held close all the time, knowing I'm half of you by atlantablack  

Tell me all the time not to worry
And think of all the time that I'll have with you
When I won't wake up on my own, wake up on my own
Held close all the time, knowing I'm half of you

Nettles | Ethel Cain

☀︎

“We are going to get caught,” Fingolfin hisses, though he makes no move to actually push Fëanor away from where he’s sucking a bruise onto Fingolfin’s collarbone. Fëanor hums, shoving a knee between Fingolfin’s legs and smirking against his skin when he’s forced to bite back a moan, hips jerking up. 

“Do you want me to stop then?” he asks, voice rich with amusement as he kisses his way up Fingolfin’s neck. “Tell me,” he whispers, mouth hovering over Fingolfin’s. “Tell me you want me to stop.” 

Fingolfin is genuinely worried they are going to get caught. It does not stop him from cursing quietly and kissing Fëanor to shut him up. Kissing Fëanor is as glorious as ever. Every time they go several months without seeing each other, he thinks that perhaps the desire will wear off, perhaps he will once more be able to look at his brother and feel nothing but what he should. But every time Fëanor walks into the room and it is like stepping out of Mandos after being reborn and seeing the sun for the first time. The want does not fade. It only seems to grow stronger each time. If the way Fëanor can never wait for the privacy of a locked door and always insists on pulling him into random empty rooms and once, memorably, a closet, is any indication, then he feels much the same.

If it were possible for them to do anything so simple as make-out without it escalating, perhaps he would be less worried, but it takes only a minute for Fëanor's wandering hands to have him stifling moans. Fëanor kisses like he's trying to win something, like he'll die if he doesn't get to taste every noise that he wrings from Fingolfin's throat. All those centuries of wanting nothing more than for Fingolfin to stop speaking entirely, and now he seems to delight most in finding ways to make him loudly lose control.

Fëanor grinds up against him again, one hand tangled in his hair, the other firmly groping his ass. Fingolfin is trying desperately to pay attention to the noises he's making, but Fëanor bites at his lip and pulls his hair, murmurs his name so sweetly against his mouth, and he knows it is only a matter of time before he loses focus.

“I want to fuck you,” Fëanor groans, fingers digging into his ass painfully. Fingolfin clenches his fingers in Fëanor’s shirt, shivering at the feeling of Fëanor’s cock hard against his hip, and bravely does not tell Fëanor to go right ahead.  

“Perhaps,” he says breathlessly, “if you had waited for us to reach my rooms, that could have been arranged.” 

Fëanor snorts, kissing him hard again. “I could not wait; it has been too long."

"Stop leaving for so long then." The words come out slightly more accusing than he had meant for them to, and he whines far too loudly when Fëanor bites down hard on his shoulder in response.

“Careful,” Fëanor whispers, the amusement still loud in his voice, “you are going to get us caught.” 

Fingolfin snarls, reaching up and yanking Fëanor’s head back hard, fist clenched tight in his hair. Fëanor moans, hips jerking against his, the sound dripping down Fingolfin’s spine like honey and echoing far too loudly. "If we get caught it will not be my fault,” he mutters, pulling Fëanor into another kiss. 

Fëanor goes along with the kiss for a while, the sound of their breathing feeling so terribly loud in the small greeting parlour they’re in, every whimper, every half-bitten off moan seeming to echo. Fëanor’s hands are still restlessly roaming his body, shoving Fingolfin’s clothing out of the way as best he can. He twists one of Fingolfin’s nipples hard, smirking against Fingolfin’s mouth at the whimper it pulls forth, at the way Fingolfin cannot quite stop himself from fucking up against Fëanor’s thigh seeking more. 

“Later,” Fëanor murmurs, one of his hands slipping inside of Fingolfin’s breeches and groping his bare ass, “I am going to tie you down on the bed and open you up, make you beg me for my cock.” 

Fingolfin jerks and fucks up against Fëanor's thigh, a low moan escaping as Fëanor's hand slips lower, a finger teasing his entrance. "You have not had any luck convincing me to beg before," he manages to bite out, even as he resists the urge to press back against the finger where it is still rubbing slow circles. He knows that it will not be pleasurable without oil to ease the way, but he wants Fëanor inside of him terribly, and it is so tempting to simply ignore the pain in favor of having his brother inside of him.

“I will have to try harder then, won’t I, brother?” Fëanor asks, voice deep and thick with desire, breath warm against Fingolfin’s ear. “We have nowhere to be tomorrow and I can be patient.” 

Fëanor kisses his way down Fingolfin's neck again, pausing to nip at his skin every time he shivers. Fëanor's other hand settles on his hip, encouraging him to fuck up against Fëanor's thigh again. Fingolfin is helpless to do anything other than listen. It is a special kind of torture, fucking up against Fëanor's thigh, the pressure just enough that it sends pleasure skittering up his spine and buzzing through him, but too light to give him what he truly wants. A special kind of torture to have Fëanor's finger slowly circling his rim, occasionally exerting the slightest pressure but never truly pressing in as Fingolfin so badly wants him to. The wet heat of Fëanor's mouth against his neck and the sharp press of his teeth only drag the torture to new heights.

Fëanor pulls away slightly, a pleased smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he takes in Fingolfin’s disheveled appearance. “Suck,” he commands quietly, slipping two fingers between Fingolfin’s lips. 

He groans around the fingers, obeying eagerly, and fucks up against Fëanor’s thigh once more with a whine when Fëanor’s other hand returns to meanly twisting his nipples. 

Fëanor pulls his fingers out and kisses Fingolfin, fucking his tongue into Fingolfin's mouth even as his spit-slick fingers circle Fingolfin's hole and slowly begin pressing in. It is not comfortable, is barely pleasurable, spit not enough to fully ease the slide of Fëanor's fingers inside of him, but that does not stop him from moaning and pressing into it. Fëanor makes a low, hungry sound against his mouth, grinding up against him and biting harshly at his lip. Fingolfin feels dizzy, all of the blood having rushed to his cock as he helplessly gives in to Fëanor's silent urging to fuck up against his thigh again and again.

"If we had oil, I would fuck you right here against this wall," Fëanor says in a low voice as he twists his fingers and fucks them in hard. The pained moan that claws its way out of Fingolfin's throat at the sharp stinging pleasure would be humiliating if he had any thought left to spare to it.

“I would let you,” he chokes out as Fëanor works another bruise low on his throat. He will not be able to wear anything but high collars until Fëanor leaves Tirion again. 

Fëanor kisses him, nothing but a soft press of lips that lingers as he twists his fingers inside of Fingolfin again. “You would let me do it right now even without oil,” he says in a painfully gentle voice, eyes glittering with satisfaction when Fingolfin meets them. “And I am nearly tempted.” 

Fingolfin wishes to deny it. Shivers as Fëanor carefully scissors his fingers apart and knows all too well that his brother’s words are true. He tells himself that he will regret it, that it is an awful idea, still finds himself tugging Fëanor in as close as he can and murmuring, “Then do it,” against his brother’s mouth. 

Fëanor laughs and kisses him. Grinds up against him again and again, fucking Fingolfin with his fingers at a leisurely pace, does not stop until Fingolfin makes such a loud, desperate noise that it fills the entire room. “See, nearly tempted, but that I find I prefer your pleasure to your pain,” Fëanor says quietly, as if the words do not spear through Fingolfin and leave him gasping just as much as Fëanor’s hand finding its way around his bare cock. 

It takes no time at all for him to spill over Fëanor's fingers, his brother's name lodged in his throat as he moans. Fëanor kisses him through it, his cock still hard against Fingolfin's hip. The moment Fingolfin manages to gather enough of his wits about him, he pushes Fëanor's robes out of the way and takes Fëanor in hand, nearly moaning at the sheer pleasure of once more having the bare heat of his brother's cock in his hand. Fëanor makes a punched-out noise and fucks up into his grip. Presses his face to Fingolfin’s neck and shakes apart so quickly that there is no doubt in his mind that Fëanor had been just as desperate. 

They stay pressed up against each other for quite a while afterward, the damp heat of Fëanor's breathing against his neck a comfort. He runs his fingers through Fëanor's hair as Fëanor traces circles across his skin, breathing his brother in and wishing it did not always feel as if they are still running on borrowed time. Fëanor unable to stand the way Tirion still feels like a cage and always leaving to travel Aman. Fingolfin missing him viciously every time he leaves, but unwilling to ask Fëanor to stay when they have not even begun to define what it is they are doing.

“How long are you staying this time?” he asks, regretting the question as soon as it’s left his mouth. 

Fëanor’s fingers go still against his skin for a moment before resuming their movement. “I have not yet decided,” he says quietly, pulling back slightly to study Fingolfin’s face. 

He swallows, hoping that his yearning for his brother to stay longer than a handful of months does not show so plainly on his face. He nods, does not know what to say, and does not trust what would come out of his mouth. Fears it would sound far too much like, stay, can you stay a little longer? He thinks Fëanor still sees it on his face, for Fëanor’s face goes tight for a brief moment before he kisses Fingolfin once more. 

It is a slow, languid kiss, the hunger sated for the time being. Fëanor is cradling Fingolfin’s cheek so gently, his thumb smoothing across it as they kiss. It is far too easy to let Fëanor kiss the tension away, just as it is far too easy to fall into his brother again and again. 

"Come with me," Fëanor murmurs when he pulls away. He presses their foreheads together so that all Fingolfin can see are his soft gray eyes filled with an emotion Fingolfin refuses to name. "When I leave next, come with me. Finarfin ruled well before we returned; he will rule just as well if we are both gone once more."

Fingolfin's mind goes completely silent, the magnitude of the request not lost on him. And oh, it is stupid, and it will spark rumors, but he does not know how he can be expected to say anything other than, "Yes. If you wish me to, then I will follow." The words come out far too earnest, but he does not care.

Fëanor smiles, brushing his knuckles over Fingolfin’s cheek. “Good,” he says softly, voice thick with that same emotion Fingolfin refuses to name, “I will attempt to lead you to better places this time around.” 

The exhilarating part, is that Fingolfin believes him. 

☀︎

Chapter End Notes

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