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The halls were cold and lifeless as Maedhros crept with his cousin Fingon towards his own chambers. While Fingon had not been exiled from the city, it was clear by Fëanor’s open hostility to Fingolfin that none of his children were welcome anywhere nearby. Maedhros was tired of having to beg and lie his way out of his father’s clutches… just to be with his best companion. Much more than just blood bound them together, and Maedhros felt he could truly connect with the elf who now snuck beside him. Fingon remained silent, his eyes darting around and senses on high alert for any sign of guards. When Maedhros told him Fëanor had posted guards around the palace he didn’t want to believe it, but after coming close to detection ten minutes ago he wasn’t going to take any chances.
“Finno, we’re going to go past the parlour… there’s no way around it. I need to check if my father is there…” Maedhros moved his lips so that Fingon could read his words and nodded to confirm their plan. Stepping back, Fingon waited behind a statue for his cousin to take a peek. The moment Maedhros straightened up to walk past the parlour (casually glancing in), his head touched the end of a tapestry and caused it to flutter against the wall. There was an audible clunk as its hanging pole touched the wall and both elves cringed. Then Maedhros went pale.
“What are you doing there?” Fëanor’s deep voice drawled with a hint of annoyance from within the parlour. Inwardly sighing, Maedhros peeked around the corner of the open doors like a timid little mouse.
“Just walking past, Atar.”
Fëanor snorted, a dry chuckle following soon after. “Get in here.” The now went unspoken. Maedhros glanced to his cousin with an apologetic look, but Fingon looked more nervous than understanding. He’d heard tales of the things Fëanor did with his children – gossip and slander among the Noldor was common and went unpunished, thus running rife in Tirion. Fëanor knew people spoke about him and oh, he hated them all. The trust he had for his own kin was decreasing by day, and even brought him to doubt some of his own children. “Maedhros. Come.”
Maedhros ducked to avoid brushing his head against the top of the doorway and walked in, his fingers trailing past one of many couches. Fëanor sat to the left of the parlour, upon the couch flanked by two statues (one of Finwë, one of Miriel) with his view of the hallway obscured by the open door. He wouldn’t have seen Maedhros and Fingon creep past – but hearing them was another story. Maedhros could see how highly-strung his father was in the way Fëanor’s pupils quivered and his shoulders were tense.
“What’s the matter…?” Maedhros spoke in his usual gentle voice, trying his best to keep any hints of fear or exasperation away. He knew Fingon was waiting, and that they wouldn’t have much time until the younger elf was due home. Fingolfin always kept his children close and loathed to let them roam anywhere near the palace. He feared Fëanor would abduct them or torture their souls away. Behind the door, Fingon crept a little closer as he was curious about what was going on. He could hear everything with his sensitive elf-ears, but it wasn’t enough to sate his intrigue. Truth be told, he’d never been this near to Fëanor. Always had he looked at the King from afar, wondering if he was more frightening up close. Still, he wasn’t going to chance raising the ire of the most fearsome elf in Aman. Without a word, he remained still.
“Where were you going?” The sound of Fëanor’s question grated on the ears of Maedhros, who heard deep and gravely tones that were almost a little too hoarse.
“To my chambers.” Now standing before his father, Maedhros looked him in the eyes as he knew Fëanor would demand it of him if he didn’t. There were no lies to be seen in his honey brown eyes and Fëanor stared, desperate to read something to confirm his paranoid suspicions.
“For what reason?” asked Fëanor, carefully enunciating each word.
“Atar, are you drunk?” Maedhros spoke abruptly when he saw Fëanor’s eyelids flutter and wished he hadn’t. Fëanor opened his eyes wide with sudden rage and grabbed his son by the front of his robes.
“You dare to ask me such a thing?”
“F…forgive me…” Maedhros shook his head. Where had that come from? Was it the truth, or perhaps foresight that told him just what Fëanor was doing in here? The scent of wine indeed hung heavy about Feanor but then again, it always did these days. Oh, how Maedhros hated to be around his father when he was drunk. Fëanor’s usual aggression combined with unpredictability and mood swings that usually resulted in pain. Pain, tears and laughter. Fëanor was hardly anything now if not that.
“Do I look drunk to you?” Fëanor hissed as he gave a sharp tug on his son’s clothes and forced their faces together. “Get down here, you wretch. Don’t you dare look down on me.” A sharp jolt went through Maedhros’s neck and he gasped at the terrible strain on his muscles. Silent, he looked into his father’s eyes. He then realized Fëanor demanded an answer.
“I… I just… saw the wine… and thought…” Maedhros spoke slowly and tried to gesture to the wine behind him sitting on the table. His quick thinking and situational awareness had saved his life more than once, and he hoped it would do so now. Fëanor jerked his son again and this time pressed his lips to Maedhros’s ear. “You thought you could question me? There’s judgement in your voice, yonyo.” Every word licked up and into Maedhros’s ear as Fëanor laved his tongue around, speech slurred on purpose. Maedhros whimpered something incoherently but was silenced by a hand to his mouth, Fëanor pushing him away. “I do not want to hear any more.”
Itching to leave, Maedhros’s stiff limbs tried to figure out which way to go. Legs to run away? Arms to defend himself with? Fëanor wasn’t going to have any of that and just as Maedhros went to pull himself out of reach, he moved his hand and grabbed his son by the throat.
Fingon heard the distinct sound of his cousin choking and wondered what the hell was going on. He shifted to glance from behind the door and caught sight of Maedhros in the reflection of a golden vase that was visible from the hallway. Maedhros appeared to be sitting in Fëanor’s lap and every one of his gasping breaths brought his father pleasure.
“Oh, that’s it. Cry a little, won’t you?” Fëanor chuckled and squeezed just hard enough to make his son struggle, then loosened his grip a bit. Maedhros was not in any position to refuse his father and honestly felt like crying, but there was bravery in his heart that overcame his need to shed tears. Fëanor would not kill him. Time would heal all wounds. They were bound by blood and immortal, ageless beings. Nothing too terrible could happen.
Maedhros thought that just as he caught sight of Fingon staring at him in the reflection of a vase. It was then that Fëanor took a nice big handful of Maedhros’s ass and squeezed. The groan that struggled past his lips was loud and uncontrolled and Fingon had definitely heard it. Fëanor smirked.
“Tough, aren’t you? I’d expect no less from my firstborn son. Now come, serve me. I have wallowed in loneliness long enough.”
Maedhros paled despite the blush at his cheeks. “A-Atar, this is hardly the time…”
“Aren’t you old enough to know I always get what I want from you? Now strip. The time for talk is over.”
Shakily Maedhros began to undress, trying not to look at his cousin’s reaction. Standing still by the door just out of Fëanor’s sight, Fingon covered his mouth. So this was what the Fëanorians got up to? Witnessing it was a lot more shocking than hearing rumors. The round, smooth globes of Maedhros’s ass rose above his leggings in their descent. Soon on the floor, the leggings were joined by loose robes and a tight tunic. Fëanor remained fully clothed and ran his hands without shame over his son’s body.
“Such a big boy…” he crooned, tilting his head up to nuzzle into his son’s neck “Bend for me a little more.” As Maedhros dipped his head while in his father’s lap, his legs spread and he could straddle Fëanor properly. He felt his knees touch the back of the couch and this was the closest he could get. “Mmm….” The prickling sensation of Fëanor’s sharp teeth came quickly as they sank into Maedhros’s flesh, then turned into a dull sting when he began to suck. Fëanor did love to mark his children, as if their names and appearances failed to denote them as his. Fierce bites and the dragging of teeth soon turned into wet, languid kisses and Maedhros struggled to hold back his voice. It was a good thing Fëanor only cared for moans and sighs when Maglor or Caranthir were involved – Maedhros felt embarrassed to express himself whenever other people were around. This did not feel unique or special. Fëanor was using him for his own pleasure, and Fingon was watching.
“A-Atar, please…” Maedhros smelt wine on his father’s breath and squirmed as the scent was slathered all over him. It felt as if Fëanor was eating him alive and Maedhros grew increasingly uncomfortable with the reaction of his own body.
“Oh, you like it…” Fëanor smacked Maedhros enough to make him jump and squeezed both his thighs. “Just look at you. Shush now and turn around.” Maedhros obeyed, ashamed yet aroused as was evident in his slouched posture. He tilted his hips back and began to grind against his father, hoping he could get this over and done with soon. Suddenly there was a hardness at his buttocks and Fëanor had opened his breeches with speed Maedhros didn’t even know was possible. It was up to Maedhros to prepare himself and quickly he licked his fingers before pressing them to his ass. Fëanor absently trailed his fingers through his son’s hair while watching. Fingon could not take his eyes away from his cousin’s body, despite it being a mere reflection in a vase. How beautiful and slender Maedhros was! His thighs looked so delightfully soft and were snow-white in comparison to the reddened flesh of his arousal. Minutes passed as Maedhros fingered himself, and soon enough it was clear he’d lost himself in the sensations. Soft gasps and moans spilled from his lips and he was just about to start fucking his own hand when Fëanor wrenched it away and stuffed himself inside his son. Maedhros cried out, biting his lip as he was filled with that familiar thickness and warmth. Now all Fingon could hear was a muffled “Ngggngg” and the sound of Maedhros’s sharp breaths as he began to move. He watched the arc of his cousin’s body in fluid, sensual motions and wondered for a moment what it would feel like if Maedhros did that to him. Fëanor didn’t seem to appreciate what his son did – he continued to push his son harder and tell him what to do, his words interspersed with breathy grunts. Maedhros was quite resilient when it came to physical pain and the pleasure flooded him so quickly he honestly didn’t want to run anymore. He could serve his father’s needs and sate his own, even if they only awoke whenever Fëanor demanded this of him.
‘It’s… not… so bad…’ he thought to himself, rocking back and forth upon his father’s length. Fingon watched the sway of Maedhros’s cock as if mesmerised and found himself aching for a better look… along with a way to release the growing tension in his body. He didn’t even spare a look down the hall as he slipped his hand into his breeches, covering his mouth with the other just in case. He didn’t want to be castrated for spying on the King doing indecent things with his son.