Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/5612782.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      The_Silmarillion_and_other_histories_of_Middle-Earth_-_J._R._R._Tolkien
  Relationship:
      Celegorm/Curufin, Implied_Celegorm/Fëanor
  Character:
      Celegorm, Curufin
  Additional Tags:
      Consensual_Underage_Sex, First_Time, Substitution, Sibling_Incest, Blow
      Jobs, Rimming, Anal_Sex, Obsession
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-01-02 Words: 3162
****** The Hunted ******
by uumuu
Summary
     Celegorm wants everything of his father; Curufin is all too ready to
     provide it.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
Tyelcormo knew that a very fine line separated hunter and hunted. Unlike most
other hunters, he could talk to animals, he knew what they felt, how they felt.
It made killing them very much like killing a potential friend. Hunting had
quickly become for him a mere exercise in ruthlessness, and its fixed sequence
of actions – tracking, cornering, killing – held only bland excitement for him.
At the same time, he had set his sights on a much greater catch. A catch none
other could match: Fëanáro, the very man who had engendered him. Of course, he
had his fair share of Fëanáro as his father, but it was not the parent, not the
craftsman or the loremaster he wanted to make his. He loved those, but there
was another side to his father he had come to descry, once grown, just as he
had fathomed the souls of animals by learning their tongues.
He craved his father's touch, his body, to feel his skin under his hands and
hold him in his arms. He wanted the most uncontrolled side of his father, a
creature fierce as the beasts who populated the wildest regions of Valinor, and
who loved with all the instinctive, blunt directness of one.
The mere thought of him kindled Tyelcormo's excitement the way hunting had by
then stopped doing. The need for his father – talk to him, possess him or just
see him – made even Oromë's company seem bland, made him grimace inwardly when
his occasional companions expressed sympathy for him in their words or
gestures, because it must have been hard being the son of such a masterful man
and not have anything in common with him. He threw his head back and laughed
whenever they did. They took it as a liberating outburst, and it was: it was
the best alternative by far to beating them up until they had no breath left in
them to utter his father's name, and trample on his own love without even
realising it.
But there was one thing he rued, and that harrowed him, about his father. He
had not known him in his youth. He was the third of his sons, and no matter how
aware he was that his father loved him just as much as his brothers, older and
younger, as much as he had in due time laid his claim on him exactly as he
wanted, he couldn't be content. He rued missing such an important part of his
father's existence, he rued not possessing him completely.
And then, there was Curufinwë. Cunning, brilliant Curufinwë, whose body was
still slender and soft, but who was developing the same musculature as their
father, looked splendidly alike, and had already shown the same skill. Having
Curufinwë would be like having their father when he was young, and before
anybody else had.
Tyelcormo had been 24 when Curufinwë had been born, and well past his majority
when Curufinwë had begun growing into a man. He kept a watchful eye on his
little brother, observed his growth in silence, patient like any good hunter
would be.
He didn't need to woo him, didn't even need to confess his desire to him.
Curufinwë knew, by virtue of his innate closeness to their father. After their
mother had named him, his affinity with Fëanáro became all-embracing, the rich
soil from which his existence drew its lifeblood.
Tyelcormo waited until Curufinwë was the same age their father had been when he
had married their mother, then he arranged to take him to his favourite hide-
out.
He had built that tree house around one of the largest sequoias in a forest at
the foot of the Pelóri. He often took their father there, and together they
would indulge in each other, far from everything else.
Curufinwë looked at the bed and the implements he pulled out from a box with a
haughty air, eager to play the role his own birthright and now his brother's
desire had cast him into. He strutted to the very middle of the room, crossed
his arms over his chest, and looked at Tyelcormo expectantly, almost
challengingly, his face upthrust, a self-assured smirk playing at the corners
of his lips. Dressed in their father's old riding clothes, he looked exactly
like Fëanáro must have looked as a youth very close to his majority.
Tyelcormo walked up to him, feeling keenly at that moment like both hunter and
hunted.
He fell to his knees before his brother, before the revered image of their
father, and nuzzled his groin.
“Curufinwë –” he said, his voice coming out in a shaky whisper, almost a sob.
He turned to kiss the bulge that had begun to tent his father's riding pants,
the leather musty for having been stored for a long time in a chest. They were
only slightly large for Curufinwë, crinkling inside his boots.
Tyelcormo undid the laces of those, his fingers working deftly in spite of his
excitement, and he held them in place while Curufinwë slipped his feet out of
them, first the right and then the left, his hands resting on Tyelcormo's broad
shoulders for balance. Tyelcormo shivered at the simple pressure of those
fingers – clenching a little harder than it would have been necessary. He set
the boots aside, lined them neatly one next to the other, because he knew
Curufinwë didn't like untidiness. It was one of the little things in which he
was different from their father, but Tyelcormo didn't mind: it was part of the
illusion that he needed taking care of.
He pulled Curufinwë's socks off too, and put them inside the boots. Then he
bent down, doubling over, his forehead almost level with the planks of the
floor. He kissed Curufinwë's feet, letting his lips dawdle on the skin to
savour the tremors, the very first spike of pleasure that went up his brother's
body.
His mouth slid to the ankle, and travelled up the inside of Curufinwë's left
leg, over the swelling muscle and the indentation of his knee. He couldn't
resist a bite to the thigh.
“Turco!” Curufinwë exclaimed in protest, with the exact same cadence their
father would have used.
“Sorry,” Tyelcormo murmured and his tongue darted out to lick the same spot,
leaving a wet stain on the leather.
Gentler nips took him slowly to Curufinwë's crotch. Once again he pressed his
nose to the bulge there, now bigger, and inhaled deeply, once, twice,
lingering.
“Come on Turco, don't you want to pleasure me?” Curufinwë softly prodded. “Do
it.”
“Yes –” Tyelcormo panted, his voice breaking off at the impulse to add
'father'. He wanted to, needed to, but was afraid that saying it would break
the illusion, would be going too far. A loud little intake of breath that
Curufinwë guessed it, and probably wanted to hear that word just as ardently as
Tyelcormo wanted to utter it. Tyelcormo's cock stiffened even more at the
thought, straining against the seams of his own riding pants. But it wasn't
time to tend to his own physical need, yet.
He opened Curufinwë's trousers and pulled them down, leaving them anchored
around his thighs. He tugged at Curufinwë's brief – realising as he did that
his hands trembled – and Curufinwë's cock sprang out. It pointed right towards
Tyelcormo's face, bending just slightly to the left, stiff and tumid, the
foreskin already pulled back from the head. Tyelcormo stooped forward, and
stuck his tongue out, trailing it over the slit.
A sharp sigh escaped Curufinwë's mouth, while his hips jerked back a little, as
if the sensation had stung him.
Tyelcormo's hands circled his thighs to settle beneath his soft buttocks, a
hold which served to keep Curufinwë still as much as it served to steady
himself, and he leant in closer. He licked his brother's cock, circling his
tongue around the ridge and gliding it down along the curved line of a
prominent vein.
Wild enjoyment surged in him as he repeated the motion, again and again, all
over the shaft. He had done the same for his father, many times. It was knowing
that Curufinwë was experiencing those sensations for the first time, that he
was the one introducing him to the joys of lust and tangible, seizable love,
that no-one else would, that turned the act into something special, sacred.
His mouth travelled back up from the base to the tip, and stopped on the head,
swirled around it, and suckled, tasting the first leak of Curufinwë's cock.
Then he moved his head down, gradually taking the shaft deeper, adjusting his
breathing as he went, until the tip of his nose was tickled by the black curls
which crowned Curufinwë's manhood. His own chest heaved deeply, but he held his
brother all the way inside his throat, massaging him.
“Turco,” Curufinwë wailed, his hands shooting down to tangle in Tyelcormo's
hair.
Tyelcormo held on for a moment longer, then slowly pulled back, savouring the
silky skin as it slid under his lips, and sucking the spit that dripped down
his chin back into his mouth as his brother's cock slipped out of it.
“Curufinwë, my beloved,” he said, and was rewarded by a radiant smile and the
pressure of Curufinwë's fingers on his scalp.
He went back to licking, low to Curufinwë's balls, dipping his head to reach
their underside, and lapping hungrily until Curufinwë pulled on his hair and
demanded, “suck me again,” in such an urgent manner that Tyelcormo immediately
obeyed. He returned his mouth to Curufinwë's cockhead and cupped his balls,
holding them cradled in the palm of his hand. He rolled them gently between his
fingers while his lips travelled up and down the shaft. Curufinwë's breathing
quickened the faster they went, and soon he began to tremble.
“Turco –”
That name, repeated, uttered with so much transport and love was the perfect
prelude to Curufinwë's first climax – hot, thick seed shooting in streaks down
Tyelcormo's throat and then his mouth as he swiftly pulled back, because he
yearned to taste his young brother-young father. He collected his release on
his tongue, spreading it around his mouth before swallowing it.
When he raised his head again, Curufinwë's face was flushed a bright red, rapt,
his eyes hooded and glazed. His right hand kept massaging Tyelcormo's head. He
looked more beautiful than ever, the living mirror of their father.
“May I take you now?” Tyelcormo entreated, sliding his hands up and down
Curufinwë's thighs.
Curufinwë lifted his left foot and poked Tyelcormo's cock with it, making him
squirm before saying, “yes, Turcafinwë.”
That reply, the slight tremble in Curufinwë's silvery voice, sent a renewed
rush of blood to Tyelcormo's cock that doubled his excitement. Curufinwë pushed
his father's pants all the way down to his ankles, and stepped out of them, in
the same careless way Tyelcormo had spied Fëanáro do when he changed out of his
work-clothes after a night spent in the forge, with sweat clinging to his skin
and the smell of soot like a lush fragrance.
“Take off my shirt.”
Tyelcormo stood on shaky legs to comply. He couldn't help brushing his hands
over Curufinwë's chest as he lifted the garment and threw it out of the way.
Finally naked, Curufinwë ambled over to the bed, kneeling down on it then
stretching with his legs splayed open, his momentarily flaccid cock resting
beautifully between them.
Tyelcormo made to join him, but Curufinwë clicked his tongue, halting him,
while throwing his hair behind his shoulders.
“Undress. Present yourself to me.”
Tyelcormo nodded. They had seen each other naked countless times, when they
bathed or swam together, but this – its aim – would be entirely different.
Tyelcormo wasn't graceful, or deft as he took his boots off, fumbling with the
laces, and he was even less adroit as he got rid of his pants and
undergarments. He met Curufinwë's eyes again as he took hold of the hem of his
shirt and pulled it over his head, holding his arms up to let Curufinwë look at
him, a revent offering.
Curufinwë pretended not to be affected. “Don't leave our clothes lying around,”
he tersely said.
Tyelcormo lowered his arms and turned, but could still feel Curufinwë's gaze
fixed on his body while he picked up the strewn garments and set them on the
only chair in the room, as neatly as he could, before arousal brought him back
to the bed. He stood at the foot of it, naked, waiting for Curufinwë to speak
again.
Curufinwë's eyes drifted up and down his broad chest, his bulging arms,
appraising him, and finally stopped on his fully engorged cock. “You are
impatient, aren't you?” he said. “But you are so big, Turcafinwë, and you do
not want to hurt me, do you?”
Tyelcormo automatically shook his head. “I will take good care of
you...Curufinwë,” he vowed, still hesitating on the name.
“Go on then.”
Tyelcormo grabbed the blanket that was strewn across the foot of the bed, and
folded it, sticking it under Curufinwë's ass. Once again he knelt and rained
quick, wet kisses on the inside of his little brother-little father's thighs,
drawing closer to his opening without hurry, tracing every contour of his
muscles. When he finally got to the cleft of Curufinwë's ass, he placed a kiss
on the untouched opening that was to be his, then slowly dragged the flat his
tongue over it.
Curufinwë's body writhed on the mattress, and against Tyelcormo's face. “That
feels so good,” he mewled.
Tyelcormo smiled and licked his hole again, placidly up and quicker back down.
On the third upward lick he reached almost to Curufinwë balls. He was tempted
to lick them too, suck them, take them into his mouth and lave them as he had
his cock, but there would be time for that, later. His tongue went back to
Curufinwë's hole, lapping over it and on either side of it.
Curufinwë sighed blissfully and demanded, “more.”
Tyelcormo moved his tongue faster, flicking it up and down and side to side,
making Curufinwë wet with his spit, until his hole was softened by the
continuous stimulation, twitching open for him, beckoning him.
Tyelcormo took the jar of lubricant from the box and smeared a very generous
amount of it over Curufinwë's opening, and worked it inside with his fingers,
making sure Curufinwë's inner walls would be thoroughly slicked too. By then,
his impatience was beginning to gnaw at his self-control.
He coated his cock in the thick salve, and put the tip to Curufinwë's hole. His
heart was beating impossibly fast and he knew, he knew that was how a beast
felt when it had been cornered, when it realised there was no escape and all it
could hope for was a quick death. He breathed in deeply through his nose. He
dithered, trying to bring his thoughts, his feelings to order. He feared he
would simply lose control at the crucial moment, give in to his basest craving.
His father's eyes stared at him, inviting, transfixing. He was so aroused he
was almost dizzy. He took hold of Curufinwë's legs and pressed forward. His
cock nudged the moist opening, pressed against it.
“Open for me, Curufinwë,” he said, half an entreat and half a demand,
“don't-...don't make me –”
Curufinwë canted his hips and pushed out, and in a movement that ended up being
far too sudden Tyelcormo's cockhead slipped past Curufinwë's sphincter and was
snugly wrapped by his ass in giddy heat.
Both gasped.
Tyelcormo managed to stay still for only a couple of seconds, and was pushing
further in.
“Turco –” Curufinwë panted, his brow creasing.
“I'm sorry –” Tyelcormo nearly cried, “I'm sorry...you feel so good,” he said,
time and again, in a desperate effort not to move.
He took several shallow, halting breaths. He straightened, planted his hands on
either side of Curufinwë's body and clumsily stretched to reach his lips. “I
love you, Curufinwë,” he panted in between kisses. “You are the most precious
to me, I love you more than anything else.”
Curufinwë stared fixedly up at him, his forehead creasing and smoothing again,
his lips parted to let out little gasps. Tyelcormo stared back at him,
devouring, and began to move in earnest, withdrawing and pushing back in,
deeper, deeper every time until at last all of his cock was inside his brother,
his father, his most fervently beloved. He thrust awkwardly, stopping
frequently, slow one moment, fast and uneven the next, but always, deliriously,
overwhelmed by the ecstasy of that taking.
And then, all of a sudden, Curufinwë slapped him. The sound of it rang sharp
and clear in Tyelcormo's ears as he jerked to a stop and his eyes shot open,
but at the same time a violent throb coursed through his loins and he heard his
own voice risen to a rowdy moan.
“You're a beast,” Curufinwë hissed, and hit him again, but with his left hand,
on the other cheek.
Once again Tyelcormo moaned loud. His father had never slapped him, never hit
him, but their lovemaking often turned rough – with scratching and yanking at
each other's hair and holding each other down. The pleasure was so raw that
Tyelcormo felt like he would be consumed. His mouth fell open. With both cheeks
stinging from the slaps, and his cock sheathed fully in Curufinwë's body he
gasped, “ata-” and saw Curufinwë's face light up in anticipation. “Atarin-” he
went on, choking and raggedly drawing air in again. “...atarinya,” he groaned,
and with that he came.
“Pull out,” Curufinwë urged, and though dizzy and breathless Tyelcormo gingerly
obeyed. But he didn't let go of his brother, stretched out next to him and held
him.
“Did- did I hurt you?”
“Say it again!” Curufinwë demanded with the utmost seriousness.
Tyelcormo blushed, but again croaked out, “atarinya.”
Curufinwë closed his eyes for an instant, lowered his right hand between his
legs, poking at the wetness there while his mouth stretched into a smile. The
same hand came to rest Tyelcormo's cheek, pale skin which bore the imprint of
his own fingers, burning like a brand, one which Tyelcormo would have worn
gladly.
“Is that how you love your father, Turcafinwë, that you would just take his
virginity like a beast?” Curufinwë cooed, his soft tone clashing with the
crudity of his words. “But you can't do anything about it, can you? It's in
your instinct. It's all you can think of...to have me.”
Tyelcormo could only assent.
Curufinwë's smile turned mischievous. He gently pushed Tyelcormo to lie supine,
and draped himself over him. “Isn't it a little absurd, then, my hunter?” he
said, and before Tyelcormo could speak went on, “doesn't that make you my prey?
All that is left for you is to say it, really...who do you belong to?”
Tyelcormo locked his arms behind his brother's back, trapped under his sweet
weight.
“You...atarinya.”
End Notes
     Atarinya ('my father') is normally shortened to atya, but with
     Curufin's mother-name being Atarincë, I think the longer form is more
     appropriate.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!