Five Times a Son of Fëanor Came in Somebody Else’s Pants (And the Time One Didn’t) by annarobots  

1.

“Ambarussa!” 

“Yes, Ambarussa?”

“Did you come in these pants and put them back in the wardrobe?”

“… Damn.  I meant to put them in the wash for Maid.”

“That isn’t what I asked!”

“What’s the big deal? We share everything.”

“This is a step too far, even for us.  From now on, jizz pants are individual property.”

“… Okay, then, I have bad news about the ones you’ve got on.”

2.

Findekáno’s pants smelled of wild honey, stallion sweat, and something else—something that was uniquely Findekáno.  Perhaps the gooseberry pie he’d sat on.

Maitimo had planned to give the pants back to Findekáno.  Really.  He’d left them behind by mistake one day, after one of their usual manly, cousinly, and entirely platonic sleepovers.  Yes, Maitimo was going to return the pants.  He would, and he meant to.  Eventually.

But not before he’d sniffed every last whiff of Findekáno out of them.

Until then, Maitimo was in no hurry to give them up.

At present, Maitimo lay on his bed, the crotch of the pants over his face, smothering himself in the rich ripeness of Findekáno essence.  He had one pant leg around his shoulders as though in embrace, the other.  Well.  The other—

The other leg, Maitimo had wrapped around his cock like a sleeve, snug, secure, warm in his hand, the rough cloth just strange enough a drag on his skin to convince himself that he wasn’t thrusting into a pant leg at all, but a place yet more intimate, a tight channel, perhaps, a passage to Findekáno’s innermost depths, his darkest secrets, a home in which Maitimo could reside, could bury himself alive.  He gasped as he imagined the breathless breach, the slow slide, the steady slap of skin against skin, Findekáno crying out beneath him, unable to resist, giving up every inch of his body, letting Maitimo claim and fill and devour him all at once.

Yes, the pant leg worked very well for Maitimo’s purposes, setting his fantasy afire with sensation. When he came inside it, he could nearly believe he was truly with the real, flesh Findekáno.

The pants saved him time in the clean-up, too.

After he caught his breath, Maitimo composed himself, tucked his spent cock back into his trousers, and returned Findekáno’s pants to their spot underneath his bed.

Surely Findekáno hadn’t missed them yet.  Maitimo could keep them a while longer.

3.

Carnistir felt awfully exposed.  These pants—well, they were far too short, for one thing, his shapely calves on full display.  And they were so binding.  The waistband cut into his skin.  What were they even made from?  Certainly nothing that breathed, neither silk nor linen.  But worst of all—

“I can see everything,” his girlfriend breathed.  Her eyes were hungry.

“You really like this?” he asked, blushing.  “Me, wearing your clothes?”

In answer, Uiliën drew close, pushed Carnistir onto the divan, and climbed on top of him.  Her body was warm and soft.

When she kissed him, he forgot he was wearing anything at all. 

When she wrapped her legs around him, he felt she made him her captive, and he was glad for it. 

And when she wiggled her hips, grinding onto him, the glint in her eye saying, “I know exactly what I’m doing to you,” he thought he might just die right there.  Tingling waves of ecstasy overcame him, too pleasurable to be long endured, and he shook and shuddered and shouted out his release.

When he regained his senses, he looked up at Uiliën’s smug face.  “Admit it,” she said, “you like them, too.”

He buried his face against her breast.

“Yes,” he whispered, “I do.”

4.

Nolofinwë had seen several remarkable performances at the theatre of the Mindon Eldaliéva, but none so shrouded in mystery as tonight’s show. 

Lalwendë would not even reveal how she had secured their tickets, just winked and shrugged.

“You’ll need a mask,” was all she would say.  “The guests are to remain incognito.”

“But our box seats—“ he protested.

“—Total anonymity.”

Irritated, but forced to admit that he was, in fact, intrigued, Nolofinwë allowed the ushers to show him and Anairë—masked, of course—to their seats in the orchestra.

All around, the audience hummed with curious whispers. 

No one knew what to expect.

The overture began: the sultry note of a cello, joined by a shimmer of harp, then a heartbeat of drum. The cello called out, searching, hoping, and a woodwind replied: tremulous, coy, demure. 

At last, the curtain rose. Two figures, onstage, in low, flickering candlelight.  They moved in stylized dance—ritualistic, symbolic, one approaching the other, the other retreating, then turning round again to face their partner.  Hands met, sparked, and drew back.  Was it a duel?  A dance?  A debate?    

The music swelled, and as it did, the sense of eerie reverence gave way to something unmistakably carnal. The rhythm quickened.  The dancers’ movements grew lewder.  The cello moaned.  The woodwind quavered.

Nolofinwë didn’t know he was holding his breath until spotlights flooded the stage, bringing the two nude dancers into full view.  The woman, he did not know, nor did he linger long upon her form.

But he gasped aloud upon realizing that the male dancer, lithe, strong, and erect, was none other than his nephew Makalaurë.

And—though Nolofinwë reassured himself that of course, he himself was masked, his face obscured, there was no way Makalaurë could discern his true identity—upon hearing his gasp, Makalaurë looked into the audience, met his uncle’s eyes, and began stroking his cock in time with the music.

It was all part of the dance, Nolofinwë told himself, unable to look away as the orchestra—and Makalaurë himself—reached a climax, and Makalaurë ejaculated right onto the stage.  Right in front of everybody.

Surely, it was Nolofinwë’s imagination that Makalaurë held his gaze the entire time.

The audience applauded. The lights dropped.  The orchestra struck a final chord of satisfied triumph. Then a voice of power boomed from the darkened stage: 

“Welcome, dear patrons, to the Tirion premiere of the newest, the most daring, the most provocative, the most uncle-scandalizing erotic musical comedy out of Alqualondë: Somebody Else’s Pants!”

5.

“Tyelko!  There you are!  What in the name of Oromë’s Hunt has happened to you?”

“Shrink pollen,” Tyelkormo moaned.  Or rather, squeaked.

Irissë knelt, her huge face sparkling with mirth.  Tyelkormo exerted great will to keep from skittering away as her giant and terrifying form loomed above.  “Couldn’t understand a word you just said, cousin.  Look, Turno!  He’s like a wee beetle!” 

“What on Eru’s green earth—” Turukáno sputtered.  “Is it catching?”

Tyelkormo shook his head vigorously.  At least, he didn’t think so.

“Where are his clothes?”

“I suppose wherever he—got shrunk.”

Tyelkormo pointed in the meadow’s direction, though his cousins weren’t watching.  In their defense, at that precise moment, a mouse-sized Huan trotted right up and licked Irissë’s ankle.  She and Turukáno both erupted into giggles. 

“Oh, he’s so cute!”

“Woof, woof,” cooed Turukáno in dog falsetto.

Irissë picked Huan up, holding him gently in her palm.  “As adorable as this is,” she said, “I think we should get some help.”

“Estë, perhaps?” Turukáno suggested.

Irissë nodded and began to stride away.  “You get Tyelko,” she called back, “My hands are full!  Who’s the best, tiniest boy in the world?”

Turukáno sighed, pinched Tyelkormo up around the underarms, and deposited him into the nearest convenient place—his own pocket.

It was, Tyelkormo thought, cozy enough.  Soft and warm.  He was having a strange day.  But certainly, an interesting one.  Estë would cure whatever had overtaken him and Huan in that meadow.  He settled in, calm and comfortable.

But then something vast and stout struck Tyelkormo in his tiny ribcage and knocked the wind right out of him.

A moment later, he was struck again. 

And again.

Tyelkormo realized, with dawning horror, that Turukáno, it seemed, found undergarments an unnecessary luxury.  His shockingly impressive member, therefore, swung loose, jolly, free as a great Eagle. 

It shouldn’t have been a turn-on.

Tyelkormo tried to brace himself against the pocket seam, but every stride jostled him anew.  He called out, “I say, slow down!” but could not make himself heard.  So, Tyelkormo gritted his teeth, grasped the inside of the pocket with both hands, and clung for dear life. 

And if Turukáno’s great cock swung and struck him again, and again, battering him about the head and shoulders, well, he couldn’t control that, could he?

All he could do was dangle, helpless in Turukáno’s pocket, rocked like a ship in stormy waters, as though slammed by the power of the very sea itself.

He just had to let it happen. 

When Turukáno called “all right in there?” and patted the pocket, he could not have known what he was doing.  But from the inside, Tyelkormo felt Turukáno’s great cock at his back and Turukáno’s big hand at his front.  He was struck near-senseless between the two powerful forces, first pressed this way, then that. 

It was perhaps concern at Tyelkormo’s lack of response, perhaps a sentiment of cousinly love for once in his life, that led Turukáno to shove his hand into the pocket and grasp at Tyelkormo’s naked body, pressing against Tyelkormo’s own tiny, though proportionate and perfectly functioning, turgid member, giving him just enough leverage to grind helplessly, frantically, passionately against Turukáno’s long fingers until he came with a desperate peep.

+1.

Curufinwë, despite all his arguments to the contrary, had lost the bet.  He lost, and that was that.  It was time to wear the dress—Indis’s dress.  Findaráto and his brothers and cousins were seeing to that.

“Put it on!  Put it on!” they chanted, shoving Curufinwë into a closet. 

“I won’t, and you can’t make me!” he cried from within.

“There were twelve chickens in King Olwë’s pillowcase, and there are just as many angry witnesses who will swear to it!  Admit it—you lost!”

“Fine, fine,” he grumbled.

A few moments later—silence. 

“Knock, knock!  You can’t just hide in there.  You have to come out!”  Turukáno commanded.

“Actually, the exact phrasing was—”

“Exact phrasing, my ass! You better come out—or else,” yelled Arakáno.

The door creaked open. Curufinwë crept out.

The problem was, Findaráto thought, not that it was a dress, or even that it was Queen Indis’s dress (though, surely, Curufinwë might take issue with the latter point).  No, in Findaráto’s opinion, the dress was simply deeply and irredeemably out of fashion.  Perhaps it was all the rage in Valmar a hundred years ago.  Cut in the Vanya style, it was loose, unstructured, draping every which way with no regard for form or flattery.  It seemed little more than a sheet of translucent sky-blue fabric, held together by a few simple twists and folds.  Why, under the right light, one could almost see right through it.  Under the right light, one could almost see every curve of Curufinwë’s body—

Findaráto shook himself. What was he doing?  Ah, yes, teasing.

“Lady Curufinwiel, radiant as the light of Telperion, you stun me!” Findaráto managed.

“If the Queen sees you, she’ll demand you return her gown—and her perfect figure, too,” said Aikanáro.

“Stop making fun of me,” said Curufinwë.

“Is that a pout?  On such a delicate beauty?  Don’t sulk, sweetheart!  Give us a smile!  Give us a twirl!”  (That was Irissë.)

“I said stop it!  Or you’ll be sorry!”  A vicious tone.

“Oh, yeah?” asked Angaráto. “What are you going to do, go tell your daddy?”

“No,” said Curufinwë. “But I’ll tell everyone you jerked off by the shores of the Bay of Eldamar, as you watched the dolphins mating in the shallows.”

“Shut up!  No, you won’t!  It’s not true!” shouted Angaráto, but a glint of terror in his eye proved the lie.

“Oh, is that why you were so eager to get back to the coast!” cackled Aikanáro.

“Is there a particular dolphin cow who’s caught your eye?  A special lady?  Or, sorry, a bull, perhaps?  I wouldn’t presume,” said Findekáno. 

The laughter rose to a full roar, and everyone’s attention passed from Curufinwë, who was still mortified, red-faced, and steaming.

The fun of tormenting Curufinwë had died, and so, the others wandered away, roasting Angaráto in his place, leaving Findaráto and Curufinwë alone.

If he were honest with himself, Findaráto did feel a little guilty.  Curufinwë looked so embarrassed, so helpless, standing there in Indis’s diaphanous dress. 

“What’s wrong, Findaráto? Jealous I can pull it off, and you can’t?” 

But damn, it was such fun to make Curufinwë overreact.

So, Findaráto would give him a little something more to react to.  All in fun, of course.

“Your legs are quite gorgeous,” Findaráto said.  “As smooth and lustrous as the alabaster columns of High King Ingwe’s palace.”

Curufinwë’s head snapped right to Findaráto.  He had gone all red again, from his exposed collarbones to his ear-tips, and his grey eyes were wide and shocked.  He looked, all of a sudden, both very afraid and very, very turned on.

“Oh,” said Findaráto. Oh, all right.  He considered for a moment.

Then he saw Curufinwë’s mouth twist, and, before Curufinwë could say anything downright nasty, he forged ahead.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” Findaráto mused aloud.  “You want me to tell you how pretty you look?”

Curufinwë shook his head, but the compliment seemed to have struck him speechless.  His mouth was half-open, lips parted.  Findaráto could see the pink of his tongue.

“But you are so, so pretty,” Findaráto purred, stepping closer, not entirely sure what his plan was, here, but having a great deal of fun finding out.

“You look like the moment between lightning and thunder,” Findaráto breathed.  “Electric, charged, the very air holding still for you.”

Curufinwë inhaled sharply. Findaráto could sense his inner turmoil: a part of him wished to run, a part of him wished to slap Findaráto, and a part of him—the part that Findaráto hoped was calling the shots, at the moment—wanted desperately for him to keep going.  That part of him was quite visible, in fact, poking up the front of the dress in a decidedly un-grandmotherly fashion.

“You should see yourself,” Findaráto continued.  “Such a picture.  I’d like to paint you.  Or perhaps carve you from stone.  Would you like that?  To be rendered hard and unyielding, a decoration for my boudoir?”

Curufinwë was losing the struggle.  Though he tried to fight his body’s reactions, his cock was only growing harder, and he swallowed and panted and even pulled at his own hair in vain attempt to distract himself.

Findaráto talked and talked, taking one step closer, then another, until he was so close, he could smell Curufinwë’s skin, he could feel his shallow breath, he could nearly—just nearly—feel his erection brushing against his own.  One more step would—

“Just imagine how angry Fëanáro would be, to see you right now, wearing the dress of his stepmother. What would your Atya say now?”

Curufinwë made a strangled noise, convulsed, and covered his face with his hands.

A wet stain spread across the front of Curufinwë’s beautiful, if unstylish, dress.

Findaráto’s heart was beating in his throat.  “Did you just—”

“Shut up!” said Curufinwë, who didn’t move.  “Stop making fun of me.  I mean it.” His voice sounded broken.

“I’m not,” said Findaráto softly.  “In fact, I was going to—”  He leaned in, pulled Curufinwë’s hands from his face, one at a time, uncovering his eyes, lashes wet with the beginnings of tears.

It was at that precise moment that Fëanáro burst in.

Findaráto froze. 

He looked at Curufinwë: wet spot on his dress, disheveled, panting, the sheen of perspiration on his fair skin, hair mussed where he had pulled at it with his hands. 

Findaráto’s state was hardly better, and he knew, if he tried to hide his own erection, he would likely only draw further scrutiny.  He and Curufinwë were too close—surely Fëanáro had seen already, their faces hot with arousal.  The room stank of humiliation and the early stages of seduction.

“What did I just walk into?” asked Fëanáro, his voice far too restrained.

Findaráto gathered himself, tried to wipe any hint of smugness off his face.  He turned to look his uncle in the eye.

But Fëanáro had no interest in a son of Arafinwë.  His disgust was reserved for his own son.

Curufinwë, for his part, was again struck speechless.

“Please,” said Fëanáro, “please answer me true.”

Fëanáro paused, as though gathering the courage to ask a terrible question to which he knew the answer all too well.

“Have you got on her dress?”

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