this is the last dream i ever want to have by atlantablack  

If Cain got to choose, would he choose his brother?

When Abel got to choose, Cain was the only option. 

a story unchanged and yet slightly altered | wishesandstars

☀︎

Fingolfin and Fëanor have not, despite their best efforts, done much but fight since they were both re-embodied. And they are trying to get along, which perhaps makes the entire affair worse. But every conversation just seems to end with them screaming at each other. Their entire relationship is so fraught that they cannot even get around to discussing the stuff Fingolfin actually wants to talk about before they’ve set each other off. The rest of their family have all taken to retreating as quickly as possible when they end up in the same room and Fingolfin cannot even blame them. Wants to fix this and does not know how. 

He could not even tell you truly what they had begun arguing about this time. Only that they had met in his sitting room to once again try and talk things out, to ease the tension if for no other reason than to make things less awful for their children, and somehow they’d ended up on their feet yelling at each other. Perhaps it is an inevitable escalation when Fëanor gets in his space and slams him against a wall. Perhaps it is only natural when Fingolfin snaps and pushes back, pressing them tightly together as Fëanor refuses to give an inch. Perhaps, it is even natural the way Fëanor grabs a fistful of his hair and yanks his head back, a furious snarl on his mouth.

What likely is not natural, is the way Fëanor leans in, presses his teeth to Fingolfin’s throat, and bites down, meaning it as a threat, strange though it is. What definitely is not natural is the way Fingolfin shudders at the blunt pain and goes limp, a high-pitched breathy noise falling out of his mouth that sounds far too much like a moan.

Fëanor pulls back to stare at him, eyes very wide, pupils already blown out. Fingolfin stares back, mouth still open and a heat building in his stomach.

It’s Fëanor who moves forward first and Fingolfin will defend that point to the death. Fëanor who tightens his hand in Fingolfin’s hair and slots their lips together before licking into his mouth. Fingolfin just does the natural thing and kisses him back. Fists his hands in Fëanor’s shirt, tries to pull him even closer. Obediently slides his legs around Fëanor’s waist when hands slide down his sides and beneath his thighs. Much, much later he will look back and have the belated realization that the natural reaction would have been to push Fëanor away and kick him out. In the moment nothing has ever felt more natural than to simply let Fëanor take anything that he wants.

Fëanor kisses the same way he fights. Hard and vicious and with every bit of his focus narrowed onto how he can best pull Fingolfin apart. Except in this case pulling him apart seems to consist of nothing more than Fëanor kissing him and swallowing every half-formed moan that tries to crawl up his throat as Fëanor’s fingers trail down his throat and pinch at his ears and push under his shirt to twist one of his nipples. He shifts his hips, pulling Fingolfin downward, and oh.

Oh.

The press of Fëanor’s cock against his, even through fabric, and the bolt of pleasure that surges through him is a revelation. Is enough to have him breaking away, gasping for air. Fëanor wastes not a second before setting his teeth to Fingolfin’s neck in earnest.

He has a hazy idea that the bruises will be annoying later but in the moment each sharp starburst of pain sends pleasure melting hot and thick down his spine. Fëanor worries at each spot, mouth warm and wet against his throat. He moves his hips and gets hit with another bolt of pleasure as they slide against each other, Fëanor’s groan reverberating against his throat, and it is suddenly intolerable that they are yet in their clothes.

“Let me down,” he says, voice wavering as he tries to focus. Fëanor steps back so quickly Fingolfin almost falls and for a moment they just stare at each other with wide-eyes, chests heaving. Fëanor’s gaze tracks down to his neck, eyes going sharp and hungry at what is surely already bruises beginning to form.

“Nolvo,” he says, hoarse and awed.

Fëanor meets his eyes again and he thinks he might kill to keep that bright-eyed hungry look directed at him. Such a far cry from the usual irritation. It is exactly what he’s always wanted. For Fëanor to look at him and see something that he wants instead of an annoyance to bat away. It makes it so easy to drop to his knees, face turned up toward Fëanor expectantly. And if Fëanor had looked hungry before then he is starving now. He cradles Fingolfin’s face in his hands and bends to kiss him. It is an unbearably gentle motion that makes something in Fingolfin’s chest ache and crack, sharp edges catching on his lungs and ‘causing his breath to catch.

“Look at you,” Fëanor says softly, the words warm against Fingolfin’s mouth. “On your knees for me at last.”

Fingolfin swallows and fists his hands on his thighs. “Please,” he says, the word wrenching its way out of him. He does not know what he’s asking for. Only knows that he wants Fëanor to keep looking at him like that, to keep that gentle touch pressed against his face.

Fëanor studies his face for a moment, one hand sliding into his hair and gently tugging Fingolfin’s head back so Fëanor can more easily look at him. He runs his thumb across Fingolfin’s bottom lip and then slides it into his mouth. The heat in Fëanor’s gaze is threatening to burn him alive but Fingolfin only hollows his cheeks and swirls his tongue around the thumb in his mouth. Welcomes the fire and the threat of incineration. Hasn’t felt this warm in ages.

Fëanor curses and pulls his hand away to fumble at his laces, the hand in his hair tightening. Yet it somehow does not truly hit him what it is they are doing until Fingolfin gets his first look at Fëanor’s cock, thick and hard and leaking (because of him, some part of his mind whispers victoriously, because of him). He should perhaps panic, will likely panic a good deal later, but even as he’s thinking, fuck, what are we doing, his mouth is already watering and he’s straining against Fëanor’s hand in his hair, mouth open and wanting.

“Fuck,” Fëanor hisses. “Look at how eager you are.”

He feeds his cock to Fingolfin slowly, inch by inch, like there’s something to be savored in watching every inch of it disappear into Fingolfin’s mouth. Fingolfin closes his eyes, drinks in the terribly soft praise pouring from Fëanor’s mouth, and relishes the stretch of his jaw. He breathes in carefully through his nose and, when Fëanor keeps pushing forward, carefully relaxes his throat, swallowing reflexively when Fëanor’s cock touches the back of it. Moans a little at the feeling. Fëanor breathes in sharply and presses his thumb to the corner of Fingolfin’s mouth. Says, “Look at me,” voice low and demanding.

Fingolfin blinks his eyes open with some effort, wonders at the way everything blurs and then wonders less when he feels tears slip down his face. Fëanor looks gutted, eyes wide and devouring. He pushes in the slightest bit further and Fingolfin for a moment struggles to remember how to breathe. Feels dizzy with how badly he wants this to never end. He whines as Fëanor pulls out, curls his tongue around him as he pushes back in and sucks. Fëanor’s voice stutters around the praise still pouring out of him. You’re doing so well, Fëanor murmurs. You’re taking it so beautifully.

Fingolfin could have lived in that moment forever — the weight of Fëanor’s cock dragging across his tongue, the salty, musky flavor, the praise, the sparks of pain where Fëanor’s hand repeatedly tightens and loosens in his hair. He feels lit up. Feels overwhelmed and wants it to never stop. Takes everything Fëanor gives him and would take more if it were offered. But all too soon Fëanor is pulling him off and to his feet, pressing him up against the wall again to kiss him.

Fëanor pulls back to look at him, presses his thumb to the corner of Fingolfin’s mouth again. His eyes are very dark, the memory of tree light guttering as he watches Fingolfin. “Your bed?” he asks, a bigger question hiding in the words.

Fingolfin darts a glance at the doors leading to his sleeping quarters. Tries to give the question the thought it deserves, knows that they are both making a decision bigger than they should be, but all his brain can summon is the desperate need to have Fëanor’s skin against his, to keep that look on Fëanor’s face directed at him for as long as he can. “My bed,” he agrees. Disentangles himself Fëanor’s arms and leads the way.

They shed their clothes quickly once they’re in his room and Fëanor pushes him onto the bed, stands next to it for a long moment just staring down at him, a strange look in his eyes that does nothing to damper the heat. “Look at you,” he says softly and there’s something else hiding in those words that Fingolfin can’t reach. Something that Fëanor is seeing that Fingolfin is missing. Fëanor reaches out and runs a hand down Fingolfin’s chest, down his stomach, and then abruptly scratches a set of harsh red lines across his ribs that has Fingolfin hissing in a breath and arching his back.

“Did that make you feel better?” he can’t help but ask, a bit snide no matter that he hadn’t hated it.

Fëanor looks at him, annoyance sparking in his eyes for a second before disappearing again. “I suppose we’ll find out, won’t we.” He climbs onto the bed then, settling on top of Fingolfin and pinning both of his hands to the bed beside his head.

He then proceeds to kiss Fingolfin senseless, kissing him until he’s melting into the bed, awareness blissfully narrowed down to nothing but the pressure of Fëanor’s hands tight around his wrists as he presses them against the mattress. To Fëanor’s tongue in his mouth and the slick slide of their mouths against each other, the sharp pain when Fëanor catches his bottom lip between his teeth and bites. The warmth of Fëanor’s thighs pressed tight around his hips, the slow roll of Fëanor’s hips when he seems to remember that they’re both hard and pressed against each other. Fingolfin feels a little like he’s going to burn up, the heat that Fëanor constantly gives off sinking into him and leaving him warmer than he’s been since the ice.

When Fëanor finally pulls back it’s only to stay pressed close, his eyes roaming over Fingolfin’s face, something terribly sharp in them. Fingolfin stares back through half-lidded eyes, mind hazy; he feels too content to care about the possibility of being cut open. Everything inside of him — the anger, the bitterness, all that frigid resentment that’s built up over the centuries — has melted away and left behind nothing but a deep yearning to keep Fëanor this close to him always. If they stay pressed up against each other then perhaps no more lies, no more bitterness will be able to find its way between them.

He absently tests the grip Fëanor has on his wrists and hums in contentment when Fëanor’s grip tightens. “You are,” Fëanor says softly, “the single most infuriating elf I have ever met.” It doesn’t sound like a compliment. It also doesn’t sound like the curse that he would usually call it.

Fëanor kisses him again before he can decide if a reply is necessary and then lets go of his right wrist to reach down and take them both in hand. He groans, his freed hand coming up to clutch at Fëanor’s shoulder. He digs his nails in just to hear Fëanor’s hissed in breath as he pulls away from Fingolfin’s mouth. Fëanor takes only a moment to pull both of his wrists above his head so that he can hold him down with one hand. “Be still,” he breathes, the words passing straight from his mouth to Fingolfin’s.

“Fëanor.” His voice sounds wrecked even to his own ears and whatever it is Fëanor hears in it causes his expression to break open, an exposed nerve so clearly visible in that moment that Fingolfin thinks that if he were of mind to, he could permanently sever every single tie that holds them together. Could burn the ground between them so thoroughly that nothing would ever grow again. He cannot imagine being of mind to do such a thing. Says again, “Fëanor, please.”

“Oh fuck you,” Fëanor says, harsh and awed, the hunger in his eyes ravenous. He kisses Fingolfin again, their mouths sliding against each other’s as his hand speeds up. And if it is just on the edge of being too dry to be entirely pleasurable despite the way they have both been leaking as they kissed, then it is at least completely and utterly overwhelming. The scalding heat of Fëanor’s palm and the honey thick pleasure that’s been pooling at the base of his spine since Fëanor first pressed his teeth to his neck and the way his choked groans collide in the air with Fëanor’s harsh moans. Fingolfin wants. He wants.

He wants to stay suspended here in this moment, the pleasure spiraling its way up his spine and through his body. Wants to keep the pressure of Fëanor’s hands around his wrists imprinted there. He does not want this to end because if it ends then they must deal with all that comes after and he does not want to. He only wants the harsh scrape of his name falling off Fëanor’s tongue and the way he pulls away to bury his face against Fingolfin’s neck, pressing his teeth to Fingolfin’s pulse like he wants to swallow the proof that he’s the one who has sent Fingolfin’s heart racing across a field to meet its death.

Fëanor twists his wrist, his grip tightening the barest amount as he swipes his thumb over the head of Fingolfin’s cock, and then he bites down far too hard on the curve of Fingolfin’s shoulder and his vision goes white. The pain goes spinning through the pleasure and the suspension snaps as he comes, a groan pulled from deep inside of him wrenching itself out of his mouth as he arches up against Fëanor, who curses and slots their mouths back together as he shivers and spills onto Fingolfin’s stomach as well.

They stay like that for a while longer, simply breathing in each other’s air as their hearts slow. And when Fëanor eventually releases his wrists, Fingolfin forces himself to swallow every question that wants to crawl up his throat. He wants Fëanor to stay. Will not ask. There are many things he cannot handle in this moment and a rejection of any sort is one of them. Is happy he kept quiet when Fëanor makes no move to leave, only collapses bonelessly on top him, apparently heedless of the mess they’ve made that he is now lying in. But he is not going to complain. Instead he lowers his arms, the ache in his shoulders making itself known now that he’s no longer distracted, and hesitantly puts a hand on Fëanor’s back.

Fëanor only hums thoughtfully and rubs his thumb across the bite mark he’d left on Fingolfin’s shoulder that is sure to turn into a livid bruise. “I do not think I meant to bite you quite that hard,” he says, his voice still soft enough that it leaves a hard lump of some terrible emotion lodged in Fingolfin’s throat. He digs his fingers into Fëanor’s shoulder a little harder and blinks at the ceiling, willing his eyes to stop burning.

If Fingolfin could avoid the aftermath of this until the world breaks he would. He wants. Wants. Is that not the problem? Fingolfin wants to keep all of this now that he’s had a taste of it. He would never have consciously thought to start this. Would never have admitted to it even if he had. But now that he’s had it? The idea of giving it up and having Fëanor go back to resenting him and glaring at him across dinner tables and ballrooms makes his stomach turn over. He thinks he’d rather find a way to defy the Valar and simply go back to Middle Earth than ever deal with any of that.

“Nolvo?” There’s a thin note of trepidation beginning to creep into Fëanor’s voice and he shakes his head, unwilling to open his mouth. Unwilling to find out what he’ll say when he does.

Refusing to open his mouth does not stop his eyes from burning or his breathing from traitorously hitching in his chest as he tries to not start crying. Fëanor sits up immediately, mouth pressed into a tight, unhappy line as he takes in whatever Fingolfin’s face is doing. “Nolvo?” he says again, his voice still so fucking soft and Fingolfin has to close his eyes as the tears start leaking down his face.

There’s a heavy silence and then, Fëanor’s knuckles brushing lightly over his cheek. “Do you want me to leave?” he asks, voice carefully neutral.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” he snaps out before he can think about it. Presses one hand over his eyes and furiously tries to stop crying even as he reaches out with his other hand to grasp at Fëanor’s wrist.

Fëanor is silent as he pulls Fingolfin’s hand away from his face, pausing to press a kiss to the inside of his wrist, gaze very heavy when he meets his eyes. Setting Fingolfin’s hand down, he leans down and cradles Fingolfin’s face between his hands, kisses him deep and slow. Fingolfin greedily kisses back and drags his hands up Fëanor’s sides, reveling in the comfort being offered. Almost starts crying harder because of it.

“Whatever stupid, idiotic scenarios you’re building in your head, stop it,” Fëanor says fiercely against his mouth when he pulls away. He’s so close that Fingolfin’s entire range of vision is narrowed down to Fëanor’s gray eyes, backlit by the softness of half-remembered light. “This is only as needlessly dramatic as you make it.”

Fingolfin stares at him for a moment, mind shocked quiet, and then he bursts into laughter, nearly smacking their foreheads together. “You are the singular most arrogant, ridiculous person I have ever met,” he says, wiping at his face. He feels a bit lightheaded from the abrupt mood swing and doesn’t think he much cares for the feeling.

Judging by the pleased look on Fëanor’s face the point has been completely missed. As usual. “The most arrogant, I will grant you,” Fëanor says, not at all sounding as if he thinks that is a flaw. He turns away and Fingolfin goes to protest but he only leans over the side of the bed to grab what looks like Fingolfin’s shirt off the floor. “I resent the idea though that I am the most ridiculous. Surely, someone like, say, Finrod is far more ridiculous than I.”

“Finrod tore a werewolves throat out with his teeth before dying,” he points out, watching in bemusement as Fëanor uses his shirt to clean them both off.

Fëanor pauses at that, scowling down at him for a minute. “If we are going off of the manner in which we all died then surely none that went to Beleriand and have returned can be counted as ridiculous.”

He thinks of at least three things he could say in response that would likely offend Fëanor deeply and chooses instead to shrug. Fëanor narrows his eyes at him though, likely seeing some of it in his face. He doesn’t poke at the subject though, a move so strangely out of character that it would be notable if only the entire last hour had not been so strangely out of character that it is simply overshadowed.

Satisfied that they are both as clean as they are going to get without bathing Fëanor tosses the shirt away and then flops onto the bed. Taking it upon himself to arrange them, without any input from Fingolfin, so that he’s plastered along Fingolfin’s back. He would complain if it did not send an immediate burst of calm through him to have Fëanor pressed up against him so and if it were not so comfortable.

“Rest, we shall talk later.” Fëanor says, mouth warm against the back of Fingolfin’s neck. “All is well.”

Fingolfin, against all sense, decides to believe him. 

☀︎

Chapter End Notes

spoiler: they do not in fact talk later because they are both allergic to actually communicating in a healthy way

I always start off writing these fics like oh yay! smut! how fun! and then get half-way through and go why for the love of god am I putting myself through this, it's so hard to write please

I'm on tumblr as well, atlantablack

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