Taboo
folder
+Third Age › Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
3,940
Reviews:
3
Recommended:
1
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
+Third Age › Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
3,940
Reviews:
3
Recommended:
1
Currently Reading:
0
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.
Taboo
DISCLAIMER: I MAKE NO MONEY FROM THESE STORIES. GLORFINDEL AND ERESTOR DO NOT BELONG TO ME (ONLY TO EACH OTHER...). PALM TREES LOOK KINDA NAKED. I LIKE CHEESE.
Author Notes: Understandably, some may be disturbed by this story. If the idea of an elf who is 47 and an elf who is about 250 being in love with each other is a big turn off/squick/ no-no for you, then please, do not read. Thank you.
----
“You should not be in here. It is late. You should be abed.”
“I am restless.” There was a lengthy pause. “And lonely, as are you.”
Brown eyes nervously flickered in the direction of the piercing cerulean gaze. Up from the halls came the beat of the drums, the music flowing out of the room that was ablaze. Here there was no fire, but the heat in the room seemed to justify the opening of a window, had there been any in the library.
“You are too young.” He had learned years ago not to call this one a child, no matter what the circumstances. It was a greater insult than any curse to him.
Yet, he laughed at even this gentle reminder. “Too young? I was fighting orc before you were born.”
“Yes, and I was helping to build Imladris before you were reborn,” countered Erestor. “Do you not wish to go to the Hall of Fire tonight? The minstrels are outdoing themselves.” The scribe shifted a large stack of papers to be sorted into the middle of his work space, hoping he might successfully curb the initial conversation.
“Exactly. My parents will not be home for hours.” Glorfindel boldly slid his arm around Erestor’s waist. “We would have the rooms to ourselves.”
Slipping around the intimate touch, Erestor walked to a bookshelf to retrieve a map. “Is there not someone your own age who might partake in your offer?”
“I do not want someone my own age, Erestor. I want you.”
Swallowing hard and not turning around, Erestor said, “Can you not wait, if it is what you really want?”
“Wait for what? I am forty-seven; forty-eight this autumn,” said Glorfindel, slowly advancing upon his prey.
Erestor licked his lips, considering his words carefully. “And yet, not at your majority.”
Laughter filled the large room, echoing up the staircases. “That matters how, Erestor? I was once at my majority – there is not much difference between forty-nine and fifty.”
“There is a greater difference between forty-seven and fifty,” answered Erestor. “It is not looked upon kindly.”
“As if I care how it will be looked upon,” scoffed the golden-haired elf. “It has been so long since I felt the touch of another, so long, Erestor. And you, you are so beautiful to me, and yet, so sad. So alone.” Glorfindel paused behind the scribe – though there was a difference of two or three hundred years between them, Erestor was not very tall, and Glorfindel had grown like a weed. Hence, it was easy for the younger elf to wrap his arms around the scibe’s waist and nestle him back against his chest. “See how well we fit together? Mmmm, you smell nice...” Glorfindel buried his nose against Erestor’s neck, sniffing and nuzzling.
“Please... Fin, this isn’t right...” protested Erestor, but he did not pull away like every other time.
“How can it not be right? Does it not feel right? In a five thousand, five hundred, or even five years, will it even matter anymore?” Glorfindel pulled Erestor possessively closer. “I killed a Balrog with my own two hands centuries before you were even a thought, Erestor. If anyone has anything to say about you and I, they shall have my wrath to face.”
Author Notes: Understandably, some may be disturbed by this story. If the idea of an elf who is 47 and an elf who is about 250 being in love with each other is a big turn off/squick/ no-no for you, then please, do not read. Thank you.
----
“You should not be in here. It is late. You should be abed.”
“I am restless.” There was a lengthy pause. “And lonely, as are you.”
Brown eyes nervously flickered in the direction of the piercing cerulean gaze. Up from the halls came the beat of the drums, the music flowing out of the room that was ablaze. Here there was no fire, but the heat in the room seemed to justify the opening of a window, had there been any in the library.
“You are too young.” He had learned years ago not to call this one a child, no matter what the circumstances. It was a greater insult than any curse to him.
Yet, he laughed at even this gentle reminder. “Too young? I was fighting orc before you were born.”
“Yes, and I was helping to build Imladris before you were reborn,” countered Erestor. “Do you not wish to go to the Hall of Fire tonight? The minstrels are outdoing themselves.” The scribe shifted a large stack of papers to be sorted into the middle of his work space, hoping he might successfully curb the initial conversation.
“Exactly. My parents will not be home for hours.” Glorfindel boldly slid his arm around Erestor’s waist. “We would have the rooms to ourselves.”
Slipping around the intimate touch, Erestor walked to a bookshelf to retrieve a map. “Is there not someone your own age who might partake in your offer?”
“I do not want someone my own age, Erestor. I want you.”
Swallowing hard and not turning around, Erestor said, “Can you not wait, if it is what you really want?”
“Wait for what? I am forty-seven; forty-eight this autumn,” said Glorfindel, slowly advancing upon his prey.
Erestor licked his lips, considering his words carefully. “And yet, not at your majority.”
Laughter filled the large room, echoing up the staircases. “That matters how, Erestor? I was once at my majority – there is not much difference between forty-nine and fifty.”
“There is a greater difference between forty-seven and fifty,” answered Erestor. “It is not looked upon kindly.”
“As if I care how it will be looked upon,” scoffed the golden-haired elf. “It has been so long since I felt the touch of another, so long, Erestor. And you, you are so beautiful to me, and yet, so sad. So alone.” Glorfindel paused behind the scribe – though there was a difference of two or three hundred years between them, Erestor was not very tall, and Glorfindel had grown like a weed. Hence, it was easy for the younger elf to wrap his arms around the scibe’s waist and nestle him back against his chest. “See how well we fit together? Mmmm, you smell nice...” Glorfindel buried his nose against Erestor’s neck, sniffing and nuzzling.
“Please... Fin, this isn’t right...” protested Erestor, but he did not pull away like every other time.
“How can it not be right? Does it not feel right? In a five thousand, five hundred, or even five years, will it even matter anymore?” Glorfindel pulled Erestor possessively closer. “I killed a Balrog with my own two hands centuries before you were even a thought, Erestor. If anyone has anything to say about you and I, they shall have my wrath to face.”