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The Teacher	By : pip Category: -Multi-Age > Slash - Male/Male Views: 14764 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own the Lord of the Rings (and associated) book series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 39
- 40
- 41
Author's Note: Well, this took a while, but I hope it satisfies. Warning for whipping, but really, I haven't been that explicit. The important bits are before and after.

Chapter Thirty-nine

As they walked in silence, Elrond was attentive to Thranduil. He felt sure his concern was palpable, but whether the King noticed Elrond's close attention or not was debatable. He seemed to Elrond to be missing some kind of vitality, and it brought to mind the Thranduil that had appeared in Imladris for the first meeting of the White Council.

Thranduil's hand in his was warm, but passive, as if he was too lost to do other than allow himself to be led. It was a long walk to their destination, and the air cooled the further down into the depths of the palace they walked. The dungeons were down here, not that Thranduil truly had any use for them, except for the occasional orc that wandered too far from the mountains, though he suspected Thranduil did not keep them around for long.

Several of the cells had been knocked through to give them a large playroom. It was a place of pleasure, a place to lose oneself. Most importantly, it was a place they would not be disturbed, no matter the noise they made. Elrond squeezed Thranduil's hand slightly as they walked, and the King stopped, without looking at him, as if it had been a command. Though Elrond could see vulnerability in him, no one else would. Thranduil stood tall and straight, appeared completely at ease. But he was not himself. Not at all.

Elrond deliberately placed himself in Thranduil's way, letting go of his hand to cradle his face. Thranduil only looked at him. Elrond leaned in to kiss, getting the familiar taste of someone who was so many things to Elrond: protégé, friend, teacher, lover, Master, and yes, submissive. That was here too, now more than ever in this touching of lips. It was a practised, polished performance from Thranduil, just like in the corridor. Elrond wondered if any of the King's other lovers even noticed the lack of fervour in him. Perhaps Celeborn would, if he were here. The thought made him happy. Thranduil had two of them watching over him.

“Show willing, Celebmîr nín,” Elrond ordered quietly, shaking his head a little so that his lips swept over Thranduil's back and forth. The King's hands curled over his ribs, but it was still not the response Elrond looked for. “I did not sleep on the hard ground for weeks to have you brush me aside with this pretence. You will satisfy me.”

Thranduil backed away and opened his eyes. “I am sorry,” he said, looking away. Elrond did not allow him to escape that way.

“Look at me, Thranduil,” Elrond commanded smoothly. Thranduil met his eyes, and the façade he maintained seemed to break again, just as it had before.

“I spend so much time in reverie,” he said, as if in apology. “I do not mean to.” He smiled then, with a touch of his usual humour. “It unnerves the courtiers when they come upon me with some business of state.”

Elrond saw the scale of it suddenly, and a vision appeared in his mind as if to illustrate Thranduil's words. And all the words he didn't say. Thranduil sat upon his throne like a statue, dreaming while the world moved along without him. The torches burned out in the dark, and still he sat, unmoving as if carved in stone. A chill settled in Elrond.

“That is over,” Elrond said, and he meant it. No matter what was required, Elrond would break the passivity in him. It may well be an unavoidable fate for others to be frozen in grief while the ages passed, but not for him. Not for his Thranduil. Elrond needed him to be here, to be present for what was to come. He could not imagine facing the coming storm without it. “You have more in you than this. I have seen it.”

Elrond took Thranduil's hand again and began walking with renewed purpose. Is this where all of their history led? To this? For a moment, Elrond remembered Thranduil as a youth, remembered his stubbornness and obstinacy. This was no different, only there was much more at stake. He needed it to be expunged? Very well. Elrond could do that. Thranduil would not leave him alone to face Sauron's return. Elrond was not prepared to accept it.

When they reached their playroom, Elrond ordered Thranduil to undress, while he himself stripped down to his breeches, removing the most troublesome of his clothing. When Thranduil was finished with that, Elrond led him to the far wall, where manacles were set deep into the stone, attached to short lengths of heavy iron chain.

Thranduil did not protest as Elrond made him face the wall and secured his wrists and ankles to keep him still and in the correct position for the whip, but accepted the restriction in silence. At this point, Elrond felt a sudden outpouring of sheer love and empathy for his lover. He ran his fingers through Thranduil's hair. He tried to imagine what it would be like to lose Celebrían.

To lose Celebrían. Elrond felt a lump form in his throat. He could not imagine such a thing! And yet, he had seen that perfection, that match, in Thranduil and Nimbrethil first. They had seemed meant to last together forever.

He tried to imagine how such a loss would cause him to fear for the twins the way Thranduil feared for Legolas, and that was all too easy. Legolas was all Thranduil had left of her. At least here.

His hands moved Thranduil's hair aside and roamed over his back and shoulders, his flawless skin, so perfect. Something he was about to ruin deliberately, in order to bring the elven King back to him. “I will not enjoy this,” he confided, almost without meaning to. He would enjoy Thranduil's submission afterwards, of course, and afterwards he would hold Thranduil in his arms for as long as it took for him to return. But with this he knew he would go further than ever before. Thranduil knew it too.

“I am sorry, Heron,” he replied, his voice already dreamy in anticipation. Elrond had accepted the title when they played like this some time ago. It no longer seemed out of place, and certainly not now. Now it only helped him.

Elrond closed his eyes, and reached up to place his palm over Thranduil's forehead, pulling his head back. For a moment they were so close, cheek to cheek, and Elrond leaned in. The scent of him was pleasant, familiar, and as with Celebrían to Elrond it felt like coming home. “You will not enjoy this,” he said as a warning, with much more regret, wishing this could be done some other way. But it couldn't. Thranduil gasped, and Elrond pressed a rough kiss to his cheek, feeling his lower lip dragging over Thranduil's sharp cheekbone, the palm of his hand doing more to make Thranduil his prisoner than the chains ever could.

“Would you have me count?” Thranduil whispered as Elrond let him go, busying his hands with gathering the strands of Thranduil's hair into a thick, tight braid. The King made a sound of sharp pain as Elrond pulled at his hair, a pulse in his neck beating wildly. If he looked now, Elrond would see the sparkling of tears in his eyes. Always so beautiful. Enjoy it, Elrond thought, while you can. While we are still the means of one another's enjoyment.

“You will not count these,” Elrond said clearly, his heart heavy. “I would not have you measure the depth of your grief with this, meleth.” Thranduil needed to know this was not about Nimbrethil. “But what is harmful must be stripped away. I need you strong for what is to come. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Heron.” The spiders, the return of Sauron, the formation of the White Council. They all were precursors, and they all needed to be strong, not just Thranduil. Elrond did feel regret, but he did not quail as he walked towards the whip.

“This is not a test or a punishment, Celebmîr nín. Though you may beg, and make me promises of pleasure.” His mouth felt dry. “And scream. I will listen. I will not relent.”

Thranduil gasped, but did not speak, and Elrond straightened his lips. This room contained a bed, and that was all by way of furniture. The toys were here, and the whip hung coiled on the wall. Elrond reached for it, his hands steady. It was only when he came here that he had chance to practice with it, and so he turned away for a few moments, ensured that there was space enough, and that his grip was true. When he was ready, he swung the whip to crack it in a relaxed fluid motion of his arm and wrist. Out of his line of sight, the chains jangled. Thranduil had jumped, startled.

Elrond took his time warming up nevertheless, regardless of Thranduil's nerves. He would only hurt Thranduil as far as absolutely necessary.

Elrond had known the touch of the whip, brandished by Thranduil many centuries ago now. And also more recently. Not for any game, but because he could not in conscience do this unless he understood how it felt. Thranduil was in no way his Master at those times. Just as with the needles, Elrond had Thranduil demonstrate all of the toys on him before he used them. This was no different, so he was well aware of the nervousness Thranduil must be feeling now.

When he felt relaxed and ready, Elrond turned to his target, warning Thranduil with a softly spoken word. The braided leather whip was meant for use, not for show, so it was not terribly long. Just enough to keep Elrond too far from Thranduil to touch. His mind and conscience was clear, and yet the first two strokes he landed were well short of the power needed to hurt. Mere erotic touches that would allow Thranduil to settle himself for what came next.

The ensuing lash was harsher, but Thranduil did not make any sound. His fingertips scrabbled at the wall as if for purchase. There was a mark on him, a dusky pink diagonal on his back, fading at his shoulders. It was not enough.

The next drew blood. Elrond listened to Thranduil cry out as he drew the length of the whip back to him.

“Legolas is not your responsibility,” Elrond announced. Thranduil did not answer. He let the whip go again, and again the bright red of blood appeared in a thin line on Thranduil's skin.

“Answer,” Elrond demanded in the breathless space between them.

“Legolas is my son!” Thranduil managed. Elrond nodded, though Thranduil would not see it. Another. Elrond ensured each of the strikes followed the same line, avoiding a criss-cross that would take longer to heal. Yet even then he wasn't sure if it wouldn't come to that.

“I cannot answer!” Thranduil gasped. “Not the way you want.”

Elrond let it fall on him again.

“You will let Legolas meet his fate, whatever that may be.” There was no answer. Then, as Elrond was prepared to let the whip flicker out again, Thranduil moaned. Elrond closed his eyes. Come back to me, he thought silently, and let the strike go.

“Elrond!” This was a cry, almost a plea. “I cannot!”

Another. And now the air between them seemed full of copper and honey. Thick and heavy. It made Elrond think of war, and the wounded. They dying and the fallen. Thranduil would not become one of them.

“You will not hoard his life,” Elrond said, repeating the sentiment again.

“I keep him safe,” Thranduil replied, and his last word ended on a hiss of pain as Elrond let the whip snake out at him again. “Please! Do not! Not this!”

There was an irony here, in that this was exactly the same tactic Thranduil had used on him. It was not lost on Elrond, but he wondered how long it would take for Thranduil to break. His grief was deeper than Elrond's had been, and he had endurance with regards to pain.

As he had forecast, Thranduil did begin to beg, and he screamed, and he promised Elrond more than pleasure. He promised himself, in all ways, and that gave Elrond pause. To hear something from Thranduil that amounted to becoming a true slave. He shook his head before the idea could truly settle, and continued, repeating the instruction about Legolas every time, until, finally, Thranduil gave in.

“I will let him go,” Thranduil almost whispered, his voice hoarse and worn out. His back was a ruin of lash marks. At points Elrond had dabbed the blood away to show him where the spaces were, yet still some of them were running. “I will send him out there.”

“To his life,” Elrond prompted.

“To his friends,” Thranduil agreed, sagging in the chains suddenly so that Elrond strode over to him, dropping the handle of the whip to the floor. It was over.

“You must take your weight, Thranduil,” he said gently as he unlocked the manacles around the King's ankles. Standing up, he braced an arm around Thranduil's waist as he released his wrists. Thranduil fell over his arm heavily, and Elrond staggered, but managed to hold his weight.

“On your feet!” he snapped deliberately, because he certainly couldn't manage to carry Thranduil anywhere.

“Yes, Heron,” Thranduil said automatically, regaining his feet, his weight easing on Elrond's arm, though he still leaned.

Slowly, they made their way over to the bed, and Elrond had Thranduil lie down on it while he attended to the injuries on his back. Some of the cuts were deep, and would take some time to heal. Elrond was so gentle, he was certain Thranduil must barely feel his ministrations. But at last there was nothing else he could do, so he lie by Thranduil's side and pulled his head over to rest on his shoulder, kissing the top of his head.

Elrond was not waiting long for the familiar ritual to begin. It was only at these times it happened, when he'd used the whip, but it appeared to have an interesting effect on Thranduil. First, Thranduil began to place chaste but needy kisses over all the skin he could reach without moving. Elrond looked down to watch him as he began, knowing there was no point in trying to stop him.

Soon, Thranduil was unsatisfied with the area around Elrond's shoulder, and began to move, lips and hands gliding over him everywhere as if his body was something Thranduil had to map and touch all at once. Elrond let his head drop back onto the pillows as Thranduil continued to explore him, untying and dragging the breeches down his legs, throwing them aside.

For all that it was strangely innocent, it was also intensely pleasurable when Thranduil acted like this, and it was only ever at these moments that Elrond experienced it. Occasionally, those lips would skim over a nipple, or Thranduil's tongue would drag over a particular sensitive place, and Elrond would feel a moan catch in his throat, only lingeringly released.

Something in his heart lifted at this proof that however badly he'd hurt Thranduil, he hadn't damaged what existed between them. It was like being cherished. Elrond lie still beneath it as Thranduil's teeth nibbled at his ears, as his long fingers stroked Elrond to hardness with such dexterity Elrond wondered at it. Thranduil did not require, or even want, his participation at these times. Or, at least not yet.

Thranduil's love at these times was like a benign wave that washed over him, made him ache, made him breathless with a deep desire, not merely for physical intimacy, but for connection. Perhaps that was what Thranduil felt too. It was sweet forgiveness to his soul, a balance restored after the act he had performed, and every time he was overcome with emotion.

At last, Thranduil moved away, and rested beside him. “You must make me ready, meleth nín,” Thranduil said softly, and now at last Elrond was required to act. Without a word or any hesitation, Elrond found the oil and spilled some onto his fingers, sitting up to do what Thranduil wanted of him.

The way Thranduil responded to his touch made Elrond aware of why he lie still during the strange touching. The King wriggled and moaned beneath the simple touch of his fingers as if he might fall to pieces if it continued.

“It is too much, it is too much,” Thranduil repeated, over and over. He almost cried, his shoulders shaking in deep sobs of something that was not sadness, but such a depth of feeling that it humbled Elrond. He took as little time as necessary.

At last he covered his own erection in the oil and lie back again. Thranduil seemed to need a moment to recover from his touch before he sat up again, looking down into Elrond's eyes in a pleading fashion, as if begging him not to move, not to respond, not to stop him. Elrond would not dream of it. Instead he merely watched as Thranduil sat astride him, on his knees, one hand gripping Elrond's erection as he sank down onto it, letting Elrond in deep.

Drawing in a sharp breath through his teeth, Elrond's eyes narrowed as Thranduil began to move. The thick braid of his hair still remained draped over the front of his left shoulder. It made him seem different. Younger. So fragile that Elrond felt a strong need to protect him from everything. Even himself.

Keeping still, he allowed Thranduil to move as he wanted, riding him, his erection deep inside Thranduil's heat and muscle. Thranduil himself was not aroused yet, but that never did seem to matter to him. He raised and lowered himself slowly, his breath still shaky and arrhythmic. And then, at long last, he said the words.

“Help me, Peredhil,” he asked, and Elrond lifted his hands, placing them around Thranduil's pelvis to hold him steady. Elrond thrust upwards quickly, suddenly, loving how Thranduil's eyes darkened.

“That is it,” Thranduil breathed, “yes...” His eyes closed as he tilted his face up towards the ceiling, exposing the long graceful line of his neck, his hands playing with the end of the braid. Elrond gave him another sharp movement, and Thranduil voiced such an expressive moan Elrond licked his lips. Thranduil was so beautiful like this. So precious.

“Fuck me,” he breathed, almost silent, “fuck me...” Elrond obeyed him, keeping his thrusts short, sharp and meaningful. It was almost as if he was reminding Thranduil who they were, what they were about. There was no softness here between them, just bright shining need. Strength and power. It was forceful and entirely masculine. Elrond could almost see it when Thranduil found it again. That moment when he took it back.

The next moan that left his lips was deeper, more sexual. Thranduil's lip curled in a way that made Elrond thrust into him again, and this time Thranduil laughed slightly. His body began to pulse around Elrond in response to their combined movements, because Thranduil moved with him now, and this was suddenly lust, arcing like lightning between them.

“More,” Thranduil moaned, his eyes closed as he moved up and down, faster. He was hard now too, and Elrond half sat up to take him in hand. Thranduil almost growled. Elrond could not help smiling at his success. This was life! This was need, and almost ferocious. He pumped Thranduil with his hand in the same time as his thrusts, and Thranduil took it from him in sheer hunger.

“Give it to me,” Thranduil demanded, his eyes opening at last. Elrond obliged, grabbing Thranduil's hand to take over touching himself so that Elrond could sink his fingers into Thranduil's buttocks. He could take it. Elrond pushed him back a little, getting the right angle to hit his prostate with each thrust, thrilled when Thranduil cried out in confirmation.

At last he felt himself tightening, drawing back like the moments before a tsunami, Thranduil right there with him, his body tightening too, becoming almost impossible. Then it was upon them both, strings of Thranduil's essence flung hot onto his chest as he emptied himself in the King's clenching body.

When they were spent, Thranduil leaned down over him and lie upon his chest. Elrond came down slowly, his breathing somewhat ragged, his hands still squeezing Thranduil's buttocks slightly.

“Oh, Elrondlas,” Thranduil said against his shoulder, satisfied. “Maybe you should have forgone the whip and gone straight to that.”

Elrond merely laughed. After a moment or two, Thranduil sighed.

“My back really hurts,” he noted, not complaining, and Elrond smiled.

“It's all right, Celebmîr nín,” he said. “You just happen to be in the presence of a healer.”

“Is that so? Well, now you mention it I do feel rather better than I did before.” He paused. “Thank you.”

Elrond didn't respond this time, but dipped his head and kissed Thranduil's hair. He supposed he could count that as a success.

To be continued...

Author's Note: Well, I hope you enjoyed it! The boys did... eventually. Please leave a comment. I will reply to you here: http://www2.adult-fanfiction.org/forum/index.php/topic/55964-pippychicks-lotr-fiction-review-responses/

Translations:

Celebmîr nín – my silver treasure

Heron – Master

Peredhil – half elf
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The Teacher