Joy as Sharp as a Sword by oshun

---

Joy as Sharp as a Sword

This is the payoff for sticking with me to this point. I hope it was worth the wait.

---

The walk down the circuitous corridors had seemed interminable to Maedhros. They finally reached a massive double-door; the high sheen of its polished wood shone warm and welcoming under the amber light of the heavy iron lamp hanging over it.

Finrod pushed the door open to reveal his bedroom. The room had been furnished with elegance, luxurious while not lacking in any simple home comforts. Clearly it would be assessed as a bed chamber suitable for royalty even in Tirion or Taniquetil.

“They take good care of me here,” Finrod explained. A low fire had been banked in the large fireplace and a table set with a decanter of wine, a tea service, and a basket of toasted rounds of dark sliced rolls, and a platter of the last of the season’s strawberries, cheese, and rounded scoops of potted meats and pâté. “We entered through the door in the adjoining room earlier,” he said.
             
A huge bed dominated the room, covered with a luxurious spread woven of silken emerald and golden threads, probably worth nearly as much as Fingon’s horse. It had been turned down, showing snowy sheets and half-dozen pillows plumped and smoothed to perfection.

“The other room where we sat before is through that archway, beyond those curtains.” Finrod indicated with a sweeping gesture. “They were open earlier. So,” he shrugged, “what do you think? Almost as though I were a real king, isn’t it?”

Ah, but he is here, Maedhros thought, the undoubted leader of these loyal, hard-working people. Finrod might not seem to be one much taken with formality or pomp, but this opulent setting surpassed the indulgence with which Fingolfin was served.

“Oh, you are!” crowed Fingon. “King Finrod Felagund first of his name,” he intoned in the reverberating tones of a proclaimer in the protocol of the court of Ingwë, with its greater formality than either that of Finwë or Olwë. “King of Nargothrond, Prince Findaráto grandson of King Olwë of the Teleri, Prince Artafindë Ingoldo Arafinwion of the Noldor, unquestioned head and settler of disputes within the quarrelsome house of Arafinwë in Endórë.”

Fingon looked around, taking everything in, japing, and shrugging his shoulders, appearing animated, but Maedhros knew he was actually nervous too.

“’Alone at last.’ That is a classic. Sooo?” Fingon drawled. He held his arms open to Finrod, who moved into them without hesitation. Maedhros had been half-expecting to witness a tempestuous kiss, instead, Fingon pulled Finrod tight against his chest, rubbing soothing circles onto his back. “There. There. I promise we will be so good to you. Don’t worry about a thing. ”

Easy for him to say, Fingon could laugh in the haggard face of death itself. Well, perhaps not death. He took risks, but because he loved life. There could be no half-life of caution for him. But apparently his reassurances worked, for when Finrod lifted his head from where it had been buried in the crook of Fingon’s shoulder, he no longer looked hesitant or uneasy. A rapturous glow did suffuse his face that he struggled to subdue. “So, tell me again, about your change of heart? Do you both really want this?”

“Have no doubt--or, better said, you soon will have no doubts,” Fingon said. “Tell him, Maitimo. I am apparently not eloquent enough. We truly do not lack contentment with one another, neither physically nor within our hearts. But you have showed us trust and kindness when others were far more guarded. And we want you! Don’t pretend you have any uncertainty about your attractiveness. You could stir the dead.”

“You are more eloquent than you think, my love,” Maedhros said, chuckling. Turning to Finrod, he said, “Perhaps you are uneasy, Ingo? Because of Amarië?”

“Indeed, I’ve thought about that. No,” said Finrod. “Perhaps I would like to speak to you of her later, but not now. I am resolved that I need not wait all the Ages of Arda before I touch anyone again. I cannot believe the One would give us these bodies and these needs and then ask Ages of abstinence of us. And I am overcome by the two of you. Set on fire by the idea of being with you. Try to imagine the nights I have fallen asleep thinking of what this might be like.”

Fingon laughed--that open-hearted, unstinting laugh of his. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’”

“I can hardly wait.” Finrod gave him one of his sweetest smiles.

“This will be amazing. I promise you,” said Fingon, jubilant.

“I don’t doubt it for a moment,” Finrod agreed, his voice suddenly turned earnest, tender and relieved. He hauled Fingon against him in a crushing kiss. But he reached out for Maedhros with the other hand and caught his sleeve and yanked him against them. Fingon wrapped an arm around Maedhros, without opening his eyes, pulling him into their fierce embrace.

Maedhros bit Fingon on the neck and then nipped on Finrod’s earlobe and sucked. When Finrod and Fingon finally broke apart breathless, Maedhros could only laugh and shake his head at the two of them. He was ever more certain of the rightness of them together, although he believed he had been sure of it since Fingon first suggested it. As philosophical Finrod had said, what could be wrong in sharing, which such affection, something so basic and human?

“Love is the candle that lights this hard, cruel world,” Fingon said, disentangling himself from the awkward three-way embrace. “Let’s get naked. That is one magnificent bed.”

Already pulling his tunic over his head, Finrod sought to make fun of his own love of abstract discussions. “Ah, yes, Finno! But first let me just clarify one concept. Are you offering the love of three fear bound together in intimate affinity or crass carnal desire, animal lust?”

“Why not both?” Fingon asked. “I choose both!” he all but shouted, flopping himself flat on his back, spread-eagle and shirtless. This was Maedhros’s favorite view of him. Fingon looked marvelous shirtless. His chest was beautifully muscled, without a hint of bulkiness to detract from his elegant balance. And his skin was flawless. “Help, please with the boots, so I can get out of these trousers!”

Laughing at Fingon, but with the underlying sense of regret that he had never been, not even as child, and could never be, as lighthearted as his love, Maedhros asked, “How do I put up with you?”

Fingon answered, cocking his head to one side and frowning. “Obviously, because you really, really need me, gloomy old bear.” Then he grinned and kissed Maedhros wetly on the mouth, while proceeding to show exactly how useful he could be by undoing the long row of fasteners down the front of Maedhros’ tunic. Meanwhile, Finrod knelt and pulled off Fingon’s boots and then Maedhros’ as well.

“There, you two love birds, stop slobbering all over one another long enough, to help me with my boots!”

Finrod’s blue tunic of a rich brushed silk was made in the simplest of designs, like a farmer’s blouse worn in outskirts of Tirion, with no laces or fasteners and a low open neck. In one graceful movement he removed it, as though eager to show himself. His face lit up with pleasure, a deep flush flooding his golden cheeks stemming from residual self-consciousness, giving lie to his attempt to match Finno’s levity. An almost imperceptible gasp and a flutter of his eyelids indicated he struggled to control his reaction to the fact that this was really going to happen--now.

Maedhros raised an eyebrow at him, admitting to himself that the flickering tentativeness on his cousin’s face moved him even more than he had expected. He leaned forward and reached for Finrod, guiding him onto the bed between them, and yanking off his boots without any trouble. He had wanted to leave his prosthetic on for a while at least, it made moving about and such tasks that much easier.

“Ingo’s different than he was with me alone,” Fingon said, smiling slyly at Maedhros. “Shyer and less aggressive.” Finrod turned and kissed him, intent upon stopping his chatter.

“So teasing him about it will make him less shy?” Maedhros asked.

“Aww, Russandol,” Finrod crooned softly. “My champion against the big bully.”

“You’re adorable, you know,” Fingon said, a swell of fondness evident in the softening of his voice.

Amidst the kissing and teasing, they had managed to divest themselves of the last of remnants of their clothing. It was a wondrous and compelling thing to be touching bare skin everywhere.

“Of course, I have seen you both unclothed countless time throughout my life,” Finrod responded aloud to their shared sensation. “But everything is different now, knowing I can touch you. I may, mayn’t I?”

“Please,” Maedhros said, hoping he had not sounded desperate.

Fingon smiled at him over Finrod’s shoulder. “Kiss him, Ingo. He looks like he needs a kiss. Maitimo is a wonderful kisser and so are you. You are going to love this. I’ve imagined the two of you together as well. I’m looking forward to watching you, only don’t forget about me.”

Maedhros laughed. “As though anyone could forget you.” He leaned across Finrod to kiss him. And then released the kiss only to have his mouth captured by Finrod. Fingon reached between them to tease and caress.

One’s body could not but respond to comeliness like that of Finrod, the individual elements of which seemed to equal far more than their sum. Not only did the sensation of desire feed off Finrod’s heat and his none too shabby beast of desire. A sense that Finrod’s natural responsiveness and his need for physical comfort, despite his unfailingly generous and kindhearted temperament, had not been met drew Maedhros to want to remedy that for him as thoroughly as possible.

o0o0o0o

Meanwhile, Fingon squirmed and twisted to be able to take Finrod’s sex into his mouth. Finrod rewarded him with a satisfying groan. After a while, his jaw aching from the effort, he drew away, not from fatigue or awkwardness of his position, but from fear he could not resist the temptation to finish him. He wanted to hold back, curious to see to what was happening above him that was causing Maedhros to make happy little humming noises. Not surprisingly, he saw Finrod plundering Maedhros’s mouth. Finrod loved to kiss and Maedhros was a joy to kiss.

Finrod had tangled in his long artist’s fingers that magnificent flame-colored mane. It was difficult to keep one’s hands out of Maedhros’s hair, not to mention an act of pointless self-denial. Fingon sat up alongside them leaning over to give Maedhros a few wet, lingering kisses on the neck and shoulder. Meanwhile, Maedhros had instinctively reached with his good hand to encircle Finrod’s cock. He stroked at a gentler pace than Fingon’s earlier movements, causing Finrod to squirm and whimper in vain for more attention.

“Shhh. Easy,” Maedhros said, in the softest of murmurs. “If I am not careful, this will make you come right now. Is that what you really want? Or would you rather have something more?” Fingon’s own cock jumped at his words and he rubbed himself against Maedhros from behind.

“More?” Finrod choked out, his voice husky with arousal and louder than Maedhros’s had been. “Could I be in the middle for a while?” They both looked at Fingon together, to see if he would assent. Maedhros was smiling, Finrod’s cheeks were, if that was even possible, burning hotter.

Fingon felt his heart would break with the tenderness he felt for both of them in that instant, there was an elusive element of longing as gentle as a summer’s morning mist coupled with a joy as sharp as a sword. Maedhros’ spirit burned steady, enduring, and attentive, his love tested and immutable. While Finrod flared with a surprised, greedy innocence about him, disproportionate even to his admittedly limited experience. Their cousin’s face filled with open wonder as he placed himself in their hands with a humbling trust.

Fingon clambered over the two of them and snuggled against Finrod from behind.
“He wants to know,” he muttered softly into Finrod’s ear, taking his cue in tone from Maedhros, “ . . . he wants you to tell him how you want to reach your climax. You are obviously on the cusp. He wants . . . we want . . . you to decide what you want to happen next.”

“Oh,” Finrod said. “I don’t know. I want everything. I want to fuck someone and be fucked. Not just the kind of touching you and I did before. Remember?” As though I could ever forget, Fingon thought! “. . . years ago, at the first rise of the Moon. Can we go all the way this time?”

“Oh, Eru, yes! If that is what you want, baby,” Maedhros gasped, with a convulsive shiver, which wrenched a groan out of Fingon. “So, do you know what you want to do first?” Maedhros asked carefully.

“If I get to choose, then I want to fuck Finno while you fuck me, please. Will that work?”

“You bet it will!” answered Fingon.   

Maedhros raised an eyebrow at him, skeptical. “With some effort and patience we can make it work. Oh, by the Valar, do you have any idea how gorgeous you are? How hot you sound saying things like that?” Finrod’s pupils were totally dilated, his fair hair, pure gold in the candlelight, was a wild tangled mess, rivaling Maedhros’s in the sheer volume of it.

“You are gorgeous!” Fingon said.

“We all are! I am mad with the awareness of how beautiful we all are at this moment. We’re perfect,” Finrod said.

Maedhros chuckled quietly. “We need some salve or oil and I will show you what to do with Findekáno.”

Finrod jumped up and walked to dresser adjacent to the bed and opened the top drawer. Fingon and Maedhros exchanged a glance while admiring his rear end--high, rounded, and well-muscled.

Maedhros said, “You held back from me how sweet he is in bed.”

“It seemed wise at the time.” Fingon smirked. “Just teasing. Actually, he was different. He was very nice, but more domineering and less sweet with only me before.”

Finrod laughed from across the room. “Finno’s a lot to handle alone! Oh, look. I have these two.” He held up a bottle and a jar. Maedhros snorted gently, amused. They could be anything. Finrod grinned at him. “One is some kind of oil, smells like sandalwood, and the other is an ordinary kind of salve for chapped lips or hands.”

“Bring ‘em both,” Fingon said.

Finrod gave him a smile filled with mischief. “Now I am beginning to get worried.”

Three could become complicated in a way that two never had been. Although Fingon and Finrod had made love that one time years ago, they were virtually different people now. They had not only been thin and wiry, all bone and stringy sinew, dry skin and brittle hair, but they had been desperate, grieving, and existing by a force of will alone. Only that fire in blood of the House of Finwë prevented them from giving up, and, perhaps, a little, Finrod’s wisdom at suggesting they provide solace and comfort to one another.

Even after Fingon had pushed past the intermittent twinges of jealousy and the acceptance of an invasion of a private space that had always belonged to him and Maedhros alone, he felt, despite the intense pleasure, a nagging uneasiness. That emotion at first threatened to overwhelm him, but even after he had subdued it, everything felt like nearly too much--too much sensation, too much to read of the hearts of the others, and too much to monitor about preferences and responses. Fingon took making love seriously. It was important to him and, if a thing is important, he thought it worth doing well.

But, at last, the desire to please fragmented and turned illusory, sliding away when he tried to hold onto it. He kept losing himself in the pure carnality of the moment and losing track of what Finrod or Maedhros wanted or needed. He repeatedly felt like each time he had finally recaptured some sense of intent and control that he was in constant danger of being overwhelmed. That his self-awareness could mutate into the fear of being unable to hold onto any sense of equilibrium. All of those elements came together with a sense of extreme hypersensitivity and intensity. He felt as though Finrod and Maedhros were not struggling as hard as he was. Maedhros reached out to him, trying to ground him. You’re thinking too hard. Just relax. Just allow yourself to feel how good this is.

The he was floating in exquisite state of pure sensation that felt not wholly physical. It was not literally magic. It remained as purely natural, as human, noisy, funny, and free, as a wrestling match among any of the cousins. But it far transcended that, with touches so tender and loving, yet also as crude and raw, honest, not entirely without pain either, although there was more pressure and strain than real pain. The entire experience felt more and better and deeper than anything that wasn’t enchantment.

They had turned their attention to Finrod again and played with him until he came a third time, thrashing and shouting with his climax.

“Stop please, stop!” he gasped. “I mean, don’t stop.”

Maedhros whispered into Fingon’s ear, “I really think he could come again! It’s that mind control stuff he does.”

“Stop talking about me!” he gasped, with a little chuckle. “Don’t even think about me coming again right now. I am afraid it would kill me!”

The remains of magic seemed to break apart into mist of golden and rose-colored light, a visual and physical sensation. “Wow!” Fingon said. “You’re a wonder. You could conquer the world with that skill. Where did you learn it?”

“I thought it was the two of you. The mind play you talked about practicing.”

“No,” Maedhros said. “I guess it is the combination of the three of us. Like combining certain chemicals causes a particular reaction . . .”

“Shut up you two! I can’t take it!” Fingon cried. Maedhros wanted to turn it into science, while he wanted to accept it as instinct and good fortune. Meanwhile, Finrod reached for some transcendental mystical ideal just out of reach.

Fingon said, “We are simply really good together. I knew you would be a great fuck, Ingo. Remember? I told you that I thought that, Maitimo.”

“Indeed, he did,” Maedhros said, with a loose, lazy, satisfied smile. “He surely did predict it. I suppose I should learn to trust him about certain types of things.”

All three of them laughed together. “Thank you, so very much,” Finrod said, his voice sounding like that of the gracious, well-mannered lad that he had always been as a youngster.

Fingon started shaking with unreleased laughter. “It was entirely my pleasure, darling.”

Maedhros choked, before breaking out in a loud guffaw. “Oh, no, actually. The greatest pleasure was all mine. We really must do this again sometime.”

“I love you two so much,” Finrod murmured. “I need to sleep. Don’t move. Stay exactly where you are. Do you have enough pillows and covers?”

“Ah,” Maedhros said. “I don’t think I will ever be cold again.”

“Umph,” snorted Finrod into a giant pillow, already barely awake.

They were still all touching, as though reluctant to let any distance come between them yet, physical or emotional. A few minutes later, Maedhros said. “He is asleep. Are you comfortable?”

“I’m fine,” Fingon whispered. Grasping Maedhros’ left hand across Finrod’s abdomen and lacing their fingers together. “I’m falling asleep myself.”

o0o0o0o

When he awakened in the morning, Fingon felt happy and replete, but ached all over. Maedhros apparently felt only marginally better. He groaned the entire time, as though he were pushing a boulder up the side of a cliff, when he attempted to push himself into a half-sitting sitting position.

“There you are, Ingo,” Maedhros said cheerily, however, upon seeing the blond’s beautiful blue eyes flutter open. “Good morning. How are you?”

“I feel wonderful.” Finrod said, in a dreamy puzzled voice. “You two are magic.”