these, our bodies, possessed by light by atlantablack  

Imagine standing in a constant cone of light.
Imagine surrender.
Imagine being useless.

A stone on the path means the tea's not ready, a stone in the hand means somebody's angry,
the stone inside you still hasn't hit bottom.

Seaside Improvisation | Richard Siken

☀︎

Let's start the story with something important: 

There was never a plan.

Curufin did not look around at the destruction of Himlad and think it an opportunity to slide into Finrod's good graces. Nargothrond was never meant to be anything other than a temporary inconvenience. Going there should never have spiraled into a situation so large and overflowing that it left Curufin drowning in the aftermath. 

If Curufin had been forced to admit to a plan, he would have said the plan was to get in and get out. To keep his people safe. To scrabble together some measure of control so that it stopped feeling as if everything was once again crumbling beneath his hands.

But if there had been a plan, it would never have included Finrod at all.

☀︎

When they crash onto Nargothrond’s doorstep, Finrod is exactly as Curufin remembers him—overly pleasant, all placid smiles and feigned grace. It grates at his nerves, makes him want to dig his fingers into all that unchallenged gentleness and find out what's hiding beneath.

Though, had Finrod not always been so? Even in Tirion, tree light filtering through the air, Curufin had wanted to sink his fingers beneath all that perfection and pull out the ugliness that must be hiding beneath. Still, despite Curufin’s belief that it is a mask, he does not truly believe Finrod would ever turn them away. He believes truly that the doors of Nargothrond will open to any in need. 

So there is Curufin, tired and trying to hide it, saying, cousin, we seek shelter. There is Finrod, wilted but still golden, opening both hands in greeting, and somehow, that’s enough.

He had known it would be, and yet, the simplicity of the request and the easy acquiescence still take him by surprise.

☀︎

There is still no plan. 

In a rare moment of foolish hope, Curufin dares to convince himself that their presence in Nargothrond is a temporary thing. That they will soon be back in their own space, commanding their own people and only their own people. He dares to believe that the Bragollach is something they can come back from. 

He manages to hold onto that belief for a full two months, and then Maedhros dashes the entire idea to pieces. 

For all that he is relieved to be holding proof of Maedhros and Maglor's continued existence, he rather preferred living in a world where he was not forever stuck relying on his cousin's generosity. But Maedhros is clear in his orders, and so Curufin sets about putting down more permanent roots. 

He inserts himself more heavily into council meetings and the running of the city. He maneuvers his way through the court until many of his people are firmly entrenched in minuscule day-to-day operations of keeping the city running. He makes them as indispensable as possible. He finds problems and crafts solutions, carves open new spots for them to slot into until it feels less like reliance on an impermanent generosity and more like a genuine relationship between two rulers. 

And through it all—Curufin’s plotting and crafting and silver words dipped in poison and ever-growing irritation—Finrod continues to smile that fucking placid, knowing smile. It drives Curufin mad. It makes him want to start a fight just to make Finrod lose composure. 

It makes him mean. It makes him cruel. Really, it was always just a matter of time before it all escalated. 

That isn’t the surprising part. 

It’s everything that comes after the escalation that leaves him reeling. 

☀︎

The first time Curufin kisses Finrod, it is to provoke. 

There is no deeper meaning to it. Only a cousin with a pleasant smile and mild words; only Curufin's unending need to break things and a violence that has been hanging from his fists since they stepped into these caves.

He expects Finrod to reel back with disgust, expects him to be scandalized, to be offended, to narrow his eyes, maybe even to threaten. He does not expect for Finrod's mouth to open beneath his, Finrod's hands coming up to fist in his robes and pull him close. He bites at Finrod's lip savagely, and Finrod bites harder, smiling into the kiss when copper bursts bright between them.

"What do you expect to happen here?" Finrod murmurs against his mouth, the amusement in his voice bright and cutting. "Do you expect me to run? To call your bluff?"

Curufin shoves Finrod against the wall, sliding his fingers into Finrod’s hair and pulling hard. Lust coils around his throat quick as a snake at the breathless moan it pulls from Finrod's throat. "I do not bluff, Findaráto," he returns, pushing his fingers into Finrod's robes and digging them brutally into the bare heat of his hip.

"Good," Finrod breathes, arching up against him, eyes dark when Curufin meets them. "Do your worst then. I assure you, I will take just as much as you give."

It is not a challenge Curufin can resist.

It really only continues escalating from there.

☀︎

It is meant to be a one-time thing. Or rather, it was not meant to be a thing at all, but since it had been, it was meant to be a one-time occurrence. He had spent an enjoyable few hours fucking Finrod, pleasantly satisfied with how sharp he became when pushed, and that had been that. Curufin had not intended to make it a habit.

He had not.

Yet they fall into bed again and again as it very, very quickly becomes a thing. Curufin always so quick to press and press now that he has irrefutable evidence that Finrod's pleasantness is at least in half a front. With neither of them willing to back down, it always ends in him pressing Finrod up against the nearest wall and biting the words from his lips. Always ends with him trying to find the exact point of pressure needed to make Finrod truly shatter.

Finrod gives as good as he gets. Leaves Curufin's back bloody, leaves marks just high enough that Curufin must be conscious of his movements or his collar will slip and show them. Given half a chance, Finrod will push Curufin against the wall and tease him with light touches and slow kisses until he ends up losing his patience and bodily hauling Finrod to the bed.

It makes him wonder if his pushing only makes Finrod sharper, if he is going about breaking Finrod in the wrong way. He wants to find out. Wants to catalog all of the different ways he can find to peel Finrod open and leave him shaking.

He wants and he wants and he fucking wants.

It is alarming how the hunger only grows. How it is never sated no matter how many times Curufin pins Finrod down, no matter how many times he is the cause of Finrod falling apart, no matter how many times he spills into the hot clench of Finrod's body.

He only ever wants more. 

It is a damning thing to want. 

☀︎

"You spend a lot of time with our dear cousin these days," Celegorm remarks idly one night. He's lounging in front of the fire, head pillowed on Huan's back. He always reminds Curufin of a particularly pleased cat the way he delights in lying in front of fireplaces.

"Do I?" he asks lightly, looking up from the correspondence he's writing.

Celegorm narrows his eyes, glancing down at Curufin's neck, and he becomes aware that his collar has slipped where he was fidgeting with it as he thought. There is a dark bruise still right above his collarbone where Finrod had sunk his teeth in, worrying at the skin until it had hurt.

"He must be very good with his mouth to keep drawing you back in." There is nothing particularly accusing about the words, nothing particularly mean, yet Curufin gets the distinct feeling that Celegorm does not approve.

"Our dear cousin has many talents," is all he says, returning to his writing. Celegorm scoffs but does not pursue the topic. Curufin does not allow himself to think too deeply on the implications of this becoming such a thing that his brother has felt it necessary to comment on it. In general tries to not think about what he is doing with Finrod at all.

It has been several months of them consistently sleeping together, and Curufin has not even begun to lose interest. He knows well that he has a humiliating tendency to grasp at excuses to take himself to Finrod's rooms, knowing that any time spent alone in Finrod's presence will end with them in bed. He knows as well that the few weeks he had managed to grasp back onto a modicum of self-control, Finrod had taken to seeking him out, finding reasons to invite Curufin back to his rooms.

He does not know what he is doing. Knows that it is a mistake no matter what angle he looks at it from. Still cannot seem to bring himself to stop now that he's started.

If it were only good sex, then perhaps he could put an end to it easily enough. It is not as if there aren't others in this city who would gladly go to bed with him. But the push and pull of it, the way his palms smart from cutting himself on Finrod's hidden edges, the way they sometimes spend hours doing nothing but speaking or playing strategy games as they slowly work each other up—

—it makes the end result so, so sweet.

It makes him want to burn the imprint of Finrod's name onto his palms. Capture the way his own sounds dripping from Finrod's mouth, coated in pleasure. Trap in a crystal the exact sequence of moans that falls into the air when Finrod clenches tight around him and spills hot over his fist.

He is making a mistake. Breaking rules he set for himself when they came to this accursed land. That should matter. It should.

In the face of Finrod's blood-sweet smile, it does not.

☀︎

They may well have continued in that vein for years, only ever touching each other with barely concealed violence. Always teeth and blood and bruises, always a rapid pulse caught beneath his mouth. But six months after Curufin first took Finrod to bed, he slips into Curufin's study, an almost wild look about him. A tension rather, that’s been strung tight and looks ready to be let loose at any moment. 

Finrod decisively strides across the room, ignoring Curufin’s sharp words and irritation, and pushes Curufin’s chair out of the way so that he may duck beneath the desk. Curufin blinks down at him with a raised eyebrow, belittling words already building on his tongue, when there is a sharp knock on the door. He glares furiously, unable to imagine why he is being bothered yet again. Rimhir, one of Finrod’s councilors, opens the door and pokes his head in, flinching at the sight of Curufin’s glare. 

Curufin lies and says he has not seen Finrod, malicious annoyance coating his tongue. The pieces are easy to connect, and if these idiots have driven their king to wish for respite so badly that Finrod has resorted to hiding beneath Curufin's desk, then he will gladly lie to their faces. If there is also a small spark of concern that lights in his chest as to what could have possibly driven Finrod to wish for respite so badly, then that is his own business. It is strange though, out of character, for perfect, golden, benevolent Finrod to grow so obviously tired of being around his people. For all that he believes much of Finrod's pleasant demeanor to be a front, Curufin does not doubt his love for his kingdom, his people. He seldom seems to truly grow tired of them and never to such a point that he actively hides away from them.

Finrod stays kneeling under the desk even after Rimhir has left, and Curufin pushes his chair back in, bracketing Finrod between his legs as he returns to his work. He huffs in amusement when Finrod leans his head on Curufin's thigh, idly brushing his hand over the crown of Finrod's head as he works through calculations. He does not allow himself to think about the rush of hunger that wishes to spill through him, just from knowing that Finrod is on his knees. 

He does not think on it, but it takes very little time before Finrod has shuffled forward, hands sliding up Curufin's thighs as he undoes Curufin's laces and takes his cock in hand. Curufin does not stop him, only hums slightly in pleasure, the wet heat of Finrod's mouth a blissful, perfect home for his cock to live in. Hunger fizzes slightly in his veins, but he does not allow it to escalate quite yet. Instead runs his fingers through Finrod's hair, sinking his fingers into it and holding Finrod's head still. Continues to hold him there when yet another councilor comes by asking if Curufin has seen their wayward king. Falothir looks irritated when Curufin evenly says he has not seen Finrod, and Curufin scowls savagely, pleased when the irritation morphs into an uneasiness that leaves him retreating quickly. 

In a strange move though, which he will later realize is what had damned him for good, instead of things immediately escalating into him fucking Finrod’s throat as is the norm, he only continues holding Finrod’s head still. Runs his fingers through Finrod’s hair soothingly once it becomes clear he will hold still on his own. The arousal simmers low in his belly as Finrod softly sucks on him, swallowing around him as his cock hardens, but Finrod seems happy to simply have Curufin’s cock in his mouth, whimpering softly only when Curufin stops petting his hair. 

He waits until enough time has passed that he knows everyone will have given up their search and gone to dinner; waits until his focus has blurred to the point that all he can think on is the heat of Finrod's mouth; and then he pushes his chair back, catching Finrod when he wavers, muscles stiff from kneeling on the hard floor. Finrod looks blissed out and half-gone, mouth a bright red warning, and it punches directly through Curufin’s chest, stealing any cruelty from his hands before he can inflict it.

“Come here,” he murmurs, pulling Finrod to his feet and into Curufin’s lap.

Finrod comes easily, knees pressed on either side of Curufin's thighs, face hidden against his throat, arms wound around his neck, and fingers tangled in his hair. He works a hand between them, freeing Finrod's cock, and stroking them both slowly, drinking in Finrod's hitched breaths and quiet moans. It is completely at odds with how they usually go about sleeping together, but he does not hate it. Finds himself instead viciously satisfied by how Finrod has utterly given himself over after kneeling at Curufin’s feet for hours.

Finrod moans low and long when he spills over Curufin’s fingers, the sound reverberating against Curufin’s throat and sending him over the edge as well. He keeps his arm looped around Finrod’s waist after, holding him steady as Finrod’s body relaxes even further.

“We cannot sleep in this chair,” he murmurs once the position begins to become truly uncomfortable, pressing a kiss to the side of Finrod’s head as he shifts. He receives no answer and huffs after a moment, resolutely pushing himself to his feet. He does not bother acting surprised when Finrod’s legs go around his waist. He should not allow it, should drop Finrod into the chair and leave him to gather himself together. But Finrod is still so loose in his arms, breath warm and steady against his throat. He knows that it is not trust, but it feels a little like that regardless. "Shameless," he mutters, tightening his grip on Finrod's waist as he moves toward his bedroom.

He hesitates only briefly before laying Finrod in his bed. It is always him in Finrod's bed, never the other way around, and it unnerves him to have it this way, though he could not say why. Finrod makes an utterly pathetic noise when Curufin pulls away, and he should not care, should leave Finrod and go to dinner. But Finrod blinks up at him, eyes still hazy and mouth pulled into an enticing pout, hair spread around him, all haloed light, and Curufin sighs, resigned to staying. 

"Come, you wretch, take your clothes off if you intend to sleep here." He tugs Finrod upright so that he can pull his robes off of him, pausing only to frown briefly at how bruised Finrod’s knees look from kneeling on the floor for so long. 

Finrod wraps himself around Curufin like a leech when he gets in the bed, and he would complain if not for how soothing he finds the weight of Finrod's body atop his. They do not usually, either of them, allow for such softness between them, but Curufin supposes this once cannot hurt. It is hard to remember why he would wish to do otherwise when Finrod is soft and sleepy against him. Hard to remember why he would want to do anything other than hold Finrod when all of this feels a little too much like trust he hadn’t expected to be given. 

He knows it isn’t. He knows. 

Knowing doesn’t stop a hunger from awakening in his chest now that he’s had a taste.

☀︎

They both wake early the next morning, and though they spend a long time in bed lazily kissing, they do not talk about it. Finrod looks more settled as he leaves for his rooms, all of the tension having seeped away and left behind that irritatingly calm demeanor he carries about him as a shield. 

Curufin watches him go and does not allow himself to think on any of it at all. They have been in Nargothrond for barely a year, and he had not arrived in these godforsaken caves with any intention of seducing his cousin. Had not arrived with any intentions, in truth, other than to get the fuck back out of the caves as quickly as possible, something that seems less and less likely to occur at all. 

He knows not what he wants from Finrod these days, all of his conflicting wants a tangled ball that he dislikes studying too closely. He wants most of all to continue ensuring his position in Nargothrond’s court if he is to be stuck here. It is his utmost wish. It must be his utmost wish. He is not allowed to want any of the other disgusting things that keep trying to take root in his chest. He is already toeing a line he had not meant to test, and if he is not careful, he will have stepped over it without even noticing.

For all that he tells himself this, it is impossible to miss the way things begin to soften between them in increments following Finrod staying in his bed. They are both still sharp words and violent greed, teeth pressed to thin skin, Curufin pushing and pushing until Finrod goes razor sharp, all his softness lost. But Finrod begins to quietly curl into him afterward, murmuring soft nothings until Curufin agrees to spend the night. They spend many early mornings slowly kissing with no ulterior motive involved at all.

He knows he is making a vital mistake. He knows that there is no way for this to end in anything other than more doom. Thinks perhaps Finrod knows it as well if the melancholic way he watches Curufin sometimes is any indication. He knows. And he tries and tries to convince himself to put a stop to it, to cut the tie before it becomes an anchor unable to be cut without sending everything crashing down. But if it is to all end in doom regardless, should he not grab what small happiness can be attained for the time being? 

They are all pointless musings, pointless rules, pointless questions.

It is, in the end, too late for him to do anything other than continue on the way he has been. He has had a taste of Finrod and will not be giving him up now. This is what he tells himself as he gathers several soft pillows and places them in the bottom drawer of his desk. It is what he tells himself when Celegorm raises judgmental eyebrows as he leaves for Finrod’s rooms for the sixth night in a row. It is what he tells himself when Finrod smiles at him with true pleasure, and he feels his own face soften in return. 

It is too late. And if he is to be doomed, then let him be doomed with Finrod’s mouth on his.  

☀︎

It happens for a second time a couple of months later, Finrod slipping into his study, eyes uncomfortably wild. Curufin had begun to wonder if it would or if that had simply been a one-time thing. But here is Finrod, body strung tight with tension, and this time Curufin is ready.

He moves his chair back as Finrod stalks across the room, and sure enough, Finrod does not even pause before ducking beneath his desk. It is truly absurd, the sight of Finrod beneath his desk in his opulent court robes, hair still elaborately braided, jewels dripping from his ears and around his neck. Absurd and yet, the sight of Finrod on his knees still sends a rush of heat through him. 

Finrod’s face scrunches in confusion when Curufin pulls several of the pillows from where he’s stashed them, and then melts into something painfully shocked and soft when Curufin says, “So that you do not bruise your knees again.” 

By the time the first bedamned councilor comes by asking after Finrod he is already back to working on his newest design; Finrod's head pillowed against his thigh. Nordhir scowls at him suspiciously when he denies knowing where Finrod is and then scuttles away when Curufin snarls at him. He scowls at the closed door, wondering once more what exactly it is that is happening to drive Finrod to wish for respite so terribly. 

He slides his fingers into Finrod’s hair, mussing his braids, and lets his hand simply rest there as he continues working. Finrod does nothing but lean against him for a long while before rousing himself and slowly beginning to undo his braids. It is only once his hair is free for Curufin to freely run his fingers through that Finrod reaches for his laces and pulls his cock free. He closes his eyes briefly in contentment as Finrod licks his cock and then swallows it down, continuing to run his fingers through Finrod’s hair as he works. 

It feels as if there are more people this time that stop to ask him if he has seen Finrod, a detail that makes him squint at the door suspiciously when the latest person departs. Finrod makes a low humming noise as he swallows, and the sensation trips through him, making him shiver as he tightens his grip on Finrod's hair. He leans back briefly, glancing beneath the desk, and has to stop himself from immediately dragging Finrod into his lap and fucking him. He is beautiful, kneeling between Curufin's legs, lips red and stretched around his cock. Finrod's eyes are closed, a look of contentment settled about him, and Curufin has never wanted him more.

Having Finrod snap back and fight with him is already a heady feeling, leaving a desire burning through him that only escalates into a full forest fire when he has Finrod pinned to the bed beneath him. But this—the surrender, what must be at least enough trust to believe that Curufin will not take advantage of this strange vulnerability—leaves him wanting to reward that trust with gentleness, which is far more dangerous. He reaches down and lightly presses his thumb to the corner of Finrod's mouth, shivering when Finrod glances up at him, eyes hazy.

"I should keep you down there every day," he murmurs quietly, running his knuckles over Finrod's cheek and watching as he leans into the touch. "A perfect mouth made to take my cock."

Finrod makes a low noise, sinking the slightest bit further onto Curufin's cock and swallowing convulsively. Curufin cannot quite stop his hips from jerking up, forcing his entire cock down Finrod's throat and choking him. 

He sucks in a deep breath and pulls Finrod off far enough that he can breathe easily again. Holds him in place and goes back to work, ignoring the quiet whine it earns him.

They stay like that for a while longer, until dinner time once again comes around. Finrod sways forward, following him, when he pushes his chair back. "Come here," he says, pulling Finrod to his feet. He allows himself the briefest kiss, biting indulgently at Finrod's red mouth and swallowing the moan it earns him. Pulls back all too soon and pushes Finrod toward the bedroom.

"Curvo," Finrod says quietly, even as he obediently goes.

"You're fine. Come on, clothes off, get in the bed." He softens the words by pulling Finrod into another kiss as they disrobe. Pushes Finrod onto the bed and feels a shiver of possessiveness run through him that cannot herald anything good. Finrod is all decadence, sunshine caught in his hair and his smile, words so sweet they cannot be anything but a trap, eyes like the sky at midday. Curufin used to stand on the plains of Himlad at times, staring at the sky stretching on endlessly, all that beautiful land his to keep and protect, and it makes him uneasy to find that same sky caught in Finrod's eyes.

It makes him uneasy that he finds himself wanting to keep it.

Finrod is still loose and pliant when Curufin settles on top of him, letting Curufin do what he will, and he spends a long minute kissing Finrod, biting at his mouth until Finrod whines. Leaves a string of bruises down Finrod's body, on his neck, his collarbone, above his heart, above his lungs, the curve of his ribcage, the soft skin of his stomach, the sharp jut of his hipbone, the tender skin on the inside of his thighs. Pulls back to survey his work after and smirks at how flushed Finrod is, his breathing unsteady, fingers tangled in the bed sheets and clenched tight. He’s watching Curufin through half-lidded eyes that have gone perilously dark and blown out with want. 

Curufin works Finrod open quickly, barely gets two fingers in before Finrod makes a desperate noise and reaches for him, saying Curvo pleadingly. He does not argue, only pulls Finrod into his lap, biting down on Finrod’s shoulder as he slowly sinks onto Curufin’s cock. Finrod moans and pulls him into a kiss, rocking his hips and whining quietly when Curufin gets a hand around his cock, slowly stroking him. Even with the lack of urgency, they have been drawing this out for hours, and it takes so little to send him over the edge. Takes only Finrod letting out a particularly loud moan and clenching tight around him before he has spilled, Finrod following only moments later as he speeds his hand up and swipes his thumb over the head of Finrod’s cock. 

He falls back onto the bed after, keeping Finrod held close, rubbing slow circles onto Finrod's skin as they drift. He thinks of the way Finrod said his name, all sweet, pleading syllables, the burgeoning threads of trust woven between them. He has often had Finrod begging beneath him, but it is the first time he has had Finrod plead so sweetly, and oh, it leaves Curufin feeling so very, very smug. 

It is all just another warning sign. 

Curufin closes his eyes to it and presses his face to Finrod’s hair, falls asleep sated and warm. 

☀︎

Sometimes, on days the resentment bubbles beneath his skin at their continued presence in Nargothrond, at the necessity of having to accept someone else as king, Curufin looks at Finrod on his knees for him, and dangerous thoughts try to creep into the back of his mind.

They are not true wishes, for Curufin has no true desire to harm Finrod, not when he desires to continue sharing his bed. But they still linger, whisper how easy it would be now that Finrod has handed him such a perfect opening. How easy it would be to make use of his inheritance and wield his father's silver tongue, weave his way through Nargothrond until the strings are all held in his hand, ready to be cut on a word. He has already set the starting threads in place; it would not be difficult to continue weaving them together. 

Curufin, however, in a move that would likely cause his brothers to stare at him aghast, steels himself and ignores the thoughts. He maintains the starting threads, but he makes no move to weave a larger web. It is horribly strange and uncomfortable, wishing to keep something so terribly. To look at Finrod and, despite the resentment, want him so badly it nearly eclipses the rest. It is not, necessarily, a feeling he enjoys, but it has stolen through him regardless.

Instead, he contents himself with pressing his teeth to Finrod's throat, marking his claim through bruises and blood. He will not do anything to harm Finrod's reign, but that does not mean he will not take every advantage to strengthen what little hold he has on Finrod's heart.

"Sometimes," Finrod says lightly one night, hovering over Curufin and pressing gentle fingers to his lips, "I wonder if this is not all one big con on your part. Tell me, Curufinwë, what is it you are trying to gain from this?"

Curufin shoots Finrod a narrow-eyed look and strengthens the walls of his mind. Finrod's hair is cascading around them, backlit by lamplight and burning, leaving them encased by fire. "Why must I be attempting to gain something?" he asks, dragging his fingers through Finrod's hair and tugging lightly.

"I am not a fool," Finrod says, something hard and wild flickering in his eyes, blood in the water. "You must want something from this."

He does. But to admit to what he wants is to admit to far too many other things he cannot bring himself to say. "Does it matter? Will you kick me from your bed if I do not tell you?"

"You know I won't."

"Then why bother asking?"

"Ah, Atarinkë," Finrod says, smile all teeth and sharp, brutal pleasure. "You tell me so much with all you do not say. Surely you know that?"

Curufin cannot name the emotion burning his throat and trying desperately to gain control of his tongue, whether because he does not know the answer or cannot bear to acknowledge it, he does not know. He brings his hands up to cradle Finrod's face and pulls him into a long kiss, all heat and promise.

"Do you trust me?" he asks later, as they lay curled together, forehead to forehead, heart to heart.

Finrod smiles, stroking his thumb over Curufin's cheek. "Not even a little bit."

"Smart of you," he says, unable to help smiling a bit as well. "It's nice to see you do have a brain in that pretty head of yours."

Finrod rolls his eyes and curls in closer, pressing his mouth to Curufin's throat before falling still. He tangles his fingers in Finrod's hair and does not think about how he should go back to his own bed for once. He does not think about the way he had wanted Finrod to say yes, yes I trust you, even when he knew Finrod never would. He simply does not think about any of it.

He pulls Finrod in until they are as close to one singular being as they can be. Falls asleep wanting and wanting and wanting to keep this, to keep Finrod, to close his fingers around things that are not meant for him. 

It is an old story. 

Curufin is so tired of the same pages on loss being read again and again and again. 

☀︎

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Let's jump ahead to the moment of epiphany,
in gold light
as the camera pans to where the action is, lakeside and backlit, 
and it all falls into frame,
close enough to see the blue rings of my eyes 
as I say something ugly.

Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out | Richard Siken

☀︎

"You know all of Nargothrond whispers of how often you go to Finrod's chambers," Celegorm says lightly one day, slouching against the wall of the forge. Curufin glances over and finds sharp eyes set under judgmental eyebrows.

"And?" he asks, rolling his eyes. "You say that as if it is to be our downfall. It only helps safely cement our position here."

Celegorm scoffs. “As if that is the reason you go to his bed every time he calls. Fuck, you go even when he doesn’t." There's a brutal pause in which Celegorm waits for Curufin to look at him before saying, "He has you well trained,” a mean, derisive smile accompanying the words. 

Curufin bites back the instinctive response to punch his brother. It is not even true, which is perhaps the most insulting part. Finrod has rarely called for him in the way Celegorm means. Curufin goes because he wishes to, which is far more damning even if less humiliating. If he does not go, then Finrod comes to him. This is also damning, but at least leaves them on equal footing.

“I am happy that you have so little concern for our standing in this city,” he says tightly, digging his heels in and clinging to his reasoning. It is not fully a lie, even if it has very little to do with his reasoning for sleeping with Finrod. 

Celegorm laughs harshly, shaking his head in disgust. "You do not have to whore yourself out to gain us political security. Nelyo would take us in if Finrod kicked us out. You just seem to enjoy being Finrod’s pretty little lapdog.” 

"Have you considered," he bites out through gritted teeth, "that it is both none of your concern and that I am sleeping with him because I want to?”

Celegorm blinks, surprise flitting across his face and lingering in the lines around his mouth. "Yes," he says simply, some of the vitriol fading away. He tilts his head, a curious glint in his eyes. "I certainly didn't expect you to admit it. How interesting."

If Curufin clenches his jaw any tighter he is going to crack his teeth. Finrod suddenly stepping through the doorway on Celegorm's right does not exactly improve his mood, as it is easy to piece together that Finrod must have been eavesdropping. "Findaráto," he greets, voice tight and irritated. "What are you doing all the way down here?"

Finrod does not even look at him, eyes locked on Celegorm, and Curufin has the sudden realization that Finrod’s eyes are far too bright, too wild. He would place money on Finrod having stopped by his study before coming down here.

"You have such interesting opinions of me," Finrod says to Celegorm, voice so mild and soft that it sends an uneasy shiver down Curufin's spine. "I would think you, of all people, would realize that a trained dog can tear a person's throat out just as easily as they can be called to heel."

Bitter, disgusted offense sweeps through him, leaving a snarl on his face. Despite this, there is also a small, minuscule part of him that goes blisteringly hot and bloodthirsty; a part of him that is suddenly desperate to set his teeth against Finrod's skin.

"Though, I must say," Finrod continues, voice still dangerously mild, "I am touched that you have such faith in my abilities to train your brother in such a way."

Celegorm's eyes are glittering with fury, and Curufin is quite sure this is going to escalate to violence if not stopped now. "Drop it, Tyelko," he says sharply. "Drop it and get out." He has the belated realization that he should have sent Finrod away, not his brother. Does not retract the words, for he is still stuck on Finrod's wild eyes, on what that means.

Celegorm gives an ugly laugh and slants a glare his way but, shockingly, does move to leave. Though not before pausing next to Finrod and murmuring something too quiet for Curufin to hear. Finrod watches him leave with an inscrutable look before turning to Curufin expectantly.

"Well? Have I terribly offended you?" Finrod asks lightly, amusement thick in his voice. 

Curufin considers him for a moment, the biting fury on his tongue thick and cloying. Considers what Finrod has come to him for the past two times he has looked wild and untethered to his own skin. Closes the space between them and grabs a handful of Finrod's hair, coiling it tight around his fist.

"On your knees," he orders, voice deadly soft, emphasizing the words with a sharp tug on Finrod's hair.

Finrod smiles and opens his mouth, something cool and pointed likely waiting to fall off his tongue. Curufin jerks Finrod’s head back before he can speak and smirks at the hissed-out breath earned in response. "On, your knees," he says again.

Finrod blinks, gaze flickering to the side and then back to Curufin’s face, indecision clinging tight to him, before he draws in a deep breath and sinks to the floor. He tilts forward, resting his forehead against Curufin's thigh, and it is so obvious, even like this, the way his shoulders loosen from a tension Curufin could barely tell he was holding until it was made obvious in its absence.

"If I am a trained dog at your beck and call, teeth bared for your pleasure, then what does that make you, Ingoldo?" he muses quietly, crouching and tugging Finrod’s head up so they may look at each other.

Finrod stares at him, eyes dark and endless as the treacherous ocean. "Do you not believe I too could be a beast trained for your pleasure?"

"No.” He leans in and kisses Finrod harshly, biting at his mouth. "What could you do for me that I could not do myself?"

"I did not realize you had grown so proficient at fucking yourself," Finrod says wryly.

"Wretch," he murmurs, feeling irritatingly fond despite himself. He pulls Finrod back to his feet, guiding him to the chair set in the corner of the forge. "Sit and be quiet while I work. I will take you to bed afterward."

Finrod stares at him for a long while, rebellion lingering in the lines of his body, before he sinks onto the chair, leaning against the wall with a sigh. He is still holding onto Curufin's wrist tightly, and he knows well what it is Finrod wants, but he was truly in the middle of something before Celegorm interrupted him. "Be patient, and then I will be yours for the evening."

Finrod looks up at him, eyes softening. "Only for the evening?"

The air freezes in Curufin's chest, the implications of such a question too large to be borne. In lieu of an answer he cannot give, he leans down and kisses Finrod long and slow, stroking his thumb over soft skin and wondering how it is that for all of Finrod's softness, it still feels as if he'll slice Curufin's palms open if he breaks. "Patience," he murmurs again when he pulls back, the admonishment for himself as much as for Finrod. It is tempting to abandon his work and take Finrod to bed immediately; his eyes are still closed, mouth parted, and Curufin wishes to continue kissing him. Instead makes himself pull away and return to his work.

He loses himself in his work quickly, glancing over at Finrod a few hours later, and finding him still quietly leaning against the wall, watching Curufin through half-lidded eyes. He places his tools down, moving across the room to tilt Finrod's face up and kiss him. Finrod sighs quietly into the kiss, wrapping his fingers around Curufin's wrist. When he pulls back, he finds that he has left soot staining Finrod's skin, blatant evidence to any who may see them of what they have been doing, and the smug possessiveness that strikes through him is concerning in its intensity.

"Curvo," Finrod murmurs, sounding tired, "take me to bed."

He wavers, caving when Finrod strains upward to capture his mouth again. "If you insist," he says, trailing his hand down and carefully wrapping his fingers around Finrod's neck, leaving sooty fingerprints behind. "Go and wait in my room. I must clean up first."

Finrod shoots him a suspicious look but does rise and wander out of the forge. Curufin should perhaps feel bad about sending Finrod out into the halls with his fingerprints marked clearly on Finrod's skin. Can only bring himself to feel pleased and terribly smug.

When he arrives at his rooms, he finds Finrod naked in the bed, lying on his stomach, face hidden where he has it buried in one of the pillows. Curufin traces the line of Finrod's spine with his eyes, feeling another spark of curiosity at what is causing these strange days where Finrod's mood is inexplicably changed.

Finrod makes a soft noise when Curufin settles on his thighs, pushing into Curufin's hands running down his back and over the swell of his ass. Curufin leans forward and follows the same path with his mouth, sucking a bruise onto Finrod's lower back as he works Finrod open, slick fingers pressed into the tempting heat of his body. Finrod makes a discontented noise when he pulls away, attempting to push back against him, and Curufin places a hand on the small of his back to hold him still. Considers Finrod for a moment, torn between fucking him and continuing with his original plan for the evening.

There will be other nights to freely fuck him though. These days, where the wildness flickers beneath Finrod's skin, are rarer. He makes himself comfortable, sitting with his back to the headboard, before tugging Finrod into his lap and onto his cock. Finrod moans, grinding down, muscles flexing, tension rippling through him, and makes a questioning noise when Curufin forcefully holds him still. Curufin grips Finrod’s hips tight enough to bruise and captures his mouth in a slow kiss, humming in approval when Finrod slowly relaxes against him. 

“Good,” he murmurs against Finrod’s mouth, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth, the curve of his jaw. “Relax.” He finishes arranging them to his liking, Finrod’s face hidden against his neck, the blankets tugged around Finrod’s shoulder, Curufin knowing how bitterly Finrod still hates the cold. Once he has finished that, he plucks his book from the bedside table and begins reading. 

Finrod's body loosens slowly, the hidden tension slowly seeping out of him the longer he stays seated in Curufin's lap. He cannot stop himself from grinding up into Finrod occasionally, the warmth of his body around Curufin's cock a constant temptation. The damp heat of Finrod's shaky breaths against his neck a delight. He keeps them like that long past the point his focus blurs, and he stops comprehending the words on the page. Keeps them like that until Finrod has gone completely and utterly pliant against him, not a trace of tension or wildness to be found anywhere. Only then does he twist them, laying Finrod out on the bed and fucking him slowly. 

Something goes shivery and tight in his chest at the sight of Finrod staring up at him, eyes blown out with want, all his defenses fully stripped away. There is something in his eyes as Curufin fucks him that he does not recognize. Something lingering in the soft lines of his mouth, the way his fingers stay tangled in Curufin’s hair, holding him close. Finrod’s mouth parts beneath his like an offering and Curufin drinks him down; gets a hand between them and slowly strokes Finrod’s cock in time with his thrusts. Finrod makes a gasping, strangled noise as he spills over Curufin’s fingers, his name a plea that slides so prettily off of Finrod’s tongue, and he groans, burying his face against Finrod’s neck as the pleasure crests and crashes down so viciously that the edges of his vision go white.   

They stay tangled together beneath the covers, Curufin’s cock slipping from Finrod’s body and dragging an unhappy whine from him. Curufin smiles, pressing another kiss to Finrod’s mouth. “You are utterly shameless,” he murmurs, burying his fingers in Finrod’s hair and holding him close. 

“You enjoy me shameless,” Finrod returns, the words slurred. 

Curufin does not deny it, only curls around Finrod and listens to his breathing as sleep slowly steals over them. Curufin has a terrible feeling that he has walked off a precipice without even noticing. That even now he is free-falling toward something he is not ready for, toward something he is not allowed to wish for. 

It is rather too late though, he thinks quietly as sleep finally steals him away; it is only a matter of time before he hits the ground. What happens after that depends on if anyone is waiting to catch him, depends on if his hands have gotten any better at holding onto the things he wants to keep. 

☀︎

They have been in Nargothrond for a year and a half when Celebrimbor looks at him over dinner and seemingly out of the blue asks, “Do you ever think about Amil anymore? 

It is lucky that he had waited for Curufin to be between bites, for he nearly manages to choke on air alone at the question. "Why do you ask?" he manages to get out, voice strangled. Celebrimbor has not mentioned Tiquiliel to him since they entered Beleriand. It is not a topic Curufin had thought to ever have to broach. 

Celebrimbor shrugs, eyes locked on his plate. “I had thought you were in agreement with Nóatar when it came to second spouses,” his son says, seemingly oblivious to the ice that slices down Curufin’s spine. “I only wondered if you ever still thought of her.” 

Finrod's name has not entered the room, and yet Curufin can hear it lingering loudly in the spaces between each of Celebrimbor's words. The topic is not something Curufin has given any thought to. In part, of course, because he has tried to give the entire thing very little thought at all. But also because the idea of spouses had never entered his mind in conjunction with Finrod’s name. It leaves something hard and bitter lodged tight in his throat now that it has. 

"I have not thought of Tiquiliel in many years," he says after what feels like an eternity of pained silence. It is the truth, for all that it is likely not what his son wishes to hear. Their marriage bond is still a tightly wound knot in the back of his mind, but it is something he gives little thought to. It is, in truth, more of an annoyance than anything else. A bruise that he can press on when he's feeling particularly annoyed by its continued presence. Something to dig into so that the resentment pooling around the bond can find new crevices of his mind to sink into. 

He does not think of Tiquiliel herself, not truly. These days, he’s only half-sure he remembers what she looks like. 

“So you do not agree with Nóatar then?” Celebrimbor asks, pushing at the topic. 

Curufin wants to say, of course I agree with him. Of course what Finwë brought about by marrying Indis was wrong. Of course I think that one is honor-bound to their marriage bond. Instead, he can only think of Finrod—his placid smiles, his bright eyes darting to Curufin's during council meetings, the sharp words that Curufin has had the pleasure of cutting himself against, golden hair and golden smiles. 

He cannot, in any true sense, say that he wholly agrees with his father. What a bitter truth to be faced with. 

“I agree with him on many things,” Curufin finally settles on. Celebrimbor frowns at him, opening his mouth as if he means to continue pushing, but Curufin cuts him off. “Enough. There is no need for you to concern yourself with this.” 

Celebrimbor's frown settles into a mulish, ugly thing, but he falls silent. Curufin wishes that brought him some measure of peace.

“I wish your mother no harm,” he concedes when Celebrimbor moves to leave, dinner having been finished in silence. 

Celebrimbor pauses, a hand on the back of the chair, eyes fixed on the door. “But you do not love her? You do not miss her?” 

"No. I do not love or miss her. I have not in a very, very long time." He does not say that he stopped missing his wife before the trees even went out, and Celebrimbor does not ask. Only gives one last jerky nod before leaving. 

Curufin sits at the table for a long time trying to decide if this changes anything at all for him. He thinks it should. 

He knows it doesn’t.  

☀︎

Finrod comes to him bright-eyed and wild twice more before Curufin broaches the subject.

"What causes it?" he asks, his thumb rubbing circles on Finrod's shoulder. They are lying in bed, and he is thinking of how different Finrod's body feels against his when normally sated versus when he has gone completely pliant after one of his strange moods.

"Causes what?" Finrod asks, sleep heavy in his voice. He is curled up next to Curufin, an arm tossed over his stomach, a leg tossed over his, face hidden against his shoulder.  

"The days that you hide from your advisors, your people, and come to me."

Finrod shrugs slightly, turning farther into Curufin's arms. "Do we not all have days where everything snaps tight and leaves the tongue more willing to wound?"

"My tongue is always willing to wound," he points out, humming with pleasure when Finrod laughs. "That is all there is to it? I expected something more scandalous."

"Scandalous? I would never," Finrod says in an exaggerated voice of offense, even as he smiles, tilting his face up and catching Curufin’s mouth in a warm kiss. 

He waits until Finrod has resettled before saying, “Do not think it escaped my notice that you did not answer the question.” He strokes his hand down Finrod’s spine, too comfortable and content to care overly much about the avoidance of the question. 

Finrod says nothing, only presses a kiss to Curufin’s neck and hums quietly. 

"Keep your secrets then," he murmurs, pressing his mouth to the side of Finrod's head and breathing him in. Has the absurd desire to promise things he should not. Perhaps he has had too few good things since arriving in this accursed land, and that is why Finrod is burrowing beneath his skin so quickly and with such precision.

Perhaps it is just Finrod being so beautifully golden that it scalds sticking his hands into the molten center of him. Curufin does not know. Knows only that he is cut through with longing and no longer knows how to close the wounds.

☀︎

Several weeks later, Curufin returns to his rooms to find Finrod sprawled across his settee, a wine bottle dangling from his fingers, and a blank look upon his face as he stares at the ceiling.  He wonders suddenly, if he should not have pushed harder at Finrod's obvious avoidance of any real answers given in regard to his strange moods.

“Findaráto,” he says evenly, closing the door and tossing his jacket aside. “I did not realize I had invited you into my rooms today.” 

Finrod does not answer, only continues staring at the ceiling, fingers tapping out an uneven rhythm where his hand rests on his stomach. Curufin frowns, glancing around his room and frowning harder when he spots another wine bottle carelessly lying sideways on the floor. He moves across the room, standing next to the settee and staring down at Finrod expectantly. Finrod stares back, mouth twisting miserably. 

“What is wrong with you? I do not recall hearing of any new tragedies having befallen today,” he says, an uneasy worry curdling in his chest and blunting any impatience he may feel. 

"How do you think this ends?" Finrod asks quietly, closing his eyes as if the sight of Curufin pains him. "It was easy to pretend before, was it not? That all of this would turn out well in the end, even if not quite in the way we wanted. But now—" his voice breaks and he half-sits up, taking another long drink of wine. 

Curufin plucks the bottle right out of his hand, ignoring the outraged noise Finrod makes. He seats himself on the settee, tugging Finrod's head back down and onto his lap. "What are you going on about?" he asks, even as he slowly begins undoing Finrod's braids. They're terribly mussed and tangled in spots, as if Finrod had been pulling at his own hair. 

“Tears unnumbered ye shall shed," Finrod murmurs, and a chill goes down Curufin's spine. "How do you think this ends? We cannot win." 

If Finrod were saying the words in scorn, in derision, in anger, then Curufin may have been able to kindle the rage sitting in his chest. As it is, he can only sigh as he carefully drags his fingers through Finrod’s hair, coaxing the tangles out. “You are being depressingly maudlin. None of this is new. What has brought this on?” 

"Always darkness," Finrod says, the words nonsensical. His eyes are still closed, and as Curufin watches, a tear escapes, slipping down his cheek. "No matter what we do, I look, and I see nothing but darkness." 

Curufin must close his own eyes as understanding sweeps over him. “You should not look then,” he says, voice coming out harsher than he’d meant for it to. It is one thing to hear that they are doomed when it is merely words from a forsaken land. It is another entirely to hear that it ends in darkness and doom because Finrod has seen it. 

Finrod does not answer, dragging in a shaking breath, and Curufin relaxes in his seat, still running his fingers through Finrod’s hair. Does not allow himself to dwell on the words at all. He knows there are few ways for any of this to end. He simply does not allow himself to dwell on the thoughts, knowing well that to give the thoughts power only hastens the enemy's triumph. 

“Sometimes,” Finrod says quietly, voice wavering, “I wonder if it would have been better to have never left Tirion.” 

Curufin’s chest goes brutally tight. “That sounds boring,” he mutters, tugging lightly at Finrod’s hair. “You cannot tell me you would prefer to still be in Aman.” 

Finrod makes a low, harsh noise and twists, burying his face against Curufin’s stomach. “Always darkness,” Finrod says, voice muffled. “Every path leads to darkness. We are doomed no matter what we do, Atarinkë.” 

“Perhaps,” he says evenly, refusing to acknowledge how ill he feels at Finrod’s words. “But it matters not. We must keep trying regardless.” 

Finrod makes another miserable noise, fingers tightening in Curufin’s robes, and he sighs, standing and lifting Finrod into his arms in one smooth movement. “You will feel better after you have slept this off. And then we will speak on your foolish decision to keep searching through a future that does nothing but upset you.” Curufin lays Finrod in the bed, brushing his hair out of his face and bending to kiss him. “It is not all bad, Ingoldo,” he says quietly, pressing a kiss to the corner of Finrod’s eye. “You are meant to be the optimist between us, should you not know this?” 

“Stay,” Finrod says in return, voice fragile in a way Curufin has never been allowed to hear it. 

It makes Curufin's chest go even tighter, heart crawling up his throat and threatening to spill all over the sheets. He does not answer, but he kisses Finrod again before undressing and joining him in the bed. Finrod curls up against him, and this time Curufin is sure that this is trust he is being granted. Is sure that this has become something far, far bigger than he'd ever meant for it to. 

It is unfortunate, that he has no intention of letting it go now that he has managed to grasp onto it. 

☀︎

Following Finrod’s melancholy and Curufin’s allowing of it, his attempts at comfort, Finrod takes to watching him strangely. It is not a calculating gaze, which may have put Curufin on edge, only a perplexed look that he often dons when he believes Curufin will not see.  But he spies it out of the corner of his eye, in mirrors, when he turns quicker than Finrod can conceal it.

On this, Curufin does not push, not sure he wishes to hear what words pushing would draw forth. Instead, he works Finrod up about this policy or that courtier, pokes fun at the edain until Finrod slams him against a wall in a rare fit of true anger. He spends fewer and fewer nights alone. Allows Finrod to take more and more liberties with his body in bed, takes more and more in return. But he does not push at the emotion Finrod tries to hide from him.

Still, eventually, a couple of months later, Finrod approaches the subject.

“I am surprised you have not grown tired of this yet,” Finrod says idly one afternoon, sprawled across his bed, staring at the ceiling as he attempts to give the impression that the words mean little to him.

Curufin stills where he had been about to toss his cloak aside before joining Finrod. “What is there to grow tired of?” he asks, voice sharp.

Finrod hums, a high note that catches on the lights and causes their beams to waver. "I am simply surprised that you still come to my bed so frequently. I would not have expected it of you." His voice is so light and airy that if Curufin did not know better, he may have believed it.

Curufin has had many months to prepare for this conversation. It is an inevitable thing that must spill between them before they can continue as they are. This does not make him any more prepared to have it. This does not grant him the words to speak.

"Do you wish me gone from your bed then?" is what comes out, words biting and mocking. He does not like that he wishes to stay in Finrod's bed. Would prefer if this were merely a passing fancy so that he may shrug and leave without another thought.

"Did I say that?" Finrod asks, sitting up and finally looking at him. For all his attempted levity, there is a tight look to his face. "So defensive. It was only an observation."

Curufin scowls, hesitating before tossing his cloak aside as intended and stalking toward the bed. Finrod imperceptibly leans forward as he approaches, eyes fluttering closed when Curufin slides his fingers into Finrod's hair and tugs his head back far enough for it to be uncomfortable. "If you wish me to leave your bed, you may say so," he says harshly, even as he gently curls his fingers around Finrod's throat. "If you do not, then ask what you mean to ask."

Finrod swallows hard, meeting Curufin's gaze, a challenge in his eyes. "Why are you still coming to my bed? It has been nearly two years, Curufinwë. I expected you to grow tired of this months and months ago."

"And I will ask you again, what is there to grow tired of?" Curufin knows what it is Finrod wishes for him to say. He does not know if he wants to say it. Does not know if he could, even if he did want to.

There's a terribly long, crackling moment of silence, Finrod wrapping his fingers around Curufin's wrist and digging his nails into the thin skin. His eyes are very, very blue as he studies Curufin's face, and sometimes, when Finrod stares at him, Curufin almost feels he can catch a glimpse of the helcaraxë hidden in the depths of Finrod's eyes. The ice that had followed him into Beleriand, haunting footsteps and trying to find new skin to slide beneath, new blood to freeze. 

In the end, Finrod only sighs and says, "Come to bed, dear one," voice unbearably gentle as he curls his fingers into Curufin's tunic and pulls.

Curufin flushes hot at the endearment, desire choking him abruptly and viciously. He goes, pressing Finrod down into the bed and kissing the words from his lips.

It is not an answer, except for all the ways that it is.

☀︎

"You must know your little tryst with our dear cousin is not going to end well?" Celegorm says to him when the second year passes, and it becomes clear Curufin intends to continue on the way he has been. Celegorm is leaning against the wall of the forge once more, harassing Curufin in a place he cannot easily walk away from.

Curufin scowls, tossing his braid over his shoulder. "I do not understand why it bothers you so," he snaps, already annoyed with the conversation. "I was under the impression that you liked Findaráto. Has he not always been one of your more favored cousins?"

"He is," Celegorm agrees easily, flashing a smile that's all fang. "He's a vicious bastard even if he would rather not let on. That doesn't change that this is not going to end well."

He purses his lips and turns back to his work, ignoring Celegorm. It is not as if he does not know this. It is not as if Finrod does not know this. But it will end in hurt feelings and blood and darkness one way or another, whether they are in each other's beds or at each other's throats. Violence begets violence, and that is all this family has ever been at its core. It will not stop him from snatching what little happiness he can from the mess.

Celegorm sighs after a while, when it becomes clear Curufin will be giving no answer, and walks over, slinging his arm around Curufin's shoulders. "You are going to get hurt," Celegorm says, "and then I will have to tear Finrod's throat out, which will be inconvenient for everyone involved."

Curufin swallows down the words that had instinctively risen in his throat, a snarled threat to leave Finrod alone. If it comes to that, Curufin will handle it on his own. "I will be just fine, Tyelko. But I thank you for your concern."

His brother scoffs but knocks their heads together gently, so he is forgiven. He is sure this is far from the last time he will have to endure Celegorm's concern, but it is a small price to pay.

☀︎

Finrod grows less concerned with secrecy after the conversation that was not truly a conversation, though neither of them have put much effort into concealing their comings and goings from each other's rooms. If Celegorm is to be believed, and Curufin does believe him, then all of Nargothrond is well aware that they are sleeping together. Yet, they have still had a modicum of decency and kept their business behind closed doors.

But now, Finrod begins pulling him into shadowed alcoves to kiss for a few minutes as they pass each other by, heedless of any who may stumble upon them. Curufin thinks about counseling against it, about the implications of them being so open about sleeping together, and instead of uneasiness, all that rushes through him is a choking possessiveness. It is one thing for a city to know that its king has a regular lover, an open secret that, if not shamefully kept, is still kept close. It is another entirely for the king to treat their lover as one would treat someone they are courting. 

They do end up having people stumble upon them here and there. They are always greeted with wide eyes and an apology before the person leaves. Finrod is kind in this as well, smiling and assuring whoever it is that they've caused no harm, all sugary sweet as if he was not just moments ago biting at Curufin's mouth and pressing bloodless crescents into his skin. Curufin only stares until the people leave, before licking the sweetness of the words from Finrod’s mouth. 

Finrod has an ever-growing rotation of endearments that he begins to whisper against Curufin’s skin and against his mouth, each one leaving Curufin feeling overheated and terrified. Dear one, my song, my star, my fire in the night. It leaves words slamming against the back of his own teeth, words he will not, cannot say. He is not able to so sufficiently lie to himself that he is not aware of what it is they are doing. He knows. He knows. 

Finrod crawls into his bed and into his heart, and he is helpless to stop it. Would not, even if he could. He sinks his teeth into the heart of it all and tightens his fingers around Finrod's body until he can almost believe he will be able to hold onto the fragile relationship growing between them.

Almost. 

Always almost. 

But Curufin has never truly been able to hold onto a single thing his hands have touched with true want. It is only a matter of time before this slips through his fingers as well. 

☀︎

Chapter End Notes

Curufin: if I simply don’t look at it then the plot isn’t there and everything is very aggressively fine

The plot: 🤨

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Here is my hand, my heart, my throat, my wrist.
Here are the illuminated cities at the center of me, and here
is the center of me,
which is a lake,
which is a well that we can drink from, but I can't go through with it.

I just don't want to die anymore.

Saying Your Names | Richard Siken

☀︎

It is several months after the conversation that was not a conversation that the entire situation once more gets turned on its head. Curufin is preparing for the day as Finrod lounges in bed and watches. He is sated and satisfied, which would usually mean that he is unlikely to move for another hour. It is surprising then, when Finrod does rise; the dressing gown he dons hangs loose around him, a mocking charade of modesty. 

"Come," Finrod says lightly, grabbing his wrist and directing him toward the vanity, "let me fix your hair."

"There is nothing wrong with my hair," he says, frowning and resisting the urge to touch the simple braids self-consciously. "Has your sight finally gone along with your sense?”

"Come," Finrod says again, hands unyielding as he pushes Curufin into the seat.

He considers arguing, brushing Finrod off and going about his day, but curiosity keeps him seated. Finrod undoes his braids swiftly, running gentle fingers through his hair. Finrod's eyes are fixed on Curufin's hair as he braids and pins, plucking various ornaments from the table here and there to weave into the design. Curufin's eyes stay locked on Finrod's face in the mirror, bottom lip caught between teeth in a rare show of uncertainty. 

"There," Finrod says after a while, fingers brushing their way over Curufin's ears and down his neck, before grabbing the hand mirror and holding it up behind Curufin. "What do you think?"

Curufin looks and loses his voice entirely. 

Finrod has braided half of his hair into several loose braids and wound them into a high half-knot; a multitude of small, tightly woven braids wound around the knot and left cascading down his back. It will keep his hair out of the way easily enough, is not so elaborate as to be truly eye-catching, though it is not a style commonly seen on any of the Noldor. No, if that were all there were to it, then Curufin would be content, if not confused by Finrod's insistence on doing his hair. What causes his voice to freeze in his throat is what Finrod has woven into the braids. Tiny, shining beads, those that would blend nicely with Finrod's hair but stand out sharply against the darkness of his own. Many hold simple patterns or symbols — flowers, shells, stars — but the rest, the rest are all perfectly marked with the symbol of Finrod’s house, the eyes of the snake adorning each bead a brilliant, poisonous green. 

It is a statement. 

It is as good as a collar around Curufin's throat, proclaiming for all to see, your king has spoken for me.

Finrod is watching his face in the mirror, tension lingering in the creases of his eyes. "Will it suit, do you think?" he asks softly, trailing his fingers down Curufin's throat once more.

He catches Finrod's wrist, turning his head and pressing his mouth to the center of Finrod's palm. Curufin thinks of Celegorm saying, you are going to get hurt, and knows it is true. Knows that he is fated to mourn this when the doom finally catches up to them. 

He turns in the seat, drawing Finrod into his lap, all tempting skin, silk slipping down his shoulders, and drags him into a kiss. Finrod melts into it, hands coming up to frame Curufin's face as he presses in close. Curufin could die in this spot, and he might count it a blessing. A beautiful ending to a tragedy he's always known he'll likely die in.

"You cannot take this back," he murmurs. 

"Why ever would I want to take it back?" Finrod asks, voice light and satisfied. His eyes though, when Curufin meets them, are burning with hunger.

He breathes out slowly, brushing a kiss over Finrod's shoulder, his mad pulse, the satisfied curve of his mouth. There are words stuck in his throat, begging to be released, but he swallows them back down. Lifts Finrod and switches their positions. Finrod settles in the seat, making a surprised noise as Curufin goes to his knees.

The silk parts easily and Finrod moans so beautifully when Curufin takes his cock in hand and swallows him down. He works Finrod to hardness quickly, before slowing and hiking one of Finrod's legs over his shoulder. Finrod is still wet and loose from earlier and gasps as Curufin fucks two fingers in, back arching, fingers digging into his thighs since he cannot clutch at Curufin's hair without ruining it. He takes his time, relishing every moan, every choked whimper, the trembling of Finrod’s thighs, the shaking fingers trailing along his jaw as he takes Finrod’s cock all the way down into his throat. 

“Curvo,” Finrod chokes out, voice rough. Curufin glances up, feeling nearly sick with want, and finds Finrod watching him as if he has handed over far more of himself than he’d meant to. Finrod swallows hard, holding his gaze and pressing a finger to the corner of his mouth, shivering when Curufin fucks his fingers in hard. “Beloved,” he says gently, eyes blown out with greed and a want so deep Curufin could lose himself in it. 

He hears himself make a choked, high-pitched, desperate noise that would be embarrassing if he had any thought to spare for the emotion. Finrod makes a pained noise in return, heedlessly shoving fingers into his hair and pushing his head all the way down, choking him as Finrod spills down his throat with a moan. He swallows as best he can, coughing harshly when he pulls off and catching Finrod in his arms when he immediately slides off the chair and into Curufin's lap, pulling him into a desperate kiss. 

They are neither of them in a very balanced position, and it is rather inevitable when the kiss grows too desperate, and they end up tumbling backwards onto the floor, saved only from a truly uncomfortable fall by the plush rugs Finrod has in his rooms. As it is, they merely reposition themselves and continue kissing. Curufin is hard and aching in his breeches, and Finrod is a long line of sinful warmth as he grinds down on Curufin's cock. 

“Beloved,” Finrod murmurs against his mouth, grinding down again and swallowing down the moan that tears out of him. 

“Stop,” he manages to bite out, attempting to pull Finrod back into the kiss. 

Finrod pays him no mind, kissing his jaw, and then biting down savagely on his throat, working a bruise high enough on it that Curufin will either have to sing it away or leave it visible for all to see. “Beloved,” he says again, repeating the word again and again as he rocks his hips and marks Curufin up like it will kill him to leave any skin unbruised. 

Curufin wants him to shut up, to say it louder, to mean it. Feels a little as if there is something deep inside of his chest that is close to shattering if Finrod does not shut up. Finally succeeds in pulling Finrod back up and kissing him, which rather effectively shuts him up. It does not last though, as the pleasure begins to spiral higher and higher, and he grips Finrod’s hips tight, rutting up against him as he chases the fall. 

“Dearest one,” Finrod says softly, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Beloved.” Another kiss to the other cheek as he ignores Curufin’s muttered orders to stop. And then, like a sword against the aching veins of his heart, “My love.” 

His vision goes black as he spills, gasping and overly sensitive, Finrod’s mouth a brand against his skin. He does not stop shaking for several long minutes as the pleasure tears through him, Finrod’s words ringing in his ears. He makes no move to get up once he regains his senses, only tightens his arms around Finrod, and keeps his eyes closed so that he does not have to see whatever it is that Finrod’s face is doing. 

"A bath, I think," Finrod says after a while, running his fingers along the bruises he has left scattered all over Curufin's neck. "I am in need of one and, despite my best efforts, we have messed up both your hair and your clothes. So, you may as well join me.” 

He snorts, twisting them and pinning Finrod to the floor, fragile bones and a racing pulse caught tight in his fists. Finrod stares up at him, eyes as endless as the sky, and filled with a tentative hope. The words are stuck in his throat, waiting to be said, but—

—Curufin cannot say it back. 

He cannot. 

He breathes out in a rush, pressing his forehead against Finrod’s. “Okay,” he says softly, wishing they could stay in this bubble of fragile intimacy forever. “Okay. Let’s go bathe, Ingo. You can sing these bedamned bruises away while we’re at it.” 

Finrod’s laugh is a fragile, shaking thing, but his kiss is warm and sure and full of promise. Curufin should not, should try to tear the roots from the ground and flee, but he only kisses back. 

He knows he is going to get hurt. He’s long past caring. 

☀︎

Finrod puts the braids back in Curufin's hair before he leaves the room, and Curufin lets him. Gently touches the beads, mind already spinning through options on how to best lay his own claim on Nargothrond’s king. 

Celegorm’s outraged expression when he sees Curufin’s hair would have been almost funny, if he did not know that he would have to hear about it at length later. Celebrimbor’s face cycles through shock to disbelief to dim horror before settling on disbelief. He does not say a word though, and Curufin has no interest in hearing other people’s opinions on the matter, so he does not ask. 

Still, looks follow him around the city all day and then all through the week, despite the braids no longer being in his hair. The statement has been made with a vividness that will not fade. Finrod had spent that first day looking insufferably pleased whenever his gaze landed on Curufin, preening like a cat that has just successfully made a particularly difficult kill. The look becomes only slightly less insufferable once the braids have left his hair. 

He should likely mind this far more than he does, but he is quite sure, that in the end, it will be him having the last laugh. Everyone seems to be under the impression that Finrod has collared him, claimed him as one would claim someone beneath them, that it is a scale tipped only in Finrod’s favor. Whether this is because they simply do not think Finrod will allow himself to be claimed in the same way or because they do not think Curufin will have the nerve to attempt to claim him, he does not know nor care. 

It will be less amusing for them when he has placed his own claim around Finrod’s throat. 

☀︎

“Are you in love with him?” Celebrimbor asks him abruptly one day as they’re working together. 

Curufin tries to spend at least a couple of days a week in the forge with Celebrimbor and almost regrets that now as he nearly takes his finger off in surprise, instead shattering the delicate filigree he'd had set to the side. He curses, setting his hammer aside and glaring at his son, who grimaces back at him apologetically. 

“Sorry,” he says, not sounding it at all, “I should have waited for you to put your tools down.” 

“Or,” he says dryly, “you could mind your own business and not worry about mine.” He frowns at the shattered filigree before sighing, resigned to melting it down and starting over. 

“Are you in love with him?” Celebrimbor asks again, a distinctly stubborn tone to the words. “Or,” he continues, shoulders tight and anxious, “is this some political maneuver where you do not actually care for him at all?” 

Curufin does not answer for a moment, busying himself with setting the silver to melt again. “What does it matter?” he asks finally, unwilling to admit the truth, and not entirely sure what has made his son so worried about the second option that he has felt it necessary to bring it up. 

Celebrimbor makes a choked noise, face pained when Curufin glances at him with a raised eyebrow. “Tyelko said that you are—”

He sighs explosively, gesturing sharply. "Ignore whatever Tyelko has said in his stupidity." He hesitates, eyeing his son, and then looks to the silver shimmering as it melts. "I am not going to hurt him," he says after another moment. It is entirely possible the words will end up being a lie, but he does not have any intention of purposefully doing so. 

"You let him do your hair," Celebrimbor says, and it is not quite an accusation, but it is close. "You wore his sigil." 

“I did,” he agrees, for it is a simple fact. 

“And you are in love with him?” 

He grits his teeth, breathing in and out slowly. “Whether I am or am not is irrelevant,” he bites out. “It is not for you to worry about, Tyelpe.” 

His son laughs, a full-belly laugh, and he still does not look quite at ease, but he does look very, very amused. "Atar," he says, slightly apologetic, "If you were not, you would have said so already. I would not have needed to ask a second time."  

“It does not matter," he snaps, skin prickling uneasily, stomach turning over with nausea. "Go back to your work; do not worry about my relationship with Findaráto.” 

Celebrimbor frowns at him but turns back to the lanterns he'd been engraving. Curufin does not apologize for snapping, but he does hug Celebrimbor tight before they leave the forge that night.

Celebrimbor sighs and hugs him back, says quietly, "You seem happier these days. I'm glad."

Curufin does not acknowledge the words, but they settle in the back of his mind and haunt him.

☀︎

It is only two days later that his captain, Axohatal, approaches him, the beads seemingly having signaled the topic as something it is now acceptable to bother him about. 

"Shall I take this as an indication that we will be residing in Nargothrond permanently then?" she asks smoothly, face free of any judgement. If she had not been with Curufin when they arrived in Beleriand, he might even have believed the facade of neutrality. 

“You ask me this as if we were planning to leave soon,” he says, raising an eyebrow. 

“No, but we were planning on leaving, were we not?” 

He sighs, running his thumbnail over the pad of his index finger as he thinks. “Yes, I suppose we were.” He does not wish to admit that he has not given it any thought as to whether this changes things in that regard. Imagines he should probably start thinking about these things. 

Though, in truth, even that is a lie. He knows. He knows the answers to all these questions; he just has never explicitly let the thoughts drift through his mind. He prefers the not knowing. Prefers the pretense that this is a temporary thing that can be easily discarded when needed. 

“And now?” Axohatal asks, eyebrows raising only slightly. 

“And now, it seems as if it is unlikely we will be leaving, the state of Beleriand being irrelevant to the decision.” 

“I see.” She shifts as if to leave and pauses, studying him. “Some are uneasy with the idea of you and your cousin being so closely linked.” 

It is nothing Curufin had not expected. It still nettles him to hear. “That is unsurprising. Are they uneasy with it to a degree that I should be concerned?” 

“Not yet. I will report if it reaches that point.” 

“Good. And, do I need to be concerned about you?” 

“No, my lord. I will not pretend to understand what it is you are doing, but it is not for me to concern myself with.” 

He nods, waving a hand dismissively, and she bows before leaving. 

He sits at his desk for a long time after she leaves, carefully clearing his mind and doing his very best to think on none of it at all. Later, he promises himself. First, he will place his own claim on Finrod, a return statement. Then, then he will think on the rest. 

☀︎

The necklace Curufin makes is a necklace, though he had been tempted to make a proper collar. It is subtle, in much the same way the beads are when Finrod braids them into his hair.

Delicate silver chains interlocking like lace to wrap around Finrod's throat thrice and waterfall across his collarbone and upper chest. Tiny jewels placed along the chains to shimmer in the light, many colorless diamonds or yellow and green garnets that match Finrod's sigil nicely. But what makes it a claim, a near collar regardless of the design, is the brilliant blood-red jewel etched with the Fëanorian star, with Curufin's sigil, that will rest in the hollow of Finrod's throat for all to see. Not so large as to be gaudy, just the right size for the sigil to be easily marked and visible, to draw the eye without pulling attention fully from the necklace.

He stares at the necklace for a long time when he finishes it, asking himself if he truly wishes to place this around Finrod's neck. Such a large claim — the king of Nargothrond; Curufin's beautiful, golden cousin; and himself still married in the eyes of Eru — and he knows it turns this into something far closer to a promise of permanency than he had ever intended to give. A promise that has been building in his throat but that he has not been able to speak.

He takes the necklace with him to Finrod's rooms.

Of course he takes the necklace with him. He should perhaps stop trying to fool himself into thinking this is anything other than what it is. Curufin greedily trying to sink his teeth into Finrod's heart and keep it.

Finrod is not there when Curufin arrives, and he places the box containing the necklace on the vanity, going to lounge on the bed as he waits. He must doze off, for he wakes some time later to Finrod's hand on his cheek and the warm press of his mouth. He hums into it, covering Finrod's hand with his own.

"It is always a nice surprise to find you waiting for me in my bed," Finrod murmurs, affection thick in his voice.

Curufin kisses him again, tempted to draw Finrod into bed and leave the necklace for later, but the desire to see it around Finrod's neck is too strong.

"Come, I have something for you," he says, rising and directing Finrod to the vanity.

Finrod says nothing when Curufin opens the box, only stares at the necklace, mouth parted in thought. He pulls his hair out of the way a moment later, glancing up at Curufin with ocean-dark eyes, and says, half-dare, half-hunger, "Go on then."

Curufin fastens the necklace around Finrod's neck, pressing up against his back and curling his fingers around Finrod's throat after, right above where the red jewel sits stark against Finrod's skin. "Well," he murmurs next to Finrod's ear, "I suppose I must keep you now."

Finrod shivers, breath catching. "I suppose so," he says back quietly. In the mirror, Finrod's eyes are blown out with want, and Curufin tips his head back, kissing him slowly. Finrod responds beautifully, a low whine slipping out of his mouth when Curufin squeezes his throat slightly.

He presses his mouth to the side of Finrod's throat, against the necklace still cool to the touch. Finrod makes a ragged noise as Curufin slowly begins undoing his robes, slipping them off one shoulder and then the other, hunger hooking itself irreversibly inside of his lungs.

The necklace is beautiful against Finrod's bare skin, glittering and saying everything Curufin cannot bring himself to put into words.

"Keep me," Finrod says softly, meeting his eyes in the mirror, "For how long do you plan on doing so?"

He must be mad, for without any conscious thought given to the words, he says, low and fierce, "Until the stars go out."

"When the world is made anew, there will still be stars, do you not think so?"

"Yes," he says, chest aching, "I believe there will still be stars."

Finrod's eyes slip closed as he shivers again, swallowing hard. Curufin feels a little like he's moving through a dream, something too boiling sweet for him to be allowed to touch.

He takes Finrod to bed, fucks him slow in front of the mirror, watching the light glittering off the necklace and the way Finrod melts, eyes locked on Curufin's face.

"Just look at you," he murmurs, ghosting his fingers over Finrod's cock, and down to the place where they're joined. He pulls Finrod's thighs apart even farther, giving himself a better view of his cock pressed inside of Finrod's body. "What would your kingdom think of you if they knew how eagerly you spread your legs for me?" He kisses Finrod's neck, biting down gently, and smiling at the breathless noise of want that slides from Finrod's tongue.

"I imagine they would understand, if they knew how very lovely your cock was," Finrod chokes out, voice cracking when Curufin grinds up into him.

"Using me for my body then I see. How crass of you."

Finrod meets his eyes in the mirror, says very clearly, "The heart is also a part of the body. Am I being granted use of it as well?"

Curufin cannot speak; his throat closed up, tongue turned thick and clumsy in his mouth. What can he possibly say to that? He says nothing in the end, cannot, only fists Finrod's cock and takes him apart piece by piece until he is shaking and shattered in Curufin's lap.

If Curufin could, he would trap this moment in amber, a perfect memory captured forever in time. He wants Finrod always this close, always blissed out with Curufin's name his foremost thought. He wants to twist them so close together they are never apart, always soul pressed to soul. A dangerous, impossible wish.

Does it make him a fool that he wishes it regardless? He has never been in the habit of entertaining foolish thoughts; what a disgusting thing to have so easily succumbed to them now.

☀︎

"It is a dangerous claim to make," Finrod says later, running a finger over the necklace as Curufin holds him, mouth pressed to the back of Finrod's neck.

"Is it?"

"If you aren't careful, people might start to think you actually care."

"Indeed," he murmurs, kissing Finrod's shoulder. "How presumptuous of them."

Finrod twists in his arms, eyebrows drawn together as he studies Curufin's face. "Is it?" Finrod asks, bringing his hand up to cradle Curufin's cheek. "Beloved," Finrod says gently, eyes gone soft as summer rain.

Curufin shudders and closes his eyes, turning his head and kissing Finrod's palm. Finrod only tugs him back around, kissing him so gently it hurts. A slow cut through an already open wound.

"Would it be so terrible a thing to admit to?" Finrod asks quietly, their lips still brushing with every word. "Or will you tell me there is nothing to admit?"

"You always ask for so much," Curufin replies, tilting his head slightly, their noses brushing as he presses his lips to the corner of Finrod's mouth. "I have put the work of my hands around your throat. I have allowed you to put the sigil of your house in my hair. What more do you wish of me, Ingo?"

Finrod makes a noise like he's been punched and presses in closer until Curufin can feel Finrod's heartbeat racing next to his own. "Oh, don't you know, Curufinwë? I want everything, to scrape you hollow until I have learned all there is to know of you.”

"You will have to work harder to earn all of that," he murmurs, though he knows Finrod can feel his racing pulse giving him away. "You always ask for so much."

Finrod smiles, sliding his fingers into Curufin's hair and pulling tight. "You let me claim you," he says, voice low and thick with satisfaction, "you should not have done such a thing if you did not want me to reach for the rest of you as well."

There is a peculiar, sour mix of greed and anxiety and want all swirled together in his chest. A sticky, uncomfortable feeling that slowly drips through him, polluting every one of his veins. If he could, Curufin would pluck Finrod's heart from his chest and swallow it down, make sure no one else can ever touch it. Finrod wishes to scrape him hollow, but Curufin wants to devour Finrod. Wants to hoard every piece of him away so that no one but Curufin may ever proclaim to truly know him. And oh, Curufin knows this will not last, knows it is all doomed to end in pain and broken hearts; he knows.

Knowing does not stop him from tapping lightly on his sigil where it is resting against Finrod's skin and saying, "It suits you. Will you wear it to court tomorrow?"

“Are you asking me to?” 

“Did I not just do so?” 

Finrod smiles, a private, secret smile—a small twist of the lips that says, I see you. “I will wear it for as long as you allow me the same liberties with your hair. You may collar me if you wish, and do not deny that a collar is what you see when you look at this necklace, but do not think that I have forgotten that when I called you my dog, you did not deny it.” 

Curufin’s heartbeat is pounding in his ears, each breath feeling far too shallow to do his lungs any good. He tells himself to deny it now, to tell Finrod he is being preposterous, that allowing a claim on his body does not mean that Curufin is a trained dog for Finrod to bring to heel. He tells himself that, but his tongue feels thick and clumsy in his mouth, and he instead only watches Finrod, waiting for something, though he could not say what. 

His silence only causes Finrod’s smile to grow, his eyes glinting with satisfaction. “It is in your eyes,” Finrod says, kissing Curufin very gently. “If I told you to berate Nordhir at tomorrows council for his latest guild proposal, would you not do so?” 

“You like that proposal,” he returns, everything feeling muted and warm. 

“I do,” Finrod says, stroking his thumb over Curufin’s cheek. “That does not answer my question.”

“No,” he says after a minute, voice almost steady. "If you had a good argument for why I should do so, I would consider it. But I will not be led about as if I have no opinions on such matters." 

Finrod laughs, delighted as he twists and pins Curufin’s wrists above his head quick as a blink. “Would you not?” Finrod asks quietly, mouth hovering over Curufin’s. “If I took your pretty cock and let you fuck me until I bruised, if I asked you to do so while you were too consumed by the pleasure my body gives you to care, would you not do so?” 

“You would let me fuck you until you were begging me to stop with no reason needed at all,” he says in return, sinking his teeth into Finrod’s bottom lip and smiling at the taste of blood. 

Finrod hums quietly, licking his lips and nosing at Curufin’s cheek. “A different type of dog then, perhaps I am approaching this at the wrong angle.” 

“There is no—”

“If someone hurt me,” Finrod says quietly against his ear, “if someone laid hands on me, and I asked you to kill them for me, would you?” 

The word is not so much pulled from him as it is ripped. “Yes,” he says harshly. “You would not need to ask me to do so.” 

He can feel Finrod smile against his cheek. “And if I asked you to keep your sword sheathed and your tongue leashed? Would you do that for me as well?” 

Curufin is humiliatingly hard, cock aching from the mere idea of Finrod so blatantly using him as nothing more than a glorified attack dog. "If you asked me to, yes," he says roughly, mouth dry. It is not just a concession, it is a crumbling wall, a landslide, and an avalanche. It is Finrod finding the door to his heart and Curufin quietly handing him the key. It is a bell tolling, counting down the time they have left. Finrod makes a ragged sound and kisses him, digging his nails into Curufin's wrists when he tries to pull them free from Finrod's grip. 

Finrod rocks back against him, guiding Curufin’s cock back into his body, and they both moan, the edge of a whine to Finrod’s voice. There is no urgency to Finrod’s movements, for all that his kisses are hungry and burning. He fucks himself slow and steady on Curufin’s cock, making a punched-out noise when Curufin gets his feet beneath him and fucks up hard, twisting them in the next moment and breaking Finrod’s grip on his wrists. 

“You fucking bastard,” he mutters, fucking in hard again and watching entranced as Finrod arches into it, mouth parted with pleasure, his eyes blown out with desire and locked on Curufin’s face. He leans down, clasping the back of the necklace and pulling it tight enough around Finrod’s throat that he gasps, the whites of his eyes gone wild. “I am not your dog, Findaráto," Curufin says quietly, finally having recovered control of his voice. "You may think what you wish, but I am not here to do your bidding every time you tug on a leash." 

The laugh that spills out of Finrod is all breathless, jagged ice spearing through Curufin's belly and leaving him shivering. "You are whatever I say you are to me," Finrod says, smiling up at him, fully confident in his own words. "A guard dog is still a dog, no matter how loose the leash, and your body betrays you, dear one." 

He drops his forehead to Finrod's collarbone, trying to breathe around the choking want threatening to overwhelm him. He feels nearly as if he could spill from nothing but the hot clench of Finrod's body around his cock and Finrod's words echoing in his ears. Finrod squirms slightly beneath him, trying to encourage him into movement, and just to be spiteful, Curufin does not move. He focuses on his breathing and slowly, his thoughts begin to align themselves again. 

He does not look up until Finrod's hands slide from his shoulders, fingers tracing along the curve of his ears, the edge of his jaw, pressing to his rabbit-fast pulse. When he looks up, he finds Finrod watching him as if he will disappear at any moment. "It will be a shame…" Finrod starts quietly, before trailing off. 

Curufin swallows hard, pressing his mouth to Finrod’s and kissing him slowly. They do not speak much after that, only their names slid between them like a currency for pleasure, and their moans pillowing atop eardrums. Finrod whines when he grows close, his cock twitching in Curufin’s hand, the sound half-muffled and pleading. Curufin would deny Finrod what he wants if he thought himself capable of holding out. As it is, Curufin fists Finrod’s cock, relishing in the slick weight of it in his hand, and then spills with a startled moan as Finrod abruptly tightens around him, spilling across his fingers and keening softly. 

He carefully removes the necklace from Finrod’s neck afterward, laying gentle kisses along the red marks it had left where Curufin had pulled it tight. Finrod sighs and pushes in close until they are fully wrapped around each other. He buries his face in Finrod’s hair, breathing in the scent of roses that has clung to Finrod’s hair for the past few months and, hoping the doom cannot hear him, he finds himself wishing very quietly, that against all odds—

—his relationship with Finrod will be a thing that outlasts this age. That it will escape the doom despite everything telling him it will not.  

His father had told him, when he’d been much younger, that he spent too much time on the dreaming portion of a project, and not enough time thinking of the practicalities of what it was he wanted to create. He is sure he had retorted something that had seemed very smart at the time, but he knows that his father was right, knows too that he never truly grew out of it. Of dreaming so large it only hurt worse when he realized the dream could not be realized without changing it so much that it was not truly his dream any longer. 

Beneath his hands, Finrod feels a little like a dream, a little like a wish—a lot like the sick taste of fear. 

☀︎

Chapter End Notes

Curufin: ah. this is a nice moment. I should probably ruin it by reminding myself that we're doomed doomed super doomed :)

god forbid he let himself have nice things

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