Fanworks Tagged with Fëanor/Fingolfin

“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 perversion behind closed doors? Do you want me to fuck you slow and gentle, tell you that it has always been you? 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 is slammed 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 baring his teeth like he is just waiting to cause more of the same.

They stay there for a moment, both breathing harshly, a precipice that is only waiting for them to fall.

Fëanor, Fingolfin, and their last night before Fingolfin is to be wed.

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“You know as well as I do that the aphrodisiac is never meant to be consumed in such a high quantity,” Ñolofinwë says evenly. “It is well known to be lethal in such a high dosage if there is no one around to lay with.”

Fëanáro shoots him a scathing glare, as if Ñolofinwë has said something incomparably stupid. “I am well aware of the properties of the plant,” Fëanáro says flatly, shrugging his jacket off and glaring at the pollen on it. “But I am not alone, am I?”

It takes a moment for Fëanáro's meaning to hit him, and he does not quite stop himself from gaping when it does. "We cannot lay together!" he exclaims, voice going humiliating high with horror. "You are my brother!"

The words earn him nothing but a disparaging snort; Fëanáro only half paying him any attention at all as he glances around the clearing. "You are not my brother," he says, and the words are not even cruel, only a simple fact. "I am not going to die because of your useless morals."

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“It is called having friends, Fëanáro; you should try it sometime,” Nolofinwë spits, and it comes out sharper than he means it to, but he is—

Lord, he is tired; of Fëanáro’s vitriol, of how easily he himself still unravels at the slightest push. How effortlessly Fëanáro slides beneath his skin, and Nolofinwë wants to dig his finger into the unmarked flesh, wants to hurt, wants—

He wants; that is perhaps the most terrible part about it all.

---

Ever has the House of Finwë been renowned for its sense of competition. This, though, Nolofinwë knows, must put even the worst of it to shame.

Or: Fingolfin and Fëanor will turn even brother-fucking into a contest. Who could have guessed.

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“We are going to get caught,” Fingolfin hisses, though he makes no move to actually push Fëanor away from where he’s sucking a bruise onto Fingolfin’s collarbone. Fëanor hums, shoving a knee between Fingolfin’s legs and smirking against his skin when he’s forced to bite back a moan, hips jerking up.

“Do you want me to stop then?” he asks, voice rich with amusement as he kisses his way up Fingolfin’s neck. “Tell me,” he whispers, mouth hovering over Fingolfin’s. “Tell me you want me to stop.”

Fingolfin is genuinely worried they are going to get caught. It does not stop him from cursing quietly and kissing Fëanor to shut him up.

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Fingolfin wants Fëanor absolutely shattered in his bed, his name the only thing in Fëanor's mouth, in his thoughts. He wants to break Fëanor down to his most basic essence, a flame hiding in the body of an elf, and then slowly build him back up again as if feeding a fire on a windy night. Wants to make himself an integral part of the rebuilding so that he can never be erased, never be shoved out. He wants to be fully given what he was always denied—

—Fëanor’s trust. 

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“You do not have to do this,” Fëanáro murmurs, voice strangely gentle.

Ñolofinwë shrugs, feeling tired to his bones, and completely unwilling to leave Fëanáro's side. He slides the sponge over Fëanáro's shoulders, shifting Fëanáro's hair out of the way so he may run the sponge across the back of his brother's neck. "It is customary, is it not. For one to be prepared for their coronation by their family."

Fëanáro makes a strange noise, half-laughter, half-scoff. “I do not feel this is quite the manner my sons would have helped me prepare,” Fëanáro says dryly.

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“If I did not know better,” he says in a low voice, patience frayed thin, “so close do you insist on being to me, that were you anyone else, I would think you are trying to seduce me.” 

Ñolofinwë blinks up at him, eyes hazy and unfocused and so very, very blue. “Would it work if I were?” Ñolofinwë asks in the tone of one who is trying very hard to focus.  

Fëanáro stares. Locks his jaw and does not allow his mouth to drop open in shock. "I know you are drunk, but do be serious, Ñolofinwë," he snaps after a tense moment of indecision on how to respond to such an absurd statement. "You cannot seduce those you share blood with, no matter how little it may be."

“Should not,” Ñolofinwë says promptly, one hand coming up to clutch at Fëanáro’s shirt. “You should not seduce kin. But it is possible if one wishes to.” 

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Ñolofinwë makes a pained noise and pulls back enough to look him in the face, before his eyes seem to get caught on Fëanáro’s collar, on his chest, his shoulders. “You are in my colors,” Ñolofinwë says softly, traces his finger along Fëanáro’s collarbone and down the front of his tunic. His eyes, when they meet Fëanáro’s once more, are blown out with a disgusting, greedy desire, and understanding strikes Fëanáro.

“Oh,” he breathes, thinking that he should likely have guessed at the reason on his own. He had anticipated that the outfit would garner a reaction from Ñolofinwë, this is true. He cannot say that this was ever one of the reactions he had anticipated. “How shameful of you,” he says quietly, watching the way Ñolofinwë’s eyes drop down to his mouth as he speaks. “Does it not shame you that you should want me in such a way?”

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Fëanáro thinks of many things during his exile for he has nothing but time and a chest full of fury.

He thinks of his hatred for Melkor. He thinks of his children and the toil the exile is taking on them even if they will not voice it. He thinks of his father and the disappointment he’d just barely been able to see hidden beneath the concern. He thinks of Nerdanel and cannot help but wonder if she saw this coming. More often than not though, he finds his thoughts dwelling on Ñolofinwë.

On how wide and endlessly blue his eyes had gone when Fëanáro had set the point of the sword to his throat.

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"You should tell me to stop," Fëanáro says softly, taking the last step and pressing himself flush against Ñolofinwë.

Ñolofinwë swallows with some difficulty, tilts his head back against the door to meet Fëanáro's eyes. "You are my brother," he says, voice wavering. "We should not."

Fëanáro smiles wryly. "That is not telling me to stop."

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“You said,” Fëanáro says quietly, taking a step forward, “that I shall lead, and you shall follow.”

Ñolofinwë bites down the urge to take a step back as Fëanáro takes another step forward. “I said those words and I meant them. You are my brother and now my king, why should I not follow where you go?”

Fëanáro is regarding him far more seriously than he had that night as they stood in front of Manwë and Ñolofinwë wishes to know what brought this on. “And if I were not your king?” Fëanáro asks. “If I were your half-brother only?”

Or: Fëanáro does not steal away with the ships in the middle of the night, leaving Fingolfin to brave the bitter cold. Whether what he does instead is any better depends on who you ask.

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Fëanor spends more nights than he cares to admit to at Fingolfin’s these days. More time than he cares to admit to thinking about Fingolfin these days. Feels some days though as if Fingolfin is the only bit of this new age that is easy at this point.

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The footsteps come to a stop in front of him and he does not have a moment to wonder at his brother’s intentions before fingers are sliding into his hair and tugging his head back. He glares up at Fëanáro, tears on his cheeks, heart racing like a plea. Fëanáro stares back, expression strangely blank as he studies Ñolofinwë’s face. And despite his thoughts, despite his belief, he still finds himself smiling mirthlessly and asking, “Well, have you come to kill me in truth? Make your exile worth it?”

Something flickers through Fëanáro’s eyes too fast for him to catch and the fingers in his hair tighten painfully. “I would have thought that upon successfully usurping the crown you would be far more pleased,” Fëanáro says darkly, lip curling in disgust.

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Fingolfin does not look up from his book when he hears footsteps approaching and pays no attention to Fëanor walking into the room. What he emphatically does pay attention to is Fëanor going to his knees in front of the chair he is sprawled sideways across and burying his face against Fingolfin’s stomach, both of his hands clenching tight around Fingolfin’s shirt. He blinks down at Fëanor’s head in confusion and runs a hand over his head, dragging his fingers through Fëanor’s hair. “Náro?” he asks quietly. “Has something happened?”

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Fëanor does not even get a chance to finish being annoying before Fingolfin’s eyes flash with something far too dark to be only fury and his hand snaps out to grab a handful of Fëanor’s hair. He wrenches Fëanor’s head back in a move that is so surprisingly painful it throws him off balance. In the same moment he kicks Fëanor’s feet out from under him and slams him to his knees. He forgets sometimes he thinks, feeling a bit dazed, that Fingolfin had not only fought Morgoth, but lasted an impressive amount of time against him.

Fingolfin pulls his head back until they lock eyes, says, “Why must you be so—” his voice cracks, anger seeping out of every fracture line cracking through his body. He studies the ice in Fingolfin’s eyes and thinks, we never talked about the boats. Not in truth. 

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In which Fëanor & Fingolfin are re-embodied in 4th age Aman, are nowhere near as healed as everyone believes them to be, and decide to pretend that sleeping together will fix their relationship instead of causing more problems.

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Fingolfin would like to say that it was an accident. And perhaps if it had started and ended with a kiss he could have lied to himself and said that. As it is, it’s rather hard to say it was an accident when it has gone well past a kiss.

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Fëanáro era Rey. Nolofinwë lo había aceptado mucho antes del asesinato de su padre. 

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Nolofinwë did not want to be here.

If he could have been anywhere else in the world, he would have fled there at this moment.

~

Fingolfin and Feanor's complicated relationship in four scenes.

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