Intercrucumber by annarobots  

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Intercrucumber

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Maedhros felt Fingon flop onto the soft quilt beside him.  He was too undone with pleasure to move.  He was warm, he was safe, his ass was twitching pleasantly, and his spirit felt soft and settled.  He managed a deep groan of satisfaction, echoed by Fingon at his side.

This act had been new to their second lives.  An exciting step, a chance to rediscover their love for each other with fresh bodies unencumbered by centuries of shame.  In the long years of their first lives, they had feared too deeply the consequences of penetrating each other this way.  No, no, they could not, they dared not. 

They didn’t suffer greatly for it: they took their pleasure in other ways, spilling out great spurts of release to be licked off a belly or wiped off a face, thrown into the laundry or swallowed down with gusto.  But never deep inside.  No, it was not worth the risk.  Fingon had much enjoyed playing “beg Maedhros to fuck him for real,” a challenge he knew would not be answered, but would result instead in a passionate assault on Fingon’s senses, and with hand and tongue and other parts of himself, Maedhros would render Fingon boneless and babbling.

Now, though.

Now they fucked constantly. Once they got over the initial awkwardness of reunion and mutual apology, explanation and exhumation of old hurts, once Maedhros’s shame and guilt had been (mostly) burned clean away under the scouring light of Fingon’s love, they fucked every place they could think of.  They fucked in the green pastures of Yavanna, they fucked beneath the canopies of weeping willows, they fucked in broom closets in the Palace of the High King when they could both manage to extricate themselves from unbearably dull court functions.  They fucked on a blanket in the back garden, they fucked up against the walls of their cottage, they fucked on the swing on the wraparound porch.  They fucked under the hot glare of the golden Sun and they fucked beneath the cool light of the silvery Moon.

And today, they had fucked on their bed, while the rain pounded upon the roof and the wind shook the glass in the windowpanes. 

“Ulmo and Manwë are granting us their blessing,” Fingon had groaned in the middle of it.

“Hold my leg back, will you?” replied Maedhros.  “Ah, fuck, yes, there, I’m close.”

Sometimes Maedhros would fuck Fingon, when his cock was agreeable to the notion; more often, Fingon would fuck Maedhros, wrecking him from the inside so it mattered not whether Maedhros stayed hard.  And when Fingon was inside him, Maedhros could lose himself completely, giving himself up to the rock of Fingon’s hips and the thick slide of his hot cock. 

Fucking had grown familiar, routine, even—though never dull—and Maedhros felt sorry for his former self, who had been too afraid to let himself have this, thousands and thousands of years ago.

Here and now, in the safety of their shared bed, he felt Fingon reach out with his thoughts, gentle, asking if he was well.  All well, Maedhros brushed back without moving his lips.  Fingon’s radiating happiness penetrated him and mingled with his own.

This, too, was new to their remade forms, and now familiar.  Unlike the tease they had enjoyed with their bodies, inching right up to the edge of penetration and then slipping just to its side, they had never, ever, ever dared touch one another in mind.  That was too intimate.  Too sacred. Sure, they could jerk each other off and press their sweating skin together, but to venture into the secret darknesses of their souls?  Unimaginable.

And now that, too, seemed just one more silly, made-up boundary.  After countless years as naked spirits in the Halls of Waiting, where the only thing worse than the shame was the loneliness, Maedhros craved Fingon, the entirety of him.  When at last they came together in passion, they collided first in the flesh, thick and rough and slippery, and then, for the first time, they truly met one another’s spirits, falling into each other and filling each other completely.  Two healed souls, two whole bodies.

Well, nearly.

In the bed, Maedhros rolled to his side, snuggling closer to Fingon.  He settled his left hand on Fingon’s ass.  They did not need to speak aloud, but sometimes they did anyway, because it felt good to taste words in one’s mouth.

“You’re amazing,” said Maedhros.  “I love you.”

“I know it.” 

Several more moments passed, in which the only sound was their breath, the rain, and the wind.

“It sounds like the storms in your castle in Dor-lómin,” said Maedhros quietly.

Fingon hummed in agreement.

“Do you miss it?” 

“The castle?  Not really.  It became so unbearably hot in the summertime.  And there was a smell.  Why do you think I gave it away?  And we never did find its source, just suffered it for centuries.” 

“Like rotten potatoes.” Maedhros chuckled, remembering.

“You sound fond,” said Fingon.  “You miss it.”

Maedhros rubbed Fingon’s ass, light, tickling touches.  Then he dragged his hand lower, brushing lightly against Fingon’s softest skin. Fingon hissed but did not pull away. “I miss many things.  It does not mean I do not love our lives now.”

A low rumble of thunder, like the deep purr of a big cat. 

After a moment, Fingon spoke again. “What else do you miss?”

“Oh, this and that.” Maedhros had not intended to dredge up sorrows.  He searched for an answer that would restore the soft, sweet mood.  “Your thighs.”  He squeezed one.

Fingon laughed out loud. “Ha!  If this is what you call missing—”

“I mean fucking your thighs.”  Maedhros slid his hand down between Fingon’s thighs, slowly thrusting his fingers in suggestion of a particular movement.

Fingon clamped down instantly and moaned.  “Russo, you can fuck my thighs any time you like.  I always loved it, too, though I find our current habits entirely satisfactory.”

“Oh?  What did you love?”

“Mmm, the desperation of it all, how badly it tested your impenetrable resolve.  How you wanted to stick it in me but would not.  You would hold me so tightly—yes, fuck, like that—and just pound away like a beast.  Half the time I nearly expected you might slip right inside.  You were so close.”

Maedhros remembered. “At times, I nearly did.”

“I know.  But I knew you would become wretched with guilt if you let it happen.  So, if I felt you struggling to resist, all that stony resolve collapsing, I would talk you into climax.  Remove the temptation.”

Fingon’s dirty talk was deadly, even when it was babbling nonsense.  Maedhros stilled his hand.  “I didn’t know you did that on purpose.  You mean when you begged me to forget the laws of the Valar and all that was holy and good, forget what my father might think and damn the whole world, just put it in and fuck you already, pound your brains out, what was I waiting for—”

“They call it reverse psychology, now.  I knew the begging would bring you off faster than anything else.”

“Well.  That was clever.”  Maedhros glowed with affection and gratitude, to be so known and so loved. 

“Ah, it wasn’t only for your sake!  I also loved the feel of you losing control and spilling all over my thighs.  The pleasure and disappointment and longing all at once—  All right, yes, I see your point.  Thighfucking was very good.  I miss it very much, too.”

Fingon’s cock was beginning to fill in renewing interest, though Maedhros’s remained inert.  No matter.  There were so many ways to please Fingon.  “Do you want my ass again now, or my mouth?”

Fingon’s grey eyes sparkled. “What about your thighs?”

Maedhros rolled onto his stomach and pressed his legs together as tightly as he could.  “Come on,” he said, “do it to me.  Then let’s make popcorn and watch the rain.”

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Not so very many days later, Maedhros and Fingon were side by side in the kitchen, chopping fruits and vegetables for salad.  Bumping his hip, Fingon was in a cheerfully frisky mood: he sang, he teased, he batted his eyelashes.  He licked the knife lasciviously between vegetables.  Maedhros looked forward to peeling that gauzy white tunic right off him, knowing he wore nothing beneath. 

But first, there were apples to peel.  The carrots, radishes, and spring onions were ready to be tossed; the green herbs from the garden were washed, their leaves separated; the nuts were shelled and chopped. 

There were only a few more ingredients left to prepare. 

Maedhros was in charge of making the dressing.  “What do you think?  Balsamic or lemon?”

“We’re all out of the good balsamic,” said Fingon, “and I don’t like the one your brother sent.  I think it’s just regular red wine vinegar with brown sugar mixed in.  I suppose the lemon, then.” 

Maedhros nodded and went to the table that held a wooden bowl overflowing with fragrant citrus.

When he turned around, he nearly dropped the lemon.

Fingon was leaning down against the kitchen counter so low, he was nearly bent at a right angle.  His head rested on his arm, pressed against the counter.  His tunic had ridden up—or been pulled up, more like—exposing the full, ripe curve of his ass.  He sighed dramatically.  “Oh, all this kitchen work has wearied my poor old body.  I simply must take a rest lest I collapse.”  He wiggled his hips.

Maedhros grinned.  All right, then. 

The salad dressing could wait.

“Your ass doesn’t look so weary to me,” said Maedhros, returning to Fingon’s side.  “It looks rather perky, in fact.”  He smacked the ass in question, making Fingon squeal out loud, bend even lower, and wiggle even harder.  “Enthusiastic, you might say.”  He dipped his fingers between Fingon’s cheeks, brushing against his hole.

Fingon gasped theatrically. “You can’t,” he stage-whispered. “Not there, it’s forbidden!  Why, the teachers at Valar Sunday School always said never to touch another down there, that our most private places must be kept pristine and pure, until—oh!  Oh, no, you daren’t!  You mustn’t!”

Maedhros had stuck the tip of his forefinger into Fingon’s hole.  All right? he thought at Fingon.

Osanwë was not perfectly literal verbal communication, of course.  It was rather a language made of impressions and images, and far better for expressing intensity of emotion than specific, complex ideas.  But Fingon’s reply was simple enough: Fuck yes, all right.  And he paired it with a visual aid: Maedhros, bending Fingon over the counter, pressing his face into the stone, and fucking into the tight space between his thighs.

Oh, he was much, much hornier than Maedhros had even realized.

“You’re right, it is forbidden, it’s wrong,” said Maedhros, playing along.  He withdrew his finger and began to unlace his own trousers.  “I shouldn’t be doing this at all, but you just look so sweet and tempting.  You leave me no choice, I must have you!”  His cock, pleasantly surprised by the interruption, was developing an interest and thickened beneath his hand.  It liked games, too.  And even more, it liked Fingon.

“Oh, but I want you to! I want you to take me, and damn what the teachers say!  But what of my future prospects?  Surely no one would have me with a ruined ass.  My poor pious mother would worry so.”

Maedhros had to hold back a laugh as he kept working on his cock with his hand, urging it hard. Fingon was laying on the performance a bit thick, putting on a voice that sounded far more innocent than young Findekáno, who had begun stealing kisses from his elder cousin Nelyafinwë when he was still young enough to wear short pants, had ever been. 

“I’ll have you, ruined or no,” said Maedhros, “I’ll have you every day for the rest of the life of Arda, if you’ll have me.”

Fingon groaned then, at that, sounding much more like himself.  “I will, you know it, Russo.”

“But I’d rather like to ruin you properly, and that can’t be done here in the kitchen.”  Fingon whined.  Maedhros nudged at him with a knee.  “No matter.  I know what you need.  Stay down, do as I say, and put your thighs together.”

Fingon obeyed instantly, snapping his legs shut so fast and hard Maedhros was glad he hadn’t already stuck his cock between them. 

“Hand me that oil.” Fingon obeyed once more.

Maedhros fumbled off the stopper and dribbled a splash of cold-pressed extra virgin olive oil over Fingon’s smooth, hot skin, spreading it with his hand.  Then he applied it to himself, too.  All the while, Fingon moaned and squirmed and babbled with desperation.  “Oh, what are you going to do to me?  I can’t bear to wait any longer, I need you now!  But I’m frightened of your great big cock.  Will it hurt me?  You must be gentle.”  Don’t be gentle, Fingon thought at him.

“Ah, well, it shouldn’t hurt,” answered Maedhros.  He was struggling to improvise dialogue for one key reason: his cock still wasn’t fully cooperating.  It had thickened, yes, half-filled with blood in response to the sight of Fingon’s twinkling ass and the sound of his enthusiastically overwrought demands. But as was all too familiar, the fire in Maedhros’s heart did not flow so easily to his other parts, no matter how much he wanted and lusted for Fingon.  Fuck.   

Fingon, who grasped the reason for the delay, tried escalating, begging, and talking more and more filthily, but his efforts were beginning to have the opposite of its intended effect.  They knew this, too: as they had learned from unfortunate experience, the more they tried to force it, the more Maedhros’s erection would falter.  Indeed, already had he begun to soften, frustration and disappointment weighing down his otherwise scorching desire.

In his eagerness, Fingon hurled another image Maedhros’s way, this one a memory. 

It had been late in the waning years of the Light of the Trees.  And though they had not known at the time that their lives in Valinor were about to change forever with the pull of a sword, there was a strange tension, an urgency between them as they lay together atop Fingon’s bed.  The beeswax candles burned low, Maedhros kissed Fingon sweet and hard, he curled one hand lightly about his throat.  Fingon’s fingers gripped the silky red sheets.  Above, Maedhros moved against him with aching slowness. His cock slid between Fingon’s thighs, brushed against the softest skin beneath his hole, nearly catching at the rim. All was silent but for Maedhros’s ragged breathing. 

The image was laced through with Fingon’s longing, so nakedly desperate it nearly knocked Maedhros over.

And Maedhros remembered what Fingon had told him, that he had known when Maedhros was so close he was in danger of losing control and would talk him into coming on purpose.  He had done this to prevent Maedhros from doing something he would regret, even though Fingon himself had been utterly gagging for it. From the feel of this memory, he would have welcomed Maedhros slamming his cock so deep inside he would feel it in his throat. 

He loved him so much.

Maedhros didn’t want to disappoint him now.  How could he?

Fingon held his position on the counter, but he craned his neck to the side to look at Maedhros. When he spoke he was no longer in character.  “Do you want my hand?  Or we can try again later, after lunch.  Maybe a full belly will help.”

Lunch.

The salad.

The cucumber!

The big, fat, dark green end-of-summer cucumber that had swelled to such preposterous size, Maedhros could hardly hold the full girth of it in the circle of his thumb and forefinger.

Thank the Valar they hadn’t chopped it up yet.

Before he could think too hard about it, Maedhros grabbed the thick, fat cucumber from the counter. His hand was still slick with olive oil, it nearly slid right out until he got a better grip.  Then he moved, quick and decisive; he positioned his body behind Fingon’s, bent over the counter, and with a loud, throaty growl, he shoved the vegetable into the space between Fingon’s legs.

Fingon let out a pleased sound that was halfway between a squawk and a gasp.  Then he clenched hard around the cucumber, moaning in appreciation. “Fuck, Russo, it’s even bigger than I thought.”

“All because of you,” growled Maedhros.  “You’re a pretty sight like this.” 

He felt Fingon’s blush of appreciation at the praise, which was entirely earned.  There was nothing Maedhros liked the look of more than Fingon, facedown beneath him, rocking his hips back and forth as he chased sensation. He held the cucumber at his groin, using his own hips to push it in and out, working at a steady, sensual pace.

“Yes, yes,” Fingon chanted. “Just like that, yes, you feel so good. I knew you would, I’ve wanted this for so long.”

“So have I.  Ages and ages.”  Maedhros punctuated his words with a few particularly rough shoves. 

“Oh, Russo!  Yes, harder, you can do me harder.”

Maedhros hoped the cucumber could take it.  It wasn’t used to this kind of rough treatment.  A sweet potato might have taken a pounding more hardily, or maybe a beet. But ah, it was too late to change the menu now. 

Still, he followed Fingon’s orders with delight, battering away at his thighs, snapping his hips and grunting with pleasure at each beat.  So what if he wasn’t hard?  Fingon was beneath him, moaning and writhing and glowing inside and out.  He was happy. 

They were both happy. 

Maedhros remembered what Fingon had said he liked so much, the feel of Maedhros’s seed all over his skin. Well, that wasn’t so likely to happen. Was there anything else he could do? He swept his gaze over the counter. 

There were a handful of round, juicy cherry tomatoes.  Should he squeeze one over Fingon’s ass until it popped? 

He shared the mental image with Fingon, whose shoulders began to shake. 

Instead of grabbing the tomatoes, Maedhros slammed his hips in hard one more time and stayed there, teasing at Fingon’s hole with the thick end of the cucumber.  “Fuck, I want to be inside you so bad.  But I just… can’t….” 

“You can!  Do it, I don’t care anymore.”

“No, I can’t, I can’t.”

“Please, please do it, Russo, fuck me.  I want it, I’m so ready for you.”  Fingon widened his stance, separating his thighs, arching his back, and tipping up his ass. 

What a pretty display he made.

“I want it, too,” breathed Maedhros.  He leaned over Fingon and kissed the back of his sweating neck.  “Maybe just a little bit.  Oh, this feels so wrong, but so good.  Eru, forgive me.”  He pressed the cucumber harder against Fingon’s hole.  It would be so, so easy to slip in the tip—what could it hurt? What could it possibly hurt, now, after all he had done?

Fingon wiggled.  The tip of the cucumber was right against his hole, nearly inside.  “Ahh, you feel amazing.  You’re so hard and thick and… bumpy.”

Maedhros had tears in his eyes trying not to cackle out loud.  “Is it good for you?  Do we need more oil?  A dash of pepper?”   

“Russo!”  Fingon’s voice was full of laughter.  He slapped his hands against the stone of the counter. “If you sprinkle pepper on my ass, I’m out of here.”

“What if I lick it off right away?”

A pause, while Fingon considered. 

Maedhros’s stomach rumbled. 

It was, after all, lunch time.

“All right,” Fingon said. “I’m going to regret this.  Do it quick, before I change my mind!”

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A little while later, Maedhros’s mouth tasted far more of seed than pepper. 

“All right?” he asked Fingon, who had slid, boneless, to the floor beside him.  His tunic was ruined, olive oil everywhere. 

“All right,” Fingon confirmed.  He had that silly look on his face that meant he was very, very happy indeed. 

“Not too much?” Maedhros had briefly feared that the pepper idea had proved disastrous, when Fingon’s moans had risen to a kind of shriek he hadn’t heard since times of war and strife.  But he had then pushed back into Maedhros’s face so hard, there was no choice but to press on.

“Not too much.” Fingon tugged Maedhros down so he wouldn’t be kneeling on the hard floor.  They slumped comfortably together against the cabinets.  “Honestly, I might like to try something even spicier.  The pepper stung, but then the feeling faded fast beneath the attentions of your tongue.  Those red chiles are nearly ready for harvest, and to my recollection, their fire lasts a bit longer.”

“Those are for pickling,” said Maedhros.

“Sure, you can stick them up me pickled.  Why not?”

Maedhros’s belly rumbled. “That’s what I love about you. You’re always up for a challenge. Why, even after all these years, to have discovered some new kink that gets you off—”

“Something old, more like.”

“All right, yes, the thighfucking is an old trick, but—”

“Don’t argue.  I mean to say, you’re what gets me off.  Always have, always will.  Whether you use your hands or your cock or a great big vegetable. It’s you, love.  You’re my kink.”

A lump rose in Maedhros’s throat, and it wasn’t the pepper.  He snuggled close to Fingon, wrapped an arm around his shoulders, kissed his brow.  He did not speak for a long moment.

“I am still hungry, though,” said Maedhros at last.  “We still haven’t eaten lunch.”

“Right, then,” said Fingon. “You finish the dressing.  I’m going to wash up.  You think you can manage on your own?”

“Of course,” said Maedhros. Then he had another thought. “Actually, before you wash, can you go out to the garden?”

“Yeah, sure.  What for?”

“A fresh cucumber, of course!  I’ll eat your ass, love, but I’m not eating that vegetable.  Not with all the dressing in Valinor.”

Fingon’s laugh was clear as the summer sky.