O, How I Have Missed Our Scholarly Debates by sallysavestheday

O, How I Have Missed Our Scholarly Debates

Read O, How I Have Missed Our Scholarly Debates

“This is getting long again,” Pengolodh purrs, in that voice he only uses when he’s hungry. He tugs on Erestor’s hair, sliding the dark strands through his fingers and winking.

Erestor scowls. He should not be so easily aroused by that saucy pull. After all, his hair is only long again because of the unfortunate accident with the bookbinding machine, and that little naked misadventure was entirely Pengolodh’s idea.

He loves Pengolodh dearly, and there are certainly benefits to having a partner who is a thousand years younger than he: energy, humor, an undeniable sleekness, and a fine hand for cossetting when he’s weary. But Pengolodh’s inventiveness (like his lore, Erestor tries to resist thinking) does not always translate purely into pleasure. Erestor is almost ready to laugh about the hot glue debacle, but not quite yet.

Still, it is no real surprise that he weakens as Pengolodh weaves braid after braid from the dark cascade of his (finally) regrown hair. Nor that he more than acquiesces as his lover tugs his wrists behind him and uses those braids to tie him gently but firmly to his chair. Pengolodh's lips dance over Erestor’s vulnerable throat as he wrangles the knots, murmuring raunchy couplets from that scandalous First Age romance, The Tale of the Arrow and the Air.

Erestor is quivering and eager for more, when Pengolodh turns and methodically lays out his illuminating brushes, grinning as he wets them by twirling them against his tongue.

“You rejected my last round of edits to the Matter of Beleriand,” he croons in that smooth, provoking tone. He taps Erestor's chin with the handle of a brush and unfurls a wicked smile. “Now you will sit still for me, while I write the corrected entries on your skin.”

Erestor gasps and struggles against the binding at the thought of wearing Pengolodh’s textual errors. Pengolodh just grins and watches him writhe with a mischievously appreciative eye.

"The ink is melted chocolate, love. It will be easy to make changes, if you are respectful enough to your editor." He sucks the brush to a point with a wink, and bends to the task.

Pengolodh writes and erases, writes and erases, teasingly reciting bits of the contested verses whenever he takes a moment to catch his breath. Erestor concentrates feverishly on Quenya declension as his lover's exquisite mouth expounds. Let Pengolodh work for it, he thinks, incoherently, if he insists on so cheekily ignoring Erestor’s frowns.

He lasts all the way to the forty-fifth stanza, and privately gloats at his own ancient stamina.

Pengolodh just moans sweetly and follows him down.