A King in More Than Name by AdmirableMonster  

Finrod was exhausted and frustrated in equal measure.  Another long day of swallowing angry words, presenting a kind and kingly face, and being constantly baited by every Fëanorian who walked into the halls.  His skin prickled all over as he made his way down the corridor.

Was he really going to do this?  He almost walked past the junction of this corridor with the eastern one; at the last minute, he smoothly doubled back, as if he had forgotten something.  He knew his way to the chamber he was seeking: he had ordered its occupant quartered there himself.  With the back of his neck tingling, trying to pretend that his breathing was not shallow and desperate, trying not to defend himself (for nothing!) to the Edrahil in his mind, he knocked once, forcefully.

“Come!”

He sounded amused, which made Finrod boil a little.  Opening the door, he slipped inside, shut it, and locked it securely behind him.

Turko was lounging, half-naked, on the bed.  He smirked when he saw Finrod.  “Come to take me up on my offer then?”

“Quiet,” Finrod said.  He knew his voice did not tremble; he knew he was every inch the king.  Turko’s grin widened.

“Make me.”

A very bad idea, Finrod warned himself again, and somehow found himself kneeling on the side of the bed with one hand splayed across Celegorm’s mouth.  “I said quiet.”

Celegorm bit him.

There was a moment—a shard of time in which Finrod was not here, but somewhere else, somewhere dark and ugly and full of teeth—and then he was pulling away, half-skipping back from the bed.  “Don’t,” he said, drawing on every kingly resonance he possessed.  “Or shall I leave thee to bugger thyself?”

Their eyes met and caught.  Celegorm breathed raggedly, staring at Finrod as if he had never seen him in his life before.  Then, in a low, smooth, eager voice, he said, “Order me like that, and I’ll even consider receptiveness, cousin.”

“You won’t consider it, you’ll do it,” Finrod warned him.  He had not expected to feel this way about letting the mantle of the king fall about his shoulders. Normally, he found it wearying, but now— the thought of Turko obeying his commands was exhilarating, electrifying. 

He got a smirk in return, but Celegorm’s eyes were snapping with interest.  And it wasn’t as if Finrod needed to be concerned about misusing his royal prerogative—his cousin recognized no Arafinwean as any kind of authority.

“Here I thought you’d be begging me to take away the responsibility,” Celegorm said, rolling up on one elbow.

Finrod arched an eyebrow at him.  “This isn’t about responsibility, Turko.  This is about power.”  The resonance sizzled in his voice for just a moment, a single instant where he lengthened the vowel into almost a sung note.  Celegorm did not flinch, but his jaw slackened slightly and one finger twitched.  He took a long, deep breath in, and then slowly lathed his tongue around the bottom edge of his lip.

That did it.  Finrod straddled him, grinding down, splaying one hand across his chest to hold him.  Celegorm’s grip, like iron, sank into his hips; he would have bruises there in the shape of his cousin’s fingers.  Aroused but not best pleased, Finrod told him, “Hands at your sides.”

“You don’t want me to touch you?” That slow drawl; he was terribly pleased with himself.  Finrod’s cock was aching, hot and heavy between his legs.  He did not want that ache released, not yet—while that part hurt, other pains (those yet-to-come) could not intrude.

“You’re doing what I say, Turko,” Finrod replied, which was not an answer.  Celegorm did not deserve answers; he certainly never listened when Finrod tried to provide them.  

“And if I don’t?”

“Then I get up and walk away, and you never hear this again.”  The word he punctuated with a high, sweet note, too richly laden with spring’s lust and summer’s heat for it to leave him unaffected, and his own cock twitched, Celegorm—for whom it was unexpected—writhed and moaned with sudden abandon, fingers digging in and then releasing.

“Fuck,” he panted, letting his hands drop to his sides.  “All right, all right.  What do you want, Ingo?”

“First.” Finrod put a single finger beneath his chin, delicately turning his face up.  “You do what I say, when I say it.”

Celegorm’s hips shifted beneath him, though his hands did not return to Finrod’s hips.  “That seems boring.”

“You don’t have it in you to be obedient, do you?  You wouldn’t last a day among my guards.”

A scoff.  “I don’t have it in me to be obedient to an Arafinwean.”

Finrod hummed; Celegorm’s breath seized in his lungs.

“Second, you call me my king or King Felagund.  Not Ingo, not Finrod, not Arafinwean.”  He tightened his grip on Celegorm’s chin.  “Dost understand?”

They glared at one another.  Celegorm was a stubborn bastard, and Finrod no kind of a king.  He was not winning this contest, and he was already considering whether to have wine with his inevitable lonely wank, when Celegorm flicked his tongue across his bottom lip again and said, “Yes, my king.”

“Good.” At least he had enough self-control not to betray his surprise.  He let his hand drop to Turko’s erection, giving it a few experimental tugs.  “I don’t know that I trust thee to last for what I’m planning, Turko—”

A squawk of outrage, which Finrod thought was possibly the most hilarious noise his cousin had made since the time he had fallen into a chicken coop trying to show off in Valinor.

“—so hast thou a strap of leather of about the right circumference?”

“Oh shit,” said Celegorm, fervently.  “Yes.  Uh.  Knife strap.”  He indicated the side of the bed, where his belt and all his knives had been piled in an untidy heap.

“Get it,” Finrod told him, taking the opportunity to palm the little bottle of oil he had brought with him.  As Celegorm complied, he also stripped off his leggings and small-cloths, though he left on his tunic.  “Now, strip.”

“Strip, right.”  Celegorm opened his mouth, then closed it again, looking a little poleaxed.  Finrod wondered what he had just stopped himself from saying.  “Here’s the cock ring you asked for,” he said after another moment, handing over a round leather buckle.

“Good.”  Finrod’s heart was pounding in his chest as he took it.  He shifted, biting back a moan, as Celegorm stripped off the rest of his clothes, revealing his scarred and muscled form.  Most of those scars, Finrod knew, were from the hostility of Beleriand, but he remembered the ring of white marks in Celegorm’s calf, a souvenir from a particularly vicious hunt in Valinor.  He wanted to touch.  His chest felt tight.  Celegorm’s boredom when he was healing from that had led them to a whole series of messy philosophical debates, but that had been before it had all gone wrong, back when Finrod still thought his nightmares were no more than echoes of the darkness of the Journey.

(Finrod will not have scars to live with, the injuries he has seen—)

He shut his eyes and palmed his cock, running a nail along the upper length until the white-hot brightness of the sensation drowned the thought.  “Lie down, Turko.”

The bed groaned.  Finrod opened his eyes.  Celegorm was watching him with hooded, sultry eyes, his head pillowed lazily on his hands, showing off the whole expanse of his body, his cock jutting straight up—thank the Valar, Finrod did not know what he would have done with the embarrassment, else—flushed and eager.

Bending over him, Finrod breathed in the scent of his musky sweat.  “Don’t move,” he ordered, letting Celegorm have a little more of that rich singing resonance in his voice.

“Fffffuck.”  But Celegorm, to his credit, only took an answering, shuddering breath.  Finrod ran his hand along the center of Celegorm’s chest, catching in the fine silvery hairs in the center, exploring the peaking nipples—another tiny noise that he was certain Celegorm had not intended to let fall—pressing lightly down on the shuddering stomach, and then drawing a single finger, feather-light, along the top of that thick, eager cock, which twitched.

“Good,” Finrod said softly.  He worked the leather ring down to the base of Celegorm’s cock, then leaned forward.

“Wait, what are you—” Celegorm started, and Finrod pressed his lips to the ring and hummed a thrumming, resonant note.  Celegorm’s hips bucked as the ring tightened, but he settled them when Finrod laid a warning hand on his flank.  Celegorm panted, both hands tightening, claw-like, in his sheets.

“Come on, come on,” he muttered as Finrod straddled him again and reached back to coat his cock with the oil.

Despite how his blood was fizzing in his veins, despite the hot flush he knew was already evident across the top of his chest, Finrod halted, his flesh barely brushing the top of Celegorm’s cock.  “Dost dare command me?” he asked.

“Oh, come on. F—”

There was a drip of precum beading at the tip of Finrod’s cock.  The muscles in his thighs were tight.  He could not hold this—he could not hold this—Celegorm was a tempest, a wildfire—who did Finrod think he was, to try and contain it?  He tightened his fist.

“Shall I leave?” he asked.  “Shall I leave thee like this, unsatisfied, trapped in thine own snare because thou wouldst not accord me respect, Turko?”

A dull flush blossomed on Celegorm’s cheeks.  His eyes flashed, and then, unexpectedly, he breathed out a single word, “Please.”

“What?” fell out of Finrod’s mouth before he could stop himself.

“Please, my king.  Your loyal servant is supplicating you.”

Finrod almost came there and then.  His fist rattled the air around it, so tightly did he clutch it.

“Well, since thou dost beg so prettily.”  He reached back to spread himself open a little more and bore down.  A moan dropped from both of their lips.  

It had been some time since Finrod had been filled like this.  It burned, all-consuming and all-encompassing, lighting Finrod from the inside out.  He rocked slightly, settling Celegorm inside him more comfortably, while Celegorm swore and made a soft noise that was almost a sob.  

Finrod panted, levering himself up slowly, then back down, searching for the secret spot inside himself that would make this even more—there.  “Stars,” he gasped.

“Please,” Celegorm said again.  “Please, more, F—King Felagund, more.”

Music resonated in the depths of Finrod’s chest, and he pressed his fist against it, then began to move more quickly, fucking himself on Celegorm’s cock, up and down and with a slight side to side wriggle to readjust how he was striking the sweet, raw place.  Celegorm grunted and gasped, short noises punctuating the rhythm of thrusts Finrod was enforcing.  Finrod was losing control of the noises he was making himself, and several more notes dropped out without his full intent, sharp, sizzling, too real even for reality, tiny raw burst of true Song.

Celegorm sobbed.  “Please.  Let me—” His hands reached for Finrod’s thighs.

“No.”  Too loud—too much.  The shock of it went through both of them, and Finrod dropped forward, knees caging Celegorm’s ribs as his hands caged his face.  He forced himself to keep moving again, drowning in the pain that was pleasure and the pleasure that was pain.  Grabbing for an anchor, he found his hands on Celegorm’s shoulders, and then they were kissing, Finrod’s tongue delving deep into Celegorm’s mouth as he rubbed himself uncontrollably up and down Celegorm’s chest and belly, as he fucked himself faster and faster on Celegorm’s cock—

His breath seized up as his peak hit him in a rush of white flame and a shout that forced its way, burning, out of his chest.  Celegorm moaned, sharp and strangled; his hands clutched at Finrod’s elbows as Finrod spasmed, spattering seed across Celegorm’s belly and chest.

He could not hold himself up.  His muscles had turned to jelly.  Celegorm was still moving, little jerky motions of his hips.

“Please,” he gasped.  “Please, please, Findáráto—”

Still hot and hard inside Finrod, the motions were painful, but the touch of him kept Finrod firmly here, firmly now, all other times, all memories and worries wiped away.  Slowly, Finrod peeled himself up, sticky with sweat and seed, and kneeled up stiffly to let Celegorm slip out of him.

“Thou didst do well,” he admitted, pushing a frizzy curl behind one ear.  He was going to need a bath.    Well, if he was going to need one anyway—

“Hold still,” he told Celegorm, the movement of whose hips was making his next action more difficult.

“Fuck you,” Celegorm said.  “This hurts.”

“And I’m going to fix that, so stop behaving like a child.”

He got a scowl, and Celegorm crossed his arms, but he stopped moving.  Finrod breathed another note onto the leather ring, letting it loosen.  Good enough.  Trying to work it off now would only bring Celegorm to a rather unsatisfactory conclusion for both of them.  Instead, he straddled him again, rearranging his knees back around Celegorm’s thighs.

“Wait, what are you—”

Celegorm had always enjoyed surprising his cousin, Finrod thought, as he sank back down onto his cock in one smooth motion, and turnabout was fair play.  Celegorm’s eyes rolled up into his skull, hips rolling up and hands clenching again as he made a choked noise and emptied himself inside Finrod.  Finrod waited there as he made a few more noises through several aftershocks, then levered himself off again.  Celegorm’s seed trickled down the inside of his thigh, and he shivered.

I kissed him. 

He hadn’t meant to do that.  It was stupid, Finrod thought, stupid and hopeful and all kinds of things he knew Celegorm would not appreciate.  

From the bed, Celegorm groaned and blinked a few times.  “Fuck,” he said.  “That was—uh—”

Finrod knew how to smile like a king.  “Eloquent,” he observed dryly, as he reached for his trousers.  “I need to clean myself up.”

A complicated expression appeared on Celegorm’s face.  “It was kind of you to put me in one of the rooms with a hot bath,” he said.  “Come in, I’ll clean you off.  It’s only fair.”

The only thing worse than fucking Celegorm within an inch of his life would be to let him touch Finrod intimately.  But he was tired, and he knew what lurked in wait in the night, in his bed, in his future.  This would only make it worse, in the end, one way or the other.

“Thank you,” Finrod said carefully.  “All right.”

There was no point in doing a stupid thing by halves.

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