The Law of Attractive Nuisance by Rocky41_7

The Law of Attractive Nuisance

For day 3 of Silmarillion Smut Week: "trans identities"

Read The Law of Attractive Nuisance

The outfit was understated, by Finrod’s standards. Of course, it could also be that Amarië’s memory rendered him more aureate and ostentatious than he truly had been, but she tended to believe the image in her mind’s eye was accurate, and that Finrod had merely chosen to dress down for the party. He was far less keen to have attention drawn to him these days, given the mixed reactions of the Amanyar to his return, and she knew he had come along to the party in part for fear his absence would cause a greater ruckus than his presence.

            Everything was so complicated nowadays, and it made her think longingly of the past and Finrod’s simpler love of soirees and summer bashes. However, this complexity far outstripped the loneliness she had felt in his absence in the centuries since his departure. No matter how many other people she filled her life with, there was no one who could ever fully replace a person once lost, was there? There had always been a Finrod-shaped emptiness, and she could not say who she missed more: her fiancé, or her friend.

            So the outfit was simple, and Finrod’s hair relatively conservative, and he wore half as much jewelry as he might’ve before the Darkening, and he was still utterly resplendent. His eyes no longer held the glow of Laurelin and Telperion, but there was an outward light that seemed to shine off of him in Amarië’s estimation, a gentle yet iron beauty that would not be denied, no matter how simply he dressed. She wondered if the others were envious.

            Ah, but she was thinking too much on it now, and had lapsed out of the conversation at the table. But how was she to focus on another conversation about grass cultivation within the city limits or price fluctuations on wine in Valmar—or even murmur about Finrod’s lurid stories of Middle-earth—when Finrod was a table away in conversation with one of his grandfather’s advisors (part of his effort to help repair relations with the Teleri) and the lamplight so coquettishly complimented his profile, and the line of his neck beneath the weight of his golden braids? His robes snatched in at the waist, accentuated with a belt tie, and with the way he leaned forward on the tall table, fetchingly outlined the curve of his backside.

            Amarië was staring then, but fortunately no one was paying her so much attention it was observed.

            There was one thing that certainly hadn’t changed since their youth—Finrod’s remarkable loveliness, and how weak at the knees it made Amarië. (How surprised she had been to hear he hadn’t wed in Middle-earth! How many poor néri and níssi had he disappointed with that, she wondered?)

            From there her mind drifted to the last long weekend he had spent with her in Valmar. Instead of staying at her home—what with her parents’ less than charitable attitudes towards Finrod’s return, and their downright displeased attitudes towards her ongoing engagement with him—they had stolen away to a rented room in the mountains, and Finrod had kept her busy the whole weekend.

            He was gesturing with his hands as he spoke to his conversational companion, and Amarië couldn’t help but sigh dreamily, remembering how it felt to have those hands skimming up her thighs, or squeezing her breasts from behind, or combing through her hair afterwards while tender songs of fresh spring flowers and warm ocean currents tumbled from his lips.

            “I’m going to fetch more wine,” said Mancar, looking to Amarië. “Anything for you?”

            “No, thank you,” Amarië replied distantly.

            Too much recollection on Finrod’s efforts to make up for lost time, which she noticed only as she turned to say another word to Mancar, and realized she’d do well to stay at the table for a few minutes, unless she wanted someone to know just how intently she had been thinking about her fiancé. Flushed, she twirled her empty wine glass by the stem and tried to think of something else—anything else. Grass cultivation, for instance.

            Her mind was resistant to her efforts to move away from that line of contemplation. For so long now, her thoughts of Finrod had been only fantasy, locked into a world where they were incurably separated. But now—now it wasn’t so, and her treacherous mind knew that her fantasizing had the possibility—the distinct possibility—of becoming reality—and soon.

            Just not soon enough for her body’s preference.

            She tried injecting herself into the grass conversation, but her mind was only half on it, and her arousal was not dissipating nearly as well as she had hoped. Perhaps unnoticeable enough for her to slip out of the salon? Her mind seemed to be taking perverse glee in inserting obscene images of Finrod into her thoughts the harder she tried to think of other things.

            At last, Amarië decided she needed a moment alone to get ahold of herself. She excused herself graciously from the table and turned quickly, striding out and trying to keep her robes arranged to shield herself.

            Blasted Finrod—he had always managed to get to her, and too often without even trying! She strode deeper into the host’s home, finding a quiet, unused study room to let herself into. None of the lamps were light; the room was illuminated only with the light of the moon beaming through the uncovered window. Amarië paced over to the small table that crouched gracefully below the sill; she rested her hands there and breathed deeply.

            “Be not unreasonable,” she murmured. When the party was over, she would have plenty of time for this, surely! When deep breathing did not quell the fire in her blood as quickly as she wanted, she tried pinching herself in various places. This also proved ineffective. Groaning inwardly, she considered she might just have to wait and hope her absence wasn’t noticed. She wasn’t sure it was likely to be, with Finrod there.

            Naturally, he had noticed her departure. She felt him probing at her mind, wondering where she had gone off to, within only a few minutes of her absence. Fluttering, she brushed him off; it was nothing, he should stay and enjoy himself; she would rejoin him as soon as she could. Finrod’s mind withdrew. He liked to think he was not as forceful as the other Finweans, but his ósanwe presence was still stronger than most others with whom she’d spoken and when she wished to keep secrets from him—which was rarely ever, and usually not for anything serious—it was fantastically difficult.

            It wasn’t fair anyway, that he was so woefully beautiful, and she was quite sure she’d had a similar thought at ten years old when she had seen him for the first time, after her family moved to Tirion and she started her new classes.

            Now in the relative privacy of the empty room, it was all the harder to convince her mind to stop feeding her pictures of Finrod’s golden, tiara-bedecked head between her legs; or thrown back against the pillows; or stuttering and gasping against the crook of her neck. Her body’s arousal did not die down in the least; rather she was so hard she found herself leaning forward against the table as if in intent contemplation of the moon, for the pressure of the edge against her increasingly demanding sex. Her hips shifted slightly and she swallowed a groan at the friction of the table edge, fighting the urge to rut against it like an animal.

            She had worked so hard not to give him a glimpse of where she was, and yet she heard the door slide open, heard his footsteps enter the room.

            I told you it was fine! she complained to him, gripping the edge of the table tightly, not turning to look at him. She was keenly aware of how uncomfortably tight her clothes were presently; she could feel the lace of her underwear digging into the engorged flesh.

            “Are you not feeling well?” he asked, and his voice was the very picture of loving concern, which absurdly only increased her arousal. Perhaps he simply wished to return the favor she had granted him lately—which was recognizing when he needed to leave. Crowds made Finrod uneasy now, and at times the memory of death and Middle-earth gripped him so tightly as to feel more real than where he was, and Amarië found it was best to get him somewhere private in these moments.

            “It is no cause for concern,” she said, but as soon as he drew near, he could discern the nature of her problem.

            “Ah,” was all he said, and Amarië flushed, and ached.

            “Say it not like that!” she cried, flapping her hands. “This is your fault!”

            “I am sorry,” he said, but the corners of his mouth were twitching with the effort it took not to smile, his warm brown eyes twinkling. “And I dressed tonight specifically not to cause trouble…”

            “Tch! As if such things could disguise you,” she sighed, her heart aflutter despite her laments. “Beauty such as yours was not made to be dimmed, Findaráto.”

            “Still,” he said, sobering slightly, “I regret causing your distress, however unintentionally.” Amarië sulked at him. He touched her hand and tilted his chin up. “Perhaps I can help…?” he offered, his upper lip a perfect Cupid’s bow, the lower deliciously full and pink.

            Yes, yes, yes, Amarië’s body pleaded as she tried to summon the words to turn him down. He was like the heat which preceded a flame; he needn’t even touch her directly, only get near, before she felt the effect of his fire. Nevertheless, she tried to hold her ground, despite the allure of his arms, despite the fact that she would be sitting around here quite some time before she was comfortable going back into a crowded room. She held back, and Finrod began to withdraw.

            “Ah, but you’re right, and we ought to wait,” he said, and for whatever reason, this acquiescence changed her mind. She cupped his cheek with one hand and surged forward to lock her lips against his. Finrod melted into it at once, sliding his arms around her waist to hold her to him, and the desire in Amarië’s gut leaped eagerly, driving her nearer to him, seeking the pressure of his body against her.

            “Drat,” she breathed when they parted. There was still a smile tugging at the edges of his mouth, and she knew him to be pleased that he could still have this effect on her even after such time apart, even if his apologies were genuine.

            “Does that door lock?” he murmured, his fingers stroking her hip.

            “I…I didn’t check.” Amarië broke away from him and hurried over to fidget with the door until she’d snapped a lock into place. Then she turned to look back at him, her heart thumping away in her chest, a flush all about her face and neck. Finrod leaned back against the table, a boyish smile playing about his lips.

            He beckoned her back over, and she felt the warm invitation of his mind, not pressing at hers, so much as brushing: a gentle, loving stroke.

            She returned to him and Finrod gripped her waist and kissed her again, slower and more deliberate. Amarië throbbed in absence of his touch where she longed for it and she shifted nearer, trying to get one of his feet between hers.

            “No patience tonight, I see,” he laughed, pulling back from her. “I shall care for you!”

            “Patience, you say, when it has been so many years since I enjoyed your touch,” she said, flickering her eyes at him, using a tone in combination with this particular lament which rarely failed to stir him to do whatever she was asking. “How can I, sweetheart?”

            Finrod kissed her again, leaning nearer so there was scarcely any space at all between them, and Amarië wound her arms around his shoulders, breathing in the smell of his body beneath the perfume.

            “I am but a zither in your hands,” he murmured with no displeasure in his voice, studying her face a moment before he kissed her cheek, her jaw, her neck.

            “Ah…I still know you, Ingoldo,” she breathed. “You may be different now…but you are still you.” Which had been no certain thing! When first they met again, she had not been sure. Would it have been so strange, she had wondered, for his experiences abroad to have changed him entirely? And yet, while there were many new facets to this reborn Finrod, the core was still there, still unchanged—her Findaráto, sweet and gentle and caring, curious and quick to laugh and generous, and if he was now tempered with greater suffering and the wisdom of long struggle, he was still himself.

            “I hope so,” he said, but his voice had gone sober, and he stilled at his kisses. One hand gripped her waist more tightly and she felt that wavering uncertainty which flickered to the surface so often with him since his return.

            “You are,” Amarië said more firmly, putting her fingers under his chin to tilt his face towards her. “Still you are yourself. And still I love you.”

            There was that sorrow, seemingly beyond Finrod’s power to explain, in his eyes again, but then he drew near her and claimed her lips once more and Amarië dissolved into the passion of his touch.

            “I love you too,” he whispered between kisses lavished on her mouth and cheeks. “How I love you, Amarië—” There was a rustle of fabric and Amarië felt his hand seeking an opening in her robes, to her enormous relief, for she was so hard with his kisses and his declarations she found it difficult to think. After a moment, she gripped his wrist and moved his hand to where she wanted it, unable to restrain a sigh of relief as his hand rubbed against her hardness through her clothes.

            “Do you want—”

            “Yes,” she answered before he’d even gotten the question out. “Findaráto, please,” she said. “I need—I can’t—”

            Finrod kissed her neck once more, and she thought she felt the curve of a smile in it.

            “I have you,” he reassured her. He surrendered the search for the correct ties to loosen her robes and simply hiked the skirts up around her waist, revealing to her embarrassment how desperate she was for attention. He couldn’t give her the grace of pretending otherwise either; she watched his lips part slightly at the sight of her cock straining against the white lace of her underthings, and she whined.

            “Ingoldo,” she pleaded. It was too dark for her to see the pink which tinged his cheeks, but it was hard to miss the reverence in the way he traced to fingers over the swell in her underwear, making Amarië whimper. She was torn between wild impatience, and being very touched that he was so taken with her.

            “How long were you at the table with this?” he asked when he seemed to come back to the moment, his eyes flicking up to hers. “Not long, I hope!” She pouted, but was pleased he was acknowledging the depths of her discomfort.

            “I was watching you with Aranyo,” she said.

            “And was I showing something I didn’t mean to?” he asked in feigned concern, twisting around to look at himself.

            “Findaráto, you know perfectly well how you look in that robe,” Amarië replied, her lower lip jutting out. He smiled and leaned in, sliding his hands over her hips beneath the robes, warm and soft against her bare skin, skimming over the waistband of her underwear, drawing her nearer.

            “Perhaps I am no longer accustomed to being spoiled with so much of your attention,” he said.

            “You might return the favor,” she said, trying not to plead.

            “I shall,” he assured her lowly, leaning in to mouth at her collar. “I shall.” And with this, he palmed against her through the lace and Amarië moaned, had a flash of soul-piercing concern that someone walking by might have heard, and was immediately then distracted once again by the press of Finrod’s hand. “It would be unkind and improper indeed not to attend my lady,” Finrod murmured, cupping her in his hand and giving her a light squeeze that made Amarië gasp, her hips jerking automatically against his hand as she tried vainly to shuffle nearer to him.

            “Ah…ah…Ingoldo…”

            “Mm…” Without further demand, Finrod wriggled his hand down amongst the lace of her underwear and Amarië half-stifled a cry of pleasure as his hand closed around her.

            “Oh, yes,” she gasped, bucking against his hand again, one hand fisting in the shoulder of his robes. “Oh yes, please…” Finrod began to stroke her, and Amarië whined and whimpered, desperately trying to stay quiet. She pressed her face into Finrod’s other shoulder, her body shuddering against him as his hand moved along the length of her sex, fingers teasing the underside of her slowly before he jerked his wrist in a sharp movement. Amarië let out a choked moan into Finrod’s shoulder, now pressed so tight against him that she’d nearly backed him into sitting on that table.

            “I have you,” Finrod murmured to her, his free hand rubbing her lower back. “Let me take care of you…” Amarië could only gasp raggedly as Finrod drew her cock out from the constriction of her clothes, lifting her head to gaze wide-eyed on him. For a moment he was still, looking into her eyes, then leaned up to seal his mouth over hers and Amarië moaned freely into his kiss as his hand began to move again, with greater speed, and she gave into the desire to thrust into his grip until she was nearly fucking his hand.

            Then Finrod slowed with a quiet laugh.

            “We shall have to match our rhythms better than this, my love,” he said when they’d been moving at odds again.

            “Apologies,” Amarië breathed. “I only…” I only want you so much I can’t think and it’s all your fault! But there was a smile tugging at her lips as well, and when their eyes met, it grew.

            “No apologies,” Finrod assured her gently, kissing her cheek, caressing the dark bloom of her birthmark. She was never entirely sure if he paid more attention to that side of her face than the other, or if she only imagined it. He went back to work and Amarië wound her arms around his shoulders, clinging to him as her whole body tensed with her mounting arousal.

            “Ah…Ingoldo…” She tried to warn him when she felt her sex beginning to drip. “Don’t—ah—don’t let me—oh—don’t let me make a mess of you,” she panted, trembling, biting her lip as Finrod’s firm hand brought her so so close to the edge of what she wanted.

            “Shh, I can manage.” Finrod’s fingers caressed her between the legs, reaching back between, and then he took her cock again and Amarië buried her face in the crook of his neck as she toppled over the edge, muffling her moans as pleasure wracked her body.

            “Ah…how beautiful you are,” he said softly, and Amarië was aware of the total sincerity in his voice, felt the press of his lips against her ear. It took her a moment to catch her breath and draw back to see a conspicuous stain on Finrod’s robes.

            “Ingoldo! You said you had it under control!” she exclaimed, wringing her hands.

            “You must forgive me,” he said and she could see him trying—thought not very hard—not to laugh. “I was only a bit distracted, darling.”

            “Let me…” She took a handkerchief and tried to wipe the evidence of her impropriety off him, and he was not at all helpful, giggling and shifting from foot to foot. “You can still see a damp spot,” she said crossly after she’d tried to use spit to fix it.

            “I’m sure no one will notice,” Finrod tried to soothe her, taking the handkerchief and stowing it in one of his pockets. “It will be fine with a more thorough wash.”

            “What if someone sees?” she fretted.

            “Amarië, it’s fine,” Finrod insisted, catching her by the waist to straighten her clothes up and make sure she was presentable. “I have done far more to spoil my own reception among these Elves than anything you could do,” he pointed out gently. “If anyone says something, I shall blame the wine,” he added cheerily.

            She met his eyes.

            “I suppose we should get back,” she said, finding herself now curiously reluctant for all her earlier rush. Finrod nodded slowly, but made no move towards the door. Amarië caught his face between her hands and kissed him deeply, until his eyes fluttered shut and he leaned into her touch. “Do you want me to…?” she offered softly. Finrod made a jittery gesture with his hand and shook his head.

            “No, not now,” he said. She nodded, and instead went to unlock the door so they could make their way back to the party.

            “Are you feeling better now?” he apparently couldn’t resist teasing her as they slipped out of the room. “Will you focus on the conversation, or shall I have to rescue you again?”

            “Rescue! As if it was not your fault to begin with!” Amarië exclaimed.

            “I can hardly be expected to know—”

            “—perfectly aware of the effect you have—”

            Finrod ceased his efforts and was just smiling at her then, with that look of some wonder in his eyes, as if he still could not believe all this was not some rosy dream.

            “Oh, hush with that,” Amarië sighed, stopping in the hall to kiss him again, her touch light and gentle. Finrod leaned in and he was so delicate, so vulnerable in the way he allowed himself to be with her; she wanted to cup him in her hands as she had done with beetles as a child, and keep him away from all the harsh edges of the world, for all that she knew he had experienced too many of them already. “Come on.” She slipped her hand into his and gave it a squeeze, and so hand in hand they made their way back into the salon.

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Chapter End Notes

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