your servant, don't forsake him by averytinylizard  

taste the whip in love not given lightly

and here's maedhros getting whipped but in a nice way!

Hador had asked once, shortly after being given Dor-lomin, with help disciplining a thief. Now that Fingolfin was Hador's king, any authority to punish wrongdoers derived from him, and he wished for this first thief to be made an example of, so that everyone knew that the High King's justice was not softer than the Lord’s. All Fingolfin needed to do was hit the man with a whip. Fingolfin had not understood. It seemed orcish to punish a man by tying him to a pole and whipping him bloody. Why couldn't they exile the man for some years, he asked, for that would be the punishment given to an elf who committed a similar offense, however rare they were. Hador seemed to think this punishment much crueler than the whip. Most villages would not take in a known thief, and he could not survive off the land alone so far north. Imprisonment was impractical, and expensive, and death was too severe a punishment for the offense. Modern groups of Men agreed that the most appropriate response to crimes of this manner was payment for the party wronged, be it with coin, cattle, grain, or labour, and the whip.

Fingolfin agreed, knowing his relationship with Men depended on treating their customs with respect. He hated it. The man seemed so small compared to most elves, like a youth far from adulthood, and the sight of his blood and the sound of his cries only made it worse. He vowed to never do it again, no matter who asked.

It had taken quite a while to convince him, then, that Maedhros might desire to be beaten. He had seen the scars even before they had lain together, and he couldn't imagine wanting to relive something like that.

“I will not be reliving it,” Maedhros had said, “not if you did it right.” It had taken a great deal of discussion for Fingolfin to be comfortable with doing this, a great number of lines and limits drawn by Maedhros before they ever grabbed a belt.

Once they had done so, however, Fingolfin understood. It made Maedhros more vocal, as if the pain didn't just intensify sensation but let him let go of those inhibitions that kept the loudest of his cry in check. It gave a rush of power, too, to hurt with one hand and soothe with the other. Greatest of all, maybe, was the pleasure of aesthetics. The contrast between the auburn and the purples and the reds, the yellows and blues in the following days.

It had made a great difference, to do it by themselves, because they wanted it, compared to punishing a man in the yard.

Fingolfin now checks the ropes keeping Maedhros's hand and legs in place. They are loose enough around wrist and ankle that there's no real risk of getting injured, but he's still tied tightly enough that he cannot really move away from the belt. His chest lies flat on the table, and his legs are forced to spread. If Fingolfin wanted, he could whip in-between his thighs, or even his cock. He does not think he will do the latter. That is an act for specific nights, and tonight will be quite plain.

Fingolfin takes out the strap, used mostly for discipline among his Manniah soldiers, and feels the weight of it in his hands. It is harder, thicker than their usual belt, so the hurt, while more painful, will be more even. Less risk of hurting Maedhros in a way he does not wish. Still, it does have holes punched through it to reduce drag. They should allow him to swing quicker and thus hurt more. He swings it, once, twice, feels out the way it moves through the air, and finally, on the third swing, hits Maedhros on the buttocks.

The sound it makes is wonderful. A whistle of moving through the air, then a crack, and the desk dragging slightly as Maedhros flinches away. Fingolfin does it three more times, switching which side the blow lands. Then, he moves to the thighs, muscular and long. Three hits on each one this time, and then back up. All he needs is to know he has hit those two more important parts. Now, without concern for rhythm and barely any for where it lands he raises his arm again and again, watching the skin grow red and bruised. Maedhros has his mother's skin, not as pale as his father's, but prone to growing very red when blood rushes to the surface. Bruises show easily on him. So does arousal.

“You take it well.” Maedhros, however much he might enjoy pain, is not like Fingolfin. He does not enjoy getting spat on or shamed. He would have a steel fist followed by a caress. “You keep remarkably quiet. I don't think I could do the same.”

The sound Maedhros makes is one of disagreement, and Fingolfin wonders which part he disagrees with. The compliment, or the comparison? As he strokes the inside of a thigh, he decides not to ask.

“You do. You flinch, of course, but who wouldn't? I would be blind not to recognize that.” He moves to the back then, knowing that it will be better later if his back is as bruised as his thighs.

The back requires him to be methodical. Maedhros's right shoulder must be treated delicately, so he makes sure his blows fall along the lower back. It doesn't redden or bruise as much as his buttocks, so each time he lowers the strap he does it with a ferocity he never uses outside of the battlefield. Finally, Maedhros grants him the satisfaction of a hiss. Fingolfin takes a step to the side to give himself the space to whip and hold a cheek at the same time. Maedhros and his noises deserve the tenderness.

Once his arm begins to ache (and this takes a long time, for it is not a lie to call Fingolfin the mightiest of the Noldor), Maedhros's back is a bruised mess. He bleeds in a few spots, but in most places it is simply red. When Fingolfin strokes, it feels feverish to the touch, so much blood rushing to the surface. He licks it, all up the spine, hoping that it cools Maedhros.

His face is a mess, too, though Fingolfin did not touch it. It's flushed, and there are tears and snot running down. Disappointingly, his lips are swollen, clearly having been bitten to muffle his cries. Fingolfin would have liked to bruise that too.

The picture of it is beautiful enough that Fingolfin feels no regret for not dedicating himself to any arts in his youth. He and Maedhros have created a masterwork. It will be better still in the coming days, red turning to a riot of purples and yellows before banishing.

As he works to untie Maedhros he kisses his wrists and ankles. Maedhros gasps at that as loud as he did to the strikes. And even untied, Maedhros knows to stay in place.

Fingolfin prepares him with gentleness, for he knows what parts Maedhros likes having rushed, and this is not one of them. He spreads the bruised cheeks and massages, softly, the entrance. After just a little while, he slicks a finger with oil and pushes in, waiting after pushing each knuckle through. Once it's completely in, he curls it up, feeling for the spot inside of him that makes his toes curl. As he hears a hissed yesss, he kisses across his back and pushes in a second one, as tender as the first. He feels it flutter around his fingers, wanting more, feels Maedhros's gaze, too. But he stays there with his two fingers exploring, turning and petting. Finally he adds the third, and focuses on getting him stretched, pushing against his walls. As he finally pulls them out, Maedhros looks loose, and Fingolfin knows it's time to push him to lay on his back.

Maedhros squirms, trying to find a way to rest his back on the table without laying on his hurt lower back, but Fingolfin puts his hand on his stomach and puts him back in his place. Maedhros glares, but stays. Fingolfin considers getting back the strap, but decides against it. Once it's time to hurt his inner thigh, it will be better if Maedhros does not expect it.

Maedhros spreads his legs, throwing one over Fingolfin's shoulder. Good. It gives him space to work. Fingolfin holds his cock, and once the head is in, pushes in one great thrust. Maedhros moans, pained and yet delighted, and Fingolfin holds his thigh in place. His grip is tight, bruising by itself, and he keeps his thrusts quick, catching each of Maedhros's moans as they taper and making him moan again.

Fingolfin knows he won't come yet, and that if Maedhros comes too soon he can grip his cock thigh enough that it will stop him. That leaves him plenty of time to take that leg and bruise it as much as the rest of him. He bites the calf laying next to his head and slaps the thigh in match with his thrusts. He bruises here easiest of all, the delicate skin turning scarlet after the first few hits. Fingolfin hits him for much longer, of course. Maedhros would not stop mocking him if he did not.

And as the whole of Maedhros turns red, with bruises and arousal both, Fingolfin bends over to kiss him. He can barely reach Maedhros's mouth, but he kisses his chin and bites and pulls at his lower lip, and feels how, even if it's only one leg, Maedhros tightens when you bend him in half.

The moans have gotten louder, higher, a chorus of ah-ah-ah worthy of any girl, and Fingolfin moves to stroke him. As he spills, a mess of white over the two of them, Fingolfin takes the cock in his fist and tightens his grip. At first, he feels Maedhros wince in discomfort, then as he tightens even further his moans turn to a grunt of pain, and still, he says yes.

Maedhros grasps at his hair, pulls him up to kiss him fully, curling up, and a hand moves to his ass to make Fingolfin fuck him harder. He obliges, a hand on the table and the other crushing Maedhros's poor, beautiful cock, and fucks so hard he feels Maedhros slide up the table. He's so close, with the clenching unrelenting around his cock, biting and tightening his fist each time he feels his grip loosen. Finally, he comes, and softens, and pulls out slowly, and licks the bruises on Maedhros's mouth.

However tired and aching he must feel, he knows Maedhros feels even more worn, so he lifts him, like a damsel in a tale, and lets him on the bed. “You did well.” And as he hears a grunt only as a response, he goes and picks up the ointment. It's made to soothe, and smells minty, and he doesn't have to tell Maedhros to lay on his front. “There’s a good lad.”