so we dream, so we confess by queerofthedagger  

By the time Finrod disentangles himself from his advisers, it is late, Nargothrond’s corridors dim with the flickering light of torches.

He is looking forward to a quiet night, even as he spares a thought for Curufin who, earlier that night, had whispered promises into Finrod’s ear that would have made anyone else in the room flush with shamefaced outrage at the depravity of them.

Curufin will not be thrilled that Finrod has stood him up, but he will get over it eventually—there is, after all, always something for Curufin to be mad about, just as there is always something to distract him eventually.

All that is to say that when Finrod walks into his chambers, he does not expect the low-burning fire in the hearth; expects even less his cousin sprawled out on his bed, fast asleep, as if he belongs atop Finrod’s soft, white sheets.

It is clear that that had not been Curufin’s plan, but that Finrod’s tardiness must have got the better of him. He is dressed only in a burgundy robe of silk that leaves little to the imagination, where it hugs him close, a stark contrast against his pale skin. Wears, far more notably, the Nauglamír around his pale throat, a blatant taunt made all the more offensive by the fact that he is not even awake to throw it into Finrod’s face with scathing words.

Finrod closes the door behind himself carefully, then lingers by the doorway. Outrage is mingling with arousal at the sight—the long lines of Curufin’s body, the way the silk clings to him, hides him elsewhere. The way his hair has come loose from its braids, like ink spilt around him.

The colours of Finrod’s house sitting snug around his throat, put there by Curufin himself. For all the impudence of it, with the lack of Curufin’s scorn, it suddenly only seems—

Well. Finrod is rather sure that he would be a fool to entertain such a thought.

Walking over to the bed, he kneels at the foot. Runs a hand up Curufin’s leg as if transfixed, up his calf, his thigh, parting the robe a little further.

Curufin stirs, a frown forming between his dark brows, and Finrod—

Finrod does not want him to wake. Almost instinctively, he starts humming beneath his breath, except for how that is a lie. There is nothing instinctive about the melody he chooses, something ancient and familiar that their grandfather used to sing when putting them to sleep. There is nothing instinctive about the power that Finrod lets bleed into the structure of it, not even a suggestion, but an order.

They had talked about this once, as much as they ever talk about anything; the way Curufin’s eyes had gone dark when he had asked Finrod—could you bend a will to your own with it, then? And Finrod had said, to an extent; it is easier, with less resistance. So, say, I did while you were asleep—

Curufin had kissed him, all biting hunger, and they had spoken of it no more. It was not exactly permission, but Finrod had read the look in his eyes, had understood it. Had, after all, found him barely dressed, with Finrod’s collar around his throat. Finrod’s mouth is dry at the thought, at the feel of Curufin’s soft skin beneath his fingertips, the way he is supple and yielding in sleep.

Finrod raises his voice, infuses it with more power. Not taking his eyes off Curufin, he grabs the oil off the nightstand and drops it onto the covers, then comes back to sit between Curufin’s legs. They fall open at a touch from him, and Finrod marvels at how simple it is, this easy submission.

Curufin’s cock lies placid against his stomach, and Finrod wants—he wants.

He needs Curufin asleep for a little longer. Knows he has crossed a line already, and knows that this, this is crossing three more, but he is drunk on it, on the power humming beneath his skin, on the sight of Curufin, all his for the taking. So he does not spare too much thought before he extends his mind, lets it brush against Curufin’s.

It is open to him, unguarded in sleep. Finrod makes sure not to breach it overly; makes sure just to form a connection, to continue his song across it even as he lies down between Curufin’s spread legs and makes use of his mouth otherwise.

He kisses his way up the inside of Curufin’s thighs, lets his teeth graze across the soft skin. Repeats the same motion with the other leg, and then starts all over until Curufin’s shivering beneath him.

He can sense Curufin’s struggle to wake, and lets power wash across his mind, just enough to settle him. Still, he shifts against the sheets, fingers curling into loose fists as Finrod kisses his hipbone, across his stomach; as he runs idle fingers up his chest, letting the robe fall open, and takes a nipple between his fingers.

Curufin’s mouth is open in sleep, his breathing deep and even. He dreams, Finrod can tell; of pleasure, of golden light, of Finrod above him, inside of him, taking him apart slowly and meticulously.

If Finrod needed encouragement, this is enough. He licks up Curufin’s cock; repeats the movement until it grows hard, lying heavy against Curufin’s stomach.

Curufin’s breathing changes with it, going shallow and breathy. He shifts on the sheets but stays asleep, and Finrod, at last, wraps his mouth around Curufin’s cock for good, relishing in the wave of utter want that races across Curufin’s mind.

He wraps a hand around the base of Curufin’s cock, works him until his hips lift off the bed to chase the sensation; until he is moaning, unabashed and open like he never would, were he conscious for this.

And oh, how his mind is struggling to surface now. How it twists in confusion, between the bodily pleasure and Finrod’s continued subjugation of it, song and power and order sinking into the depths of it.

It is heady, and Finrod is hard inside his robes, rocking against the mattress even as most of his attention stays fixed on Curufin.

Blindly, he gropes for the oil, uncorks the vial. He makes a mess of it, blind and one-handed, but it is enough to coat his fingers, the scent of lavender filling the room.

Beneath him, Curufin shivers, his fingers clenched tightly into the bed linen. Finrod presses a finger to his entrance without ceremony, and moans around Curufin’s cock when it makes Curufin whine, high and needy in his throat.

Finrod lets him rock into his mouth; lets him rock back onto his fingers, first one, then two, quickly a third one. Curufin’s body is pliant, still, takes the intrusion as if eager for it, and Finrod wishes he could always keep him so.

Not much, now, and Curufin will spill, he can tell. Reluctantly, he pulls off Curufin’s cock; leaves his fingers buried deep but moves back onto his knees, and watches as Curufin’s hips lift off the bed, a noise of desperation tearing from his throat.

Finrod is so hard it aches, and he is clumsy as he sheds his own robes one-handed, freeing his cock. Leaning over Curufin, he kisses his throat, the Nauglamír, the corner of his mouth. Curufin makes a noise low in his throat, and fuck, Finrod has never wanted him as much as this.

He is not fool enough to believe that he can push much further, though, without crossing a line he dares not cross, no matter how arbitrary. Is not fool enough to think that Curufin will be thrilled, exactly, once he realises what Finrod has done.

At last, he pulls his fingers from Curufin’s warm body; takes Curufin’s wrists and pins them above his head, settling more comfortably between Curufin’s legs, their cocks rubbing against each other.

Curufin chases the sensation, but with his other hand, Finrod stills him. Looks down at him, the finely cut features—long lashes, hair like night fanned out around him; the sweat on the bow of his lip, the soft slant of his mouth.

Ever does Finrod find him shockingly beautiful, and there is something unsettling to him like this, peaceful and yielding. With a sigh, Finrod brushes a kiss to the corner of his mouth, and withdraws his power.

Curufin wakes at once, his mind shutting close, his body going taut beneath Finrod. Blinking, he looks up at Finrod, his mind assembling the pieces even as he keeps painfully, carefully still.

At last, he tilts his head; rolls his hips up, his cock dragging along Finrod’s. Smiles, all sharp judgement, and says, “My, golden Findaráto, what would your people say?”

Finrod laughs, a shocked and wretched sound. Before he knows what he is doing, he links his fingers into the Nauglamír at the back of Curufin’s neck and pulls, harshly enough that Curufin makes a choked-off noise, his hands tearing free of Finrod’s grip to dig into Finrod’s hips.

“I do not know, Curufinwë; what would yours say, knowing I found you such in my bed?”

They rut against each other like this, Curufin’s breathing ragged, almost non-existent; his fingers leave dark-red, angry welts in Finrod’s back, and Varda, it is good, is almost better than the soft and pliant form of Curufin asleep.

“Should I tell them of the noises you made?” Finrod hisses, and Curufin gets a hand between them, gets it around both their cocks. He digs his nails meanly beneath the head of Finrod’s cock, making him jerk, making him lose his grip on the Nauglamír.

Curufin coughs, leans up to sink his teeth into Finrod’s throat. Says, “It is not me who defiled their dear cousin, their honoured guest, in his bed; what would your darling wife at home say?”

“Next time, I should fuck you; you would like that, would you not? Collect the desperate noises you will make, show you how you unravelled after, make you spill a second time from that alone?” Finrod throws back, a taunt as much as a question, and oh, ever does it shock him, how low Curufin can bring him.

Curufin moans, a punched-out sound. “Perhaps you ought, if you have it in you, Felagund; I will believe it when I see it. For now, you still are too proper, are you not? The golden Prince of the Eldar, eager to defile his cousin but not quite as much as you want to, is that not right?”

Finrod spills, fury like heat racing down his spine. Curufin does not stop, using the slick of it to bring himself off. It does not take much, but he only follows when Finrod draws the necklace tight once more, gems and gold cutting into the virgin-white skin.

In the aftermath, Finrod collapses on top of him, suddenly too drained to move.

Curufin, without comment, lets him, looping one arm around his waist.

Finrod swallows. Thinks of what he just did, the warm, fond expanse of Curufin’s mind. “Curvo, I am—“

“If you apologise, I am giving the goddamn necklace to Celegorm’s dogs,” Curufin says. There is no anger in his voice, but there is no warmth, either. “Go to sleep, Findaráto.”

Ignoring the order, Finrod props himself up on an elbow, looks down at him. Curufin’s eyes are half-closed, but he is watching Finrod closely. Holds himself still, careful and deliberate, as Finrod traces the red marks the Nauglamír had left.

At last, Curufin sighs. Pushes his fingers into Finrod’s hair and runs them across his scalp, almost in tenderness. “We have done worse to each other,” he says, voice low. “I suspect we will do worse, yet. Go to sleep.”

It is, Finrod knows, as good as forgiveness. With a sigh, he brushes his mouth against Curufin’s, and stays right where he is, pressing his face into the crook of Curufin’s neck.

Curufin lets him. Drags the blanket across both of them and traces the marks he himself had left on Finrod, tonight.

Finrod wonders if ever they are doomed to be like this; tenderness only ever folded into the wounds they inflict on each other. Wonders if it would change anything, if they stopped.

Wonders, as he drifts off to sleep, what it means that Curufin lets him; what it means that Finrod lets Curufin, too.

He knows the answer, of course, but it is easier to let it dissolve into the hazy grey of Irmo’s domain, much like everything else tonight.

Chapter End Notes

Songs of Power are such an underrates Somnophilia tool, and I've made it my mission to personally change that. We all need goals in life and all that 🫡😌

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