this isn't prayer // it's what pleasure sounds like by atlantablack  

Soul, you raw little pea, there's nowhere
left to hide. Here at a border of Earth and atmosphere,
what you obscure with image reevals you, too. This isn't
prayer, it's what pleasure sounds like with two fingers
in your mouth. The fingers aren't yours, but the taste is.

Dear Eros | Traci Brimhall

☀︎

Fëanáro does it on a whim.

Is getting ready for the grievously boring formal function he's been asked to attend and as he goes to pick out one of his more favored outfits his hand brushes the blue robes that his father had gifted him once many years ago. He is sure it was some strange attempt to reconcile him with Ñolofinwë. Is sure Ñolofinwë has a set of red robes stored in his wardrobe to match. But they have never worn them, never encroached upon the decided colors of the other’s house. Though, there is nothing technically stopping either of them from doing so.

He touches the robes thoughtfully, admiring them while he thinks, for they are beautiful. A white and blue tunic with delicate golden thread stitched all along the hem and in delicate patterns around the hems of the sleeves. And then, a rich blue cape that billows out, the shoulders covered with more delicate, golden stitching. There is enough of his own complimentary color that he would not be seen as declaring any loyalty to Ñolofinwë's house and it has been a while since he deliberately provoked Ñolofinwë. It would not do for his half-brother to get too complacent. This would be such a harmless provocation their father cannot be angry with him for surely it is his father's fault as the one who gifted him the robes.

He dons the robes, interested to see how Ñolofinwë will react. He does so enjoy watching Ñolofinwë's eyes narrow and his cheeks redden as he attempts to keep hold of his mask of perfect second son. Enjoys revealing all the ugliness he knows lies beneath that mask of placid agreeableness.

It works as well. The moment he steps into the ballroom he can feel Ñolofinwë's attention snap to him, though it takes him another moment to find his half-brother standing on the other side of the room. Ñolofinwë is not glaring or frowning, does not even look particularly upset, but he is staring at Fëanáro with a single-minded intensity, a strange look in his eyes that Fëanáro has never had directed at him.

It is a look that does not waver nearly the entire night. Ñolofinwë looks away from him seldom, once when Anairë stops to speak with him, once when their father does, the rest of the time, even when he is in conversation with others, it feels as if his attention is all still narrowed in on Fëanáro. He gets many strange looks from others as the night wears on, half-veiled curious questions on the color of his outfit. His father beams at him and says that it is good to see him wearing the outfit. Fëanáro can only smile back tightly, Ñolofinwë’s eyes burning against the side of his face.

But for all that he has captured all of Ñolofinwë’s attention, he does not once speak with his half-brother, though not for a lack of trying. For all that Ñolofinwë had barely looked away from him the entire night, neither had he spoken to Fëanáro. Had neatly avoided all attempts Fëanáro had made at approaching him to speak. It is strange in that Ñolofinwë has never before backed down from a fight, especially not when so obviously bothered by something Fëanáro has done. He does not understand it and that irritates him.

He is still deeply irritated as he makes ready to leave the palace. He does not understand the strange avoidance and so when he is suddenly grabbed by the arm and hauled into one of the various side parlors, he feels only deeply vindicated by it being Ñolofinwë who has done so.

Ñolofinwë has never before shied away from fighting with him in front of the court and their father, but if he has chosen this to be the thing he wishes to quarrel about in private then Fëanáro has no problem thoroughly destroying him in this setting as well. Though, he finds himself thinking as he is hauled into the room and roughly pushed up against a wall, for all he had believed this would annoy Ñolofinwë, he had not thought it so great a provocation that it should lead to violence.

He opens his mouth to say as much, a taunt already on his tongue, but he gets only one good look at Ñolofinwë’s face — wild eyes, tension present in every line of his face, something strange and dark hiding in the blue of his irises — before his half-brother has kissed him.

It is such an absurd thing to think, let alone experience, that for one stretched out second he cannot even comprehend what it is that’s happening. Thinks, oh, his lips are soft. Thinks, I had not thought he held such passion inside of him. Then his mind rather catches up to the entire situation. He should push Ñolofinwë away for many reasons, the fact that though only half-brothers they may be, that is still far too close of kin to be engaging in such acts the least of the reasons. He should. He believes he means to.

But Ñolofinwë kisses him and before Fëanáro can do more than comprehend what has happened Ñolofinwë has already taken advantage of his open mouth and deepened the kiss, tongue darting inside to taste him and rather without meaning to he finds himself kissing back. It is such an easy thing to let his eyes slip close and transmute all his anger and frustration into the kiss. To fight for control, to nip sharply at Ñolofinwë’s bottom lip and swallow down the breathy noise he receives in response, to grip Ñolofinwë by the hips as he presses himself up against Fëanáro as tightly as he can.

He could not say how long they kiss for. Knows that his bottom lip stings where Ñolofinwë had bitten too hard and that he’d tasted blood the last time he had returned the favor. Knows that he can feel Ñolofinwë pressed all up against him, warm and wanting, his cock hard against Fëanáro’s hip. Knows that his own cock is hard as well and that he has only just stopped himself from instinctively grinding them together. 

“I cannot believe you,” Ñolofinwë mutters against his mouth when he finally pulls away, breathing hard and his fingers clenched tight in Fëanáro’s tunic.

“You cannot believe me,” he says breathlessly, fighting to gain control of himself. “You are the one who has just kissed me.”

Ñolofinwë makes a pained noise and pulls back enough to look him in the face, before his eyes seem to get caught on Fëanáro’s collar, on his chest, his shoulders. “You are in my colors,” Ñolofinwë says softly, traces his finger along Fëanáro’s collarbone and down the front of his tunic. His eyes, when they meet Fëanáro’s once more, are blown out with a disgusting, greedy desire, and understanding strikes Fëanáro.

“Oh,” he breathes, thinking that he should likely have guessed at the reason on his own. He had anticipated that the outfit would garner a reaction from Ñolofinwë, this is true. He cannot say that this was ever one of the reactions he had anticipated. “How shameful of you,” he says quietly, watching the way Ñolofinwë’s eyes drop down to his mouth as he speaks. “Does it not shame you that you should want me in such a way?”

“Shame me?” Ñolofinwë repeats, eyes meeting Fëanáro’s once more. He looks as if he is barely restraining himself from kissing Fëanáro once more and the leashed desire makes something inside of him uncurl and bare its teeth in anticipation. “You kissed me back, brother.” He smiles, a small, mean twist of his lips as he reaches down to brush his fingers over Fëanáro’s cock. “You certainly seem to desire me in return. Are you not ashamed?”

“Shame is a useless emotion,” he tells Ñolofinwë and watches bemused as the smile disappears only to be replaced a moment later with helpless laughter. Ñolofinwë rests his forehead on Fëanáro’s shoulder as he laughs and Fëanáro blinks down at him bemusedly. He slides his fingers into Ñolofinwë’s hair, upsetting the carefully set pins and ornaments keeping it in place, grips it tight and tugs Ñolofinwë’s head up.

Ñolofinwë’s eyes are bright with mirth and desire; the sight slams into him, leaving him suddenly breathless. “No,” Ñolofinwë says, meeting his eyes evenly, the laughter present also in his voice, “I am not ashamed, Fëanáro.”

He does not give Fëanáro even a second to digest that before kissing him once more. It is nearly soft this time, Ñolofinwë slotting their mouths together, one of his hands coming up to cradle Fëanáro's cheek as he coaxes Fëanáro's mouth back open. And oh, Fëanáro should push him away and storm back to the ballroom and use this to ruin his half-brother. It is not too late to do such a thing. But he does not, finds himself instead tightening his grip in Ñolofinwë's hair until he makes a punched-out noise and very faintly whines low in the back of his throat.

It is that which causes him to groan into the kiss, to turn it from a slow, exploratory kiss into something a little more violent and desperate. He grips Ñolofinwë's hip and grinds up against him, both of them moaning at the friction. And oh it is thrilling in its own way to have such power over Ñolofinwë. To let his mouth fall open for Ñolofinwë to explore, to demand the same in return and swallow down all the pleased, muffled noises he receives as he maps out the inside of Ñolofinwë's mouth. Thrilling and dangerous and making him only want more.

He lets go of Ñolofinwë's hair, brushes his knuckles over the soft skin of Ñolofinwë’s cheek, gently wraps his fingers around Ñolofinwë’s throat and memorizes the sound of another low whine being lost to the razor-thin space between their mouths. He has never thought of Ñolofinwë with anything other than vague resentment and, lately, an irritation hovering dangerously on the edge of hate. To have his half-brother pressed up against him now, his desire splayed out raw and disgusting for Fëanáro to see, it makes his chest burn and his throat go tight. Makes him want to dig around inside Ñolofinwë's chest and see what other shameful secrets are hiding within him that Fëanáro has never learned.

He tightens his grip on Ñolofinwë's throat the slightest bit, curious as to whether Ñolofinwë will see it as a threat, but is only rewarded with another quiet whine as he tries to press them even tighter together, his hands restlessly brushing over Fëanáro's chest and shoulders, one hand reaching down to palm Fëanáro's cock again. He presses into the touch, groaning at the sparks of pleasure crawling up his spine and spinning through him.

Ñolofinwë breaks the kiss, pressing their foreheads together as he draws in a deep breath. He is murmuring Fëanáro's name over and over as he continues to fondle Fëanáro's cock. A refrain caught on his tongue and scraping its way through the air. The sound just sweet enough to make Fëanáro wish to do foolish things. “Do something useful with your mouth," he says softly, wondering how far exactly Ñolofinwë is prepared to go.

Ñolofinwë opens his eyes, meets Fëanáro’s, and oh, he wants to ruin his half-brother, though he could no longer say in what sense he means that. Ñolofinwë looks half-desperate, half-gone, eyes a thin ring of storm blue. He pull back, glances around the room, and then pulls away completely, waving his hand with a flourish toward the settee.

Fëanáro raises an eyebrow but humors him, moving across the room and sitting. His stomach lurches a moment later when Ñolofinwë gracefully sinks to his knees between Fëanáro's spread legs. It had been Ñolofinwë to start this, Ñolofinwë to place them in this position, and yet Fëanáro feels as if he is only just comprehending properly that Ñolofinwë truly intends to go through with this fully. To take this past something they could possibly shake-off as a spur of the moment bad decision and turn it into something insurmountable. Fëanáro knows this is an awful idea. The list of reasons for why they should not is long and yet, and yet, and yet. And yet a sharp pang of lust shoots through him at the sight of his half-brother on his knees before him and he wants nothing more in the moment than for Ñolofinwë to stay exactly where he is. It must show on his face for Ñolofinwë smirks and laughs quietly as he runs his hands up Fëanáro's thighs.

He narrows his eyes and grabs Ñolofinwë's wrists, raises one of them to his mouth, pressing his lips to his half-brother's racing pulse. "Do you have any idea," he says softly, "the severity of what it is you're doing?"

Ñolofinwë rolls his eyes even as they soften slightly around the edges. "You ask this as if I am forcing you to go along with it. You are just as much an active participant in this as I."

It is true but is not quite the point he was trying to make. "You care so little for how I could use this to ruin you in our father's eyes?"

Ñolofinwë's face does something strange and complicated before his gaze drag down Fëanáro's body once more. "You are wearing my colors," he says quietly again, some emotion hiding in the words that Fëanáro cannot hook his fingers into. He meets Fëanáro's eyes and it is dizzying almost the depth of Ñolofinwë's desire in this moment. Fëanáro is still holding his wrists but it does not stop him from lowering his head and mouthing at the outline of Fëanáro's still clothed cock.

The damp warmth of Ñolofinwë's mouth is a revelation that lashes through him and starkly highlights his own desire, highlights the uselessness of trying to stop this when he does not even wish to do so. What does he care for the inappropriateness of it all when Ñolofinwë's very existence is inappropriate. He releases Ñolofinwë's wrists, sees no reason to continue delaying the seemingly inevitable.

Ñolofinwë wastes no time moving to untie his laces, even as he continues to trace the outline of Fëanáro's cock with his mouth. But if the damp heat of Ñolofinwë's mouth through fabric had been a revelation then his fingers wrapping around Fëanáro's cock is an act of worship. The way he wraps them around slowly, thumb tracing a vein. The way he slowly ghosts his lips from the base of Fëanáro's cock to the head, as if he has momentarily set aside all urgency to simply breathe Fëanáro in. It is intoxicating to watch. To see his half-brother so far gone in desire that the mere act of touching Fëanáro is a thing to be savored.

He reaches down and runs his fingers through Ñolofinwë's hair, dislodging the pins in it fully. He does not grip or pull at it, not yet, simply lets his hand rest on the back of Ñolofinwë's head. Drops his head back momentarily when Ñolofinwë slowly circles the head of his cock with his tongue, still savoring, and he can only stare blankly at the ceiling as the sensation crashes through him. Raises his head once more and finds Ñolofinwë watching him intently as continues to swirl his tongue around Fëanáro's cock. He has yet to take it into his mouth but Fëanáro can read the question in his eyes easily.

"Go on then, since you want it so badly," he says softly, lightly pressing on the back of Ñolofinwë's head and forcing the head of his cock into his half-brother's mouth. He cannot hold back the shiver that runs through his body at the wet heat of Ñolofinwë's mouth surrounding him. Watches Ñolofinwë's eyes flutter closed as he slowly takes as much of Fëanáro's cock as possible into his mouth. One of his hands has disappeared between his legs and it is blatantly clear that he is touching himself, apparently needing nothing more than Fëanáro's cock in his mouth to get himself off. That knowledge is nearly as arousing as the feeling of Ñolofinwë moaning around his cock as he bobs his head and hollows his cheeks, sucking hard. He pulls off, tongue teasing against the tip of Fëanáro’s cock before he swallows him down once again.

Fëanáro knows his grip on Ñolofinwë's hair keeps tightening to the point of cruelty but cannot bring himself to loosen it when it keeps drawing pretty little whines forth from Ñolofinwë's throat. The pleasure is sparking through him in earnest now and he makes no effort in containing the moans spilling out of him, freely allows Ñolofinwë to hear proof of the pleasure he is providing. Can feel himself drawing closer to the edge, all the pleasure coiling into a tight knot at the base of spine.

He loosens his grip slightly before pushing Ñolofinwë's head down and tilting his hips upward, abruptly forcing his entire cock down Ñolofinwë's throat. He swallows convulsively, gagging around Fëanáro’s cock, and then his entire body jerks as he makes a high, choked noise somewhere between a whine and a moan. The shock of Ñolofinwë coming from gagging on Fëanáro's cock is enough to send him over the edge as well and he spills down Ñolofinwë's throat with a low moan, keeping Ñolofinwë's head pressed down and his cock fully enveloped in all that warm, wet heat until he has fully spent himself. The desperate little whines coming from Ñolofinwë serving only to heighten the pleasure.

Ñolofinwë coughs roughly when Fëanáro lets him up, breathing erratic as he desperately drags in air, and Fëanáro gets only a glimpse of glazed eyes before Ñolofinwë has buried his face against the crease of Fëanáro's hip. His breathing is still erratic against Fëanáro's skin and he slowly drags his fingers through Ñolofinwë's hair. Gentles his touch and pets Ñolofinwë's hair as they both calm. Ñolofinwë reaches up to grasp at his tunic and he hums, covers the hand with his own, running his thumb across the back of it in soothing circles. It is easy, he finds, to let himself soften toward Ñolofinwë briefly. To think of nothing but the warm contentment wrapping around him and the sensation of Ñolofinwë's lips against his skin.

They sit like that for a stretch of time, until Ñolofinwë's breathing evens back out and his own eyelids begin to become dangerously heavy. He tugs lightly at Ñolofinwë's hair, feels something in his chest catch and shudder when Ñolofinwë looks up at him. Ñolofinwë's eyes are still glazed and he looks terribly far away. He blinks slowly at Fëanáro before making a quiet noise and pressing a kiss to his hip. He tucks Fëanáro's cock away with gentle hands, carefully re-doing the laces, and then buries his face against Fëanáro's hip once more.

Fëanáro stares down at him for a moment, feeling strangely baffled by the move. Finds himself wondering how long exactly Ñolofinwë will stay kneeling between his legs if Fëanáro never tells him to move. He cannot quite resist the urge to test the idea for he does enjoy seeing Ñolofinwë on his knees and finds the ease with which Ñolofinwë had gone to his knees a pleasing act in and of itself. He goes back to idly petting Ñolofinwë's hair and covers his hand again when he reaches up once more to grasp at Fëanáro's tunic. He could not say how long exactly they stay like that but when he feels Ñolofinwë's body beginning to go lax he rather gives the idea of waiting Ñolofinwë out as a lost cause.

Even were it not the height of recklessness to fall asleep where they are, neither of them are in positions comfortable enough to sleep in. He sits up properly, drags his fingers through Ñolofinwë’s hair once more and feels nearly fond at the quiet noise his half-brother makes in protest when he pulls his hand away fully. “Come Nolvo,” he says softly, “we cannot stay in here.”

It takes a moment but Ñolofinwë does slowly sit back on his heels, blinking at Fëanor sleepily, eyes still far more distant than Fëanáro is used to seeing them. It is almost worrying to him that Ñolofinwë should still be so far gone. Fëanáro would worry that it is perhaps regret sinking in, or he had perhaps gone too far at the end, but the way Ñolofinwë has stayed pressed close to him and shows no sign of wanting to leave seems to render both of those theories void.

Ñolofinwë is still simply watching him, making no move to rise or leave. He slides to the edge of the seat, reaching out to fix Ñolofinwë’s hair so that it looks less mussed and simply as if he’d grown tired of the up-do and taken it down. Cradles Ñolofinwë’s face between his hands after and frowns when Ñolofinwë sighs quietly and leans into the touch, eyes closing. Fëanáro knows that he should simply get up and leave. Let Ñolofinwë finish gathering himself together and slink back to his bed with Anairë. But it sits uncomfortably with him to simply leave Ñolofinwë alone when he is acting so strangely out of character.

He considers his options carefully before standing and gently pulling Ñolofinwë to his feet as well, cursing himself the entire while.  Straightens Ñolofinwë’s clothes and eyes him critically before deciding he looks passably decent. Fëanáro rather hopes that they have been absent long enough that the halls will have emptied and they will simply not encounter anyone for he is sure that the sight of the two of them together will only invite questions. Ñolofinwë sways toward him and a helpless smile tugs at his lips. He does not understand why Ñolofinwë is acting like this but it is charming in its own way he supposes, the blatant display of desire to have him near.

Ñolofinwë is still watching him, waiting Fëanáro suspects, to be told what to do, for he has gone along easily with all that Fëanáro has directed him to do so far. It is not quite the power he had expected to be handed and especially not the circumstances he would have expected to be handed it in. He catches Ñolofinwë by the waist when he sways forward again, pulling him in closer. Kisses him softly and hums thoughtfully at the way Ñolofinwë simply melts into it, none of his fight and biting humor from earlier to be found. “Alright,” he says, pulling back and huffing in amusement when Ñolofinwë simply takes the opportunity to hide his face against Fëanáro’s neck. “Alright, let’s go then. We shall go to my rooms where there is both a lockable door and a comfortable bed.”

They do, in the end, make it to his rooms easily enough with only one close call and he cannot help but breathe easier once they are in his rooms and the door is firmly locked behind them. He looks at Ñolofinwë standing in the middle of his sitting room and for all that he had asked Ñolofinwë earlier if he understood the gravity of what it was he was doing, Fëanáro feels as if the gravity of the situation is only just fully sinking in for him. Half-brothers only they may be but they are still half and that is enough for this to cause them both many problems if it were to be found out. He cannot, at this point, even pretend that he would be able to spin it in a way that only harms Ñolofinwë. Not when he is willingly taking Ñolofinwë to his rooms, to his bed. He cannot pretend, even to himself, that he does not intend to make use of the bed for acts other than sleeping. But he has already brought Ñolofinwë to his rooms and, though he knows he should, he will not change his mind, for he has no true desire to do so, and he is not in the habit of doing that which he does not wish to.

Ñolofinwë’s face has begun to do something strange that he does not care for as he’s been considering the situation; some compressed emotion getting caught in the downward curve of Ñolofinwë’s lips and the crease between his brow, the fine lines around his eyes. Fëanáro does not allow himself to think before instinctively moving across the room and cradling Ñolofinwë’s face between his hands, kissing him once more. Knows it was the correct move when Ñolofinwë makes a breathy noise into the kiss and clutches at him. He kisses Ñolofinwë slowly as they stand there in the middle of the room, drops one hand down to catch Ñolofinwë by the waist as he presses up against Fëanáro. Each time he goes to pull away Ñolofinwë makes a soft, plaintive sound and chases his mouth. Each time he gives in and kisses his half-brother again.

His face has smoothed back out when Fëanáro finally manages to pull back and look at him, though his eyes are more focused than they have been, that glazed look beginning to slowly fade away. Ñolofinwë kisses the underside of Fëanáro’s jaw before nuzzling softly at his throat, says his name so softly he nearly misses it. Something in his chest twists itself into a tight, painful knot in response and he pushes it away. Fëanáro would not have thought Ñolofinwë to be one who was abnormally needy after sex, though even that does not feel like quite the right descriptor. He does not find himself disliking it though; is learning that he enjoys the way Ñolofinwë’s body feels against his when it is loose and being handed over to do with as he will.

“Come, let us go to bed,” he says, ushering Ñolofinwë toward the bedroom. It is easy from there to shed his clothes, to carefully undo the buttons and fastens on Ñolofinwë’s clothes and slip them off him, leaving kisses littered across his skin the entire while. Easy to crawl into bed and let Ñolofinwë curl up against him. Easy to enjoy the warm, steady feel of Ñolofinwë’s breathing against his throat; the arm thrown across his chest, hand clenched into a fist atop his heart; a leg tossed over his. He buries his fingers in Ñolofinwë’s hair and holds him tightly, can feel when sleep steals him away, his body going lax and his breathing slowing.

Fëanáro lays awake for a good while after, unable to fall asleep despite the warmth and comfort. Turns this sudden problem over and over in his mind and tries to decide what he is going to do come morning. Is not even sure why he has bothered to bring Ñolofinwë to his rooms, let alone what he plans on doing with it. But then, even that is not wholly true, for in the back of his mind he is still picturing Ñolofinwë on his knees, his wrists trapped tight in Fëanáro’s fists, and the way he had bowed his head for nothing but the pleasure of pressing his mouth against Fëanáro’s cock. Knows that whether he wants it to or not, this means something.

Ñolofinwë makes a quiet noise as he shifts slightly in Fëanáro’s arms and he closes his eyes at the unwilling rush of fondness that bubbles up his throat. He shifts them slightly so that he can hide his face against Ñolofinwë’s hair, breathes him in, and for once has no idea what to do. In the end he pushes all the worries away and forcefully quiets his mind of anything but the sensation of having his half-brother in his arms. He quiets it all and then lets the sound of Ñolofinwë’s breathing lull him to sleep.

☀︎

Fëanáro wakes to the sensation of a finger tracing its way across his forehead and down the bridge of his nose, over his cheekbone, down the curve of his jaw, down his neck and over his collarbone. He keeps his eyes closed, stays teetering on the edge between wakefulness and dreams, simply enjoying the feeling of Ñolofinwë touching him.

He would have perhaps stayed drifting there but Ñolofinwë’s fingers gently wrap around his throat and his eyes snap open instantly. Ñolofinwë is propped up on an elbow next to him, looking down at him with a complicated expression that melts into something painfully soft when Fëanáro meets his eyes.

“Planning on killing me?” he rasps, runs his hands up Ñolofinwë’s back, the curve of his hip.

Ñolofinwë laughs softly and leans down to kiss him, his fingers still resting around Fëanáro’s throat. It is a novel experience, having Ñolofinwë bent over him, hair tumbling around them and blocking out Laurelin’s light, the slow, nearly hesitant way that Ñolofinwë kisses him, sucking Fëanáro’s lower lip into his mouth and nipping at it. He slides his hand up Ñolofinwë’s spine, buries his fingers in Ñolofinwë’s hair, and deepens the kiss until Ñolofinwë makes a quiet noise, fingers reflexively flexing around Fëanáro’s throat. This should not pull a moan from him, and yet, that is the sound that slips out of his mouth to drift through the room.

Ñolofinwë smiles into the kiss, breaking it to pull back and press their foreheads together. “You brought me to your bed,” he says quietly, eyes still closed.

“You were acting strange,” he says in return, running a finger down Ñolofinwë’s cheek and tracking the way he tilts into the touch. “Do you always act as such after you have had sex?”

“No,” Ñolofinwë says, mouth quirking up at the corner, “no, not always. Though I suppose it was foolish of me to not anticipate reacting as such.”

He hums, twists them suddenly so that he is pressing Ñolofinwë down into the bed. He does not loosen his grip on Fëanáro’s throat despite the abrupt movement and Fëanáro would laugh at the audacity if there were not in truth an uneasiness lurking in Ñolofinwë’s eyes. Fëanáro pins Ñolofinwë’s free wrist against the bed and leans down to brush their noses together, a deep satisfaction burning in his chest when Ñolofinwë’s breath audibly catches, his body arching ever so slightly up toward Fëanáro.

“Explain,” he demands, unwilling to start what they both want when he does not know if Ñolofinwë will react as he did previously. Ñolofinwë breathes in deeply and closes his eyes, fingers flexing around Fëanáro’s throat once more. He should, in all likelihood, be more offended by Ñolofinwë so casually assuming the right to touch him in such a way, but it is such a weak threat, if indeed it is even intended as a threat, that he cannot find it in himself to be bothered.

“It is like an intoxication of the senses in a way I suppose,” Ñolofinwë says, the words warm against Fëanáro’s mouth. “A golden haze that settles over my mind and leaves me feeling as if nothing at all has ever been wrong because I cannot summon any thoughts to my mind but the desire to be—” he falters, wrist moving beneath Fëanáro’s hand as if he is considering breaking away.

“The desire to be what?” he asks, allowing his lips to ghost across Ñolofinwë’s as he speaks.

Ñolofinwë breathes out, fingers flexing around Fëanáro’s throat once more, his grip tightening uncomfortably for a moment, and then he lets his hand drop. Fëanáro does not hesitate before grabbing and pinning that wrist to the bed as well. “The desire to be good, to please,” he says so very quietly, a shameful note to the words.

Fëanáro considers this and holds it up against the way Ñolofinwë had been perfectly content to kneel at Fëanáro’s feet. He cannot say that he has ever heard of such a reaction but it is not as if it is a thing that would be spoken about in polite company. “But not every time?”

“No, not every time. It happens most often when things become overly intense or when—” he falters once more, breathing in deeply before continuing, “—when I have an extreme emotional reaction to what is occurring.”

He does not say that what they had done was both but Fëanáro can read through the lines well enough. Finds himself thinking again that this means something despite how little he wants it to. He kisses Ñolofinwë slowly, brands into his mind the sound of Ñolofinwë’s breath hitching, the feeling of his body arching up against Fëanáro’s, the drag of their lips against each other’s, and the way it feels to have Ñolofinwë pinned to the bed, pulse fluttering rapidly beneath his palm.

“And if I fuck you, would that be enough to cause it?” he asks, pulling back far enough that he can watch Ñolofinwë’s face. “Would your own brother fucking you in his bed be enough?” He does not realize that his tongue has slipped until Ñolofinwë’s eyes snap open, shock bright in his eyes, but Fëanáro knows now that he has his answer without Ñolofinwë saying a word — and it is a clear and unequivocal, yes.

Brother, Ñolofinwë mouths. “Brother,” he says out loud, astonished and stricken. And then, before Fëanáro can think to correct the slip of his tongue, Ñolofinwë has collapsed into helpless laughter, body shaking from the force of it. “Brother,” he says once more around laughter. Fëanáro stares down at him torn between shock and offense and a strange, punched-out feeling in his chest at the sight of Ñolofinwë laughing so brightly beneath him. He cannot even find the words inside of himself to ask what has caused this, too captivated by the way light seems to be caught on the edges of each laugh.

Ñolofinwë does, eventually, gain control of himself. Smirks unrepentantly up at Fëanáro and says, “I do not know that I would not have attempted to gain access to your bed centuries ago if I had realized this is what it would take to convince you of what I have always known.”

Fëanáro cannot tell if Ñolofinwë means this in jest or if he would have truly tried such a thing. Does not know how he feels about either when he had not meant to say the word in the first place. But. But. Now he has Ñolofinwë’s bright laughter branded into his mind and he finds that he does not wish to take it back. Finds himself helplessly captivated and releases one of Ñolofinwë’s wrists so that he can instead carefully cradle Ñolofinwë’s cheek, thumb pressed to the center of his bottom lip. Ñolofinwë stares up at him expectantly, laughter vanished as quickly as it came.

He rolls the word around his mouth for a moment, weighing it, trying to decide if he truly means it. Does not know how he can mean it in truth after one meager encounter. And yet, it is as if he has can feel Ñolofinwë’s laughter lodged behind his teeth, a brightness he has never before had directed at him, one that he had not realized he even wanted directed at him.

Ñolofinwë frowns slightly when the silence carries too long, reaches up to brush his knuckles down Fëanáro’s cheek. “Náro?” he asks quietly, only the thinnest strand of uneasiness present.

It is the nickname perhaps that breaks him. Or the gentleness. Whichever it is leaves him struggling to draw in air around the sudden vicious, greedy want to keep his brother in his bed despite all the many, many reasons he should not. He presses their foreheads together once more, so that he can see nothing but the storm caught in Ñolofinwë’s eyes. Says very quietly into the space between them, “Brother.” Watches Ñolofinwë’s eyes flutter shut, a pained noise escaping him. And then, even softer as he strokes his thumb across Ñolofinwë’s cheek, “My brother.”

Ñolofinwë makes a ragged, gut-wrenching noise, and Fëanáro kisses him, deepens it until his every sense is narrowed down to nothing but his brother’s beating pulse beneath his palm, his brother’s cheek wet from tears, his brother’s cock sliding against his own, the half-desperate noises caught tight in his brother’s throat. Fëanáro kisses him and kisses him until there is nothing left in his own mind but the simple knowledge that he will keep this.

He pulls back, watches Ñolofinwë blink his eyes open slowly, half-gone already, and knows without a doubt, that this matters. It matters deeply and it may end in trouble for them both but it will have been worth it. To have his brother in such a way, will have been worth it.

They do not leave his bed for a very long time.

☀︎

Chapter End Notes

narrowly avoided bringing Anairë up in earnest and all of the things I just heavily implied about their sex life - the plot keeps trying to truly get me and I keep frantically running away 

I'm on tumblr as well!

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