soft mouth by duckwhatduck  

Maedhros arrives at Barad Eithel windswept and weary and near vibrating with nervous energy, as taut as a strung bow, and as dangerous. He cannot keep himself from pacing as he talks, and Fingon, sitting at his desk, can see the tension across his neck and shoulders in each of his over-emphatic gestures. He itches to knead it from them, but knows from long experience how little inclined Maedhros is likely to be to such attentions, not now - he cannot bear to have focus brought to his body when he is like this, must be relaxed and softened before he can be touched tenderly or worked looser. 

A paradox, fortunately, that Fingon has practice resolving. Maedhros will not tolerate attention paid to him, but his attention required of him is altogether another matter. 

"Russo," Fingon says, sharply, cutting through Maedhros's tirade. "Come here."

The commanding tone of a king to his vassal, and the familiar name of a man to his cousin and his lover, mingled like this, have Maedhros snapping to that most particular and deepest of attentions that Fingon loves best to see from him. He comes willingly, and folds himself at once to his knees by Fingon's chair, following the downward flick of Fingon's gaze like a well-trained hound. He looks up at him, awaiting instruction, all his tight-wound restlessness locked into a banked fire behind the piercing grey of his eyes.

Fingon spreads his legs and parts the draping fabric of his robes, unlaces the hose beneath them and pushes down his drawers, every movement carefully slow. Maedhros's eyes follow every movement of his fingers, his whole body thrumming with contained motion, his fingers twitching convulsively where he grips the flesh of his forearm - had he two hands he would be wringing them together in his lap. Fingon grins at him, slow and smug and languid, and Maedhros bites his lip and shudders, watching him.

When he has arranged himself to his own satisfaction, Fingon gestures down at himself, and Maedhros's eyes come to rest between his legs, on where the nub of his dick nudges just far enough forward from its nest to catch the eye, glistening red. His gaze is so intent Fingon can almost feel it as a physical weight, hot and heavy on his crotch. 

"Your mouth on my cock," he says, and Maedhros licks his lips in the bare second before, vibrating with urgency, he shifts himself forward to settle between Fingon's legs. 

He is too tall to kneel there comfortably, not and have his head at the right height, and this, too, is Fingon's design and his delight, to make Maedhros fold himself into place, collapsing the rigidity with which he holds himself to sit slouched on the floor, twisted at an awkward angle. He cannot be allowed to be too comfortable here, or to hold himself too firmly upright. Fingon would not have him held in a position that would harm him, but he would have him on the edge of discomfort, and would have him settle himself there, have him rest in it willingly. 

Maedhros's forefinger dips between Fingon's lower lips, and traces, wet and slick, around the base of his cock, teasing it as far free as it will come from the hood that would hide it. It is hot and blood-bright eager for him, and when the rough pad of Maedhros's thumb grazes over the head of it, Fingon gasps and clenches his fist, arousal surging and pooling hot in his lower belly. Maedhros brings his head to meet his hand, his breath ruffling through the fine dark curls of hair between Fingon's legs - Fingon shivers at the sensation - until his mouth lays hot around Fingon's cock, and he pulls his hand free, pausing briefly only to tease a strand of pubic hair out of his mouth. 

As his hand falls, he softens against Fingon, coming to lean against the inside of Fingon's left thigh, his right arm trapped between his own body and Fingon's legs, the very edge of his face pressed gently against the top of Fingon's inner thigh, so that he can feel the edge of Maedhros's jawbone, the curve of his ear, against the soft sensitive skin there.

Maedhros's cheeks hollow as he draws Fingon's cock into his mouth more firmly, the suction hot and tight and sharp around him, and the heightened sensation fires through every nerve ending there so that his cock feels as if it is the largest part of him, all of him concentrated there, as if he must be filling Maedhros's mouth completely; nothing so small as his cock could contain so much feeling. Then Maedhros's tongue begins to work, and Fingon can feel himself coming towards a peak already.

"Hold," he says, and Maedhros stills at once, mouth softening around him, tongue relaxing so that Fingon rests against it like a little bird held gently in hand, thrumming and contained.  

"Stay there." 

Maedhros hums a soft, wordless acknowledgement that vibrates through Fingon's entire body, and does as he is bid. Fingon rests a hand on his head, digs his fingers into the thick red mass of Maedhros's hair, and scratches lightly at his scalp with his fingertips. At that touch, Maedhros relaxes further, more of his weight resting against Fingon's leg as he slumps lower, and Fingon smiles to himself as he twists a little to turn his upper body back towards his desk, tugs the sheet of parchment he had been reading through back to him, picks up his pen and makes an annotation, as much to signal to Maedhros by the motion and the faint scratching sound of quill on skin what he intends to do with this time, and to demonstrate to both of them that he can keep his focus on something else with Maedhros like this, as any real need to mark up the accounts his steward has passed to him. 

Time passes slowly, syrupy, in a hot haze that builds around Fingon's mind and makes it hard to think as the steady warmth of Maedhros's mouth around him is answered by the simmering, electric heat that builds in his cock, in his belly, in the aching, slow need that has settled between his legs and radiates out to fill him. He can feel the little motions of Maedhros's mouth and head, the way he swallows sometimes, the way his lips and tongue shift even as he tries to hold himself perfectly still, the shimmer of his breath. Can feel him, too, relax and melt, his whole body softening and sinking lower. He does not name or catalogue these sensations, only feels them.

So he feels Maedhros's body shifting against him, though he does not for some time comprehend it, all his focus on keeping his own concentration on his correspondence, and on keeping his own hips still, resisting the urge to thrust into Maedhros's mouth. As much as he is thinking at all, he is feeling proud of his own forbearance, that he is barely moving at all but for his arm as he writes and the little, involuntary clenching twitches of his pelvic floor, which Maedhros must be able to feel pulsating, pressing Fingon's twitching dick in rhythm against the hot firm muscle of Maedhros's tongue and the delicate cavern of his mouth, and Fingon's trembling thighs and leaking cunt against his chin and jaw. And how his jaw must be aching by now - it thrills Fingon to think of it, makes it harder yet not to give into the urge to grasp Maedhros by the hair, fuck his face, grind his own pleasure out on him. But he restrains himself. 

 But Maedhros is shifting oddly against him, and perhaps the steadiness of his mouth is misleading, perhaps he is not as contentedly lost as he seemed down there, or the discomfort of his position has become too much?

Fingon looks down, and sees Maedhros' left arm working, his hand unmistakably palming his own erection, slow and mindless. Good, that he is hard and wanting; but he should stay that way, stay needy and desperate - for Fingon's cock in his mouth, for that friction against his own, for permission to work them both up to climax and release. Permission he has not been granted, that he will be denied until Fingon chooses to grant it him.

Another rush of heat ripples through Fingon at that thought. His toes curl, and his thighs twitch and tremble, and he shudders against Maedhros's mouth. Maedhros moans, and swallows, and huffs out a trembling breath through his nose, as Fingon cannot restrain himself from canting his hips just a little, clenching his buttocks, pressing up into Maedhros to grind his cockhead against Maedhros's wet, slippery tongue, press his pubic bone up hard against Maedhros's face so that his nose is buried in Fingon's hair. 

Maedhros's hand works a little faster, and his breath comes short and shuddering, fluttering against Fingon's sensitive dick so he cannot help but notice it, and so he cannot longer ignore it.

"Hand where I can see it," he says, sternly, and is pleased with himself that it does come out stern, that his breath does not hitch or his voice tremble, though his own hand is shaking, the quill still clenched in it wavering. He has dripped ink on the desktop.

Maedhros's hand lifts from his lap and comes to rest on Fingon's right thigh. Hey makes a soft sound as if to speak, but his mouth is full of Fingon. 

Please resounds in the space between their minds, like an echo in a huge and empty hall.

"You're being so good for me," Fingon tells him, tenderly, laying down his quill so that he can stroke the back of Maedhros's hand, and at the same time pet his hair, gentling him back into stillness even as he cradles the back of Maedhros's skull to press his face gently but inexorably firmer against Fingon. Close enough, firm enough, that he can feel the edge of teeth press against his hood, hard as Maedhros tries to keep them clear. He truly is so good, and Fingon tells him so again, whispers it to him out loud, presses the certainty of it against his mind, feels him open to accept it as he never usually would, and knows how deliciously far gone he must be. Maedhros anywhere but lost in the mists of pleasure will close himself off to praise and softness, let it wash off him like water around a stone - he yearns for it, but does not know how to allow himself to accept it; with all tendernesses he is like that. But push him into this place, where in accepting stillness and obedience, in settling into this quiet, and holding him there long enough, he will sit waiting to accept whatever Fingon asks him to take - pleasure, pain, sex, or its denial - and he will sit with it long enough that he surrenders entirely to that waiting, that open accepting trust - and then, when he has forgotten for a time what it is to be anything but open, to do anything but accept, he will accept even love.

"Just a little longer," Fingon says, softly. "Can you do that for me?"

Maedhros's hand tightens on Fingon's thigh in silent affirmation, then relaxes, almost limp as he takes in the request for waiting, for stillness, and his body does its level best to obey.

All of him is loose and soft, now, he is a heavy weight against Fingon's leg, so that he has to press his knee inwards, working his adductors to keep supporting Maedhros, prevent his weight from pushing Fingon's legs too far apart and dumping Maedhros to the floor. It is work, pleasant work, holding him up so he can keep his attention fixed entirely on Fingon - but it does mean he cannot even try to divert his attention again.

Focussing on Maedhros, on the wet heat and pressure of Maedhros's mouth around him, of his own hands in Maedhros's hair, and on his own body - the tension in the muscles of his legs, the heat of arousal pooling in his core, the fluttering of his pelvic muscles, the thump of his own heartbeat in his ears, the breath that he cannot quite keep steady - makes it harder and harder to prevent his arousal consuming him entirely. It feeds on itself, and as it mounts, the urge to move becomes unbearable, that too all-consuming, until he is wild with it.

He holds out as long as he can bear, a discipline enforced on himself so that he can enforce the twinned discipline on Maedhros - but at last he breaks. He wants too badly for the soft warm wet heat of Maedhros's mouth to do more than gently envelop him, wants Maedhros's tongue flicking over the slick, sensitive, tip of his cock, aching and oversensitive with arousal, wants that suction around him dragging his orgasm from him as Maedhros suckles on him, wants to move himself as well and to fuck Maedhros's face, to drive into it and take that opening, warm, welcoming mouth for his own, to find the tooth and bone within the softness.

And, too, he can feel in the way he has sat with his arousal coiled and slowly building for so long already, that his orgasm when it comes will be hard and violent and messy. The slowness of it, the waiting, the steady, gradual building, does these two things to him: first, that the moment when it comes will come with an intensity of sensation that is glorious, overwhelming, wringing through him like a stream of hot metal in his bowels, closer to torment than pleasure, though as it approaches he craves the completion of it more than anything else, more than any simpler, weaker pleasure. And, second, that when he comes, he will come wet and spurting, and he can feel that rush building in him like a wave trapped behind a dam, and he wants to cover Maedhros's face in his spend, choke him with it. 

He bucks his hips to rock against Maedhros's face, and fists a hand hard in his hair to steer his head where he wants it. Maedhros lets out a startled, strangled little gasp at the sudden tug on his scalp, and chokes a little on his own spit as his breath hitches. He swallows, clearing his throat, and Fingon grants him only the barest moment to collect himself before thrusting into his mouth again. 

"Now, suck me off," Fingon tells Maedhros, who makes a desperate, needy, whimpering noise, muffled in Fingon's crotch, and does his immediate best to comply. They struggle at first to find a rhythm, Maedhros lapping at Fingon with urgent, frantic need, clumsy and slippery with it; Fingon thrusting ragged and stuttering, out of time with him, and half out of his mind with sensation as Maedhros's tongue flickers and laps over his glans and down to the root, presses against it now too hard, now maddeningly too soft, tossing him between jolts of sharp, startling pain and intoxicating pleasure.

Soon, though, they find their rhythm, rocking together, Maedhros groaning against Fingon, breathing shakily, licking and sucking hungrily at him - Fingon wonders, as he presses into him, what the taste of him is like, that Maedhros is so hungry for. The light musk of it, the salty metallic tang - perhaps he will lick it from Maedhros's mouth, soon, when he kisses him, after they are done. 

At that thought, he feels a shuddering rush through him, all the muscles of his core and legs trembling, the shudder and clench of his buttocks and pelvic floor, the mounting electric heat that spools and pools in him and then surges, blinding, overwhelming, and he cries out in a gasping, sobbing note, clenches one hand tight in Maedhros's hair and bites down hard on the side of the other, and his hips jerk and shudder against Maedhros's mouth in trembling, erratic jolts, and hot and wet and rushing he can feel his orgasm squirting from beneath his cock as the sensation burns through him, leaving all his lower body weak and trembling in its wake - he clenches his thighs desperately with all the wherewithal left to him as it rushes over him, remembering Maedhros leaning against him. Maedhros chokes and gasps as the hot rush of liquid hits his mouth, and the way he tightens around Fingon as he struggles to contain and swallow it is suddenly unbearable against Fingon's twitching, oversensitive cock. He pulls Maedhros back by his hair, and looks down - at Maedhros's face, eyes blown, a high flush bright across his cheeks beneath the sprinkling of freckles, his lips red and swollen, his open mouth slack and dripping, a mixture of his drool and Fingon's slick and spend slipping down to coat his chin.  And at Fingon's own cock, red and engorged, looking as swollen and sensitive as it feels, spit glistening on it and beading in the curls of hair around it.

Maedhros is panting for breath, and starting to shiver. Fingon tugs him up by the hair to kneel upright, releases him carefully, to make sure he will stay upright of his own accord - he sways a little, but holds where he is put. Fingon pushes his chair back, making space to stand - his legs tremble a little as he does, and for a moment he is lightheaded with the aftershocks of orgasm, and even the barest touches from the motion of his own body and the brush of fabric chafe the sensitivity of his cockhead as he rearranges his clothing. 

He lowers himself to his knees facing Maedhros, and with a crooked finger under his chin lifts Maedhros's face so his eyes - unfocussed and distant - meet Fingon's. 

"Are you well, Russo?"

Maedhros's eyes focus on Fingon, and he makes to answer - the sound that comes out of his mouth is not quite a word, and he winces. Fingon grimaces sympathetically, and presses the fingers of both hands into the line of Maedhros's jaw, where the muscle has locked up from holding too long in position. He pushes into the hardened muscle, kneads his fingertips in firm little circles, and Maedhros gasps in mingled pain and pleasure as the knots release. Maedhros works his jaw until it cracks, then smiles tiredly at Fingon. Fingon holds out his hands to him, and Maedhros clasps Fingon's right forearm with his left hand, rests his left forearm in Fingon's right hand, and lets Fingon lever them both to their feet. He lists into Fingon, nuzzling at his neck, as Fingon guides them both over to the bed, and pours Maedhros into it. He goes where he is put, in a tangle of overlong limbs, and makes sleepy, contented noises as he allows Fingon to arrange him face-down on the bed, and then to straddle him and begin massaging the remaining tension from his neck, his shoulders, his back. 

When he is done, he rolls Maedhros onto his side, presses his own body up against his spine, and reaches around and down to palm at Maedhros's erection through his clothes, hard and huge and begging for his touch. Maedhros whines and rocks his hips to buck against Fingon's hand. Fingon works his hand inside Maedhros's clothes, and wraps his fingers around his dick, strokes slow and careful up the hot, hard length of it, brushes his thumb over the leaking tip. Maedhros shudders against him, thrusting lightly into his grip as Fingon works his hand up and down. He presses a kiss to Maedhros's spine, at the base of his neck, then sets his teeth lightly against the junction of Maedhros's neck and shoulder, where, his nose pressed close to Maedhros's throat and the angle of his jaw, he can smell his own musk on Maedhros's face, feel the dampness there. 

He works his hand faster, feeling Maedhros's breath catch and his body tremble as his orgasm approaches. He bites down hard, and feels Maedhros spasm and come; sticky semen coating Fingon's hand. He withdraws it from Maedhros's clothes, and makes to disentangle himself from Maedhros, to make some attempt at cleaning them both up, but Maedhros grabs his sticky hand, tugs it to his lips and presses a kiss to the knuckles, and then clutches it against his own chest, keeping Fingon wrapped around him. 

Fingon smiles against Maedhros's back, biting his lip at the overwhelming rush of affection that consumes him at that gesture, and relaxes around Maedhros, resigning himself to the unpleasant sweaty, sticky awakening they will be subjecting themselves to in a few hours. With Maedhros loose-limbed and soft in his arms, his own body still thrumming with the warm, fizzing aftermath of a long-drawn-out orgasm, and Maedhros's heartbeat beneath his palm slowing gradually into sleep, he cannot bring himself to regret it in the slightest.

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