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Sleeping I Dreamed Love, Dreamed Love Of Thee

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It was a pleasant dream: a warm body settling down behind him in bed, and pulling him close, draping an arm around him. Sleepily, he muttered, "Anairë," relaxing into the circle of familiar arms, forgetting in his tiredness that she was away from home and would not be back for days.

There was a low chuckle and a huffed breath at his ear. He was never sure if that in and of itself woke him, or if it was the smell and feel of the body behind him, completely unlike his wife's. And yet, the contact was comforting and warm, and he was too sleepy to care much that it was Fëanáro - or indeed anyone at all - holding him, rather than Anairë.

He decided pretending to still be asleep was the wisest course in the situation. Waking up might disturb the warmth and comfort of this moment, and he wanted to luxuriate in it, to pretend that the outside world didn't exist, that he wasn't exhausted beyond belief by political manoeuvrings, silly feuds, and strange rumours. For a little while, he would indulge himself, and enjoy the feel of his brother's body against his own, the strong arms that held him, the broad chest he was resting against, the scent of him, warm and sharp like hot metal.

He could not even be sure that it was real - if he stirred and woke, Fëanáro's arms might vanish from around him, and it would prove to be a dream in truth. He kept his eyes closed, kept breathing softly, slowly, in and out, lay pliant and limp, relaxed, against Fëanáro's shoulder.

Fëanáro's large warm hand stroked down his side, separated from his skin only by the thin robe he wore in bed, which had rucked up as he slept until it was around his waist. The hand did not stop when the robe did; it continued on until Fëanáro was stroking the bare skin of his thigh, and Ñolofinwë could barely hold back from catching his breath in a gasp.

Fëanáro let his hand wander over Ñolofinwë's body as if it belonged to him, stroking and caressing him in a proprietary manner that was yet soothing and at the same time, wildly arousing. Ñolofinwë was sure he was dreaming now, one of those dreams that came to him from time to time, of receiving the affection and love Fëanáro had denied him when they were both younger. Before his marriage to Anairë, he had fantasised about his brother coming to him in the night many times, and of desperately sweet kisses and caresses. This was surely just one of those dreams, brought on by the stress of their ongoing public feud.

Fëanáro's hand was gentle against his chest now, and then Fëanáro was kissing the back of his neck, warm and slow. Ñolofinwë could not help it but let out a sigh and snuggled more closely against him.

"My Nolo," the dream said behind him, softly, breathing it against his ear, very intimate and low. "Thou art fair beyond measure like this, asleep in my arms. Many times I watched thee sleep but never did I dare this, all those years ago. Yet tonight thou wert such a tempting picture, a feast for the eyes and the senses, that I could no longer only watch, but must touch."

Surely if anything then now was the time to wake up, to turn to Fëanáro, and confess his own desires. And yet - one of the rumours Ñolofinwë had heard came back to him vividly - if Fëanáro was dangerous and not to be trusted, could this not be some kind of trap? Some attempt at surprising Ñolofinwë's secret desires out of him? Would one who forged weapons and armour not be one who would go to any lengths to see off a rival, even to the point of seducing his own brother in an effort to ruin him?

And yet he could not wake up and push Fëanáro away, either. The need was too great, the desires too strong. He feigned a restless sigh and turned slightly in Fëanáro's arms, leaning into the warmth of him. He could feel all of Fëanáro alongside him now, pressed together all the way from shoulder to thighs. Fëanáro was clothed only in light leggings, and Ñolofinwë could feel his hardness against his own naked backside through the cloth.

Fëanáro, within reach now, leaned down and kissed him, pressing against Ñolofinwë's lips with his tongue. Obediently, Ñolofinwë relaxed his jaw, allowing Fëanáro entrance, permitting himself to enjoy it quietly. Fëanáro's hand was warm on his face, holding him steady, and Ñolofinwë lay lax, not participating actively, but not resisting at all.

It seemed a long time that Fëanáro plundered his mouth, and by the time he drew away, Ñolofinwë's breath was faster, and his heartbeat was pounding in his ears. Fëanáro went back to caressing him, stroking all over his face, laying gentle kisses to his throat, his cheek, his forehead, his shoulder.

His hand made its way down Ñolofinwë's body, teasing a nipple into hardness with a gentle pinch, then sliding across Ñolofinwë's belly and down his hips. Ñolofinwë was hard, of course, and could not quite restrain a moan when Fëanáro took hold of him, sliding his hand up and down experimentally a few times.

Fëanáro pressed closer in against Ñolofinwë, all but grinding his hips against Ñolofinwë's backside, then seemed to come to a decision, and let go of Ñolofinwë's erection. Ñolofinwë just barely managed to stop a whimper from escaping him at the loss, but he could feel Fëanáro scrambling at the waistband of his own leggings, pushing them down, freeing his own erection.

He pressed in against Ñolofinwë again, and then Ñolofinwë could hear Fëanáro licking his own palm, behind him. And before he could realise what was going to happen, Fëanáro's wet hand was insinuating itself between his thighs, not reaching for his hole but instead dampening the tight gap at the very top of his inner thighs. Fëanáro, gasping, pushed his cock between Ñolofinwë's thighs, took a deep breath, and put his damp hand back on Ñolofinwë's cock.

"Ah, Nolo, my Nolo, so tight and warm," he breathed against Ñolofinwë's ear. "Why did I never touch thee like this years ago?"

Ñolofinwë was losing the battle at keeping his breathing controlled, and indeed was letting out tiny gasps as Fëanáro stroked his erection in time with thrusting between Ñolofinwë's thighs. Fëanáro's breath was hot and fast against his ear, and from time to time Fëanáro would claim his lips in a hard kiss, pushing his tongue into Ñolofinwë's mouth like he owned it and would take it.

It was rapidly getting to be too much for Ñolofinwë, and when Fëanáro moaned, long and low against his ear, he shuddered with delight and came all over Fëanáro's hand, harder than he had in years. Fëanáro was close behind him, and Ñolofinwë almost thought he could have come again just from the feel of Fëanáro shaking behind him, the feel of his come landing warm on Ñolofinwë's inner thighs.

They were both breathing hard, Ñolofinwë shaking in Fëanáro's arms, still trying to remain as relaxed as possible, still trying to give off the air that he was asleep and had not awoken.

Reluctantly, Fëanáro withdrew himself from between Ñolofinwë's thighs and let go of his cock, now going limp. A great warm lassitude was settling back over Ñolofinwë, and he was warm and happy, back in the space where this was a dream, once more. He could vaguely hear Fëanáro, who still had an arm around him, whispering softly, several times over, "I love thee, I love thee," and part of him longed to turn, throw his arms around Fëanáro and whisper the words back, equally as forcefully, equally as lovingly.

But an even greater part insisted that having played the part thus far, he could not give the game away at the end, and that this was a dream, and one doesn't turn to dreams and tell them they love them, unless they wish to meet cold hard reality.

With Fëanáro's arm still around him, he drifted off again into sleep, and never felt it when Fëanáro rose and left.


In the morning, he woke with a sudden start, and turned to the other side of the bed, which was empty. His robe was rucked up around his waist and there were suspicious stains on the sheets, but he could not be sure if they were only his own, or not. Had it been a dream, or had his brother in truth visited him in the night?

He decided it was a dream, after all.

A year later, when Fëanáro held a sword to his throat, and their eyes met, when in furious rage Fëanáro looked at him, Ñolofinwë looked back, searching his face for any measure of pity or mercy with the desperation of one who fears for his life. And the dream came into his mind vividly, Fëanáro's warm loving tones, the scent of him, so familiar, so vivid.

"I love thee," he whispered, desperate, in the exact tones he remembered, and was rewarded with devastation in Fëanáro's eyes, with the sudden clatter of the sword on the ground as it fell from Fëanáro's hand, with Fëanáro's sudden, hopeless, intake of breath. Fëanáro stared at him for a long breathless second as Ñolofinwë stared back, and then the crowd surged between them, pulling them apart.