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Back when they were little, it used to be a sweet, innocent quirk; adorable even. Whenever Fingon found himself unable to sleep, he would suck on Maedhros’s thumb while they were snuggled close, sharing warmth and affection. That was all Fingon used to need to be content.
Then, during their adolescence, Fingon could not sleep when nestled so close to Maedhros. His cousin had grown tall, strong, unbelievably beautiful. The soaps and oils he used to keep his hair and skin in pristine condition smelled amazing, and the press of their bodies so close together only gave Fingon terrible ideas.
Not to mention those long, graceful fingers. It would comfort Fingon to have them in his mouth again, but there would be something else too: a need that no one else had awakened in him.
Speaking of terrible ideas, sharing a bed is one of those. While they’re no longer awkward adolescents who avoid looking at each other too long, they have no reason to be this physically close. Outside the window, dusk is falling and the sky slowly sinks into the waves. It has been a gentle summer and they are spending it in Finwë’s holiday home with the entire family.
Therefore, they do not need each other’s body warmth. Nor is there a shortage of beds: there are more than enough for everyone, and then some.
But, oh, it is lovely to cuddle in the semi-dark, with Fingon’s head resting on Maedhros’s broad chest, listening to his heartbeat. A breeze blows through the window, playing with translucent curtains and carrying the scent of salt and summer.
Maedhros alternates between stroking his hair and face, and whether by intention or accident, his fingertips trace Fingon’s lips.
Fingon is not thinking when he chases them with his tongue. It should not be weird; they used to do this as elflings all the time, a little game only the two of them played.
Maedhros gasps, gray eyes wide in surprise, but he does not pull away. Quite the opposite, he gently pushes a finger into Fingon’s mouth, who accepts with a quiet moan.
It is long. It reaches his throat without even trying.
And Fingon is thinking of something else Maedhros could give him to suck on.
Maedhros replaces the finger with his tongue, kissing him breathless as he rolls them over. He is heavy on top of Fingon, all solid muscle, and Fingon could not be more in the heavens if the Valar themselves came down from the skies and sang sweet hymns to him.
They quickly discard their nightshirts and undergarments, and when Fingon whispers “I want you in my mouth,” between fervent kisses, Maedhros takes a moment to fully understand. When he does, his face flushes.
Still, he complies. Strong thighs bracket Fingon’s face, who eagerly opens up for Maedhros’s cock. This is far better than a couple of fingers and Fingon is mad at himself for not instigating anything sooner. He could have spent every summer so far happily slurping away between Maedhros’s legs instead of struggling to hide his attraction!
Maedhros starts slow, giving him just the tip, letting him get used to his satisfying girth. But Fingon does not want slow; not when he has been dreaming of this for years and years. He urges Maedhros forward with a hand on his arse (and of course he takes this as an opportunity to feel him up). Maedhros’s cock fills his mouth so completely, his tip nudges his throat, and he is not even all the way inside yet.
“Careful,” Maedhros whispers. His breathing is heavier, and Fingon doubts that the flush on his face and ears still comes from embarrassment.
Fingon sets his own pace, his hands a guide on Maedhros’s hips. At first, he explores and relishes: the way Maedhros fills his mouth, the hot weight of him on his tongue. He sucks and licks, careful to keep his teeth out of the way. His saliva dribbles all over his chin, even to his neck, but he cannot bring himself to care for the mess.
His own cock is throbbing, leaking on his belly. Would it be possible for him to finish just from having Maedhros in his mouth? Right now, it feels like it could be.
The shallow, experimental thrusts turn faster, irregular. Fingon enjoys the pleasant burn in his jaw. Maedhros bites his lip and curses under his breath, words that should absolutely not be in a Noldorin noble’s vocabulary but his control is slipping away.
Fingon loves it. He feels powerful.
So, he dares to pull Maedhros even closer, into his throat. At first, he gags.
Maedhros freezes, concern on his face, and draws back. “Are you hurt?”
“I am fine,” Fingon says. “Can we do it again?”
The skepticism does not leave Maedhros, but he yields. Fingon knows what to expect this time, so prepares accordingly. He relaxes his throat and breathes through his nose.
He was wrong before: this is heaven.
Maedhros leans his head back, long copper hair tickling Fingon belly. His thighs tremble as he takes Fingon’s throat in short, shallow thrusts. “Fuck, Finno- I am going to…”
Fingon has never done any of this before, so he is not so confident that he will not choke if Maedhros spills down his throat- delightful as it seems in his mind. Instead, he returns to what he was doing before, sucking him into his mouth and swirling his tongue around his length.
With a curse that would make a sailor blush, Maedhros finishes in his mouth. Fingon is more than eager to drink everything he gives him.
Maedhros barely gives himself time to catch his breath. He presses a sweet kiss to Fingon’s lips before making his way lower.
Maedhros barely needs to suck on him before Fingon is flooding his mouth, biting his hand so that his moans do not rouse the entire household. When he recovers, Maedhros’s arm is already draped over his midriff.
“We really need to work on your stamina.” Maedhros grins.
Fingon cannot resist gently smacking the back of his head, and Maedhros muffles his laugh into his shoulder before planting a kiss there.
It is going to be the most lovely summer so far…