❛ i don’t know how you’ve bewitched me, but it needs to stop. ❜
With Maedhros/Finrod?
darker vibes
Silver-gray eyes follow every movement Finrod Felagund takes. Currently the King of Nargothrond is standing some five steps away from the one who scrutinizes him -- Finrod is busy inspecting the food laid out by the servants a few minutes ago. With a bejeweled hand he removes dish covers, letting out steam and the aromatic scents that tickle the senses. He makes appreciative noises as he peers at each dish for about five seconds, before he returns the dish cover over the food item.
Maedhros Fëanorion has mixed feelings with purely elven or mannish food these days -- an aftermath of his long captivity in Angband. He appreciates elven dishes just the same, of course, the textures and flavors and aromas, but there are days when he just wants raw meat, the bloodier the better. His appetite has tripled since his 'rescue' from Angband, yet his body remains the same. The healers have said his captivity affected his metabolism.
Finrod turns in a swirl of his Telerin skirt (white and red, today, with a belt of pearls), his golden hair dancing. Maedhros's pupils widen, and the simple sight to him is a vision. Hooks to his soul, and every gesture tugs at him. Even if the gesture is decidedly simple in itself, like Finrod tilting his head, or Finrod toying with his dangling earrings, or Finrod turning to him with a smile.
"I don't know how you bewitched me," Maedhros says, awe and adoration in his voice. "But it needs to stop."
A softer laugh is the King of Nargothrond's answer. He turns from the table completely now, walking toward him. He is barefoot in his own chambers -- but then, he runs around barefoot most of the time. Maedhros stays where he is, feels his throat go dry just a notch. Finrod is standing right before him.
In a rustle of cloth, Finrod sits himself onto his lap. Maedhros has his hands immediately by his sides. He smells very good. Vanilla and musk, or some sort. Fuck if Maedhros knows. He doesn't. Once Finrod sits on him like this or goes closer than an arm's length away, Maedhros finds eighty percent of his brain function goes out of his ears, in all directions.
(When did this happen?)
"You, my lord, have been bewitched long ago, back in Valinor. I'm afraid there is no hope for you. All my pretty fingers are curled around your fëa, and there is no escape," Finrod tells him, chuckling as he goes.
"Yes, this is the truth," Maedhros answers, half-dazed. He looks into those very blue eyes -- the very sky of high summer, forever preserved in Finrod's eyes. And his hair is the zenith of lost Laurelin's golden-most hour. His hair is the stuff of legend, truly. The name Findaráto was aptly given.
(Beside him, Maedhros feels like an orc.)
"Now, now," says Finrod, leaning in, pressing his perfect lips to Maedhros's torn earlobe. "You have not been in Nargothrond a while. Getting you out of Himring to visit me is a feat for the Valar! Ai, I hope you know that I will make sure I collect my due, as long as you are here with me, melda...~"
Maedhros feels a shudder ripple down his spine.
