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i-did-not-mean-to · 7 months

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Sweater Weather

Anon, congrats for your galaxy brain!!!! Here goes nothing...FëaÑolo for you!

Characters: Fingolfin x Fëanor

Words: 296

Warnings:They are half-brothers! Be aware! Also sadness, theft, sexual innuendo (Go big or go home)

Fëanor stood as if struck by lightning—he would not have been able to move from his vantage point even if Eru himself had come to shoo him away.

He had been searching for a specific tunic—long-sleeved and heavy—for many days as the cold wind shaking Yavanna’s beloved trees unquestionably called for a change in daily outfits.

As a matter of fact, he had even accused and reprimanded several servants and the odd family member in his frantic quest for this avowed favourite of his.

None could have predicted the unlikely place he would find the bitterly regretted treasure once more—in the very hands of his infuriating half-brother.

For a moment, Fëanor was sure that Fingolfin sought to destroy what he knew to be loved by the half-brother he surely must have loathed and detested.

Instead of tearing the well-worn fabric though, Finwë’s second-born son lifted it to his face tenderly and breathed in the fragrant mixture of skin and dust greedily.

“Oh brother,” he sighed into the soft material as he hugged it to his chest with undeniable tenderness. “This is what you reduce me to—you have turned me into the thief you’ve always seen in me. If only your heart was as easily absconded as this empty shell of a body, I so revere. No matter, it has touched your skin as I never shall…”

Stepping out of the shadow of the column he had leaned against for support as his knees turned to water, Fëanor cleared his throat.

“Return this to me, for I love it well,” he commanded, smirking when his half-brother’s hands merely tightened possessively around the garment. “Unhand it, I say, and I shall give you something warmer even if less yielding to hold on to.”

@fellowshipofthefics here we go with the next one!

-> Masterlist

𝙻𝚘𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 <3

#og post #FOTFICtember #Fotfics September Event #Sweater weather #Fingolfin #Fëanor #FëaÑolo #IDNMT writes #fanfiction #writing #tolkien writing #jrrt

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i-did-not-mean-to · 9 months

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In another life, I'd come for you

This one is for @ettelene (sorry if all the commas are wrong lol). Eh, it's a sort of fix-it, I guess...

You said "any pairing", but we both know what pairing comes to mind lol

Warning: Please be advised that Fëanor and Fingolfin are indeed half-brothers.

AU Prompt: Enemies to lovers

Dialogue Prompt: I didn't know you cared.

Words: 1018

Characters: Fëanor x Fingolfin

Warnings: Fight, blood, injury, innuendo (which counts as incest)

Fingolfin buckled under the vehemence of his enemy's last blow—fey, cruel laughter echoed in a storm of deafening mockery all around him.

He had fought valiantly, and thus he felt no shame as he ultimately had to admit defeat.

With a final, desperate thought of his beloved children, he let his weary head drop and prepared for the dark blade to descend.

Sparks—dancing like fireflies in the stale air—filled his vision, but the expected pain failed to cleave through his muscle and bone.

An all too familiar grunt of impatience and frustration resounded, and Fingolfin dug deep into his reserves of strength and willpower to pull himself up and face this new threat.

"Get up, you ass," Fëanor barked tempestuously. "Stand and fight!"

This fever dream, seemingly conjured up by an exhausted mind, wielded his gleaming blade with ferocious, self-forgotten determination, driving back the looming peril with vicious, reckless strikes.

A new burst of energy surged through Fingolfin's sore flesh—he had not seen his father's favourite son since that very weapon now standing between him and certain death had caressed his own throat.

It had been so long, and yet the wound of Fëanor’s prolonged absence had never truly healed.

Shaken by an involuntary fit of throaty laughter, Fingolfin threw himself back into the futile battle—he might well die on this day, but at least he would not die alone and unwitnessed.

He had too many enemies by far, he realised, despite his earnest efforts to be as agreeable to everyone as possible.

Here, at the end of the world, he was faced with the two most dangerous ones—locked in lethal combat for his life—the Dark Lord whom he hated with all-consuming, soul-destroying intensity, and Fëanor, whom he loved too much to forgive him for having deserted the familial fold in a fit of petulance and unjust wrath.

Drawn inexorably to his half-brother’s intense light, Fingolfin entered the furious fray, heedless of the danger, as a moth rushed to die in the embrace of a mercilessly burning lamp.

Side by side, those two valiant sons now fought as if the years of separation had been erased, and they were still but training in their father's courtyard before dinner.

After an eternity, the Lord of Death and Destruction took advantage of a lull in their attacks to flee headlong—he seemed less confident of his inevitable triumph now that two opponents were unleashing their wrath and unspoken frustration in flurries of strikes and slashes that wouldn’t abate despite their evident weariness.

"After him!" Fingolfin cried hoarsely.

"You are bleeding," Fëanor stated with strenuous equanimity, his broad hand—trembling with exertion—coming to rest on the dented plate of Fingolfin's armour. "Let me see how bad it is."

"I didn't know you cared," Fingolfin smirked cockily even as a strange sensation of pure joy mitigated the painful fatigue in his heart and body.

The touch of a cool hand sliding into the nape of his neck to steady his head as he was lowered to the ground felt wonderful, and he gave a little sigh of relief.

"You have always been such a fool," Fëanor chided harshly. "What were you thinking? To come out here all alone?"

"I would not lead those I love—my little brother or my sisters—into peril." Fingolfin pushed away the fingers methodically undoing the clasps of his armour to assess the severity of his injuries by touch alone.

Indeed, Fëanor's incandescent gaze was unwaveringly glued to the pale, tired face of one who had always confused and irritated him with his invincible charm.

"Maybe," that prodigal son hummed, "you understand me better now—love can make us do the dumbest things."

"You left," Fingolfin murmured, too worn out to care about how pathetic he sounded. "For all your faults and your irascible temper, we've missed you. I missed you."

I loved you—and you left. The sentence was left unspoken, and yet it seemed to reverberate through the devastated valley.

Fëanor’s hands clenched into fists at his side; he needed to focus on his task, he could not let himself be distracted by the things he would have to explain and apologise for later. They would be inconsequential if Fingolfin died of his injuries while he himself was drowning in reluctant self-recrimination.

Consequently, he bent over the prone figure to take up his meticulous investigation of the bleeding gashes and spreading bruises once more.

When he was finally satisfied that the one he had cherished and dreaded all his life was not dying, Fëanor lifted Fingolfin into his arms and turned to the hazy silhouette of finely wrought towers in the distance.

He had not been in the city for too long, he now understood, and it was time to make amends for the hurt he had caused the very people he had believed to protect by pre-emptively removing his intolerable person and his burning passion before they could harm those, he held most dear.

"I am home now," he whispered fervently, kissing Fingolfin's brow tenderly. "You are safe! Rest now, brave son of Finwë, you've done well, and the day is ours."

“Does this mean you are my enemy no more?”

Fëanor recognised the tell-tale shiver in the other’s voice —Fingolfin had always betrayed his hope and affection by the subtle, involuntary shifts in his inflexion—and smiled.

“I never have been, dearest, but I admit that I let you believe that for fear of what else I could be to you,” he then replied, tightening his tender hold on the weakened body cradled in his arms.

“As you’re everything to me,” Fingolfin sighed dreamily, “you might be my enemy as well.”

“Right now, I am your minder, and you are tired and hurt. Shut up and rest—when you awake, you shall be lying in your own bed.”

“Will you be there?” There it was again, that thrum as of a bow being readied for the fatal shot.

“I promise,” Fëanor said, feeling the cold, hard head of the arrow burrow deep into his heart.

@fellowshipofthefics: Here's the second for this month!!!

Thank you, @ettelene for this lovely prompt!

I am struggling both physically and mentally right now, so I'll be slow in posting, but I have written (or at least gotten a first draft) of all the requests I've gotten so far!

#og post #FOTFICS AU-gust #fotfics august challenge #FëaÑolo #Fëanor x Fingolfin #enemies to lovers #I didn't know you cared #IDNMT writes #fanfiction #writing #tolkien writing #jrrt

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