your servant, don't forsake him by averytinylizard  

Fingolfin is on all fours, chest inches away from the floor, with a pair of feet resting on him. He feels the cool leather of the boots, its texture so smooth he can practically feel the shine, and those minute movements of someone who, while not actively moving, is still calm enough to not be completely still. He hears, also, the turning of pages and the crackling of a fireplace, and the soft sound of wind blowing outside the thick castle walls. He has been here so long that the din of conversation outside has dimmed to nothing.

Then, “How many other people do you let use you as a footrest?”, comes Maedhros's voice.

“None but you, sir.” The sir comes as instinct. It is difficult to be used as furniture without it seeping into one's mind and then tongue.

“Sir? You are a king, Fingolfin. Have some pride.” And above him a book closes. “Though I suppose if you had some pride you wouldn't be here.”

“I wouldn't,“ he answers, biting back the sir that fights to come out.

“Now, out of the way, your majesty, I need to put the book away.” The boot slightly nudges him away, and Maedhros walks to the bookshelf, and puts everything in its place. Fingolfin looks at him, feeling all the more naked for seeing Maedhros fully clothed, his hair braided.

As Maedhros walks back, Fingolfin knows to kneel beside the armchair, waiting for his orders. He waits for quite a while, staring at Maedhros as he sits down, so relaxed he could be completely ignoring Fingolfin. It is only that bulge between his legs that keeps Fingolfin aware that Maedhros wants his services.

Fingolfin feels bold and moves his hands towards Maedhros's belt. “Let me, please—”

“Don't touch me,” Maedhros says and Fingolfin flinches back. “Why would I let you touch me? I thought you were more aware of the differences between you and I, king. I have some sense of shame, while you clearly do not.” One of Maedhros's feet, one of those shiny boots of leather, is dangerously close to Fingolfin's crotch. He isn't like Maedhros, enjoying pain for its own sake. But, well, if one seeks to be overpowered and shamed, turned to nothing at all, there are worse ways to reach that than with a man's boot crushing him. “But I suppose you cannot help it. Use the boot, if you feel you must.”

“Thank you.”

“By the Valar, your majesty. You do not thank your vassals, you simply take your due.” And Fingolfin does. He positions himself so the boot falls between his legs, and moves back and forth. Slow. A small part of him wants to hump it like a dog would, knows that it is also what Maedhros wants, but his shame does not let him. It isn’t enough, not without Maedhros helping, but he knows better than to ask. “Maybe I'm wrong about you, Fingolfin. Maybe you aren't shameless. A truly shameless man would be able to simply enjoy what he does. He wouldn't stutter as he asks to see my cock, or flinch as soon as I deny him, and he certainly would not whimper while bringing himself off on my boot because it is all I offer to him. Why, he would almost certainly embrace what he wants, and would not need all these games just to bring himself off.”

“I know.” But the speech does help, and he's able to actually move in such a way that he could, maybe, in a few minutes, come.

“It is a wonderful quality to have, frankly. Were you a king without shame I could not speak to you like this. I could not, for example, ask you to put on your crown as you hump my boot.”

“I'm sorry?” Oh, if Fingolfin had permission, he would kiss him. He knew he would put on his crown sometime tonight, but he didn't expect it now.

“I want you to get up, put on your crown and hump my boot.”

Fingolfin scampers to his feet, and rushes to the vanity. Putting on his crown takes a little while, since it is a complicated little thing, a diadem with silver chains falling down the side. He makes sure his hair looks alright, trying to look as the king he does not feel like at this moment.

He moves back to his position, and he barely wastes any time before his movements are like those of a hound, and his whines bounce off the walls. Maedhros seems happy with the performance, because he moves the toes of his boot slightly up, and Fingolfin feels his own come on his stomach and all over the boot. He wants to kiss Maedhros's stomach, but he knows he should ask for permission, and so leans back, feeling himself go soft and sticky on the boot.

“Clean it. Before it gets too dry to wipe away.”

Fingolfin spits on the largest stain, and as he prepares to wipe with his hand,he feels a hand pull on his hair.

“If I wanted you to wipe it clean with your spit, king, I would have asked for that. Show that boot you used so pathetically some respect. Clean it properly, with lips and tongue. If you don't, I’ll spit on your face myself.”

Fingolfin makes sure to make eye contact as spit dribbles from his mouth onto the boot.

The sigh he receives is what he needs. “You foul creature.” Fingolfin keeps his eyes open as Maedhros pulls his head back, hoping that the spit catches him in the eye, but Maedhros is disappointingly merciful. It falls on his cheek, down and across from his left eye, and falls down, viscous and warm, until it reaches near the corner of his mouth. Fingolfin licks out, catches as much as he can, which is frankly very little, and does a show of swallowing.

Once Maedhros lets his head fall, he gets to cleaning. The seed tastes bitter, and its texture tacky, and Fingolfin does not care one whit. It's about the boot, shiny and dark, and returning it to how it was before Fingolfin marred it. First, he cleans what fell on the smooth toe, wiping it with his tongue, moving up until the surface is clean. Then he moves to the stitching, where little droplets were caught between the thread and leather and will be a nightmare to clean once it's dry. Here, he sucks, trying to pull the seed away with suction, and licking what remains. The surface is still murky, and there is still white next to the stitching, but this is as good as he can do without hands, so he kisses the boot in apology, and lets his face fall on Maedhros's thigh.

“You've been good, so I suppose I can give you a gift,” says Maedhros, his hand opening his breeches and taking his cock out.

It's not especially long, and only slightly thicker than average, but Fingolfin still thinks that it's one of the most beautiful cocks he has ever seen. It curves ever so slightly, and its head, peeking out from beneath his foreskin, flushes red, like its owner's face, and most wonderfully, the base is covered in dark curls, thicker than that of any other elf he has ever seen. So thick is the growth here that he knows beneath his robes it even trails up until his stomach, ending there, before reappearing on his chest. Fingolfin has never stared very long at naked Men, but he imagines they look a bit like this.

Maedhros has only given him his cock to suck, so it will not do to get distracted by any other hairy places. He pulls down the foreskin and then takes him in his mouth, quickly swallowing as much as he can. He has had many years of practice, and since Maedhros seems content to let him do most of the work he does not worry about choking, or hands pulling him here and there. He lets the weight of it rest on his tongue, feels him deep in his throat before letting him fall out and then kisses the head, then licking his way down the shaft, kissing the balls, feeling hair against his lips, then kisses his way up, slower and following a vein. He takes the head in, sucking it, tonguing the slit, and takes the whole of him in his mouth again, until his nose brushes skin. He smells the sweat, and thinks that more of it must be caught on those heavy curls than on the modest amount of hair between his own legs.

Maedhros's hand is in his hair, keeping him there, keeping him still, and then his hips begin to rock. It seems to Fingolfin a signal to let himself go slack, to let Maedhros use him to get off as he would his own hand. The movements are slight, not enough to choke, just simple movements for his own pleasure, rather than for Fingolfin's pain. His groans and sighs are soft, and Fingolfin lets himself look up. Maedhros's face is relaxed, mouth barely open, and his eyes stare at the ceiling. He looks strangely dignified, his robe high collared and lined with dark fur, and his dark red hair in its neat braid looks set ablaze by the light of the fireplace. Even the flush on his cheeks, which would make most look a bit ridiculous, looks on him more like the rosiness of a maiden's cheeks in a painting. A part of Fingolfin wants to squirm, feeling all the more naked for the crown he has on.

Then, as the sighs turn to the high sounds Fingolfin knows well as the signs Maedhros is close, the hand on his head pulls him back and a voice tells him to stay in place. He does, and looks as Maedhros takes himself in hand and rubs up and down, up and down, and though he knows what is about to happen, asked for it before it started, still, the first drop against his forehead shocks him. As the rest of the load falls on his hair and brow, he has to remind himself to close his eyes. It's less than a second, he knows, between the seed landing on him and Maedhros speaking, but it feels much longer. He stays what feels like an eternity with his eyes closed, feeling the cool metal and the dangling jewels, and intertwined with it the warm seed, before Maedhros says, “Incredible. You're the first man I've seen who looks good wearing two crowns at once.”

The comment shocks him to laughter, and Fingolfin reaches up an arm so that Maedhros helps him up. His knees feel weak, and he appreciates the help as he walks to the vanity and washes his face. As he washes, Maedhros takes off his crown and cleans it, holding it close to his face to see if there is no white among the silver and diamonds. He must be happy with his cleaning, because soon enough he sets it down and starts wiping clean and brushing Fingolfin's hair.

Anairë did the same thing for him in Valinor when she did this for him. He would go to their house, lay his head on her lap and ask for her to speak awful words to him, or sleep on the floor next to the bed as she let herself have her pleasure without him, and she would do as he asked, so long as he let her brush his hair afterwards. She understood why his shame over his own desires, be it for her, for a crown, or for a father and brother's love, could drive him to ask for punishment, and so she knew also he needed absolution afterwards. I forgive you. You've done well, that hair brushing said, and he had asked Maedhros to continue that small ritual once they came to Beleriand and started doing this themselves.

Fingolfin gets up, takes the brush from Maedhros's hand, and puts on his sleeping shirt. As he lies in bed, he leaves his bed covers thrown open as an invitation to stay.

He feels the bed dip beside him, and looks as Maedhros takes off his boots. “I'll clean them properly tomorrow,” Fingolfin promises. Maedhros changes out of his tunic and breeches quickly, letting his hair fall out of he braid, and joins him in bed wearing his undershirt still. It helps him settle completely, this shared near nakedness, this final settling back into being almost equals.

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Hador had asked once, shortly after being given Dor-lomin, with help disciplining a thief. Now that Fingolfin was Hador's king, any authority to punish wrongdoers derived from him, and he wished for this first thief to be made an example of, so that everyone knew that the High King's justice was not softer than the Lord’s. All Fingolfin needed to do was hit the man with a whip. Fingolfin had not understood. It seemed orcish to punish a man by tying him to a pole and whipping him bloody. Why couldn't they exile the man for some years, he asked, for that would be the punishment given to an elf who committed a similar offense, however rare they were. Hador seemed to think this punishment much crueler than the whip. Most villages would not take in a known thief, and he could not survive off the land alone so far north. Imprisonment was impractical, and expensive, and death was too severe a punishment for the offense. Modern groups of Men agreed that the most appropriate response to crimes of this manner was payment for the party wronged, be it with coin, cattle, grain, or labour, and the whip.

Fingolfin agreed, knowing his relationship with Men depended on treating their customs with respect. He hated it. The man seemed so small compared to most elves, like a youth far from adulthood, and the sight of his blood and the sound of his cries only made it worse. He vowed to never do it again, no matter who asked.

It had taken quite a while to convince him, then, that Maedhros might desire to be beaten. He had seen the scars even before they had lain together, and he couldn't imagine wanting to relive something like that.

“I will not be reliving it,” Maedhros had said, “not if you did it right.” It had taken a great deal of discussion for Fingolfin to be comfortable with doing this, a great number of lines and limits drawn by Maedhros before they ever grabbed a belt.

Once they had done so, however, Fingolfin understood. It made Maedhros more vocal, as if the pain didn't just intensify sensation but let him let go of those inhibitions that kept the loudest of his cry in check. It gave a rush of power, too, to hurt with one hand and soothe with the other. Greatest of all, maybe, was the pleasure of aesthetics. The contrast between the auburn and the purples and the reds, the yellows and blues in the following days.

It had made a great difference, to do it by themselves, because they wanted it, compared to punishing a man in the yard.

Fingolfin now checks the ropes keeping Maedhros's hand and legs in place. They are loose enough around wrist and ankle that there's no real risk of getting injured, but he's still tied tightly enough that he cannot really move away from the belt. His chest lies flat on the table, and his legs are forced to spread. If Fingolfin wanted, he could whip in-between his thighs, or even his cock. He does not think he will do the latter. That is an act for specific nights, and tonight will be quite plain.

Fingolfin takes out the strap, used mostly for discipline among his Manniah soldiers, and feels the weight of it in his hands. It is harder, thicker than their usual belt, so the hurt, while more painful, will be more even. Less risk of hurting Maedhros in a way he does not wish. Still, it does have holes punched through it to reduce drag. They should allow him to swing quicker and thus hurt more. He swings it, once, twice, feels out the way it moves through the air, and finally, on the third swing, hits Maedhros on the buttocks.

The sound it makes is wonderful. A whistle of moving through the air, then a crack, and the desk dragging slightly as Maedhros flinches away. Fingolfin does it three more times, switching which side the blow lands. Then, he moves to the thighs, muscular and long. Three hits on each one this time, and then back up. All he needs is to know he has hit those two more important parts. Now, without concern for rhythm and barely any for where it lands he raises his arm again and again, watching the skin grow red and bruised. Maedhros has his mother's skin, not as pale as his father's, but prone to growing very red when blood rushes to the surface. Bruises show easily on him. So does arousal.

“You take it well.” Maedhros, however much he might enjoy pain, is not like Fingolfin. He does not enjoy getting spat on or shamed. He would have a steel fist followed by a caress. “You keep remarkably quiet. I don't think I could do the same.”

The sound Maedhros makes is one of disagreement, and Fingolfin wonders which part he disagrees with. The compliment, or the comparison? As he strokes the inside of a thigh, he decides not to ask.

“You do. You flinch, of course, but who wouldn't? I would be blind not to recognize that.” He moves to the back then, knowing that it will be better later if his back is as bruised as his thighs.

The back requires him to be methodical. Maedhros's right shoulder must be treated delicately, so he makes sure his blows fall along the lower back. It doesn't redden or bruise as much as his buttocks, so each time he lowers the strap he does it with a ferocity he never uses outside of the battlefield. Finally, Maedhros grants him the satisfaction of a hiss. Fingolfin takes a step to the side to give himself the space to whip and hold a cheek at the same time. Maedhros and his noises deserve the tenderness.

Once his arm begins to ache (and this takes a long time, for it is not a lie to call Fingolfin the mightiest of the Noldor), Maedhros's back is a bruised mess. He bleeds in a few spots, but in most places it is simply red. When Fingolfin strokes, it feels feverish to the touch, so much blood rushing to the surface. He licks it, all up the spine, hoping that it cools Maedhros.

His face is a mess, too, though Fingolfin did not touch it. It's flushed, and there are tears and snot running down. Disappointingly, his lips are swollen, clearly having been bitten to muffle his cries. Fingolfin would have liked to bruise that too.

The picture of it is beautiful enough that Fingolfin feels no regret for not dedicating himself to any arts in his youth. He and Maedhros have created a masterwork. It will be better still in the coming days, red turning to a riot of purples and yellows before banishing.

As he works to untie Maedhros he kisses his wrists and ankles. Maedhros gasps at that as loud as he did to the strikes. And even untied, Maedhros knows to stay in place.

Fingolfin prepares him with gentleness, for he knows what parts Maedhros likes having rushed, and this is not one of them. He spreads the bruised cheeks and massages, softly, the entrance. After just a little while, he slicks a finger with oil and pushes in, waiting after pushing each knuckle through. Once it's completely in, he curls it up, feeling for the spot inside of him that makes his toes curl. As he hears a hissed yesss, he kisses across his back and pushes in a second one, as tender as the first. He feels it flutter around his fingers, wanting more, feels Maedhros's gaze, too. But he stays there with his two fingers exploring, turning and petting. Finally he adds the third, and focuses on getting him stretched, pushing against his walls. As he finally pulls them out, Maedhros looks loose, and Fingolfin knows it's time to push him to lay on his back.

Maedhros squirms, trying to find a way to rest his back on the table without laying on his hurt lower back, but Fingolfin puts his hand on his stomach and puts him back in his place. Maedhros glares, but stays. Fingolfin considers getting back the strap, but decides against it. Once it's time to hurt his inner thigh, it will be better if Maedhros does not expect it.

Maedhros spreads his legs, throwing one over Fingolfin's shoulder. Good. It gives him space to work. Fingolfin holds his cock, and once the head is in, pushes in one great thrust. Maedhros moans, pained and yet delighted, and Fingolfin holds his thigh in place. His grip is tight, bruising by itself, and he keeps his thrusts quick, catching each of Maedhros's moans as they taper and making him moan again.

Fingolfin knows he won't come yet, and that if Maedhros comes too soon he can grip his cock thigh enough that it will stop him. That leaves him plenty of time to take that leg and bruise it as much as the rest of him. He bites the calf laying next to his head and slaps the thigh in match with his thrusts. He bruises here easiest of all, the delicate skin turning scarlet after the first few hits. Fingolfin hits him for much longer, of course. Maedhros would not stop mocking him if he did not.

And as the whole of Maedhros turns red, with bruises and arousal both, Fingolfin bends over to kiss him. He can barely reach Maedhros's mouth, but he kisses his chin and bites and pulls at his lower lip, and feels how, even if it's only one leg, Maedhros tightens when you bend him in half.

The moans have gotten louder, higher, a chorus of ah-ah-ah worthy of any girl, and Fingolfin moves to stroke him. As he spills, a mess of white over the two of them, Fingolfin takes the cock in his fist and tightens his grip. At first, he feels Maedhros wince in discomfort, then as he tightens even further his moans turn to a grunt of pain, and still, he says yes.

Maedhros grasps at his hair, pulls him up to kiss him fully, curling up, and a hand moves to his ass to make Fingolfin fuck him harder. He obliges, a hand on the table and the other crushing Maedhros's poor, beautiful cock, and fucks so hard he feels Maedhros slide up the table. He's so close, with the clenching unrelenting around his cock, biting and tightening his fist each time he feels his grip loosen. Finally, he comes, and softens, and pulls out slowly, and licks the bruises on Maedhros's mouth.

However tired and aching he must feel, he knows Maedhros feels even more worn, so he lifts him, like a damsel in a tale, and lets him on the bed. “You did well.” And as he hears a grunt only as a response, he goes and picks up the ointment. It's made to soothe, and smells minty, and he doesn't have to tell Maedhros to lay on his front. “There’s a good lad.”

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