love me with the lights out by queerofthedagger

Up on Himring’s battlements, the air still carries a bite. Below, spring is cascading down the hills and through the valleys, and Maglor knows that the Gap’s lilacs and daffodils must be in full bloom. Up here, though, it is cold enough yet to lean into Maedhros. For Maedhros to wrap arm and cloak around Maglor’s shoulders, and for no one who might come upon them to question it.

It has been a peaceful few weeks since the snow had finally relented enough for Maglor to make the journey here, long nights holed up in Maedhros’ chambers, short days almost enough to forget that the world beyond the fortress is not a merciful one. That it carries memories of failure like distorted tapestries of their grandmother who, one way or another, started it all.

Beside him, Maedhros shifts. Maglor thinks nothing of it until Maedhros says, voice carefully neutral, “Fingon will arrive in a week; I got a messenger today.”

With a lot of effort, Maglor does not move. “I will depart in a few days then.”

“Or you could stay,” Maedhros says. Before Maglor can pull away, Maedhros has turned them, caging Maglor against the balustrade. “Why do you keep doing this?”

There is no accusation in his tone, which makes it worse. Maglor clenches his jaw and looks past Maedhros, fighting the urge to push out of this mimicry of an embrace.

“You know very well why.”

Maedhros makes a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat and grabs Maglor’s chin, forcing him to meet Maedhros’ eyes. “You used not to be this jealous, Makalaurë; in fact, you seemed to rather enjoy sharing our bed with Fingon, too.”

It is true, for what it’s worth; back in Valinor, before the exile and the Darkening, the three of them shared their time and their beds more often than not. Maedhros knows perfectly well that it has nothing to do with jealousy.

“You know why,” Maglor bites out a second time, and his voice comes out rough now, his chest too tight.

It is one thing to keep laying his hands on his brother after abandoning him to Morgoth. It is another to do it with Fingon there—Fingon, who had done what Maglor could not. Who had done it with song and harp, of all things, who took care of Maedhros in the aftermath while Maglor emptied his stomach behind the healer’s tent day in and day out, hands shaking and horror like poison in his limbs.

It is one thing to keep sharing his brother’s bed, to admit to all that greed and selfishness. He cannot bear having Fingon there to witness it.

Maedhros sighs and runs his fingers through Maglor’s loose hair. “Still, Káno? How long do you want to punish yourself for something I forgave you for long ago?”

“Perhaps you should not have,” Maglor snaps, then shuts his mouth. It is not that this is a new topic; it is just that, for the most part, Maglor tries not to bring it up, and Maedhros knows not how to fix it, and so they do not talk about it.

Maglor spends time in Himring when Fingon does not, and on the exceedingly rare times that he and Maedhros both visit Hithlum, Maglor knows well how to avoid them both until he can leave again. It has worked for years; he does not know why Maedhros seems intent to poke at it now.

“Because I tire of this, Káno,” Maedhros says, having picked up on his thoughts. His thumb brushes over Maglor’s jaw though, his eyes considering. “Should my forgiveness—or any potential lack thereof—not be mine to give?”

Of course, it should be. They both know that it is not about that, not really. Maglor has no doubt that Maedhros would forgive him just about anything, just as there is nothing Maedhros could do that Maglor would hold against him for longer than a day or two.

Maedhros nods as if he understands that, too. For a while, they are silent, the biting wind whipping around them even as Maedhros’ warmth shields Maglor from the worst of it.

He is already thinking of returning to the Gap, of shifting patrols and guard shifts to keep himself busy, to keep from thinking of Maedhros and Fingon together up in the cold fortress without him.

He is not a jealous person, not when it comes to Fingon, never has been; still, he wishes—he wishes—

“Would it help,” Maedhros starts, his tone pensive and his fingers pressing more firmly against Maglor’s jaw. “Would it help if I did not forgive you as easily? If I punished you for what you did not, could not do?”

It takes a moment for Maglor to understand, Maedhros pushing images into his mind—of rope and chains and bruised skin, of pain and pleasure mingling without release.

It makes him shiver, the thrill quickly followed by shame hot enough that he wants to flinch from it.

Whatever uncertainty Maedhros may have had vanishes, his smile gaining an edge. “You could have just said, Káno.”

It is not that simple, Maglor wants to say. Wants to protest that he cannot ask this of Maedhros too, as if letting his brother do this to him, for him, could erase Maglor’s failures.

Maedhros brushes a kiss to the corner of his mouth, though, tightens his grip on Maglor’s hair to the point of pain. Pulls his head back until he looks at Maedhros, feeling too hot in his skin.

“You will receive your due punishment, and in turn, you will stay. At least until we are done. Are we in agreement?”

It is the same tone Maedhros uses on his troops. Maglor swallows, tells himself that this is folly; that this should not make his trousers feel too tight and his heart race. That, above all else, this will not fix anything.

He is selfish though, greedy; and so he nods. Says, “Yes,” voice hoarse, and tells himself that he imagines the pleased glint in Maedhros’ eyes in response to his acquiescence.

A day passes, two, then three. The urgent anticipation mellows to a simmering heat that still has Maglor bringing himself off most of the nights that Maedhros does not come to share his bed.

The day before Fingon is set to arrive, Maglor almost asks—whether their conversation actually happened, if they can just forget about the whole thing, or whether Maedhros changed his mind.

He does not say anything. He knows his brother, after all, and he catches the glint in Maedhros’ eyes across the dinner table, how he watches Maglor more than usual. The anticipation is part of the game, and if Maglor had hoped for this to happen before he knew Fingon to be in a room just down the hall, Maedhros clearly has no intention of indulging him.

Which is as unsurprising as it is irritating. Maglor makes sure to avoid Fingon as much as passes as polite, even as it sharpens said glint in Maedhros’ eyes to a heavier promise.

When Maedhros does come to see him, it is late evening, a week after Fingon arrived. Rain is beating against the windows in one of the first spring storms of the season, and Maglor sits by the fire, trying and failing to compose anything of worth.

It has been going like this since Fingon arrived. At this point, he is hardly surprised.

Maedhros comes to stand behind the armchair Maglor is sitting in. He brushes Maglor’s hair aside with his stump and holds a goblet of wine over his shoulder with the other hand.

“Drink this,” he says. It is not a request so much as it is an unmistakable order.

Glancing up at him, Maglor does as he is told. There is a slightly bitter aftertaste to it, and moments later, languid warmth spreads through his limbs, his skin tingling.

“Considering that you would not poison me, what is that?”

Maedhros huffs in amusement, walking over to the broad four-poster bed. “It will relax you,” he says, watching Maglor unfold himself. “And perhaps heighten your sensations a little. I am sure you will be able to tell me. Come here.”

Maglor considers commenting on getting drugged. Instead, he does as he is told, coming to stand in front of Maedhros.

“Strip,” Maedhros says, sitting down on the edge of the bed. Maglor, for the first time, notices the bag his brother has brought, but he knows better than to ask.

He divests himself of his clothes piece by piece, shivering in the cold air of the chambers; wonders if he is imagining the already heightened sensitivity of his skin, and dismisses the idea immediately when Maedhros pulls him into his lap, his touch like a brand.

Heightens sensations a little; he has a suspicion that he will regret not asking further before drinking.

Maedhros’ clothes feel rough against the inside of his thighs, beneath the palms of Maglor’s hands. He wants to kiss, to be touched, to see just how much he might feel if Maedhros put his mouth on him. He keeps himself still, though; watches, still shivering, as Maedhros fumbles with something beside himself, until he presents Maglor with a black leather collar.

He does not give Maglor any time to comment on the choice, setting it around Maglor’s throat and pulling it tight enough that every inhale makes it bite into his skin.

Maglor saw the silver loop at the front; he still watches in disbelief when Maedhros produces a silver chain next, linking it to the collar.

“Do not look so surprised,” Maedhros says, smiling at him sweetly. He tugs at the chain with enough force to almost make Maglor lose his balance and tip forward, and then kisses him with enough teeth that it lands on just this side of painful.

It is easy to lose himself in it, the hot swipe of Maedhros tongue, the familiar body against his own. Everything feels a little sharper, a little better, a little more. Maedhros, having wrapped the chain around his arm, is doing his best to make Maglor forget himself—trailing his fingers down his back, along the collar, down his throat. Pinching a nipple until Maglor squirms, rutting his hardening cock against Maedhros’ trousers.

“Impatient,” Maedhros scolds, smiling against Maglor’s mouth. He strokes Maglor’s cock until he is fully hard, pushing into the loose circle of Maedhros’ hand, and then pulls away. “Get on the bed, Káno. Hands and knees.”

Maglor’s mind is sluggish, the words taking a moment to process. When he does as he is told, the chain clinks with his movement, the collar digging into his skin. It makes his cock jump, and he can feel colour flush his cheeks with it.

Behind him, Maedhros kneels between his legs, running a hand over his calves, up the inside of his thigh and his back. When he leans over Maglor, his clothed erection presses against Maglor’s arse and he moans, unexpected and needy.

“Look at you, already desperate,” Maedhros says, biting his shoulder. The sting of it races down Maglor’s spine and he presses back, closing his eyes against the humiliation of it.

Maedhros laughs though, pulling away, running a finger lightly over Maglor’s hole just to watch him squirm some more.

“Please,” he says, trying and failing to suppress a shiver at the unsatisfying touch.

“Please what, Makalaurë? Was this not meant to be punishment?”

It is the first time Maedhros has mentioned it since their conversation, and for all intents and purposes, it should be like ice on Maglor’s need. Maedhros accompanies it by uncorking oil, though, letting a generous bit of it run over his fingers, down Maglor’s crack.

If Maglor tells himself often enough that that is the only reason for the noise that makes it out of his throat, perhaps he will believe it eventually.

“Touch yourself,” Maedhros orders, circling his thumb around Maglor’s hole. He lets his finger catch against the rim, toys with it until Maglor pushes back against him, his own hand on his cock fast already.

Finally, Maedhros sinks two fingers into him, the unexpected burn of it making Maglor falter. He feels too hot in his skin, his mind hazy and the wave within him cresting. If Maedhros keeps going like this he will not last long, and a distant corner of his mind warns him that this cannot be so simple, but the pleasure is drawing him under, the heat at the core of him so, so good, and if he could just—

“Stop,” Maedhros says, his fingers inside of Maglor stilling.

Maglor whines, high in his throat, and Maedhros tugs sharply at the chain, cutting off Maglor’s breathing. He did not notice Maedhros grabbing the chain again, and the pain of it is grounding as much as it is a shock.

“Nelyo, please—“

“Take your hand off your cock, Káno; do not make me tell you again.”

Maglor does as he is told, twisting his hands into the sheets. Maedhros hums, almost pleased, and adds a third finger, pressing down ruthlessly on the spot inside of Maglor that makes him moan and writhe, somehow both trying to get more and to get away.

It would be almost enough to come, with everything over-sensitive as it is, but Maedhros withdraws once more just before he gets there, ignoring the noise of protest Maglor makes.

“Here, I brought you something else,” Maedhros says, almost conversationally. The bag he brought rustles, and then he pushes something cold and hard against Maglor’s hole, making him jump. He does not get far, the chain keeping him where he is, and the object breaches him with more difficulty than Maedhros’ fingers had. It fills him more fully too and his legs tremble, his slow mind taking too long to recognise the plug that they have used before occasionally.

“Sit up,” Maedhros says, not waiting for him to obey before he tugs on the leash. Maglor falls back, landing against Maedhros’ chest. It makes the plug shift and his hips jerk, hands scrambling for purchase, and it is almost too much at once, everything inside of him wanting more.

Maedhros bites lightly at his ear; wraps his right arm around his chest to keep him still, and his left hand loosely around Maglor’s cock.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, hot breath ghosting over Maglor’s damp skin. “We have barely begun, and you are already gagging for it. I think we shall make sure that you do not get too much pleasure from this, do you not?”

Maglor shakes his head in agreement, then makes a noise of protest. “No, Nelyo, I promise it is not—“

“I do not think so,” Maedhros cuts in, his voice gaining an edge. Before Maglor understands what is happening, Maedhros is fastening something around the base of his cock and his balls, pulling it tight enough that Maglor, even with his slow mind, knows at once that he will not find release for as long as he is bound as such.

“Perhaps I shall keep you like this,” Maedhros says, running light fingers over Maglor’s straining cock. “Make you ride back to the Gap with your cock bound and caged, only allow you to find release at my leisure. Perhaps it would finally teach you some self-restraint.”

Maglor moans, chasing the light touch of Maedhros’ hand, the spark of the shifting plug inside of him. He must make a picture, he knows, but the low burn of humiliation only seems to add to the pleasure, the urgent need of it.

Maedhros’ grip tightens as if wanting to give Maglor what he is chasing, working him quick and hard the way he likes; pressing against him from behind, driving the plug deeper until Maglor’s gut tightens and his balls pull tight, the edge of his orgasm right there—

And then Maedhros pulls away, and the thick cord around Maglor’s cock draws tight. The pleasure crests but does not break, leaving him shaking and cursing, tears stinging in his eyes with the pained frustration of it.

“Oh, do not cry, Káno,” Maedhros says, pressing a mockingly chaste kiss to his cheek. “We are only just starting, and after all, this is what you asked for, is it not? What you deserve?”

For the first time tonight, Maglor is greatly tempted to tell his brother exactly where he can shove his sudden superiority complex, but a sharp knock against the door makes him freeze.

Maedhros laughs. “Look at you, beloved brother; what shall Findekáno think when he sees that I have brought you thus already without him?

“Come in,” he adds, voice now raised, and Maglor watches in mute horror as the door opens and Fingon slips inside, dressed only in a loose tunic and light trousers.

“Hello, cousin,” Fingon says, once he closes the door behind him. He is smiling at Maglor, eyes taking him in from head to straining cock. “Now there is a sight I have not seen in a while.”

Maglor’s instinct to flinch away is stopped by Maedhros behind him, his arm still around Maglor’s chest. “Did you think I would not ask him to join us? That was the point of this, was it not?”

Not like this, Maglor wants to say, but the bed is dipping with Fingon’s added weight as he kneels on the edge. Maglor’s skin is tingling with the sudden weight of Fingon’s gaze, with his fingers trailing along the collar around Maglor’s throat.

Fingon leans forward, kissing Maedhros across Maglor’s shoulder, caging him between the two of them.

“I see you started binding him already,” Fingon finally says, pulling back. He lets his fingers roam lower, trailing over Maglor’s red cock and grinning, pleased, when Maglor hisses. “Shall I help you with the rest?”

“Please,” Maedhros says, finally moving away. “Hands behind your back, Káno. Do not move.”

They bind him, firm, rough rope to tie his arms behind his back, crossing over his chest and along the collar; binding his thighs and calves, until his legs are spread, and he cannot move any longer. His skin burns with humiliation and want, his jaw aching with the force of keeping his mouth shut to keep himself from begging—to stop, to be touched, for Fingon to leave, to stay, to do something.

“We could just make him watch us,” Fingon says, surveying his own work from where he is sitting in front of Maglor. “How desperate do you think he will get, watching us find the release denied to him? Do you think if we unbound his cock and just left him with the plug, he might come from that alone?”

“You have grown cruel, Findekáno,” Maedhros laughs from where he stands at the foot of the bed. He puts a hand between Maglor’s shoulders and pushes until his face is pressed into the sheets, his arse exposed.

It makes him moan, and the shame of it makes tears sting in his eyes once more.

“Do not cry,” Fingon says, almost sweetly, stretching out beside him. “I hear Maedhros has far worse planned for you yet.”

He runs his fingers over Maglor’s cheeks, brushing hair out of his face. It is not a mocking gesture; beneath the casual cruelty, Fingon’s eyes are warm, attentive.

Maglor knows that he could put a stop to this at any time. It only makes it worse, because how could he? He needs this, on more levels than one, and Fingon and Maedhros know it, too.

And so, Maglor closes his eyes and obediently sucks on the two fingers Fingon pushes into his mouth.

Behind him, Maedhros runs a hand over the small of his back, over his arse, down his thighs. Then something different follows, the feel of leather—

“Is that—“ he tries to say, and chokes on Fingon’s fingers.

“Brace yourself,” Maedhros says, and then the first blow lands, the riding crop that Maedhros must be using stinging like fire against the soft skin of his thighs.

He cries out, but already the second blow lands, and the third. That last one hits the plug and makes Maglor jerk, but at some point, Fingon has wrapped a hand into the chain around his neck and is holding him fast.

With his legs and arms bound, there is nowhere to go. Fingon pushes his fingers deeper into Maglor’s mouth, and Maedhros lands another blow, this one strong enough to make the tears fall.

“You are doing so well,” Fingon says, withdrawing his fingers, smearing Maglor’s tears across his cheeks. “You will make such a pretty wreck at the end of this; look at you, leaking all over the bed.”

The worst part is that it is true, the hot pain and the plug, the friction of the sheets against only the tip of his cock—all of it makes the pleasure rise, makes him shake with the need for release. Maedhros lands another blow and Maglor moans, loud and unrestrained, and then he is begging, please, and more, stop and anything, Nelyo, Finno, anything, please.

He loses track of the blows. He loses track of Fingon’s hands, one moment in his hair or his mouth, the other teasing the head of his cock, twisting his nipples, scraping nails over the sensitive skin of his ribs.

When Maedhros finally relents, Maglor is all floating pain, every single touch both too much and just melting into the bigger mess of desperate want and burning pain.

“You are enjoying this a little too much still, for this to be a punishment, don’t you think?” Fingon muses, grabbing Maglor’s chin to make him look at him. “Although then, I suppose you must be near madness already.”

“Please,” Maglor gets out, his voice a wreck. “Finno, please, I need—“

“Not yet, little songbird,” Fingon says, smiling. “Would not be a punishment if it was fun for you now, would it?”

Maedhros hums in agreement, running his hand over the abused flesh of Maglor’s thighs. He twists the plug, pulling at it until it is almost entirely out, then pushes it in again. Maglor moans, pushing back against it, his hands twisting uselessly behind his back.

“Listen to you now,” Fingon murmurs, running a hand through Maglor’s hair. “I do think we could put that mouth to better use; you did always know how to use your tongue.”

“I thought you might like that,” Maedhros says, and Maglor might as well not be here for the way they talk about him. “I even spared myself the effort of gagging him.”

Fingon grins, and the grip he has on Maglor’s hair turns rough as he pulls him up, pressing two fingers back into his mouth. “Oh, I will gag you well enough, I am sure.”

He does not bother undressing, just unties his breeches and leans back against the headboard. He is already hard, his cock leaking a little, and Maglor’s mouth waters at the sight. It is as if every part of his body is made up of sheer, unadulterated want, and no matter the simmering shame of his position, he cannot help but keep wanting more, wanting something—anything, to take the sharp edge off.

Fingon tugs Maglor closer by the chain, making him move awkwardly across the bed on his knees. Replacing his fingers, Fingon feeds his cock to him then, not bothering to give him time to adjust before pushing his head down with a firm hand.

Maglor chokes and sputters, and Fingon lets him move away a little. Whatever short reprieve this gives him is taken up by the fact that Maedhros slaps his abused arse, making pain race up his spine. He howls around Fingon’s cock, the sound melting into a moan when Maedhros finally pulls the plug out of him.

Three fingers replace it, rough and quick until Maglor is shaking all over, his legs trembling, his breathing wrecked. Fingon’s cock hits the back of his throat, the collar bites into his skin and keeps his breathing flat, and when Maedhros cock nudges against his hole, Maglor can feel the pleasure trying to break once more, his own cock jerking pitifully as it is denied its release a second time.

He wants to beg. Wants to plead and fall to his knees, to offer anything—anything—if only they would stop, would allow him to come, but he cannot.

They notice, of course they do; Maedhros actually stills for long enough to lean forward and run two fingers down Maglor’s cock, to press his thumb to the slit at the head, teasing and painful; Fingon finds his nipple once more, rolling it between his fingers, pinching until the pleasure and pain join the rest of him.

Then Maedhros pushes into him with one hard stroke, and the movement pushes Maglor forward, pushes Fingon’s cock further into his throat, and any coherence he might have had left is wiped from his mind.

Maedhros picks an unforgiving pace, and Fingon does not let him up, keeping a tight grip on the leash. Maglor chokes, and there is spit running down his chin and tears running down his face; every thrust of Maedhros makes him see sparks, and causes pain to race through him; his lungs scream for air, and his joints ache with his position, and his cock is a pulsing, aching spot of need that is going to kill him if he does not find release soon.

There is no release, of course, not for him. Everything takes on a hazy quality—Fingon holding him still for good, spilling down his throat until Maglor is coughing and spluttering. Fingon wipes the mess from Maglor’s chin and feeds it back to him, just as Maedhros finally spills inside of him, pressing against him until the pain of it fades almost into the background, too.

After a moment or an eternity, Maedhros pulls him upright again until he is kneeling, leaning back against Maedhros’ chest. The plug is gone and Maedhros is too, but Maglor’s cock still stands almost dark red against his stomach, and every little movement makes him whimper.

“Look at you, Káno,” Maedhros murmurs, running light fingers down his chest until Maglor squirms. “What do you think Finno, should we leave him like this? See how long it takes him to grow soft? How long he would hold out, not touching himself?”

Maglor sobs, trying to curl away from Maedhros, but he is held fast. The tears are running down his face freely, his entire body trembling.

“Please,” he tries again, barely recognising his own voice. “Please, please, I’ll do anything, just— Nelyo, please, I can’t—“

“Shh,” Maedhros says, pressing a kiss to his throat above the collar.

Fingon moves towards them, kneeling in front of Maglor without touching. “You know, I think this may be enough punishment; don’t you think?”

Maedhros hums, brushing hair out of Maglor’s face. “What do you think?” he repeats, this time to Maglor. “Is it enough? If I let you come it means you are forgiven, after all.”

Distantly, Maglor wants to laugh hysterically. Here and now, he thinks he might die if he finds no release; thinks that it is a lot to expect any kind of coherent answer from him.

“Please,” he says, and “Anything; please, anything.”

Maedhros laughs softly, his hand wandering south already, stroking him a few times, making him shout and sob, struggling against Maedhros until he lets up.

“No more guilt,” Maedhros says, his voice taking on a note of command again. “No more avoiding Fingon. Otherwise, next time I will tie your pretty cock up for a month, do you understand?”

“Nelyo—“

“Do you understand?” Maedhros repeats, slapping Maglor’s cock lightly.

He howls, his entire body jerking and only keeping his balance because he is caught between Maedhros and Fingon now, the two of them solid and unmoving.

“Yes,” he moans, letting his head drop forward to Fingon’s shoulder. “Yes, I promise, please, please—“

Finally, Maedhros’ fingers find the chord around Maglor’s cock. He fumbles momentarily and Maglor sobs again, shaking, shaking, shaking until finally—

Finally, the pressure disappears, and Maedhros wraps a hand around him, firm and clever. Fingon lifts Maglor’s head with both hands and kisses him, his swollen, ruined mouth, the tears off his face, the whole sorry mess of him.

When Maedhros twists his wrist just so Maglor finally comes, crying out and jerking against his lovers, his mind finally, finally, finally going utterly quiet.

When he comes to, he finds himself unbound, warm, and comfortable.

Maedhros’ shape against his back is familiar. To his other side, Fingon is smiling at him, running idle fingers through Maglor’s hair.

“All right?” he asks, his fingers stilling. There is a hint of doubt lingering in his eyes, as if he is uncertain that Maglor wants him here.

Every part of his body aches, but there is a peace within his mind that he has not known could exist in Beleriand.

He sighs, content despite it all; leans forward to brush his mouth to Fingon’s, relishing the shape of his smile as he does; presses back into Maedhros’ familiar warmth, and lets himself drift off to sleep—certain, for once, that the world will not have crumbled come morning.

Chapter End Notes

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