Summary: Finrod teaches Maglor that sometimes, the most beautiful music is played without instruments.
Characters: Finrod, Maglor
Word count: 1017
Written for Valanyonnen for the International Day of Slash 2012, inspired by Louis Garrel - Ma Mémoire Sale:
My dirty memory in this river of mud,
From the tip of your tongue clean me everywhere,
And don't leave the smallest trace
That binds me and tires me
"How about a bet, little cousin?"
Findaráto's eyes were always laughing, Makalaurë thought, biting his lips so that he wouldn't be teased for pouting yet again. Findaráto was also always charming, always far too cheerful and far too good-looking - and far too unconcerned about the fact that he had just surprised Makalaurë almost naked and still wet from his bath in the river, blushing and mortified that Findaráto had come upon him just as he was... fingering his flute, as Tyelkormo would say. Makalaurë swallowed as he imagined the endless years of tormenting remarks he would suffer, should his brother ever know about this.
"A - a bet?" he asked breathlessly, his hand still frozen in place beneath the robe that lay half draped over his lap, too mortified to pull away lest that would make it even more obvious what he had been up to.
"Mmhm. You sing and play for me."
"B-but - how is that a bet?" Makalaurë swallowed when Findaráto laughed lightly and tilted his head towards him, almost as if to kiss.
"It is a bet because of the state you are in. If you manage to do it, I won't tell your brothers."
Makalaurë licked his lips, then blushed when he realized that his cock had given a definitely interested twitch at the thought of Findaráto kissing him. "O-oh! Oh, I, ah... There's nothing wrong with me! I can still sing and play! Better than you!" he added in a rush of youthful bravado, then cringed a little at how arrogant that sounded.
"Then go ahead and prove it," Findaráto murmured with the sun bright in his golden hair, those graceful fingers absentmindedly playing with one of the flowers growing at the side of the river.
Makalaurë almost whimpered when he drew his hand out from beneath his discarded robe, not even daring to lower his eyes to see if he was truly as obviously erect beneath it as he feared he was.
He clutched the little harp tightly, almost as if to shield himself from Findaráto with it, feeling a surge of pride when his voice did not waver at all as he started to sing. It was one of his own compositions, a song he was proud of, describing that most beautiful moment when the light of Laurelin waned while Telperion's silver rays grew in intensity.
So caught up was he in his song and his pride at his own accomplishment that he did not even realize for a long moment that Findaráto's hand was now resting innocently on his leg, as if by chance.
And yet, chance had little to do with it, and there was nothing innocent about it, he thought with another blush when those graceful fingers started to slide idly up his leg, coming ever closer to where his robe lay draped over his lap.
There was a soft hitch in his voice when Findaráto's fingers pushed beneath it. Mortified, he tried to squirm back but found that he could not - not without letting go of the harp in his lap, and not without losing the bet. He kept singing, his voice wavering a little now as heat pooled in his belly, his cock quite adamant about where it wanted Findaráto's fingers to go while he still tried to overcome the hot rush of unexpected desire that pooled in his belly.
Findaráto's fingers were warm and soft as they slid ever so slowly up his thighs. Makalaurë flushed, trembling a little as he tried to fight against what he wanted, helplessly imagining how it would feel like to have Findaráto touching him, wanting it, wanting to prove his own strength of will to Findaráto at the same time by not losing the bet...
He squeaked when Findaráto's fingertips touched his balls, stopping his song for a moment while his fingers still played on, choosing the right harp-strings with a mind of their own while he trembled with shocked need. Findaráto's fingers curved around him with endless patience, exploring slowly, thoroughly, and Makalaurë opened his mouth several times to take up his song anew but found that for once, his most famed instrument would not obey him.
Instead, the only sound he managed to pronounce was a needy moan when Findaráto's hand wrapped around his aching cock, still trying to sing but failing miserably at the delicious friction. Findaráto's fingers were hot against his flesh, gripping him tightly so that he arched towards him a little, earning himself a soft laugh.
"Sing, cousin," Findaráto encouraged playfully, and Makalaurë closed his eyes in helpless surrender, little gasping moans breaking free instead of the beautiful melodies he was famed for.
"Oh, none of that," Findaráto chided, and Makalaurë opened his eyes wide as the robe was pulled from his lap.
"Don't-" he tried to protest, and Findaráto raised his other hand to press those delicious, tormenting fingers against his lips.
"Hush. Either you sing, cousin, or you admit you lost," he whispered, and Makalaurë lowered his eyes to stare helplessly at where Findaráto was now slowly teasing the head of his cock with the pad of his thumb, slickening him with the first few droplets that had escaped from the small slit.
"What is it, cousin?" Findaráto demanded, so close now that his breath ghosted against his lips, and with a soft cry Makalaurë claimed those lips, licking at them in an unschooled entreaty, hungry and burning and melting when a tongue slid against his own.
"W-win. Win. You win!" he gasped dazedly when their lips parted again. He stared at Findaráto's lips, licking his own and shivering at the strange, unfamiliar taste on them. "You win, cousin, you win, oh please...!"
Findaráto chuckled, his fingers releasing Makalaurë's cock. "Mmm, very true. I win," he purred and then bent his head, sliding down to draw him deep into his throat while Makalaurë moaned more beautifully than he had ever sung before.
Entry originally posted to DW: http://esteliel.dreamwidth.org/421638.ht