white on red by averytinylizard  

Fingon knew that seduction alone could not make Maedhros stay in Barad Eithel, especially not the night before he left. Still, he dressed for it, hoping to make him at least regret leaving. He put on his tightest hose, kept most of his hair down, braiding only some of it with ribbons of gold, and wore his perfumed oil on his wrist and neck. He drew along his eyes with kohl and painted his mouth a subtle red. He looked beautiful, he thought, and it was not vanity alone speaking.

Maedhros clearly had not been expecting him, for there were his guards standing outside, and he was preparing to go to bed, wearing his nightshirt and socks. “Fingon. Come in.” His voice was even, as it often was these days, a conscious keeping emotion from his voice.

Fingon felt bold. “You should send your guards away tonight.”

“I will trust that you do not mean to assassinate me,” Maedhros said, smiling, and went outside to dismiss his guard. As he walked back in, Fingon pushed him against the wall and kissed him. It took a great deal of straining his neck, but Maedhrps clearly felt like collaborating today, and leaned down. Fingon pushed between his legs, spread them open and ground against him until he felt it harden. He moved his mouth to his neck, kissing his way down across his throat and looking at the mess of red he left on Maedhros’s mouth, his jaw, his throat. “This is a nice goodbye.”

Oh, damn him. Fingon fell to his knees, pushed up Maedhros’s nightshirt and took his still hardening cock out of his drawers and into his mouth. He sucked as Maedhros held the nightshirt up, got it to harden fully, before letting it fall out of his mouth and kissing the head, licking under it. There were little smudges of red across the shaft, matching the flushing of the head and the read of the curls at its root. Maedhros threw his head back, let go of the nightshirt, carded his fingers through Fingon’s hair. “No. Hold the shirt up. I want to see you.”

Maedhros hissed and held it up again, and Fingon teased and teased the head, played with his taint while looking into his eyes.  He took it in his mouth again, sucked until Maedhros began to thrust, aborted little movements to keep him from choking, and Fingon knew he was close.

He let it fall from his mouth. “Say you’ll stay.”

A sigh. “Fingon.”

He wrapped his fingers tight around it, tight as an iron band. “Not what I want to hear,” he said, and tongued the slit.

He banged his head against the wall, the sound making it clear it must have hurt. Still, his hips tried to thrust into his fist. “Fingon, I will only disappoint you.” 

“Yes, you will. Say it anyway.”

“Fingon, please. I will visit.” His lips weren’t just red with Fingon’s paint anymore, but bitten and bruised by his own teeth. A second more and blood might join the red.

Fingon stood up and pushed him to the bed. Maedhros was loose of limb, apologetic, stubborn. As Fingon searched for oil in his vanity, in his desk, Maedhros insisted that he had packed. Fingon opened his bags then, uncaring of the mess he was making. If Maedhros needed more time to pack, then it meant more time he spent here. He found the oil for polishing his sword first, and took that. It wasn’t perfumed, was not specially pretty, but Fingon had tried pretty. The sword oil would do.

He pushed up Maedhros’s leg, threw it over his own shoulder and pushed in a finger, too quick, too rough, and Maedhros kissed him. Once the finger was all the way in, he pushed the second one up to the first knuckle and took Maedhros’s lower lip between his teeth, pulled until he bled. He speared him with two fingers, added a third and quickly took them out. He usually liked to prepare Maedhros properly, make him almost fall apart before he even fucked him, but he wanted him to wince tomorrow, to feel him all the way to Himring. He simply took his cock out of his drawers and took off his doublet, not bothering to undress more.

He was tight. Tight as a vice, tight as few things in life are, and hot. Fingon would stay in him forever, never let him leave his bed. His mouth was red, more red than Fingon’s had been when he came in, and he asked again, “Say you’ll stay.”

Maedhros clenched around him. “I cannot.”

“Yes, you can. You like being here, don’t lie.” Fingon angled his thrusts to move him up on the bed. “You like this.”

“I do.” It came out as almost a moan, high in a way his voice never got those days.

“Then stay with me and we shall do this every day. Imagine that.” Even in Valinor there had always been some obligation, some father to keep them apart. Fingon was a crown prince now. “No one to deny you what you want.”

Maedhros smiled at him, thumbed at his lip, smudged what was left of the red. “Our duty—” and Fingon felt too much anger rush through him. Duty, duty, duty, forever keeping them apart. And here was Maedhros, bringing it into their bed. Fingon’s hand flew to his throat, pressed down, choked the words out of him. The hand at his mouth fell back, and Maedhros threw a leg over his hips. He pushed his  hips against his thrusts, and when Fingon began to loosen his grip he said, “Keep going.” A smile, which could be mean, or it could be simply distorted by its scarring. “Let it out.”

Fingon did not just choke him, he rested his weight on the hands at Maedhros’s throat, and thrust. There was a rhythm to it, a slight loosening of his hand when he pushed in with his hips, and then the reverse. When Maedhros’s hand came to his back, the rhythm of how he scratched matched him. In-loose-scratch, out-choke-rest, in-loose-scratch.

Maedhros came, a spurt of white on Fingon’s shift and his nightshirt, and his hand clawed tight to Fingon’s back. He was bleeding, he was sure of it, Maedhros’s nails cutting him even through the cloth, and the clenching of him, overstimulated, out of breath, was too much. He pulled out, knowing that if he did not he would come inside and he wanted something else. He crawled his way up, until his hips were over Maedhros’s chest, and he stroked aiming at his still panting mouth. It fell on his bruised neck and reddened jaw, on his ruined mouth, and a drop of white mingled with a drop of red.

He crawled off, fell on the bed beside Maedhros, and curled around him. “Say, you’ll stay, please. Even if you don’t mean it.”

He kissed Fingon, metallic and bitter and soft, and said. “Of course. I’ll stay.”

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