Give me a moment for pity's sake by Sleepless_Malice

Chapter 1

written for SmutSwap2016

Read Chapter 1

 Give me a moment for pity’s sake

*

 

Some nights when he’s lying on his bed, almost too exhausted to drift off to slumber, a door in his mind swings open; unbidden, unwelcomed. Images, whose origins remain unknown, flood his mind, making his dreams painfully vivid. An attraction against which he had tried to fight in vain for months.

Usually he had waited until everything around him was quiet before he took himself in hand. Usually, in the beginning, his stomach had turned upon the images.

He is long past both.

Bright daylight streams through the window as he begins fantasizing about his brother again. He would think about how he would bend his sibling over their father’s desk, pressing red marks into his hips with his thick fingers; how in response his brother would tense in shock then spin him around, hands wrapped tightly around his throat, squeezing until blackness folded its gentle arms around him.

Carnistir’s palm wanders between his thighs. The calluses from hours of practicing rub against the underside of his cock. He’s rock hard already.

He wants his brother to scream, yet at the same time he wants to scream for him. He has no right, no place to interrupt in his brother’s happiness – all he has is his own fist pumping his cock. Stark naked he lies on the black satin with his dark tresses fanned around his head, eyes half-lidded to block the blinding radiance of the light of the Tree from his mind. His fantasies aren’t made for the pure and gentle light of Laurelin as they are as wrong as anything can ever be. Without much thought he reaches downwards and retrieves one of the objects, which lie securely hidden under his bed for such occasions.

Carnistir feels the wave of heat emanating from his skin, and simultaneously, as he parts his legs further the muscles of his thighs flexes. Up and down one hand runs along his cock whilst the fingers of the other twist and turn his hard nipple. He had only recently discovered the immense pleasure brought on by toying with himself, and more often than not he finds himself sore there the following day.

Being gentle – even with himself – simply isn’t in his nature.

He runs his thumb across the wet tip of his cock, slickening his hand for the thrust into the grip.

Would his brother cry out loud when he breaches him?

He hopes he would.

Would he feel that tight when he fucks him?

Being still a virgin he doesn’t exactly know, yet still he imagines his brother’s clenching walls around his cock until a moan gathers on his parted lips.

Filthy words spill freely from his lips as his mind goes awry with his sibling’s mouth tightly wrapped around his cock (when it only is his glistening fist), and in his mind he fucks that pretty mouth in the same rhythm as he pleasures himself.

Fuck the Valar, he’s close already, close to come and cry out his brother’s name. Glistening pre-cum adorns his thick fingers as a noise outside in the hallway stirs him out of his frantic reverie.

The handle of his door is pushed downwards; once, twice, before a fist bangs repeatedly on the wood.

Patience simply isn’t in Pityafinwë’s nature. “Moryo!”

With a hiss he lets the cucumber fall on the bed. “Leave me alone,” he rasps.

“But yesterday you said that you would go with me to the training grounds.”

Yes. Yesterday. Before Carnistir ran accidentally into his eldest brother and Findekáno, both being so occupied with each other amidst the lush grass that they hadn’t even noticed him. Gladly – or sadly. Since then, the sight of Maitimo’s cock in Findekáno’s mouth persisted in his mind.

“Later!” he scowls, trying to sound angry. It isn't hard though, he's worn himself out.

“Moryo, please,” begs Pityafinwë with a whiny voice. Carnistir can hear him stomping his foot on the ground. “Open the door.”

Get thee gone!

Instead of pumping his cock, his fingertips (or are they his brother’s?) now wander across his broad thighs, his stomach, his chest, leaving a shiver in their wake.

“What is it, little one?” interrupts Maitimo.

Maitimo. Maitimo. It is always you. Damn it!

Carnistir’s eye-lids flutter shut, and despite better knowledge he picks the cucumber up again and resumes what he has done earlier, swallowing hard around it in his mouth.

“"Moryo said he would help me practice my swordplay after lunch, but now he doesn't want to.”

Pityafinwë can be very persuasive – is very persuasive; annoyingly persuasive. “Maybe he is otherwise occupied?” says Maitimo, and Carnistir nearly chokes on the cucumber which serves as poor replica for his brother’s cock. “What if I show you instead?”

You could show me a thousand things.

The sound of Maitimo’s voice nearly gets him off. Carnistir is firmly aware of just how little his eldest brother has to do to turn him on. It is truly maddening.

“No,” Pityo exclaims, and Carnistir can see the pouting look on his brother’s face even through the closed door. Oddly, it doesn’t kill his throbbing erection. “Moryo said he would show me.”

“Am I not good enough for you, little one?” Maitimo says softly, most likely ruffling Pityo’s hair as a gesture of comfort.

They leave shortly after that. Carnistir knows that Maitimo will occupy Pityo for a good while, and this brings a sigh of relief tumbling from his lips.

The words Maitimo says in his mind sound sardonic, but at the same time they are filled with lust, desire shining in his grey eyes. Carnistir shouldn’t feel this way – this good, and a small part of him still hates it, even hates innocent Maitimo to turn him into a quivering mess with nothing more than a few words behind the closed door.

He bites his lip, wincing as he pushes the unoiled finger inside. Simultaneously, he works his cock quickly, coaxing it for release as visions of Maitimo, clad in armor, kneeling above him on the dusty training grounds flood his brain. They must have sparred - surely, as sweat adorns their brows and both are gasping for air. It is their physical proximity in which he relishes, the tingling sensation of their cocks rubbing together through the leather breeches. Maitimo’s silvery eyes burn on his skin and a not-so-innocent smile plays at his lips.

Fuck.

If Nelyo only knew how he feels, how much he wished for a single night of passion – and sin. One night of carelessness and forgiveness. A night for all eternity to feast on.

Maitimo.

“Moryo, Findaráto has come to visit you!” a chirping voice announces, one he recognizes as Tyelkormo’s even through his haze. Under his ragged breath he curses. From his tone it is evident what exactly his brother thinks.

Findaráto. Fuck it.

The golden brat of Arafinwë who keeps returning no matter how hostile he is to him. Out of genuine dislike as Carnistir never fails to say. Only that nobody ever believes him –rightly so. His cousin, too, sneaks into his dreams from time to time. If he does, usually golden tresses fall across Carnistir’s broad thighs-and Findaráto chokes on his cock.

Carnistir doesn’t know how he manages to spit out the words, but at the end he does. “Tell him I have no time.”

Behind the door, Tyelkormo chuckles. “Are you busy jerking off to him again?” he asks, snorting. “Father certainly wouldn’t be amused if he knew.”

“Fuck you, Tyelko.”

Carnistir tries to sound as normal as ever, but his restraint has its limits and his finger feels too wonderful inside of him. In his mind, he can hear Maitimo inhale heavy and rough beside him, hear the soft moans of anticipation in the back of his throat whilst he dips his fingers deep inside him, working him open.

“I would if I only could,” Tyelkormo says with a laugh, the arrogant smirk audibly in his voice.

A heavy sigh of relief falls from Carnistir’s lips when Tyelkormo apparently gives up and leaves him be. He forces his eyes shut, trying to rekindle the image of Maitimo fucking him over their father's study table. It doesn't take long before he can imagine how hard and relentless Maitimo's thrusts would be. Nelyo’s breath is hot on his neck as he kisses his skin; nibbles his skin; bites down hard.

His whimper turns into a pained whine when he slips a second finger inside him.

I wish these were your fingers, Maitimo.

He starts to count his thrusts again, because he can’t seem to rationalize the situation in his head.

One. Two. Three.

Maitimo.

Somehow the fingers in his arse aren’t enough. Well, when it comes to his feverish dreams, nothing ever seems to be enough. With a curse he searches for his belt, lying somewhere in the mess around him. Soon it is tightly wrapped around his neck and in his mind the belt is only a poor substitution for his brother’s hands.

‘Shut up,’ demands Maitimo as he cries out and the grip tightens just enough for it to make it hard for Carnistir to breathe. ‘More,’ he pleads in response until he finds himself struggling and coughing, being bent over the table so wonderfully. In his dreams, he revels in the anguished sounds he makes as he arches his body against the polished wood to escape Maitimo’s large hands around his throat.

Of course he doesn’t get very far as the grip around his throat is unrelenting as the belt he uses. As seconds trickle by, Carnistir feels his pants grow heavier and he tightens the belt until his airways are pleasantly blocked. Pictures of Maitimo’s hands play against his eyelids; images of blossoming bruises on his pale skin until blackness mingles with sparks of red and green and blue.

Would Maitimo make him swallow – or would he come in his face?

He wishes for both.

Would he be willing to leave his maddening gentleness behind when he asks him so?

He wishes that he would (a)buse him, and the mere thought of it makes him jerk, speeding up the pumping of his fist.

Would he fuck him, choke him until his vision blurs at the edges?

The sounds of footsteps are drowned out by his own heartbeat echoing in his ears.

“Moryo! Findaráto has already waited for half an hour, and I'm not dealing with him anymore.” Annoyance is clearly audibly in Tyelkormo’s voice.

As he lets go of the belt, his throat feels dry, his muscles tense, covered in tiny pearls of sweat in which the light catches itself.

If you all wouldn’t bother me every minute, nobody would have to wait a single second.

This time he remains silent, not trusting his voice any longer with three fingers buried knuckle-deep inside him.

“Now come on, get your lazy ass to the door. I know you’re in there.”

Quiet footstep sweep down the hallway; either Tyelkormo leaves (which Carnistir genuinely doubts) – or Atarinkë’s unmistakable sense of gossip has notified him that something vaguely interesting has happened.

Of course, it is the latter.

“What’s going on here?” asks Curufinwë, highly suspicious. “First the Ambarussa and now you are lingering in front of Moryo’s door. What did I miss? Is it freak show time again?”

Tyelkormo bursts out laughing. “I don’t know.”

Carnistir wants to burn them alive.

“Why not find it out, then?” suggests Curufinwë.

Surely they wouldn’t. Surely they would not!

Manwë’s balls, he’s so close, so very close, a few more pumps of his fist and he would have the climax of his life, Maitimo’s handsome face so vividly dancing behind his still closed eyelids.

Of course they would, and he knows it well.

With a groan of annoyance he sits up and throws the cucumber quickly under his bed. As the rustling of metal persists, he tries to hide his nudity with the bed sheet, but it's all in vain and the door springs open before he can cover himself properly.

His disheveled appearance and burning cheeks do not leave much room for interpretation.

“Oh,” exclaims Tyelkormo, eyes wide for a second before a smug smirk appears on his face. “If I knew what you’ve been doing, I would have sent Findaráto straight to your chambers instead of bothering myself with him. Say, are you pleasuring yourself to our cousin’s fair image or mine?”

“Get out!” Carnistir snarls.

Tyelkormo doesn’t even think about it. “No need to be ashamed dearest brother, I love to watch – so does Curvo,” he says shamelessly.

“Get the fuck out,” yells Carnistir, anger getting the better of him as he grabs the nearest cup and throws it right at Tyelko’s face. “Both of you!”

Despite the satisfaction that the aim hits its mark, his mood is ruined all the more when Maitimo’s head pops up behind them.

“Moryo! You look lovely in your debauched state,” Maitimo says with a mischievous smirk. “Inclined to elaborate who’s replacing your anger with passion?”

In the distance, he hears Findaráto’s curious voice asking about him, and all of his three brothers burst out laughing.

They are all beyond lucky that he doesn’t have a hoard of goblets at his night stand.

 

*

Much later, when his hands had lost their innocence and are stained with the blood of his own kin, his skin adorned with countless scars; when Telufinwë was no more – consumed by the searing flames their father had kindled; when his brothers and cousins are scattered across the foreign land and Nelyafinwë had returned from Moringotto’s claws forever marred, in his fantasies shining knives and the nauseating stench of burnt flesh and the metallic taste of his brother’s blood mingles.

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Chapter End Notes

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