linndechir (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
linndechir) wrote2014-01-12 07:43 pm
linndechir) wrote2014-01-12 07:43 pm
Silmarillion fics (Fëanor/Fingolfin and Finrod/Bëor)
For those of you who don't follow me on tumblr, have a fair warning that I have completely fallen back into a long forgotten Silmarillion obsession, so there will probably be more of this. Mostly I really want to write that massive AU in which Fëanor survives, makes up with Fingolfin (eventually, somehow), invents guns, the elves go steampunk, and then proceed to kick Morgoth's ass as a giant fuck you to the rest of the Valar and their whole "oh no you're doomed now because you didn't do as you were told" bullsht. Yeah, I know, I'm not made for books written by religious authors. For the time being, here are four relatively short ficlets I wrote in the past weeks.
Title: Memories of Fire
Fandom: The Silmarillion
Pairings/characters: Fëanor/Fingolfin
Rating: PG-13
Words: 1039
Warnings: incest, obviously ;) Whether or not Fingolfin was of age when it first happened is really a matter of interpretation, though.
Summary: When they cross the Helcaraxë, it is not anger that keeps Fingolfin warm, but memories of times when his brother seemed to have at least some love for him.
Author's note: Written for a tumblr prompt, “Feanor/Fingolfin, remember me”. I don't know how I went from “I could write a fluffy scene in Valinor” to “let's make Fingolfin feel terrible.”
As they sat up camp for a short rest – without the light of the Trees it was impossible to tell how much time passed, so they simply walked until their legs gave out, then rested until the cold became too unbearable to sit still – Fingolfin walked past shivering bodies and angry faces to rejoin his children. He had long given up on encouraging words, for what was there to say? That the ice would eventually end? That they were getting closer, that it wasn't far anymore? That a better future awaited them beyond the Helcaraxë? He did not believe any of those things, and empty lies would not give his people any more strength.
But as long as they were angry, they kept going. They all knew who was to blame for the horrors they were facing, and although the last thing Fingolfin wished for was another kinslaying the moment they reached Middle-earth – he preferred not to think about what would happen the next time he saw his brother – he did not begrudge his people their anger. Anger was the only thing that warmed them on the ice. The true danger came when resignation set in. He had seen it in too many faces already, the fire of their anger slowly dying down until empty eyes stared into the dark night and their spirits fled from frozen, starved bodies. Those eyes haunted him in every waking moment and even in his fitful sleep, for all he saw in them was a reproach – they would never have been here if not for him, for his stubborn insistence to follow the brother who had betrayed them all.
But though he wished that his own fury would burn as hot as the ships Fëanor had torched, the thought of Fëanor's betrayal only made him feel cold and bitter. He was angry – angry that after everything, after his own oath, after leading his people to follow Fëanor againts his better judgement, his proud brother still had not trusted him. Had thought him so dangerous that he had left him behind to face either the endless ice or the return to a home that most likely would not have them anymore. But that anger was too mingled with pain and disappointment to keep the cold from crawling through his body into his mind.
As he huddled up with his family – what was left of his family – for what meagre warmth they could give each other, he closed his eyes, and the images that filled his mind were not of bared swords at his throat and burning ships on the horizon. He did not try any longer to resist his memories, not when they were all he had.
Memories of a time when he had been desperate for his brother's love, and a time when he had yearned for his acceptance, if only for father's sake. What made it worse was that there had been times when he had dared to hope that his brother had at least some affection for him as well. Times when Fëanor would smile at him or talk to him on his rare visits to his father's house. Times when Fëanor did not react with scorn when Fingolfin asked him to stay a little while longer.
One of those days, when Fingolfin had still been barely more than a boy, Fëanor had kissed him, a brief kiss only, but hot as fire, probably nothing more but a whim on Fëanor's part to shut his brother up when he spoke too much of love and a kinship Fëanor never felt, but it had inflamed Fingolfin with thoughts that would never have occurred to him otherwise, thoughts that refused to leave his mind even in Fëanor's absence.
It had happened a few more times after that, when Fingolfin asked his brother to stay a bit longer, or at least to give him something to remember him by if he was leaving again. And soon enough Fëanor had not bothered to stop at kisses, had dragged him into his room to give him everything he had ever dreamt of and still left him wanting for more. His brother was like a storm that left Fingolfin gasping and shivering, overwhelmed and feverish almost, his nerves on fire from every caress, every kiss, every thrust. His skin was aflame with the bruises Fëanor's fingers dug into it, even more so with the gentle touches that soothed them, and which hurt all the more because they felt as if his brother cared.
He didn't know why Fëanor did it, why he would love someone in body if his heart despised him, but he had never found the strength to reject him. He should have known something was wrong when his brother stopped touching him, when his resentment seemed to turn into actual hatred. But he had convinced himself that it was better that way, had barely indulged himself with memories of Fëanor's love in Valinor. It had felt like a betrayal of his wife to think of another when he was with her, but now he clung to those thougths with all the desperation of a dying man.
Fingolfin shivered with guilt as much as he did from the cold, hating himself for dreaming of the one who had caused all this suffering around him. He had tried so often to replace his longing with anger, with hatred, with scorn, and yet the memory of Fëanor's hands on his thighs, his lips brushing over Fingolfin's face, kissing his cheeks and his jaw and his ears, his breath ghosting over his skin in quiet moans, was the only thing that kept Fingolfin warm as ice winds froze his lashes, tried to freeze the very breath in his lungs.
He could not imagine that anything would warm him up ever again but the heat of his brother's body, wrapped around him like a roaring fire, reaching into him and filling him down to the core with warmth. But in those nights on the ice, clinging to the few memories his brother had not begrudged him, he somehow knew that even if they ever made their way to Middle-earth, he would never feel that fire on his skin again.
Title: Untitled
Fandom: The Silmarillion
Pairings/characters: Fëanor/Fingolfin
Rating: R
Words: 312
Warnings: incest
Summary: Fingolfin has never been able to resist his brother.
"Stop," he whispers against Fëanor's cheek, against soft skin that's almost feverishly hot. Fire, he thinks, his brother is pure fire. "We shouldn't be doing this," and his protests sound weak even to his own ears, empty words that are drowned out by his moans when Fëanor's lips and tongue descend on his throat, kissing and biting and leaving marks that he'll have to cover up with a high collar again, words that mean nothing when his hands only pull Fëanor closer, on top of him.
"If you truly want to be a son of Finwë," Fëanor whispers into his brother's skin, and Fingolfin thinks his body must feel as overheated as Fëanor's by now, "you should learn that the rules do not apply to us."
Another bite, almost too hard to be pleasant, but it makes Fingolfin's skin tingle with anticipation. He tries to think of something that would make Fëanor stop, tries to will his muscles to do anything other than spread his legs for his brother and wrap his arms around him to keep him close, but then Fëanor's lips find their way to his ear, kiss it almost tenderly, and he adds, "Do you not want to know what it's like to be me, little brother?"
Fingolfin gasps at the almost mocking endearment, finally opens his eyes again to look up into Fëanor's. There's a victorious smirk on his brother's face, as if he knew from the start that Fingolfin would give in (of course he knew, Fingolfin thinks, I've never managed to reject him). That smirk is as maddening as it is enticing, and with an almost angry growl Fingolfin tightens his grip on Fëanor's hair and pulls him down into a bruising kiss. If he is to give in, he'll give in on his own terms. After all, that was how Fëanor himself would do it.
Title: Forty Years
Fandom: The Silmarillion
Pairings/characters: Finrod/Bëor
Rating: PG-13
Words: 1357
Warnings: fluff, and angst because human/elf relationships are heartbreaking
Summary: Finrod and Bëor spend a quiet day together in Nargothrond, late in Bëor's life.
Author's note: Also written for that "remember me" prompt on tumblr.
They walked slowly through the illuminated halls of Nargothrond, their steps echoing from the cavern walls. Slow steps, always slow these days, but steady. Finrod kept his hand on Bëor's arm, but Bëor didn't need to lean on him. Even at his old age, his back was still strong, his posture straight and proud; but his joints ached so badly on some days that he could barely get out of bed. Today was not one of those days, and they made it to their favourite place – a small cave in the depth of the fortress, through which a little underground river rushed – without even stopping once. They used to sit on the moss by the water, but in later years Finrod had had a small bench built there, cushioned and comfortable.
Bëor sat down with a smile on his face, his eyes bright in the light of the cavern, but with far too many wrinkles around them. They wouldn't have bothered Finrod if they hadn't been a constant reminder of Bëor's mortality. He sat down and curled up against Bëor's shoulder, relieved to feel still such strength in Bëor's arm as it wrapped around his smaller body.
Over forty years since Bëor had left his family and his people to stay with Finrod, forty good years, full of love and tenderness, forty years spent almost constantly together. Such a short time in the countless centuries of Finrod's life, but so long for a man who had been in his forties already when Finrod had met him, who had said even back then that few of his people ever reached his age, that sickness and injury took most men before that.
Finrod kissed Bëor's beard – completely white these days, with not a hint of brown in it – then sighed happily.
“You're strong today,” he said, kissed him again. As if to reply Bëor's arm tightened a little around him – a reminder of the man who had lifted Finrod up as if he weighed nothing, held him up while Finrod protested half-heartedly and laughed. Even with the white hair and beard, and the countless wrinkles around his eyes, Bëor was still beautiful in Finrod's eyes, and not only because he still looked at Finrod with so much love and adoration that it could have warmed the elf on the coldest night.
“Maybe you're getting better,” Finrod added. Bëor's hand, the one that had been caressing Finrod's hair, stilled. He frowned.
“I'm not sick, my prince.” His fingers, still strong, although they had lost some of their old nimbleness, cupped Finrod's chin. “I'm old. There are good days, and there are bad days, but at the end of both I will still be old. There is no getting better from that.”
Finrod flinched and looked down. He felt a lump in his chest, a sick feeling as a dark voice in his head kept repeating over and over again that they didn't have much time left. He shook his head.
“Surely you still have many more years. Your people always died awfully young in the wilderness, you don't even know how many years you can live if you're safe.”
“True.” Bëor's hands were gentle as they resumed caressing Finrod's face, stroking his hair reverently. His hands were always so gentle. Finrod couldn't imagine a world without their touch. “But I am old. I feel it in my bones, in my heart. There will be a morning when I won't wake up.”
“How can you be so calm about that?” Finrod heard his voice quiver. He moved closer to Bëor, let those strong arms envelop him. It felt safe, as if his happiness was not about to be snatched away from him – whether it was in one year or in ten, it would be too soon, far too soon.
“It's the way of the world. Everything is born, and everything dies. Your people are the exception, my prince, not the rule.” Bëor kissed Finrod's forehead. “Death doesn't frighten me. I only wish it would not bring you such grief. I wish you could keep all the happiness of our years together without ever feeling the pain of loss.”
“My kind, we only love once,” Finrod said quietly, not for the first time. “There will be no more joy for me once you're gone.”
He took Bëor's hand and put it on his heart, made himself look up again into those loving eyes. He shuddered when he imagined them broken and dead and empty.
“You will never be forgotten. You won't just disappear like others of your kind, but you will live in my heart until the world is broken and remade.” He smiled sadly. “And I have to believe that we will meet again when that day comes.”
“And I will wait for you, wherever my soul goes after death. It's tied to yours, my prince. Surely we are not meant to be apart forever”
Not for the first time Finrod wondered what cruel twist of fate had made him love a mortal, when such a thing should have been impossible. Elves were meant to spend all eternity with their love, not to lose them after half a century and dwell forever in loneliness. He wondered if this was part of his people's curse, that their love would be lost and ruined like everything else they found in Middle-earth.
Warm lips covered his face with kisses, the familiar scratch of Bëor's beard tickled his skin, and Bëor's fingers ran through his hair, half undoing the braids he himself had braided just an hour before. He was warm, and alive, and full of a love that still took Finrod's breath away after all those years.
“Today is a good day, my prince,” Bëor whispered into Finrod's ear, his voice as deep as ever, a low rumble that vibrated through Finrod's body. “Let us not speak of death and grief. I would make you smile for as long as I can.”
Bëor kissed him then, not a chaste, sweet kiss like before, but one of passion and want. His vigour had somewhat lessened over the years – one of the many things Finrod had to learn about humans and old age – but there was still desire in him; he still kissed as if he could never get enough of Finrod's lips, still touched him as if he could barely believe he was allowed to.
Forty years together, and their bodies moved like one, finding effortlessly into each other, even as Finrod had learnt over the years that he had to be considerate of the ailments of old age. And although on some days Finrod missed the passionate younger man who had easily lifted him against walls and taken him right there, he did not enjoy this any less. It was light and life and warmth, and Finrod did not know how he had ever lived without it, or how he would ever live without it again.
He curled up on Bëor's lap afterwards, their arms wrapped around each other, Bëor's face buried in Finrod's dishevelled hair. The little brook still gurgled nearby, quiet and steady. Almost like a vision Finrod could see himself sitting there by the water, alone and crying into the stream. He bit his lip and forced the thought from his mind, buried his face against Bëor's neck until he could feel his strong pulse under his lips.
“Your hair is a mess,” Bëor mumbled gently after a while.
“That's your fault,” Finrod said, his attempt at a pout quickly turning into a smile. “You'll have to braid it again.”
“Oh, with pleasure, my prince. I live to serve you.” Bëor laughed, his fingers idly playing with a strand of Finrod's hair. Finrod let him braid it every morning, although truth be told Bëor spend at least as much time playing with Finrod's hair as actually braiding it. Bëor untangled the strands carefully, smoothed his hair out where his own hands had grabbed it too tightly before. Finrod sighed and relaxed against him.
Bëor was right. This was a good day.
It was the kind of day he would remember forever.
Title: Sunlight
Fandom: The Silmarillion
Pairings/characters: Finrod/Bëor
Rating: PG-13
Words: 1383
Warnings: fluff, so much fluff
Summary: As beautiful as Nargothrond is, Bëor's favourite days are still those spent under the open sky, listening to Finrod's voice.
Bëor's eyes were closed against the bright afternoon sun that was shining down on them, doing nothing but enjoy the summer heat. Nargothrond was beautiful and far from dark thanks to countless torchess and lightstones, but he still preferred the open sky and the sunlight, and there were no better days than those he got to spend lying by the river, listening to Finrod's harp and his songs, as enchanting after two years by his side as they had been that very first night when they had met. He didn't quite know what Finrod was singing about – Bëor was still learning the elves' language, and while he spoke it reasonably well, songs were always harder to understand – but it didn't really matter. Finrod's voice was as beautiful as a god's, and Bëor would glady listen to him all day even if he didn't understand a single word. He tried not to sigh in disappointment when the song ended and Finrod did not start another, told himself to be patient. Sometimes Finrod got distracted by animals he saw, or simply by the sky or the river. Bëor could hear his lord's bare feet step over the grass towards him, and he smiled a little, his eyes still closed. He was relaxed – if there was any danger, surely Finrod would tell him.
His smile widened when he felt something brush against his shoulder as Finrod sat down next to him. Long fingers caressed Bëor's cheek, touching his beard with every bit as much fascination as the very first time Finrod had lifted his hand to Bëor's face, those beautiful blue eyes filled with wonder. Bëor could imagine that look easily without even opening his own eyes.
“What are you doing, my prince?” he asked gently, even as he leant a little into the warm touch. Finrod laughed, a sound as melodious and sweet as his voice, as soft as Finrod's golden hair when Bëor ran his fingers through it. As if Finrod had read his mind – Bëor was sure that he actually did, sometimes – his prince shifted a little to let his hair fall down over his shoulder, until the silky strands brushed Bëor's cheek and neck.
“You know I can't get enough of your beard,” Finrod said. He had to be bending forward, for Bëor could feel the elf's warm breath on his face. Bëor chuckled. Finrod's almost obsessed fascination with his body hair would never cease to amaze him. Bëor had never considered himself particularly good-looking – sure, he wasn't ugly, he was tall and strong, he had full hair and good teeth, but other than that? Women were pretty, and young boys, but no grown man would ever waste a thought on his looks. Finrod, however, seemed to have decided for some strange reason that Bëor was more beautiful than any elf.
“You're very odd sometimes,” Bëor replied and finally opened his eyes, and as always Finrod's sight took his breath away. His long hair gleamed like the purest gold in the sunlight, his eyes seemed to shine as if they were filled with light of their own, his skin was more flawless than even a child's. It was beyond Bëor why a creature like Finrod would even look at him, let alone touch him.
“I'm not odd,” Finrod argued, more amused than offended. “I simply appreciate beauty wherever I find it.”
He lay down in the grass next to Bëor, his hair partly falling over Bëor's chest, a stark contrast to the dark chest hair that peeked out from his half-open shirt. It was too warm to be properly dressed, and Finrod seemed to have an aversion to Bëor closing his shirts anyway. The elf rested his head against Bëor's shoulder and breathed a kiss onto Bëor's bearded chin.
“All right, I was wrong then,” Bëor laughed. “You're not odd, you're mad. Or maybe just blind.”
“That is a very disrespectful thing to say to your prince.” Finrod failed to sound the least bit offended, if only because his words were muffled against Bëor's cheek, and his fingers still petted Bëor's beard like it was the softest silk in the world.
“I would never disrespect my wise, beautiful prince.” Bëor smiled, and added more seriously, “You do know I'm not complaining. I'm the luckiest man in the world.”
Finrod gave him a warm smile and snuggled up to him, his body in distractingly thin silks curled up against Bëor's side. It was easy to forget how much smaller than him Finrod was when he saw him at court, his beauty and charisma – not to mention the finery and jewels he wore there – distracting from the fact that he was not particularly tall, but when they lay together like this Finrod's body almost seemed frail next to his, deceptively slender and vulnerable. Bëor knew that most elves were stronger than they looked, but it still made him feel oddly protective. He wrapped his arm around Finrod's shoulders to keep him close, allowed himself to wrap a few of those golden strands around his fingers.
Finrod kissed his chin, then the corner of his mouth, before he rubbed his cheek against Bëor's as he so often did. If he was a cat, Bëor was sure he would be purring now.
“You're beautiful,” Finrod said with all the conviction and certainty of someone who had lived for over a thousand years – and Bëor would never be able to wrap his mind around a lifespan that long – and knew what he was talking about. “There's such strength in you, a wild strength that none of my people have, and yet your eyes are full of kindness and nobility. I could spend eternity looking into them.”
Bëor laughed a little to mask his embarrassment. His people did not say such things to each other. They loved, of course they did, but they saw love as a partnership between two people who got along very well and who were stronger together than alone, not as the all-encompassing thing it was for the elves, something that changed them to the core and became part of them, to the point where even imagining a life without their love was painful, and the idea of ever loving someone else was unthinkable. It was strange and confusing, sometimes even terrifying, but it seemed fitting. Bëor did not love Finrod as he had loved his wife. Finrod was not his partner, he was the centre of his life, the sun and the moon and the starlight, his very reason to live. Bëor was only human, but he was sure that he loved Finrod as much as any elf could have done.
“I do not deserve you, my fair prince,” Bëor said finally, his hand resting against Finrod's neck. He did not say it to deter Finrod from loving him, never that, but because he would always feel such wonder and amazement that his prince saw him as anything more than a trusted subject.
“What does that have to do with anything?” Finrod replied, and Bëor agreed, it did not matter. If he could make his prince smile, if he could bring such joy and happiness into his eyes, if he was what Finrod wanted, who was Bëor to argue with him? Happiness, after all, could be found in the oddest places, and he was certainly not going to complain that Finrod had found his in Bëor's arms.
Finrod kissed him, and his lips tasted of the sweet summer wine they had taken with them. It was not the wine, though, that made Bëor feel drunk every time his prince's mouth met his, gentle and loving and yet so needy, as if Finrod truly could not get enough of touching him. Perfect pale hands slid under his half-opened shirt to touch his chest – his chest-hair, really – and with all the grace of a wild cat Finrod sat up to straddle him, his lips only leaving Bëor's for a split second. Finrod's hair spilt down on both sides of Bëor's face, and as the sun shone through thick blond hair, all Bëor could see was Finrod's face bathed in golden light. He understood what Finrod had meant.
If Bëor had been granted eternal life, he would have wanted to spend it looking at his prince.
Title: Memories of Fire
Fandom: The Silmarillion
Pairings/characters: Fëanor/Fingolfin
Rating: PG-13
Words: 1039
Warnings: incest, obviously ;) Whether or not Fingolfin was of age when it first happened is really a matter of interpretation, though.
Summary: When they cross the Helcaraxë, it is not anger that keeps Fingolfin warm, but memories of times when his brother seemed to have at least some love for him.
Author's note: Written for a tumblr prompt, “Feanor/Fingolfin, remember me”. I don't know how I went from “I could write a fluffy scene in Valinor” to “let's make Fingolfin feel terrible.”
As they sat up camp for a short rest – without the light of the Trees it was impossible to tell how much time passed, so they simply walked until their legs gave out, then rested until the cold became too unbearable to sit still – Fingolfin walked past shivering bodies and angry faces to rejoin his children. He had long given up on encouraging words, for what was there to say? That the ice would eventually end? That they were getting closer, that it wasn't far anymore? That a better future awaited them beyond the Helcaraxë? He did not believe any of those things, and empty lies would not give his people any more strength.
But as long as they were angry, they kept going. They all knew who was to blame for the horrors they were facing, and although the last thing Fingolfin wished for was another kinslaying the moment they reached Middle-earth – he preferred not to think about what would happen the next time he saw his brother – he did not begrudge his people their anger. Anger was the only thing that warmed them on the ice. The true danger came when resignation set in. He had seen it in too many faces already, the fire of their anger slowly dying down until empty eyes stared into the dark night and their spirits fled from frozen, starved bodies. Those eyes haunted him in every waking moment and even in his fitful sleep, for all he saw in them was a reproach – they would never have been here if not for him, for his stubborn insistence to follow the brother who had betrayed them all.
But though he wished that his own fury would burn as hot as the ships Fëanor had torched, the thought of Fëanor's betrayal only made him feel cold and bitter. He was angry – angry that after everything, after his own oath, after leading his people to follow Fëanor againts his better judgement, his proud brother still had not trusted him. Had thought him so dangerous that he had left him behind to face either the endless ice or the return to a home that most likely would not have them anymore. But that anger was too mingled with pain and disappointment to keep the cold from crawling through his body into his mind.
As he huddled up with his family – what was left of his family – for what meagre warmth they could give each other, he closed his eyes, and the images that filled his mind were not of bared swords at his throat and burning ships on the horizon. He did not try any longer to resist his memories, not when they were all he had.
Memories of a time when he had been desperate for his brother's love, and a time when he had yearned for his acceptance, if only for father's sake. What made it worse was that there had been times when he had dared to hope that his brother had at least some affection for him as well. Times when Fëanor would smile at him or talk to him on his rare visits to his father's house. Times when Fëanor did not react with scorn when Fingolfin asked him to stay a little while longer.
One of those days, when Fingolfin had still been barely more than a boy, Fëanor had kissed him, a brief kiss only, but hot as fire, probably nothing more but a whim on Fëanor's part to shut his brother up when he spoke too much of love and a kinship Fëanor never felt, but it had inflamed Fingolfin with thoughts that would never have occurred to him otherwise, thoughts that refused to leave his mind even in Fëanor's absence.
It had happened a few more times after that, when Fingolfin asked his brother to stay a bit longer, or at least to give him something to remember him by if he was leaving again. And soon enough Fëanor had not bothered to stop at kisses, had dragged him into his room to give him everything he had ever dreamt of and still left him wanting for more. His brother was like a storm that left Fingolfin gasping and shivering, overwhelmed and feverish almost, his nerves on fire from every caress, every kiss, every thrust. His skin was aflame with the bruises Fëanor's fingers dug into it, even more so with the gentle touches that soothed them, and which hurt all the more because they felt as if his brother cared.
He didn't know why Fëanor did it, why he would love someone in body if his heart despised him, but he had never found the strength to reject him. He should have known something was wrong when his brother stopped touching him, when his resentment seemed to turn into actual hatred. But he had convinced himself that it was better that way, had barely indulged himself with memories of Fëanor's love in Valinor. It had felt like a betrayal of his wife to think of another when he was with her, but now he clung to those thougths with all the desperation of a dying man.
Fingolfin shivered with guilt as much as he did from the cold, hating himself for dreaming of the one who had caused all this suffering around him. He had tried so often to replace his longing with anger, with hatred, with scorn, and yet the memory of Fëanor's hands on his thighs, his lips brushing over Fingolfin's face, kissing his cheeks and his jaw and his ears, his breath ghosting over his skin in quiet moans, was the only thing that kept Fingolfin warm as ice winds froze his lashes, tried to freeze the very breath in his lungs.
He could not imagine that anything would warm him up ever again but the heat of his brother's body, wrapped around him like a roaring fire, reaching into him and filling him down to the core with warmth. But in those nights on the ice, clinging to the few memories his brother had not begrudged him, he somehow knew that even if they ever made their way to Middle-earth, he would never feel that fire on his skin again.
Title: Untitled
Fandom: The Silmarillion
Pairings/characters: Fëanor/Fingolfin
Rating: R
Words: 312
Warnings: incest
Summary: Fingolfin has never been able to resist his brother.
"Stop," he whispers against Fëanor's cheek, against soft skin that's almost feverishly hot. Fire, he thinks, his brother is pure fire. "We shouldn't be doing this," and his protests sound weak even to his own ears, empty words that are drowned out by his moans when Fëanor's lips and tongue descend on his throat, kissing and biting and leaving marks that he'll have to cover up with a high collar again, words that mean nothing when his hands only pull Fëanor closer, on top of him.
"If you truly want to be a son of Finwë," Fëanor whispers into his brother's skin, and Fingolfin thinks his body must feel as overheated as Fëanor's by now, "you should learn that the rules do not apply to us."
Another bite, almost too hard to be pleasant, but it makes Fingolfin's skin tingle with anticipation. He tries to think of something that would make Fëanor stop, tries to will his muscles to do anything other than spread his legs for his brother and wrap his arms around him to keep him close, but then Fëanor's lips find their way to his ear, kiss it almost tenderly, and he adds, "Do you not want to know what it's like to be me, little brother?"
Fingolfin gasps at the almost mocking endearment, finally opens his eyes again to look up into Fëanor's. There's a victorious smirk on his brother's face, as if he knew from the start that Fingolfin would give in (of course he knew, Fingolfin thinks, I've never managed to reject him). That smirk is as maddening as it is enticing, and with an almost angry growl Fingolfin tightens his grip on Fëanor's hair and pulls him down into a bruising kiss. If he is to give in, he'll give in on his own terms. After all, that was how Fëanor himself would do it.
Title: Forty Years
Fandom: The Silmarillion
Pairings/characters: Finrod/Bëor
Rating: PG-13
Words: 1357
Warnings: fluff, and angst because human/elf relationships are heartbreaking
Summary: Finrod and Bëor spend a quiet day together in Nargothrond, late in Bëor's life.
Author's note: Also written for that "remember me" prompt on tumblr.
They walked slowly through the illuminated halls of Nargothrond, their steps echoing from the cavern walls. Slow steps, always slow these days, but steady. Finrod kept his hand on Bëor's arm, but Bëor didn't need to lean on him. Even at his old age, his back was still strong, his posture straight and proud; but his joints ached so badly on some days that he could barely get out of bed. Today was not one of those days, and they made it to their favourite place – a small cave in the depth of the fortress, through which a little underground river rushed – without even stopping once. They used to sit on the moss by the water, but in later years Finrod had had a small bench built there, cushioned and comfortable.
Bëor sat down with a smile on his face, his eyes bright in the light of the cavern, but with far too many wrinkles around them. They wouldn't have bothered Finrod if they hadn't been a constant reminder of Bëor's mortality. He sat down and curled up against Bëor's shoulder, relieved to feel still such strength in Bëor's arm as it wrapped around his smaller body.
Over forty years since Bëor had left his family and his people to stay with Finrod, forty good years, full of love and tenderness, forty years spent almost constantly together. Such a short time in the countless centuries of Finrod's life, but so long for a man who had been in his forties already when Finrod had met him, who had said even back then that few of his people ever reached his age, that sickness and injury took most men before that.
Finrod kissed Bëor's beard – completely white these days, with not a hint of brown in it – then sighed happily.
“You're strong today,” he said, kissed him again. As if to reply Bëor's arm tightened a little around him – a reminder of the man who had lifted Finrod up as if he weighed nothing, held him up while Finrod protested half-heartedly and laughed. Even with the white hair and beard, and the countless wrinkles around his eyes, Bëor was still beautiful in Finrod's eyes, and not only because he still looked at Finrod with so much love and adoration that it could have warmed the elf on the coldest night.
“Maybe you're getting better,” Finrod added. Bëor's hand, the one that had been caressing Finrod's hair, stilled. He frowned.
“I'm not sick, my prince.” His fingers, still strong, although they had lost some of their old nimbleness, cupped Finrod's chin. “I'm old. There are good days, and there are bad days, but at the end of both I will still be old. There is no getting better from that.”
Finrod flinched and looked down. He felt a lump in his chest, a sick feeling as a dark voice in his head kept repeating over and over again that they didn't have much time left. He shook his head.
“Surely you still have many more years. Your people always died awfully young in the wilderness, you don't even know how many years you can live if you're safe.”
“True.” Bëor's hands were gentle as they resumed caressing Finrod's face, stroking his hair reverently. His hands were always so gentle. Finrod couldn't imagine a world without their touch. “But I am old. I feel it in my bones, in my heart. There will be a morning when I won't wake up.”
“How can you be so calm about that?” Finrod heard his voice quiver. He moved closer to Bëor, let those strong arms envelop him. It felt safe, as if his happiness was not about to be snatched away from him – whether it was in one year or in ten, it would be too soon, far too soon.
“It's the way of the world. Everything is born, and everything dies. Your people are the exception, my prince, not the rule.” Bëor kissed Finrod's forehead. “Death doesn't frighten me. I only wish it would not bring you such grief. I wish you could keep all the happiness of our years together without ever feeling the pain of loss.”
“My kind, we only love once,” Finrod said quietly, not for the first time. “There will be no more joy for me once you're gone.”
He took Bëor's hand and put it on his heart, made himself look up again into those loving eyes. He shuddered when he imagined them broken and dead and empty.
“You will never be forgotten. You won't just disappear like others of your kind, but you will live in my heart until the world is broken and remade.” He smiled sadly. “And I have to believe that we will meet again when that day comes.”
“And I will wait for you, wherever my soul goes after death. It's tied to yours, my prince. Surely we are not meant to be apart forever”
Not for the first time Finrod wondered what cruel twist of fate had made him love a mortal, when such a thing should have been impossible. Elves were meant to spend all eternity with their love, not to lose them after half a century and dwell forever in loneliness. He wondered if this was part of his people's curse, that their love would be lost and ruined like everything else they found in Middle-earth.
Warm lips covered his face with kisses, the familiar scratch of Bëor's beard tickled his skin, and Bëor's fingers ran through his hair, half undoing the braids he himself had braided just an hour before. He was warm, and alive, and full of a love that still took Finrod's breath away after all those years.
“Today is a good day, my prince,” Bëor whispered into Finrod's ear, his voice as deep as ever, a low rumble that vibrated through Finrod's body. “Let us not speak of death and grief. I would make you smile for as long as I can.”
Bëor kissed him then, not a chaste, sweet kiss like before, but one of passion and want. His vigour had somewhat lessened over the years – one of the many things Finrod had to learn about humans and old age – but there was still desire in him; he still kissed as if he could never get enough of Finrod's lips, still touched him as if he could barely believe he was allowed to.
Forty years together, and their bodies moved like one, finding effortlessly into each other, even as Finrod had learnt over the years that he had to be considerate of the ailments of old age. And although on some days Finrod missed the passionate younger man who had easily lifted him against walls and taken him right there, he did not enjoy this any less. It was light and life and warmth, and Finrod did not know how he had ever lived without it, or how he would ever live without it again.
He curled up on Bëor's lap afterwards, their arms wrapped around each other, Bëor's face buried in Finrod's dishevelled hair. The little brook still gurgled nearby, quiet and steady. Almost like a vision Finrod could see himself sitting there by the water, alone and crying into the stream. He bit his lip and forced the thought from his mind, buried his face against Bëor's neck until he could feel his strong pulse under his lips.
“Your hair is a mess,” Bëor mumbled gently after a while.
“That's your fault,” Finrod said, his attempt at a pout quickly turning into a smile. “You'll have to braid it again.”
“Oh, with pleasure, my prince. I live to serve you.” Bëor laughed, his fingers idly playing with a strand of Finrod's hair. Finrod let him braid it every morning, although truth be told Bëor spend at least as much time playing with Finrod's hair as actually braiding it. Bëor untangled the strands carefully, smoothed his hair out where his own hands had grabbed it too tightly before. Finrod sighed and relaxed against him.
Bëor was right. This was a good day.
It was the kind of day he would remember forever.
Title: Sunlight
Fandom: The Silmarillion
Pairings/characters: Finrod/Bëor
Rating: PG-13
Words: 1383
Warnings: fluff, so much fluff
Summary: As beautiful as Nargothrond is, Bëor's favourite days are still those spent under the open sky, listening to Finrod's voice.
Bëor's eyes were closed against the bright afternoon sun that was shining down on them, doing nothing but enjoy the summer heat. Nargothrond was beautiful and far from dark thanks to countless torchess and lightstones, but he still preferred the open sky and the sunlight, and there were no better days than those he got to spend lying by the river, listening to Finrod's harp and his songs, as enchanting after two years by his side as they had been that very first night when they had met. He didn't quite know what Finrod was singing about – Bëor was still learning the elves' language, and while he spoke it reasonably well, songs were always harder to understand – but it didn't really matter. Finrod's voice was as beautiful as a god's, and Bëor would glady listen to him all day even if he didn't understand a single word. He tried not to sigh in disappointment when the song ended and Finrod did not start another, told himself to be patient. Sometimes Finrod got distracted by animals he saw, or simply by the sky or the river. Bëor could hear his lord's bare feet step over the grass towards him, and he smiled a little, his eyes still closed. He was relaxed – if there was any danger, surely Finrod would tell him.
His smile widened when he felt something brush against his shoulder as Finrod sat down next to him. Long fingers caressed Bëor's cheek, touching his beard with every bit as much fascination as the very first time Finrod had lifted his hand to Bëor's face, those beautiful blue eyes filled with wonder. Bëor could imagine that look easily without even opening his own eyes.
“What are you doing, my prince?” he asked gently, even as he leant a little into the warm touch. Finrod laughed, a sound as melodious and sweet as his voice, as soft as Finrod's golden hair when Bëor ran his fingers through it. As if Finrod had read his mind – Bëor was sure that he actually did, sometimes – his prince shifted a little to let his hair fall down over his shoulder, until the silky strands brushed Bëor's cheek and neck.
“You know I can't get enough of your beard,” Finrod said. He had to be bending forward, for Bëor could feel the elf's warm breath on his face. Bëor chuckled. Finrod's almost obsessed fascination with his body hair would never cease to amaze him. Bëor had never considered himself particularly good-looking – sure, he wasn't ugly, he was tall and strong, he had full hair and good teeth, but other than that? Women were pretty, and young boys, but no grown man would ever waste a thought on his looks. Finrod, however, seemed to have decided for some strange reason that Bëor was more beautiful than any elf.
“You're very odd sometimes,” Bëor replied and finally opened his eyes, and as always Finrod's sight took his breath away. His long hair gleamed like the purest gold in the sunlight, his eyes seemed to shine as if they were filled with light of their own, his skin was more flawless than even a child's. It was beyond Bëor why a creature like Finrod would even look at him, let alone touch him.
“I'm not odd,” Finrod argued, more amused than offended. “I simply appreciate beauty wherever I find it.”
He lay down in the grass next to Bëor, his hair partly falling over Bëor's chest, a stark contrast to the dark chest hair that peeked out from his half-open shirt. It was too warm to be properly dressed, and Finrod seemed to have an aversion to Bëor closing his shirts anyway. The elf rested his head against Bëor's shoulder and breathed a kiss onto Bëor's bearded chin.
“All right, I was wrong then,” Bëor laughed. “You're not odd, you're mad. Or maybe just blind.”
“That is a very disrespectful thing to say to your prince.” Finrod failed to sound the least bit offended, if only because his words were muffled against Bëor's cheek, and his fingers still petted Bëor's beard like it was the softest silk in the world.
“I would never disrespect my wise, beautiful prince.” Bëor smiled, and added more seriously, “You do know I'm not complaining. I'm the luckiest man in the world.”
Finrod gave him a warm smile and snuggled up to him, his body in distractingly thin silks curled up against Bëor's side. It was easy to forget how much smaller than him Finrod was when he saw him at court, his beauty and charisma – not to mention the finery and jewels he wore there – distracting from the fact that he was not particularly tall, but when they lay together like this Finrod's body almost seemed frail next to his, deceptively slender and vulnerable. Bëor knew that most elves were stronger than they looked, but it still made him feel oddly protective. He wrapped his arm around Finrod's shoulders to keep him close, allowed himself to wrap a few of those golden strands around his fingers.
Finrod kissed his chin, then the corner of his mouth, before he rubbed his cheek against Bëor's as he so often did. If he was a cat, Bëor was sure he would be purring now.
“You're beautiful,” Finrod said with all the conviction and certainty of someone who had lived for over a thousand years – and Bëor would never be able to wrap his mind around a lifespan that long – and knew what he was talking about. “There's such strength in you, a wild strength that none of my people have, and yet your eyes are full of kindness and nobility. I could spend eternity looking into them.”
Bëor laughed a little to mask his embarrassment. His people did not say such things to each other. They loved, of course they did, but they saw love as a partnership between two people who got along very well and who were stronger together than alone, not as the all-encompassing thing it was for the elves, something that changed them to the core and became part of them, to the point where even imagining a life without their love was painful, and the idea of ever loving someone else was unthinkable. It was strange and confusing, sometimes even terrifying, but it seemed fitting. Bëor did not love Finrod as he had loved his wife. Finrod was not his partner, he was the centre of his life, the sun and the moon and the starlight, his very reason to live. Bëor was only human, but he was sure that he loved Finrod as much as any elf could have done.
“I do not deserve you, my fair prince,” Bëor said finally, his hand resting against Finrod's neck. He did not say it to deter Finrod from loving him, never that, but because he would always feel such wonder and amazement that his prince saw him as anything more than a trusted subject.
“What does that have to do with anything?” Finrod replied, and Bëor agreed, it did not matter. If he could make his prince smile, if he could bring such joy and happiness into his eyes, if he was what Finrod wanted, who was Bëor to argue with him? Happiness, after all, could be found in the oddest places, and he was certainly not going to complain that Finrod had found his in Bëor's arms.
Finrod kissed him, and his lips tasted of the sweet summer wine they had taken with them. It was not the wine, though, that made Bëor feel drunk every time his prince's mouth met his, gentle and loving and yet so needy, as if Finrod truly could not get enough of touching him. Perfect pale hands slid under his half-opened shirt to touch his chest – his chest-hair, really – and with all the grace of a wild cat Finrod sat up to straddle him, his lips only leaving Bëor's for a split second. Finrod's hair spilt down on both sides of Bëor's face, and as the sun shone through thick blond hair, all Bëor could see was Finrod's face bathed in golden light. He understood what Finrod had meant.
If Bëor had been granted eternal life, he would have wanted to spend it looking at his prince.