#feanolvo

FEANOR ⚔️ FINGOLFIN

Think you that you shall disdain, humiliate and reject me, and suffer no consequence? Plant no rotten seeds? Are you surprised, Curufinwë, to be despised in return? Discern you in this face, not unlike yours in feature, the mirror of your sins?

So we meet under the mistletoe…how…unfortunate

But you know what must be done?

Thank you @ffigwit and @dreamyshiftyaching for tagging me!

Here’s a snippet from my FeaNolvo fic, Unreal Unearth. For some reason, I’m hesitant to spoil the kinkier moments, so here’s a more teasing one instead.

It would have been reasonable to burn these letters, considering what a catastrophe… But without material proof that Fëanáro had truly written this, Nolofinwë would have thought he was losing his mind. And he was – as for the first time in months, his brother was ascending the steps to the council hall, pushing back unruly curls, gently laughing, kissing their father. At least he knew that Curufinwë’s eyes had truly brightened at the sight of him. It was no trick of imagination. “It is him,” swept through Aracáno, sharp and absolute. It was him, and he stood in that deep burgundy mantle, its nocturnal weight constraining a haze of the thinnest, transparent undergarment, as though preventing it from dispersing. This haze flowed from beneath the mantle but could not escape; it slipped along Fëanáro’s collarbones and wrists but could not obscure them – only hued the exposed skin in a dreamlike blue. Nolofinwë reached for his brother, drowning in the scent of a spice-laden summer night, crashing against incisive, conquering features. Ever since that embrace at the King’s grand reception, their public greetings had become a performance of reconciliation, understanding, and unity. And, as if in response to the gesture Nolofinwë had allowed himself then, to that generous, almost patronising embrace, Fëanáro cupped the face of Finwë’s second-born and pressed a familial kiss upon his mouth. It was genial, but it was condescending. It flared deceptively, tauntingly, like a dream of fire in the icy wasteland.

And here’s my attempt not to tag the same people every time, so they don’t start hating me too soon: @thorinsmajesticbraids (You mentioned your Thorin × Elf!Reader fic earlier. I can’t stress enough how intrigued I am by it, if you’re willing to share), @gauntletgirlie, @lissomelace, @laerthel, @xximmortalkissxx, @nerdanelparmandil (I remember your Fingolfin × Maedhros fic that was in the editing phase. Also, very intrigued!), @tdhvn, @mossquitoman, @thescrapwitch, @belforte, @abomination-unto-nuggan, @vigilardensole

I was tagged by @annarobots @onereyofstarlight @luthnethril and @endless-natterings, thanks all!! <33

I'm (very belatedly shh) working on my Sibling Fest submission, so have some Fëanor/Fingolfin last time bits 😌

“Náro,” he says again, his voice heavy. “I will be wed tomorrow.” Despite himself, Fëanáro’s jaw clenches, his fingers flexing. “I am well aware. The preparations are hard to miss. So was the invitation, and my father’s endless lectures about a united family, and—“ “Náro.” A third time, and now Nolofinwë sounds truly irritated, the furrow between his brows that ever Fëanáro has been most skilled at drawing forth; that ever, to his delight, prefaces a thunderstorm. “This will be our last—we have to stop. We have to stop doing this. Can you not—“ Fëanáro knows what Nolofinwë is asking. Knows that what they have both long since pretended to ignore is split wide open between them, and that it is only wilful pretence that lets them continue to act like this means nought. That this is a game, a pushing of boundaries, a mixing of fighting and pleasure, at whose end they still cannot stand each other much better. But how to admit that he considers a brother whom he fucks behind closed doors? How to admit that he fucks his brother, and it is not mere need to prove something of which he has long since lost sight? How to admit— “Can I not what?” he asks, at last. “What do you want me to say, Nolvo—oh no, brother, please do not wed, so that we may continue our ill-advised degeneracy behind closed doors? Do you want me to fuck you slow and gentle, tell you that it has always been you, truly, that I will ruin your wedding and leave my wife, so we may run away to live life—“ Nolofinwë reverses their positions with such force that Fëanáro slams into the wood panelling, all air punched out of his lungs. This is more like it; this is how they began, what they know, what is, in the end, all they ever ought to be to each other—Nolofinwë’s features contorted in fury and hurt, Fëanáro flashing his teeth like he is just waiting to cause more of the same.

kings and things to take by storm

Fëanáro and Ñolofinwë, and the secret Oaths they swore. i. neither law nor love

at long, long last: the first chapter of my FëaNolo fic is up! what began as spitefic and transformed into a Fëanor Lives AU, this story is full of fealty, betrayal, sex, and drama. have a read - but mind the warnings!

Rating: E | Creator Chose Not To Warn Relationships: Fëanor/Fingolfin Characters: Fëanor, Fingolfin Word count: 2.2k