to taste you like the sun by queerofthedagger  

The truth is, Findekáno does not mean for it to spiral as quickly and as severely as it does.

It’s just—it’s just. Findekáno has never been known, exactly, for his careful deliberation, for thinking things through before he leaps. That has always been more Maitimo’s forte, and it really is not Findekáno’s fault that, for whatever reason, Maitimo’s better senses seem to have abandoned him, too.

It starts like this. It starts like many nights have before—a late night, lively talk, much laughter, more wine.

It starts with Maitimo in Findekáno’s bed, comfortable and innocent as it has been countless times ever since they were children. And it is not as if Findekáno’s feelings have not changed over the years. As if he has not noticed the muscles on Maitimo’s arms, his strong thighs. The dip in his throat, the slope of his shoulders; how his eyes would narrow when he laughs, his cheeks dimpling.

Nerdanel had named him well. Findekáno knows his gaze, more often than not, lingers too long. Knows, too, that it is folly to hope for anything to come of it. They are cousins. More importantly, they are friends. There is none in the world he loves as well as Maitimo, and no temptation in Arda or beyond would be worth risking that.

Those, at least, are the facts.

The reality is that Findekáno wakes to Telperion’s dim silver filtering through the curtains with their legs tangled, Maitimo’s arm slung over his waist carelessly. The reality is that Findekáno wakes, too hot in his skin and hard and aching, every part of his body too aware of the proximity.

He flushes, half mortification, half thrill. He should not, he knows. Knows that it should only shame him more, the fact that the idea of feeling like this, with Maitimo so close and unaware, only makes him harder.

He keeps his breathing even, fixes his eyes on the ceiling. Beside him, Maitimo shifts, skin dragging against skin.

Eternal summer in Tirion has them sleeping in smallclothes and tunics with the sleeves cut off. It has been a source of growing frustration to Findekáno for a while, but this—well, this feels like torture wrought specifically to make him lose his already frail grasp on sanity.

He exhales in a rush, and presses a hand to his cock, willing his erection to go down. He knows perfectly well how stupid an attempt it is; the touch only makes his hips jerk, and he cannot quite bring himself to take his hand away again, the pressure not nearly enough. It is better than nothing, though, and he starts moving—lightly, at first, with little pressure. More firmly, then, gripping himself through his smallclothes, letting his eyes fall close, trying desperately to keep his breathing even.

It is not enough. Maitimo’s warmth is like a living, breathing taunt beside him, fingers like a brand against Findekáno’s hip, and he shouldn’t, he shouldn’t, but he slips his hand into his smallclothes, hisses through his teeth at the skin contact. He is half mad with arousal, presses his thumb to the slit of his cock; bucks into it a little, and he cannot decide if he wants to look at Maitimo, or if that, at least, feels too much like—

Well, Findekáno knows that ship has sailed the moment he did not move to the bathroom to take care of this, but still. He closes his eyes again, focuses on the feel of the sheets, of Maitimo beside him, of—

Maitimo shifts again, and Findekáno freezes, eyes flying open. Maitimo is blinking up at him, only half awake.

He takes in Findekáno’s face, and Findekáno knows he must be flushed. Knows that there is no way that he can talk his way out of this, Maitimo’s gaze moving from his face down his body, stopping at the very obvious hand in his trousers, the damp spot in the grey fabric.

Findekáno is like frozen, and there must be something wrong with him for how he is still painfully hard, even as he waits for the inevitable disgust.

Maitimo swallows, his throat moving. Does it a second time and then looks back up at Findekáno, his eyes very bright. “Finno,” he says, and oh, he sounds hoarse. Sounds—well, not as he does when he is angry. Findekáno’s mind is slow to parse it all. “What are you doing?”

Findekáno laughs, and his own voice comes out wrecked. “I think you know. I’m—I am sorry. I shouldn’t have.”

Maitimo shakes his head, but there is still no judgement in his eyes. He rolls onto his back, but keeps his eyes on Findekáno, watching, just watching. It is all Findekáno can do not to squirm under it, and then he stares, mouth open, as Maitimo runs a hand down his own chest, glint in his eyes, mouth curling at the corners.

“Come now, Finno,” he says, a little wicked. Findekáno’s cock twitches. “You do not believe that you are the first to discover the pleasure of it, are you?”

Findekáno, if anyone were to ask, has no clue what is happening. He is definitely not mad about it, though, his hips rocking upward on their own volition. Maitimo’s smile widens.

“Do not pretend to be shy now, Findekáno; you were perfectly happy to indulge when you thought me asleep,” he murmurs, and his hand is moving, lazy, firm strokes that Findekáno catalogues in ways he should not.

“I’m—“

“Sorry—you said. Do not be. It is nothing shameful, is it?” Maitimo says, and Findekáno knows him too well to miss the uncertainty. Maitimo may act all he wants like this is yet another pleasant game to him, but it is not that simple.

Were Findekáno’s mind any more functional, he would read more into it. As it is, he moves his hand again, moans softly at the instant relief that comes with it. Beside him, Maitimo keeps talking, teasing and encouragement, his voice low.

Findekáno has had a lot of illicit fantasies about them, about this; none of them ever even came close.

He watches as Maitimo bends his legs, presses his feet into the mattress. As his hand speeds up, the movement of it reveals the shape of him—not much longer than Findekáno but thick. His mouth waters as he thinks of it, his hand speeding up as well, free fingers clenching into the covers.

He comes first, shockingly unexpected, spurting warm fluid all over his hand. When he gets his bearings back, Maitimo’s eyes are on him, wide and glassy. His mouth is bitten red, and the few inches of space between them feel charged enough, Findekáno swears he can almost taste them.

He clears his throat. “Did you—“

Maitimo shakes his head, hand still moving in rough, quick strokes.

“Come on,” Findekáno whispers, and this, more than anything else, feels like crossing a line. “Come on, Russo; let me see.”

Maitimo groans, something from low within his chest. His back arches, eyes falling close, and Findekáno is so transfixed that, if he tried, he could come a second time with little effort.

This time, he keeps his hands from wandering. Does his best not to stare too openly at Maitimo, and fails miserably.

They lie silent in the afterglow, and it should be awkward. It should feel like something deeply, irrevocably changed.

It does not. It feels like they crossed a line, certainly. Feels like they moved into something Findekáno is not sure he knows the shape of. But at the same time, it is still Maitimo beside him. At the same time, Maitimo was right; it is not anything either of them has not done on their own before.

After a while, Maitimo moves, pushing off the bed and disappearing into the adjacent bathroom. He returns with towels and a smile that has lost its edge again, as he hands one of the towels to Findekáno.

They do not speak either as they clean up, and it would have turned awkward, then, if they were not them. Instead of letting the silence fester, Maitimo nudges him lightly. Presses his foot to Findekáno’s thigh, insistent and annoying, until Findekáno looks at him.

“Come on, do not make that face. We had fun; you are still my dearest friend. This means nothing, lest we were man and woman intending to marry, does it? And we are not, so do not start fretting now.”

Findekáno rolls his eyes. “I am not fretting; I know marriage takes more than this. I do not exactly do this with just anyone, though, so let me mull it over without turning into a nag, would you?”

“Is the thinking not usually my part?”

“I can still throw you out, you know,” Findekáno counters, and it is all—normal. Findekáno knows that he has moved onto slippery ground, and yet it is all utterly, comfortingly normal.

“I would like to see you try,” Maitimo says, grinning. It is followed by a yawn, and he sprawls out beside Findekáno once more, burying back into the covers. “It is still early, Findekáno. Go back to sleep.”

Findekáno does, eventually, the noise Maitimo made while Findekáno talked to him as he came all over his stomach still lingering in the back of his mind.

Truth is, come morning, Findekáno expects it to be left at that.

Certainly, it is not something he would do with anyone else, and neither, he suspects, would Maitimo. But then, they have always been close in ways they were not with their siblings and cousins. Then, Findekáno has known for a long time that he has rather different desires for Maitimo than are proper.

He doubts that that is what had spurred Maitimo into the whole thing, though. It is enough to make him wary of reading too much into any of it.

And it is fine. The memory lingers, inevitably. Swims to the forefront of Findekáno’s mind whenever he touches himself now, making him bite his pillow until it is threatening to tear. But aside from that, aside from the want that burns tenfold beneath his skin now, little between them changes. They still spend as much time together as they can; they still ride out for long hours, still laugh, heads together, at their grandfather’s dinners.

If now, occasionally, Findekáno will catch Maitimo’s eyes on him; if now, occasionally, Findekáno will allow himself to look a little longer—well. Neither of them mentions it.

Findekáno expects it to be left at this, until the next time they share a bed.

They are at the Fëanorian residence this time, sequestered away in Maitimo’s chambers for the evening. Potent wine is making Findekáno’s limbs heavy, and it takes him perhaps a moment too long to decipher the meaning of the rustling sheets, of the change in Maitimo’s breathing.

When he looks over, Maitimo is biting his bottom lip, his eyes closed. His hand is moving rhythmically beneath the blankets, slow and steady. Teasing.

“Nelyo—“ Findekáno chokes, shock and arousal rushing through him so sudden that it leaves him light-headed.

Maitimo turns his head, his gaze lazy when he meets Findekáno’s eyes. He does not stop moving his hand, a dare as bold as any he has ever placed.

“What, then? Have you grown chaste in the weeks since last we did this?”

“I’m—you—“ Findekáno tries, but he might as well be swallowing his tongue for how tied up it is with the image before him.

Findekáno has never been great at denying himself anything; less so, yet, whenever it comes to Maitimo. Kicking away the blanket, he presses his palm to his cock through the fabric and falls back against the soft covers. He lets go only long enough to push his hand into his smallclothes, and he does not, cannot look at Maitimo, but he catches every sound, every breath, every rustle of the sheets. It makes him spiral so much faster than he ever does when alone, and he forces himself to slow down. He wants to draw this out, wants it to last.

“Finno,” Maitimo says, breathless. For one wild, glorious moment, Findekáno wonders if it is not address but desire, and it is enough to make his hips jerk. “Have you ever kissed anyone?”

Findekáno stills, and finally looks at Maitimo. Finds him already staring back, unflinching and—hungry, almost, Findekáno would call it, if he did not know better.

“I have not,” he says, his heart hammering madly inside his rib cage. Still, he adds, all bravado, “Why? Have you?”

Maitimo shakes his head. His hand has slowed to lazy strokes, and his eyes drop to Findekáno’s mouth. “Do you think…”

Here, then, finally, his boldness fails him. There is comfort in that, Findekáno finds; Maitimo is ever confident, but seldom as brash as he has been in this. Findekáno likes it, is the truth, but he has been wondering at it. This now is more familiar. This now rekindles his own reckless courage, and he rolls onto his side, even as he swears that he can taste his own heart leaping onto his tongue.

Maitimo mirrors him, and they are close now, so close. He can feel Maitimo’s breath on his face, can count the freckles scattered across his nose. They look at each other, and Findekáno has a wild, disconcerting thought that this—this could almost be enough. Maitimo this close, Maitimo looking at him like the rest of the world does not exist, not even paradise as compelling as Findekáno laid out right before him.

A foolish notion, Findekáno knows, but he lets himself pretend. Raises his hand, presses two fingers to Maitimo’s cheek. Grins, and admits, like a secret, “I have no idea what I am doing. Do you?”

Maitimo laughs, some of his tension melting away. He leans closer until their foreheads touch. “No, not at all; but it cannot hurt to find out, right?”

Maitimo and his insatiable curiosity. Beneath the bittersweet pang of longing, all Findekáno feels is ruinous affection.

“Go on then,” he says, bolder than he feels. “Do not let me stand in the way of scientific discovery.”

“You are so—“ Maitimo starts, but he leans in, bridges the last few inches between them. Brushes their mouths together.

It is fleeting, that first touch. The second is clumsy, too forceful, their teeth clicking uncomfortably. They both laugh into it, and Findekáno is so full of something he does not dare name, he fears that he might burst.

Then, though, oh then. Maitimo lifts a hand to Findekáno’s face, slides his fingers into the braids. Angles his head—careful, careful—and kisses him again, proper this time. It is warm, almost chaste, just a press of lips. Findekáno makes a noise unlike any he has ever made, and Maitimo’s mouth moves against his in response, tentative but so good that Findekáno feels it all the way down his spine.

They have neglected their arousal for the novelty of this, but Findekáno feels it keenly again, and his grip on Maitimo’s face tightens, fingers flexing. Maitimo huffs against his mouth, pushes closer, closer, until Findekáno rolls onto his back, pulling Maitimo with him.

His weight is like a revelation, and Findekáno arches against him, opens his mouth, moans when Maitimo’s tongue darts out.

“Nelyo,” he gets out, in between breaths and kisses. He should not be this eager, this gone for it. But then Maitimo is stretched out above him, is kissing him like he cannot stop. Then Maitimo is above him, his cock pressing hard against Findekáno’s hip, rocking against him until Findekáno’s head is spinning with it.

Maitimo licks into his mouth again, and Findekáno cannot bear it, cannot keep quiet with Maitimo close to him like this. He pushes a hand between them, takes himself in hand; it’s awkward, the angle off, and Findekáno wants to weep at how good and not enough it is.

“Stop,” Maitimo gets out, and he, too, sounds wrecked, his pupils blown wide when he looks down at Findekáno. “Stop, come here.”

He shifts, gets a hand between them. Shoves down his smallclothes and then Findekáno’s, shameless and unconcerned with crossing yet another boundary. He fumbles a little, graceless in ways he seldom is, and then he gets his big hand around both of them, and Findekáno forgets how to think altogether. Everything narrows down to hands and tongues and Maitimo, pressing him into clean sheets like it is all he ever wanted.

The aftermath is quiet. A little heavier this time, and Findekáno cannot tell if it is them or just him, a longing taking root in his chest that he knows better than to face.

Still, it is comfortable, their bodies pressed together shoulder to hip.

Eventually, Maitimo sighs. Says, voice soft, “I can hear you thinking, Findekáno. Go to sleep.”

Findekáno wishes it were that easy. And yet; and yet.

Something does change between them, then.

Whenever they share a bed now, they touch. Whenever they see each other, they find excuses to stay the night. Findekáno wants to read into it, wants—he wants, so badly that it burns.

They stay at their grandfather’s palace for a few days, and Maitimo sneaks into his room one night, dressed down and hair loose. He slips into bed beside Findekáno and kisses him without hesitation, kisses him hungry and aching until Findekáno almost forgets that this is not real.

“Nelyo,” he gets out, voice rough. “Nelyo, please; what are we doing?”

Maitimo looks down at him, his eyes dark. There is tenderness pressed into the lines around his mouth, and Findekáno wants, he wants, he wants.

“Turn around,” Maitimo says, stripping out of his clothes. “Come on, lie down. I promise, you will like this.”

He presses himself along Findekáno’s back; kisses his shoulder, his neck, his ear. Findekáno leans back into him, lets himself fall to clever fingers up his rib cage. Arches, cursing, when Maitimo finds his nipples, spends a ridiculous amount of time on them until Findekáno is writhing against him.

“You should see yourself like this,” Maitimo murmurs, pulling Findekáno impossibly closer. “The Valar themselves should envy me for this.”

Findekáno’s head is spinning. He has not managed a coherent thought in what feels like hours, and Maitimo has not even touched his cock yet.

“Nelyo,” he says, pleads. “Nelyo, please.”

He is not sure what he is pleading for. Is not sure when he has become someone who pleads, is not sure what they are doing any longer. But then Maitimo finally pushes their smallclothes down, pulls Findekáno’s hips flush against his. Then he wraps a hand around Findekáno’s cock, fingers slick with oil, and Findekáno flies so high he forgets anything else.

Maitimo goes slow and teasing, the way he likes. He makes Findekáno press his thighs together, pushes himself between them with more oil, and it should not feel as good, as intimate as it does, but Findekáno could unravel from this alone.

Maitimo’s hands on him, his mouth, the hot breath across Findekáno’s skin. Findekáno is shaking apart, fingers scrambling to find purchase wherever he can reach. When he comes, it feels like falling, pleasure like thunder to crack something open he cannot possibly put back together.

“So,” Findekáno makes himself say, once they have caught their breaths. Once they are lying side by side again, some minuscule space between them—enough, at least, for Findekáno to pretend that he can think again. “So. At which point are we risking invoking a marriage bond?”

The teachings are clear, after all, except for all the ways in which they are not. It is always an awkward subject to broach with your parents. It is not exactly the kind of thing to invite questions.

Maitimo hums, his fingers tapping an aimless rhythm against his naked chest. “Well, first of all, marriage serves the purpose of parenthood, does it not? There are no cases recorded that speak of two male elves marrying in the traditional sense—living together, certainly. But marriage, the way we are taught? I have not heard of it.”

It is true, for what it’s worth. It is not something Findekáno has ever thought about, but now it strikes him as odd.

“Either it would have to be common enough for there to be general knowledge of it, or it should be so rare that we should not be feeling it at all, should it?”

Maitimo turns his head, looks at him. For once, his eyes are unreadable. “Do you feel like that, then, Findekáno? Would you that we were married by the laws of the Eldar?”

It is like ice down Findekáno’s back. He presses his lips together, forces a laugh. “Of course not,” he lies. “I am just saying, for the principle of the matter.”

“For the principle of the matter,” Maitimo echoes, and the look on him is strange. “But if it were…”

“If it were, it would be strange,” Findekáno says, because it would be. Marriage, after all, the sanctity of it, should be about more than procreation. The thought that this—something like this—may not count simply for a lack of—of something—is upsetting.

Maitimo nods, decisive, like this answers some kind of question he did not know how to voice. He turns back onto his side and presses his forehead to Findekáno’s shoulder.

He does not speak again, and Findekáno does not dare disturb him.

It feels almost, almost, almost like peace.

They do not talk about it again. They do keep doing, whatever it is that they are doing.

The next time they find a night to themselves is a few weeks later, court drama and familial duties keeping them apart.

Once, they were used to it. Now, to Findekáno, it feels like a test designed to try his patience.

Finally, finally, they are alone, the Nolofinwëan residence empty until the next day. Maitimo is splendid in white and silver, standing by the window. Findekáno wants him so badly that it hurts.

Still, he exercises patience. Enjoys their talk, their banter, as the night wears on and they share wine between them.

He has missed this. The worst part of it all has always been that, deep down, Findekáno knew it was about far more than loving Maitimo for his beauty. The worst part has always been that, deep down, Findekáno knew he would take him in all the ways that mattered, if he were allowed.

That fate, though, is not for them. Most days, he has made his peace with it, or at least something resembling the shape of it.

Tonight—tonight, something restless sits on Findekáno’s shoulder, something desperate and biting, something he cannot shake.

When they finally fall into bed, Findekáno is so high-strung that he feels something within him might snap if he does not take care.

He kisses Maitimo without preamble, presses close, clenches fingers into fabric. Kisses him like it matters, like he is not afraid to admit it, too.

It is a dream, Findekáno knows. There is no version of them that could be brave enough. Still, he pushes his fingers beneath the folds of Maitimo’s tunic and pretends, pretends, pretends.

“Findekáno,” Maitimo finally pants, trying to catch his breath. He is stunning like this, the flush high on his cheeks, the silver of his eyes feverish in the dim light of the room.

Findekáno did this to him; there is a pleasure in the knowledge of it that tastes so sweet, Findekáno might well choke on it.

“Lie back,” he says, pushing at Maitimo until he complies. “Just—let me.”

Maitimo complies, hands finding their place on Findekáno’s hips, watching, too trusting, as Findekáno moves on top of him.

It is a heady feeling; Findekáno understands why Maitimo likes it so. Not of power, not exactly, but like something precious laid out all before him that is all for him.

He leans down to kiss Maitimo, lets his hands roam; thinks of the ease of it, of how it has become so familiar that, even with all the caution he had so desperately tried to cling to, Findekáno no longer knows what he is meant to do without it.

“What do you want?” Maitimo asks, running a hand down Findekáno’s back. His eyes are dark in the dim light, and Findekáno, and Findekáno, and Findekáno—

Findekáno does not want to have to look at his face. Does not want to be reminded of how much he wants, how much he needs. Does not want to think—he does not want to think of what it would mean, if he were the only one to feel this way. He does not think that he could bear it any longer.

“Just—“ he gets out, belated. “Just let me.”

He kisses the corner of Maitimo’s mouth, his jaw. Does not listen to Maitimo’s acquiescence, but kisses his neck, his throat, the sharp ridge of his collarbone.

Divests him of his tunic, his trousers. Kisses his chest, his ribs, his stomach. Makes a map out of them, thinks how he could not forget the topography of it, not if he tried.

He is hard and aching by the time he is faced with Maitimo’s leaking cock, the thickness of it making Findekáno’s mouth water.

It does not change the fact that he has never done this before. He licks, experimental, and finds the taste bitter and strange. Still, it is—it isn’t bad, exactly. He tries again, wraps his lips around the head of Maitimo’s cock, and is rewarded by a string of curses so filthy that it would have made Celegorm proud.

It is all the encouragement he needs. He takes Maitimo further, and Maitimo bucks his hips, hitting the back of Findekáno’s throat. He chokes, coughing, but Eru—Eru, he wants more of that, no matter Maitimo’s frantic apologies. He wants, he wants, he wants—

Maitimo holds painfully still after this, and Findekáno does not know how to encourage him. He puts his hands to Maitimo’s hips and sinks himself down, swallows Maitimo down until he feels like suffocating, head spinning; until he feels like there is nothing but them, spit running down his chin, and it’s—

It is so good. Maitimo moans above him, broken and wretched. Findekáno is so hard that he cannot think. He swallows around Maitimo, taste of precum on his tongue, and thinks—and thinks, if he cannot have Maitimo in all the ways he wants, this is almost a worthy substitute. Thinks that he could live off of this, his mind a haze, his body floating.

Maitimo touches his cheek, the corner of his mouth, utters warnings. Findekáno merely holds him down, swallows back a moan as Maitimo floods his tongue with his spent, and this, this, this—

Findekáno chokes, swallows. Rests his forehead on Maitimo’s hip and does not think of all the things he cannot have.

Inevitably, things become less easy.

It has been months since the first time. Has been months since they have touched each other, hesitant and unskilled and so very good.

They have come a long way since then. Have made it an artform to take each other apart.

Still, Findekáno always knew that it was bound to end eventually, one way or another. He just did not think it would go like this.

“I want—“ Maitimo repeats, his fingers gentle, eyes wide.

Findekáno is still not sure that he believes what he hears. “No,” he says, throat choked. “No, Nelyo, you cannot ask this of me.”

And he cannot; Findekáno cannot conceive of him trying like this.

Maitimo’s expression is twisted with frustrated confusion. “I do not understand.”

“To sleep with each other like that—we do not even know what it will do,” Findekáno says, and his own frustration is leaking through the cracks, cutting his words sharp and brittle. “I will not risk marrying you like this. I cannot.”

“Finno—“

“No,” he repeats. Something within him is cracking open, and he is not sure that he can stop it, now that he is faced with Maitimo’s casual carelessness.

“No. I know this has been—fun. That we were testing, trying, experimenting. And I enjoyed it; I am not saying that I haven't. We always knew we were skirting an edge there, but it was—it was fun. But Russandol, this? This, I cannot give you. It is cruel of you to ask.”

It is cruel, most of all, the ways that Findekáno wants it, even if he cannot admit it. Maitimo inside of him is a fantasy that has not left him alone for a long time now, and he cannot quite tell what the more compelling part of it is—the pleasure of it, of Maitimo so close, their bodies irrevocably fused into one; or what it might mean. Maitimo his, for good, in all the ways that Findekáno had wanted for so long.

“Finno—“

“No,” Findekáno says, again, and rolls away from where they are entangled in the sheets. He sits on the edge of the bed, trying to catch his breath. “You must know, surely by now, what I feel for you. I did not take you as so heartless as to taunt me with it.”

There is a pause, long and heavy, during which Findekáno expects his heart to splinter right out of his chest.

Then, Maitimo sighs. Sits up beside him, their bare thighs touching, and says, his voice painfully patient and fond, “You are a fool, Findekáno. A fool far greater than all the tales would have anyone believe.”

“There is no need to mock—“

“I love you,” Maitimo cuts in, unflinching. His voice is fierce all of a sudden, almost desperate. “I loved you when we were nothing other than friends. I loved you when I kissed you for the first time, the mere act a revelation. I loved you every step of the way, and I cannot fathom how you could have been unable to tell. To think I ever would have done any of this with someone who meant so little to me—Finno, truly. Do you not know me better than this?”

And the thing is—the thing is, Findekáno does. It takes some time, admittedly; takes some time to parse Maitimo’s words, to let them settle, to take the sharp-thorned anxiety within his chest and let it turn into something tender. Takes some time to kiss Maitimo, over and over and over, until they are both breathless. To let the physicality of it sink in, too.

Eventually, it does, though. Eventually, Findekáno hears the words and feels them like a caress, like something long-lost he should have recognised upon return.

Maitimo merely smiles, private and pleased.

“Now, then, what do you think? I know it is a stupid risk, truly, but—what do you think? I would not mind it, if it left us so,” Maitimo asks, his voice soft. There is a want on his face so naked, it is a wonder that Findekáno is allowed to see it, and he wants, he wants, he wants—

And oh, Findekáno knows how recklessly stupid he is being. He cannot stop himself from kissing Maitimo again. From saying, “Please.”

Maitimo smiles, exhales; kisses Findekáno like he still cannot quite believe it.

“Turn around,” he says, his hands unsteady.

Findekáno does as he is told and presses his face in the crook of his elbow. Despite everything, this is still new. Despite everything, he is overly aware of each brush of Maitimo’s fingertips, electric current straight to his heart.

Then Maitimo runs his hands up the back of his thighs, and Findekáno forgets how to think altogether.

It is a slow undulating of pleasure. Maitimo’s hands on his skin. Maitimo’s mouth on the inside of his thighs, the small of his back. His tongue in places Findekáno would not have dared to dream of, until he is writhing on the sheets, cursing, fingers white-knuckled and threatening to tear the fabric.

Maitimo is patient, ever a rock in the face of Findekáno’s storm. He lets Findekáno rut against the mattress, takes him apart, ruthless and methodical; lets him come, and then keeps going; adds a finger, two, until Findekáno is crying out again, sobbing with the overwhelming pleasure of it all.

By the time Maitimo finally lets up, Findekáno is so desperate, he would let Maitimo have anything of him he could possibly ask. Maitimo stretches out above him, his weight a familiar reassurance by now; whispers, all pleasure, “You should have known that I would never do this by halves, if there was the slightest chance it may be our wedding night.”

And Findekáno should have; should have a smart response to it too, and cannot bring himself to think of any, when Maitimo finally sinks into him. He is slow about it, careful. It still burns, and Findekáno clings to him, their joined hands. To Maitimo’s voice, murmuring nonsense and praise until Findekáno wants to dissolve beneath it. 

When Maitimo is finally deep within him, Findekáno can feel him everywhere. He bites the sheets before him, gathers his bearings as best he can. “Move,” he demands, and it is a plea as much as it is a demand.

He has waited so long for this, there is little that Maitimo could do to put him off it. “Move, Eru, I beg you; I want to feel you for days.”

Maitimo complies. Pulls out slowly, rolls his hips, sinks back into him; repeats the motion, his arms shaking, and finally finds a slow rhythm that is driving Findekáno to the brink of sanity.

Findekáno only holds on. Lets himself unravel beneath it, and catalogues all the ways in which Maitimo comes apart above him.

It has ever been a marvel, to get to see him so. Now, with the promise of an endless future ahead of them, it is enough that it could make Findekáno weep.

He does not know what it is about the potential of it. He merely clings to Maitimo’s hands, inextricably linked to his own, and feels like he cannot, like he must not let go.

Findekáno kisses Maitimo on the morrow, and feels no bond that has not been there before.

That is alright, though; Maitimo kisses him back, and looks at him with mischief in the corner of his eyes. “Some other time, then,” he says, answer to an unposed question. It is a better promise than their reckless curiosity could have ever been.

“Some other time,” Findekáno echoes, grinning back, and means it.

There is no rush. After all, they have eternity to figure it out.

Chapter End Notes

Maedhros: worst possible potential marriage proposal in the history of the Eldar
Fingon: he's so hot and so annoying I can't believe I'm going to marry him right this goddamn second

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