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In the Garden by Urloth

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Chapter notes:

Inspired by the recent picspam by Nolikereally about Nargothrond and also Capbrolet’s comment that today is about Finrod. Both on Tumblr.

 

Celegorm’s fingers scrabble at the screen he’s pushed against, the delicate whorls of the geometric pattern pressing unkindly into his arms. He gasps then bits his lip against a shout as he’s opened up, back bowing futilely to try and escape sharp slap of Finrod’s hips against his arse.

There is a muffled laugh.

His cousin pulls harder on Celegorm’s braid, threaded, and knotted cunningly through the spaces that let the sunlight into the little niche off the side of a garden. This pulls it tighter where it wraps about his wrists, effectively holding him in place. Celegorm groans, his entire body a confused set of messages about heat, aching pain, and the tight, inescapable knot of lust making his skin pull tight over his muscles, sensitive even to the breath gusting over his bared shoulder.

Finrod pulls back, hot friction and the drag of his nails on Celegorm’s hips making the Feanorion whine low in his throat, even as his cheeks flush in humiliation at the noise.

“Shhh,” Finrod chuckles, a hand sliding up his chest to drag his rent neckline down further so he can cruelly pinch a nipple that is still damp and tight from his earlier attention. Celegorm grinds his teeth, unable to stop a second whine as Finrod's circling fingers press down, and the bite mark he left behind sends an ache straight to Celegorm’s cock.

“Quiet Tyelkormo,” Finrod murmurs, voice thick with lust and humour. His fingers find Celegorm’s lips and demand entrance, not taking no for an answer until he can push his fingers against Celegorm’s tongue. Celegorm does not bite, though he wishes to, to busy gasping for air around the obstruction, and the jolt as Finrod slams back into him.

“This garden is open to the public,” his cousin reminds him, kissing up his neck to the curve of his ear, nipping at the tip until it will be red for days after this.

I am not the one who decided on this! Celegorm wants to snap, and maybe punch Finrod at the same time, but he’s not in the position to do so, eyes rolling up as Finrod changes his angle and aims a few very precise thrusts. An orgasm surges and dies, held back by the insidious silk cord that once secured Celegorm’s braid in a loop at the base of his neck and now secures the base of his need, leaving it to grow hotter and harder, precum dripping steadily from it.

As if to make reinforce Finrod’s point, they both hear a young voice ask “Uncle?” and the rustle of skirts enters the garden before them.

Celegorm tenses. This little reading nook is only half covered by the alabaster screen, and they are barely hidden. Surely Finduilas will notice the silver braid passed through the screen of it, and shadows of body pressed to it.

“Shhhh,” Finrod presses his face against Celegorm’s shoulder and begins to thrust in earnest. Celegorm can do nothing but take it, panting around, and sucking on the fingers in his mouth to try and silence himself, eyes affixed on the golden haired girl-child who has come skipping into the verdant garden before him. She peeks around the roses in their pots and the delicately trimmed topiary as if this will reveal Finrod lurking behind them.

She doesn’t know how close she is.

Celegorm closes his eyes, pressing his teeth against Finrod’s fingers desperately, wanting him to slow down; to halt because surely she will hear the deep gasps of their breathing and the wet, rhythmic slap of flesh.

Finrod speeds up.

Celegorm shudders, another orgasm surging and then dying.

“Celebrimbor I can’t find him! Are you sure this is where the servant said?”

Celegorm would curse if it wouldn’t give them away, shivering in denied need and anxiety.

“I was sure this is the garden,” Celebrimbor lets Finduilas take his hand, bending one shoulder down a little to make up for the height difference. The little girl stamps her foot, pouting magnificently. “Well he is not here!”

“I am sorry princess,” Celebrimbor’s grin gives away his amusement at Finduilas’ temper. Well if you have grown up with Caranthir and Celegorm as two anti-rolemodels a little girl’s foot stomping is nothing.

Celegorm feels the fingers of Finrod’s spare hand slide down the track of his spine and between his buttocks. His breathing hitches wetly, eyes widening as he feels a finger probe where he is split apart, massaging the stretched skin before it wriggles in.

A howl of wretched pleasure starts, and is ruthlessly swallowed down.

He will beat Finrod black and blue the next time they are in the practice yards. His cousin had better watch himself from now on!

“You two! Have you found him yet?”

Joy of joys, Curufin now enters the garden. Finrod slows and stops. Good. At least he’s not so stupid as to think that Curufin would not notice two trysting men in the same garden as him. Celegorm’s eyes flutter open, dislodging the sweat building there to roll down his cheeks.

Finduilas and Celebrimbor are unobservant enough to not notice his braid threaded through the alabaster, just a shade darker, but Curufin’s eyes are so much sharper. Celegorm wills his heart to stop hammering, sure Curufin will hear that too, but his blood continues to roar in his ears.

“No father,” Celebrimbor shrugs, “this must be the wrong garden.”

Curufin scowls, looking so like their father that Celegorm closes his eyes, not needing those thoughts when Finrod is so far up his arse he can practically taste him.

“Well where’s the next garden?” his brother barely manages not to bark at Finduilas who flounces past him, out of the garden with the two men following.

They stay still, very still, for a moment or two longer to make sure they are properly gone.

Finrod’s fingers withdraw from his mouth with a final stroke against his tongue and a caress of his lower lip, undoing the knot of his braid on the screen.

Celegorm tries to yank away immediately but manages only to fall to his knees on the lapis tiles of the reading nook.

“That was close,” Finrod laughs, turning him on his back and smiling down at him so warm and innocently. Celegorm tries to glare, flesh yearning for its abuse; so open and empty. At Finrod’s throat the Nauglamír catches the sunlight sliding through the alabaster screen, to cast pretty patterns on the tiled walls, and shimmers brightly.

“Fuck you,” Celegorm closes his eyes against both the smile and the light of the gemstones, shuddering as warm hands grip his hips and his traitorous legs fall apart. He lifts up, slamming back into the yearned for reinvasion of his flesh with a moan tearing from his throat, and listens to Finrod laugh some more.