#She's my wife now

[lamemaster]

Feanor's Wife

Request: @lamemaster Hiiiii I literally love you so much 🤌🏻can we please get a Nerdanel fic? Pleaseeeeee

Genre: Fluff

Pairing: Nerdanel x gn Reader

AN: I sort of need this every few months

Summary: "You cannot love Fëanor's wife," she hisses. "She does not want that. She needs a friend. Not a lover. And if you cannot give her that, then leave. Leave."

"You have lost your mind," Indis exclaims, throwing her fan at you. "You truly have!" She frantically downs her wine in one swift motion, her composure fraying.

You look out the open window, your gaze falling on the shimmering city of Tirion below. The beauty of it offers no solace, only amplifying the storm inside you.

Getting up with a sharp rustle of fabric, Indis strides across the room to close the window with an audible snap. She turns to you, gripping your face in her hands, her voice low and urgent.

"You cannot love Fëanor's wife," she hisses. "She does not want that. She needs a friend. Not a lover. And if you cannot give her that, then leave. Leave."

Her words pierce you deeply. Yes, a friend. That is what you are meant to be. A comforting presence, a steady shoulder. That is what Nerdanel needs.

"I know," you whisper, your voice cracking as you bite into the torn skin of a cuticle, further tearing the skin. An unconscious act of anxious fidgeting.

Indis sighs heavily, the weight of your grief reflected in her troubled eyes. Without another word, she wraps her arms around you. "I'm sorry," Your elder sister sighs her heart troubled by your grief.

But that wasn’t what you had planned. Not what you imagined at all.

Your thoughts spiral as your lips are suddenly captured by hers. Nerdanel’s kiss. Desperate, fiery, and unstoppable. It shatters everything.

It is a mess. Broken shards of glass at her feet. Tear-streaked cheeks. Panicked breaths, trembling and raw in her chest. No, this wasn’t how you imagined it.

By the Valar, Indis was going to kill you.

But your sanity, the prudent voices in your mind, all fall silent against the overwhelming reality: Nerdanel is kissing you. Illúvatar above she is kissing you.

She pushes you against the kitchen cabinet, her hands tangled in your hair, tugging with a familiarity you never thought she’d dare share with you. She kissed like she did everything else with passion, fervor, and the ease of mastery you had yet to learn.

Your breath hitches as your eye catches the glass shards next to her feet. With effort, you switch places, reversing your positions and carefully keeping her away from the danger. One arm wraps around her back, sparing her the hard edge of the counter, while your other hand lifts to cup her tear-damp cheek.

Her eyes blink open, and for a moment, she looks at you. Truly sees you.

You brace yourself for the realization to dawn on her. For the grief to surge back, for her to remember that you are not him.

You are not Fëanor.

Despite the silvery-gray eyes you share with him, your hair is golden, your presence so unlike his. She would see it, surely she would.

But you are robbed of the moment. Nerdanel leans into you, burying her face into your shoulder. Her body falls limp in your arms, not out of collapse, but surrender.

Perturbed, you lift a hand to check her pulse, only for her to swat it away with the faintest annoyance. “I’m not dead,” she mutters, her voice hoarse but steady.

It had all happened so quickly.

One moment, you had been perched on the counter, calmly deshelling peas as Nerdanel wiped the kitchen surfaces in her quiet, methodical way. The next, she was on the floor, a glass carafe shattered around her, the fragments sparkling like stars against the cold stone.

And then, it had come unleashed.

Sorrow, dense and suffocating, like storm clouds heavy with thunder.

You crouched beside her instinctively, your hands gentle as you pulled her into your arms. She didn’t resist. She clung to you, her grief spilling out in broken sobs that shook her frame.

What memory had the carafe unearthed? What thread of her past had snapped to pull her under? You could not know, and you would not ask. Some things were too fragile to touch.

So you held her.

You held her the way you had held others in the past, Indis in her quiet mourning, Anairë in her despair, Arafinwë in his rare moments of doubt. Even Amras once, though that had been a strange, fleeting encounter.

Your hands moved instinctively, running through her auburn hair, soothing her as best you could. You were already planning how to move her to her bed, imagining the quiet reassurance you would offer as she drifted into another restless sleep.

But then, with a sudden, fluid motion, Nerdanel’s lips found yours.

It was not tentative. It was not careful. It was full of urgency, of need, of raw, unfiltered emotion.

And you? You complied. Without hesitation, without resistance, you kissed her back.

Your arms tightened around her, your response wordless but clear: yes.

So much for being a friend.

You were meant to be her steady rock, her comforting presence, her platonic solace. But Nerdanel had torn through those boundaries, and you could not deny her. Never.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, Indis’ voice echoes like a warning: You cannot love Fëanor’s wife.

But here, in Nerdanel’s arms, her lips on yours, those words feel a world away. And for the first time, you wonder if you even care.

Because this is Nerdanel, who is not just Feanor's wife.

You hold her as you always do, murmuring soft reassurances, your hands threading through her hair with careful precision. You are steady. Solid. Everything she is not.

And it is too much.

You’re not him.

Even now, in the haze of her emotions, she knows it. She doesn’t need the physical reminders. The golden hair instead of black, the softer touch where his hands were calloused. She knows you’re not Fëanor because she has grieved him, and continues to do so. 

Nerdanel hadn’t planned on this.

It was supposed to be simple cooking, cleaning, filling the silence of her life with manageable distractions. She was supposed to find comfort in your presence, not complicate it.

But when she looked up from the shattered carafe and saw the way you knelt beside her, she felt something shift.

For years, she had carried her grief like a second skin, folding it neatly into the corners of her life where no one could touch it. With you, it all came undone.

She doesn’t know what prompted her to kiss you. Perhaps it was the way your hands soothed her hair without hesitation, or the warmth of your arms when she felt herself drowning. Or maybe it was the unbearable thought of losing someone else, someone who looked at her as though she still mattered.

But now, her mind churns with guilt. She doesn’t know how to take it back, how to undo the kiss without shattering everything.

Her hands tremble as she pulls away completely, stepping back from the kitchen counter. Her breath is uneven, her voice barely a whisper. “I—”

You reach for her, your touch light but grounding. “Nerdanel,” you say, softly but firmly, and her name on your lips feels like both a comfort and a wound.

For a moment, she considers apologizing. She considers stepping back into the role she was meant to play the grieving widow, the dutiful friend. But the thought of pretending again makes her chest ache.

“I can’t,” she says finally, her voice breaking. “I can’t keep doing this.” She gestures vaguely to the kitchen, the shattered glass, herself. “I don’t know how to carry it anymore.”

You don’t respond right away, but your expression is steady, patient. It’s the quiet reassurance she has always taken for granted.

When you step forward, gently cupping her face with your hand, she lets herself lean into the touch.

“You don’t have to carry it alone,” you say simply.

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