Tender Morsels by sallysavestheday

Tender Morsels

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The Eldar know that the Crown Prince fights best when the Lord of frozen Himring fights beside him. The ease of their ancient friendship lends a graceful rhythm to their butchery; it sings in their mirrored slash and draw. The grim thresher’s dance they lead mows down the Enemy’s hordes like so much tall grass at the end of summer, like so many dank weeds to be removed from an orchard’s shade.

If that cleansing ferocity earns them marks of their foes’ resistance -- well. The Exiles have long since abandoned the delusion that their bodies will remain perfect, undamaged, unchanged. Scars are the price of victory, it seems.

But in truth, it is rarely the battle that causes their blood to flow.

That comes afterward, in the dark heat of their celebrations. They bleed with the fierce elation of survival, with the almost-shamed surprise, after every melee, that the one each loves most dearly is still alive.

In the golden years of Valinor, Maedhros loved to nip at Fingon’s skin as their bodies twined together, savoring the sweet-salt taste of desire and fulfillment, holding that shining flesh tenderly between his teeth as the waves of pleasure broke over them both. What small bruises blossomed could be kissed away, calmed with a breath, soothed with lips and tongue.

Now, he tries to shield Fingon from his mouth, to turn his head away when the urge to bite and bite and bite overwhelms him. After Angband, his smile is no longer beautiful, but sharp as knives, and he is hard-pressed to resist the silken banquet of Fingon’s shoulders, his belly, his thighs. Maedhros weeps with longing and bites his own lips, instead; his mouth blooms red as Fingon gasps and writhes.

Fingon has already lost toes and the point of an unguarded ear to the Ice. His cheeks and chin have been roughened by frost and sanded by the Helcaraxë’s interminable winds. His own teeth are bleakly familiar with the texture of Eldarin flesh. He knows -- and rues it -- that he lives only by the sacrifice of others: those sleepers in the snow whose weary bones comprised their soup, whose frozen embraces were softened and uncurled to keep their wandering hopes alive.

His mouth still burns with it. Each drop, each bite, at the same time holy and profane.

He touches his tongue to the wounds in Maedhros’ lips, laps at the iron of him, coaxes him to taste where Fingon knows he most fears to harm. Such dangerous delight; so sharp and warm! Each time, he lets his lover take a little more: a scrape of his flank, the tip of his smallest finger, the lobe of his ear, a sweet divot from his firm and polished calf.

He will turn to his healers later, ascribing the raw edges, truthfully, to the monsters they have chased into the dark. But now he arches up, opening for Maedhros, offering, as his lost companions did, the feast of his body, the lasting flavor of his love.

Fingon groans, drunk on mingled bliss and bitterness. His frost-burned fingers caress his cousin's ravaged face; they dip into the salty cavern of his mouth. As ever, it is blood that binds them: sharp as wire, rich as wine.

Maedhros moves within him, whispering a blessing in his ruined voice. That rough grace sparks between them as his teeth pierce Fingon’s hand.