The Librarian 12/
LotR
NC17
Summery: Erestor = Erestor! w/ Glorfindel & Melpomean
Warnings: BDSM, kink,
EXTRA WARNING this chapter: violence, boundary issues, ineptitude that
transgresses into non con – not sexy, not a 'how too', just an elf who
discovered fire and gunpowder on the same day. Not planning on getting this
dark again. If this sort of thing squicks you, read the spoiler summery
here and then pick up next chapter.
Disclaimer: All LotR characters and settings are the exclusive property of
the Tolkien estate. I do not have permission to use them.
Summery: Erestor finds a crossroad darker than he imagined.
Feedback: Please – I'm using the comments to beta this mess
For lj user="Kharessa" and lj user="Machiavellian"
AN REALLY didn't want to write this. Thank you Kharessa for holding my hand
and reminding me it's ok to hurt, beat, and break the ones we love. Or
something along those lines.
AN2 per the results of my completely unscientific poll I continue to use
the word 'cock'.
lj-cut text="!"
The Library was empty and the richness of the setting sun had faded allowing the moon leech away color, washing the room in cooler blues and tones of grey. Erestor leaned against the door grateful for the solitude. He pulled at his collar, trying to loosen the stranglehold his formal robes had on him. He was breathing rapidly, though the mere exertion of running through the halls, escaping, shouldn't have winded him. Leaning back, breathing deeply, he calmed himself, finding peace in the deserted room. A room filled with scrolls and the memories of darker desires they had born. Still, they were a comfort and that too disturbed him, that this place with what it represented should seem so much safer than something most would consider far more normal.
Elledan braced upon Glorfindel's lap his head thrown back in ecstasy.
He pushed the image away, concentrating on the room. Dark scrolls that had been restored were packed neatly in portfolios between scrim of vellum, the acid neutralizing quality of the material a buffer between the delicate writings and age. In front of them were the copies Erestor had made; these would be used to make multiple copies and distributed to various places for safekeeping. He picked one up, opening the hard cover. The copy was missing. Then another, also missing. He looked through all of the files, about a third of his copies were gone. Dumbstruck, it finally dawned on Erestor that the one elf that might do such a thing was also missing from the Library.
*
Why? Erestor's thoughts raced through the possibilities as his feet carried him through Imladris' hallways. Melpomaen had no reason to take the scrolls; all work on them was done in the Library. He had no reason at all, unless, unless he wanted to show them to someone? Another elf as an explanation to what he wanted?
Without bothering to knock he burst into Melpomaen's chamber. The room was small and neatly appointed; it was also deserted. A quick search and Erestor found the missing scrolls tucked carefully under Melpomaen's sleeping talon. And something else: a small leather strip with a fastening device attached. It appeared Erestor wasn't the only one having special items made in the village.
*
Haldir slid off the bench next to Melpomaen, and whispering an apology, left the Kitchens. Melpomaen had to quell his surge of disappointment. Once again, he was being left with so many unanswered questions. He smiled tentatively at the group of Galadhrim at the table. They weren't so bad. He took the offered beaker of mead. And Haldir was bound to appear eventually.
*
Garish and lively, the vitality of the Kitchen hit Erestor like a personal assault, the cloying odor of heavy foods made his stomach lurch. There was some kind of festivity going on, and above the din Erestor could hear Melpomaen's laugh. Pushing past elves, Erestor spotted his lover, surrounded by a chorus of drunken Galadhrim. The same elves from breakfast. Melpomaen's skin was flushed rosy, eyes liquid bright and he leaned back, laughing heartily at whatever had been whispered to him.
Anger and nausea raged, with anger winning. Beyond caring about appearances, gossip or manners he stalked over to the table.
"Melpomaen!"
His assistant looked blearily surprised.
"Come!"
And Erestor turned and left, not even bothering to watch if Melpomaen followed or not. Outside, down the hallways and Erestor could hear hesitant steps behind him. Hesitant because he wanted to be with someone else? A viciousness that Erestor hadn't realized existed welled inside him, breaking through and flooding all his senses. Changing courses abruptly he headed to Melpomaen's rooms.
*
The chorus of Galadhrim was considerably quieter when Haldir slid into the bench next to them. Their exchange was soft and brief, hushed tones too low to attract attention, and the party dispersed almost immediately afterwards. Sitting alone sipping his wine, Haldir allowed a low grin to cross his face.
*
Melpomaen's breaths were coming in short gasps. The force with which Erestor had slammed him against the wall terrified him, and the hand pressed against his neck was slowing squeezing the air from his lungs. Erestor's eyes were on fire, and despite his fear Melpomaen thought he had never seen his Master look so beautiful. Panting, desperately trying to remember the question he shifted into Erestor's other hand, giving in to the delicious pain as his cock was yanked free from his robes.
Then he was kneeling, vaguely aware that his beautiful robe, his Master's gift to him, had been ripped when Erestor removed them; then copies of the Librarian's scrolls were shoved in his hand. Shame flooded through him. Of course Erestor had every right to be furious. Cringing, wanting desperately to make it better he took the only option for apology available and followed the order Erestor gave him. Clearing his throat he began to read aloud from passages he could almost recite from memory.
*
...my fingers dig into his flesh and though he cries out he does not move away, I will take him like this, hard and relentless, he shall know the taste of only my lips, my cock, my fist...
Erestor watched Melpomaen read, his young lips forming obscene phrases that burned his ears and hardened his sex. So very obscene. He could tell Melpomaen wasn't really reading; the words flowed too easily, too practiced. Had he been alone when he read the purloined scrolls? Or had he read these same words aloud to that Galadhrim that seemed to dog him everywhere? Had he dreamed of a touch rougher than the one Erestor gave him, the calloused hand of an Elf that spent his days in swordplay not scrollwork? He would not let him go. Melpomaen was his alone. And he intended to prove it.
...the first whip is wide, used more to corral slaves than truly punish. Its bite is warming yet sharp...
Erestor walked to Melpomaen's closet and removed a wide leather belt.
"You will lean forward and you will not stop reading"
Folding the belt in half, Erestor hesitated for a moment. He'd never actually beaten another being before. Then the image of Melpomaen in the Kitchen flooded his mind, twisting into pictures of Melpomaen on his knees, taking and all into his mouth with the wanton falseness he displayed when suckling fruit from his hand. The first blow hit before he realized what he was doing; a sharp crack across the curve of Melpomaen's back, raising a mark almost immediately. Erestor's breath caught. A perfect red stripe blazed across white skin, deeper on the edges, lighter on the ends. A mark that would be visible for days to any rutting trespasser. He traced his fingers across it, marveling at the warm contrast of raised pink verses cool white. It was ownership, and Melpomaen hadn't stopped his recitation.
Erestor stood back, and reversing the direction of his blow laid another streak across Melpomaen's back, raising a perfect crimson 'X', a beautiful brand that was his alone, darkly illuminating his laid bare cruelties. He could stop now, should stop now, he knew it instinctively, and yet warring inside was another impulse. One that told him he was loosing Melpomaen, that his lover wanted more and that if Erestor wouldn't give it to him he would find another who would. The pictures came, tipping the scale, rage winning over the bubbling knots in his stomach, and Erestor raised the belt again, striking lower. And then again. And again.
*
Flying, he was soaring. The first snap of the belt had been agony, and then the rising burn of pain and fear and anticipation as Erestor examined him. He was deeply shocked, shaken out of gnawing doubts and questions that had seemed so important just moments earlier. Erestor wanted this, was going to hurt him and punish him. That was all that mattered. Then the second blow burned across his skin, and the ringing in Melpomaen's hears drowned out all thought. The din faded into a soothing touch, tracing from his back to his groin, and Melpomaen heard a voice;
"...slave crawls prostate for pain, more pain, pain that appears to transcend sensation. His expression is of bliss, even as my whips cut his flesh..."
and realized it was his own. He rode it, white hot ecstasy, everything he wanted, pushing back greedily for more. Feeling Erestor's harsh answer, answering needs neither could name, but for that moment shared in perfect symmetry. Then deeper, and it was wrong, shattering him out of the dazy sweetness that he floated in and it was just too much.
Too much. no, please? Can't can't can't please Stop?
*
Lost in it. The hiss as the belt slices through the air, the wet snap of leather against skin, the total power of it. Driving Melpomaen, driving the away any memories of other touches, obliterating everything but this searing of hide with Erestor's undeniable mark of 'Mine' and Melpomaen's total surrender to it. He moaned into the blows, riding them, raising rosy cheeks to Erestor's lash, eager even; matching Erestor's blows with writhing want, stunning Erestor in the vastness of what he can take.
Then doubt; that perhaps Melpomaen can take this because it is the touch of a gentle scholar, and switching belts, Erestor renewed his efforts with a longer narrow strip, a cruelty that left dark scores on already crimson flesh. Melpomaen had stopped reading, breaking into hoarse screams that echoed unearthly in the room. Kicking apart Mel's thighs, Erestor fumbled awkwardly against subdued flesh, invading the tight entrance without preparation or care. Melpomaen was scrabbling forward, too exhausted to escape but trying anyway. Grabbing a fistful of hair Erestor reined him back; arching him unwillingly inwards as he continued his relentless assault, uncaring as he poured himself into Melpomaen's sobbing flesh.
*
Erestor pulled himself off of Melpomaen in a daze. The young elf was barely conscious, his entire body bruised and battered. Revulsion surged inside Erestor as he examined the destruction he had wrought. When reached out to comfort him, Melpomaen flinched away, whispering
"No more"
And Erestor threw up.
The Library was empty and the richness of the setting sun had faded allowing the moon leech away color, washing the room in cooler blues and tones of grey. Erestor leaned against the door grateful for the solitude. He pulled at his collar, trying to loosen the stranglehold his formal robes had on him. He was breathing rapidly, though the mere exertion of running through the halls, escaping, shouldn't have winded him. Leaning back, breathing deeply, he calmed himself, finding peace in the deserted room. A room filled with scrolls and the memories of darker desires they had born. Still, they were a comfort and that too disturbed him, that this place with what it represented should seem so much safer than something most would consider far more normal.
Elledan braced upon Glorfindel's lap his head thrown back in ecstasy.
He pushed the image away, concentrating on the room. Dark scrolls that had been restored were packed neatly in portfolios between scrim of vellum, the acid neutralizing quality of the material a buffer between the delicate writings and age. In front of them were the copies Erestor had made; these would be used to make multiple copies and distributed to various places for safekeeping. He picked one up, opening the hard cover. The copy was missing. Then another, also missing. He looked through all of the files, about a third of his copies were gone. Dumbstruck, it finally dawned on Erestor that the one elf that might do such a thing was also missing from the Library.
*
Why? Erestor's thoughts raced through the possibilities as his feet carried him through Imladris' hallways. Melpomaen had no reason to take the scrolls; all work on them was done in the Library. He had no reason at all, unless, unless he wanted to show them to someone? Another elf as an explanation to what he wanted?
Without bothering to knock he burst into Melpomaen's chamber. The room was small and neatly appointed; it was also deserted. A quick search and Erestor found the missing scrolls tucked carefully under Melpomaen's sleeping talon. And something else: a small leather strip with a fastening device attached. It appeared Erestor wasn't the only one having special items made in the village.
*
Haldir slid off the bench next to Melpomaen, and whispering an apology, left the Kitchens. Melpomaen had to quell his surge of disappointment. Once again, he was being left with so many unanswered questions. He smiled tentatively at the group of Galadhrim at the table. They weren't so bad. He took the offered beaker of mead. And Haldir was bound to appear eventually.
*
Garish and lively, the vitality of the Kitchen hit Erestor like a personal assault, the cloying odor of heavy foods made his stomach lurch. There was some kind of festivity going on, and above the din Erestor could hear Melpomaen's laugh. Pushing past elves, Erestor spotted his lover, surrounded by a chorus of drunken Galadhrim. The same elves from breakfast. Melpomaen's skin was flushed rosy, eyes liquid bright and he leaned back, laughing heartily at whatever had been whispered to him.
Anger and nausea raged, with anger winning. Beyond caring about appearances, gossip or manners he stalked over to the table.
"Melpomaen!"
His assistant looked blearily surprised.
"Come!"
And Erestor turned and left, not even bothering to watch if Melpomaen followed or not. Outside, down the hallways and Erestor could hear hesitant steps behind him. Hesitant because he wanted to be with someone else? A viciousness that Erestor hadn't realized existed welled inside him, breaking through and flooding all his senses. Changing courses abruptly he headed to Melpomaen's rooms.
*
The chorus of Galadhrim was considerably quieter when Haldir slid into the bench next to them. Their exchange was soft and brief, hushed tones too low to attract attention, and the party dispersed almost immediately afterwards. Sitting alone sipping his wine, Haldir allowed a low grin to cross his face.
*
Melpomaen's breaths were coming in short gasps. The force with which Erestor had slammed him against the wall terrified him, and the hand pressed against his neck was slowing squeezing the air from his lungs. Erestor's eyes were on fire, and despite his fear Melpomaen thought he had never seen his Master look so beautiful. Panting, desperately trying to remember the question he shifted into Erestor's other hand, giving in to the delicious pain as his cock was yanked free from his robes.
Then he was kneeling, vaguely aware that his beautiful robe, his Master's gift to him, had been ripped when Erestor removed them; then copies of the Librarian's scrolls were shoved in his hand. Shame flooded through him. Of course Erestor had every right to be furious. Cringing, wanting desperately to make it better he took the only option for apology available and followed the order Erestor gave him. Clearing his throat he began to read aloud from passages he could almost recite from memory.
*
...my fingers dig into his flesh and though he cries out he does not move away, I will take him like this, hard and relentless, he shall know the taste of only my lips, my cock, my fist...
Erestor watched Melpomaen read, his young lips forming obscene phrases that burned his ears and hardened his sex. So very obscene. He could tell Melpomaen wasn't really reading; the words flowed too easily, too practiced. Had he been alone when he read the purloined scrolls? Or had he read these same words aloud to that Galadhrim that seemed to dog him everywhere? Had he dreamed of a touch rougher than the one Erestor gave him, the calloused hand of an Elf that spent his days in swordplay not scrollwork? He would not let him go. Melpomaen was his alone. And he intended to prove it.
...the first whip is wide, used more to corral slaves than truly punish. Its bite is warming yet sharp...
Erestor walked to Melpomaen's closet and removed a wide leather belt.
"You will lean forward and you will not stop reading"
Folding the belt in half, Erestor hesitated for a moment. He'd never actually beaten another being before. Then the image of Melpomaen in the Kitchen flooded his mind, twisting into pictures of Melpomaen on his knees, taking and all into his mouth with the wanton falseness he displayed when suckling fruit from his hand. The first blow hit before he realized what he was doing; a sharp crack across the curve of Melpomaen's back, raising a mark almost immediately. Erestor's breath caught. A perfect red stripe blazed across white skin, deeper on the edges, lighter on the ends. A mark that would be visible for days to any rutting trespasser. He traced his fingers across it, marveling at the warm contrast of raised pink verses cool white. It was ownership, and Melpomaen hadn't stopped his recitation.
Erestor stood back, and reversing the direction of his blow laid another streak across Melpomaen's back, raising a perfect crimson 'X', a beautiful brand that was his alone, darkly illuminating his laid bare cruelties. He could stop now, should stop now, he knew it instinctively, and yet warring inside was another impulse. One that told him he was loosing Melpomaen, that his lover wanted more and that if Erestor wouldn't give it to him he would find another who would. The pictures came, tipping the scale, rage winning over the bubbling knots in his stomach, and Erestor raised the belt again, striking lower. And then again. And again.
*
Flying, he was soaring. The first snap of the belt had been agony, and then the rising burn of pain and fear and anticipation as Erestor examined him. He was deeply shocked, shaken out of gnawing doubts and questions that had seemed so important just moments earlier. Erestor wanted this, was going to hurt him and punish him. That was all that mattered. Then the second blow burned across his skin, and the ringing in Melpomaen's hears drowned out all thought. The din faded into a soothing touch, tracing from his back to his groin, and Melpomaen heard a voice;
"...slave crawls prostate for pain, more pain, pain that appears to transcend sensation. His expression is of bliss, even as my whips cut his flesh..."
and realized it was his own. He rode it, white hot ecstasy, everything he wanted, pushing back greedily for more. Feeling Erestor's harsh answer, answering needs neither could name, but for that moment shared in perfect symmetry. Then deeper, and it was wrong, shattering him out of the dazy sweetness that he floated in and it was just too much.
Too much. no, please? Can't can't can't please Stop?
*
Lost in it. The hiss as the belt slices through the air, the wet snap of leather against skin, the total power of it. Driving Melpomaen, driving the away any memories of other touches, obliterating everything but this searing of hide with Erestor's undeniable mark of 'Mine' and Melpomaen's total surrender to it. He moaned into the blows, riding them, raising rosy cheeks to Erestor's lash, eager even; matching Erestor's blows with writhing want, stunning Erestor in the vastness of what he can take.
Then doubt; that perhaps Melpomaen can take this because it is the touch of a gentle scholar, and switching belts, Erestor renewed his efforts with a longer narrow strip, a cruelty that left dark scores on already crimson flesh. Melpomaen had stopped reading, breaking into hoarse screams that echoed unearthly in the room. Kicking apart Mel's thighs, Erestor fumbled awkwardly against subdued flesh, invading the tight entrance without preparation or care. Melpomaen was scrabbling forward, too exhausted to escape but trying anyway. Grabbing a fistful of hair Erestor reined him back; arching him unwillingly inwards as he continued his relentless assault, uncaring as he poured himself into Melpomaen's sobbing flesh.
*
Erestor pulled himself off of Melpomaen in a daze. The young elf was barely conscious, his entire body bruised and battered. Revulsion surged inside Erestor as he examined the destruction he had wrought. When reached out to comfort him, Melpomaen flinched away, whispering
"No more"
And Erestor threw up.