make me come alive by queerofthedagger

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make me come alive

Written for am_fae's prompts. Thank you to the mods for running the exchange! <3

It starts out harmless enough.

A suggestion on what to wear here. A lingering presence in the back of Maglor’s mind when he brings himself off there. Maedhros is welcome company, especially when they are separated by leagues of duty between them.

It is rare, at first, but he knows Maedhros can tell that he enjoys it. Can tell, in turn, that Maedhros is pleased when Maglor listens; when he wears the robes Maedhros picks out, when he touches himself the way Maedhros tells him to.

It starts out harmless enough; Maglor should have known that he invited trouble the moment he ceded any amount of control to his brother.

Maglor is sitting over patrol schedules when Maedhros makes his presence known in the back of his mind.

“It is late,” he says, a mere observation if not for how his voice sounds low, sending a shiver down Maglor’s back.

“Perhaps you should retire, then?” Maglor offers, flipping a page. He has always too few people to keep watch on the Gap’s sprawling borders, but with the harvest, it is becoming almost impossible without stretching everyone thin.

“I am in an advisor meeting and bored to death,” Maedhros says. The words are accompanied by something that is both image and sensation, both impression and memory—Maglor pressed into clean sheets with Maedhros above him, licking into his mouth, hot and insistent.

Maglor snaps his quill with the startled wave of want that crashes through him.

They try to make time to visit each other, and as far as distances go, the Gap and Himring are not too far. Still, they both hold strategic points in the war against Morgoth; no matter the cold nights and the longing, there is only so often that they can abandon their duties under the pretext of war councils.

“Nelyo—“ he tries, once he finds his bearings. His skin prickles, and Maedhros’ answering hum feels like it brushes right over Maglor’s ear.

“Makalaurë,” he says, unmistakably delighted with the effect he is having. “Perhaps you are the one who should retire?”

Regardless of the phrasing, it is clearly no suggestion, the words accompanied by an image of Maedhros watching as Maglor takes himself in hand; of Maedhros telling him how to touch himself, almost as if in the room with him.

Maglor groans and presses a hand against his breeches. It only makes it worse, of course, and Maedhros laughs; not quite mean, but not quite sweet, either.

“Go to bed, Káno; it will make matters that much easier.”

Maglor does as he is told, his mind swimming with want, the startling rush of it.

He would be more ashamed of how easily Maedhros has reduced him to such, how he stumbles into his chambers, but it is hard to dredge up anything but eager desire with Maedhros murmuring inside his head. With orders wrapped up in endearments and encouragements that have Maglor shaking before he has so much as undressed himself.

He almost expects it to be a one-time thing and cannot quite tell if he is disappointed or relieved about the prospect.

There is something intimate about having Maedhros both this close and so far; something terribly like relief, to have that closeness even with the land lying between them.

But there are also no secrets to be kept. No nights to bring himself off to fantasies he would rather keep from his brother, no hiding of how often he thinks of Maedhros, how eager he is for such attention.

If anything, though, it seems to please Maedhros. It only takes a few days to make clear that he has no interest in stopping. With every day, Maedhros extends his attention a little more beyond hours when Maglor is alone in the privacy of his own chambers, if not his mind.  

He whispers in Maglor’s mind over dinner how he would like to take him in front of their people, spread across the table and on display, leaving Maglor shifting in his chair until his Steward asks him, concerned, whether he is alright.

“They should know that you are mine,” Maedhros says, his gravelly voice sending a shiver down Maglor’s back. “How beautiful you look beneath me, and that they will never get to have you that way.”

He floods Maglor’s mind with images as he sits in a council session, of tying him down, of taking Maglor apart slowly and methodically, until he has to excuse himself.

“Nelyo—“ he tries, once he has stumbled his way into an empty storeroom, finally pressing a hand to his hard cock. “I am glad you are having fun, but could—“

“Touch yourself,” Maedhros interrupts, and the idleness of his voice is a sharp contrast to the thudding of Maglor’s heart, the mixture of want and humiliation. “You are mine, are you not? You said so, the last time you were here; will you not make good on that promise?”

Maglor is thrown back to his last visit to Himring, only a few turns of the moon ago. They had shared too much wine between them and finally—for the first time since Maedhros had been returned to him—fallen together, frantic kisses and frantic promises as Maglor tried and failed to believe that he still deserved this.

His brother back in Valinor would have never made such a mess of him as he seems intent to do now. But then, his brother back in Valinor had been a different person than the one that was returned to him from Morgoth.

That this is so, is at least partly Maglor’s fault.

“I see what you dream of, Káno,” Maedhros murmurs now, his presence a pressure both heavy and reassuring. “You want this, do you not? So, one more time; do touch yourself.”

Maglor moans, not entirely by choice. The phantom sensation of fingers running over his skin is maddening and not enough, and feels exactly like Maedhros; a gentle teasing, a hard pinch to his nipples. His hips buck against his hand and he lets his head drop back against the wall, resigning himself to this without having put up any real struggle.

“So good for me,” Maedhros says, and Maglor swears he can taste him as his hand finds his cock, as he works himself with quick, rough strokes.

“Slower,” Maedhros commands, and Maglor whines but obeys. He is rewarded with another wave of approval, with the feeling of fingers in his hair. Maedhros keeps him there, just on the edge of not enough, until his legs are trembling and he is biting his left hand to keep from alerting half the keep to what their Lord is doing.

“You are doing so well for me,” Maedhros murmurs, and then he does something within Maglor’s mind, conjuring up something that is too clear to be mere memory. It feels like he is inside of Maglor, filling him, moving within him, and Maglor curses as he spills all over his hand.

It takes him long moments to catch his breath. When he finally does, he gathers whatever shreds of indignation he can find and hisses, “What in Eru’s name was that?”

He can tell that Maedhros is smiling. “Did you not enjoy yourself?”

“Yes, but—“

“Then I dare say this was an afternoon well-spent. Do clean yourself up, will you?”

And with that, his presence disappears and Maglor is standing alone in the dim storeroom, legs still shaking and his spent cooling on his hand.

He makes it a point to keep Maedhros out of his head for the next few days.

It is much harder than it should be, and he has the sinking suspicion that it is more Maedhros allowing him to than any particular skill on his part.

On the third day, a messenger arrives with a small parcel and a letter that bears Maedhros’ painfully neat handwriting.

Despite himself, Maglor smiles. It grows when the note merely tells him to open the package only once alone.

Excusing himself as soon as he may, he withdraws to his chambers. He is impatient when cutting through the thread and parchment, not sure what to expect.

His first thought is lace. It is soft to the touch, finely woven and intricate. It does not take Maglor much longer to understand that these are undergarments. His face flushes with heat at the implications.

“Hello, Káno,” Maedhros says just then, proving that it had only been politeness that had kept him out of Maglor’s head. “Do you like it?”

Maglor’s throat is dry. The material feels almost obscene against his fingers, and he knows with shameful certainty that this time, the images in his mind are all his own.

His fidgeting jars the package, and something heavy rolls onto the table that he had missed. A plug, he realises—this, at least, is something they had already used in Valinor, youthful curiosity and recklessness leading them down the somewhat shadier markets once or twice.

“I want you to wear both,” Maedhros says, and he sounds so certain that Maglor will do as he asks—

He sounds so unbothered by the implications, by the assumption that Maglor would want this, that all the possible protests Maglor had been gearing up to die on his tongue.

“Nelyo,” he says instead, unsure where he is going with this. “How did you—why—“

“Oh, do not worry. Go on, put it on—both, of course. I trust you have oil?”

Maglor rises before his mind catches up to the command; inevitably, his eyes are drawn to the window, the sun just reaching its highest point.

“Will you deny me?” Maedhros murmurs, and it feels, then, as if he is just standing behind Maglor, fingers trailing down his stomach and beneath his waistband. “You have kept me out for days; I do think a little catching up is in order.”

He says catching up as if he means punishment. Maglor shivers despite the mild air within his chambers.

“Strip,” Maedhros says, and this time, it is a command, absolute and unmistakable in a way that has Maglor stripping out of his clothes before he has given his own hands leave to do so.

It keeps going like this; on the bed, and stroke yourself; on your stomach and, one finger first, a second. Keeps going until Maglor is shaking on his sheets, three fingers buried deep inside of himself and all ideas of resistance long since forgotten.

“Stop,” Maedhros says, just as he is drawing close to coming all over his stomach. He moans but forces his fingers to still. He is rewarded with wordless praise that makes his cock twitch, and then his face flush in humiliation all over.

“So good for me,” Maedhros simply says though, and his own pleasure is clear like day for a brief, startling moment. “The plug, Káno; then the underclothes.”

Maglor feels unsteady as he obeys. The metal of the plug is cold and less forgiving than his fingers, but it settles inside of him with only a hint of already-fading discomfort.

He thinks he may endure it until he puts the lace on. It presses his cock against his hip, still hard and flushed. Every little movement has the fabric rubbing against the sensitive skin, the tight fit of it moving the plug inside of him.

“I cannot go about my day like this, Nelyo, I—“

“You will,” Maedhros cuts in, his tone final. “Go on, clean up; I am sure your people are waiting for you.”

There is a moment, brief but lingering, where Maglor considers ignoring him. He had not agreed to this, had not agreed to have himself potentially humiliated in front of his people. He had not agreed to the invasion of his mind or the control that Maedhros is taking over him, and—

And he would not fool either of them, clearly, claiming that it did not settle something within him that has been in uproar ever since they set foot on Beleriand’s shores.

“Go on,” Maedhros says, his voice gentle now. “Will you not do this for me, Káno?”

Maglor knows what Maedhros is doing, allowing him to pretend. And yet—

And yet. Maglor would not deny him anything, not any longer. He cannot.

He does come to regret that decision swiftly enough, of course.

Dinner is a drawn-out affair, and by then, Maglor is so on edge that he knows it must show on his face—his cheeks too hot, his hands restless on the table. He cannot sit still, and yet every little movement makes him want to bite through his tongue.

Maedhros is a quiet presence in the back of his mind; the weight of him makes it infinitely worse.

Maglor’s Steward and his Head Guard have asked several times now whether he feels alright. Maglor knows that he should simply excuse himself, but his pride sits like a proud beast on his shoulder, and he cannot—will not—cave to the expectant amusement he can feel growing in Maedhros with each new candle mark of torment.

His cock is so hard that it hurts, rubbing against the lace. He had thought it soft this morning; now it is torture, not nearly enough to offer him any satisfaction, but still too much for him to focus his attention elsewhere.

“Lord Maglor?” a young elf asks, and he blinks at the guard in slow confusion.

She clears her throat. “Perhaps you should retire. Things are winding down, and you do not look too well. Perhaps the wine?”

She is offering him an out, and he knows, he knows that it is nigh on impossible that she has any idea of what the actual matter is. He knows that, most likely, she will think him tired, and too proud to admit it.

Still, the shame of it burns through him like liquid fire; makes his cock twitch against its constraints, makes him bite his tongue until he tastes blood to keep from making a noise.

“No need,” he finally gets out, his voice rough. “I shall stay until the night is over. You know it matters to them.”

It is true, for what it is worth. If it also means that he will not have to walk out of the hall with the plug shifting inside of him and hundreds of eyes upon him, well—

Only Maedhros knows, his warm chuckle running like honey down Maglor’s spine.

When he finally makes it back to his chambers, his fingers are so unsteady he barely manages to untie his clothes.

He does not bother hiding his desperation from Maedhros—does not think he could if he wanted to. Maglor is past caring, can only hope that the state of him at least has some effect on his brother, cruel as he may be.

Maedhros hums, silent as Maglor discards his clothes and falls onto his bed, moaning, finally, when the plug shifts inside of him with the movement.

He reaches for it, and Maedhros makes a noise—not a command, but it does not need to be.

“Leave it,” he says; there is no room for argument.

Maglor bites down on his protest and palms his cock, the relief of it alone almost enough to make him come.

“Slowly,” Maedhros orders, unyielding.

And Maglor tries, he does—tries to keep his movements steady, his attention on Maedhros. But he has been on edge forever, countless little sensations adding up to nothing but this, and he cannot help the way his hand speeds up, the way he bucks into his own grip.

“Makalaurë,” Maedhros says, a warning now.

Maglor ignores him. His head is swimming, sparks bursting behind his eyes. He presses his heels into the sheets and the plug shifts within him, making him moan; the sharp-edged impatience Maedhros exudes only adds to the thrill.

“You have kept me thus for days,” Maglor bites out, twisting his wrist. He throws his head back into the pillows. “Thou are cruel, denying me; I do not remember—“

He cuts himself off, pressing his free hand to his mouth as he comes all over himself. The relief of it is bright enough that he floats for long moments, unheeding of anything but the final release of endless torment.

Eventually, inevitably, he becomes aware of something other than his bodily reality. The plug within him is a source of discomfort now, sharp and relentless. It immediately reminds him, too, of the direct disregard for Maedhros’ command.

His brother, in the back of his mind, is silent. And yet his disapproval is a tangible thing—not sharp, not judging, but waiting patiently for Maglor to realise his own mistake.

He closes his eyes and refuses to beg forgiveness.

In response, he swears that he can feel Maedhros sigh, albeit fond. “Clean up, Káno; we are going to try again tomorrow.”

Maglor flushes all the way down to his chest, feeling like a scolded child. There is, unfortunately, no dignity to be found in the process of removing the plug from himself, shuddering through every moment of it; to finding a cloth and water, and cleaning his over-sensitive skin.

Maedhros lingers through all of it, not allowing Maglor his privacy even in this.

“I do this for you, Káno,” he finally murmurs, his voice like a caress, once Maglor gets into bed.

Perhaps the worst part, Maglor thinks, pressing his face into the cool pillow, is that he knows it, too.

To avoid another such day, Maglor rides out early with a patrol the next morning.

Maedhros, of course, is aware. He stays silent, though.

Maglor appreciates it; appreciates the patience and the way Maedhros is doing this in the first place. He has no doubt that they are both enjoying themselves, and yet—

And yet, Maglor’s pride is a heavy thing, and he cannot quite silence it as easily as perhaps he ought. To give up control has been an impossibility for so long, and even though Maedhros may have been returned to him—

It is not the same. It is not Maglor who had returned him. Maglor had clung to his control, and his better judgement—better, it must have been better, it must have—and had let his brother rot upon a mountainside as a result.

He urges his horse forward and ignores his brother’s warning about the Orc troop they espy. Ignores the order to fall back and regroup.

This is the Gap, and it is Maglor’s land. Maedhros may be returned, and he may play commander inside their family and inside Maglor’s head, but these are Maglor’s lands.

And so he raises his voice in song and his sword in anticipation, and charges ahead of his company. Plunges into the fray as he should have done way back when, and shuts his mind against his brother for the first time in years.

Maedhros goes silent. Maglor will come to regret this, too.

For what it’s worth, they make it out unscathed. They slaughter the Orcs and leave their heads on spikes as a message to Morgoth and his ambitious lieutenant, and return to the Keep with their armour bloodied and their spirits high.

Maglor proclaims a feast. His people rejoice. He thinks of how he misses his brothers, the easy camaraderie of them; feels Maedhros soften, for only an instant, at the back of his mind.

Aside from that, Maedhros still stays silent, banked anger the only sign that he is still there at all.

Maglor tells himself that he does not mind. That he is not worried. By the time he returns to his cold and empty chambers, his hands are shaking.

The thrilling success of a hunt has always left him easily aroused. There is something dirty about it, but he knows that they are all familiar with it.

Tonight, he wishes for the first time in a long time that it were not so.

Maedhros still says nothing as he pushes images into Maglor’s mind, sensations of rope biting into skin and a gag holding his mouth open; of Maedhros’ hand on him, of Maedhros inside of him, taking him rough and fast, the pace as much a reward as a punishment.

Maglor moans, collapsing on the couch in the middle of his room. Maedhros does not tell him not to touch himself, and so he pushes a hand into his breeches; lets the images come, the demanding want Maedhros conveys. Allows himself to admit to them both how much he wants this, wants Maedhros to be in charge; to cease it, to be helpless in the face of Maedhros’ taking, the truth of it a peace offering.

It gets him close to his peak embarrassingly fast, but tonight, Maglor cannot bring himself to care, cannot bring himself to try and draw it out or to keep it from Maedhros. Everything within him is on the brink of shaking apart, has been for days; he just needs—

“Stop.”

It is a command, indomitable and final. Maglor’s hand goes still, and his hips jerk, but he cannot bring himself to move.

He cannot move.

Horror dawns on him, his gut tight and his mind hazy. “Nelyo—“

“If you will not listen to me otherwise, we will have to do this the hard way,” Maedhros says, almost conversational—as if he is not exerting control over Maglor’s body from several leagues away.

“Nelyo,” he says, trying again, trying to infuse the right amount of urgency into the words while he is lying there with his hand in his breeches and his cock hard and aching.

Maedhros hums, a little pleased and entirely without mercy.

“It will do you good, Makalaurë; you have never learnt how to exercise any self-restraint. The answer is no; you will not find release tonight. If you behave yourself, we may see about it tomorrow.”

Maglor makes a noise that lands somewhere between desperate and outraged, and, to his horror, incredibly needy.

By the time he gets his mind on track enough to sit up and form words, Maedhros’ presence within his mind has gone quiet, and he is alone in his chambers.

A part of him wants to try if he cannot disobey the command now. Another, much more primal one, knows it to be useless without trying.

Maglor does not have it within himself to suppress his pride enough to try, but it does take him a long time to fall asleep that night.

Maedhros is not any more merciful the next day.

“You need to learn some self-control,” he says, idle but unyielding as steel, when Maglor composes entire verses of complaint and accusation throughout dinner.

It is not a desperate need yet; a low, unsatisfied itch that could turn into a burn if he let it, but it is not as if he is a youth anymore. He can go a while without release, no matter what his brother seems to think of the matter.

“I have well enough control of myself,” he says regardless, because it has to be said. “Your disagreement with some of it does not negate the fact.”

He swears that he can tell that Maedhros is smiling. He has an inkling that it does not bode well for him.

“You should put on the lace garments today,” Maedhros says, early the next morning.

Maglor grits his teeth and ignores him.

“Makalaurë,” Maedhros says, his voice taking on an edge. “Put them on.”

Maglor obeys. If he tells himself that it is by choice, it only makes him feel marginally better.

He is shifting again by the end of the night, the soft rub and pressure of the lace a torment after hours of it.

“Nelyo—“

“No. You may touch yourself, but you may not come.”

Maglor retires, tells himself he will not try.

He does so anyway. He tries until his cock aches with it, and yet, he finds no release. Tears sting in his eyes and he curses Maedhros’ name, but all he gets in response are the sensations of Maedhros’ hand in his hair, and hot breath against his ear.

He shuts his mind as best he might, and pretends that he does not try to get himself off against the rough sheets until he is raw with unsatisfied arousal.

“The plug.”

“No—“

“Káno.”

“Nelyo, please.”

“I do so enjoy finally hearing you beg,” Maedhros says, and he does sound pleased, his voice warm with approval. “But you heard; the plug, Káno. The plug and the lace.”

It matters not that Maglor spends his day avoiding movement as much as he can. By the time night falls he is trembling, his cock hard and leaking within his breeches.

Maedhros is not helping, ghost sensations trailing Maglor through the day.

“I will still deny you,” Maedhros warns, when Maglor finally retires and presses a hand to his cock, leaning back against the door of his room. “You need to learn, Makalaurë; I do not believe you have yet.”

Maglor hisses through his teeth, something awfully close to a curse. He knows better than to underestimate his brother, and yet he finds oil, buries himself in his sheets.

He fingers himself until oil is running down the inside of his thighs, until his wrists ache with the angle and the movement upon his cock both.

He still finds no release, Maedhros’ command within his mind always pulling him back at the last moment.

His face is wet with tears when he finally admits defeat. His body is drenched with sweat, his hair sticking to his face. He has moved beyond shame, but pride is still hot within him, warring with the need for release.

“I will not let you have this,” he vows, his hand tight around his balls in a desperate attempt at willing down his erection.

Maedhros hums, pressing a ghostly kiss to Maglor’s brow.

“Patience, brother; I have more of it than you.”

What he means is less patience, and more stubbornness.

Unfortunately, Maglor knows that he is right. Unfortunately, he still cannot quite bring himself to admit it.

He lasts another week until he breaks.

Maedhros keeps giving him orders that he cannot ignore—to wear the plug, to wear the lace, to touch himself when Maglor tries to avoid it altogether. To finger himself open until he is gaping and unsatisfied and yearning for his brother with an intensity that is only outmatched by those long years during which he had thought Maedhros lost for good.

He spends days wandering his fortress in a haze, a constant awareness of the burning need between his legs, his helplessness, the way all of it just makes his hunger grow and grow and grow.

Maglor needs this. Somehow, Maedhros seems to know it better than he does.

Still, he bites his tongue. Still, he holds out. For what, he does not know. It is as if the prospect of admitting defeat is threatening to make something fundamental crumble within him, even as he gets closer to it with each day that he wraps a useless hand around his aching cock, each night that finds him waking rutting mindlessly against his pillows.

It is one such morning that finds him waking to his cock hard and leaking, his mind full of images of himself bound and gagged in Maedhros’ lap. Of Maedhros whispering to him, sweet encouragements and honeyed praise even as he keeps Maglor from moving, still, that finally has him break.

He closes his eyes, humiliation hot and heavy within his gut. Reaches out to his brother for the first time in days, and finally surrenders.

“Please,” he begs, bowing his head. “Nelyo, please. Whatever you say, whatever you command. Just—please.”

He is met with silence, but there is an undercurrent of pride, of gladness. Maglor basks in it. It still does not release the high-strung tension that has wound itself into every one of his parts, but it makes it possible to breathe, at least a little.

“Soon,” Maedhros says, his voice gentle. “You have done so well.”

Maglor sobs, once, and does not bother to bite it down. Maedhros sends him the sensation of another kiss to his brow, and then withdraws.

Maglor goes back to sleep; for the first time in days, it is restful.

He wakes to the sound of the door, and instinctively reaches for the knife beneath his pillow.

“Hush,” a familiar voice says, already beside the bed.

The hand in his hair, this time, is achingly real. It takes Maglor’s sleep-addled brain long moments to put the pieces together—the familiar weight, the shape, the smell within the room.

He blinks up at Maedhros and laughs, high and incredulous.

“Have you come to finally torment me in person, beloved brother?” he asks, falling back onto his back and fixing his eyes on the ceiling.

With Maedhros actually here, surrender feels out of his grasp once more, and he cannot tell if he is relieved or grieved at the prospect.

Maedhros makes a noise of disapproval, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

“Do not be like this, Káno; come here.”

His grip tightens a little in Maglor’s hair, the sting of it trickling down his spine. This alone makes him harden again, and he struggles with himself, both wanting to pull away and push closer.

Maedhros sighs and leans closer to press a kiss to Maglor’s brow. He gets up then, and strips out of his cloak, his riding leathers, until he is only in breeches and a worn tunic.

He looks softer like this, or as soft as Maedhros ever looks, these days; the scars on his face are still harsh, the silver in his dark red hair cutting the angles of his face sharp.

Maglor takes him in, takes a moment to properly look at him. His brother meets his eyes, and Maglor expects triumph, a taunt, disappointment. All he finds is patience.  

He sucks in a breath, holds it. Takes his pride and swallows it, and then lets it dissolve at the bottom of his gut like something that should have never come between them.

If there has ever been anyone to reveal himself to without repercussions, it would be Maedhros. He is not sure when he forgot about the ease of it.

“Nelyo,” he says, the name a supplication. “Please.”

“Now there we are,” Maedhros says, smiling, pleased and sharp. “Come here.”

He sits down beside Maglor and pulls him into his lap until they are finally, finally close enough again to breathe the same air. Until he can feel how hard Maedhros is, the realness of him making Maglor dizzy with want.

Maedhros tangles his hand into his hair and kisses him, deliberate and thorough until Maglor no longer remembers why he had been fighting against any of this so much in the first place.

“Look at you now, how eager,” Maedhros murmurs against his mouth, and he pushes his hand into Maglor’s trousers, taking him in hand. “You are leaking all over me already; are you so desperate?”

Maglor whines, high in his throat, and rocks into Maedhros’ grip. “Nelyo—“

“Beg,” Maedhros says, and it is an order, but not one Maglor could not disobey if he wanted to.

“Please,” he moans, dropping his head to Maedhros’ shoulder. “Maedhros, please, please—I will do anything, whatever you ask of me, just—“

Maedhros kisses his temple and lets go of his cock.

Maglor cries out, and ruts against empty air. Maedhros grabs his hip to hold him still; he kisses Maglor’s mouth, his cheek, his forehead.

“Hush, you will; you will do so with me buried inside of you, though, not into your pants as if we are still children experimenting with things we know nothing about.”

Maglor moans again, the mental image making his cock twitch. He obeys, though, discarding his clothes, finding oil. He stays where he is, straddling Maedhros, letting himself be watched as he fingers himself open.

It goes easily, the last couple of days having left him loose and used to the intrusion. Maedhros’ eyes are very bright, and he frees his own cock from his breeches, stroking himself idly as Maglor shakes on his fingers.

“You are doing so well,” Maedhros says, but his hand is unyielding when he guides Maglor onto his cock after too little preparation.

Maedhros has always been big, and no amount of days of torment will change that. The burn, when Maglor sinks down on him inch by inch, is the first real thing he has felt in days.

He hangs his head and takes Maedhros in. His cock twitches pitifully, an angry red against his stomach.

“You want to come so badly, do you not?” Maedhros says, wrapping a loose hand around him, more teasing than any real relief.

Maglor jerks, the movement getting Maedhros deeper. He curses, tears springing to his eyes; Maedhros kisses them away, twists his wrist.

“If you do before I tell you to, it’s alright,” Maedhros says, and pauses just long enough for the rattling breath of relief to make it through Maglor’s lungs before he adds, “It will earn you a different kind of reward.”

Maglor freezes, knowing a threat when he hears it, even with his mind a haze like this. Maedhros twists his wrist then though, presses his thumb to the slit of Maglor’s cock; pushes his hips up, and Maglor sobs, the burst of sensations cascading through his entire being.

The warning gets drowned in it, and he ignores it, ignores the burn, the shaking sensitivity of it all. He sinks down on Maedhros’ cock; pushes back up into Maedhros’ tight grip, and it is good, so good. He cannot stop, does it again, over and over until he is fucking himself on Maedhros’ cock without shame or any help from Maedhros.

It takes him an embarrassingly short time until his gut tightens, his vision whiting out at the edges.

“Nelyo—“ he says, a hitch in his voice, his hands scrambling uselessly over Maedhros’ shoulders. “It’s too much, I can’t—”

“I know,” Maedhros hums, and tightens his grip. He presses a kiss to Maglor’s mouth. “Do you agree? Will you let me have of you whatever I will?”

Maglor sobs; knows, somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind, that he is promising things he should not promise. Just then, Maedhros thrusts up, hitting the spot inside of him that makes him see stars.

“Anything,” he vows, his voice breaking. “Valar, Nelyo, anything, just please, please—“

Maedhros laughs, soft and brief. He speeds up his hand, jerks Maglor rough and quick the way he likes, and licks into Maglor’s mouth as Maglor finally, finally comes. He cries out with it, shaking, shaking, shaking until he finds himself with his forehead pressed to Maedhros’ shoulder.

It takes his overwhelmed mind a few moments to come back to reality. He does to Maedhros running idle fingers through his hair, still hard and buried deep within Maglor.

He shifts with discomfort; Maedhros wraps an arm around his waist and keeps him still.

“You wanted to come so much, beloved; I was thinking I would allow you to do so at least three more times tonight.”

His hand drops to Maglor’s cock then, stroking it slowly, agonisingly.

Maglor shifts, tries to move away. “Nelyo—“

“You did say you would surrender to me, did you not?” Maedhros asks, twisting his thumb over the sore head. “Will you go back on it so soon?”

Maglor swallows, arousal already stirring again beneath the burn of it.

“No, “ he says, a vow of his own. “No, Nelyo, anything; you know it, you can have it. Anything.”

Maedhros hums with pleasure and kisses his open mouth. “I know, Káno, I do; I will take good care of you.”

Perhaps the best part, Maglor thinks even as his entire body trembles, is that he believes it, too.

Chapter End Notes

Maedhros, holding up his completely undernegotiated lifestyle bdsm plan by the scruff of its neck: is this a way to fix my brother's issues?

As a brief note: this didn't quite fit into the text, but the whole mind control spiel Maedhros has going on here is definitely an Angband souvenir Maedhros is making use of. You know, like a normal and sane person 🫶 I loved the idea of that prompt and had to get at least a little bit of it in.

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