a hunger still unraveling like silk by atlantablack

Sometimes when I am alone like this,
I think I hear your mouth, your stupid mouth
agape -- the wet earth of my desire.

And I want to hook my fingers in you:
a hunger still unraveling
like silk in the stomach.

Erika L. Sánchez, from “Spring”, Lessons on Expulsion

☀︎

If you had asked Fingolfin ten months ago, when he’d first been re-embodied, what the strangest part of being alive once more would be, he’d have said that it was the fact that he was alive at all when he very emphatically had not asked to be re-embodied. If you had asked him six months ago, he’d have said that living truly alone for the first time in his life was the strangest thing he’d experienced since returning. If you asked him now. Well. He thinks he can rather decisively say that Fëanor is by far the strangest part so far.

Fingolfin has found himself growing accustomed to many things over the past four months that he had never thought he would have reason to grow accustomed to. The most notable thing, of course, being the regularity with which he has Fëanor in his bed. Though, it is not necessarily the regularity itself that is notable, but the fact that Fëanor is in his bed to begin with. The regularity with which it is continuing to happen four months later just emphasizes the strangeness of it all.

The stranger thing though by far, is that he has also become accustomed to Fëanor coming over simply to sit with him. Has grown accustomed to the arrival of his brother heralding time spent together that is enjoyable instead of another argument waiting to be fought. Which is not to say that they do not still argue, only that it is no longer an inevitability. And regardless, these days most of their arguments end with them in bed one way or another.

But it is strange having his brother come over and leave stuff scattered around his house. Strange having him come over to do nothing other harass Fingolfin about whichever topic has caught his interest. Strange the way he sometimes comes over to simply sit and work on whatever project has consumed his attention. Though even that is rarely a quiet experience, for even when Fëanor is not directly harassing Fingolfin he still has a tendency to speak aloud to himself as he works. But it is all still time spent together that no longer ends with screaming or hurt feelings. Time spent together where Fingolfin looks at Fëanor sitting in his house and finds the only explanation available for him being there, is simply that he wanted to see Fingolfin. A thought that most days still feels so absurd Fingolfin is not entirely sure he hasn’t dreamed this entire thing up.

The point, is that Fëanor’s presence has become an expectation rather than a surprise, and so when he hears the door of his house open, Fingolfin thinks nothing of it. Is so used to Fëanor coming and going by this point that he has long since stopped feeling the need to greet him every time he arrives. So he does not look up from his book when he hears footsteps approaching and pays no attention to Fëanor walking into the room. What he emphatically does pay attention to is Fëanor going to his knees in front of the chair he is sprawled sideways across and burying his face against Fingolfin’s stomach, both of his hands clenching tight around Fingolfin’s shirt. He blinks down at Fëanor’s head in confusion and runs a hand over his head, dragging his fingers through Fëanor’s hair.

“Náro?” he asks quietly. “Has something happened?”

Fëanor does not answer but his grip on Fingolfin’s shirt grows tighter and Fingolfin can feel his body shake as he breathes in. Fingolfin sets his book aside and covers one of Fëanor’s hands with his own, rubbing his thumb across the back of it. His other hand he continues running through Fëanor’s hair. He does not like this. No matter that they spend more and more time together these days, Fëanor has still never let himself be so obviously upset in front of Fingolfin. Not in this way. But he does not push. Only offers what comfort he can and waits.

They sit in silence for some time before Fëanor raises his head, eyes red-rimmed but dry when they meet Fingolfin’s. “I want—” he starts, voice hoarse from suppressing tears, and then stops, seemingly unable to go on.

Fingolfin frowns, cups Fëanor’s cheek in his hand and watches how he leans into it. “What do you need?” he asks gently, a suspicion taking root in his mind.

Fëanor swallows hard and does not answer. Instead presses his wrists together and holds them out, eyes bleeding desperation. Fingolfin very carefully does not let on how worried he is by this. Fëanor has not once asked for this. He goes to his knees when Fingolfin asks it of him. He enjoys himself when Fingolfin ties him up and spends ages wringing pleasure out of him. But he does not ask for it. Fingolfin had not thought he ever would. Still sits up, swinging his legs around so that Fëanor is kneeling between them, and cradles Fëanor’s face in his hands. Fëanor’s hands migrate back to his shirt, clenching tight in the fabric as he turns his face and nuzzles Fingolfin’s palm.

Fingolfin gently tugs at his hair to bring his face back around and leans down to kiss him. Fëanor opens his mouth instantly, lets Fingolfin plunder it as he will. Whines low in his throat when Fingolfin goes to pull away. And that, that also worries him. For all that Fëanor willingly goes to his knees when Fingolfin asks it of him, there is still an air of defiance about him that Fingolfin takes great pleasure in tearing away. He always breaks beneath Fingolfin’s hands but he fights it the entire time. Has never once broken easily. This is not fighting it. This is Fëanor half-way gone before Fingolfin has even started. This is him giving himself up because he’s already half-broken and wants the rest of the breaking to be more pleasure than pain.

He does not quite have the heart to deny Fëanor anything just yet. Not when there is something so clearly wrong. Instead pulls his head back just enough for him to feel the strain and holds him very gently by the throat as he continues to kiss him. Fëanor goes so beautifully lax beneath him so unfathomably quickly. Does not fight any of it, just leans closer and continues to whine low in his throat every time Fingolfin gives the slightest indication that he may pull away. Fingolfin had not known that Fëanor could go this soft this quickly. Is as fascinated as he is worried.

When he finally pulls away he presses a kiss to the corner of Fëanor’s mouth and then his cheek. Says quietly, “You’re already being so good for me,” and watches in fascination as Fëanor shudders. His eyes are still closed, mouth bitten-red, and Fingolfin studies his face, runs the tip of his finger down the bridge of Fëanor’s nose, the bow of his lips. Delicately kisses each eyelid and presses a lingering kiss to his forehead. Listens to Fëanor sigh as he leans into it and runs through options in his mind of what to do next. He does not think that the usual tricks are going to accomplish what’s needed in this instance. “Go get on the bed,” he tells Fëanor after another moment of thought. “In the middle, on your knees.”

Fëanor opens his eyes to look at him, and for a moment there’s a spark of defiant curiosity that goes flashing through them before Fëanor smothers it. “Nolvo,” he says, a distinct note of pleading spliced through the word. 

“Shh, go get on the bed,” he says, and then, just to test a theory, “Can you be good for me?” Another full-body shudder goes through Fëanor and Fingolfin’s worry about what has sent Fëanor here that he is reacting in such a way grows but, he still does not ask. Only lightly kisses him and says once more, “Go.”

Fëanor goes.

Fingolfin watches him walk away and turns the idea blossoming in his mind over and over. Is not, in truth, sure that this is a good way to handle whatever is wrong. Does not want to tell Fëanor no when he has never asked for this before. Is sure that if he denies Fëanor this now then he’ll never ask for it again, no matter if he wants it, and Fingolfin won’t risk that. Not when this is the most glaring display of trust his brother has ever shown him.

Fëanor is kneeling naked in the middle of the bed when he enters the room. He’s digging his nails into his thighs hard enough that there’s red blooming around his fingers. His eyes clenched shut as he breathes in and out very slowly. Fingolfin wastes no time in stripping and grabbing the sashes that he has, at this point, permanently moved from his closet to the bedside table. He presses himself fully up against Fëanor’s back, kisses the side of his neck. There’s tension wound through every muscle, Fëanor holding himself so rigidly it must be uncomfortable.

He runs his hands down Fëanor’s sides, loosely wraps them around his waist; says very softly against Fëanor’s skin, “Relax.” Bites down lightly on his neck and counts the seconds as they pass. Gets to twenty before Fëanor sags backwards against him. He bites down harder for a moment, smiling when Fëanor makes a soft noise and tips his head to the side to give him more room. “Good,” he says, kissing the bite mark. “You’re doing good.”

And there it is again, that reaction Fëanor can’t seem to hide. A full body shudder that presses him back farther into Fingolfin’s arms. There’s a ghost of suspicion as to what might have happened trying to coalesce in the back of his mind but he pushes it away. Is sure he’ll learn what’s happened eventually without guessing.

He spends a few minutes simply enjoying the weight of Fëanor against him. Leaves a slow trail of kisses down the side of his neck, his shoulder, rubs comforting circles on his hips — notes the way Fëanor lets more of his weight sink against him, his body relaxing further, and feels more confident in what he has planned.

“Put your hands behind your back,” he says, pulling back. Feels a bolt of want go through him when Fëanor complies without any hesitation. Cannot help but wonder if there is a way to get him this compliant without something awful happening. Has never tried to do anything but tear the defiance from him. Perhaps he should have also been trying to simply coax it away, to get Fëanor to give it away willingly.

He knots the sash around Fëanor’s wrists and then moves in front of him, hovering so that Fëanor is forced to tilt his head back to look at him.  Fëanor blinks up at him, the creases around his eyes still screaming desperation. Fingolfin cradles his face and kisses him, sinks into it, and does not let up until they are both breathless. Pulls back and whispers, you’re going to be so good for me, against Fëanor’s mouth. Fëanor inhales sharply, shaking beneath Fingolfin’s hands. He settles back on his heels and considers the way this could backfire. Considers the wide-eyed desperation he has never seen Fëanor offer up so readily. 

“I’m going to try something,” he tells Fëanor, double-folding the second sash. Fëanor, when Fingolfin wraps the sash around his eyes, makes a half-aborted movement, nearly jerking away and unbalancing himself. “Shh, be still,” he murmurs. Knots the sash securely and presses up against Fëanor, kissing him until the tension that had shot into his shoulders slowly slides back out. He will never tell Fëanor this, but the idea of blindfolding him has come to Fingolfin from the memory of doing the same thing for Rochallor when he’d first trained him. He wants Fëanor’s focus narrowed down to nothing but his touch and his voice. Wants there to be nothing about whatever is bothering him left in his mind. Wants to be the only thing Fëanor can think of.

“Nolvo, I don’t—” Fëanor starts, tension threaded through the words, cuts himself off.

“You’re doing so good,” he says quietly, running his hand up Fëanor’s shoulder, down his chest, catching his nail on Fëanor’s nipple, digging his nails in when he curves his hand around Fëanor’s hip. And then, simply because he wants to see what Fëanor will do, he asks, “Can you trust me?” As if Fëanor walking into his house upset and kneeling in front of him bound and blindfolded is not already the largest sign of trust he could offer. But Fingolfin wants to know if he’ll admit it.

There is a very long silence, Fëanor’s throat working around words he keeps swallowing down. “I—” he starts, cuts himself off, mouth twisting. “I’m here am I not?” he says finally, some of his usual fire seeping into his voice. “I’m here. Nolvo. I—” he cuts himself off again and Fingolfin wants to know what it is he keeps swallowing down. Does not ask.

“You are,” he agrees. “So trust me.”

Fëanor does not answer but he does lean forward and lean his head against Fingolfin’s chest, the tension that had begun to seep back into his shoulders disappearing. Shivers when Fingolfin grabs a fistful of hair and pulls him back upright. Fingolfin’s chest goes very tight at the image of Fëanor, head tipped back, completely at his mercy, and trusting that Fingolfin will do nothing but fuck him the way he's asked for. He would never have been capable of even dreaming this up because he would never have believed it possible.

“Come here,” he says, settling on the bed with his back against the headboard. There’s a moment of hesitation, Fëanor’s head cocked to the side as he tries to decide how to do so, before he awkwardly begins shuffling up the bed on his knees. Fingolfin wants him terribly. Cannot imagine how he could ever do anything but want Fëanor when he is going against his entire base personality and walking on his knees for no reason other than, Fingolfin told him to. It makes all that thick, burning want go twisting violently through his chest. Makes him want to push, to see how far he can go before Fëanor truly breaks. A feeling that seems to only have intensified with the knowledge that Fëanor has asked for this.

He places a balancing hand on the small of Fëanor’s back as he settles in Fingolfin’s lap; curls his hand around Fëanor’s throat and pulls him into a kiss. Fëanor moans quietly and tries to follow Fingolfin’s mouth when he pulls back; is stopped by Fingolfin’s hold on his throat. He can feel, beneath his hand, Fëanor swallowing convulsively when he tries to move forward anyway and Fingolfin tightens his grip the barest amount. Just enough to grab Fëanor’s attention and keep it. “Look at you,” he says quietly, brushing his knuckles across Fëanor’s cheek and tracking the way he shivers.

“I can’t look at anything,” Fëanor snarks, voice almost steady. That trace of fire is still flickering around the edges of his words and Fingolfin thinks that’s probably a good sign.

“But you can still feel me," he says, digs his nails into Fëanor’s hip and drags them up his side.

Fëanor whines softly, steadiness lost. He lets go of Fëanor’s throat and slides his fingers into Fëanor’s hair. Tugs his head back so that his throat is completely bared. Places a kiss at the hinge of Fëanor’s jaw, trails his mouth down Fëanor’s neck and bites down, sucking a bruise onto his throat. Reaches for the oil and begins sucking a collar of bruises onto Fëanor’s throat as he slips his hand between Fëanor’s spread thighs and presses the first finger in. It is perhaps, not wise, to leave a collar of vivid bruises on Fëanor’s throat, but a violent need to see Fëanor marked as his goes ripping through his mind, the idea of having him marked so clearly as Fingolfin’s stripping any sense he has away.

Fëanor has given up any pretense of control and is unabashedly moaning, the sound rising in pitch as Fingolfin slides a second finger in. He fucks his fingers in a little harder, crooks them a bit to one side and then the other, pulls Fëanor into a kiss when he arches his back and bears down on Fingolfin’s fingers, whining high-pitched and breathless. Swallows the noise down and tries to commit its taste to memory.

Normally, he would finger Fëanor until he’s desperate and near enough to begging that it makes something in Fingolfin’s chest twist and burn in satisfaction. But this time, as soon as he feels Fëanor is loose enough to take him he shifts them and lines his cock up, catching the head on the rim of Fëanor’s hole. "Go on," he tells Fëanor, biting at his lip. “Be good and fuck yourself.”

Fëanor's breathing is ragged against Fingolfin's mouth as he slowly slides down Fingolfin's cock. Fingolfin runs a hand down his side, up his chest, pauses to pinch and worry at his nipples, never letting his mouth stray far from Fëanor’s. Greedily drinking down every strangled gasp and punched out noise that spills into the air between them. He groans as well when Fëanor bottoms out, all that slick heat making it so tempting to just immediately fuck Fëanor until he cries. But he has a plan.

Fëanor makes as if to lift himself back up, intent on following Fingolfin’s directions, but Fingolfin grabs his hips and holds him in place. "You're doing so well," he tells him softly. "Taking everything I give you so well." Fëanor makes a soft, needy noise. "So good for me," he says, tugging Fëanor as close as he possibly can so that they're completely pressed up against each other, like he’s trying to drag Fëanor inside of his body. "Can you be good and be still?"

He presses his forehead against Fëanor's, drinks in all the desperate little noises clambering out of his mouth. "Nolvo," Fëanor says, his voice wrecked and cracking down the middle of Fingolfin's name.

"Shhh." He kisses Fëanor lightly, asks again, "Can you be still?"

Fëanor drags in a gasping breath, hips moving restlessly under Fingolfin's hands, but he nods after a moment and ducks his head to press his face against Fingolfin's neck.

"Good," he says quietly, running a hand down Fëanor's back. He lifts his hips, grinding up into Fëanor just to make him really feel Fingolfin’s cock pressed inside of him. Listens to the low whine that carves through the air and feels a hunger crack open inside of him that he isn't sure will ever be sated by anything but this. He gets one hand between them and wraps his hand around Fëanor's cock, slowly stroking him, doing all he can to give Fëanor just enough to keep him on edge, to leave room for nothing in his mind but this.

Fëanor's breathing is warm and erratic against his neck. His entire body one long brand of heat and Fingolfin wants so desperately to keep this that he feels dizzy for a moment. Tightens his grip on Fëanor’s cock as he rubs his thumb over the head and grinds up inside of him again. Smiles against Fëanor’s hair when it earns him a high-pitched whimper, Fëanor’s hips shifting as he tries to not move. He wants to always know he's able to wring these noises, this pleasure, this kind of trust out of Fëanor. Wants to find a hundred, a thousand other ways to carefully strip away all that fiery self-control his brother constantly carries around himself. He grinds up again and listens to Fëanor moan low and long. Tightens his grip on Fëanor’s cock once more as he speeds up and then loosens it and slows after a few strokes. Holds this pattern until Fëanor has a constant whine caught between his teeth, every breath shakier than the last.

He pulls Fëanor into a messy kiss by his hair, speeds his hand up and grinds up into him, swallows every gasping moan that falls out of his mouth as he spills over Fingolfin's hand. Keeps stroking Fëanor's cock until he's whispering Fingolfin's name repeatedly as a plea as he shakes. Let's go and slides two fingers into Fëanor's open mouth. Watches avidly as Fëanor moans and sucks them clean. Pulls Fëanor into a messy kiss afterward, licking the taste out of his mouth. "You're being so good for me, so good," he says roughly. Listens to the ragged noise Fëanor makes and wants to crawl down his throat.

"Nolvo, please. I need—" he breaks off, throat working around the words he won't say.

Fingolfin desperately wants to know what it is he keeps swallowing down. "What do you need?" He presses their foreheads together when Fëanor doesn't answer, says right against his mouth, "What do you need?"

Fëanor makes a noise right on the edge of being a sob. Still does not manage to force the words up his throat, but against Fingolfin's mouth his lips shape a single word that makes everything in Fingolfin's mind go very quiet and very sharp. You.

“Oh," he says softly. Kisses Fëanor as he reaches behind him to untie his hands, ignoring the protesting noise Fëanor makes. Tumbles them sideways the moment Fëanor's hands are free. Fucks into him hard once he has Fëanor on his back and groans at the wet heat and sharp cry it pulls from Fëanor. "Hands above your head," he orders. "Be good and don't move them." He wants to see if Fëanor will listen. Wants Fëanor shattered and crying, Fingolfin's name the only thing he can even remember let alone think.

Fëanor inhales sharply but raises his hands above his head and grips the headboard tight. Fingolfin smiles even though Fëanor can't see, hikes one of Fëanor's legs over his shoulder, and goes about fucking him in earnest. Watches absolutely enchanted as Fëanor arches off the bed, a thin scream ripping out of him as Fingolfin pulls almost all the way out and then slams back into him. He must be so incredibly sensitive by this point and Fingolfin hums, reaches down and fondles Fëanor's cock as he fucks him. Fëanor chokes a little on the next scream, whines high-pitched and desperate. His knuckles are white with how hard he's gripping the headboard but his hands do not move.

Fingolfin fights the pleasure washing through him in waves for as long as he can, focused on the ever-rising pitch of Fëanor's voice, his cock slowly hardening once more in Fingolfin's hand, the tears just beginning to slide down his cheeks. But he cannot fight it off forever and after one particularly vicious thrust Fëanor clenches tight around him and the pleasure goes crashing over him so fast his head spins as he spills inside of Fëanor. He turns his head and bites Fëanor's thigh as he moans, still fucking shallowly into Fëanor as the pleasure crests.

He gives himself only a minute to catch his breath before pulling out slowly, Fëanor whimpering at the movement. Gathers his breath and leans up to kiss Fëanor, continues stroking his cock but slows the movement once again. Kisses his tear damp cheeks and whispers whatever encouragement comes to mind. Keeps pushing and pushing until Fëanor breathes in and the next breath out is more sob than air. He tries to say Fingolfin's name and chokes on it.

When the next breath is a sob as well Fingolfin kisses him softly, says, "It's okay, you're okay, you're doing so beautifully, just a little more."

Fëanor shivers and whines when Fingolfin slides back down his body. The noise that rips out of him when Fingolfin takes him in his mouth and slides three fingers inside him is the prettiest, most wretched noise he has ever heard. A high-pitched keening that gutters out into a moan that seems to go on forever. He takes Fëanor all the way down into his throat, moaning around him. Fucks into him brutally with his fingers and in what feels like very little time at all Fëanor is spilling down his throat. Back arching off the bed and mouth open in a soundless scream.

Fingolfin presses a kiss to Fëanor's hip after he pulls off and moves up the bed to cradle his face. Spends a minute just kissing him gently, letting Fëanor take what he wants from it. "You can let go," he says softly, wiping the tears off Fëanor's cheeks. He slips the blindfold off and kisses each closed eyelid. Reaches up and carefully tugs Fëanor's hands off the headboard when the words don’t seem to register, kissing the inside of his palms. "You took it all so beautifully,” he says, stroking Fëanor’s cheek. “You’re so good, so good for me.” His chest feels tight again as he watches Fëanor slowly open his eyes.

He looks so very far away. That beautiful hazy contentment having fully settled over him. He reaches for Fingolfin who makes him wait until he's cleaned them both up. He makes Fëanor drink some water, sure his throat will thank him later, and then lets Fëanor tangle them together beneath the covers. He is always so beautifully raw after Fingolfin has finished with him. Always wanting them to be pressed completely together, and it makes Fingolfin’s entire being light up with satisfaction that after being stripped raw Fëanor’s instinct is to reach for him.

He slides his fingers into Fëanor's hair when he buries his face against Fingolfin's neck, runs his fingers through it gently. He thinks sometimes, that for all that he loves pulling Fëanor apart, he enjoys this part more. The quiet way Fëanor curls into him after, the clear display of wanting to just be close.

Fëanor falls asleep eventually, arm going lax where it's draped across Fingolfin's waist, breathing slow and steady and warm against Fingolfin's throat. Fingolfin closes his eyes and picks back through his own thoughts. Realizes now, of course, that leaving such a clear display of bruises collaring Fëanor's throat was not a smart idea. Neither of them are particularly talented at songs of healing, though they can both shroud themselves with a concealment song if needed. Still, usually, it is Fingolfin covered in bruises, Fëanor's obsession with marking him up meaning that these days he nearly always has a fading bruise somewhere on his body. But Fingolfin had already had a propensity for wearing high collars simply because he enjoyed the style. It was not difficult for him to cover the bruises when needed.

Fingolfin does not often feel the need to mark Fëanor in the same way. Not as… excessively. And usually only in places easily hidden. But now he has a perfect collar around his neck proclaiming that he's sleeping with someone and Fingolfin's not quite sure what to do about that. Cannot bring himself to regret it. Pokes at the possessive thought that had gone ripping through his mind as he'd placed his teeth against Fëanor's neck and finds himself wondering, as he has more and more often lately, if they aren't both stumbling blind into something bigger than they'd ever meant to start.

He had not, when they'd first started this, expected it to actually help somewhat fix things between them. Had not even expected for it continue for as long as it has. But it has been four months and he has no desire to stop. Cannot even comprehend the idea of ever wanting to kick Fëanor out of his bed. Having Fëanor around so often makes him feel more settled in his own skin. It has not fixed the itch beneath his skin to escape Tirion, if only there were somewhere to escape to, but it has made it quieter, less overwhelming. It has helped Fingolfin stop entertaining ideas of simply lying down and fading instead of dealing with this mess of a life he hadn't wanted to return to.

Fingolfin does not know what any of that means. Knows that he needs to figure it out before it becomes a problem he has no choice but to face. But it is so much easier to instead push the thoughts away and sink into the heat of Fëanor in his arms and just let himself drift off. Wakes sometime later to Fëanor drawing lazy patterns on his skin, eyes steady on Fingolfin's face as the sun streams in through the west windows.

His eyes are still a little more distant than normal, but Fingolfin is not sure if that is because he's still lingering in the afterglow or because he's thinking about whatever sent him here to begin with. Fingolfin reaches out and gently presses his fingers against the blooming bruises on Fëanor's throat. "Better?"

Fëanor stares at him for a long minute before sighing and leaning in to kiss him. Fingolfin kisses back, humming softly when Fëanor pulls back and presses their foreheads together. "Bards have sharp tongues," he says, sounding very tired.

It is no more than he'd half-suspected. After all, who else could cut Fëanor so deeply but his sons. Still finds himself somewhat surprised that Fëanor had offered the information up so easily. "Maglor more than most I would imagine," he says cautiously.

But Fëanor only laughs harshly. "Indeed," he says, and then with a deprecating smile, "Sharp, but as usual, no mistruths."

"As usual," he repeats slowly. "Do you fight with Maglor often?"

Fëanor shrugs but there's a heavy grief in his eyes as he ducks his head to once more hide his face against Fingolfin's neck. The damp heat of his breath against Fingolfin's throat is steady but he is also still unnaturally soft, all his usual fire still dampened in a way that Fingolfin does not like.

"I do not believe either of you are particularly unbiased when it comes to what is true."

Fëanor is quiet for a moment and then, as if Fingolfin has not already had far too many shocks for one day, Fëanor opens his mind a crack and reaches for Fingolfin. For all his surprise, Fingolfin does not even think twice before reaching back. Fëanor’s mind is all flame and smoke and melts into the icy terrain of Fingolfin's mind so that they are both completely surrounded by the other.

A spark escapes the flame and bursts apart into a memory of Maglor shaking, face scrunched up in fury, snapping at Fëanor with such viciousness Fingolfin is taken aback. Everything you touched, it all ended up burning. A terrible moment of silence, and then, a cruel spark in his eyes, Maglor says, even your son. The memory burns itself out when Maedhros and Elrond come rushing in and begin to de-escalate things. Fingolfin is still trying to breathe around the bone-shattering hurt that had gone piercing through Fëanor in the memory when another memory sparks apart, Maglor again sometime later, tired and weepy as he apologizes. Another memory, Maglor wearing different clothing but still red-faced and furious. Everything you touched, he snarls, everything you touched ended up ruined and in ashes. Again, a later memory, Maglor with his face in his hands, apologizing as his voice shakes. The fire sparks violently, another handful of memories exploding all at once, and it is all the same thing, again and again. Cutting Fëanor deeper and deeper until he ends up on his knees at Fingolfin’s house.

Fingolfin reaches for the chill that sometimes still sinks deep into his marrow and blankets the fire with it. Is not thinking when he hauls Fëanor into a kiss, pressing him down into the bed, and unwittingly lets every single hungry, possessive, awe-struck feeling he’s had these past few months go flooding the space between them. Fëanor makes a pathetic, wretched noise into the kiss and Fingolfin can feel the greedy, desperation attached to it. You’re good for me, he thinks viciously, sure he’ll regret putting this much of himself on display later, unable to care in the moment. You’re so, so good for me, when you fuck me, when you’re on your knees, when you’re lecturing me on topics I don’t care about—

My sons, Fëanor thinks helplessly, even as he greedily digs his teeth into Fingolfin’s thoughts. My people. Your people. The boats. A moment of silence where the smoke in Fëanor’s mind twists into a cyclone and then evens back out. You.

“You fucked up,” he says fiercely, pulling back to look Fëanor in the eye. “You fucked up really bad in a lot of ways but it’s over. You’re trying to do better.”

“Am I?” Fëanor asks, eyes very dark as he watches Fingolfin. That deprecating smile again. “You would be the only one to think so.”

He pauses. Wants to deny that but what time he does spend around his family he does not spend discussing Fëanor. Spends so little time at all with his nephews that he cannot possibly know their feelings on the matter. Reluctantly says, “I suppose I may be biased as well.”

Fëanor studies his face, one of his hands rising to cup Fingolfin’s cheek. He turns into the touch, kisses the center of Fëanor’s palm, and white fire flares to life in Fëanor’s mind. “Yes,” Fëanor says quietly, “you might be.” He pulls Fingolfin into another kiss before he can decipher the emotion that had been hiding in the words.

They kiss until the back-and-forth flow of emotions between them erodes into a singular pool of white fire sitting upon a thick sheet of un-melting ice. A stream of want, need, want, need that eclipses all else. Eventually though they end up curled back up around each other, Fëanor mouthing at his pulse, biting down lightly before settling with his face once more hidden against Fingolfin’s neck.

They lay like that for some time. Fëanor's mind flares back alive, rapidly flipping between various projects to his sons to Fingolfin and back around — always three thoughts going at once. Fingolfin listens silently, basking in the warmth, and quietly marveling at the fact that he's been allowed into Fëanor's mind at all.

Fëanor pauses at one point, turns and latches on tightly to one of Fingolfin's passing thoughts. Pulls apart the memory of Fingolfin possessively collaring him with bruises until it’s ripped down to its core component — Fingolfin viciously thinking mine. Bites down on Fingolfin's neck and sucks a bruise onto it as he pushes a similar memory toward Fingolfin. One from two weeks ago when he'd held Fingolfin down and fucked him until he cried, had left a perfect string of bruises down his chest, bitten down so hard at one point he'd drawn blood. The possessiveness woven through the memory is violent and scalding and Fingolfin shivers, tightens his grip on Fëanor's hair.

What are we doing, he thinks quietly before he can stop himself.

Fëanor's thoughts flicker, smoke billowing out through his mind and then begrudgingly retreating. Does it matter?

Does it? Fingolfin thinks it should. Thinks it does. Thinks sometimes he wants to crawl inside of Fëanor's rib cage and live there. Thinks that should matter.

We're doing whatever we want to, Fëanor thinks, digging through Fingolfin's thoughts. You're— the thought falters and blows away before Fëanor can finish it. And then, very quietly against Fingolfin's throat, "You're my brother."

Fingolfin cannot help but snort even as an unbearable warmth floods through him. "I do believe that should be an argument against this, not for it."

Fëanor makes an annoyed noise and pushes Fingolfin onto his back, straddling him as he pins Fingolfin's wrists to the bed. "You're mine," he says viciously, eyes bright and wild. "What else is there that matters?’

Fingolfin stares up at him, thinks oh, thinks well that's certainly something. Traces the brutal edge of Fëanor's mouth and wants and wants and wants. "Okay," he says softly. But you're mine too he thinks, infusing the thought with every bit of greedy possessiveness he has within him.

Fëanor's pupils are blown out with want, every thought in his mind on fire. "Yes," he says after a moment, bending to kiss Fingolfin in the same breath.

Fingolfin still thinks that they are not thinking this through as well as they should. Still thinks that there is more to it than simply possession. But it is easy to ignore everything else when Fëanor is kissing him. Easy to get lost in the simple vicious joy of Fëanor wanting him. He pushes the worries to the back of his mind and instead focuses all his attention on the temptation that is Fëanor’s mouth. Kisses his brother and sings mine, mine, mine over and over in his mind and against all sense, lets himself be lost in it.

Chapter End Notes

Don't be mean to Maglor, he's.....not doing well. They're working on it. Fëanor was meant to explain this to y'all in the fic & then decided he didn't feel like it so it'll probably be expanded upon later. maybe.

also, I did have someone ask me in the comments on one of the previous fics if they’re like actually gonna fall in love or if they’re just really fucking weird about each other and some 15k later I…still have no idea tbh like they’re definitely really really really fucking weird and overly intense about each other - but as far as, is this an actual romance? fuck if I know. they keep doing things that make me side-eye them but like again, idk. If they ever figure it out hopefully they’ll tell me.

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