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Part 1 of The Dawning of a Star
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2022 My Slashy Valentine
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Published:
2022-01-31
Completed:
2022-01-31
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2,586
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2/2
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Our Love will Never Drought

Summary:

Fingon's smile is unrepentant. With his braids splayed about his head and his fine robes askew, he is as resplendent as a prince can be in his dishevelment.

[Maedhros attends a diplomatic meeting in Hithlum and spends some quality time with Fingon]

Notes:

This is for the 2022 MSV for ThatFeanorian!

Title from Love You True by Lydia Luce

This is the second time I've tackled trans russingon fic - the first was for my series You've Danced a Hundred Songs, but Maedhros was trans in that verse and here Fingon is.

Anyway, I was thinking, there's a surfeit of fingon-goes-to-himring fic (it's good food, what can I say?) so I wanted to play around with maedhros-goes-to-hithlum-for-politicking-and-a-good-tumble. This is set in the first age during Fingolfin's reign; it's got some of the elements you requested for the first age and some for years of the trees, so I hope it's to your liking!

A note to my readers: I am a transmasculine author. I do pull generally from my thoughts and experiences; my thoughts are trans thoughts and my life is a trans life, though I obviously don't speak for every trans person. There are more ways to describe transness in heaven and earth, horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy. As such, I'm giving a general content warning for the use of "breasts" "clit" regarding a trans male character etc etc - which some may wish to avoid. Also I do try to tag descriptively, but I will warn again that there's oral sex, vaginal fingering, PIV, and creampie.

Other content warnings: see bottom notes for spoilers.

Chapter 1: Beating Heart's Delight

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

When the party finally disbands to various parlors - to continue their politicking, or to open a fresh bottle and begin a round of dice - Maedhros and Fingon leave as quickly as is polite.  Fingolfin does raise a brow at them, though his suspicion that Maedhros is leaving because he did not enjoy the salad course is rather far from the truth.

The two lovers make an attempt at walking calming while they are in the main corridor.  This ruse falls away like cheap plaster the second Fingon pulls Maedhros by the sleeve of his robes into the quieter halls of the royal wing. 

"Your rooms, or mine?" murmurs Maedhros.

"Mine," replies Fingon. "My bed is larger." And the walls are thicker, he thinks to himself.

The second they are inside, Maedhros lifts him bodily.  He strides through the antechamber and sitting room, forgoing the niceties like taking off one's boots or serving refreshments.  Fingon giggles - he doesn't much mind his cousin's departure from etiquette.

Maedhros deposits him on the bed with little ceremony.  He shrugs out of his outer-robes while standing over Fingon. "Your behavior at dinner was uncalled for," he admonishes. 

Fingon's smile is unrepentant.  With his braids splayed about his head and his fine robes askew, he is as resplendent as a prince can be in his dishevelment.

Maedhros steps out of his slippers and then he is on Fingon, rucking up his robes and pulling his legs up around his hips. "What were you thinking, hmm?"

"That this was the surest way to get you into my rooms and inside me," says Fingon.

Maedhros breaks character and laughs, then, against Fingon's neck.  One-handed, he parts the front of Fingon's robes until his bindings are visible.  Fingon sits up slightly to allow him to slip the robes off his shoulders, which pool on the sheets like water. Maedhros pauses. The modified jumps that Fingon wears only needs one hand to unlace. 

Fingon notices his hesitation and says flippantly, "The better for you to ravish me."

Maedhros snorts and flips open the silver buckles of the front lacing, sliding the leather tongues through to loosen the jumps.  Fingon tires of Maedhros' careful work, and when the jumps are loose he pulls his stomacher out with little ceremony and flings it off the side of the bed.  Maedhros eyes the stomacher, exquisitely embroidered with daylilies, where it has fetched up under a chair.  "So this is how the Crown Prince treats his valuables?"

"My valuables," replies Fingon, "are in bed with me right now, and I intend to treat them very well tonight."

"It's only proper that your valuables treat you well first," counters Maedhros, hand over the lacings of Fingon's underpants in a silent request for permission. "You are my Lord, after all."

Fingon groans in mock disgust.  "It's only proper that a Lord receives supplicants," he says by way of assent.

Fingon removes his jumps and undershirt the rest of the way while Maedhros undoes his small-clothes.  He notices that his lover has left his stockings and garters in place.

"Do you like them?" Fingon asks, voice sweet and insinuating.

Maedhros presses a kiss to the skin of his leg where the stockings end.  "I can't think which one of your supplicants would have gifted you these," he replies.  He runs a finger over one of the garters, which is embroidered with little tea roses and the tengwar I die where I cling.

"Whoever it was," jokes Fingon, "He knows how to treat his valuables."

"Yes," Maedhros agrees. "I certainly do."  And he paints a long stripe up Fingon's lips with his tongue.

Fingon reflexively thrust up toward Maedhros' mouth, hands flying to grasp in his hair. Then he pauses, tilting his lover's head to meet his eyes. "Is this okay?" he asks, a note of apology staining his voice.

Maedhros hums.  "More than you know," he says, and bends once more to his work.

He knows how to tease Fingon, nibbling at his lips with delicacy, ghosting upward to barely stimulate his clit.  Fingon whimpers, shifting, seeking more that Maedhros is not yet giving him.  Maedhros is in a merciful mood, so he secures his lips around Fingon's clit and sucks.  At the first rough press of his tongue, Fingon wails. 

Maedhros does not let up even as Fingon pulls at his hair.  He clings to Fingon's thighs and drinks him in.

Still, it is not enough - Fingon flexes and bucks, wanting more.  He is dripping wet and his need is great. Propping himself on his right elbow, Maedhros draws a finger down Fingon's slit.

"Here?" he says, rubbing his thumb where Fingon is wettest, dipping only a little inside and feeling him flex around him.  "Or here?" His finger travelling lower to brush at the pucker of flesh between his cheeks.

"The first," says Fingon.  He casts a hand behind him, fumbling at the bedside drawer for the vial he keeps there.  He flicks the stopper open and pours some over Maedhros' fingers.  It's a near thing to not drop the open vial before stoppering it as Maedhros sinks a long index finger inside him.  One becomes two, and Fingon blossoms before him.

"Can I ride you?" Fingon asks after some time.

Maedhros nods. "I would like that," he agrees.  "The better to view you."

Fingon surges forward, rolling Maedhros down onto his back.  He summarily tugs off Maedhros' robes and pulls his tunic over his head.  His trousers he simply unlaces at the front.  Maedhros' cock he releases from the quick opening in his small-clothes.

Maedhros crosses his arms behind his head.  "I feel quite debauched," he says.  Indeed, Fingon finds him fair for how his hair is mussed and his cock leaks over his hastily parted trousers.  He slicks both himself and Maedhros' cock with a swift twist of his hand.  Fingon straddles Maedhros and sinks down on him in one movement that has his lover gasping as he is enveloped.

He puts his palm on the muscular plane of Fingon's stomach and sighs. "Beautiful," he says, meeting Fingon's eyes.

Fingon rolls his hips gently, and Maedhros' hand comes down to grip at his hip.  Then he begins in earnest, throwing his hips forward and sinking back on Maedhros' cock.  He chases his own pleasure, canting his hips so that every thrust hits that sensitive place inside him, one hand working in tandem over his clit.  His movements grow erratic, and Fingon falls forward to brace himself one-handed on Maedhros' chest. 

Maedhros encircles his wrist with his left hand, and Fingon looks to him for permission to continue like this, with Maedhros pinned below him.  In response, Maedhros slings his right arm over Fingon's neck and draws his down into a kiss.

Fingon finds his first release like this, rutting desperately.  He does not stop even as he cries out against Maedhros' lips.

Maedhros places the soles of his feet on the bed and pushed the two of them toward the headboard, feet slipping on the silk.  He props his back against the carved wood and gathers Fingon into his arms.  When his lover comes back to himself, rocking forward again in continued interest, he begins to thrust upward, drawing Fingon downward upon him.

"Beautiful," he murmurs again, face pressed against Fingon's breasts.  Unbound, they bounce with every thrust.  Maedhros takes one brown nipple between his lips and sucks.  Fingon's hips stutter forward.  His nails dig into the meat of his lover's shoulders.

Maedhros slips his left hand between them, briefly teasing the place of their union before coming to rub at Fingon's clit again.  Fingon has come once already, and he is hot and wet and supple beneath his fingers, and Maedhros is not as gentle in his ministrations.  The rough, rhythmic stroke of his thumb demands his lover come again, and he does in short order.  Fingon comes with his braids spilling over Maedhros' face in a dark curtain and his name from his lips.

Now Fingon tires, breathing hard after exerting himself like this twice.  Sweat shines on his dark skin.  "For a prince I seem to be doing most of the work," he gasps in Maedhros' ear. 

In response, Maedhros licks the side of his neck.  "I like seeing you worked into a lather," he says.

Fingon grunts in half-disgust but allows Maedhros to roll him onto his back.  With his eyes toward the canopy of the bed, he cannot see where he and Maedhros join, but he is sure it is a nice picture with his trousers pulled down to expose the swell of his ass.  He wishes he had a mirror.  Well, he will have the opportunity to take thorough stock of his lover's ass later.

Intelligent thought is pushed from his mind when Maedhros puts his back into his work.

"Now this is a proper plowing," says Fingon in the tone one uses for conversing about the weather.  "It's good to see you taking a proper interest in the siring of heirs."

Maedhros closes his eyes like that will shield him from his lover's humor.  Strands of red hair cling to his brow, and Fingon brushes them away.

"Though," he continues, "I'm not sure if your brothers will be more or less pleased that you're sowing your seeds in royal fields if I'm the one whelping them for you."

At this, Maedhros does still inside him.  "Lords above, if you talk about my brothers when we're in bed, I will go soft."

Fingon laughs, and brushes a finger along one freckled cheekbone.  He brings Maedhros down for a conciliatory kiss.  "Do you ever think about it?" He asks as Maedhros resumes his movements. "About children? Our children?"

"It would be a lie to say it had never crossed my mind," replies Maedhros.

"I think about it," continues Fingon. "How that spark would grow.  How my belly would swell and my breasts grow heavy."

"Perfect," groans Maedhros. "Round, and full, and perfect, and mine. 

"Everyone would know that you are mine, that our child is mine."

"Ours," agrees Fingon, "Someday."

There is only so much longer that Maedhros can last, and Fingon knows his tells after so long in his bed.  When his breath comes ragged in his ear, it means he's almost there.

"You can finish inside, if you like," Fingon murmurs against his lips. 

He clenches around him and Maedhros groans, words finally abandoning him.  In a few more thrusts, Maedhros spills inside, burying his face against Fingon's skin.  The two of them lay, joined and panting, until Maedhros' softening cock slips out of his lover.  A pearl of his release traces a silver path as it disappears between the cleft of Fingon's cheeks. 

Maedhros rolls onto his side.  The night air chills him where his trousers have been dampened through their coupling, and he finally kicks them off.

Fingon curls into the crook of his arm and draws the covers over them both.

Notes:

[Content Warnings/Spoilers: There is some discussion of transmasc pregnancy, mostly lighthearted. There is one somewhat self-deprecating joke fingon makes about maedhros siring heirs on him that, while this is something I would say about myself, I know not every trans reader is comfortable with. It verges on breeding kink I think.]

This is very much one of those fics where something like "skip from X to Y paragraph to avoid Z" doesn't suffice because the Whole fic is Z lmao. you're welcome, bon appetite ;)

Every time I write pornfic the porn gets longer lol. This was perhaps not as soft sexually as you might have wanted, but I think it was emotionally soft? :)

I don't think this fic is particularly angsty, so I'm not sure it satisfies that part of the request, but I hope I captured a little bit of how the throne hangs over their heads like a sword of damocles. The only reason it's a source of humor rather than contention is that these two have so much history.

All in all, I had a lot of fun writing this! Major inspiration from Ambrorussa who gave me metric tons of information on possible historical solutions for binding, and some very saucy embroidered garters see here: http://collections.vam.ac.uk/item/O139317/pair-of-garters-unknown/). I do apologize that I've taken these 18th century garters and used them in an outfit that's … well I totally made it up, you can't even call it anachronous.

Re: jumps. Many thanks to ambrorussa for the info on stays. Jumps are a little less formal than stays, and are a little more flexible. While it's perhaps more appropriate for fingon to wear full stays to a state dinner, I handwave this a little by headcanoning the robes to be pretty loose so the silhouette does not rely on the ratio of shoulder to waist. Plus, binding doesn't give a perfectly flat chest either; it's more like the distribution a cis man's pecs would have. Source: my cis partner and I have the same cup size (lol) because he's a beefcake. Conclusion: fingon and fingolfin are built like brick shithouses and the jumps just give fingon the approximate proportions of his dad. Man-tiddy transcends agab, okay?

Very genuine question: can anyone with botanical knowledge think of things to make lube out of that aren't oil based but also not like, the common water-based lubes with sugary molecules? I'm thinking: I've cooked cactus pads for food before and let me tell you that stuff is beyond lube-like when you prepare it. So like, that's the texture I'm going for regarding this vial of lube that fingon has (got what a phrase) - not that there's anything wrong with oil but it doesn't soak in super well afterward and it stains badly… So like, does anyone have some botanical thoughts on lube solutions that're safe to put in your coochie? And to any tolkien linguists: what would you call that plant (in either elvish language)??

Chapter 2: A Vision Fair

Summary:

Fingon genuinely enjoys state affairs - or at the very least, his natural gift is augmented by his good-natured disposition. Maedhros' skills are no less sharp, but they were honed for political tasks the way a fox hunts rabbits - when stakes are high, failure makes for an empty belly. The table in Hithlum is always richly laid, but Maedhros can't help but feel sometimes like the hungry fox - and sometimes the rabbit.

[Fingon bites off more than he can chew during a diplomatic dinner]

Notes:

This is an extra snippet detailing the events at dinner that Maedhros is talking about in Chapter 1.

See bottom note for content warnings and spoilers.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The diplomats adjourn to the smaller dining hall for the evening meal.  A Falathrin spread has been laid of whole steamed trout stuffed with wilted bitter greens, but the table service has been laid and seating arrangements made  in the Noldorin fashion.

Because Fingolfin is a good King, he has seated Maedhros at the second place to his right.  The chair avoids placing a controversial minor lord in the seat of honor while still conveying status and favor.  It is no doubt the High King's assertion to the guests that goals align between Hithlum and the East. 

Because Fingolfin is a good father, he has elected to seat Fingon at his immediate right rather than at the opposite end of the table.  This is serviceable because the gathering is personal enough that is does not require two hosts.  Mercifully, it saves Maedhros and Fingon both from being sandwiched between diplomats.

Fingon, for his part, engages in amicable conversation with all present, posing easy questions when the old thread dies.  Maedhros pokes at the remains of the trout with his seafood fork - the fish has been cleverly deboned for him - and makes small conversation about Falathrin bowmaking with the elf sitting to his right, a visiting dignitary of Círdan's. 

"No, Father," Fingon replies politely to some murmured humorous aside.  Maedhros spares a glance, and finds Fingon radiant.  The setting sun glints off the gold in his lover's braids and warms the deep brown of his eyes.  Fingon catches him staring and smiles once, half indulgent and half quizzical, before his attention is drawn elsewhere.

He genuinely enjoys state affairs - or at the very least, his natural gift for them is augmented by his good-natured disposition.  Maedhros' skills are no less sharp, but they were honed for political tasks the way a fox hunts rabbits - when stakes are high, failure makes for an empty belly.  The table in Hithlum is always richly laid, but Maedhros can't help but feel sometimes like the hungry fox - and sometimes the rabbit.

Maedhros' left hand fidgets with the napkin in his lap, idly rolling the seamed edge between thumb and forefinger.  Fine linen snags on the bur of his skin.  It itches, so he does it again, captivated by how it slides, catches, breaks free.  Such things keep his mind occupied when the meal winds down and the supper conversation dulls in interest.

Once again Fingon catches him in his drifting, and closes his hand over Maedhros' under the table.  He leaves it there for a while, rubbing his thumb over his knuckles.  It's nice, and Maedhros leans back in his seat.  The meal proper is nearing its end and the lords are in good spirits.  The relaxed atmosphere almost distracts Maedhros from the movement of Fingon pulling their hands into his lap.  It does not seem so out of the ordinary until Fingon guides his fingers under his outer robes, the green ones embroidered with ivy and honeysuckle, to his  under-robes.  These too part, and the soft, cream-colored fabric yields to the warm expanse of Fingon's stockinged thigh.

Maedhros looks about the table.  The lords are distracted, laughing at something witty Fingolfin said.  Because the tablecloth is long, and because they've all had a little to drink, no one has noticed that he has his hand in the Crown Prince's robes. His head swims.  Even though dinner is all but over, Fingon's smile is just this side of hungry. 

He slides Maedhros' hand higher, until he hits the ruffle of his garter, and then his bare flesh.  Maedhros gives him a warning look; there is only so much that the tipsiness of the guests will conceal them.  Fingon ignores him.  He is far more interested in the unspoken promise he makes Maedhros when he looks in his eyes. 

Maedhros' hand rests over his mound now, a more compromising position than Fingon may have initially suspected.  Fingon bears the slow sweep of his thumb well, the only hint that this affects him being the way his hand tightens around Maedhros' wrist.  Emboldened, Maedhros parts Fingon's lips through his smallclothes - his lover is already wet.  He rubs once more, roughly, dragging Fingon's small-clothes over his sensitive clit.  Fingon makes an indelicate noise, and conversation at the table stops. 

"Ah, some field greens stuck in my teeth," says Fingon, waving his free hand aimlessly, "most bothersome."  Fingon takes a large sip of his wine - the lords think it is to clear his palate; he knows it is to steady his nerves.

Maedhros mercifully withdraws his hand.

Notes:

[Content Warnings/Spoilers]: This chapter has a little exhibitionism/ inappropriate petting under the table; it's the scene that Maedhros is referencing when he's talking about Fingon's behavior at dinner. It fits less within your prompt request so I put it in a separate chapter like a prequel if you wish to avoid it.]

The vibe for this chapter is Hozier's Dinners and Diatribes, lads.

(can read as: why would you want to attend a state dinner when you could instead participate in "Fingers in His Ass Friday"?)

Had a very hard time trying to balance my poorly cobbled together information on table seating rules with the need for the two of them to be seated next to each other. Logic says: maedhros is a guest of honor and gets the seat on fingolfin's right, while fingon takes the seat opposite fingolfin as the second host. Romance says: maedhros and fingon should sit next to each other so maedhros can put his hand up fingon's robes…

Me: maedhros is my fave. Me: calls maedhros a controversial minor lord. Well, in hithlum he is.

Anyway, I know jock!fingon is a fan favorite and I love him dearly, but I'm captivated by that one line in the silm that says everyone loves him because he's like, suuuper savvy politically as well. If it wasn't clear, I think maedhros is diplomatic because he's studied at it; fingon is diplomatic because he's unfailingly nice (he's not stupid but he does kill with kindness). On the other hand, I don't mean to defang maedhros, but I'm very curious about the political machinations of valinor and beleriand, which I honestly don't have the skill to unpack :(

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