sweet like ruin by queerofthedagger  

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sweet like ruin

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If anyone were to ask Findaráto, he would say that he came across Curufinwë by chance. The forest clearing with its mirror-blue lake is not far from Tirion—is not, by any means, an overly secret spot that would make observation of Curufinwë’s routine necessary, to find him here.

That does not, of course, stop Curufinwë from looking annoyed when Findaráto sits down on the old wooden pier, letting his bare feet dangle in the water.

“What are you doing here?” he demands, and it is sweet, almost, how the colour rises into his cheeks no matter the irritation in his tone. It suits him well, and Findaráto looks at his glistening skin in the golden light, water clinging to the muscles built in the forge, his hair damp and dark, curling against his pale skin.

Findaráto tips his head back, tilting his face into Laurelin’s warmth. It makes his hair fall loose across his shoulders, catching the light.

He knows the effect that he has. Knows what it does to Curufinwë, no matter his pretence otherwise, and enjoys that perhaps a little too much.

“I was merely taking a walk, Curufinwë; do I bother you so?”

This, at least, makes Curufinwë raise a brow, some of his discomfort dissolving. “And now why would that bother me, cousin?”

Findaráto snorts and unceremoniously strips out of his tunic; notes the way Curufinwë’s eyes follow the movement, and runs a hand through his hair. “Well, I could think of a few reasons; can you not?”

Their grandfather’s ball, stolen, frantic moments in one of the guest bedrooms—Curufinwë’s pretty mouth wrapped around Findaráto’s cock, and Findaráto biting his own wrist harshly enough he carried bruises for days, just to keep from shouting down the palace. The Feast of Fire at Alqualondë, the two of them in one of the supply tents after everyone else was gone, drunk on wine and each other. Makalaurë’s performance in Eldamar, Curufinwë drunk and loose-limbed, almost laughing as he dragged Findaráto into the coat room for the first time.

Various instances there are, of the two of them crashing into each other as if it were a contest. In truth, it is unclear who is winning, what they are playing for. Whether there is a prize to be had in the end, or merely mild to severe destruction—of sanity, reputation, hearts; no matter.

It would be wise to stop while he is ahead, Findaráto knows—alas for the ambition and hubris of Finwë’s line.

“And yet,” Curufinwë says, his smile growing, “it is you who has found me.”

“By chance.”

“Is that so?” The almost mocking remark is followed by Curufinwë’s fingers wrapping around Findaráto’s ankle, strong hands unyielding against the bird-fine bones of it.

Findaráto smiles, pleased. Leans forward, until he can thread a hand into Curufinwë’s hair, and watches as his eyes darken, the grip he has on Findaráto’s ankle tightening.

“This is a terrible idea,” Curufinwë says, swallowing. At last, he seems to remember where they are, sweeping his gaze across the clearing. “I know not what you think to prove, but—“

Findaráto tightens his grip, and Curufinwë’s head follows the pressure instinctively, a hiss of air escaping from between his teeth. And oh, Findaráto should not, he should not—ever has he thought it, since that first night. Curufinwë is glittering ruin just waiting for him. He holds no tenderness, no true affection. Is, instead, all sharp edges and sharper tongue, any truth folded away beneath layers of acerbity and contempt.

Except, except. Findaráto lets himself drop off the pier, small clothes and all; pushes right up against Curufinwë and watches the way he yields instinctively, eyes fixed onto Findaráto as if their surroundings drop away at once. How he sighs when Findaráto kisses him, and it is still all teeth and fingers digging into wet skin, except.

It feels true, in ways little else does. Curufinwë yields, lets Findaráto push him up against the wooden pillar of the pier; lets him slot a leg between his thighs, lets Findaráto swallow his answering moan. His fingernails dig into Findaráto’s skin, leaving red welts that will last for days. He drags his wet mouth across Findaráto’s jaw, filthy and shameless, and asks, “Are you going to fuck me, Ingoldo, or are you simply here to look pretty and play around?”

And Findaráto—Findaráto wants. Wants him more than he has ever wanted fucking anything, no matter the adoration and sanctity people level at him, the shining Prince of Alqualondë. Wants the baseness of it, the animal heat; the way Curufinwë bites his mouth, licks the blood off his lips, and then asks him if that is all he has to offer.

“Do something about it, then,” he murmurs against Curufinwë’s mouth, letting him rut against his thigh. He knows Curufinwë loves and hates this as much as he does; hates the way he is drawn to Findaráto, how he comes apart beneath his hands. That it is so fucking good, they cannot stop, even though they both know all too well that they should.

Curufinwë snarls, and pushes Findaráto’s small-clothes down, his hands clumsy with the wet fabric. He wraps a hand around both of them, hard and leaking already, and works them with quick, rough strokes until Findaráto has to sink his teeth into the graceful line of Curufinwë’s shoulder, to keep from making too much noise.

“That is why you came here, is it not?” Curufinwë says, and he would sound smug if he were not so breathless. “Do you not know it is frowned upon to spy upon your cousins as they bathe? But that is why you like it, is it not? Shining, golden Ingoldo, and yet you rut like a dog in a pond like my dear brother would, if one would let him.”

Findaráto chokes on a sound; draws back just far enough to press their mouths together once more, a kiss like a punch. Curufinwë twists his thumb over the head of Findaráto’s cock meanly, making him jerk, and it all dissolves into sharp, crystallised sensations from there—push and pull, hot breath and wet skin, a need like fire inside their bones.

When Findaráto spills, it is with Curufinwë’s name lodged into the back of his throat, bitten down on like blasphemy. It is with Curufinwë’s panting breaths in his mouth, with being too aware of how good he feels pressed up against Findaráto like that, the way he lets Findaráto. It is with Curufinwë saying, almost sweetly, “Findaráto—“ and then it is all over, wave of pleasure cresting and breaking, Curufinwë’s hand on his cock working him through it as if he cares for Findaráto’s pleasure beyond his own.

He does not, of course; makes it obvious, too, when he does not stop, Findaráto’s own cock sensitive as Curufinwë keeps moving his hand, his head now tipped back against the pillar behind him, mouth and eyes squeezed shut. He is still holding Findaráto close, though, clings to him, in fact, like he needs—

And that, even in the post-orgasm haze, is such a dangerous thought that Findaráto shuts it down instantly. He watches as Curufinwë comes apart; trails his fingers up his ribs, takes a nipple between them and twists until Curufinwë’s back arches. Says, voice rough, “Look at you, so eager for it; imagine your father could see you now,” and smiles as Curufinwë breaks, spilling over his own hand and Findaráto’s cock, as if his father getting mentioned is all that it needed.

Perhaps it is; in a way, this is rebellion for both of them, and little else. Still, Findaráto leans in once more, brushes his nose along Curufinwë’s throat, up to his ear. Lingers there, and does not know what would have made it out of his mouth, damning and terrible, if right then there had not come voices drifting down to them.

Curufinwë clamps a hand over Findaráto’s mouth and moves them both deeper beneath the pier. When Findaráto looks at him, he finds his eyes wide, a hint of panic in the white of them that would be insulting if Findaráto’s heart was not hammering against his rib cage just as madly.

He has no idea how he would even begin to explain this. Does not want to, because truth be told, he does not even want to try and figure out whatever the hell he is doing for himself. Does not want to share it, and perhaps, that is the most damning part about it all.

It is a strange thing to feel connection over this, of all things. He wraps his fingers around Curufinwë’s wrist, where his hand is still pressed to Findaráto’s mouth; feels the bones shift, as if reluctant to let go.

When Curufinwë finally does, Findaráto leans in close. Puts his mouth right next to Curufinwë’s ear, and whispers, “Do not worry, Atarinkë; I have even less interest in being caught with my hand around your pretty cock than you are, and I have an inkling that my reputation would take far less of a blow. It is not me who corrupted the golden prince of Alqualondë, is it?”

In response, Curufinwë looks at him with eyes so furious, they are almost black. A beat, and then it morphs, twists, and Findaráto, too late, realises his mistake.

Ever has the House of Finwë been soaked in the infamy of its pride and sense of competition. As Curufinwë’s hand wraps around Findaráto’s cock once more, eyes glittering; as he leans in close, brushes his mouth against Findaráto’s ear, and says, “Well, you better keep quiet then, your Highness, will you not?” Findaráto tells himself that he regrets his own folly.

When Curufinwë kisses him once more, teeth and tongue and utter lack of reverence, Findaráto cannot even believe it himself any longer.

Let it be ruin, then, he thinks, and pushes his fingers back into Curufinwë’s hair until he bares his throat. I will make sure that I am not going down alone.

And he will not. Right then, it is the only certainty he has, but it is almost enough—he will not.