Archive of Our Own

“Do not say love, Sam,” Maedhros said darkly to the blushing Hobbit. “Say what you mean. It is an act of violent, bloody domination.”

He was stretched out on the grass, his long copper plaits bright against the green spring grass of the clearing. They were only half a day's ride from Tirion but the glade was silent and peaceful. Finrod and Sam sat cross-legged and exasperated, their philosophical discussion rudely interrupted. Again.

Sam looked even more upset this time. “Begging your pardon, sir - lord - but nothing could be further from the truth. It's about love, and trust, and if you have neither, at least about pleasure.”

“Ignore my cousin, Sam,” Finrod said firmly. Maedhros seemed intent on scaring the Hobbit away, and he was not having that. “He is - well, I will not say teasing, exactly, only that he does not mean what he says, or he would not in another moment. I happen to know he engages in such acts frequently, and with not a little joy.” He glared at Maedhros.

But Maedhros laughed in return, cold and fey. In such moods he would say awful things as if he really believed them. “Findekano has mastery over me, as he ought, if that is what you are referring to. My pain is his to choose.”

Finrod thought that Maedhros's fea had never truly healed. Although, that was true for all of them; Finrod had his own bad days.

“Then you're doing it wrong, lord, begging your pardon," Sam said, looking close to tears.

“How can I do anything but wrong?” Maedhros retorted immediately, his face and voice blank.

Sam ignored him. “It's not about mastery - how could there be in love, or in fun? To bring someone joy - why, if you do it right, there should be no pain. Someone has done you wrong and you ought to be shown how to do it properly, lord or no lord, rather than those wicked lies.”

He cut himself off, flustered, looking at the ground, his honest eyes crinkled in sorrow and embarrassment.

“Why, Sam, are you offering?” Maedhros laughed again, with no humour in it. “For myself I will not partake, but my cousin here dearly loves the discovery of different peoples. Perhaps I will watch, if I may: you are so much smaller than him that he will tear you open, and that will be amusing. There will be so much blood.” He looked a little dazed at the thought, his eyes glassy.

“Russandol!” Finrod snapped, although the image took his breath away: he too was haunted by his own ghosts of blood and pain. “Stop tormenting the poor fellow. Sam, he does not mean it. He loves his husband dearly, and I have it on good authority that they find a lot of joy together and in intimacy.” He glared pointedly at Maedhros when he opened his mouth. “No, enough, cousin, you will make him cry. Where is your husband, where is Findekano? He will not be happy to hear of this.”

“No!” Sam cried out, at the same time as Maedhros flinched and dug his nails into his hand, looking far off into the trees. “Dead,” he said softly. “Dead and gone.”

Sam ignored him and appealed to Finrod instead. “Do not tell his husband, not if he will hurt him, not on my behalf. It's not right,” he shook his head, distressed. “It's not right at all.”

“Now look what you've done.” Finrod folded his arms as he reproached his cousin. Neither of them were listening to him as they ought; not that Maedhros ever did. “Poor Finno, he does not deserve to be so slandered.”

“Do not tell me, cousin,” Maedhros retorted immediately, his eyes snapping back into focus, “that you have not been half-hard at the thought of trying some new species ever since he mentioned it. So I will leave you to your perversions and you leave me to mine, and everyone will be satisfied.”

“It's not a perversion!” Sam objected. “What do they teach you Elves - high and mighty you might be, noble warriors, but you don't know the facts of life. Someone needs to show you,” he repeated, muttering to the ground.

“It sounds like an offer to me,” Maedhros said, smirking. “Well, Samwise Gamgee? You'll make my cousin very happy. That's worth a little pain, surely? Some small amount of blood, or a lot?” The look on his face was avid cruelty, like a child waiting for the right moment to squash an insect.

“Nelyafinwe Maitimo -” began Finrod, starting to lose his temper, but at the same time Sam spoke.

“Let me prove him wrong,” Sam said, turning his broad earnest face to Finrod. His distress must have given him courage, but the awed adoration in his gaze warmed Finrod through and through. “I am in no way a suitable partner for any Elf, and a high lord such as yourself at that -”

“Say king, rather, Sam,” Maedhros put in. “A king and a gardener, think of that!”

Sam squeaked wordlessly, and looked unhappy.

“He is a hero,” said Finrod. He had sympathy for Maedhros - for all of them - on these sort of days, but still one had to be firm. “And gardener or great lord, it matters not to me. Sam, I promise that I do not believe him, and neither does he truly. He is just trying to upset us, or himself perhaps. You do not need to do anything you do not want to.”

“But of course he wants to.” Maedhros's voice was lilting and mocking, more like Maglor's usual tone than his own. “Who wouldn't want you, lovely cousin? The prettiest of us all. Go on, Sam, kiss him. I order you to.” Imperious, he sat back on the grass, looking somehow like a king on a throne surrounded by subjects eager to rush to do his bidding.

Even here in Tirion where Maedhros ran no war-front and commanded no troops, people tended to obey him, and Sam was no exception. He crawled forward on his knees towards Finrod, blushing furiously as he did, although he could not make himself go all the way under Maedhros's cruel eye.

Finrod sighed. He could not deny his curiosity or his body's interest, both at the idea and at the almost-worship with which Sam looked at him, but it was not fair to torment the Hobbit so.

“Do you really want this, Sam?” he asked.

“Yes,” Maedhros cut in.

“Yes,” Sam echoed after him. “Though begging your pardon, it seems wrong for one as high as you -”

“Nonsense, Sam,” Finrod said, and opened his arms.

Sam climbed into his lap, hesitating as he did so. But when Finrod pulled him closer and lowered his head to Sam’s, his face shone.

They kissed. It was short and sweet at first, but the old Hobbit kissed with evident skill and enjoyment, and soon their kisses grew deeper and more hungry.

At last they broke apart, both of them blushing now, and both breathing a little hard.

“You do not have to stay,” Finrod said to Maedhros, who was watching them with interest. He liked to be watched; but he liked spiteful commentary less.

“Is this not for my edification?” Maedhros asked. “I think I must.”

Finrod rolled his eyes. “Fine, so long as you are not hoping for anything - terrible. Nothing of the sort will be happening.”

“Indeed not,” Sam said firmly, emboldened now, puffed up with kisses.

“One may have hope,” Maedhros said vaguely. He plucked a daisy from the grass and pulled off its petals one by one.

Finrod snorted and turned his attention back to Sam. They kissed again, slow and sure, and Finrod found it an easy matter to topple the Hobbit over until they were both lying in the grass. Only a part of Finrod's mind worried about the stains on his robes, and less and less so as he was drawn in by Sam’s warm hot mouth and the way they pressed their bodies together.

Finrod was short for an Elf-lord of the Noldor, but Sam was still perhaps half his height, though he seemed broader and more solid than he really was. Entwined together in the grass he barely noticed, until Sam broke the kiss and pulled at the ties which kept his robe closed.

“Let me, my lord,” Sam whispered, and Finrod let him push him back on the grass, and folded his arms behind his head to cushion it. The sky was blue and the day bright, and around the clearing the trees rustled and brought the smell of spring.

“Oh, he means to take you,” said Maedhros, idly. “He's got some gall, doesn't he? Don't worry, Sam, he'd spread his legs for a Balrog if he got the chance.”

Sam froze, unsure, and Finrod freed his hand and stroked Sam’s jaw. “Ignore him, Sam,” he said quietly, and then to Maedhros, “That was rather the point, was it not? How else will he show me? And if you won't be quiet, Russandol, go away, I am losing my patience.”

Maedhros laughed in his strange manner, but settled into the grass silently to watch them.

“Look at me,” Finrod said to Sam, who was still looking between them hesitantly, his previous confidence gone. “Ignore him. He is… not quite right, today. If you would have me, then have me.”

Sam hesitated for a moment more. Finrod sat up, then, and looked at him earnestly. “If you do not want to, Sam, then -”

“No, lord,” Sam said slowly. "Someone needs to show him what's right, and how could I turn you down if that's what you desire too?”

With that, he turned to his task in earnest, and busied himself making Finrod moan. He sucked at his nipples and stroked his chest, then licked his way down to where Finrod was already very interested, spreading his robes as he went.

Sam’s mouth was suddenly on him, and a blaze of heat and pleasure made Finrod cry out. He gasped and buried his hands in the Hobbit’s short coarse hair as he set to his task with a will. He could not fit all of Finrod in his mouth, of course, and even with both his calloused hands on Finrod's shaft it did not cover the whole length. But it made no difference to the outcome and he writhed and moaned and tried not to buck up into Sam’s mouth.

He imagined how Sam might look touching Maedhros, the difference in size exaggerated even further. Even though his cousin was sitting obediently on the grass, cross-legged and resting his chin on his hand, Finrod regretfully decided it would not be a good idea to try and include him in this sort of mood.

The Hobbit slowed his pace, moving one of his hands lower to caress Finrod's balls and swirling his tongue over the head of Finrod's cock at the same time. Then he moved his hand lower again.

He took his time and teased Finrod to distraction even before he entered him. He just used saliva, but his hands were small enough that it did not hurt, and expert beside: he was confident in opening him up, and Finrod found himself already eager for more.

“Yes,” he moaned. “Yes.”

He had his eyes closed against the brightness of the sun, and so all his senses were focused on Sam opening him up: the satisfaction, the intensity, the stretch. Sam was unmerciful in chasing Finrod's pleasure and between his mouth and his clever hand Finrod was leaking and starting to be afraid he would come too soon.

But Sam knew his business too well for that. Just as Finrod had started to accept that it was inevitable, that he could not last, Sam withdrew both his hands and his mouth.

The sudden cold air where before there had been pleasure made Finrod whine in protest and sit up, blinking against the light. Sam looked pleased but serious, intent on his task.

“You should ride me, lord,” he offered. “You're too tall for anything else.”

Too tall! Finrod liked that descriptor applied to him: he could think of no other time when it had. Eager to satiate his curiosity, he helped the Hobbit strip, glaring at Maedhros pre-emptively in case he thought to say anything scathing about Hobbit physiques.

But he did not. He seemed just as riveted as Finrod as the Hobbit bared his broad furred torso. Finrod ran his hands through the hair in fascination - it was thicker than humans’, more like a pelt - and followed the distinctive curly blond-brown trail down to between his legs.

He was shaped differently to the Eldar, more like Beor had been, with thick muscle and rounded fat both more visible. His belly rose in a gentle curve as did the muscles of his upper arms. Finrod could not stop staring as Sam lay down. He balled up his tunic and put it under his head, looking somewhat self-conscious but determined.

Sam gasped as Finrod touched him. He was shaped much like Men or Elves: no barbs or bones, to Finrod's secret disappointment. Even his balls - perhaps twice the size of Finrod's - were hairy, and all around the base of his cock was a carpet of curls. Finrod trailed his fingers through them, watching as Sam gasped and thrust up towards him.

His cock was proportionate to his size and well-shaped, with the larger head that Men had: it was flushed and eager, despite being untouched so far, and Sam moaned when he took it in his hands.

“You mustn't -” Sam groaned. “Lord -”

Finrod took mercy on him and swung his leg over Sam’s broad thighs instead, thick with muscle. That seemed to wake Sam up, and he took charge again: he spat in his hand and spread it on his cock until it was shining and he was satisfied, and then held the base with one hand and Finrod's waist with the other to slow him as he lowered himself down. He felt he had to be careful not to crush Sam, so much smaller was he: but Sam clearly had no such worry.

Gasping as he was filled, Finrod balanced with his hands on Sam’s hairy chest, and ground down. It felt good to be spread open like that, and he fucked himself on Sam’s cock looking for the right angle until - ah. There.

Sam thrust up into Finrod, matching his rhythm confidently, and then started to stroke Finrod's neglected cock, his small rough hands tight around him. Between the two sensations Finrod was lost in pleasure, fucking himself on the Hobbit -

“Can you even feel him?” Maedhros asked, with curiosity, still watching them as if they were a show. Despite his words his gaze on Finrod was hungry, and in response Finrod arched performatively, tossing his long golden hair back to catch the light.

“Can't you tell?” Finrod panted, as if he were annoyed. “Shut up, Russandol, I'm busy.”

Aware of Maedhros's eyes on him, he fucked himself harder and Sam followed his lead, thrusting into him faster and faster - impressive, it occurred to Finrod, for an aging mortal who was fucking someone twice his size. At the same time Sam was twisting his hand around the head of Finrod's cock at the same pace until Finrod could restrain himself from the creeping pressure no longer. He came hard across himself and Sam, and he could not keep silent as the world focused in on only what he could feel.

Sam kept his rhythm steady as he wrung out every last drop, and then let Finrod's cock fall. Instead, he grasped Finrod's waist to fuck into him harder. It was strange, now that he had come: oversensitive but not unpleasant, and Finrod soon found himself whining again at the sensation as Sam battered his prostate.

Without attention to his cock he did not harden again, but came quickly for the second time anyway from the unrelenting steady rhythm. This time a wave seemed to grow inside of Finrod and fan out through all his body, making even his toes curl. He could hear himself crying out as if it was some distant other, and then, panting, he collapsed over Sam and rolled off him. The Hobbit was wet with sweat and lay panting too beside him.

They lay together for some moments in quiet, catching their breath. Until Finrod sat up, tossed his head back and asked, “But what about you, my dear Hobbit?”

Sam chuckled. “Don't worry about me,” he said. “I found mine a while back. But you looked so lost in your pleasure, lord, and I thought you might find another peak, so I didn't want to stop.”

“Oh,” Finrod said, pleased at the Hobbit's priorities, and rolled off him to lie beside him, naked in the grass.

“I think he’s proven his point, hasn't he, Russandol?” Finrod said. He was well fucked and thick with muzzy satiation, but even so he could not let go of a chance to score a point. But Maedhros did not answer. He seemed to be asleep, or staring at nothing: Finrod could not tell.

Finrod also could not really bring himself to care. Sleepy after his orgasms and pleasantly warm under the bright sun, he buried his hand into the Hobbit's fur and drifted off.

He was woken abruptly when a voice said, “Hello.” Finrod nearly went for his sword, before remembering where and when they were.

“Findekano!” Finrod greeted his cousin gladly as he blinked the sleep from his eyes. Fingon would not care about his loose hair or his nakedness, at least. He stretched, still hazy from the afterglow, and squinted into the glare of the sun to watch his cousin approach.

“I could feel Russo wasn't doing well, so I came to find him - why, hello, Master Hobbit, have I somehow done you wrong? That is a ferocious glare!”

Indeed, Sam was glaring daggers at Fingon, and had swiftly moved between Fingon and Maedhros, who stretched out on the grass staring off into nothing and had apparently not noticed Fingon's arrival. Finrod could not help admire the Hobbit's courage, his willingness to challenge someone so much more powerful than himself, utterly needless though it was. But confronted with Fingon's blinding smile, Sam had no defence, and stood there awkwardly instead, entirely naked and fists clenched, even though he barely reached Fingon's waist.

Fingon could kill him twelve different ways within seconds had he need, Finrod reckoned with amusement. Instead he was standing there, the gold laced through his hair gleaming in the sun and looking rather bemused at Sam’s brave defence of his husband.

“Russandol’s been slandering you,” Finrod informed Fingon by way of explanation.

“Well, at least he hasn't stabbed anyone this time!” Fingon laughed again, his golden infectious laugh, and Finrod had to join in as well. Even Sam looked less unhappy, though still very suspicious.

“Russandol!” Fingon called merrily. “Russo!”

At the sound of his clear ringing voice, Maedhros's whole demeanor changed. He was instantly up and across the clearing and clinging to Fingon, burying his face in his hair and wrapping his arms around his neck. He muttered something into his skin, too quietly for anyone but Fingon to catch.

“Shh,” Fingon said, fond and loving, though not overly concerned. “Shh, Russo, no-one is dead now. I'm here, I promise.”

Maedhros pulled away in sudden alarm, but Fingon caught him firmly by the shoulder.

“It's me,” he said impatiently. “It's really me, you great fool. Look at your stump.”

Maedhros raised his right arm suspiciously, but kept his eyes trained on Fingon as if he might attack at any moment. But his shoulders sagged again as he caught sight of where his arm ended abruptly, and he collapsed to the ground, bringing Fingon with him in a tangle of undignified limbs.

“Finno,” he repeated into Fingon's shoulder, his voice choked. “Finno, Finno, Finno.” He took Fingon into his arms and stroked his hair as if it were he who had come to find Fingon, and they clung together as if they had been separated for a thousand years.

Finrod and Sam watched the two together, so caught up in each other that they had forgotten anyone else was watching. The intensity of their love and trust was palpable, so shining and obvious to anyone who glanced at them for a moment that a flicker of envy danced briefly in Finrod's chest.

“Why, it really isn't true, what he said, the poor lamb!” exclaimed Sam. “I thought -”

Finrod had to stifle his laugh at the thought of Maedhros - cold-blooded murderer, dread general, and unrepentant kinslayer Maedhros, the bulwark of the war against the Enemy and protector of Beleriand for centuries - as a poor lamb, even fond as he was of his cousin.

“We all have days like this,” Finrod explained quietly, not wanting to disturb the couple. “It isn't - easy, being ripped from everything we knew, after losing everything, after being destroyed. It isn't as simple as just forgetting.” He shuddered, the shadow of his own demons falling across him.

Suddenly indignant, Sam turned on Finrod. “But then you didn't need me to show you anything,” he accused.

Finrod chuckled. “Forgive me, Sam, but it was too hard to turn you down when you offered so kindly. And besides, we had fun, didn't we?”

Sam looked down in embarrassment and twisted his fingers in the grass. “I suppose,” he said gruffly, but his shy smile when he looked up at Finrod was genuine.