Title & Chapter Number: Misfits 4/30
Author(s): - Author's Index
Fandom: Middle Earth
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I do not own these settings or characters, and am making no profit from the writing and sharing of this story.
Warnings: Haldir's in it. Need I say more? /snicker
Betas: Circe
Cast: Haldir/Melpomaen
Timeline: TA AU
Spoilers: None
Summary: Melpomaen thinks; Haldir takes Rumil's advice.
Notes: Thanks to Kylie, Sheryl, Kissaki, Hydden, Hel, Mirasaui, TrinityC, LK, Alex, Jen, Larien, Hawk, Jess, Larian and Dawn for feedback and support.
Melpomaen stared out the library window, legs crossed under his robes, snuggled into the wingback chair that he did not quite dare to sit in by daylight. It was Lord Celeborn's chair at Lord Celeborn's desk. The fact that the Lord of the Golden Wood favored his study over the open access library was secondary to the fact that the furniture was his. Even so, Melpomaen preferred the view from this seat to another, enjoyed the sheltering closeness the chair's high wings provided. It was good to sit here, to gaze out into moonlit darkness, to think and imagine, or to close his eyes and pretend, for a short while, that he was master of all he surveyed.
His thoughts did not range so far or grandiosely this night. Instead, his imaginings were an extrapolation of memory, of silken blonde softness that he'd only touched with shy fingertips. The braids had not been like velvet cords, he'd finally decided. No, they were softer than that, yet still too strong to be compared to anything so airy as gossamer or spider strands. Nor were they really like Arwen's silk bands, many of which he'd seen thrown away as the individual strands began to snag and give way under overly enthusiastic usage. Haldir's braids were like the elf who wore them -contradictorily beautiful.
Melpomaen blinked, stunned by the thought. Did he think Haldir beautiful? He closed his eyes, summoning up an image of the surly March Warden. He was taller than average, even for an elf, heavier of frame and more sturdily built than other elven warriors. It was this more than anything that had made Melpomaen wonder if there was human blood there, though the human heritage of Lord Elrond and his children did not show in that regard.
He remembered Haldir's reaction to the innocent question concerning his heritage, and Melpomaen cursed himself for a fool. Of course Haldir was sensitive about it; his own reaction to the tall elf's appearance and subsequent ambivalence as to whether or not to use the word "beautiful" to describe him told Melpomaen everything he needed to know about Haldir's cold aloofness. He thought of that damning phrase - "library mouse" - and the cold, impotent anger he felt when those words were spoken within his hearing. He thought of Arwen's thick-skinned refusal to hear the words that were spoken of her and her brothers. She had enough sense to have never asked Haldir to what he owed his distinctive features, and she also had enough sense not to take offense at his discomfort. She understood it, and he should have also.
He also should have known better than to compliment him, even if in such a round about way. He himself hated compliments on his appearance almost as much as Arwen did. Arwen's beauty was a qualifier, something that was mentioned as a way of softening her other, more disconcerting characteristics. She was lovely and that was supposed to explain away all else, excuse even where excuses were not needed. Arwen had once told him that she thought it would be an excellent joke on her potential suitors if she were ugly as an orc; then they would be forced to even greater creative lengths to explain their interest.
Melpomaen himself was most often described derisively as pretty. Not lovely or beautiful, but pretty - and he knew it had nothing to do with his appearance. A pretty mouse, that was he, soft spoken and appearing delicate in his robes, well mannered and willing to remain in the background. He thought again of Rumil's off-hand question concerning his relationship with Erestor, and his cheeks brightened with color. Pretty mouse; pretty pet. Haldir had at first been angry when Melpomaen had remarked on his hair, and that should not have seemed so foreign to him, not when anger was his own first response to comments about his looks. The only difference was, whereas Melpomaen knew he was attractive and took offense only at the belittling quality of the compliments paid him, Haldir did not believe himself to be beautiful, and had assumed it an attempt at either pity or insult.
Lost in his thoughts, he did not hear the library door open, nor did he take note of the figure ghosting toward the desk until he heard a familiar voice call his name.
"Melpomaen?"
His eyes flew from the window, widened, fixing on the elf standing uncertainly to one side of the desk. Haldir still carried his bow and quiver, but Melpomaen noted that his hair was loose, tucked behind his ears as Rumil's had been on the night he and Arwen had visited Haldir's talan. Silver blond locks swung at either side of his face in loose waves that were softly incongruous beside his masculine features.
"I thought you were going to be out with Rumil and Liian tonight." His words came out flustered rather than accusatory, and Haldir shrugged uncomfortably.
"They wanted to go to the river, and I didn't want to go. I've come to see you."
Just like that, as if it were only natural to show up in the royal library after dark, as if his simple declaration was all the explanation he needed, as if Melpomaen would, of course, feel overjoyed to be graced with his company. Disconcerted came closer to the mark than overjoyed; pleased nervousness also factored in, not to mention utter perplexity. He almost asked Haldir why he'd come to see him, but caught himself before he could speak the potentially offending words. Haldir stood, stolidly waiting, and Melpomaen mentally scrambled for some conversational gambit.
~*~*~*~
Haldir felt rising alarm as he faced the young archivist. Already, they had reached an impasse, and they hadn't even begun to converse yet. Rumil's advice suddenly seemed very distant, and he hadn't the foggiest idea as to how to go about flirting. Women, he reflected, were easier. They expected him to be direct and lacking in subtlety, and what little poetry he was capable of summoning up was always adequate for them. He imagined himself comparing Melpomaen's skin to the smoothness of satin and mentally winced. No, that wouldn't do.
"So, this is where you work," he inanely observed, and Melpomaen blinked.
"Yes. I'm not doing anything now, though."
Haldir nodded, reached to re-tuck a loose tendril of hair. Melpomaen followed the action with his eyes, and Haldir felt a mercifully brief urge to ask Melpomaen if he preferred the braids. "Maybe we could go up to your quarters, have a drink?"
Melpomaen rose with alacrity, and Haldir found himself flummoxed both by his own poorly chosen words and by the younger elf's reaction to them. -- Dear Elbereth, it sounds as if I've propositioned him! And he's getting up, and it doesn't look as if he's doing so to slap me! --
"If you don't want to, that's quite alright," he blundered on, "I mean, we don't have to go - "
"No, I've seen your home. It's only fair that you should see where I am staying." Melpomaen cast Haldir a quizzical glance as he pushed the chair in and, though Haldir could not be certain, he thought Melpomaen was blushing. Butterflies danced in Haldir's stomach, and he considered taking Melpomaen's arm as the younger elf joined him. After a short interior debate that communicated itself as stiff silence, he settled for following Melpomaen toward the door.
~*~*~*~
Five minutes later in Melpomaen's guest room, matters had not improved. Melpomaen sat on the edge of his narrow bed while Haldir perched similarly on the single wooden guest chair. Their conversation had stumbled back and forth between Melpomaen's work, which interested Haldir not at all, to Haldir's adventures, which were more entertaining but which Melpomaen could not relate to in the least.
Melpomaen sipped from his glass, and nodded along as the March Warden explained something about armed fortifications and human built siege engines. As a historian he did know quite a bit about such things in an academic sense, but he had no inclination or desire to add first-hand knowledge to his store of experience. Haldir wore the unhappy expression of one who knows he is boring his audience beyond all measure yet is helpless to stop. Melpomaen could sympathize; he'd felt the same way when he'd been explaining the organizational system of Lord Elrond's library.
If the blond elf had been planning seduction, Melpomaen thought, this was an exceedingly odd way of going about it. Haldir was now gesticulating with his own wine glass, apparently attempting to illustrate some point about battering rams. The hair at his temples had darkened with sweat, and Melpomaen smiled genially, considered rescuing him. Seduction might not have been Haldir's plan, but… Melpomaen was curious. --Beautiful or not beautiful,--he wondered, --and maybe I wouldn't mind touching his hair again.--At last, Haldir paused to take a breath, and the younger elf spoke.
"Do you have a lover, Haldir?"
Haldir froze, staring at Melpomaen as if he'd suddenly grown a set of horns. --Library mouse, indeed-- Melpomaen thought with satisfaction, noting by Haldir's blank expression that all thoughts of armaments and battering rams had abruptly fled.
"Um, no. No, I don't," Haldir replied.
"I like the way you're wearing your hair tonight." It wasn't the best line he'd ever heard, but Melpomaen didn't think that it mattered. Haldir was nodding mutely, and Melpomaen doubted if he was even aware of his own movement. He reached to touch a few strands that had crept forward, and Haldir flinched. "I don't have a lover, either."
"You don't?" Haldir's tone was hesitant, both doubtful and hopeful.
"No. I never have had one. Have you?"
"None that I'd mention."
Melpomaen sensed Haldir's growing tension, but he did not draw away. "During your adventures?"
Haldir nodded, but volunteered nothing. Melpomaen easily interpreted the shamed expression Haldir wore, admiring the way he did not lower his gaze or cringe away, and he also felt a flaring of anger, not toward the blond warrior but for him. So, his lovers had been human women. Melpomaen guessed that he'd lain with them to assuage his need for closeness as much as to ease his other physical needs, and he further conjectured that it was that of which Haldir was ashamed.
"Never any males, though?" He let his fingers drift through the perspiration dampened tresses at the warrior's temple, slid the locks free from behind his ear. Haldir's jaw tightened, the glazed expression in his eyes shifted to dull embarrassment.
"No."
There were no words that could follow Haldir's final admission, nothing Melpomaen could imagine saying that would soothe away the feelings his questions had roused. Anything he might choose to say would sound like empty platitudes, like pity, so Melpomaen said nothing at all. Instead, he leaned further forward, bridging the space between them and pressing his lips to Haldir's.
Their kiss was not easy and natural. They did not embrace, and Melpomaen did not feel that their lips met so much as accidentally collided. Hazel eyes widened and crossed slightly due to their proximity to Melpomaen's; smooth, full lips did not soften or part. Melpomaen broke the kiss, his cheeks coloring as he became aware of the absurdity of their position, of the sturdy March Warden now sitting fully back in his chair while he himself lowered over him like a lecherous villain out of a bad play.
"I'm sorry." His eyes cut to the floor as he began to draw back. "I guess I shouldn't have…"
"No," Haldir said abruptly. Melpomaen's eyes darted up once more as large hands gripped his forearms. "It's alright." Haldir's tongue tapped briefly, nervously, at his upper lip. "Again?"
Melpomaen blinked, nodded, hovering awkwardly halfway between Haldir and the edge of the bed and frantically wondered if he should settle into the March Warden's lap or attempt to pull him forward. Haldir settled the problem by rising and pulling Melpomaen up with him. A pleasant thrill of mixed nervousness and pleasure ran through the smaller elf as strong arms enfolded him, as he pressed himself against Haldir's muscular form. Again their lips met, and this time Melpomaen was startled by the softness of it, the gentle chasteness of smooth lips against his own. It was not that different from other kisses he had shared, except the fact that he had never had to rise onto tiptoes to kiss an elf maid, nor been held so surely and securely.
And Haldir seemed perfectly willing to follow his lead. Melpomaen shifted his hands to the blonde's broad shoulders, as much for added leverage as to fulfill the urge to touch. Haldir did not object when Melpomaen stepped lightly up onto his foot, nor when Melpomaen's tongue gently explored the seam of his lips. This time Haldir did open, and though Melpomaen was not terribly experienced he did know what to do. Haldir tasted like wine with a faint flavor of underlying mint, and Melpomaen became so lost in it that he barely registered it when Haldir lifted him completely off of his feet and, incidentally, off of Haldir's.
Then Haldir was turning with him, moving backwards, sitting, reclining. The change in position was achieved with a fluidity of motion that left Melpomaen surprised and breathless. He found himself gazing down into hazel eyes, his knees positioned at either side of the warrior's hips. Haldir's face was flushed, his eyes dilated, and Melpomaen suddenly realized through the haze of pleasurable sensations where this encounter was supposed to be leading.
He bowed his head, covered Haldir's broad cheeks with kisses as he struggled to stifle nervous giggles that would certainly have been misinterpreted. His knees slipped on the coverlet, bringing him into contact with unambiguous, rigid heat. Haldir gave voice to a low moan at the touch, and Melpomaen's stomach danced with excited, giddy butterflies. He rotated his hips experimentally against Haldir's, eliciting more half-strangled cries through tightly clenched teeth, and it was only through sheer force of will that he did not immediately attempt to rip the clothes from the warrior's tense body.
A distant voice in the back of Melpomaen's mind screamed that matters were progressing much too quickly, that this was not the way he would treat a shy elf maiden for whom he had feelings. Another voice immediately overrode the first, insisting that Haldir was neither shy nor an elf maid, and that he had no idea what feelings he might have for the warrior. That in and of itself gave him a moment's pause, but then Haldir was twisting under him and the thought was temporarily lost.
His hands shook on the laces of Haldir's tunic, and it took several tries to wrestle the recalcitrant garment over his head. The snug fit of the undershirt beneath it stymied him for a moment, but then Haldir was wiggling his shoulders, working with him to be rid of it. Melpomaen offered up a silent prayer of gratitude to the Valar that he had experience with helping Arwen with her sword belt, and that Haldir had removed his bow and quiver earlier.
Melpomaen's clothing was less complicated than Haldir's, and between them they finished the job of undressing in a lustful haste that spared no thought for gracefulness or dignity. Haldir's leggings caught at his boots, and Melpomaen tugged both free, muttering expletives under his breath. He had already kicked off his soft-soled house shoes, and a shimmy and slide had been all that was necessary to remove his own trousers. At last there was nothing between their bodies, nothing to frustrate their need for contact save for one of Melpomaen's thin black socks, which had not come off with its companion shoe.
Melpomaen forced himself to show some restraint, not to grope and fumble over the smooth, pale flesh beneath him. Instead, he ran his hands across firm muscle, slid them down over chest and belly. One thumbnail caught a peaked nipple, and Haldir gasped, trembled, and arched his shoulders back into the pillows. A wicked smile curved Melpomaen's lips, and he moved his hands back so that his fingertips were pressed against Haldir's ribs and his thumbs lay over the dark nubs. Haldir bucked under him as he began sliding them back and forth, dragging his nails over erect flesh; Melpomaen hung on, squeezing his thighs together against Haldir's body in a mutually bruising grip.
Haldir's arousal lay heavily against his sweat slick abdomen; Melpomaen's rubbed across it with each movement of their bodies. The sensation was maddeningly electrical, teasing and needful. Melpomaen's knowledge of what two males could do about such a situation was purely academic, but he knew enough to realize in the part of his brain that was not fogged with desire that he didn't have the materials at hand to accomplish it. No massage oil or lotion, no jar of cream or even a bowl of bath oils that might be crushed into usefulness. He didn't think the moment was right to ask Haldir if he had any bowstring wax. Taking a deep breath, he slid a hand downward and curled it around Haldir's stiff length.
The angle wasn't what he was accustomed to but, judging by the response he was receiving, it was working well enough. Haldir's hips thrust upward, threatening to unseat him, and Melpomaen flexed his thighs harder, briefly and accidentally tightening his grip. Hazel eyes, which had previously been closed, opened wide, but Melpomaen recognized the expression of bliss on the warrior's features before he could stammer an apology. Adopting a firmer hold, he began to stroke, sitting back on Haldir's thighs harder in an attempt to keep the supine warrior relatively still.
Strong hands reached for him, and he batted them away in a gesture that would have been laughable in a different situation. Melpomaen had no idea if someone who could cheerfully sleep in a bedroll in the dirt would spare a thought for lotion or bath oils, and he had no desire to find out. Pressing a hand to Haldir's solid chest, he hissed, "Be still."
Oddly enough, it worked. Haldir blinked at him, and for a moment his eyes again widened, becoming impossibly deep and liquid. He nodded his reply, and something in that gesture sparked Melpomaen's desire more than anything else had. Gazing down into eyes that had gone nearly blue, he took his own member in hand.
Melpomaen rode the rise and fall of Haldir's thighs, giving himself up to the intoxication of sensation. It was not the same as pleasuring himself in the darkness of his chambers, not with those eyes upon him, and not with the heat of Haldir's flesh in his perspiring grip. Low cries and moans met his ears, and he could hear his own entwining with them, creating a wordless, arrhythmic song that was nonetheless perfect in its meaning. He felt the abrupt tightening of the muscles beneath him, the tension of that final plateau reached and the ultimate effort made to strain above and beyond it. His own body responded, reaching the same place as Haldir's cock convulsed within his hand. A few moments later his own essence was mixed with Haldir's, dripping over his fingers and onto Haldir's ridged abdomen.
He collapsed on top of Haldir, being careful even through the delightful laziness of ecstasy reached to keep his hands off the sheets. Haldir didn't seem to object, and Melpomaen wiped his fingers across the warrior's chest. That elicited a slightly disgruntled murmur, and Melpomaen braced himself up, looking down into Haldir's face.
"Was that…"
"That was perfect." Haldir's eyes were again closed, though his expression was smooth, almost peaceful. "I'm sticky."
"Oh!" Melpomaen bit his lower lip, glanced sharply away. "There's a bowl of water; let me get it…"
He parted from Haldir and scampered for the washbowl and towels. It seemed strange to feel shy about cleaning the warrior's body after what they had done together, but his cheeks flushed with renewed color just the same as he wiped at Haldir with the damp cloth. He kept his eyes lowered as he washed himself, finishing with his hands and pausing briefly to inspect his fingernails.
He had no idea what prompted his next words, whether it was the sight of the blond March Warden stretched across his bed in delicious disarray or if it was no more than a vague idea of what ought to be said.
"Will you spend the night?"
Full lips curved in a gentle smile. "Yes; thank you, Melpomaen."
It felt even stranger to be thanked, but Melpomaen only nodded as he dropped the towels into the bowl. Haldir scooted over to make room for him, and with mixed feelings of warmth and trepidation he slid in beside him.
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