like god needs the devil by queerofthedagger

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like god needs the devil

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Maglor reaches Himring in the dead of night. Even from here, he can see the Gap burning, the sky a sickly red, the air heavy with smoke.

Despite the hour, Maedhros appears in the courtyard only moments after Maglor hands off his horse.

“Makalaurë,” he says, relief unmistakable in his voice; it is like balm on the open wound of the last few days.

Maglor does not let it show. “The Gap is lost,” he says instead, worn down with exhaustion. “As is Thargelion, I assume—that is where the majority of Morgoth’s forces were headed once they were done with us.”

Maedhros’ lips thin, in concern and anger both. “Tyelko and Curvo had to give up Himlad, too. My scouts say they moved south.”

Not to Himring, then. Maglor wishes he were more surprised by the implied—or perhaps, not so implied—message of that.

“Do you think Moryo—“

“Most likely south, too,” Maedhros says. “No matter. For now, Himring holds.”

For a brief moment, Maglor wants to ask if he is welcome here. If the carefully buried disappointment in the dark of Maedhros’ eyes is solely due to their brothers’ abandonment, or if a part of it is not also because none of them withstood Morgoth.

Unlike Maedhros. Again.

Maglor shakes the thought. Even if Maedhros does not want Maglor here, he would never admit it.

“Come,” Maedhros says. “I am sure you must be starving and exhausted.”

He is. He grits his teeth against the pain that comes with any kind of movement and follows Maedhros into the fortress.

Of course, they make it no further than three corridors in before Maedhros says, eyes sharp, “You are injured. You should have said.”

Maglor does not explain how it feels like yet another failure. “It is nothing.”

“You said the same thing when you were a child and fractured a bone,” Maedhros says drily. “Let me be the judge of that.”

Instead of to the Hall where their people are no doubt gathering for a late meal, Maedhros’ hand around Maglor’s wrist steers them towards the private quarters. They pass the room Maglor usually stays in, climbing the stairs to Maedhros’ own chambers.

It is quiet up here, the tower out of the way of the rest of the keep. The fire in the hearth is burning and there are parchments scattered across the desk; clearly, before Maglor arrived with all his failures in tow, Maedhros had been working.

Behind the windows, the world seems dark. It is almost enough to fool himself into believing that the last few days had been nothing but a particularly vivid nightmare.

“Sit,” Maedhros says, pushing Maglor into the armchair by the fire. “Where are you—“

“It is nothing, I told—“

“Makalaurë,” Maedhros says, a small crease between his brows. He looks down at Maglor the way he had always looked in Aman, when he was both worried and done with Maglor being contrary.

Maglor had been helpless against it then. As it turns out, he still does not know how to refuse Maedhros anything.

With a sigh and a suppressed wince of pain, he starts unbuckling his armour, then strips out of his clothes. Maedhros knows better than to try and help, but his eyes are heavy on Maglor’s skin, and he hisses through his teeth when Maglor finally drops his tunic.

“You faced the dragon,” he says. Maglor cannot quite tell whether it is reproach or admiration in his tone. Does not know which one he would prefer.

“It grew,” he says, for lack of anything better to say. Anything that is not, when Findekáno did so and won, you looked more proud and more scared than I had ever seen you.

Maedhros does not reply, but he pulls a chair close and grabs water and cloth, a bag with healing supplies. It is quiet in the chambers when he sits down, close enough that Maglor can make out the familiar scent of leather and burnt wood.

“Your leathers protected you, but your armour must have heated,” Maedhros says. The fingers of his left hand hover over the burns that streak across Maglor’s shoulder and his chest, angry red welts that paint an incongruent pattern over his skin.

Maglor does not reply, does not know what to say that would not strip him bare. Barer than he already is, and it does not help that Maedhros starts cleaning the wounds methodically, the cool water a relief and the brush of his fingertips its counterpoint.

Maglor lets him, though; focuses on his breathing the way he had been taught by his tutors endless years ago—measured intake of breath, hold. Exhale from the centre of you, make it last.

Once, it was a skill honed for demanding performances. Nowadays, it always comes down to contests of power, whether it is the singing against Morgoth’s monsters or his brother’s proximity.

At least it distracts him from the pain. At least Maedhros seems too intent on his task to notice anything amiss; Maglor does not know whether he is glad about this, either.

He cannot say how much time has passed when Maedhros finally looks up. He is close, eyes dark in the dim light, and for the briefest moment, they hover there—close enough to reach out, to touch, for Maglor to ask for something he has long since known will never again be given.

The tension breaks when Maedhros pulls back, rising from the chair. He does not look at Maglor as he puts away his kit and grabs wine for them both.

When he says, “I am glad you are all right, Káno,” he does meet Maglor’s eyes again, and Maglor—

Well. Maglor thinks that perhaps he would have done well to run south, too, no matter how well he knows that he never could have brought himself to.

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Time moves strangely after that first night.

Around Himring, the land is burning, even as the fortress remains. News is rare, although they receive messengers from both Fingon and Finrod at some points, and the relief of the respective news in the immediate wake of the battle—not great, not by any stretch of the imagination, but their cousins and brothers alive—lessen the impression of sitting in a noose, doing nothing but waiting for it to close.

Then; news of Angrod and Aegnor’s death. Then; Finrod and Fingon both barely making it out by the skin of their teeth. Then, Fingolfin’s last, desperate stand.

“We should have listened to him,” Maedhros says one night, as they stand on the battlements. The land is no longer burning; now, it is grey, lifeless ash beneath the silver moon. Maedhros face looks drawn and sharp in ways Maglor has not seen since Fingon brought him back from Thangorodrim.

He itches to reach out, the same way he had itched to, then. He does not—the same way he had not, then.

He should have held the Gap. They should have been prepared. They should have, they should have, they should have—

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They made it another turn of the moon when Maedhros corners him on the stairs up to Maglor’s rooms.

Maglor has always loved Himring, in a strange sort of way; as if the fortress itself was a manifestation of Maedhros, unshakeable and enduring even as it was reduced to brutal functionality rather than conventional beauty.

Still, there had been a reason why he had chosen the Gap. Why he had not come more often and why, when he did, he never stayed for long. And Morgoth’s onslaught might finally show signs of slowing, but it does not help to make it feel less like a prison. Like being locked in with the thing that has the power to break you.

And it isn’t Maedhros, not really—never has been. At the end of the day, Maglor has never once trusted anyone more, has never been known more truly by anyone else.

At the end of the day, that is the exact issue, a point Maedhros seems all too intent on proving when he appears out of thin air as Maglor climbs the winding stairs to the tower.

“Brother,” Maedhros says, and if Maglor had not been as caught off guard by the sudden proximity, he would have noted the tone of Maedhros’ voice, the way it spelt a warning much clearer than Maedhros’ invasion of his personal space.

Maglor turns on the stairs, letting himself be crowded against the rough stone of a narrow window slot. He had more wine for dinner than seems advisable now, in hindsight, his body wanting to sway into Maedhros’ warmth regardless of the warning bells tolling in the back of his head.

“Maitimo,” he says, glad, at least, for the control over his voice. It does not shake, even though Maglor can tell that it wants to.

“You have been avoiding me,” Maedhros says, a small smile curling his mouth.

Now, Maglor senses the warning. His heart kicks against his ribs, a thrill racing down his spine, and he does not dare—

“You have been busy,” he says, offering a smile of his own. He no longer knows which game they are playing, what the steps to this dance are. Does not know why Maedhros is here now, like this; does not know if perhaps his own desires are streaking everything in colours that Maedhros has not wanted to paint with in a very long time.

Maglor knows him though, knows the myriad nuances of expression that Maedhros’ face can make and each of their meanings. Maedhros may have changed most of them all since golden days in Aman, and their relationship with it, but Maglor has never once stopped cataloguing, re-learning, keeping track.

Maedhros takes another step closer and brings his hand to Maglor’s jaw; applies pressure, just a little, to tip Maglor’s head back.

He goes easily.

“This is what you want though, is it not?” Maedhros asks, and he is still smiling, but there is something else beneath it, something Maglor is not sure he can read.

Maglor swallows. Blood is rushing in his ears, his throat dry, and he cannot tell if this is a trap, if he should lean in or pull away. Cannot tell what has given him away when, for centuries, he had kept it all so carefully under lock and key.

“Makalaurë.”

He closes his eyes. Swallows again, and can feel the pressure of Maedhros’ thumb against the hollow of his throat. “Mostly, I want not to think.”

“Liar,” Maedhros laughs, a rough sound. “You could have gone to anyone for that, and yet, here you are. Do at least admit it, brother dearest.”

And Maglor—Maglor should be the bigger person, a better one. Should not go along with this, should not press into Maedhros’ hand, already shivering at the touch of him.

He is no better person. Never has been.

When Maedhros kisses him it is an ungentle thing, all teeth and the grip of his fingers turning bruising before Maglor can even think to catch his breath.

He comes alive beneath it all the same; is not proud of the noise that makes it out of his throat and cannot bring himself to care, not even a little. He pushes closer, greedy suddenly, so greedy. Like someone seeing the stars for the first time after ages of darkness, and Maedhros has always been fire, always been light and heat and the one focal point for Maglor to revolve around, but he did not think that he would ever get to have this again. Not even whatever twisted mimicry this is going to be.

Maedhros slots a thigh between Maglor's legs, grinding upward, and Maglor gets hard so fast, that, too, should be embarrassing.

Maedhros chuckles though, something darkly pleased and wondrous to it. "You really are still just as desperate for it, Káno."

It stings, and Maglor retaliates by sinking his hands into Maedhros' hair, pulling lightly—just enough for Maedhros' breath to hitch.

They used to do this often, in a time long past; back when the Trees still washed Aman in hallowed light, when their family had been its own world, without running brothers and mad fathers. Back when there were not yet cousins and mountains of guilt between them.

To Maedhros, it had always been a game, something illicit and forbidden—the one thing to put a scratch on the shining facade of Fëanáro's eldest. Except that there had never really been a risk. Except that eventually, he had bored of Maglor. Except that eventually, he had found Fingon and got to pretend that fucking his cousin was any better than fucking his brother.

For Maglor, though, well—Maglor had always loved his eldest brother more than anything. More than was good for him.

He had tried to do the same—to move on, find someone else, ignore the way Maedhros' eyes still, always, felt like molten honey against the soft parts of his skin.

Maglor had married, found a wife, settled down. Except.

Fingon had followed Maedhros into exile. Maglor's wife had not. Perhaps the worst part is that deep down, Maglor had mostly been relieved.

"Stop thinking," Maedhros hisses, accentuating the admonishment with a sharp bite to Maglor's bottom lip. “Is that not the entire point of this?"

Of course, it is. Maglor draws back, tightens his grip on Maedhros' hair. "Make me, then, if you still know how to. If Findekáno has not yet blunted all your edges, brother."

Predictably, Maedhros’ face goes hard in an instant, and he presses Maglor against the wall until the stone is painful against his back, closes his hand around Maglor’s throat until he struggles to breathe. Maedhros’ thigh is still between his legs, and he can’t help but rut against it, seeking the friction and the heat.

“I think Fingon would greatly enjoy seeing you like this,” Maedhros says, brushing his mouth over Maglor’s jaw, his ear, down his neck. “Perhaps we should take you together one day; you would love that, would you not?”

His head swims, with wine and lack of air, with centuries of longing spilling out of every part of him. Maglor is breaking open and Maedhros watches, lets Maglor bring himself off against Maedhros’ leg in a way that should feel pathetic—does feel pathetic, and still, Maglor cannot bring himself to stop, to do anything but chase the sparkling high even as his lungs scream at him, even as Maedhros’ face remains impassive, beautiful like carved from stone.

He is embarrassingly close, hands fisted into Maedhros’ tunic, the hard bone and muscle beneath.

“Not yet,” Maedhros says, an order. He pulls back, only his hand around Maglor’s throat remaining, and Maglor whines, high and needy. “You never had any patience, Makalaurë, but I am not going to let you rut yourself off like some dog in public. Do have some dignity.”

Maglor stares at him, his mind sluggish. “You have grown cruel, Nelyo,” he finally says, but his breathlessness belies any complaint.

Maedhros only smiles, brushes a mockingly chaste kiss over Maglor’s mouth. “Save your compliments until I am done with you. Now go on; my chambers, if you can make it there.”

Maglor bites his tongue. He knows, most likely, he could provoke Maedhros into finishing what he started here, and a part of him thrills at the image. Another, much bigger, much greedier part wants to draw this out for as long as he can. He has no illusion that Maedhros is ever going to make true on his promise—threat—to bring Fingon into this. Has no illusion that this is anything but a one-time thing, Maedhros’ way of comfort because he no longer knows how else to drag Maglor out of his own head.

He tells himself not to feel guilty about it and fails; tells himself not to resent the reminder of Fingon, the implication that he will know about this. That it matters so little, Fingon will not even see it as a betrayal.

And of course, he would not; there has never been anything that could come between them, Maglor least of all.

He fails at that, too.

“You are thinking again,” Maedhros says, pressing himself along Maglor’s back as they climb the stairs. He slips a hand around Maglor’s waist, palms his cock where it is still straining inside his breeches.

It makes walking a difficult task, but he does not care about the wanton picture he must make, head dropping back against Maedhros shoulder, hips jerking in his grip.

“So desperate,” Maedhros murmurs, almost to himself. He keeps toying with Maglor until they reach his chambers and by then Maglor is biting his hand to keep the noises in, is held upright only by Maedhros.

“Strip, and on your stomach,” Maedhros says, as soon as the door closes behind them. He stays still and watches as Maglor does as he is told, making no move to rid himself of his own clothes.

The air of the room is cold against Maglor’s skin even as he lies down on the bed. He can feel Maedhros’ eyes on him, feels them down to his bones. Feels too exposed and open, scraped raw as the low pressure of the sheets against his cock makes his hips twitch.

Maedhros hums, finally coming closer and kneeling between Maglor’s legs. He runs his hand over Maglor’s calf, up his thigh; stops just short of any of the places where Maglor wants him, and he cannot think anymore, cannot keep himself still or the moans from slipping out.

“You could bring yourself off like this, could you not?” Maedhros asks, almost idly. There is a breathy quality to his voice now that gives him away, but only because Maglor knows him.

Once, he was the only one who did. He squeezes his eyes shut and refuses to go there. “Yes,” he says instead, lets the shame of it wash over him.

He is rewarded when Maedhros spreads his legs further. Says, “Hands behind your back,” and, when Maglor obeys, binds them with soft cloth.

It races like liquid heat down his spine and he presses his face into the pillows, grateful for the semblance of privacy it gives him. They smell like Maedhros, though, and he shivers at just how much it all is—Maedhros’ hand on the back of his leg, tracing patterns as he moves upward, maddeningly slowly; the scent of him, in the sheets and around Maglor; the edge he has been teetering on, his cock hard and leaking, no friction but the soft sheets.

As if hearing his thoughts, Maedhros hums, pressing a kiss to Maglor’s lower back. He hears oil getting uncorked and shivers again, anticipation sharpening the edges of his want until it is almost painful.

“Still not that easy,” Maedhros says, running the pad of his thumb over Maglor’s hole—barely there, barely a promise. “I want to hear you beg, Káno.”

Maglor wants to refuse. Wants to gather whatever shreds of his dignity are left and walk away right then and there. Wants to beg, too, a split-second later, but the words get stuck in his throat like his songs did, those first few times he used them to fight, to kill.

Then, Maedhros presses a finger in, just a little; Maglor’s hips jerk, his cock sliding along the sheets, and he moans, something broken and honest.

“Please,” he says, before he can swallow it back down. “Please, Nelyo, please, I can’t—“

Maedhros sinks his finger in until the second knuckle, and Maglor’s mind goes quiet. Leaning over him, Maedhros kisses his shoulder, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. “See, not that hard; you are doing so well.”

The words, the crook of his fingers, and Maglor finally comes, a curse and his brother’s name on his lips as he shudders through it.

When he comes back to himself, Maedhros still has a finger inside of him, moving languidly. Maglor tries to twist away from it, too sensitive, but Maedhros presses his other arm across his back and holds him still.

“You wanted to stop thinking, did you not?” he asks, adding a second finger. Maglor cries out, but Maedhros has him pinned. “One more, Káno; maybe two, if you cannot behave yourself.”

“Nelyo, please—“ he tries, but Maedhros twists his fingers, hits that spot inside of him that makes him jerk, and he can already feel the first sparks of want flaring underneath the pain again.

Still, it hurts, makes him twist against the bonds around his wrists, against the sheets; the friction he had just been seeking is torturous now, Maedhros’ fingers unrelenting. His skin feels too tight, everything too much, until Maedhros kisses his shoulders again, the tear tracks on Maglor’s face.

“You are doing so well,” he says again, his voice turning soothing. In that distant, cut-off part of Maglor’s brain, something clicks into place about this whole thing, about Maedhros’ sudden, strange attempt at comfort—something about guilt, and how they had both always borne too much of it—but then Maedhros twists his fingers once more. Says, “Come on, one more; after that, I will fuck you if you are good, yeah?” and Maglor’s mind goes blank all over.

The pain sparks and burns, turns into pleasure; he presses back into Maedhros’ touch, and lets his body take over. Maedhros turns him onto his back, arms still tied; adds a third finger, and his eyes are feverish as he watches Maglor, takes in the way Maglor twists and shakes on his fingers.

Maglor should not draw as much satisfaction from the way he still affects Maedhros like this, but he does. Cannot help but put on a show—bare his throat, let his legs fall open. His cock is hard against his stomach once more, and it is a slower build, but he still aches and aches and aches. Is babbling, nonsensical words and please, Nelyo, please.

When Maedhros withdraws his fingers Maglor curses, pressing his head back into the pillows. The emptiness is so sudden it hurts, and he watches, impatient, as Maedhros finally gets his breeches open. He barely pushes them out of the way, and there is something to it, the way he is still fully dressed with Maglor stripped down to flesh and bones before him, that makes Maglor’s cock jump.

“You are so easy, Káno,” Maedhros says with a grin, but it is softened by the long groan he lets out when pushing into Maglor with a single thrust.

He is big, always has been, and Maglor’s back arches off the bed. Despite all the preparation it burns, is too much and too good, and he wants—

He wants to touch, bury his fingers into Maedhros’ skin, leave a mark. Knows without a doubt that it is exactly the reason Maedhros had bound him; that it is on his terms or not at all, and Maglor will take what he can get, but he does sink his teeth into Maedhros’ shoulder when he gets close, and takes the punishing pace Maedhros sets in return.

He tries to starve his orgasm off, to make sure that Maedhros comes first, but Maedhros licks a stripe across his palm, wraps his hand around Maglor’s cock, and he still knows exactly how to twist his wrist, how to swipe his thumb across the head of it, to make Maglor thrash beneath him.

When Maglor comes a second time he sobs through it, his whole body shaking. Maedhros fucks him through it and still doesn’t stop, although he does let go of Maglor’s cock once he starts begging again. He curls the hand back around Maglor’s throat instead and makes sure Maglor looks at him as he takes his own pleasure, as he wipes the last bit of coherence from Maglor’s mind.

He does not come a third time, but when Maedhros finally spills into him, he feels something resembling peace for the first time in weeks, everything distant and buzzing comfortingly.

He is only half aware of Maedhros pulling out, and untying him. Of finding a cloth and water, cleaning Maglor up, making him drink.

He curls onto his side, and Maedhros sits down on the edge of the bed, running his hand idly through Maglor’s hair.

They are both still naked and the room smells like sex. Deep down, Maglor knows that this will only complicate things in the long run, but tonight, he presses his forehead to Maedhros’ hip and breathes him in, letting the distant familiarity soothe him.

Maedhros sighs, something between contentment and sorrow. His hand goes still on Maglor’s head, a comforting weight.

“You are still my brother, Káno, no matter what happened. No matter what we did or did not do for each other,” he says, and Maglor knows he is not talking about tonight, about those nights in Aman. “You will always be my brother, no matter what happens.”

He is not talking about tonight, is not talking about this. And yet, it sounds like a promise and a warning, both. 

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Chapter End Notes

Maedhros, full of guilt and belated fear and not knowing how to offer comfort: fucking him stupid about it is the way to go, right?

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