sides. To complement the extravagant tablecloth, blue velvet ran blanketed the seat and sides of the chair, running to the ground as well.

Elrond took his seat at one head of the table, his clothes almost identical to the décor. He’d done so deliberately to make the Mirkwood elves uncomfortable. His eyesore of a seneschal sat to his right, flanking him. Erestor sat to his side, bringing him closer to the middle of the lengthy table. The Mirkwood advisor immediately sat across from him and their eyes caught. The argument of the day threatened to recur. Thranduil took the other head, motioning for his son to sit to his left. Legolas obediently took his place, his presence sharply calling to attention the fact that the twins were missing.

All was going well, and negotiations had been restarted along with supper, when Elrond felt the seat of his chair shift. He looked to his lap, trying to figure out what was going on. He couldn’t see anything past the thick velvet. A circle was lowered from the center of the seat, leaving the rest of the chair intact. He shifted his balance to hold himself on the front of his thighs, sweeping his feet a little to the side to determine what was going on beneath him. His booted foot encountered entwined forms slipping between his legs under the cover of velvet.

He smirked at their efforts. Seated oddly thus or not, they had no way to get his leggings off. He swept his robes to the back when he had sat down and lamented their presence in front as it covered questing fingers that stroked his penis with a single-minded intent. He’d just have to ignore whatever it was they thought they were doing. They’d never manage to get his leggings off.

Off had never occurred to the meddlesome twins. Lying with his feet towards his father, he lifted his knees, allowing his brother to sit on his lap and lie with his back on his thighs. Annoyed with the cloth that separated him from his target through the tampered chair, he lifted his dagger and very carefully cut through the cloth, baring most of his father’s posterior.

Elrond went very still when he felt the razor sharp dagger removing a thatch of cloth and exposing his backside. When he stood up, his robes would conceal the destroyed garment, but that couldn’t protect him now. He expected fingers, or maybe a tongue, not a cool slicked sphere to be pressed into him. The object wasn’t removed, but another was added. Followed by a third. The mystery of the little spheres was solved when Glorfindel made an idle question.

“What happened to the bowel of cherries on this end of the table?”

Erestor shrugged. “The twins ran off with them earlier. Probably filled up on them and decided not to show for dinner.”

He had no idea how right he was. Elrond’s main concern in life was keeping his breathing steady so as to not arouse suspicion that his twin sons were stuffing him with fruit.

One of the globes inside him burst, juices dribbling from his tight passage. A tongue was quick to lap at his opening. The suckling twin opened his legs wide in invitation. Crunching a cherry in his fist, the bottom knight slicked himself and shoved his length into his brother. Pierced by a fruity member, the suckling elf twirled his tongue around a trapped cherry, and squeezed Elrond’s length with a little more force.

Elrond reached for his wine and took a few deep swallows, hoping that the alcohol might give an excuse for the pinking of his ear tips. There had been no slowing in the tidbits forced into his opening, and the elf lord was beginning to feel very full. Unable to stroke and unsettle the cloth above his hand, the twin gripping him treated him to a series of squeezes. The tongue and lips moved frantically at his opening, lapping up the juice of broken berries while continuingly adding more. Somehow, he managed to keep his face emotionless, even adding to the political battle on occasion, though never more than a word or two at a time. It looked as he was going to remain unnoticed.

“Do you smell cherries?” Glorfindel asked, frowning at the scent of the absent fruit.

“Scented bathwater,” Elrond said offhandedly, giving the seneschal his best puzzled look. “Why are you so obsessed over so little a detail?” The seneschal shrugged and let the matter drop.

Thranduil wasn’t an idiot. Cherries were missing from one end of the table, the one furthest from him. The bowl on his end seemed a little more aromatic than was normal for the fruit. Add in that Elrond was looking more uncomfortable than he generally did and only an idiot wouldn’t realize that something was up. A glance at his son let him know that the young blond was suspicious too. Reaching for a condiment for his salad, Legolas overturned Thranduil’s napkin filled with silverware for the main course, apologizing profusely. Giving his son a flat look, he leaned over to scoop up the fallen knives and forks, flipping up the edge of the tablecloth for a second to glimpse beneath. What he saw nearly caused him to fall out of his chair.

One twin lie thrown back, pumping into his brother’s body, the impaled elf resting across the upraised thighs with fist full of cherries and his face planted in Elrond’s rear. The prone elf caught his gaze and waggled his fingers in greeting with a little smirk. Fighting to keep his expressions smooth, he sat up slowly, giving the siwareware to a nearby maid. She bowed her head demurely, promising to get him a new set.

Excusing himself from the table, Thranduil made his way to the furthest reaches of the Last Homely House. Burying his face in the thick drapes near an arching stone window, he laughed uproariously, shoulders heaving. He was very red in the face by the time he was through, trembling visibly as he returned to the table. The advisors looked at him strangely, but no one said anything.

“Ada, are you alright?” Legolas asked expectedly.

“Swallowed something wrong,” Thranduil managed.

Elrond barely noticed his absence. His attention was focused entirely on the cherries that filled him to the brim. One of his sons apparently figured out that he could take no more when a tiny red ball slipped halfway back out after insertion. He caught the escaping fruit with his teeth, pinching it open so he would have the excuse to lap up the juices. Swallowing the damaged fruit, he swept his tongue into his father to look for another. After some time, the morsels were harder and harder to find and the tongue had to delve deeper than it had before, brushing against something caused sparks to fly in Elrond’s vision. Sensing his tension the hand on his erection tightened brutally. The accumulation of feelings pushed him over the edge and he came into his leggings.

The face pulled away and he raised his hips carefully as the cut-way section was replaced, hidden clamps holding it there. The combined twins pulled away, still erect. Bypassing the seneschal and the advisors, they went straight for the elves that knew that they were there, teasing toes belonging to the royal Mirkwood family. As nonchalantly as possible, Thranduil and Legolas scooted closer to the table until the wood was flattened to their chests.

A twin settled on either blond, unlacing leggings and pulling turgid lengths free. Swiftly, silently, they brought the two royal blonds’ to completion. Stroking themselves as well, the four climaxed as silently as they were able given the public location. Lapping their partners’ clean, the twins tucked them away and redid their lacings.

After a few hours, dinner wound down and those gathered excused themselves until only the elf lord remained. Free to yell, Elrond yanked back the edge of the tablecloth to let the pair have it, only to discover that they weren’t there, somehow finding a way to vanish into thin air. Mystified, he dropped the cloth, kicking the chair he’d been sitting in. The hard seat had a hole shorn it in, held aloft by four swiveling latches that had been affixed to the chair beneath. Cursing, he vowed that his sons would never be granted the privilege of building anything ever again. The sheer amount of furniture in the Last Homely Home provided by the pair made him shiver in dread. The place had to be a virtual mine field.

Elrond squirmed a bit strangely as he walked, fairly certain that the raven rats hadn’t managed to find every piece inserted into him. And as much as the thought disturbed him, he was certain they’d done it on purpose.

Father long gone, the twins lowered from the underside of the table. Their father had been scanning the floor, not the table bottom. The tablecloth had done the rest. Grinning, they vanished too.

End
Don’t know where this came from, but still R&R. Do it, or I shall sic the twins on you too.