When Fëanor had burned the ships, it had not just been the wrath of a lover scorned - at the end of his exile to Formenos, as he and Fingolfin "reconciled" in an intimate way, their father was slain and the Trees were devoured, the world Darkened, and Fingolfin had deemed their love cursed and rejected him - but there had also been deep symbolism behind it. Finarfin had first seduced Fëanor on a ship, and the brothers' first threesome had been on a swan boat on the ocean, away from prying eyes.
Of course, Fëanor had not really thought about the consequences of his actions. People - their people - had died on the trek across the Helcaraxë. That was something Fëanor had to live with now. He still did not regret drawing swords on the Teleri, for he and his sons had been attacked first, but he wished often he could go back and talk himself out of burning the ships... or knock himself out, knowing his own stubbornness.
It wasn't just that Fëanor knew he had blood on his hands, and felt filthy with it every time he even looked at a ship let alone sailed upon one - the sailing voyage to come to Tol Eressëa had been like torture, and not in the enjoyable way - but the negative associations with ships from his rash behavior tainted some of the few good memories Fëanor had of his old life.
This holiday felt like a chance to get away and truly start over again. Fëanor was hoping when they eventually returned, his good behavior while not under supervision might make the Teleri less inclined to retaliate, reducing the need to be under guard. But Fëanor was also trying to not worry overmuch about the future. He was trying to just be, feeling like he could finally breathe with it just being him and his favorite son and a few servants who mostly kept out of the way.
Here and now, it was just him and Maglor on a boat... and Fëanor was trying to stay present. He wanted very much to reclaim his enjoyment of sailing, to build new and better memories. So he tried to focus on the sea sparkling in the sun...
...the beauty of Maglor's voice, as he played his harp and sang as they sailed, his voice carrying on the waves.
Fëanor was trying hard to not notice the beauty of Maglor, himself, but that was easier said than done - Maglor was never more beautiful to Fëanor as when he was performing his music, especially his own original compositions. Fëanor had always been exceptionally proud of his gifted son, but his son had grown into one of the most attractive men Fëanor had ever laid eyes on, all the moreso for burning with that same creative fire. As Fëanor listened to Maglor's silken voice and the shimmering, crystalline notes of his harp, it seemed to him that Maglor was the Song made flesh, and he was witnessing something sacred, as much a miracle of nature as the sunrise and sunset, the changing seasons, the elements in their raw power.
Fëanor wanted to tell Maglor this, but words failed him. Indeed, all words seemed meaningless in the presence of such deep magic, or that it would break the enchantment somehow. And even as Fëanor had felt uncomfortable stepping onto the boat - but made himself do it anyway - there was no place he'd rather be than wherever his son was, singing. It seemed fitting they were here on the ocean, Maglor's songs feeling eternal like the flowing waves.
And after a long, pleasant afternoon at sea, listening to Maglor's songs, the sunset came. Though Fëanor still missed the Trees and the Mingling, he thought sunsets were marvelous, especially for each one being unique, never to be replicated again; each evening was a new wonder to behold. This sunset was particularly magnificent, a blaze of crimson and saffron and fuchsia and amethyst and softer lavender and peach and gold, melting into cerulean dusk, patterns shifting and colors combining in new, marvelous ways. As Fëanor listened to Maglor sing and watched the colors of the sky, it seemed to him that the fire of the sunset sky echoed his feelings for Maglor, expressing in light what words could not.
Fëanor loved him so fiercely. Fierce pride, fierce longing. A fierce ache searing his heart, for he was afraid to speak of his feelings. The fear seemed almost more powerful than what he felt when he stood against the Balrogs - and his love seemed more lethal. Maglor belonged to Finarfin, and while Fëanor, Finarfin and Fingolfin had all been together, Fëanor was not sure Finarfin would be willing to share his husband and was not keen on potentially ruining the relationship with the one brother he still had any kind of relationship with. Even if Finarfin was amenable, that didn't mean Maglor wouldn't be horrified; Fëanor knew Maglor had done terrible things to uphold the Oath, and had spent enough time among Fingolfin's people in Beleriand to see the consequences of the ship-burning. He knew Maglor had to have forgiven him enough to want to take a holiday with him and sing to him, but that was different than being intimate with someone who had done so much wrong.
Fëanor sighed, and forced himself to look away, feeling unworthy of the beauty of the sunset, the beauty of his son.
And yet Maglor kept singing, and it seemed just as much a crime to not pay attention, so after a few moments of reliving the ship-burning in his mind's eye, Fëanor once again turned his eyes back to Maglor, and back to the sunset reflected in the waters, making the water look like it was on fire.
And Maglor's voice was like light. His light, burning through the darkness of his pain, to find hope again, even small. He had been given a second chance at life, and despite returning to the memories and the damage done, he was grateful to be here now, hearing his son's voice again, watching the sky and the sea sing along.
Maglor and Fëanor watched the stars rise from the beach, in silence, leaning on each other. The proximity of Maglor's body made Fëanor ache even more, as did the intimacy of the moment - witnessing such beauty together felt almost more intimate than sex, as if fëa were seeing and touching fëa.
Fëanor's longing kept him up a good while after he lay down to sleep, and he thought about pleasuring himself to relieve tension, as he often did before his re-embodiment - it was difficult to get hard and stroke himself under guard. But his pride made him resist, not wanting to give in, already over his head in his love-lust for his second son.
Fëanor did not sleep well, once again reliving the memory of the ship-burning in his dreams. He woke with a start, gasping for breath, drenched in a cold sweat.
He tried to get back to sleep, but the memories kept replaying, tormenting him. Finally he decided what he needed to return to sleep was a distraction. Usually, he'd go to his forge, but he knew if he went to the vacation home's workshop, intending to only spend "hours" would turn into days and Maglor would feel ignored and neglected again and that wasn't what Fëanor wanted at all. But a walk around the groves and gardens of the vacation home might indeed calm his mind enough to allow him to get a little more rest, and so that was what Fëanor did, throwing on a robe over his sleep-clothes.
The walk under stars and moonlight in the peace of the trees and flowers was nourishing to Fëanor's soul... as was contemplating what life must have been like in Cuiviénen long long ago, back before the Laws. And then the calm was broken by a cry. A cry that sounded like Maglor's; Fëanor would know that voice anywhere.
Fëanor froze in his tracks, heart beating faster. Then his mind began to whirl, wondering if Finarfin's fear of Telerin retaliation had come true and there were intruders here to take advantage of the lack of guards, and had attacked Maglor instead of him. Fëanor bolted in the direction of the cry, heart pounding, hoping he wasn't too late. He thought about calling out to him, then decided against it - if there was an attack he needed the element of surprise on his side.
But when he found Maglor, what he saw was even more shocking than if Maglor had been pierced with arrows or blades. By the fountain, Maglor was nude, furiously stroking himself... in front of the palantir. In the glass of the palantir, Finarfin was stroking himself, and his grunt made Fëanor's cock stiffen.
Fëanor clapped his hand over his mouth to stifle the heavy breathing as his cock grew harder, dripping with pre-spend as he watched Maglor with cock in hand, moaning, crying out, and Finarfin groaning and growling in response, his hand a blur as he worked his cock madly. Fëanor's mouth watered, wanting them both so badly. He knew he should turn around and go back, that spying on them like this was wrong... but they were so beautiful. So delicious.
Maglor bit his lip and gave an urgent whimper, and Fëanor heard Finarfin's voice through the palantir. "Come for me, slut. Show me how hungry you are for this cock..."
"Hántya!" Maglor screamed. "Ara! Ara!" And then Maglor's cream flowed over his hand, and an arc shot onto the glass of the palantir. Finarfin let out a cry of his own and Fëanor watched the inside of the glass turn white as Finarfin aimed his seed.
Fëanor's cock pulsed, and Fëanor looked down to see how tented his robe was, not able to disguise his erection. Fëanor reflexively took a step back so the shrubbery would hide his hard cock, but the rustling of the leaves made noise and Maglor sat up with a small, startled gasp. Then their eyes met and Maglor knew Fëanor had seen him.
Fëanor gave an awkward smile that was more like a grimace, and ran off, cheeks burning. Back in his room he fell apart, sobbing with the shame of having been caught watching his own son masturbate to climax...
...and how hard he was still, how much he wanted. Trying to fight off the tears, Fëanor took himself in hand and stroked himself madly, whimpering like Maglor had. It didn't take long to finish, as he thought about Maglor and Finarfin spending all over him, their seed all over his body, all over his face. He licked his lips, almost tasting it through the power of his imagination.
Then he started to cry again, angry with himself, and cried himself to sleep.
Fëanor had never liked mornings, and that was even more true since his re-embodiment under the Sun. It had never been more true than now, after the shame of last night - his mind's eye replaying the scene of Maglor masturbating in the garden at the fountain, along with Finarfin in the palantir. His one saving grace had been the bush that hid the lower half of his body, so Maglor did not know how aroused he was.
Nonetheless, Fëanor avoided Maglor for most of the morning. He attempted to start a new project in the workshop - he really wanted to craft a golden harp for his golden-voiced son - but he couldn't concentrate, his mind going back to Maglor stroking himself, and Finarfin too.
Fëanor went alone to the beach to clear his head, knowing he couldn't avoid Maglor forever, hoping to buy himself a little more time and maybe a little peace. But once he arrived at the beach Maglor was there, and there was a long awkward moment of silence, staring at each other, before Maglor made a "come here" gesture.
Fëanor sat down next to him. Another long pause passed, and at last Maglor spoke, "You saw me last night."
"I did. I went for a walk and I heard you cry out and I thought you were in trouble."
Maglor's lips quirked and he tried - and failed - to stifle silent laughter. "I sort of was." Then Maglor clapped his hand over his mouth and wiped it down his chin, as if he said something he shouldn't have. Maglor looked away, cheeks pink.
Fëanor thought of the command he'd heard from Finarfin last night, and Maglor's comment just now. He had suspected that Maglor knew of certain proclivities Finarfin had, but he wasn't sure if Maglor indulged him or they just had "normal" sex. Now he knew. "You have the same sort of relationship with Arafinwë that I did," Fëanor said - a statement, not a question.
Maglor looked down and nodded.
And though Fëanor tried very hard to not be jealous, to be happy for them - he loved them and he wanted their happiness, even if it wasn't with him - he felt that jealousy flaring now. "You are my replacement." Fëanor laughed bitterly. Then he realized how that sounded - as if he was saying Finarfin would only want Maglor because Maglor reminded him of Fëanor - and he didn't want to hurt Maglor's feelings. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that -"
"No, you shouldn't have." Maglor's nostrils flared. He pursed his lips and for an instant Fëanor thought Maglor was going to yell and braced himself, but then Maglor said, "Look, Atar. He still loves you. He has told me that. He told me the only reason why he isn't touching you is because you and Ñolofinwë are fighting and he doesn't want to look like he's choosing sides and hurt him."
Fëanor huffed. He really didn't want to think of Fingolfin right now, and he really didn't need the pressure to go crawling to him. It was bad enough he had to be nice to Manwë. "My wording about you being a replacement was... unkind. Of course he would want you for yourself, and even when relationships have the same structure, each relationship is different. As an example of this, Ñolofinwë also dominated me the way he did, but it was still different -" Fëanor's voice trailed off, as he had a visceral, full-body memory of Fingolfin spanking him, Fingolfin taking him from behind, pulling his hair and pounding him hard. He closed his eyes and tried to push that memory away, not wanting to get aroused in front of Maglor.
"I know you didn't mean it that way. My reaction was more to the implication that Ara could ever replace you, that he would ever just... forget you or stop loving you. He hasn't."
Fëanor wanted to believe that, and yet that knowledge threatened to destroy him. He wanted to fall apart even less than he wanted to get hard, here and now.
Maglor put a hand on Fëanor's arm, and Fëanor felt a frisson down his spine, cock stirring again. Stay down, Fëanor warned himself. Don't get hard. Don't get hard. Think of something disgusting, like Manwë naked.
Maglor then went on, "I did bring you here because I want to spend time with you, after so many years apart, missing you. But I also hoped that some time in a lovely place like this would help... give you a change of perspective. That maybe you might be calm enough to talk things over with Ñolo -"
Even though Fëanor tried very hard to be patient with his sons and not lose his temper with them, he could feel his temper start to boil at Maglor's words. "I am not the one who needs a change of perspective, Kanafinwë," Fëanor seethed, fists clenching. "I will thank you to not mention his wretched name again while we are here, that is the opposite of a peaceful, relaxing vacation."
Maglor nodded and patted Fëanor's arm before taking his hand away. Then his lips quirked again and Fëanor knew something amused him.
"What," Fëanor said, aggravated with himself for his tone, not wanting to be stern with Maglor.
"You just... remind me of Nelyafinwë when you make that face and when you sound like that." Maglor gave a cheeky grin. "Especially if it's when he's being bratty right before a spank -" Maglor stopped himself before he could finish the word.
But he'd already said enough. Too much. And now Fëanor needed to confirm another suspicion. "You are lovers?"
"Yes. Sometimes we share Arafinwë. Sometimes it's just me and Nelya and the..." Maglor once again refrained from completing the sentence.
"The what." Fëanor was ready to explode from curiosity, even as he knew this conversation was possibly leading down a dangerous path.
Maglor exhaled. "The lessons Arafinwë taught me."
"You mean..." More pieces fell into place in Fëanor's mind. "You are dominant with Nelyafinwë."
"Yes. Sometimes Ara and I dominate him together, and sometimes Nelya and I are both his submissives. But when it's just me and Nelya, I'm the one in charge. Even though he's older. Much like with you and -"
Fëanor raised his hand, not wanting to hear Fingolfin's name again. He nodded.
And then his cock pulsed again, as his mind supplied images of Maglor with the riding crop, the flogger, turning Maedhros's ass red... fucking him hard, pulling Maedhros by the hair, making him take it and take it. Then he saw himself in Maedhros's place, submitting to his own son and loving it, begging for more.
Calling his own son Atya, like he called his brothers.
Fëanor almost came in his pants.
Maglor got up, and offered Fëanor his hand. "I know that was probably more about me than you ever wanted to learn, so if you need some time to... not think about that, I'll give you your space until supper." Fëanor rose and nodded, and their fingers lingered before Fëanor pulled his hand away, his body tingling again. Maglor tilted his head to one side and raised an eyebrow. "You said you were taking a walk in the gardens, last night. You had a rough night, I take it?"
Fëanor nodded. "It took longer than usual to get to sleep, then I had a bad dream."
"Then how about tomorrow, we do something very distracting? There is a beautiful coastal forest here. We could explore it, and camp out under the stars."
Fëanor liked that idea, even though the thought of sleeping inches away from his gorgeous, delicious son sounded more like pain than anything fun. But this was Maglor's way of trying to not make a big deal over Fëanor catching him last night, and getting their relationship back to normal, and Fëanor was going to take it.
Even if it killed him.
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