#silmsmutweek2024

“Oh my stars...” Elladan breathed, his eyes roaming over the three densely written pages he'd fished out from under his brother's mattress.

“Please don't,” Elrohir begged, face buried in his hands.

“Glorfindel unlaced his trews and allowed his mighty member to spring free,” Elladan read aloud over his twin's groans of pain. “As the Lord of the Fountain--took him in hand--” he could barely speak for laughing, “the golden-haired elf moaned softly and leaned into his tender touch--” and he dissolved into a fit of giggles.

“I hate you.”

“No, no, please, this is wonderful,” Elladan retorted once he'd collected himself. “Did you write this?”

“No! I'm pretty sure it's older than we are. I just, er, found it. In the library.”

“Oh, that's much worse,” Elladan mused. “If Father knew you were stashing ancient manuscripts under your bed, you'd be on stable-mucking duty for a year.” He grinned. “Guess you're really keen on learning more about our esteemed guest's mighty member, eh?”

Elrohir's face turned ashen. “You cannot tell him. Either of them. Please, I will do anything.”

Elladan held a silent finger to his lips. “But I'll hold you to that promise. First, you can tell me who wrote this.” He flipped through the pages, searching for an attribution.

Elrohir sighed and flopped back on his bed. “Bottom of the third page,” he informed his brother. “And thank you.”

They had met in Himring’s war room—so the residents of Himring castle had begun to call the hall where Maedhros convened with his captains and generals—to discuss the war. Always, the war. All his months in Menegroth had not been enough to bridge Maedhros and Thingol’s differing views on how it ought to be approached, yet if Thingol did not bend to Maedhros’ will, he did continue to listen to Maedhros’ arguments, and Maedhros would have to find reward in that.

            Though it was not the war foremost on Maedhros’ mind, even as he gave Thingol and his companions more detailed updates than he was able to provide by letter.

            With distance, and time, it had been easier to tell himself that his experience in Doriath was an anomaly. That he had gone a little dizzy and gotten off course, but that it was no more than that. The frequency with which Elu Thingol had appeared in Maedhros’ thoughts since was easier to dismiss when he was so many leagues off, out of Maedhros’ reach and therefore, as good as a fantasy. Now he was in the room with Maedhros once more, and memory did not serve for the full glory of the Greymantle, the Elf who had ensnared a Maia.

            Maedhros did not ask Thingol to stay behind as the others filtered out of the room, but he did. He murmured something to Mablung and his men left him, and when the door closed on Mablung’s heel, Maedhros was far too aware that it was the first they had been alone since they had said goodbye in Menegroth—not the formal send-off he had been given, but before that, in Maedhros’ private chambers.

            Thingol leaned against the back of one of the chairs around the table strewn with maps and movable figures representing various forces and studied Maedhros with eyes of piercing gray, aglow with the blessings of Telperion and Laurelin, whose light would grace Elfinesse no more. His crown was woven that day of thick vines of ivy, with a peppering of small white flowers Maedhros did not bother to identify. Thingol was resplendent in jewels, and he enjoyed wearing them, but if Maedhros had to say, he preferred the king like this, adorned in the flora of his realm. Maedhros had thought many times in the days preceding Thingol’s arrival what he might say, but each now sounded trite, pathetic, or melodramatic in turn. Thingol did not rescue him either; as the silence stretched on, Maedhros’ brain skidding off track as he tried to land on a proper greeting, the corners of his mouth began to life in an amused smirk.

            At length, just before Maedhros could say something about the issue of joint troop exercises—something only tenderly approached from either side—Thingol disarmed his efforts with: “I have dreamed of you since you left.”

            Maedhros’ mouth was lined in wool.

            “Good dreams, I trust.” His voice sounded to him as if it were someone else speaking, because while his mouth moved, his mind was busy screaming its reciprocity of the claim. Now, with Thingol before him, with his low, smooth voice in Maedhros’ ears, with his form just a few paces out of reach, Maedhros’ memories of those dizzy days in Menegroth seemed to explode in vividity, from his first suspicious approaches to his final tight goodbyes.

            “Good and bad,” Thingol replied simply. His long fingers stretched along the back of the chair, and the memory of those spidery hands combing through Maedhros’ hair made his knees wobble.

            “Bad?” he queried, quirking an eyebrow.

            Thingol stroked the back of the chair and simply gave Maedhros a look as if he expected Maedhros to know to what he referred. And didn’t he? They both knew how familiar Maedhros was with the realm of nightmares. Briefly, this opened up a shocking line of consideration: that Thingol had dreamed of Maedhros suffering, and counted this as a nightmare. It was something more exposed than Maedhros had expected to hear from him so soon into this visit, and he put it aside for the time being.

            Instead, he crossed over to where Thingol stood.

            “I am bored with dreams,” he said, and gripped the front of Thingol’s robes. It was a lie to say he had forgotten that he needed to tilt his chin up to meet Thingol’s gaze when they stood this close, for it had agitated him too much to forget it, but he had perhaps lost the full sense of the feeling.

            Thingol was not bothered with Maedhros’ audacity. Rather, he looked only more entertained. He stroked a hand down Maedhros’ cheek, tracing his fingertips along the edge of Maedhros’ jaw.

            “Perhaps this is a dream,” he suggested, yet for the amused slant of his mouth, there was something softer in his gaze which Maedhros could not look away from any more than he could acknowledge it.

            “No,” he answered at once. “It is not.”

            “You sound so certain.”

            “I would know if it were.” The dreams in which Maedhros had occasionally taken comfort over the years could not hold a candle to the intoxicating reality, and if he thought this line of thought too obscure for Thingol to follow, he was wrong.

            The king’s smile widened.

            “Do you find the truth more pleasing?” he asked.

            Maedhros thought only I do, and said nothing, and then leaned up to secure his mouth over Thingol’s. If he had been unsure at the start whether Thingol would wish to continue their trysts of before, the king’s fluttering lashes and teasing touches of the last few minutes had reassured him. And indeed, Thingol gripped his hips at once, pulling Maedhros against him with strength that still surprised him for all he had felt it before, and Maedhros gasped into his mouth, unable to stop himself from attempting at once to press against Thingol’s thigh. Every dream he’d had about Thingol since their last meeting seemed to rush back over him at once, and his body was one giant ache.

            The king’s mouth parted; his tongue pressed against Maedhros lips, past the seam; his hands slid back to grasp at Maedhros’ ass, and Maedhros swallowed a whimper. In Himring, Maedhros was the final authority. Among all his brothers’ lands, he was the final authority, no matter how many crowns they stacked on Fingolfin’s head. Among their mortal allies, his word was all but absolute. But with Thingol, it was not so. With Thingol, he could—and often was—overruled. And he was not asked to be an authority in anything.

            Maedhros wanted to swallow him, to rend his flesh and nourish himself with it, keep it for himself as a part of his own body, and yet he was assured that Thingol would not permit such a thing to pass, and so Maedhros need not temper his fire, for Thingol would ensure it did not do harm. If Maedhros was the fire, Thingol was the hearth which ensured no damage would come to the home.

            Thingol’s hands moved up to cup Maedhros’ face, and a shudder went through him at the delicate touch; when he drew back for air, panting, flushed, he was looking directly into Thingol’s eyes, so near he could count his individual eyelashes and see the spokes of his irises. His flesh hand was still fisted in the front of Thingol’s robes.

            For a moment it was quiet but for their heavy breathing, as they studied one another, both on the verge of speaking, or choosing not to speak. Thingol’s thumb stroked Maedhros’ cheek. Maedhros could feel himself swelling almost more in response to these more innocuous touches of Thingol’s than of the groping of his ass.

            Eventually, rather than speak, Thingol kissed him again, and Maedhros surged up against him; this was easier than words, easier the confessions, easier even than writing Thingol letters in which he constantly debated how businesslike it ought to be and what, if anything, should be said of his own feelings. He tried to draw Thingol away from the table, but Thingol jerked him back, digging his fingers into Maedhros’ belt and holding him firmly in place, a bit of physical control that made Maedhros’ cock throb with all the urgency of his body telling him the time was nigh to create an heir to the family name.

            Then the king’s hands went to his hair, and Maedhros did not know or care if this lord of Sindar knew anything about Noldorin cultural customs regarding hair, he only knew that he had wanted this almost more than he wished to keep breathing. His hand scrabbled at Thingol’s chest, the prosthetic against Thingol’s ribs, probably pressing too hard, and he had managed to insinuate one of his legs nearly between Thingol’s knees.

            Maedhros was biting at Thingol’s lower lip, pulling with his teeth, which the king allowed to a point, and then gripped Maedhros’ hair tight at the back of his head and pulled him away. Maedhros was short of breath again, and his skin felt as though he was a storm cloud, a repository of lightning.

            Thingol observed him for a moment, with a self-control that made Maedhros shaky on his feet, then leaned down and pressed his hot mouth against the crook of Maedhros’ neck, which made Maedhros shiver and nearly go limp in his grasp until he felt the sharp nip of the king’s teeth, which had him alert again at once. Thingol bit him to the point of pain and then softened it by lapping at the spot with his soft tongue, and Maedhros was glad that Thingol could not see the wanton expression he was giving to the windows, though he could doubtless feel how Maedhros’ flesh hand had shifted to claw at his back, fingers bunching up the fabric.

            Maedhros tried to press closer, and choked on an effort to swallow when he was finally able to feel the king’s arousal against him. He did not think; his flesh hand was fumbling for Thingol’s crotch immediately, eager to press his fingers against that bloom of desire, kneading his hand against this evidence that Thingol had wished for this as well.

            Thingol gave a low, almost sighing sound of approval and curled more over Maedhros’ form for a moment, before he retreated to look at Maedhros’ face (which he schooled into something hopefully less obscene).

            “What do you wish for, Maedhros?” he asked. Maedhros hated this game almost as much as Thingol enjoyed it. Their first time together in so many years, Maedhros would have hoped that Thingol would simply give him what he wanted—as he so often seemed to know without Maedhros having to voice it—but of course he had missed making Maedhros say it out loud.

            Stubbornly, Maedhros remained silent.

            When Thingol did not give way either, Maedhros simply began to sink to his knees, determined to have what he wanted, but Thingol slipped away from him, and Maedhros felt a chill even in Himring’s well-heated core suddenly bereft of the king’s closeness. Thingol ambled down the length of the table to where Maedhros’ own chair sat at the head; he gripped it by the back and dragged it well away from the table and flicked it with a careless hand so that it faced Maedhros. With a swirl of his robes, he took a seat, his knees spread so far apart that Maedhros could clearly see the bulge of his cock pushing at the fabric.

            “Then have it,” he said and Maedhros released a silent prayer of gratitude. For what, he wasn’t entirely sure, except that at least a part of it was that he did not have to say aloud what he had been thinking.

            Out before him stretched the king’s long, shapely legs (which was the only reason Maedhros had yet determined for why Melian sometimes called him “grasshopper,” usually attached to a great many cloying adjectives) and he seemed entirely as comfortable as if he sat upon his own throne back in Menegroth.

            He came to Thingol at once, determining that he would have more time to admire Thingol’s legs later, and hit the ground between Thingol’s feet so hard he was sure his knees would be bruised by the evening.

            His flesh hand trembled as he parted Thingol’s robes, and he licked his lips reflexively when he revealed the king’s shorts and the proud tent there. He jerked at the waistband, impatient, pulling Thingol’s cock out as quickly as he could and lowering his head to kiss at the hot length. Thingol groaned and one hand was in Maedhros’ hair again, stroking and tugging gently.

            “Such an industrious one you are,” he breathed. Maedhros ignored him, and took the tip of the king’s cock into his mouth. Thingol’s hand pulled a bit more firmly against his hair, but he pressed against the feeling, taking more of Thingol in, until he let out another groan, his hips canting towards Maedhros’ mouth. “Good boy,” he panted, scratching affectionately at the back of Maedhros’ scalp.

            It was just as he remembered: there was so much of Thingol, but Maedhros was set on his purpose. Perhaps more than he ought to have been: his prize struck the back of his throat, making him gag, but he tried to swallow it anyway. Thingol briefly tried to withdraw, but Maedhros ducked his head to follow, drool dribbling over his chin as he made a truly valiant effort to take all of Thingol’s considerable presence.

            Thingol quickly forgot his concern for Maedhros’ single-mindedness, his head tipping back against the back of the chair, soft noises of pleasure whispering past his lips as Maedhros sucked ardently at him. He used his hand to vigorously stroke what of Thingol he couldn’t get in his mouth and if he had a moment of thinking about the sight that would greet anyone who entered, of the lord of Himring, the heir of Fëanor, of Finwë, on his knees worshipping the cock of Elu Thingol, seated in Maedhros’ own seat of rule, his throne as it were, then it served only to thrill him more (mainly because he did not have the presence of mind to consider it realistically).

            Thingol pulled at his hair again and Maedhros groaned around his full mouth, bobbing his head more enthusiastically, relishing the tension that went to the roots of his hair and made goosebumps break out against his skin. Very quickly it seemed everything he touched was a mess of his own saliva, but he didn’t have time to worry about that.

            He could have done this with someone else in the years since he’d left Menegroth. He hadn’t.

            His prosthetic hand was braced against the leg of the chair as Thingol’s hips began to shift rhythmically towards him, gently at first, then with more insistence. When he made Maedhros gag again, he pulled Maedhros’ head back forcefully, but when he gazed down on Maedhros’ face, his cheeks pink, his lips wet and red, his chin shining with spit, he found himself enraptured.

            “I want it,” Maedhros said hoarsely, leaning down to kiss Thingol’s slick cock. “I can take it. I don’t break.”

            Thingol considered this for entirely too long, then loosened his grip on Maedhros’ hair and let him at his goal again. Maedhros swiped his tongue over Thingol’s balls before dragging his tongue along the length of him and starting to take him in again. One arm he hooked behind Thingol’s knee, his flesh hand resting on Thingol’s thigh.

            “Be careful of yourself,” Thingol murmured. “I will be very disappointed otherwise.” It was true that Maedhros often pushed himself beyond reasonable limits in all things. It was also true that Thingol would trust him, until proven unreliable, to voice his own boundaries.

            Soon he had Thingol stifling moans again, rocking his hips towards Maedhros’ mouth with poorly-disguised need, guiding Maedhros’ head with his hand to get the angles he wanted. Every response, every hint of the suggestion that Thingol wanted this, went through Maedhros like swallowing a brand of fire. He was only dimly aware of his own arousal straining frantically against his clothes, and he was content to ignore it to focus on the increasingly aggressive rhythm of Thingol’s hips.

            “That’s it,” the king breathed, massaging the back of Maedhros’ head with his hand. “Good boy, yes, that’s it.” Maedhros head him swallow down a louder moan and if his mouth had been less full, he would have smirked. “I’m going to finish soon,” Thingol warned him with the carefully moderated tone that meant he was on the verge of losing control, a narrow space which Maedhros would have inhabited indefinitely if he could have. “I want you to swallow.”

            As ever, the tension between being aroused to be ordered by Thingol and the balking of his pride seized Maedhros, but in the end, he ran out of time to decide if he wanted to spit on the floor just to be disobedient: Thingol came while he was still thinking about it.

            It was what he wanted anyway—to suckle at Thingol’s cock as the king thrust his seed down Maedhros’ throat, spasming his pleasure against Maedhros’ face. The taste was never something he’d enjoyed, but the feeling—that he had craved since Thingol had first dismounted his horse in Himring’s courtyard.

            After, Thingol sank boneless back into the chair, his eyes fluttering shut.

            “I will assume, then, that you are pleased to see me,” he remarked, eyes still closed.

            Maedhros sat back on his heels, trying to wipe his face clean with the back of his flesh hand.

            “I am not displeased,” he said primly, with a thick pearl of Thingol’s ejaculate still at the corner of his mouth, and Thingol opened his eyes to laugh.

            “Not displeased,” he echoed. “Why Maedhros, I do believe this is as ardent as I’ve heard you. Should I expect a proposal forthwith?”

            Maedhros snorted and rose to his feet, slightly unsteady as his knees protested their unceremonious treatment. He felt, somehow, calmer, although his own body was increasingly trying to make its needs known.

            Relaxed in Maedhros’ chair, Thingol made himself presentable again, smoothing his robes down as if Maedhros had not just moments ago had his head buried in them. The king rose in a fluid motion, his silver braids glinting in the light.

            “Perhaps my host will now allow me to return a favor,” Thingol said, gliding up to him, one hand reaching to cup Maedhros through his clothes before he could get too far away. Maedhros’ eyelashes fluttered, but he said:

            “You needn’t, my guest.” This he used to poke at the way Thingol had addressed him in Menegroth, and it pleased him to see Thingol smile, understanding the jest.

            “No, I needn’t,” he agreed, stroking Maedhros almost fondly. “Yet I wish to do so. Will you deny your guest his desire?”

            “Surely you would find a way to make it a problem for me,” Maedhros groused without bite.

            “It seems to be a problem for you presently,” Thingol pointed out, at which point Maedhros became aware that he was leaning towards Thingol to press nearer to his hand. Thingol kissed him, and Maedhros surrendered. He let Thingol back him up against the war table, and then turn him around, so that his back was against Thingol’s chest. He allowed Thingol’s hands to root through his clothes while he nibbled against at Maedhros’ neck and ears, until he reached what he sought, and took his time drawing Maedhros’ cock out.

            “Mm…”

            “You were right, about the dream,” Thingol murmured, and Maedhros shivered against him. “None of those dreams ever pleased me as much as this.” Thingol’s hand stroked him, while the other fondled his balls, and Maedhros groaned, not bothering to stop the movement of his hips against Thingol’s hand.

            He was aware too late of what Thingol meant to do, and past caring by then—Thingol stroked him until Maedhros teetered on the edge, biting his lip past the point of pain to keep quiet, where Thingol held him exquisitely, as he was wont to do.

            “Are you ready?” The king’s voice was soft when he spoke, and if Maedhros had asked Thingol to let him back down, he would have, and not complained or needled him about it. If Maedhros had asked to be held in restraint longer, Thingol would have done it gladly. But Maedhros only gave a jerky nod, so Thingol stroked him with purpose to his finish, until Maedhros could not stop himself from spilling across his table (not, however, on any of the maps, which he later surmised Thingol had minded).

            “You’ve made a mess,” he gasped.

            “You’ve made a mess,” Thingol corrected, sniggering as if he were not a king of Elves, one of the oldest corporeal beings of Arda, the sworn husband of a divine Maia.

            Maedhros made a wordless noise of complaint, but Thingol nuzzled against his neck and tucked his cock away, although Maedhros was relatively sure he wiped his hands on Maedhros’ tunic and robes as he rearranged them.

            “I am quite pleased this could be a productive meeting,” said Thingol briskly as he drew back, tucking a loose lock of hair behind his ear. Maedhros wished abruptly he hadn’t, so that Maedhros could do it for him, and considered what miserable chore he would assign himself to scrub that thought away. “I had so hoped it would be.” He flicked his eyes to the table, Maedhros still catching his breath. “I’m sure you will want to have someone clean that, though.”

            Maedhros ground his teeth: Thingol knew he wouldn’t. Maedhros would not call anyone else to clean it for fear they would know exactly what it was; Maedhros would clean it himself, which Thingol had surely known when he made Maedhros do it.

            There was a self-satisfied gleam in Thingol’s eye, an impudent smile on the edge of his lips, and Maedhros wanted to kiss it.

            “It is my duty to clean up for my guest,” he replied. Thingol laughed.

            “Once my host is done cleaning, perhaps he will pay me a visit. I must rest and change from the journey—” Not true, and they both knew it, he wasn’t the least bit tired, “—and I would welcome his company. Sheets of parchment and dreams are a poor replacement for reality.”

            Maedhros arranged his expression and nodded, looking at the floor by the door as his heart leaped in his chest.

            “I will of course, be a gracious host,” he answered carefully. “His Grace can count on my visit.”

            “Wonderful.”

Another hand dug into his hip. Scraps of twigs and dead pine needles dug into his knees, and the heels of his palms were grazed and stung with pinpricks of pain. The other man’s body covered his completely as he thrust his hard prick inside him, trapping him. The hand around his neck tightened. It hurt. 

It wasn’t enough. 

“Harder,” Celegorm grunted, breathless, “come on, make me really feel it.”

Behind him, he felt Helchorn give a snide little laugh. For a servant, he could be insolent. Still, he was Celegorm’s vassal and he possessed that same servile instinct to please their betters that they all did, deep down. Helchorn sped up his thrusts. 

He wasn’t an especially skillful bed partner – hah, not that they ever fucked anywhere close to a bed – either shoving his cock in and out of Celegorm as though he was fucking something no more alive and thinking than a doll, or seemingly trying to make him cry out in pain instead of enjoyment. It was clear, in fact, that he could not have cared less whether his partner enjoyed it. If there was any truth in the rumours of Helchorn’s taste for the mannish sluts that had followed Ulfang’s camp then Celegorm almost pitied the traitor whores. 

But it didn’t matter. If it was bitter, if it was painful – moreso the better. It was rare indeed that he felt much of anything these days. Pain, then, was a shortcut to feeling – it reminded him that he continued to exist in the world, that he lived and perhaps left his mark on the world as the world left a mark on him. 

Celegorm closed his eyes, and focussed on the sensations. For all his faults, his servant was well-built everywhere, his thick cock stretching his rim wide and filling his body so completely that it was hard to think about anything else. That was what he really wanted - for the rest of the world to not exist. 

He pushed his hips back against the other’s thrusts, and wriggled one of his arms out from underneath himself, spitting onto his open palm before wrapping it around his own dick. 

“Fucking desperate,” Helchorn whispered behind him, “what would the rest of your people think if they saw you now?”

Celegorm wanted to laugh in response -- why would he care what they thought? -- but then Helchorn let go of his scruff and wrapped his forearm around his throat, pulling him upright on both knees against his chest and choking him. 

Celegorm writhed in his grip, but he knew himself caught – a stupid prey animal that had delivered itself into the snare. It occurred to him vaguely that Helchorn could kill him. He could not bring himself to feel panicked about it. 

Helchorn went on fucking him. Celegorm thrashed and gagged. Black spots began to float across his vision like ashes on water. His lungs ached.

It didn’t last much longer. For a second, Helchorn tightened his grip even further, and then he was grunting his release. Then he let go – dropping Celegorm, ragdoll-like, back down into the dirt. 

Neither of them spoke for a long moment. Celegorm could not; he was coughing, gasping, struggling to draw air back into his lungs. Helchorn was pulling his breeches back on. 

“You liked that,” he said eventually, when Celegorm had caught his breath. His voice was flat. 

Celegorm managed a scoff at that. Now that it was done, and he was not dead, he felt cold all over. His dick was soft, and he hadn’t come. The other’s seed was sticky and uncomfortable between his thighs, and his throat was sure to bruise the next day. He didn’t look at Helchorn – he thought now that his servant disgusted him, and wondered that he had not seen it before. “Don’t flatter yourself. If anything, you bored me.”