Two for Tragedy by Sleepless_Malice

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Chapter 1

Well, lovely anon who sent this in .. THANK YOU .. and as you might have noticed I got carried away a little with this prompt.

Obviously I go with Orodreth being the son of Finarfin, and therefore being the younger brother of Finrod.

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Two for Tragedy

*

Orodreth does not even know for certain what his masquerade should exactly represent, all he wishes for is to become somebody entirely different for this night. His blond hair is already covered by a wig with long black hair, intricately braided and adorned with jeweled clips which he had specifically ordered for this event.

Curiously he regards his image in the mirror – is it truly him he is looking at? Hardly.

With a smirk he adds a bit of liquid foundation here and there, a lighter shade below his eyes, a darker shade across the bridge of the nose and over his cheek bones. He has tried this a few days ago and it has taken him great effort to figure out how to transform his facial features; after all, he usually doesn’t wear make-up, not since the lavish feasts in Tirion.

Mesmerized he stares into the mirror as he blends the different nuances into a smooth mixture and his face transforms completely. He feels like an artist, using his own skin as canvas, mixing, blending, adding colors here and there.

Orodreth is already amazed by how he looks, yet still he continues to highlight his features where he deems it necessary – higher cheekbones and a sharp nose shall be the most prominent features. When he is nearly finished with his artwork he paints a thin line right above the jawline and blends it with the rest. Once he is completely satisfied with the result, he dusts shimmering powder across the entirety of his face before he adds all the little details he deems necessary to make his look complete. Carefully not to spoil anything of his previous work, he pencils over his brows, covering the lighter hairs in between the darker ones. Whilst he does so, he wonders how common this exact procedure is, and how many time the ladies usually spend with it in the morning. In order to complete the dark and dramatic look he draws a thin line with kohl right under the lashes of his lower eyelids, working the color into his skin with his fingertip.

So occupied he is with perfecting his looks that he does not realize how time slips through his hands – but the result is worth all the effort; the mirror image that greets him with wide eyes is anybody but him and for moments he simply stares in awe.

And then he smiles, for why he does not know, and hastily he dresses then. The intricate robes, sleeves adorned with dark feathers pool smoothly around his frame, the jewels in his hair sparkle in the light of the candles.

“Perfect!” he says to himself. Completely satisfied he is with his outer appearance as he escapes into the night.

 

*

Nargothrond’s great hall is already bustling with people when he enters, buzzing with energy, air heavy with the smell of potent wine and delicious food.

It is odd, Orodreth thinks, as curious eyes regard him – or rather his appearance, something that makes him smile inwardly. A few people have already greeted him, but none has used his true name. Apparently his disguise is beyond perfect.

With ease he spots his brother amidst the crowd, Finrod, whose golden hair betrays him rather easily and a few other nobles are gathered around one of the large tables, seated on a small podium. Whilst he passes by a few noblemen he takes a goblet of mead from one of the trays carried past him by servants; the trays of wine and mead are followed by countless trays of food, including different breads, cheese and fruits, but despite the late hour Orodreth is all but hungry.

Instead to seat himself and eat, he leans against the wall and runs a hand through his now dark hair, which still feels so alien between his fingers whilst he observes the scene. Different smells tickle his nose, the bathing oil he has used earlier among them, the smell of scented candles and heavy perfume mingling with roasted venison and wine.

Despite his solitude amidst the crowd, he is, odd as it might be, all but bored, taking great delight in simple observation. Wine and mead flow like an endless river this night, the hall vibrating with laughter and energy, newly found couples disappearing from the crowd every now and then, fingers entangled and in silence he wonders where exactly they are heading to. The cavern halls offer countless possibilities for secret (or from time to time not so secret) meetings and clandestine trysts. Magnificently created indoor gardens, kept alive by the sunlight that streamed into the cave through overhead windows, with gushing fountains and hidden corners, natural baths fed by a hot spring and various other spots for hiding. Often Orodreth wonders if his brother, the king of these halls, uses them himself; he has never asked.

Orodreth is content to simply watch, to observe and study the crowd and the guests’ behavior and all the little details that change as the hours drew on; the scent of sexual attraction becomes more prominent in the already heavy air, the faces of the participants becoming more flushed from both heat and alcohol. The moment the left-over food is removed from the table, the sound of flutes and harps mingles with the laughter, and cheerful songs of better days are sung. Briefly his brother’s gaze meets his own across the distance and Orodreth feels his heartbeat speeding up for why he doesn’t know.

He lets his eyes wander once more, and in return, he is watched, too, Orodreth notices at one point and tilts his head a little to the side. One pair of dark-grey eyes regards him intensely but Orodreth fails to distinguish if it is Curufin, or Celebrimbor, his skilled son. It matters not as he loathes both equally. When he looks next, the dark figure has already disappeared somewhere into the crowd and at the same time he feels a hand brushing against his arm. Startled he turns around. It is the daughter of one of Finrod’s councilors, he knew her name once but couldn’t recall it right now.

“Mind to share a dance with me?” he hears her asking. Perhaps she assumes that he is bored without indulging into all the chatter, perhaps her father has told her that she should wed soon; he cannot know, and for him it doesn’t make a difference.

“My lady,” he says politely, offering her his arm, “it would be my pleasure.”

Well, not exactly but no harm would come from dancing with the young maid.

“Thank you,” the young lady says at last, curiosity shining from her large eyes, “but who are you? I cannot remember to have seen you in these halls before.”

Apparently nobody guessed his identity and once more he takes delight to pretend he is someone whom he in fact isn’t. “Just a humble messenger from Barad Eithel,” he lies and is genuinely surprised how sincere his voice sounds, how easily the lie slips over his lips.

Usually, he doesn’t lie, he does not indulge into all those idle games which are being played in the Finrod’s carven halls; in fact he loathes them. However, today can be hardly described as ‘usually’ and with ease he plays along.

Once they have mingled with the other couples Orodreth loops his arm around her, and for a few songs they sweep together across the dance floor, chatting and laughing until her attention is desired by another, one of the aspiring squires.

After wishing the young maid a wonderful evening he moves away from the dance floor and picks up another goblet of mead. It’s only his third and with this amount he is well below the average everybody else seems to have consumed, Orodreth thinks when his gaze falls onto a young lady who can hardly walk by herself anymore.

Quickly then his eyes wander towards his brother once more who still sits at the high table, a bit away from the crowds, surrounded by keen young ladies fighting for the king’s attention.

Finrod loves to drink, aye, but contrary to his own perception he was never good at it.

“Ah, Ingoldo,” a chortled voice in the distance says, “a toast to our king.”

Goblets clattered and soon after Finrod’s melodious laughter fills the air. Until now he has mostly ignored his brother, but now he finds himself unable to; he doesn’t like half of his brother’s court, he doesn’t like those impertinent ladies, and with all his heart he detests those sons of Fëanor and their followers: always scheming, always plotting, spreading lies in the darkest corners of the palace and taking advantage of his brother’s noble and generous heart. Maybe it is odd, well – not maybe actually, indeed it is inappropriate how he behaves, after all Finrod is old enough to decide for himself. It doesn’t help, he still keeps thinking this way as somehow he feels obliged to spare is brother another disappointment.

All too heavily the memories of Barahir still lie on his mind and heart – only that Finrod naturally does not wish to hear any of it.

Whispers on the quiet reach his ear every now and then, compliments about his looks, about his style – something which usually doesn’t happen to him in Nargothrond’s halls.

‘Shallow rabble.’

Like a restless bird Orodreth swarms from one guest to another, holding idle conversations here and there, chatting with young ladies and men alike, with his eyes always returning to Finrod. Almost magically his gaze is drawn towards his brother as in the soft light of the torches he seems to glow amidst the mostly dark-haired inhabitants of his realm, radiating an ethereal and regal air. More often than not he has to force his eyes away from him, because he doesn’t simply watch, he stares – blatantly so.

In between he observes the crowd; of only a few guests he cannot guess the identity, perhaps indeed messengers and travelers who coincidentally are present in Nargothrond during the great masquerade. Naturally Finrod has invited everybody: servants, nobles and travelers alike.

He is just conversing with a young lady when he hears his brother’s voice clamoring in the distance; unexceptionally loud, convincing, slurred. Obviously, Finrod is drunk already – terribly so, and although he has found the young girl a pleasant partner to chat with, he doesn’t wish to leave his brother alone in this state of mind; hungry wolves are lurking everywhere.

Swiftly he strides across the room, sweeping past the dancing couples until he ascends the wooden stairs that lead towards the podium.

He draws in a few breaths, bracing himself to speak with the king of these halls. “My lord,” Orodreth says pretending to be not himself and with such ease he changes his voice that for seconds he is startled; he does not even sound remotely like himself.

The smile Finrod gives him is breathtaking and spell-binding alike. “Leave it be,” the king responds with a dismissive gesture of his hand, “for once let us slip all the blatant courtesies and titles, now now shall we not? Sit down, sit down, now will you?”

Oh well, Orodreth thinks, his brother is even groggier than he has originally suspected, and simultaneously he does as he is told. Gracefully he sits down on the empty chair next to Finrod, his black hair cascading down his shoulders and with an indulgent smile he accepts the cup which is offered to him by the king himself. This small gesture is awkward, Orodreth thinks, and another hint of how deep his brother is into the cups already; Finrod does not know who he is, a traveler, a servant, nobody of rank and status because he doesn’t wear any of his Arafinwëan jewelry this night.

‘Oh Ingoldo, what is it with you this night?’

“Cheers,” Finrod says, lips and tongue stained with wine, lifting his cup high into the air which results in half of the content spilling down onto the table and Finrod’s robes.

‘Brother!’ Orodreth almost finds himself inclined to say, but he doesn’t as Finrod does not seem to care at the slightest about the now wet garments and the mess he has created. Instead he plays along and lifts his own goblet for a toast and gives him his most radiant smile. “Here’s to you! To the marvelous feast!” states Orodreth and the silver goblets chink together.

He pretends to drink a generous amount of the honeyed wine, when in reality he only takes but small sips and watches his brother over the rim of the cup. He is far away from being only half as drunk as his brother is, yet in his presence he feels a sudden heat creeping up his cheeks and something else that makes his stomach flutter.

In silence he curses: his own stupidity, his brother’s drunken state which originally has brought him right here, the emotions which he had thought banned forever from his mind.

Silence, heavy and stuffy, falls between them and intensely Finrod regards him through half-lidded eyes with a smile that is not entirely innocent. Orodreth knows that specific look, he has seen it often on his brother’s face, although not quite recently.

What on earth is Finrod thinking?

Orodreth cannot think this thoughts any further as his brother disrupts the silence with his melodious voice: “Now stranger, dare to give away yourself to your king?” he asks, his voice low and heavy, a dazzling smile playing at his lips. Orodreth feels his brother’s gaze burning on his skin, feels his eyes wander from his eyes towards where his robe gives way to skin. This is not how he should regard him, certainly not, but despite all knowledge he feels his heart pounding heavily against his ribcage. “Or do you wish to keep your mysterious identity for the time being?”

He’s flirting with him, rather shamelessly so – in public with a good amount of others able to hear them. However, the chances are high that nobody would ever notice, Orodreth realizes as he is the only one who’s not completely drunk, making a fool of himself.

“I .. wish ..” he attempts to say, but when he feels his brother’s hand brush not so accidently against his thighs he doesn’t manage to choke out anything else. In his mind a voice screams, scolds him, asks him to take his leave, yet rooted to the spot Orodreth remains, not even noticing that the heavy goblet has fallen out of his hand in surprise and shock.

“Never mind,” he hears Finrod say nonchalantly through the hazy veil of his mind, but his attention is more focused on the idle game of fingers beneath the table that persists, “it is not the first cup that fell his night. Unimportant vanities in contrast to what I have asked you earlier.”

The smile on his brother’s face persisted but the expression in his eyes has changed – at last he demands an answer. Orodreth doesn’t know form where the words on this tongue come from, and before he realizes what exactly they imply they spill across his parted lips. “Does it matter?”

With a laugh Finrod shakes his golden head. “Nay, not really, dearest stranger. Names and titles are nothing more but smoke and mirrors.”

For once Orodreth agrees.

His mind is reeling, his heart fluttering and he is certain that his cheeks are flushed scarlet.

What on earth is he thinking to act as he does?

“Names …,” continues Finrod for him to hear, although Orodreth his certain that his brother is only thinking aloud, “what does it matter when such beauty surrounds me. You know, nameless stranger, I always appreciate beauty when I see it, no matter in which way it manifests itself.” The words drip like honey from his brother’s luscious lips and mesmerized he stares; yet again and absently his own mouth forms into a smirk. He has never seen anything so beautiful than his brother in the gloomy light of the torches.

The voice in his mind is still persistent, yet he doesn’t pay notice to it anymore and plays along. “My humble thanks,” says Orodreth at last, inclining his head to his side.

Hot and cold he feels as Finrod’s hand wanders further up his thighs, now being only mere inches away from somewhere his brother certainly should never touch him and a slight unease begins to spread throughout his body. The tensing of his body doesn’t go unnoticed by his brother who immediately withdraws his hand; it is a curse and blessing alike, but in fact he already misses the loss of touch.

With a smile on his lips Finrod leans in and whispers into his ear, hot breath dancing across his skin: “Walk with me?” he offers in such a suggestive manner that Orodreth nearly faints upon the words; indeed his original motive has been to walk his drunken brother back to his chambers, to spare him further embarrassment – but not like this!

Before he can reply, Finrod tries to rise gracefully from his seat; Finrod who usually is all grace and perfect manners, noble, almost ethereally in everything he does is all but graceful right now. He falls back into the chair not a second later after standing up, giggling like a foolish child as he does.

“Eru, are you drunk,” Orodreth exclaims and offers a helping hand which is gratefully accepted as Finrod tries to rise again.

“Thank you,” slurs Finrod, helplessly clutching to his brother’s shoulders. Offering a helping hand is hardly sufficient Orodreth finds out soon; Finrod is barely able to stand, least alone to walk properly by himself and all he can ever do is to wrap his arm around his brother’s slim waist to hinder him from falling over his feet. The ungraceful image of the young lady he has observed earlier comes back into his mind, and with dismay he thinks that the image Nargothrond’s king presents right now isn’t any better, actually hardly befitting for his status.

The quicker they get away from the crowd, the better, thinks Orodreth as he drags his brother through the whispering crowd. Finrod is barely able to follow his pace as somewhat awkward he walks, something which Orodreth blames entirely on the honeyed wine.

‘Bring him back to his chambers and take your leave. Take care of his safety, but nothing more.’ The words echoes repeatedly through Orodreth mind and reluctantly he listens, at least as long as his brother remains quiet besides him.

Once they are outside the great hall cold fresh air embraces them, brushing against his heated cheeks - a most welcoming diversion thinks Orodreth, maybe it helps to finally regain his wits; but then, so wonderful his arm around his brother’s wrist does still feel, the warmth that arises from his golden skin. Finrod also seems to sober a little as his steps become more evenly and steady.

For a while they walked along the endless corridors in silence, Orodreth escorting his brother back towards the royal wing. Flickering torches serve as the only source of light as darkness has long descended and only blackness falls through the high windows hewn into the stone.

Completely lost in thoughts Orodreth is when suddenly his brother rises his voice and startles him out of his musings. “Wait…” mumbles Finrod in a pleading voice and immediately he halts, furrowing his brows in concern. His brother is panting heavily, steading himself against the wall with bent head and all Orodreth hopes for is that the wine in his brother’s body stays exactly where it is.

“All well?” asks Orodreth when Finrod rises his head and regards him through narrowed eyes.

“Stop playing your idle games with me, cousin,” Finrod hisses sharply, pushing himself away from the wall until he stands right in front of Orodreth, “do you truly think I have not yet deciphered your identity?”

With every word that spills from his brother’s lips his eyes widen. “COUSIN?”

Curufin.

He does not even, apart from the black wig he wears, remotely look like Curufin – nor does he behave like him. But then, Finrod is deep in his cups tonight, hardly able to speak properly and lacking the personal experience of being completely drunk himself, Orodreth can only suspect what his brother sees before his drowsy eyes. Tales exist that certain wines result in heavy dreams and vivid reveries, something which is most likely the case with his brother.

‘Cousin. Curufin.’ He repeats in his mind, and everything falls into places. His brother hasn’t inappropriately touched a mere stranger beneath the table, hasn’t flirted shamelessly with someone he didn’t know; from the beginning Finrod has assumed that he is Curufin! Orodreth doesn’t know if he should be relieved or if he should be gravely insulted; anyhow, the newly obtained knowledge made everything worse as he despised their cousin with all his heart. Whilst he is still lost in thoughts Finrod takes a step closer towards him, standing so close that he feels his brother’s breath, heavy with wine, dance against his face. “I am tired of them, you know. One day you seem as if you cannot get enough of me, touching me beneath the table – the other day you pretend that you are hardly interested in me,” he continues, voice hoarse and dangerously low.

For a while Orodreth has assumed their secret dalliance already, even if Finrod has always denied it, perhaps would deny it still - now he has the final and sickening prove.

“I .. I ..” Orodreth starts to explain but before he can say anything more, Finrod’s lips seal his own, soft, clumsily, so utmost demanding and all he ever wished to say dies in his throat when his brother takes a step forward, pressing him against the wall with all strength he can muster.

It is so wrong. He knows it. Yet he lets it happen.

In contrast to Finrod who thinks he is Curufin he knows his brother’s identity.

He isn’t hardly as drunk as Finrod is who cannot see straight anymore. Orodreth knows that he should slap the roaming hands right away, should take a step to the side, away from the grip of his brother’s hands and flee through the hallways into his own rooms.

He does none of it, finding himself unable to.

His brother’s lips, warm and wet against his own spark something within him, something he thought long buried.

It’s sickening, but lust flares behind his closed eyes and so caught in the maelstrom of his thoughts he does not even notice when Finrod breaks the kiss.

“Lost for words? O I shall mark that date - what a rare occurrence, dearest cousin,” mocks Finrod with a snicker, and Orodreth has to admit that his brother has a valid point here; Curufin is never rendered speechless, always capable to throw in a snide comment.

For many hours Orodreth has studied Curufin’s despicable way of regarding Finrod, for many hours he has watched him in silence with disdain; the twitch of his eyebrows when he speaks, the mischievous hitch of the corner of his mouth, the way he walks and talks with such nonchalance, seeding lie after lie.

“Hardly,” snorts Orodreth, surprised how different his voice sounds all of a sudden, “merely thinking.”

“Oh yes, yes, how could I ever forget: Atarinkë the great thinker,” he mocks with his arms still resting around Orodreth’s neck.

It shouldn’t intrigue him as it does. It is filthy. It is wrong. Wrong on just so many levels, yet he plays along with arising boldness.

“Indeed. You have never complained about my thoughts, about my ideas if I recall correctly. Correct me if I am mistaken.”

“Nay,” Finrod admits, blushing scarlet; and so does Orodreth when his brother’s fingertips ghost along his neck, his jawline, over his lips. “The night is still young I daresay; inclined to join me?”

‘You drunken fool.’ Orodreth hates himself for not saying his thoughts aloud. Instead fantasies of his brother lying stark naked amidst the silken sheets begin to sneak into his mind, golden Finrod, writhing seductively with wearing nothing else than the divine necklace. For moments Orodreth wonders what they have put into his wine earlier, because that isn’t him talking, it’s their cousin.

Curufin’s mind, at least what he thinks his cousin’s mind is made from, is such a repulsive and frightening place, yet he finds his own thoughts reeling in what Curufin would say. Yes, Finrod is drunk, heavily so, nevertheless he has to remain cautious not to give himself away.

“Desperate you are, are you not?” The laugh that follows is almost cruel.

Finrod blushes all the more, gnawing at his lower lips, a gesture Orodreth find’s utterly charming. Aye, desperate Finrod indeed is, perhaps has been the entire night when first he has thought that it is Curufin he is talking to.

What happens next Orodreth cannot explain; actually it feels as if it is Curufin’s mind taking over, because the arrogant bastard would certainly not remain pressed against the wall, yielding to someone whom he sees below his rank. (Yet another infamous trait of the sons of Fëanor).

“Oh dearest cousin,” he whispers to divert Finrod’s attention for the blink of an eye and with ease he reverses their position; now it is the golden king who finds himself pinned helplessly against the wall, breathing heavily.

‘Oh what a wonderful sight to behold!’

The heat of desire and lust sparks in his lower abdomen, sanity completely erased from his mind as he loses himself in the rapture of his brother’s eyes. With a haughty smirk playing at his lips he leans in until his mouth almost touches the golden skin of Finrod’s throat, hands still resting on his brother’s shoulders to keep him there. “You know there is no shame in being desperate .. for me,” whispers Orodreth, voice low and heavy with arousal he certainly shouldn’t feel. ‘Oh hell yes, that is certainly something the vain bastard would say’ he notices with delight, pressing his brother’s legs apart with his knees.

What is odd is that Finrod doesn’t even attempt to struggle; apparently it is not the first time that Finrod experiences something alike.

On their own accord Orodreth lips mouth along his brother’s throat, along his jawline sucking hard enough to leave a mark; Finrod’s skin feels so wonderful under his lips that a searing heat begins to explode in his guts despite the illicit nature of what he does.

“Curvo, please .. not here,” Finrod demands, words nothing more than a whimper, because in fact he loves what just has happened, that much is certain and manifested in the hardness between his legs.

Breathless and almost speechless Orodreth withdraws his lips and for moments they look at each other mesmerized, lust and longing sparking between their heated bodies; they are both hard, terribly so, wanton lust shining from their eyes, hands hungry and exploring.

“Your chambers, then?” Orodreth suggests and the words slip so casually across his lips that his mouth goes dry.

Finrod blinks. “Preferably.”

God gracious – at the last moment Orodreth bites back the sigh of relief, because he could hardly take Finrod to his own quarters without revealing his true identity.

“Good, then come.” Desperate indeed he is, and quickly he snatches another kiss from Orodreth’s lips.

What is it, he wonders that makes his brother fall for the obnoxious lackey?

What heavens has he promised him?

They hush along the dimly lit corridors, and more often than not Finrod requires being assisted by his brother in disguise; more than one time he stumbles nearly over his own feet. Most of Nargothrond’s inhabitants are still gathered in the great hall where endless rivers of mead and wine flow. Much to Orodreth relief the corridors are therefore still deserted. Unwise it certainly is for Finrod to be seen in such a wrecked state by his people, by those who cherish gossip above all else.

A sigh of relief spills from his lips when they finally stand in front of the wooden doors that lead inside Finrod’s royal chambers and for moments they regard each other, trying to decipher what the other thinks.

 

*

To open the door takes Finrod a few moments in his drunken condition, but once the heavy door creaks open, he almost drags Orodreth inside, smashing the door shut behind them. Naturally Orodreth has been in his brother’s rooms countless time yet to him it feels as if he is in there for the first time; sees them in a complete different light. From the entrance chamber Finrod strides deeper into his rooms, urging him to follow and so Orodreth does, heart ponding heavily. He knows which room Finrod is heading to and it makes his throat tighten.

‘Take your leave - NOW,’ the persistent voice in his head keeps still saying. Orodreth decides to ignore it, although he doesn’t feel entirely free of guilt.

At last they stand in the bedroom which is truly befitting for Nargothrond’s king.

Cushions and blankets made of emerald silks, adorned with golden brocade patterns, a spacious bed with ornamented pillars rising into the air at each corner. Orodreth lets his gaze wander; he should not think about it, but he keeps wondering what his brother usually does with their cousin in this bed.

When his gaze returns to his brother Finrod watches him with wide eyes, strangely shy all of a sudden

‘What game is it that they are usually playing at?’ wonders Orodreth because Finrod regards him as if he expects him to make the first move, nearly as if he awaits a command. He is not good at this, perhaps he never was, and his brother’s coy way, feigning utter innocence makes it all worse.

Before he can think of something better he hears his voice pierce the silence, low and demanding. “Ingoldo .. I wonder why no jewels adorn your throat tonight?”

Often, throughout all the years, when he has thought that nobody would notice him staring he has watched his brother from the corner of his eyes, gaze fixed at his throat, studying the flexing muscles and tendons, and the divine collar that usually adorn it.

Finrod’s smile grows radiant.

“Oh dearest cousin, I might begin to call your obsession with the Nauglamír .. unhealthy,” states Finrod who doesn’t seem to be surprised at the slightest by his request. Apparently for once their cousin’s interest and his own strangely match.

“Call it as you wish,” Orodreth hears himself saying, “as long as you wear the necklace I do not care.”

“And you dare to call me desperate?” laughs Finrod and for a second, Orodreth gasps, because he is right in everything he says. He is desperate, desire throbbing in his veins, desperate longing for his own brother.

With a sly smirk Finrod takes a step towards him, snatching away another kiss from his lips before he speaks: “Now, Curvo – how exactly do you wish to see me wearing the collar?”

Finrod is a natural tease, and all too easily he finds himself falling for the charms of his elder brother. But how shall anyone ever resist Finrod’s charms? It is impossible.

Absently he licks along his lips before he demands: “Put it on – and then undress yourself for me.”

“You are naughty,” comments Finrod but does as he is told.

Swiftly he strides out of Orodreth’s sight, and from the adjusting room the noise of chinking metal and rustling silks reaches his ears. As if he is rooted to the spot he stands, something which earns him a chuckle when Finrod returns.

“Sit down,” demands Finrod and as if spell-bound, Orodreth obliges. He sinks into the comfortable armchair with his eyes roaming hungrily over his brother’s body that is now veiled by a delicate piece of nearly transparent silk, waist-long golden hair cascading over his shoulders. The garment does not leave much to his imagination, and his mouth falls open as he stares: His eyes are wandering from his brother’s eyes, down his throat and chest until his gaze comes to rest on the hardness between his thighs.

He would give the world to sink onto his knees before the king.

“You like what you see,” comments Finrod, voice low and husky.

He is right, of course – how shall he not admire what he sees? Like a marble sculpture his brother’s body is, well-defined muscles, long legs and a slender waist, but as always it his Finrod’s throat that catches his attention for a while, now adorned with the shimmering collar.

He simply smiles in reply because it must be rather obvious how exactly he feels, cheeks hot and burning.

“Take that ‘nothing’ off,” he says, and although it is phrased as an order it isn’t meant as one, more a plea for Finrod to make haste.

Much to Orodreth’s dismay his brother does not even think about it.

With an indulgent smirk that is nearly apologetic he slowly begins to unlace the ties that hold the fabric together, undoing knot after knot until Orodreth writhes in his seat in frantic anticipation.

Closer Finrod steps then, so close that Orodreth can nearly feel the heat radiating from his brother’s skin, smell him, touch him – and he thinks he nearly faints. With one hand he grips the arm rest until his knuckles shine white so much he desires him.

Finrod’s face lights up further; over the years he has mastered the gift to read the mind and facial expressions of others and certainly right now Orodreth is an open book to read.

It is insane. Maddening and so utterly arousing as nothing has been for many years, and Orodreth is tempted to simply rise and push his brother down onto the nearby bed.

Finrod merely shakes his head.

At last the final knot comes undone and the garment cascades down his body, pooling around his ankles.

And there he stands in magnificent nudity – breathtaking and divine, so beautiful that all guilt in Orodreth mind is wiped away, erased. The sight Finrod presents renders him speechless for moments and with wide eyes he regards him.

He wishes to ravish him, to love him, to care for him, mumble sweet words of adoration into his ear whilst he would take him, yet he cannot, he has to keep the disguise alive and it pains him. Expectantly his brother watches him as he sits in the armchair, greyish-blue eyes holding his gaze. Orodreth feels a flush decorate his cheeks as he stares mesmerized. He hasn’t noticed it until now, but whilst he has watched his brother’s performance one hand has absently slipped into his breeches, and languidly he is stroking himself.

As he does notice, he quickly withdraws his hand, hoping his brother hasn’t seen it.

Of course he has, as much Finrod’s words affirm: “Oh worry not; I rather enjoy when my performance has been to your satisfaction.”

“You are beautiful,” babbles Orodreth just to say at least something.

“So are you, but thank you,” replies Finrod with sincerity, yet he seems entirely taken aback by the innocent remark, “you are different tonight, Curvo. Gentler, less unfair, your comments not as snide and cruel as they are usually – has the disguise softened you?” At the end he chuckles.

A knot begins to form in Orodreth throat because so many things these words imply and the already small smile dims further. “Are you complaining?” he asks sharply, mainly to overplay his own state of mind.

“Nay, nay,” laughs Finrod, “quite the contrary. I could get used to that softer side of yours, you know.”

With every word his brother says Orodreth’s demeanor crackles; he’s not Curufin, he is absolutely nothing their cousin is - or at least how he assumes him to be. He’s not cruel, nor is he selfish, and indeed he would call himself a rather affectionate lover. Curufin is most certainly none of these things, that much is certain judging Finrod’s words.

His brother deserves better, Orodreth thinks as he gestures him to step forward to sit in his lap.

Without hesitation but with a breathtaking smile Finrod takes the last step towards him and bents down to seal his lips with his own; a chase brush of lips against lips, almost innocent and coy.

He doesn’t know what to think, what to dream of anymore, where to let his gaze wander first as Finrod allows his fingertips to brush over Orodreth’s lips and on their own accord his arms sneak around his brother’s slim waist. “Lost for words?” he comments and startles Orodreth out of his blatant staring; immediately he tries to collect himself, but that smile doesn’t last long.

With utter grace Finrod comes to sit astride of him, all previous clumsiness gone, with his hands weaving into the dark strands and in silence Orodreth prays that the wig will stay in place. They have crossed the point of no return a while ago for certain, right now he feels as if there is no turning back, perhaps never has been.

Still guilt erupts anew.

He should tell Finrod to stop, ask him to get off him and take his leave – now; yet he finds himself unable to, he simply cannot as for too many years he has desired exactly this in the darkest hours of the night.

Finrod is a sight to behold, especially with the sultry look on his face; truly - it is no wonder that half of the kingdom pins after their golden king, and to his shame Orodreth doesn’t seem to be an exception.

Whilst he is lost in his thoughts, Finrod’s hands are working with the buttons of his robes, undoing one by one. It is not long until it is skin against skin, their heated bodies pressed flushed against each other.

Orodreth takes his time, savoring every second of the forbidden tryst; he takes his time to admire the incredible beauty his brother is, the flushed cheeks, the sparkling eyes and the vulnerability that shines from them. Softly his hands skim Finrod’s sides, caressing him, cherishing him as he so much deserves to be cherished. Hesitantly Orodreth leans in and begins to kiss a line from his jaw down the expanse of his neck which isn’t covered by the heavy necklace, further down to the dip of his collarbone.

It is beyond obvious just how much Finrod enjoys exactly this, the silent moans that fall from his lips affirm – and Orodreth would lie if he says he doesn’t enjoy this, because so much he does. Perhaps more than he should, and he cannot stop thinking what else is going on between their cousins and his brother. With all his heart he hates Curufin, yet strangely intrigued he finds himself by what they are doing behind closed doors.

More fiercely than he has intended to he begins to suck at the side of Finrod’s neck just above the intricately crafted collar until he hears Finrod whisper softly, “Do not … please.. not where all can see.”

‘Shit.’

“Pardon me, I .. I was not thinking.” he mumbles and immediately his words are followed by a small chuckle from his brother.

Well, apparently this was something Curufin would not say.

“I wish you would forget to think more often when you are with me,” says Finrod, and again Orodreth stomach cringes. Always scheming, always plotting, this is exactly what Curufin does – apparently even during fucking, Orodreth thinks with disdain.

Worst of all, his brother knows exactly this but does not seem to care too much.

With a certain reluctance Orodreth forces the disturbing thoughts to the back of his mind and concentrates on the idle game of lips and fingers again.

Orodreth would give the world for doing exactly this the entire night, kissing and caressing his brother’s neck, losing himself in rapture with a smile on his lips. And so he does, covering every inch of his brother’s skin he can reach with his lips.

If only for this night and never again thereafter, now Finrod is his to worship, to love.

He is so beautiful, and he is desperate to devour him, to cherish him as he deserves to be cherished. With his arms wrapped around his brother’s back he pulls him close until his lips brush against his brother’s hardened nipples. With a moan Finrod arches against him, urging him on as his tongue flicks across his nipple, all the more when he begins to bite gently which pulls another moan from his brother’s lips.

At one point, sanity returns for a moment and guilt upon the sickening deeds arises anew. “Do you want this?” Orodreth asks, looking up under his long fake lashes. He can see the answer to his question with his eyes alone as hard and proud Finrod’s cock stands between their bodies, still he needs to hear it aloud.

“Curvo,” whispers Finrod against his lips, “I begin to wonder what exactly the servants have put into your wine tonight,” words upon which he laughs softly, “or since when do you care what I want to such an extent?”

With drunkenness comes the truth, Orodreth thinks not without a bitterness, but his brother interrupts his thoughts. “But yes, I do want this – I want everything, cousin, and so much more!” Finrod adds quickly, and seals his lips with his own.

O how much he wishes to let the mask slip, how much he wishes to reveal his true identity, let Finrod see that it is not Curufin who is capable of such genuine affection! With his behavior he makes everything worse; Curufin isn’t gentle, isn’t caring – in fact he gives exactly nothing for Finrod’s well-being. The haughty Fëanorian takes what he wants, what he desires, until the plaything becomes tiresome to him, doesn’t serve his purposes anymore. Lost in his musings, Finrod’s words are becoming a blur, sounding far away and meaningless.

With utter affection Orodreth brushes a strand of golden hair out of his brother’s face, an affectionate gesture which is enough to make Finrod tremble against him, his smile genuine and breathtaking.

Finrod whimpers above him, his eyelids fluttering as he loses himself in the divinity of what Orodreth does to his body. “Take me … please…”

When he comprehends, his face contorts into complete bewilderment, luckily unseen by his brother’s eyes; so incredibly stupid he feels.

Where exactly has he thought would this end?

What was he thinking at all when he decided to play Curufin for the night, to pretend to be somebody quite familiar with Finrod’s sexual desires and likings?

Gods – he feels as if nervousness would eat him alive, and all too easily his veil of lies seem to scatter into pieces. He knows exactly nothing of what Finrod likes, he doesn’t know where he keeps certain things that a certainly needed.

Finrod straightens his back and tilts his head to one side, as if he asks him in silence ‘what is it, what are you waiting for?’

Pretending to be Curufin gets extremely difficult, because so unlike him he is; everything he feels for Finrod is sincere without greater schemes behind it.

“Well, since you ask so nicely...” he chokes out at last, overwhelmed by his own emotions and the undisguised lust shining from his brother’s eyes. Never before has he seen him so beautiful, never before has noticed all the little details in his brother’s face. “..I will. However, since I can hardly move with you sitting in my lap, get up and fetch something for me, now will you?”

The corner of his brother’s mouth twitches upwards; he is amused, Orodreth thinks, but somehow the smile carries a different emotion entirely. Mischief.

“No…” Finrod simply says and Orodreth’s eyes widen.

No? But hasn’t he said, asked him to take him?

Certainly he cannot imply that he should try without, well - any preparation? Orodreth eyes him with an awkward expression, tilting his head gingerly.

It is as if his brother reads his mind, because he shakes his head and reaches behind his back, a movement that makes Orodreth’s eyes widen further.

“No need there is,” coos Finrod, holding a phallus-shaped object entirely made of gold in front of his eyes. Most likely – no – most certainly a special gift from Curufin, Orodreth thinks and feels turned on and utterly repulsed at the same time; until now he hasn’t had the slightest idea of how depraved their relationship really has become over the years. He doesn’t deem himself extraordinarily reserved or prudish, but this, this knowledge is simply too much.

Carelessly Finrod lets the plug fall out of his hand and diverts his attention.

“Now,” Finrod laughs, leaning in until their lips are almost touching, “do not play innocent, Curvo. I know just how much you like it when I wear it in public.” Like honey the words drip from his brother’s lips and Orodreth feels as if his skin is burning.

Despite his persisting drunkenness Finrod knows exactly what he wants, as with ease his fingers undo the lacings of Orodreth’s breeches.

He swallows thickly when his brother’s fingers run along his erection, all the more as Finrod watches his expression transform to one of desperate lust; with every fiber of his being he desires him, wishes to ravish him.

Everything Finrod does is perfection; he knows how to touch him, how to caress and kiss him and in defeat he parts his lips to welcome his brother’s questing tongue. Orodreth tries to catch his breath, overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of the kiss which lasted until his entire body sizzled with such fierce longing he has not experienced for a long while. Finrod’s desire for him – well, for Curufin – seems to be endless as the starlit sky. Arms wrapped around his brother’s waist he arches into the touch, kissing him back with unsated passion.

With utter grace Finrod lifts his body then, hands resting upon Orodreth’s shoulders and in the glowing candle-light the Nauglamír sparkles as his eyes do. “Unwise this is, I know – we both know it, yet my desire for you is unabated, untamable I daresay.” With every word that spills past his lips, Finrod lowers his glorious body down onto Orodreth cock, slowly, so tantalizingly slowly but, thanks to the golden plug, with mastered ease.

‘No brother, this is not unwise but toxic and unhealthy on so many levels’ Orodreth notes to himself, whilst he searches for the words Curufin would perhaps say, something that isn’t all too easy with his cock enwrapped in the tight heat: “Such idle words from your lips, cousin; unwise or not – what does it matter, what do we care?”

His eyelids flutter when carefully Finrod begins to rock against him, hands weaving into his black hair; Orodreth just hopes he doesn’t pull too much. Only when he is certain that his wig will withstand the assault he begins to kiss his brother’s ear lobe, nibbling gently on it before he allows his lips to trail over Finrod’s jaw.

With a naughty smirk Finrod bends forward, brushing his lips against Orodreth’s lips, and then against ear, whispering. Certainly these are the filthiest words he has heard in a good while and he didn’t know that his brother is capable to say something alike. Yet they do not fail to spur his own lust, breath already hitching and uneven.

Everything about his brother is elegant, he is graceful in a way that Orodreth is certain it is divine magic. Even during fucking his breathtaking beauty persists, maybe even increasing as he rides him with such relentlessness; if he keeps his pace they will not last long.

Absently he pulls him close and closer still until their lips meet, partly to finally make Finrod shut up; he kisses him hard and savagely with eyes tightly shut.

The moment his lips are released, Finrod mumbles: “Curvo .. please..” and Orodreth is uncertain for what exactly he asks.

Why do they have to speak at all?

Isn’t it enough what they do, are words truly needed? But well, this is Finrod - and Finrod can never shut up.

“Ingoldo – please! Can’t you shut up for once?”

“Sorry,” says Finrod with a twitch of his lips and immediately Orodreth feels apologetic as for seconds sadness flickers in his brother’s eyes before he instinctively lowers them, looking onto the floor. He shouldn’t have said the words.

“Look at me, please.”

How much he wishes to reveal his identity. It is not Curufin who fucks - no – loves him so languidly, it’s not Curufin who cares for him, who makes him feel good, who covers his entire body with small pecks – because Orodreth is almost certain that Curufin doesn’t do ANY of these things.

He fucks him until his pleasure is sated and that is it. Nothing more, nothing else – and for this he hates his cousin all the more; if only Finrod would see through his blindness.

Above him, Finrod whimpers and moans, urging him to assist his frantic motions and that he does, placing both of his hands on his brother’s hips. Orodreth groans at the flutter of muscles around his erections, because despite the wrongness it feels so right, so perfect and wonderful - so breathtakingly divine.

Quiet whines and heated gasps are falling from their swollen lips, chasing away the tranquility of Finrod’s quarters and as much as Orodreth wishes to close his eyes to completely dissolve in sensation he finds himself unable to. The sight his brother presents simply doesn’t allow it and Orodreth knows that he will not forget the image as long as he lives. Golden Finrod, eyes half-lidded, head thrown back in pleasure with the Nauglamír tightly collaring his throat.

Fingers dig into the back of his head, something that is so unlike his brother who is always soft and gentle but for once Orodreth is grateful for the diversion; his breath is thin and ragged, disrupted by gasps and moans because it is divine how Finrod rides him as if it is the last day on earth.

Well, actually it is – at least for them, because once dawn announces the new day everything that came to past that night is no more.

The thought saddens him, and he tries to etch his brother’s scent and touch into his memory for all eternity, and most certainly his soft voice will always remind him of their sensual night.

“Kiss me, just please do,” whimpers Finrod, words disrupted by cries of passion that pierce through the tranquil night.

What has he thought? His brother has always been rather vocally – why should it be any different in the throes? With already parted lips he pulls him close and claims his mouth until Finrod’s body tenses; he’s close, so very close and whilst he still kisses him roughly he grips between their bodies and strokes him until it is as if Finrod can’t take no more. With such determination Finrod breaks the kiss and lets his head fall backwards and only seconds later Orodreth feels warm seed spurt between them, covering his hand, his stomach, staining his robes but he could not care less. Once more Finrod lowers his body down onto his twitching erection, enough to push him over the edge; he follows Finrod into oblivion, crying out his brother’s name as he fills him, and forcefully he pulls Finrod’s head down, kissing him demandingly as they ride the waves of pleasure together.

“This .. was.. intense..” mumbles Orodreth in the drowsy sweetness of coital post-haze, and with a coy smirk his brother asks innocently: “Isn’t it always .. intense .. when you are with me?”

Well, he doesn’t exactly know if he is honest and instead of giving him a vocal answer he kisses him languidly, his softening cock still buried inside his brother’s warmth.

He wishes to let this moment last forever, yet he knows he cannot, especially as Finrod nearly falls asleep on top of him. The alcohol that still flows through his veins and the exhaustion from their frantic lovemaking demand its toll.

“Ingoldo,” Orodreth whispers against the hollow of his brother’s throat where the large gemstone of the Nauglamír sits, “let us retire.”

“Aye,” agrees Finrod and heartily he yawns then. Orodreth cannot help to find his behavior just beyond endearing, so sweet, so innocent. Without giving his idea a second thought he wraps his arms tightly around his brother’s limp body and rises to his feet, carrying him towards the bed nearby. Carefully he lowers him down and with yet another yawn Finrod rolls onto his side and gives him the opportunity to spoon behind him, savoring the last moments they have together, but apparently Finrod has other ideas; with a smile he rolls around until he faces Orodreth, wrapping his arms and limbs around him.

“Sleep well,” mumbles Finrod before he kisses him onto the nose.

Orodreth is awake, perhaps more than he has been the entire day, too many emotions throbbing in his mind. Finrod however is already wandering the realms of dreams, breath finally even again.

 

*

Soundlessly he slips from the bed, detangling his arms and limbs from his brother’s embrace. The world he would give to remain, to watch him sleep, to be there when he wakes, yet he knows it’s all but wise. Once dawn announces the new day his brother’s mind will be clear and sober again and his disguise will be immediately discovered.

No, he has to leave.

A smile crosses Finrod’s features when Orodreth covers his naked form with the silken blanket, colors matching the jewels of the Nauglamír he still wears. The honeyed words never meant for his ears, whispered in the throes of passion echo in his head – over and over again and despite the coldness of the air that embraces him he still feels incredibly hot.

The hunger he feels for his own brother leaves him strangely hollow and sharp pain cuts through his suffering; what on earth was he thinking, is he thinking still? Because although he knows well that this is wrong and sickening he cannot chase away the illicit thoughts that make him suffer.

“Sleep well, my dearest brother,” Orodreth says barely audible, “rest well and forgive me .. all I have ever done.”

In the doorframe he lingers and watches his sleeping brother for many moments; so innocent, so fragile, so vulnerably he seems that it makes Orodreth heart break to know with whom exactly he usually shares such pleasures and he keeps himself asking, why o’ why couldn’t you chose wiser.

There is nothing he can do against it, Orodreth knows it well - Finrod won’t listen to him in that matter. Something he has always find hard to accept, now with the newly obtained knowledge, he despises the arrogant son of Fëanor all the more.

 

*

When he awakes long past midday his head feels as if the black foe himself has wielded the hammer that apparently has crushed his skull; everything around him seems blurry, twisting and spinning even if he knows that his wardrobe can hardly spin.

He is hung-over, terribly so and with a groan he forces himself to sit upright. Finrod cannot remember when last he had such a fierce hangover since the years of the trees and those infamous festivities. But it’s not only his head that hurts, every inch of his body aches and it takes a while until he finally feels able to slip out of his bed.

Walking is actually worse, which is hardly a surprise given his nightly activities; he can still feel his cousin’s hands roam over his body and taste those demanding kisses on his lips. Almost a pity to wash away the scent, Finrod thinks for seconds – an utterly ridiculous thought of course because his entire body is still adorned with an assortment of various body fluids.

The shower does wonders to his exhausted mind and body, and after combing and braiding his golden hair he finally feels able to leave his chambers. Thankfully, no regal obligations await him, still he deems it necessary to check if everything in order.

Dressed in simple gowns he steps outside his chambers and walks along the corridor which leads away from the wing he and his brother reside in, past the rooms occupied by Curufin and Celegorm; briefly he wonders if he should pay his cousins a visit but decides against it.

He is completely lost in thoughts, reliving the night again, memories that do not fail to paint a smile on his lips.

“Had a rough night, cousin?” a voice at the end of the corridor asks and in surprise Finrod spins around, regretting his movement not a moment later because nausea hits him, hard. It is Curufin who speaks, with his brother standing beside him, a knowing smirk playing at their lips.

Finrod pulls his eyebrows down in confusion as he regards them. “Well .. you of all, should know?” he asks. What mockery is this?

“How so? You have been so occupied yesterday night with Eru knows whom that I barely had the chance to talk to you, is it not so, brother?”

“Aye,” Celegorm confirms.

What game is it which they are playing with him? “But that … last night .. was you … was it not?” he wonders, voice heavy with insecurity, something the dark-haired Fëanorian takes great delight in.

“No, hardly, dearest cousin. I do not have such an, let’s say – odd – taste in clothing,” Curufin says with a laugh, shaking his head to support his words, before both Fëanorians turn around.

And there Finrod stands, hot sweat gathering upon his brow, cheeks flushed scarlet. He just wishes the ground would open up and swallow him whole when shameful embarrassment makes his mind spin anew.

If it was not Curufin..

.. if it was not Celegorm either..

.. who the fuck has fucked him so wonderfully last night?

*

---

Chapter End Notes

[Disclaimer] - The Elves are (unfortunately) not mine. They belong to J.R.R. Tolkien and Tolkien Estate – I just like to explore their lives a little further. No money is made from this story.

[General] - Feel free to contact me on tumblr: feanope

[Title] - Taken from the wonderful Nightwish song 'Two for Tragedy'