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You were a kin-killer, a bane to your brothers.
For that family ravage you'll rot in hell
Your soul is damned though your wit is keen.
From Beowulf, translated by Craig Williamson
When High King Gil-galad entered the great hall of Amon Ereb, his hair was covered.
Maedhros, as huge and terrible as in the stories, the terror of Beleriand, an indiscriminate butcher, unrepentant kinslayer and so on, sat tall and composed on the dais, his much more inconspicuous brother beside him. Gil-galad dismissed his own guard and requested a private audience, and still Maedhros gave nothing away. His face was grim and impassive as he flicked his fingers to send his people away until only his brother Maglor remained, lounging at his right hand side.
Gil-galad raised his eyes to Maglor and then back to Maedhros in a silent question.
“My brother stays,” said Maedhros, with a note of effortless command in his strange hoarse voice.
That would make things harder, but Gil-galad would get nowhere if he argued from the get-go, so he nodded respectfully.
“Lord,” Gil-galad said - despite Maglor's stiffening at the title, he could not bring himself to address Maedhros as king - “I have come to discuss territory with you. My people are suffering. We lost the last of our farmland to Morgoth's forces two months ago. We have nowhere to expand. But - you do not lack for fertile land. We propose that your farmers could move to your lands in the north, which are just as rich, and allow us to cultivate a portion of the land you currently use in the south. It holds no military or political value to you, but it would save our lives.”
Maedhros did not respond immediately, drumming the fingers of his left hand against the arm of the throne. Gil-galad watched him with curiosity, unable to read him at all: Fingon had sent him away too young to have any memories of his father, never mind his father's best friend who by all accounts had been something more as well.
Maedhros did not look like the debauched and perverted monster Gil-galad had expected, who reportedly took what he wanted no matter the consequences even if it were against all the laws and customs of the Eldar - though his hair really was as red as flame, just as the stories told. His missing right hand was replaced by a metal one, which he did not try to hide; and while his face was indeed scarred, it was no more so than many of the faces of the people Gil-galad commanded. Long and hopeless war took a toll few would choose to pay. Maedhros was still striking, and in fact he would be comely if not for his expression: he looked more like a grim statue than an elf, and it was that which made him intimidating and gave Gil-galad the feeling that he was at the mercy of a predator who could strike at any moment.
Gil-galad thought that perhaps he should not have found it exciting.
Maglor, on the other hand, was generically handsome in the way that many of the Noldor were, and would not have stood out in a crowd if not for his clothes and manner: he was grey-eyed and dark-haired, with fine, regular features and a superior expression. His hair was unusually long and reached almost to his feet even bound traditionally with gems, and his clothing was sumptuous, heavily embroidered velvet in jewel-tones. The Feanorians must be doing well to afford such luxuries: that, or they were very invested in the appearance of doing well. Maedhros, like Gil-galad, simply wore armour, a practical choice which gave little away.
Maedhros stayed several long moments in silence, and Maglor watched both his brother and Gil-galad in turn with keen bright eyes. Gil-galad often found the reflected Tree-light in people's eyes unnerving: it was vanishingly rare among his own people.
“And what do you offer in exchange for this land, Fingonion?” Maedhros asked eventually. “My army is the larger, and we are short of no essentials, even had you them to offer. Nor do you have land of any use for us.”
Well. That was an auspicious start. If Maedhros had called him Fingonion, that meant Maedhros had been put in mind of Gil-galad's father. By all accounts, Gil-galad looked very similar to him. He would need to, for this to work.
Gil-galad took a deep breath, and uncovered his hair. His attendants had spent the morning plaiting gold into his long dark locks: they fell only to his shoulders, whereas his father's had reached his waist, but otherwise Gil-galad had been assured that he looked the very picture of his famous father.
Maglor gasped audibly, and although Maedhros made no sound, his face looked like he had been struck and he gripped the arm of his throne until his fingers were white.
“My people are poor, lord,” Gil-galad said, and he was proud that his voice did not tremble. “We cannot afford to buy the land from you: we can barely afford to feed ourselves. By all accounts you were fond of my father, and I am reckoned the very likeness of him, so I thought perhaps to offer you…”
He could not continue. Maedhros's face had turned black with fury, and Gil-galad's heart sank. He had known it was a risk, but had not seen any other choice. He could only hope that they would not kill him for his impertinence.
“You thought to whore yourself for your people? To me?” Maedhros laughed, and the sound was terrible, harsh and bitter and too loud.
Gil-galad swallowed. Perhaps he could try and mollify Maedhros enough that they would let him leave unharmed. “Yes, lord,” he said desperately, “but I meant no offence -”
Maedhros gestured with his hand for him to be quiet and Gil-galad obeyed. There was another long silence as Maedhros studied him, his face a blank mask again. Did that mean Maedhros might accept? Hope rose in Gil-galad. He needed that land, whatever way he might get it.
“Reports say you are a good king,” Maedhros said suddenly, in a much softer voice. “And clearly you are willing to sacrifice much for your people. That is… admirable. But cover your hair again, child, I may be a monster but I am not as far gone as all that. What would Fingon think of me, if I took advantage of his son in his time of need?”
Desperation made Gil-galad brave, or reckless; without agricultural land his people would not survive. They had been scraping a living from trading, but their supplies were running down: it could not last. Gil-galad did not cover his hair as commanded, but scrambled up to Maedhros and knelt at his feet. “Please, lord,” he said, “I have nothing else to offer, and my people need it.” He placed a hand on Maedhros's thigh over his armour, but to his surprise Maedhros flinched violently away.
Baffled at the response - Gil-galad had expected acceptance or violence - he drew his hand away swiftly and looked at Maedhros for some kind of cue, but Maedhros’s face was blank, and he was staring glassy-eyed at something over Gil-galad’s shoulder.
A hand settled on his shoulder, and Maglor's sweet voice said, “Come away, now.”
Gil-galad allowed himself to be led away and settled in a chair at the side of the hall, where he was given wine to drink in a golden cup. It was a contrast to the wooden ones which were all Gil-galad’s people had left: anything better had already been traded away. Despair overcame him and made him pliant and so he drained his cup. He had failed. How could his people survive now? This foolish plan had been their last resort, a hopeless shot in the dark. He could do nothing.
Maedhros's deep voice made him jump. “I did not mean to say that I will not sell you the land,” he said, as if nothing had happened. “As it happens, there is something I would like in return.”
Gil-galad jumped to his feet, sudden hope rising in him. “Anything, lord,” he said eagerly, until he remembered who he was speaking to. “Well - not anything,” he said awkwardly. “I won't kill anyone but orcs, or swear any oaths, or -”
This time Maedhros's harsh laughter seemed genuinely amused. “No,” he said. “I do not think you will be displeased with this request. I have two wards -”
Maglor spun around towards his brother, horror on his face. “No!” he cried. “Nelyo -”
Maedhros lifted a finger and Maglor subsided into silence, though Gil-galad could see the unhappiness and agitation churning on his face.
Maedhros continued as if nothing had happened. “I have two wards, children still, and if something happened here, or it became unsafe for them in the future, I would like to be able to send them to you for their safety. I would have you and your people keep them safe, treat them well, and give them every advantage and opportunity. You must make sure they never come to harm. I hope this will never happen, but - my heart disquiets me. Something is coming, and it may bring our ruin.”
Gil-galad stared. That was all the dread kinslayer wanted, truly?
“Of course, lord,” Gil-galad said, his voice shaking. “I swear I will treat them like my own, should the necessity arrive. But - is there nothing more you want? Surely this cannot be all?”
Maedhros smiled, a little crooked twitch of his lips. “You forget that it is to my advantage that every army that fights against Morgoth is as strong as possible,” he said. “We would soon be overrun, if we stood against him alone. And you are Fingon's son: I would help you if I can.”
Gil-galad bowed awkwardly. This was not what he had prepared for: this was not who he had prepared for. “Thank you, lord,” he said, and, dazed, let Maglor cover his hair again and give him wine and cake.
Gil-galad’s mind was racing as he ate and drank, not tasting a morsel. His body was shaking, insistent that he had narrowly escaped mortal peril, although Gil-galad was starting to think that perhaps the impression he had of the kinslayers was not altogether accurate. His people would be saved: the land Gil-galad had asked for was currently farmed, and so they could start producing food soon after handover. The relief was - all-encompassing. And he had given nothing of importance in exchange! Gil-galad wanted to kiss someone.
In fact, he noticed, as he sat there and drank wine as Maglor sat next to him and chattered away, that the worst he felt was… disappointed. He had been prepared for his task, and Maedhros was not the unsightly, cruel monster he had feared. Perhaps the truth was that Gil-galad's father really had loved him, and been loved by him, rather than the darker hints Gil-galad heard more often. Perhaps… it would not have been such an unpleasant task.
“Do you think your brother might want…” he asked Maglor, who looked at him quizzically until Gil-galad gestured at his hair.
“Oh! No, child, sweetling, don't worry about that. Nobody expects anything like that from you,” Maglor said brightly, pushing more cake onto his plate and patting his shoulder. Maglor was not what Gil-galad had expected, either: he had heard reports of the master of Song who could crush a man's head with a single note, who had reportedly burnt alive every soldier who had battled his dead brothers in their last fight. Maglor did not seem capable of any of that. He looked utterly normal, except for the elaborate clothing and his eyes like candles, and the way he acted was caring and kind, almost parental, in fact.
For some reason, it put Gil-galad’s back up. “I'm not a child. I'm 165 in summer,” he scowled, and looked Maglor directly in the eye, daring him to drop his gaze first.
Maglor stared back for a few moments, seeming genuinely fascinated. Gil-galad’s eyes were watering and he was just straining not to blink when Maglor dropped his gaze and looked instead towards Maedhros, who seemed a million miles away.
“Nelyo,” called Maglor, his voice sweet and rich. “Can't you see? He wants you.”
Gil-galad blushed - thankfully his skin was dark enough it was barely visible - but he did not deny it. Perhaps he did want more. He had expected something to happen, and to ride back without it seemed… anticlimactic. Perhaps it was the wine: surely having gained the land he had come for was enough? But in this surreal place, none of his people would ever know what happened, and, he was starting to realise, he wanted more.
And why should he not have what he wanted? Gil-galad was the High King of the Noldor, even young as he was: anything he wanted should be his for the taking, if he could win it.
Maedhros did not even look at them. “He wants the land, and he thinks it will give him some advantage,” Maedhros said drily. “I won't go back on my word, Fingonion. I'll arrange the details with your stewards, and lend you supplies and produce to tide you over. You can pay us back when you have excess.”
Gil-galad was not sure what madness came over him, but with the wine making his head buzz and the heady relief of a deal struck, it seemed somehow like the sensible next step was to lean forward and kiss Maglor.
Maglor responded quickly; he tasted of wine. He kissed lightly, playfully, teasing Gil-galad with his tongue, and then drew back and placed a thumb under Gil-galad’s chin, forcing him to look up and meet Maglor's candle-lit eyes.
“So you really do want it,” Maglor said, his lips slightly swollen and his eyes glittering unnaturally. “Have you been imagining this for a long time? Have you been touching yourself to thoughts of my brother holding you down and having his way with you?”
Gil-galad’s sharp inhale gave him away, and Maglor tittered. Of course he had imagined it - Gil-galad would never approach a situation unprepared. And if he had found more interest in the idea than he had expected, well, surely that was only for the good, if he had to perform? Though - now he did not have to, and yet, he was still interested. Perhaps it was because he did not have to.
“Are we a disappointment?” Maglor asked, and leaned towards Gil-galad until his mouth almost touched Gil-Galad’s ear and he could feel the tickle of his hot breath. “I know what they say about us. Perhaps you expected monsters, torn and scarred, who would ravage you without mercy -”
“No,” Gil-galad interrupted. “I like that you are beautiful. That you are not the monsters I expected.”
That shut Maglor up, and a frown creased his lovely face. Gil-galad followed his advantage by kissing Maglor again.
“Kano,” Maedhros said wearily. “He is drunk. Send him home with the contract: he will think better of it tomorrow, when he is sober and understands he does not have to barter anything except his promise.”
Gil-galad opened his mouth to argue.
“No, no,” Maglor said, shushing him sweetly. “My brother is not wrong. You are drunk, and you came here in desperation. It would not be right. And my brother is lord here: he must be obeyed. Come back, if you choose, in a few weeks, when you have no boon to ask: then nobody can say you are acting from anything except your own free will. Just -” Maglor fondled the tip of one of Gil-galad's golden plaits - “do your hair the same way.”
*
Throughout the entire ride to Amon Ereb, Gil-galad thought he might turn back at any moment. When he had arrived home safe and with the rights to the land he needed, he would have fallen to his knees in gratitude to the Valar had he kept the faith of his boyhood. His people had celebrated, but Gil-galad had ruminated over all the ways it could have gone so much worse. He cursed the way his brain was so easily consumed by his baser instincts. How ashamed he would have been had his people seen how he had acted.
But he had not been able to stop thinking about the brothers. Maglor's kiss still seared his mouth and Maedhros - yes, looking back, he was fairly sure that Maedhros had looked at him with desire, even though he had tried to hide it. And Maglor's offer had been clear, though now it all seemed so surreal. Had all that really happened? And if so, what had Maglor been offering - himself, his brother, or both? Or had it been some kind of trick? Gil-galad burnt with needing to know, and more besides.
So Gil-galad found himself on his way to Amon Ereb again, citing the need to talk about the contract they had received from the Feanorions, which had been more generous than Gil-galad expected. This morning when he had asked his body-servant to do the same golden plaits as before, she had given him a look of deep sympathy.
“This will be the last time, I hope,” she said quietly.
Gil-galad had not known how to refute her assumptions, particularly when they were not quite wrong. “The last,” he had agreed instead, and all morning, his people had gone out of their way to show their respect and gratitude for, they assumed, the terrible bargain he had struck.
But when Gil-galad stood in front of Maedhros, hair covered again, he wondered if the whole thing had been a fever-dream. Maedhros was beautiful, yes, in his deadly way; but he seemed untouchable, more blade than man.
“Fingonion,” Maedhros greeted him curtly. “Was there a problem with the contract? The land?”
“No, lord,” Gil-galad replied nervously. “Only we have things to discuss.”
Maedhros grunted and waved to one of his people, who showed Gil-galad to a set of guest chambers. Maedhros did not look at Gil-galad even once as he left.
“We are honoured to have you visit, son of Fingon,” the woman said. Her eyes were as unnaturally bright as the brothers’. “You will find your father was beloved here, and he is sorely missed.”
Gil-galad spent most of the day on a tour that carefully avoided anything strategic. He visited artists and artisans, orchards and greenhouses and bakeries, and was shown paintings and jewellery, ceramics and sculptures and some very strange lamps. It was true that being the son of Fingon made him instantly accepted: people who were initially deeply suspicious of strangers - which seemed to be almost everyone - would light up when they were told who their visitor was, and they would immediately offer him samples or gifts. Gil-galad managed to refuse most things, although he ended up with several pastries and a golden bracelet that he had not been able to turn down: the artist had clearly seen the gleam in Gil-galad’s eyes when he looked at it, and would not take no for an answer.
Even though Gil-galad knew that what he was shown was calculated to impress, he still could not help forming a surprisingly positive impression of Amon Ereb. He had thought kinslayers and their followers would be desperate, hardened, and lawless. There was certainly grief and resentment, but that was true of his own people too, as they approached what was likely to be the end of the world as it was slowly overcome by evil.
Amon Ereb was clearly very organised, and everyone he saw seemed busy and as content as could be expected. Maedhros’s name was spoken with fear regularly enough that Gil-galad suspected what he overheard wasn't staged, but it was also spoken with respect along with the fear and sometimes with admiration verging on awe. There was a keen sense among Amon Ereb’s people of being wronged, too, of having been forced into impossible choices. Still, Gil-galad found it all hard to believe: people who could put a city of refugees to the sword could not be as innocuous as they seemed today.
After Gil-galad finished dinner in the great hall, where he was placed at Maedhros's right hand and toasted and praised but otherwise ignored, he was starting to wonder if this would be just a diplomatic visit. But it was not long until the same woman who had shown him around earlier appeared again.
“The King wishes to speak with you privately,” she told him. “But worry not, his brother is also there: I believe he will invite you for drinks. A social event.”
Sudden excitement leapt up Gil-galad's spine; if he had any reservations still, it seemed his body did not. All the things he had imagined at night played in his mind as he followed the servant up a winding stair.
The servant disappeared and he entered. Maglor kissed Gil-galad on the cheek and led him by the hand to sit in front of the small fire. Then Maglor poured him a generous cup of wine and sat down next to him, smiling widely. The room had a cosy but bland sitting area and a neat four poster bed: it looked more like a guest room than anything else.
Gil-galad took a sip of the wine: it was very good, rich and warm and dark. His heart was racing with anticipation, although he seemed to have left much of his nervousness behind. He eyed Maglor, who was dressed richly in a deep purple silk robe, while Maedhros wore a plain tunic in dark green and no visible jewellery except the copper circlet on his brow.
“Hello, Artanaro,” Maglor said. “I thought we'd see you again.” His many jewelled rings glinted in the firelight and his long pointed nails were studded with sparkling gems, which had the effect of drawing attention to Maglor's hands as he gestured with them as he spoke.
Maedhros did not even glance Gil-galad’s way, staring into the fire and toying with his glass of wine. There was a half-empty bottle next to him and an empty one beside that, but even so he looked no less intimidating out of his armour, and no more approachable.
“Hello, Maglor,” Gil-galad said, and then stopped; he could not think what would be appropriate to say next.
But Maglor filled the gap. “Forgive my lord brother his lack of manners,” Maglor said smoothly. “It is not that he does not want you: it is just that he doubts that you want him. It took some persuading for him to join us.”
Gil-galad could have laughed at how the tables were turned. “How can he doubt it?” Gil-galad asked. “I travelled all the way here. Is that not proof enough?”
“Perhaps he thinks you might want something more from him,” Maglor suggested archly. “And you think this is the only way to obtain it.”
Maedhros made no indication that he heard them, except for his rather ragged ears flicking back and forth.
Gil-galad had to laugh. Here, it seemed, he had as much power as they did, and perhaps more confidence. Was Maglor worried about that too? “It seems to me that there would be easier ways of obtaining it, if that were true. I have the land I wanted, and for a price far less than I expected.”
“You are Fingon's son,” Maedhros said abruptly. “I would have given it to you for nothing.”
Maglor ignored Maedhros and addressed Gil-galad. “Well then, we will just have to tempt my lord brother. He will not abide my hands on you for long, I deem.”
Maglor had a wicked gleam in his eye as he put his wine down carefully on the table and then swept up to straddle Gil-galad, which he managed gracefully. Maglor, like all those who had been born in Valinor, was tall compared to anyone but his brother, although he was slimmer than Gil-galad, who was particularly broad and muscular as if to make up for his lack of height.
Gil-galad froze when Maglor wrapped his long legs around Gil-galad’s, mostly because now there was no possibility Maglor would avoid noticing just how hard Gil-galad was. And he did not. Maglor raised his eyebrows and pretended to be shocked, immediately grinding against Gil-galad's erection, and called out to Maedhros, laughing. “Why, brother, he's hard for us before we even touch him!”
Maedhros made no reply and Gil-galad thought he should say something, but Maglor's weight on him was too distracting, as well as Maglor's lips on his, Maglor grinding so deliciously against his cock. It was all he could think of.
“That's right, Artanaro,” Maglor whispered encouragingly, and licked down Gil-galad's ear, making him shiver and moan. “You're so good for us.”
“Maglor,” said Gil-galad, grabbing Maglor's slender hips and thrusting upwards frantically.
“Makalaure,” Maglor corrected, kissing and nibbling down Gil-galad's neck as he rocked against his erection, each movement delicious friction.
“Makalaure,” Gil-galad agreed, and how was he already so wanting that he would have agreed to anything? The feel of Maglor against him was incredible, and the fact that it was so transgressive only made it felt better: these brothers were dangerous, certainly off-limits to any decent elf, and yet - it was thrilling, and everything that should have stopped him, that should have made him run away and never come back, only made him harder.
Gil-galad was panting as he thrust against Maglor, who was getting hard now himself. Gil-galad reached down to their clothes to free them both, but Maglor stayed his hand.
“If you want my lord brother to fuck you, may I suggest you do that first,” Maglor drawled. “Or else he'll be too drunk, won't you, Nelyo?”
“What?” Maedhros responded, after a pause, and Gil-galad noticed that he was already drunk enough to slur his words.
“Nothing, nothing,” Maglor said innocently and untangled himself. He pulled Gil-galad up and helped him strip efficiently rather than sensually until Gil-galad was entirely naked and the plaits woven with gold fell loose around his shoulders. Gil-galad retaliated by pulling Maglor's shirt off, revealing an elegant, slim and surprisingly scarred torso.
“Oh, look at you,” said Maglor, practically licking his lips as he looked Gil-galad up and down. “Those muscles! You look just like him, you know. Oh, I'd like to have you between my thighs. Could you fuck me up against the wall, do you think?”
Gil-galad’s mouth was dry at the idea and he was only able to nod, and Maglor laughed. He always seemed to be laughing. “Later, perhaps. Come with me.”
He led Gil-galad over to the bed and perched on the edge, pulling Gil-galad beside him and kissing him thoroughly until Maglor's cheeks were pink. “Now, I assume you've done this before?” Maglor's tone was teasing.
“Of course I have.” Gil-galad was offended. “I'm 164, not 64.”
“All right, then,” Maglor laughed, his eyes dancing. “Lie down. Let me take care of you.”
Gil-galad did as he was told. It was not quite the rough taking he had imagined: Maglor was more teasing than rough as he ran his hands over Gil-galad's back and kissed his way down Gil-galad's spine until he reached between his thighs.
For a moment, Gil-galad wondered if Maglor might use his tongue, something he had heard of but never tried, but Maglor only licked around his entrance before pressing an oiled finger into him.
Gil-galad sighed and pushed back against it, looking for the pleasure he knew it would eventually bring. Maglor took his time before adding another one and then fucking him with both fingers. He made Gil-galad moan and writhe but never quite satisfied, pulling out his fingers too quickly only to shove them back in when Gil-galad whined.
“You're cruel,” Gil-galad gasped out, panting as Maglor tormented him.
“Yes,” Maglor said with satisfaction.
“Please, Makalaure -” Gil-galad tried. “I need -”
“Yes?” asked Maglor, his voice teasing as he pulled out his fingers again. Gil-galad was about to complain again when a deeper voice interrupted them.
“Get the fuck off him, Kano.” Maedhros's voice was thick and slurred with anger and alcohol, which Gil-galad could smell coming off him. Maglor was quick to move out of range, Gil-galad noticed, as Maedhros climbed onto the bed.
Gil-galad had a little time to wonder if this was really a good idea. What limits did a drunk, angry, and unpredictable kinslayer unleashed on the image of his dead lover have? Maedhros was clearly unstable and dangerous at the best of times, and he was a lot bigger and stronger than Gil-galad. If something set him off, he could really hurt him before Maglor could intercede - if Maglor would intercede. He might just watch and laugh.
And why did all of that just make him harder? Not for the first time, Gil-galad cursed his cock and the decisions he made because of it. How many dangerous situations had it led him into?
But Maedhros’s hand was very gentle as he kneeled between Gil-galad's legs and stroked his thighs.
“Finno,” he whispered, barely comprehensible - just how drunk was he? - as he ran his hand through Gil-galad’s plaits and along his spine in a way that was almost reverential. Gil-galad considered correcting him, but his deeply buried self-preservation instincts kicked in for once and he stayed silent.
Maedhros entered him slowly and carefully, not the rough and dominant fuck of Gil-galad's imagination, but he was much larger than Gil-galad had expected. Even prepared, he could not help but hiss.
“Did I hurt you?” Maedhros asked, the gentle concern clear even through his drunkenness. Gil-galad did not think it was for him.
“Just - just a moment,” Gil-galad said, hoping the sound of his voice would not disturb Maedhros. But Maedhros said nothing, and gave Gil-galad time to adjust. He even stroked Gil-galad’s flank softly to comfort him and kissed his back as if he really were his lover. It was strangely intimate, especially as Gil-galad could not see behind him and he could not reconcile what he could feel Maedhros doing with the untouchable man he had met.
After a few moments the discomfort faded and Gil-galad said, “You can try again now.”
Maedhros said nothing, but tugged at Gil-galad’s hips until he rose up onto his knees.
“That's it,” Maedhros slurred, and wrapped his hand around Gil-galad's cock, which had flagged a little from the pain. Maedhros's hand felt good, rough and warm, and it was easier to cope with Maedhros slowly pushing inside of him when he could focus on thrusting into Maedhros's hand.
They were both panting by the time Maedhros was flush against Gil-galad's hips: Gil-galad felt impossibly full, still on the intense edge of pain, and he was very glad that Maedhros had not taken him the way he had first imagined. Maedhros stayed still and kissed the back of Gil-galad's neck and licked his ears in his strangely loving way until Gil-galad was overcome with needing Maedhros to move, and pushed his hips back hard.
Maedhros let out a ragged laugh. “All right, F-” he cut off suddenly and the thrust he gave Gil-galad was hard. Gil-galad moaned loudly, whether out of pleasure or pain he wasn't sure; it only seemed to encourage Maedhros, or perhaps enrage him, Gil-galad couldn't tell which, and Maedhros set a hard and punishing pace. He held onto Gil-galad's hip for better leverage, his grip tight enough to bruise as he pulled him back to snap against his thrusts. Gil-galad made sure to stay compliant, judging it best not to make any sound that could provoke the kinslayer, even though it was too hard too soon to be truly pleasant. But it would pass, he knew; and before long Gil-galad was whimpering and drooling, clutching the pillow his head was buried in, and his neglected cock was aching.
Out of the corner of his eye Gil-galad saw Maglor cautiously making his way over, until he slouched against the bedpost and reached out to run his hands over Gil-galad's back. When neither Maedhros nor Gil-galad objected, Maglor grew bolder, and wrapped his hand around Gil-galad's aching cock. “Call him Russo,” he whispered, and licked Gil-galad’s ear.
Gil-galad nearly came on the spot at the sudden sensation, and regretted that he hadn't when Maedhros, apparently noticing Maglor's reappearance at long last, shoved his brother aside with a grunt, and started fucking Gil-galad hard enough that he felt like his face was being pounded into the bed.
Gil-galad panted. Now he was more accustomed to it, it felt incredible, it felt overwhelming, it felt like too much; he was so, so close, and he just wanted to come. What had Maglor said Maedhros preferred to be called, his Quenya name? “Russo,” Gil-galad whined. “Russo, please -”
With a strangled cry, Maedhros came. He shoved hard into Gil-galad and held, chanting “Finno, Finno, Finno…” under his breath like a prayer.
Maedhros pulled out abruptly and Gil-galad collapsed, catching his breath. When he turned around, Maedhros was still there, his face hidden as he slumped against one of the bedposts. He was clutching the post above his head with his fist while Maglor was pulling up his brother's leggings in an almost motherly way.
“Don't weep, Nelyo,” Maglor's voice was soft but sharp with triumph. “What will our guest think?”
A crack resounded loud and shocking in the air and Maglor cried out as Maedhros backhanded him across the face with his metal hand, making Maglor stagger backwards with the force of the blow.
“Don't you dare,” Maedhros growled, and now for the first time Gil-galad saw the ugliness in him, his scarred symmetrical face twisted with untempered anger. This was the man who could kill without guilt, the man that everyone had warned him about. “You're the one who orchestrated this, you knew exactly what you were doing. I'm not sending them away and even if I were, it's my right, you - you -”
Maedhros moved suddenly again and Maglor flinched back. Gil-galad braced himself for more violence - he could almost see Maglor's blood on the floor already: what scruples could a thrice-kinslayer have? Gil-galad shrunk back onto the bed and hoped they would forget about him, but Maedhros only pushed past his brother and stormed out of the room.
The door slammed, and in the silence afterwards Maglor and Gil-galad looked at each other. Maglor touched his face tentatively and brought it away covered in blood, but he did not seem dismayed.
“A moment,” Maglor said, just as brightly as before, in the tone which Gil-galad was learning to be distrustful of. “And then would you like to fuck me against the wall, as we discussed?”
Maglor busied himself wiping the blood off his face while Gil-galad considered. These brothers were dangerous, he thought; he had been fooling himself before, distracted from the lion’s sharp claws by his soft fur and soulful eyes. Gil-galad should just excuse himself and leave: no-one would blame him. No-one would know, except these two, and what they thought hardly mattered now that he had the contract.
And yet… he was already here. More importantly, he had not come, despite having been so incredibly close, and fucking Maglor against the wall sounded… oh, it sounded heavenly to have Maglor's tight warmth around him. Gil-galad imagined wiping Maglor's ever-present mocking smile off his face; how he would gasp when Gil-galad entered him. Perhaps he would claw Gil-galad's back with those long nails as he fucked him.
Maglor had finished wiping his face, and was looking to Gil-galad, waiting for an answer to his question. Maglor's face was beatific despite the strands of his hair stuck to drying spots of blood he had missed.
Gil-galad reached for the oil, and said, “Take off the rest of your clothes.”