names of heat and names of light by atlantablack  

☀︎

Later, Fëanor will not even be able to remember what snarky advice he had thrown at Finarfin while restlessly pacing the throne room. What he will remember, with a painfully vivid clarity, is Finarfin’s response.

"You would be better off on your knees doing something useful with your mouth than using it to criticize me," Finarfin snaps, eyes hard as he watches Fëanor. "I have ruled Tirion far longer than you ever did. I do not want nor need your advice."

Fëanor stops pacing, raising an eyebrow and refusing to let his shock at the statement show. Of all the crass things he might have expected to come from Finarfin's mouth, that would never have been one of them. "Bold words," he says after a moment, tilting his head in consideration. "Whatever must the guards think of you saying such a thing to your own brother?"

Finarfin's face relaxes as he rolls his eyes. "I did not realize you had such a thing as a sense of shame," he says dryly, the irritation seeming to have vanished as quickly as it'd come. "Brothers though… is that what we are now, Fëanor?"

He considers Finarfin, the way he is near lounging on the throne like a dare, and before he can second guess himself, he has taken the two steps up onto the dais and gone to his knees.

Finarfin's eyes flare wide with shock even as his legs seem to automatically fall open so that Fëanor may settle between them.

"Brothers," he murmurs, experimentally running his hands up Finarfin's thighs. "Do you not wish for us to be so?"

"We never were before," Finarfin says, before raising a hand and carefully burying his fingers in Fëanor's hair. "I do not believe I know how to be your brother. You were only ever a thing to be avoided."

"And I am not any longer?" He questions, letting his thumb graze Finarfin's cock. There is a vague sense of unease in the back of his mind at what he is doing. The knowledge of what a terrible idea this is tries to push its way to the forefront of his mind, but he pushes it away and palms Finarfin's cock fully.

"I do not know," Finarfin says, voice only slightly strangled. "Tell me, are you waiting for me to call your bluff?"

He cannot help but laugh at that. "I do not begin that which I do not mean to finish. This is no bluff, Aro. Was your dare merely a bluff?” 

Finarfin studies him for another moment, fingers tightening just slightly in his hair. Fëanor continues fondling Finarfin’s cock as he waits, mapping its shape with his fingers as it slowly begins to harden beneath his hand. Even if this had begun as a bluff, there is no denying that Finarfin’s body is responding. 

"Not a bluff," Finarfin says finally as he begins playing with Fëanor's hair; he scratches lightly at Fëanor's scalp, and he only just resists arching into the touch in pleasure. "Though not a true dare either. They were merely cross words that I did not expect you to treat so seriously."

“But I have.” He lets his hands trail upward to fidget with Finarfin’s laces. “So, what now, brother?” 

Finarfin smiles slightly, curling his fingers and pulling tight at Fëanor’s hair as he leans down and gets right in Fëanor’s face. “I am not Fingolfin,” he says quietly, amusement thick in his voice. “I am not so easily swayed by pretty familial words. If you want my forgiveness, then do something useful with that bedamned mouth of yours.” 

Fëanor would have had a scathing reply to that if Finarfin had not, in the next second, closed the remaining space and kissed him. It is a brief, light kiss. A mere brush of the lips. It still crashes through Fëanor and leaves him hungry for more. “Beautiful, perfect, golden Aro,” he says quietly, leaning down to ghost his mouth up the outline of Finarfin’s cock. “What would the people think now to see how easy you are for it?” 

“Always words, words, words," Finarfin breathes, fingers tightening in Fëanor's hair. "Do you know how to do anything with your mouth other than provoke?”

Finarfin's seeming disregard for the way anyone at all could walk in on them is intriguing in and of itself. The way his cock twitches beneath Fëanor's mouth even more so. Fëanor should likely give this more thought than he has, should likely stand and walk away. He does neither, instead unlacing Finarfin's pants and wrapping his fingers around the base of Finarfin's cock, a shiver of anticipation going through him as Finarfin's fingers tighten in his hair.

It should not be so easy to commit such an indecent act, but he licks a stripe up the side of Finarfin's cock, and it is the easiest thing in the world to take it into his mouth. He hums in amusement when Finarfin's hips jerk and he hisses out a breath, his fingers going brutally tight in Fëanor's hair.

Finarfin, though his fingers stay clenched in Fëanor's hair, does not attempt to take control of the rhythm; indeed, he seems perfectly content to let Fëanor take his time. Fëanor had not expected to enjoy this at all; is more interested in making Finarfin lose control than he is in taking any pleasure for himself, but with every appreciative moan he wrings from Finarfin, he feels himself growing more and more aroused, his own cock hard and leaking in his breeches.

It takes several tries before he manages to take Finarfin all the way down his throat without immediately choking. The strangled moan and half-aborted thrust of Finarfin's hips that it earns him when he succeeds slides down his spine and melts through him, leaving him moaning around Finarfin's cock. Finarfin's grip on his hair has grown so tight that it has shifted into true pain, but it only makes Fëanor redouble his efforts. He slides a hand up Finarfin's thigh and then lower, between them. He sucks hard on Finarfin's cock as he presses a finger very gently against the tight ring of muscle and slowly presses just the tip of his finger inside.

Finarfin makes a breathless noise of pleasure as he spills down Fëanor's throat, the sound so loud that someone must have heard it. Fëanor tries to swallow and fails, chokes as he tries to pull off and Finarfin finally makes use of his grip on Fëanor’s hair to hold him in place. Finarfin holds him there for so long that Fëanor's vision goes fuzzy around the edges, but humiliatingly, his arousal does not wane in the slightest. When Finarfin finally allows him to pull off it is only to drag Fëanor up by his hair and into a hungry kiss. Fëanor cannot catch his breath, but it does not stop him from biting Finarfin's lip so sharply he tastes iron.

“So unnecessarily violent,” Finarfin says, laughing quietly.

Fëanor might have had a biting response to that if Finarfin's hand had not found its way into his breeches and wrapped around his cock in the same moment. As it is, he only just manages to swallow down a whine that wants to claw its way out of his mouth. Finarfin noses at his cheek as he gasps for air, jerks him off hard and fast. 

“You asked me what my guards would think,” Finarfin says quietly, the words hot against Fëanor’s cheek as he fists Fëanor’s cock. “I expect they will simply be impressed that I have gotten not one, but both of my brothers to go to their knees for me.”

For a moment, he can so clearly see the image that Finarfin has just handed him — Fingolfin on his knees, dark hair falling down his back, concealing his face and the way his mouth would stretch around Finarfin's cock — and then Fëanor's orgasm crashes through him so suddenly that his vision blurs. He knows that he makes a noise he will be embarrassed about later, but in the moment all he can do is dig his nails into Finarfin's thighs and shake as the pleasure savagely twists through him.

It is only in the aftermath, Fëanor slumped back down on his knees, his cheek pressed to Finarfin’s thigh as he catches his breath, and Finarfin idly playing with his hair, that Finarfin says in an insufferably amused voice, “An interesting reaction to have to such a statement.”

"An interesting statement for you to have made," he snaps back, though he does not move.

Finarfin tugs lightly at his hair in response, and they sit in silence for a long while until Fëanor rouses himself and stands, straightening his clothes. Finarfin blinks up at him, looking perfectly content, only the slightest smugness to be found in the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Well, what now, brother?” Finarfin asks, the words thrown down between them like a gauntlet.

Fëanor considers him, his blonde hair and smug smile, the way he had never once given Finarfin any thought past what was necessary. He steps in close, one hand curled around the back of the throne, the other sliding into Finarfin’s hair and clenching tight as he leans over his brother. “Now,” he breathes, “I am going to knock that insufferably smug look off of your face and make you beg for my touch.”

Finarfin laughs, eyes bright with an amused pleasure. “I look forward to seeing your efforts. Perhaps you should compare notes with Fingolfin. He has not had any luck, but perhaps between the two of you, you can actually accomplish something useful for once.”

There should not be a heat that goes rushing through him at the suggestion, and yet it sets his veins on fire to even consider what it is Finarfin is suggesting. "And when I succeed, what will you give me?” he asks, leaning in close enough that he can see nothing but the ocean caught in Finarfin’s eyes.

Finarfin closes the remaining space, brushing their noses together, the words warm against Fëanor’s mouth when he whispers, “Anything. Make me beg and I’ll give you whatever you wish.”

Fëanor smiles, anticipation already rushing through him. “Challenge accepted,” he murmurs and kisses his brother once more.

☀︎

Chapter End Notes

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