Life, Like a Face Between Your Palms by gaydhros  

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Chapter 7

A glorious fight, and a glorious fuck. After all this time, Maedhros-and-Fingon are still Maedhros-and-Fingon, for better and for worse.

Content warnings for this chapter: Canon-typical violence, explicit sexual content, references to past sexual assault

Feeling the wind on his face was like being born anew. As Fingon guided his mount southwards at a steady gallop, Maedhros at his side and a small company fallen in behind them, he breathed in deeply and let the cold sting his lungs. He nearly laughed aloud for joy.

This! The thrill of the hunt, his bow and his sword at either side, the clean rot of the ripening spring in the air. This was what Fingon loved. This was what made him feel alive. His heart sang and adrenaline grew heady in his veins as he led his company nearer to where the Orc-band had been spotted.

The timing had been fortunate. When Fingon had bounded down the stairs seeking the most recent reports on the enemy’s movements, one of his captains had already been preparing to lead his men out at that very hour. Now, a short time later, Fingon was at their helm, the shadowed peaks of the Erid Wetherin looming up on their right and the pale sun shining down. Dry grass crunched under Cýronwath’s hooves as Fingon spurred her on.

In time, they came near to where the encampment had been spotted only a day ago. Fingon raised a hand and bid his men slow. From then on they went carefully, hoping to maintain, if they might, an element of surprise. They soon came upon the camp. A fire had been hastily stamped out, ash kicked around and trod into the grass by heavy footsteps.

Maedhros urged his borrowed mount into the heart of the abandoned camp— Anaroch, he had deemed, was not yet recovered enough from her journey for further riding. He pulled up alongside the fire and reached down, his hand outstretched. “The heat still lingers.”

Fingon nodded. His heartbeat had slowed, beating steadily now that battle was near. Orcs were not known for their lightness of foot; the moment Fingon espied tracks he motioned his men forward, and together they followed them into an outcropping between the mountains in utter silence.

The fight, when it came, was glorious.

The Orc-company had been waiting for them not far into the mountains. They’d had notice of their coming, it seemed, having either been exceedingly fortunate to spot them from afar off or been tipped off by one of their bird-spies, whose flocks now darkened the skies above Barad Eithel all too often. But their attempt at an ambush was foiled; Maedhros had espied them from half a mile away.

Dispatching them was a greater challenge than Fingon had even dared to hope. When the first arrow whizzed by and struck the ground not far behind him danger sang through his blood, and a wide grin split his face.

There were only twenty of them altogether, but they fought viciously, which drove Fingon to greater viciousness in turn. Soon he was breathing hard, his muscles screaming out with the pain of exertion and delight to move again. He drove his sword home through a ribcage with a sickening crunch and leapt over the convulsing body as it fell, laughing as he blocked a reckless swing from above. A few yards away from him was Maedhros, tall and fey, fighting in a swirl of red hair and shining armour.

There was nothing in the world akin to Maedhros in the heat of battle. He fought the way rushing water flowed through a stream: like it was his natural state of being, every movement the physical manifestation of an instinct as deep as breathing. The expression writ across his face was of sharp focus. He thought of nothing but the task at hand, every step exacting, every swing and thrust of his sword precise.

Fingon wrenched his sword from another body and kicked it to the ground. He watched as Maedhros whirled on an Orc that had been running up behind him, the silver of his longsword glinting in the wan sun as he swung it in a sweeping arc that hewed neck from shoulders as though the creature was naught but wet clay. Its head toppled to the ground with a dull thud and rolled away. Breathing hard, Maedhros locked eyes with Fingon.

In that moment, Fingon thought that there had never been a person in all of time who loved another the way he loved Maedhros. The love of Manwë and Varda themselves paled in comparison to the way Fingon’s heart pounded in his chest, as though with every beat it was reaching out for Maedhros across the bodies lying in between. His blood rushed in his ears, singing a chorus of Maedhros, Maedhros, Maedhros.

That had been the last of them. Fingon heard his captain calling for the bodies to be searched and piled, and Fingon’s men began to mill about. Across Maedhros’ cheek there was smeared a thick streak of Orc blood, and Fingon watched, mouth dry, as he raised his hand to wipe it away. Fingon’s armour was uncomfortably tight between the legs.

“Make haste,” he heard himself call to his men. “For my part, I wish to be back before nightfall.”

When they reached Barad Eithel the sun was hanging low on the horizon, staining all the world gold. Fingon had pushed his men hard for speed, unnecessary though it was, and while no one said a thing he could feel the amusement rolling off of Maedhros as they rode.

Maedhros knew him well. He was intimately familiar with Fingon’s propensity for getting hot after a battle. There was a smirk gracing his lips as he dismounted his horse in the courtyard and handed off her reins, and it widened at Fingon’s obvious impatience as he led Maedhros up the staircase and down the corridor to his apartments.

“My King,” Gwánthon bowed from outside the door. “I heard the trumpets heralding your return. How good it is to see you up and about. Come, and I shall get you out of your armour—”

“Thank you, but I will manage.”

Gwánthon was taken aback. “Sire?”

“I will manage,” Fingon repeated, more sharply than intended. “Take the night off.”

He should not be so curt, but Maedhros was standing so close now Fingon could feel the heat of his body, and the proximity was doing terrible things to his ability to string coherent thoughts together.

Gwánthon’s eyes flickered briefly, but noticeably, to Maedhros. “Yes, Lord,” he said, his cheeks pinking. He bowed hastily to them each in turn. “My King. Lord Himring.”

His footsteps were still retreating down the corridor when Fingon took Maedhros by the elbow and pulled him gracelessly into the apartment, kissing him without hesitation. Maedhros made a filthy sound somewhere low in his throat. It was far too loud, but Fingon could not bring himself to care as he reached over and shut the door, blindly fumbling the lock into place even as Maedhros fought to pull him closer.

Fingon crowded him up against the adjacent wall. Their armour was bulky, and their difference in height made it difficult to kiss well this way, but in their shared desperation they managed it. “Russo,” Fingon breathed, hot against Maedhros’ mouth, but he knew not what else to say. He knew only that he needed— needed in a way he had seldom needed before.

Blood was hot in Fingon’s veins and his head was full of nothing but frantic, insistent desire, and it left him clutching ineffectually at Maedhros’ armoured waist, fingers struggling to find purchase. Maedhros nodded rapidly, already breathing harder. His head was dipped to meet Fingon’s heady kisses, lips slick and hot, as hot as the rest of him surely was beneath all of this stupid armour in the way.

“Damn it,” Fingon muttered as he struggled fruitlessly to find the buckles, embarrassed to hear the desperate whine behind his words. “Help me get you out of this.”

Maedhros’ armour had been designed so that it might be put on and taken off one-handed at need, but the craftsmen had failed to take into account the presence of a borrowed set of impatient, unpracticed hands that were too hot with desire to keep to themselves. It took far longer than it should have, but gradually each piece clattered to the floor until at last Fingon was wrestling him out of his hauberk and gambeson. Soon only his thin underlayers remained, his braies tented obscenely.

“Finno—” Maedhros groaned, hips pushing forward when Fingon dragged his palm up the hot, hard length of him through the fabric.

Fingon could not tear his eyes away from the red blur of Maedhros’ mouth. Before he even realized it he had slipped two fingers past Maedhros’ lips, straight into that cavernous heat. He pushed down on Maedhros’ tongue and felt its give, pushed in a little further and watched Maedhros adjust his jaw to take him more deeply. Maedhros held his gaze, his eyes dark.

“Suck them,” Fingon said, and Maedhros hummed, and did as he was told.

It was ridiculously obscene— the way he let his eyes flutter closed and hollowed his cheeks around the intrusion, tongue curling around Fingon’s fingers to suckle. Fingon let out an unsteady exhale. When eventually he withdrew his fingers Maedhros made a small, plaintive sound in the back of his throat, as though bereaved by the loss, and Fingon was so painfully hard he felt dizzy.

Maedhros let his head thunk back against the wall and looked at Fingon with a self-satisfied smirk. “Shall I suck your cock next?” he asked innocently, his voice pitched low. “Tell me: what is the wont of my King?”

That sent a frisson of desire through Fingon that felt strong enough to cleave him in two. He swallowed around a dry throat.

“I would take you.” He slid his palm up Maedhros’ erection, splitting his fingers apart and teasing with the heel of his palm at the tip where already Maedhros’ braies were damp. “I would have you so full of me you know nothing that is not the feel of my cock splitting you open, my hands on your skin, my name on your lips. I would have you forget everything that is not me.”

Maedhros wet his lips, hips pushing into the touch. “You’ll find it difficult in all that armour.”

“Help me out of it, then.”

Maedhros smiled a lopsided smile. “‘Help me out of it’ he says to the one with half as many hands as he,” he teased, and a bright laugh bubbled up and out of Fingon.

“I watched you fight,” Fingon pointed out as Maedhros set to work locating the buckles and straps that held his armour in place. “Do not pretend you aren’t more skilled with one hand than most others are with two.”

“Mm.” Maedhros set Fingon’s breastplate down on the low bench beside the entryway. “Tell me more about how skilled I am.”

“Absolutely not,” said Fingon. “If your head gets any bigger it shan’t fit through the door frame.”

Maedhros’ smile widened into a dimpled thing that filled Fingon’s chest with sunshine warmth.

This was good. It was good to have Maedhros here with him, good to feel him strong and full of life. Good to know that they could still find a way back to this ease they had known before; this familiar script, this back-and-forth, this gentle push-and-pull of love and desire that left Fingon craning his neck to steal a slow, indulgent kiss even as his hips canted into the incidental brush of Maedhros’ thigh.

Leisurely yet methodical, Maedhros stripped him of his armour. At last he rucked Fingon’s linen tunic up and let him pull it over his head, and, not to be undone, Fingon stripped him of his in turn. And at the sight of so much bare skin, scarred and freckled and healthily flushed, the fire simmering in Fingon’s veins flared high.

They reached for one another at the same time.

Maedhros’ mouth parted under his as the heat surged. And Fingon was kissing him, a proper kiss that demanded give yourself to me and begged take me in turn.

Fingon needed to be naked. He needed Maedhros naked, also, and for the two of them to be pressed together, skin to skin. Naked. Preferably now. He dragged Maedhros away from the wall and together they stumbled into the bedchamber.

When at last they collapsed together onto the silken sheets they were both gloriously bare, slick skin against slick skin. Fingon could not help but touch Maedhros everywhere, desperate to feel him— he straddled Maedhros’ thighs and let the weight of his body push Maedhros down into the mattress, he dipped to put his mouth to the throat Maedhros offered up to him oh so easily. Fingon’s lips travelled across neck and collarbone, heedless of where he was leaving marks. Normally he might be more careful, but underneath him Maedhros was panting and nodding and holding Fingon’s face to the arched curve of his throat, so Fingon nipped hard enough to make Maedhros wince and then soothed the sting with his tongue, sucking hard until he had left a reddening bruise that would surely purple by morning.

Maedhros tasted of salt and sweat and need, need pure and cleansing, need of the type that emanated from one dying of hunger. For the briefest moment Fingon considered taking his time with him; teasing with mouth and hands until Maedhros shook and begged, or else taking him into his mouth to make him spill before fucking him on his fingers while he was still lax and oversensitive, too lost in pleasure to hold back his moans.

“Findekáno,” Maedhros breathed then, and as Fingon traced the curve of his ear with his tongue, mouthing over the notch in his skin, he realized his blood was far too hot to even consider such leisure.

“How shall I take you?” he asked. He slid a hand down Maedhros’ body to settle over his cock.

And Fingon was teasing, to be certain, for Maedhros was already dark-eyed and breathing raggedly and it was a delight like no other to see him so wanting, but he was also checking in. Though Maedhros loved to be taken as much as Fingon loved to take him, since his torment in Angband there were days he could not bear to let Fingon inside, nor attempt to do so without triggering panic. But tonight Maedhros only looked up at him and gave a tiny shake of his head before craning his neck to steal a needy kiss from Fingon’s mouth. “However you will.”

It was clumsy at first. Fingon’s searching hands were too needful for grace as they fumbled around in the drawer for oil, and again as he settled back, sitting against the pillows, and pulled Maedhros down into his lap with such strength the impact nearly knocked the wind out of them both. But Fingon loved to have Maedhros like this; every part of him open and on display in front of him, naked and shameless and aware, for all the scars that marred his body and soul, that he was beautiful.

It was easy like this for Fingon to put his mouth to Maedhros’ nipples, and for Maedhros to hold him to his heaving chest right where he most liked him. Fingon sucked and swirled his tongue, closing his teeth just lightly over the hardened bud to tug, and he felt Maedhros’ breathing pick up. Maedhros had been struggling to unbraid Fingon’s hair, but at last he succeeded and tossed the golden ribbons onto the sheets before burying a loose hand in Fingon’s curls. Fingon slicked his fingers with sweet smelling oil and reached around to circle Maedhros’ entrance without preamble.

Maedhros was always impossibly tight, and he tightened even more at the first brush of Fingon’s slick fingers against his rim. His body was so used to holding on to tension, and all the more when there was one seeking entrance to it, but Maedhros loved this. He wanted it. And after all that had been taken from him, he had staunchly refused to allow this pleasure to be taken as well. Fingon peppered kisses over Maedhros’ chest and shoulders while he waited, until eventually Maedhros relaxed and said, “Do it.”

Fingon readied him slowly and methodically, for this was one part of their lovemaking that Maedhros did not like to be rough or quick. Still it was not long before he was as putty in Fingon’s hands; the bedchamber filled with his breathy sighs, the fraying cadence of his voice as he asked for a second, and then a third finger to fill him. When he began to cant his hips down into the stretch Fingon had to slip a hand around his own erection and squeeze just to stave off the worst of the ache.

“Good?” Fingon asked, pressing the words into Maedhros’ shoulder. Maedhros was curled over him, straddling his lap and clutching him fiercely. Every hitching breath and barely-stifled moan ghosted past Fingon’s ear and raised goosebumps over his flesh. Fingon thrust his fingers steadily into him, curling and stretching, stroking indulgently over his sweet spot.

“Yes,” came the answer, little more than a sigh. And then, “Yes.”

Maedhros was touching himself now, his stump pressing his cock against his stomach. It was suffocating, even just like this, with Maedhros’ body tight and clenching around the intrusion of his fingers. Fingon was so painfully hard he could barely think.

“Enough,” Maedhros said suddenly, breathless, and he reached fumblingly for the oil. The squeeze of his slender fingers around Fingon’s length was nearly enough to push Fingon over the edge. He hid his face in Maedhros’ shoulder and gasped, both hands gripping Maedhros’ hips, his brow furrowing as he did all he could not to spend as Maedhros readied him.

At last Maedhros let him go. It seemed he was too desperate now to allow Fingon to maneuver him into any other position, for he raised himself up on his knees and then— slowly, agonizingly slowly— drove himself home on his cock. 

They each gasped out in tandem. The sound of it was choked, the heat and the squeeze and the everything of being buried inside Maedhros after so long so overwhelming Fingon could hardly breathe. And then Maedhros was moving.

Tiny, abortive rolls of his hips at first. Each one rocked him down a little further onto Fingon’s length, spearing himself open, letting Fingon in, in, almost everywhere he could be. Fingon’s heart and his mind, raw and vulnerable as they yet were, reached for Maedhros’ own. But these were places he was not truly allowed, and Maedhros was not reaching back.

It should not have been as hurtful as it was. It had been nearly five centuries since Fingon was last granted access to Maedhros’ mind, and since Maedhros accepted the offer of his own in turn. Bitterness stung Fingon’s heart nonetheless.

Let me in! he wanted to shout. He wanted to shake Maedhros by the shoulders until he gave him what he wanted, but Fingon could never do such a thing, so he retreated into himself and focused on the sweaty warmth of Maedhros’ skin, the quickening rhythm of his panted breaths.

“Finno,” he heard, plaintive from Maedhros’ lips as Fingon kissed his collarbone, his neck, the underside of his jaw. Maedhros let his head fall back, his hair cascading down his back.

“Russo,” Fingon rasped, “Russo, Russo.” He tightened his grip on Maedhros’ hips, and the next time Maedhros sank down Fingon thrust up to meet him.

“Oh—” Maedhros faltered, red mouth falling open. He reached behind himself to find purchase on Fingon’s thigh. “Like that, Findekáno— oh, it has been so long.”

Again, the ugly head of anger reared. Again, Fingon wanted to shake him and demand, Why has it been so long? Why? Why, in our final years of peace, did you come to me only once? Why did you let me think you were dead for unending months, why will you not let me in? Why is this the one thing you refuse to give me? Is it punishment? Is it revenge? Is it some misplaced impulse of love, which you never have understood as you ought?

Instead Fingon twisted a hand in Maedhros’ soft hair and tugged his head back harshly enough to make him cry out and tighten beautifully. A rosy flush had crept from Maedhros’ face down his neck, his chest, nearly to his nipples. Sweat shone in the hollow of his throat.

“Again, harder,” came Maedhros’ breathy plea, so Fingon wrapped the strands around his fist and pulled again without mercy. “Yes.”

They were near-frantic in their pursuit of release. The fire in Fingon’s blood and the humid heat of the bedchamber were stifling. All too soon Fingon was alarmingly close to a tipping point.

“Wait,” he breathed, cupping the back of Maedhros’ neck and pulling him in, “Wait, come here—”

They met in a bruising, needful kiss. And this— with this the fire of lingering anger and resentment was banked as it was overtaken by a great and mournful need, as wide and as deep as the Western Sea.

Give yourself to me, Fingon thought, shoving the silent plea against the wall up between them. Why will you not give yourself to me? Why will you not show me that you need me just as I need you? Let me in. Let me in. Let me in.

It fell, as ever, on a closed mind.

Fingon pressed closer. He held Maedhros’ jaw in both hands to kiss him all the more deeply. He sucked on his tongue, chasing the heat of him, thinking desperately that at least this way he might leave so much of himself behind in Maedhros it would be impossible for Maedhros to deny that their very beings were inextricably bound.

“Are you close?” Maedhros breathed out, the words barely intelligible as Fingon swallowed them in another frenzied press of his mouth. From the pulsing tension in Maedhros’ core and the hitch in his breath it was clear that he was rapidly approaching the edge.

Fingon could only nod and slip a hand around Maedhros’ erection. He dragged his palm up and down his length, quick and graceless.

“Make sure you—” Maedhros broke off with a harsh curse and swallowed before trying again. “Make sure you don’t—”

“I know,” Fingon snapped, “I know, I won’t.”

Would that he could spill inside Maedhros the way he longed to. Would that he could fuck his release so deep inside of him the proof of his claim over Maedhros would be undeniable, even by Eru. But he could not, and he never could, for to do so would nearly certainly form a marriage bond, and that they could not have.

Why? thought Fingon desperately. Why not? Despite the fact that it was he who had last denied Maedhros; he who had slammed that door shut the very moment Maedhros tried to open it to him. For good reason, or so Fingon had thought at the time. But for the life of him, he could not now remember why. His fëa longed to do what all elven fëar did when joined at the moment of completion, trying desperately to reach out, to find where Maedhros was reaching back and cling. They could keep themselves in check when they coupled, so long as they did not let themselves go, and so long as they did not reach their peaks while joined so completely that they could not help but forget themselves.[1]

So when Maedhros tightened like a vice around him and buried himself in the crook of Fingon’s neck with a hoarse cry, his seed spurting warm over Fingon’s stomach and fingers, Fingon gritted his teeth and held himself back from the precipice and fucked Maedhros through it. Once his release ebbed, his body still shaking through the aftershocks, Maedhros lifted himself off of Fingon’s cock and fell bonelessly back to sit astride his thighs with a pitiful whine.

Fingon, so hot he felt he could melt into Maedhros like candlewax, blinking sweat out of his eyes, reached for his own pulsing cock at the same moment as Maedhros, his fingers still slick with Maedhros’ seed. He buried his face in Maedhros' chest as together they stroked him once, twice, three times, before he spent himself over the both of them.

Chapter End Notes

The dehumanizing language used for Orcs in this chapter ("the creature(s)," it/its pronouns) is representative of the characters' views and not the author's. Everybody go read The Wretched of Middle-earth: An Orkish Manifesto by Charles W. Mills neowwwwwwwww.

[1] I am taking some minor liberties with LaCE here. The core principle remains the same, elvish marriage bond being formed through bodily union etc., but we're overlooking the need for an exchange of blessings and the naming of Eru. In this fic, a marriage bond requires only that 1. the elves are having sex, and 2. they are both open and reaching out with their fëa to allow the two fëar to meet and form a bond. So it's possible for elves to have sex without getting married, but climaxing while joined/climaxing together is such an intense experience the elves will almost always lose themselves and forget to hold back, and will inadvertently allow the fëar to meet and bond in marriage. Basically... if you're gonna have premarital sex as an elf you have to have a REALLY good pull out game.

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