break that which is still by queerofthedagger  

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break that which is still

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Maedhros makes sure to be waiting, by the time Fingolfin enters the king’s chambers.

“Nelyafinwë,” his uncle says, brows furrowing. “What can I do for you?”

Beneath the question, the wariness is obvious. It is late, and Maedhros needs to be no genius to discern that Fingolfin had been looking forward to the day being over.

That is alright, though. It is why Maedhros is here.

“Uncle,” he says, holding out the cup of wine he had prepared. “Come, drink with me. It has been a long day.”

Still standing just inside the door, Fingolfin watches him. He looks tired, their new king, lines worn into the skin around his eyes, first from the Ice and now from the crown. He smiles, though, at whatever conclusion he reaches, and comes to take the goblet from Maedhros.

Leaning against the desk beside him, Fingolfin sighs. “That obvious, is it?”

They had spent most of today in court, a never-ending procession of petitions, appeals, and negotiations. Maedhros’ attendance has not made things easier, necessary as the show of unity between their Houses is.

He is used to his presence unsettling people, even in Himring; it is, even after five years of Fingolfin’s kingship, still considerably harder for the Nolofinwëans to endure.

“A little,” he says, because it is true. One needs only look at Fingolfin as he listens to his people, their concerns, their pleas and demands and accusations, to see how the strong shoulders want to bow beneath the weight of it.

Maedhros, unlike most, watches closely—has not known how to do anything but, ever since Fingon brought him back. Does more than that, too, and few Elves care to guard their mind so closely that someone who wishes to would be hindered from catching surface thoughts.

Back in Aman, there was no need; it was a matter of courtesy not to go rummaging around in other people’s heads, and for all of Tirion’s political scheming, not even his father would have ever considered breaching such trust.

This is not Aman, and Maedhros is not his father. He had tried to warn his brothers once, and it had been one of those moments where they looked at him with horror covered poorly by pity.

Maedhros had understood quickly that some things had to be endured before they were learnt. If they care not to shield their minds from him, let them. Most often, it allows him to intercept problems before they can manifest, so what is it to him but a help. It just means that some information is too sensitive for them to carry around with them, at worst ending up in Morgoth’s hands.

Fingolfin’s mind, for one, is very loud. While he patiently talks to his people, speaks of strategy, of supply lines and the state of their stores, his mind is practically shouting for a break. For a moment of quiet, for not needing to provide all the answers, for once.

For someone to take control, to make him submit. It is a diffuse, inconcrete urge, but Maedhros knows well enough how to parse it. How to take the looks his uncle will graze him with, whenever Maedhros says something that sounds a little too much like Fëanor. How Fingolfin, whenever Maedhros looms over him, has to straighten his spine to keep from swaying into him like Yavanna’s creations at the rising of the sun.

The need for such submission is not unheard of, but it is clear that Fingolfin feels not like he can voice it to anyone. Like he is allowed to want it.

Beside him, Fingolfin sways. With a soft sigh, Maedhros turns, looks at him. His eyes are glazed now, his features relaxed.

“There, is that not better?” he asks, and takes the goblet from Fingolfin.

Fingolfin struggles, clearly, to focus. “What did you—the wine? But why?”

“You need to let go, for a night. I will give that to you, because there is no one else who can—is there, Nolofinwë?”

Fingolfin stares at him, his jaw working. In the silence, his mind is awash with humiliation and desire both. He understood what Maedhros meant even quicker than Maedhros expected him to.

Then again, perhaps that should be no surprise. The extent of Fingolfin’s desire had been all too clear, even in the light of day amidst his councillors. Here, now, he shivers, clinging to his pride by the skin of his teeth.

“You cannot mean what I think you mean,” he says, aiming for outrage and landing on fear. “Nelyafinwë, truly, what—“

At last, Maedhros turns, caging Fingolfin between himself and the large desk. Leans in, mouth to Fingolfin’s ear, and says, “All that pressure on you, my King, and we cannot have you falter. I gave you this crown because it was the wisest choice, but I will not see you buckle beneath it, will not allow you to fail. I know what you wish for, have seen it in your mind—pressed into sheets until all coherence leaves you; taken and brought low, until there is not a single thought left within you. Have seen how badly you need it, and how much you fear it.”

“I do not—“

“You find my voice similar to my father’s, especially when speaking sharply—oh, I know, what a shameful thing, is it not, Nolofinwë? But then, what infamy is there left for us that we have not yet sunk to, on these shores? I will bring you low. I will take you apart until you forget your own name, and tomorrow, you will don the crown anew and lead us once more. We will not speak of this again until you come to me the next time.”

There is a beat, drawn-out and strung sharp, Fingolfin’s fingers white-knuckled against the edges of his desk. His breathing betrays him, though, already unsteady, and Maedhros lets the thrill of accomplishment seep into his own skin.

“You drugged me,” Fingolfin murmurs, but there is acceptance now, in his voice. “Which I will take to mean that I do not get a choice in that matter.”

Beneath the words, there is relief. Maedhros presses closer until they are touching shoulder to hip, and rests his smile against Fingolfin’s jaw when he shudders at the contact.

“We both know why I did, do we not?” he asks, wrapping his hand into Fingolfin’s braids, tugging sharply.

Head snapping back, Fingolfin hisses through his teeth. He stares at Maedhros with dark eyes, a mixture of defiance and want carved into his handsome features.

“Whatever you need to tell yourself,” Fingolfin says, but it lacks the bite he aims for.

Maedhros smiles. “Tonight, you will do as I tell you. I can see how you crave it; you can keep pretending that you do not, if that makes you feel better, or you cannot. It truly does not matter to me.”

And it does not. Maedhros would lie if he claimed that he enjoyed this not, but his concern is not for himself. They need their king to stay strong, to keep steady in the face of Morgoth. Their king needs someone to take the weight off of him, if only for a little while.

Maedhros can do that. It is as simple as that.

“Here,” Maedhros says, taking the half-empty goblet back up, holds it between them once more. “Finish this; it will make it easier.”

“Easier how?”

“To follow. To let go.”

They stare at each other, the conflict loud behind Fingolfin’s deep grey eyes, while Maedhros simply waits.

At last, Fingolfin empties the remaining wine in three large swallows and puts the goblet down beside him with too much force.

Ever has their line been bristling with defiance, and for all his father’s misgivings, ever has that included the House of Nolofinwë. Maedhros is going to enjoy this, the slow, meticulous dismantling of it.

Stepping away, he says, “Strip.”

Fingolfin blinks, colour rushing into his cheeks. The drug within the wine is already settling in, but he still hesitates, eyes wide on Maedhros.

“Well, I am not going to peel you out of all that with one hand. You can strip, or I can cut you out of it.”

“Nelyafinwë—“ Fingolfin says, one last, desperate attempt that, later on, will allow him to soothe his conscience. Beneath his desire, his mind still tries to hold onto the rationale—Fingolfin, the High King. Fingolfin, his uncle. The shame of wanting to be brought so low.

As if his attraction to Maedhros is not plain to see—has ever been, even in blissful Tirion, late nights in Finwë’s library, Telperion’s light like a curtain around them. As if it has not ever been an unspoken, bristling thing, Maedhros’ own desire like foolish hope fanning the flames.

In Beleriand, nothing so tender remains, but it is enough, at last, to make Fingolfin reach for the lacing of his robes with shaking hands.

Maedhros watches as Fingolfin undresses, clumsy with the drug and nervousness, both. The chambers are as warm as Barad Eithel ever gets, but as clothing gives way, Fingolfin’s skin pebbles with the cold, faint tremors running through him.

“Come here,” Maedhros says, once only Fingolfin’s small clothes are left. “Turn around, arms behind your back.”

It takes some manoeuvring to slip the rope he had prepared across Fingolfin’s hands, up his forearms; to tighten it with the help of his teeth until there is no give, the light rope standing out against Fingolfin’s tanned skin.

Fingolfin no longer protests. He stands still, back turned to Maedhros, his head bowed. Shivers, still, in the cold, but Maedhros can feel the anticipation radiating off of him now, the way shame and desire wash into each other. He runs his hand up Fingolfin’s arm, across his shoulder; takes his braids and wraps them around his hand until Fingolfin gasps and stumbles back against him, clumsy on his feet now.

Maedhros exhales against his neck, keeps his grip tight. “Look at you, so obedient already—all it takes is an order and a little bit of persuasion, is it not? Is that what your wife would give you, back in Aman? Or did you only ever yearn for it, while you pleasured her as any good husband would?”

Fingolfin makes a noise as if in protest, but his cock is hardening, his hands where they are tied opening and closing helplessly.

“So eager,” Maedhros murmurs, letting go of Fingolfin’s hair to run his hand over his chest, roll a nipple between his fingers. Fingolfin arches, cursing, words like torn from him. He slurs, sways where he stands, and Maedhros trails his hand lower, fingertips across quivering stomach muscles, over hip bone and back up the soft skin of Fingolfin’s sides.

“Please,” Fingolfin murmurs, flushes the moment he does. His mind must be swimming now, and it is exactly where Maedhros wants him, just pliant enough to beg, to let himself fall into it.

“Not nearly so simple, I fear,” Maedhros says, even as he unceremoniously pushes the small clothes out of the way and wraps his hand loosely around Fingolfin’s cock, stroking it to full hardness. He presses his thumb against the head, pulls the foreskin back; strokes him again, until Fingolfin is pushing into his grip, biting his lips to keep the noises in. Keeps going, his own cock hardening in his breeches, pressing himself against Fingolfin as he cages him between his arms and his front.

Fingolfin moans at a particularly sharp twist of Maedhros’ wrist, his head falling back against Maedhros’ shoulder. He is a picture like this, all long, taut lines, hips chasing after pleasure, and Maedhros indulges him, speeding up his movements, tightening his grip.

“Please,” Fingolfin says, again, eyes closed. Maedhros noses along his jaw, down to the juncture of his throat; sinks his teeth into the soft flesh there, and does not let go even as Fingolfin jerks in surprise. His cock twitches in Maedhros’ hand, balls tightening, and just as he is on the edge of his release, Maedhros lets go. Fingolfin’s hips keep moving helplessly, the noises spilling from his throat now bordering on desperate, and Maedhros slaps his cock lightly in admonishment.

This gets a proper noise of pain from Fingolfin, eyes flying open, his entire body trying to get away from Maedhros. He does not let him, of course; holds him fast, watching him shake down from the edge, and then lets him catch his breath for a moment.

“You are doing so well,” he says, and notes how the flush works its way down Fingolfin’s chest at the praise. “Come on, on your knees.”

“I can’t—“

“On your knees, Nolofinwë,” Maedhros repeats, voice sharp. Fingolfin goes, unsteady with the drugs, unbalanced with his arms tied, and he is a sight like this, dark hair and tanned skin, flushed down to his chest, and his cock hard and leaking against his stomach.

It is no effort, then, for Maedhros to finally free his own cock from his breeches, to stroke himself to full hardness. Fingolfin watches, emotions warring across his face. His mind is wide open, though, and Maedhros can taste the hunger mingling with the shame, the helpless, terrible want leaking from every part of him.

There is apprehension there too, though. Maedhros runs his fingers across Fingolfin’s jaw, back into his hair. Holds his gaze, waiting, and watches him squirm beneath the weight of it.

“Come on,” he finally says, “Open wide.”

Fingolfin, almost instinctively, does, and Maedhros pushes into the wet heat of his mouth, shuddering at the feeling. Fingolfin gags almost immediately, jerking to pull back, but Maedhros does not let him, fingers tightening in his hair. Lets him adjust, and raises a brow when Fingolfin blinks up at him with angry eyes, the effect somewhat diminished by the wetness of them, the way his cock is still leaking against his stomach.

It is clear that he has never done this before, and Maedhros holds himself still, merely guides Fingolfin’s head with persistent pressure, lets him adjust to the feel of it. His own pleasure crests and crests, like sunlight down his spine, and he is only so patient a man.

Eventually, the careful bobbing up and down of Fingolfin’s mouth is not quite enough; is not quite the intent of this, either, and so he runs his fingers across Fingolfin’s jaw; presses his thumb to the corner of his mouth where it stretches wide around Maedhros’ cock, runs them down Fingolfin’s throat, to the dip of where his collar would sit.

“Brace yourself,” he finally murmurs, and pushes his hand back into Fingolfin’s hair, holding tight at the base of his neck. Thrusts into his mouth properly, hitting the back of his throat, and does not stop even when Fingolfin gags, his body straining against Maedhros’ grip.

There is nowhere to go, though, tied as he is. Perhaps under normal circumstances, he might have mustered the strength to struggle against the grip Maedhros has on him, but he does not, and Maedhros keeps him there. Is careful at first, keeping the roll of his hips slow, letting Fingolfin catch his breath in between. Can tell then, though, that Fingolfin adjusts to the sensation, that he likes it, even as he would never, ever be able to admit so. And so Maedhros fucks deeper, fingers tightening in Fingolfin’s hair; revels in the noises Fingolfin makes, ragged and choked, spit and tears running down his face.

“Look at you,” Maedhros says, his own breathing ragged, and he thrusts deeper, stays; waits until Fingolfin struggles against him for breath before he pulls back, split-second of reprieve, before he pushes deep again.

Pleasure sings up his spine, and his movements grow more erratic, the sound of his harsh breathing, of Fingolfin’s choking, of skin and spit and want filling the room.

Beneath him, Fingolfin is leaking against his stomach, sweat soaking his hairline. When Maedhros finally spills, he holds him fast, making sure he swallows all of it, and he can feel how Fingolfin floats, his mind cut loose even as his body aches.

Maedhros allows them both some time to recover, gentling his grip in Fingolfin’s hair. He runs his fingers through it, over his wet cheeks, feeds his tears and spit back to him as Fingolfin sways where he kneels.

He is still hard, his fingers flexing in their bindings. He does not beg, and Maedhros watches him as his own pulse calms, the obedient way he kneels there and simply waits.

“Perhaps I made a mistake, when I passed you the crown,” he says, taking Fingolfin’s chin between his fingers and making him look at Maedhros. His proud, regal uncle, ever untouchable and severe, now with Maedhros’ spent clinging to the corner of his mouth, with his braids a mess, his eyes blown wide. “Perhaps I should have risked war, and then kept you like this as spoils. You would have liked you, would you not?”

Never would Fingolfin have allowed such a thing if Maedhros had not made him, and now look how good an outcome for both of them. Maedhros pushes two fingers into Fingolfin’s mouth, lets him suck on them; pushes them deeper until Fingolfin gags again, fresh tears springing to his eyes. Keeps playing with him like this and watches as Fingolfin’s cock twitches against his stomach, so desperate for touch.

Withdrawing his fingers, Maedhros wraps a hand into his hair once more, pulls his head back.

“Please,” Fingolfin says, speaking, at last. “Nelyafinwë please, I need—“

“Hush, you are alright. Come on, get up. On the bed.”

Fingolfin tries to rise, staggers. Maedhros steadies him, lets him lean against him for a moment. His entire body is shivering, little tremors racing up and down his spine, but as soon as they press together, Fingolfin starts rocking against him, his stiff cock dragging against Maedhros’ undone trousers.

“You act like a whore rather than a king,” Maedhros laughs, wrapping a hand around Fingolfin’s cock, watching in fascination as the words make Fingolfin’s hips stutter.

Fingolfin whines high in his throat, then curses. Pushes into Maedhros’ grip, erratic and desperate, and Maedhros lets him, twists his thumb across the head of Fingolfin’s cock, watching as he keeps his face down, averted, and still cannot stop.

“Like a whore, or rutting like a dog, perhaps,” he muses, and the humiliation of it makes Fingolfin’s cock jerk in his grip, makes him moan.

He is close again, limbs shaking, and Maedhros leans in, nosing along his jaw, across his ear. Pitches his voice low, knows he sounds like his father when he does, and says, “Tell me how bad you want it, Nolofinwë; tell me all you would give up for it just now.”

“Please,” Fingolfin says instantly, his voice wrecked. “I need to—please, please, just let me—“

Maedhros withdraws at once, stepping back and watching with low-simmering arousal in his gut as Fingolfin cries out, staggers. Wide, glazed eyes stare at him with desperation, and it is such a beautiful sight, Maedhros is almost, almost tempted to give him what he wants.

“On the bed,” he says instead, nodding to the bed in the corner of the room. “On your back; we are far from finished, trust me.”

It is a visible process, the way Fingolfin pulls himself together; spine straightening, shoulders coming back. Breath rattles harshly through his lungs, and he still walks unsteadily, but he makes his way over to the bed with his head held high, clinging, as their house is wont to do, to whatever shreds of dignity are left to him.

He sits gingerly on the edge, instead of lying down. Raises a brow, the expression much familiar to the proud king Maedhros knows, and says, “My arms, I can’t—“

“You will endure a little discomfort, I am sure,” Maedhros says, stepping between his legs and pushing him down.

He goes, pliant and without his usual strength. Moves up the bed in defeat, and Maedhros settles between his legs, running his hand up a calf, the inside of a thigh.

Fingolfin watches him, eyes dark. He shivers beneath Maedhros’ touch, though, unable to hide his reaction to it. Against his stomach, his cock lies, glistening with wetness.

“Lift your legs,” Maedhros instructs, pushing them towards him. “Keep them there.”

The flush on Fingolfin’s face, if anything, darkens at how it exposes him, and he squeezes his eyes shut, breathing carefully.

Grabbing the oil he had brought, Maedhros runs idle fingers over Fingolfin’s cock, over his balls, down to his ass. “Look at you now,” he says, again. “Imagine if anyone saw you like this.”

He uncorks the oil, coats his fingers. Lets some of it run down Fingolfin’s cleft and watches him shudder, clamp down on nothing. His hips keep moving as if desperate for touch, and he is beautiful like this, spread out and brought low, all for Maedhros.

“Perhaps I ought to keep you like this; show your people what has become of you, tied up in my bed and begging for me. Show your children, would you like that, Nolofinwë? No longer a King, but at the pleasure of not even your brother, but your brother’s son?”

Fingolfin groans, and his cock jerks. “I cannot—“ he starts, mewls when Maedhros presses a finger into him. “I cannot stand you, oh, you—“

He breaks off, clamping down on whatever else wants to make it out of his mouth. He is so close to breaking, and Maedhros takes care to go slow, moving his finger in and out, pressing his thumb against the rim as he goes. He pulls out entirely and adds more oil to his hand, wraps it around Fingolfin’s cock again, too loose for friction, just tight enough for his hips to come off the bed. Lets Fingolfin fuck into it, listens to his curses turn to whimpers, and then stops him again with a slap to his cock that makes him shout and twist on the sheets, his eyes wide and unseeing.

“Perhaps you want them to hear,” Maedhros muses, and pushes two fingers into him, holding him down with his right arm. “Perhaps I should take you in the throne room next, let you ride me on that throne Turgon carved for you—you would like that, would you not? No one left with any doubt about what to expect of you, just how capable a king you are?”

Fingolfin sobs, his chest heaving. Maedhros adds a third finger, moves until Fingolfin sobs again, shouts and pleads and twists, his cock jerking, angry and red, and then stills.

“Please; Nelyo please, I cannot—please let me, let me,” Fingolfin sobs, and his voice is a wreck, his whole body shaking. His legs tremble where he tries to keep them up, his cock keeps jerking against his stomach, and his hair is wet with sweat and tears.

Running a hand up his thigh, Maedhros hushes him. Presses his mouth to the inside of his knee, and watches the muscles of Fingolfin’s stomach constrict over and over, the way his entire body is strung tight.

“I need—“ Fingolfin tries, his voice marginally calmer. His eyes are still unfocused, though, and Maedhros wants to keep him like this; wants to bring him to the edge, over and over and over until he has broken him down to nothing but need and desperation; wants to let him spill, then, and then start the whole game over, and over, and over.

He can tell, though, that Fingolfin is nearing the end of his endurance, the strain of it eating through him.

Another time, then; there are yet countless things Maedhros wants to do for his king, and he has no doubt, in truth, that it will not be long until Fingolfin will find him again.

Without warning, he pushes his fingers back into the willing, desperate body. Holds him down with his stump when Fingolfin arches off the sheets, presses his fingers to the spot inside of him, ruthless and precise.

“You will come from this, or you will come not at all,” he says; watches as the words penetrate, sinking into the haze of Fingolfin’s mind. As desperation shoots through him anew, making him bear down on Maedhros’ fingers, cock twitching against his stomach.

“It is not enough,” Fingolfin grits out, voice shrill, and Maedhros hums; presses his thumb to the rim of Fingolfin’s hole as he moves his fingers in and out, presses down. Fingolfin mewls, hips jerking, and his cock is so flushed and red it looks almost purple, and still, he does not come.

“I should keep you so, then,” Maedhros says, at last, withdrawing his fingers. Fingolfin sobs, great, heaving gulps of air as he shakes apart. “A king not even able to spend himself—what would your people say, Nolofinwë Finwëon? Do you think you deserve the pleasure now, for me to give you what you want, when you could not even do this simple thing?”

Fingolfin shudders, eyes screwed shut. “Please,” he begs, broken and wretched. “Please, anything, I will—“

Maedhros runs a hand over his stomach, watches him tremble. Takes a nipple between his fingers and works it until Fingolfin is bowing off the bed, shouting in a mixture of pain and pleasure, utterly out of his mind.

Only when there is nothing coherent at all forthcoming, only when Maedhros is hard once more himself; only when Fingolfin is reduced to the sobbing, shaking mess of himself, does Maedhros give in.

He moves onto his knees and settles between Fingolfin’s legs, taking himself in hand. He is aching for his own release again, and Fingolfin’s body is loose and ready, even as Fingolfin makes a noise of pained want when Maedhros pushes into him with one steady roll of his hips.

“Hush, you are alright,” Maedhros says, rocking against him. Fingolfin is tight around him, his cock much thicker than three of his fingers. His hips jerk in uncoordinated motions, both eager to take Maedhros in and desperate to get away.

He hurts now, Maedhros can tell, agony mingling with the denied pleasure, the entirety of his body like a bruise.

Leaning over him, Maedhros pushes his fingers into Fingolfin’s mouth, lets him suck on them. Presses his own lips to tear-stained cheeks, murmurs low and soothing. Fucks into him, all resistance long since vanished, and finally, at last, wraps his hand around Fingolfin’s cock with a firm, unrelenting grip.

Fingolfin shouts, thrashing underneath him; spears himself on Maedhros’ cock, fucks back into his hand, and then he finally, finally comes apart, spurting white streaks over Maedhros’ hand and his chest until he is lying limp, tears still running down his cheeks and desperately trying to catch his breath.

Maedhros stays buried deep inside of him and does not move. Runs a soothing hand over Fingolfin’s head, through his hair; wipes away the tears from his face, and trails his mouth over his jaw, his throat.

At last, Fingolfin stirs, looking up at him. He is still dazed, eyes blown wide, but the sharp edge of desperation has worn off. “That was—“ he tries, then laughs, or some approximation of it. “Will you…”

Maedhros smiles down at him, can feel the sharp edges of pleasure still in Fingolfin’s mind. He rolls his hips, smile growing at the hiss of discomfort flying from Fingolfin’s mouth.

“Did you think we were done, little king? I will allow you to catch your breath—like this, inside of you. And then, I think, I would like to see you come apart like this at least two more times tonight.”

Fingolfin blinks at him, uncomprehending, until the words sink in.

At last, whatever feeble remains of resistance there still lingered in Fingolfin’s mind, give way. He sinks back into the pillows, goes pliant; bares his throat as in surrender, and does not bother to swallow against the tears running down his cheeks anew.

“Yes,” he says, at last. “Yes,” again, when Maedhros rolls his hips, languid and teasing.

Maedhros hums in pleasure and kisses him in reward. He had known, after all, that all it would take was a bit of the right pressure, to yield such results.

“Tomorrow, when you sit on that throne and you still feel me, all will be well,” he promises, words murmured into Fingolfin’s ear as he shivers. “You will lead, and I will follow. And then, whenever you need it, I will take you apart piece by piece; lest you forget, Nolofinwë, that it is me you belong to.”

“Yes,” a third time, and Maedhros kisses the surrender off his lips, tasting of salt and victory.

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Chapter End Notes

Maedhros heard lie back and think of Middle-earth England for the good of King and Country, and reinterpreted that in the most unhinged way possible. At least in my mind, Fingolfin is not exactly complaining, but yk, your mileage may vary, and you wouldn't necessarily be wrong.

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