#finarfin/feanor

[maironsbigboobs]

For @silmsmutexchange I wrote a little piece of Arafinwë being a dreadful tease, Fëanor being a dashing knight, and Finwë being completely oblivious.

For @a-world-of-whimsy-5 🥰

Favoured

E, 3.6k, Fëanor/Finarfin. No Archive Warnings

Additional tags: Half Sibling Incest, Medieval AU, Jousting, Secret Relationships

Arafinwë provides his brother with some motivation to win a joust.

“Leave us, Netiltamo.”

The silken voice of his brother interrupted the clanking as Netiltamo struggled with the armour. His squire was still a boy, and neither strong nor tall enough to properly help Fëanor into his armour. He would not have taken him on if Maedhros had not reached an age to have squires of his own, and Nerdanel had not insisted on it - he was some cousin of hers, and for her alone would he do such favours.

He hovered hesitantly, looking between the princes. Fëanor rolled his eyes. “You heard him, boy. Go and prepare my horse. I trust you know how?”

“Yes, my lord.” He bowed hurriedly, first to Fëanor and then Arafinwë, and then all but fled from the room. Arafinwë's laugh was smooth and sweet as honey.

“I am surprised you keep him, brother.” Without Fëanor’s asking, he pulled on the strap of his breastplate, strength behind slender fingers. “You were never the type to suffer incompetence.”

His youngest brother had always been a mystery to him. Sent away as a ward as a boy, Fëanor recalled he had gone from infant to man in what seemed like an instant - and what a man he had become, willowy and golden and always arrayed in riches. His wife’s riches.

Fëanor’s heart grew cold. Since Arafinwë's wedding almost a year ago, they had not been alone together. His brother was likely no longer interested in their game - and yet, here he was, tightening the straps of the armour, and his fingers seemed to seek any small inch of exposed skin. Fëanor frowned. He disliked how Arafinwë toyed with his words; he never said what he was thinking, and Fëanor, usually so sharp, always found it hard to perceive his mind.

“Why have you come, Arafinwë?”

“Why do you think I have come?”

“I do not know.” Envy sparked. Why did he think Arafinwë had come? What kind of a question was that - how was he to know his brother’s thoughts, when he had so suddenly declared he was to be married, and left Fëanor cold? “Why should you come to me, when you have a wife now, and by all accounts you have hardly left her side since your wedding day. No doubt she gives you something you enjoy far more than my company, since I have not even had a letter, never mind an invitation to Alqualondë.”

Arafinwë's pale eyes had darkened, and his laugh was husky. “Your envy compels me so, brother. Fear not. You are not forgotten.” His hand cupped Fëanor’s cheek, brushing his thumb over the arch. “They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, but mine has grown... hungrier. I wondered if you still thought of me. Of us.”

He held his face still, leaning close. Fëanor could smell his expensive perfume, crisp and fresh as the sea air. His lips were pink, full - they were so close that Fëanor could see the faint wine stain on them.

“I have missed you. Of course I still desire you, Arafinwë. Your kisses haunt me.” Fëanor closed his eyes, leaning to kiss his brother sweetly.

But he found instead cold metal, as Arafinwë raised his helm, laughing. “Not here, brother. Anyone might see.”

“Is it not scandalous enough that you dismissed your squire so tersely?” Fëanor countered, flush with wounded pride. “There will be questions.”

“Questions?” Arafinwë laughed as he lifted the helm. “What questions should there be, of a man helping his brother prepare to joust.”

“You have a different kind of jousting on your mind.”

He set the helm on Fëanor’s head, and Fëanor lamented the loss of his touch. It had been too long since he had felt an intimate touch; Nerdanel devoted more time to her craft than their marital bed these days, and, after seven sons, he did not hold it against her - but as much as he still enjoyed her companionship, sometimes he still longed for more than his own hand.

“But if it is rumours you want, dearest brother, perhaps this will cause them.”

Arafinwë's long hair was bound into a crown with white ribbons, and with nimble fingers (and enough ease that Fëanor suspected this had been his intention all along) unthreaded one of the outermost ribbons. He pressed it first to his lips in a tender kiss, and then tied it around Fëanor’s upper arm.

He kissed the cold metal, but Fëanor would have sworn to all the gods that he felt the warmth of his lips through his armour. “A favour, for my princely champion.”

“You will raise Father’s eyebrows.” Fëanor thought of their father, seeing the white ribbon fluttering around his arm, and the conspicuous absence of it in Arafinwë's hair. A pity he would not see his expression from the field.

“Be serious, brother. He would simply be pleased we are, ah, how does he say it? Playing nicely.”

Fëanor laughed. Arafinwë was right; their father would overlook many transgressions if he could pretend his sons were getting along. Perhaps he already knew, and turned a blind eye to it. That would not surprise him.

“Now.” Arafinwë pressed another kiss to the cold metal over his cheek. “Win a golden laurel for me, my prince, and I will give you the sweetest prize.”

Then he was gone, without another word, the tent flap blowing the breeze behind him. Fëanor sighed, collecting himself before he followed. He had a tournament to win. As he followed his brother out of the tent, Netiltamo brought his horse over, and Fëanor led it to the waiting grounds while the young man struggled to carry his lance.

A lesser man than Fëanor might have found such stimulating thoughts a distraction, but as he mounted his horse and readied his lance, he felt only intense focus. He had dismissed this tournament initially as dull pageantry; now he had a reason to win.

The first joust was easy, against an adolescent grandson of Ingwë. It took only a single round to knock him off his horse, to wild applause. He glanced at the royal box and smiled beneath his helm.

Arafinwë was there, and over the field their eyes met. Arafinwë lifted his drink to his lips, taking a long, slow drink, and as he lowered the goblet Fëanor could see the drops of purple wine still on his lips. Never breaking eye contact, he watched his brother’s pink tongue dart out and lick the drops.

Wretched man. He gripped the lance tightly. He could not afford to lose focus. If Arafinwë’s taunting led to his defeat, his brother would be insufferable.

He waited as the rounds continued, defeating another three knights with relative ease. His mind kept turning back to Arafinwë, and the prize he had promised if he won. It made it easy to drown out the rest of the rounds - he had never found watching as entertaining as competing.

Finally, it came down to him, and one other competitor.

Across the field, his next opponent — a pale haired Telerin man, with a trio of pink seashells painted on his breastplate — was having his saddle adjusted. The man had already proven himself in the earlier jousts, unseating two princes and a lord’s son in the preceding rounds.

But Fëanor was certain he would be his match. The white ribbon on his arm fluttered in the breeze, fueling his confidence. He looked over at the royal box again. His father was leaning forward, gripping the edge of the box. Arafinwë was relaxed, whispering in his wife’s ear.

Once more, envy twisted in his gut. How unfair, that she could touch him how she pleased, kiss him when she desired, how she could demand his fidelity. He could do all those things better, in her place, and yet Arafinwë was there mooning over her like he had not taunted Fëanor only an hour ago.

A horn’s sharp call. Fëanor snapped back to attention.

A second call, and then the sound of thundering hooves as both knights charged. Fëanor’s lance was steady in his grip, his eyes sharp as flint beneath the gleam of his helm.

The impact came hard and fast. Fëanor felt the jarring shudder of his lance as it struck true against his opponent’s shield, but the angle was wrong, too steep, the blow too glancing. The lance splintered, shards of painted wood scattering like embers into the air.

He reined in his horse sharply, tossing the shattered haft of his lance aside with a casual flick of his wrist. His squire darted forward to offer another, but Fëanor did not take it straight away.

Instead, he looked again to the royal box. He could not see Arafinwë at first. Then he emerged from behind a curtain, flushed with the wind, or perhaps the wine. Eärwen was still beside him. Fëanor reached up and felt the smoothness of the ribbon between his fingers, and thought of Arafinwë’s tender kiss, of the sweetness victory would bring.

He took his lance and faced the field again.

The second pass was faster, more brutal. Fëanor’s new lance struck the knight’s breastplate with enough force to crack the painted design that adorned it, like splitting open the middle seashell. The blow sent the other knight reeling, his balance faltering, but he managed to stay astride. Fëanor felt the force of the other knight’s lance against his shield, the impact ringing through his arm like a hammer strike. It would ache for days afterwards, but in the moment the pain was meaningless. The winner’s laurel was all that mattered now.

He swung his horse around for the third turn, another fresh lance hurriedly pressed into his hands. He did not look at his brother, or anyone else. He could not afford a lapse of focus.

As the third horn blew, Fëanor’s horse leapt forward, the knight’s heels driving it to almost reckless speed. His lance was steady this time, his aim true, and as they closed the distance, he adjusted at the last possible moment, shifting the angle ever so slightly.

The Teleri knight’s lance came forward—but Fëanor was faster, stronger, spurred on by the thought that Arafinwë was watching. The tip struck his opponent’s shield with an almighty crack, the sheer force of it ripping the shield from the knight’s arm. Fëanor drove the lance upwards, catching his opponent square in the chest.

The knight toppled, his horse rearing in protest as he crashed to the ground with the sound of clattering steel.

Fëanor reined his stallion to a halt, lowering his lance slowly as he turned to regard his fallen foe. The knight was being helped to his feet by his squire, his helm askew and his pride in tatters. Fëanor grinned.

I must ask Arafinwë to compete next time. He would take deep pleasure in seeing him sprawled in the dirt.

The crowd erupted. He could see his father cheering, even his stepmother clapping from her seat. But as he approached the box to take his victor’s laurel, he only had eyes for Arafinwë. By the gods, he looked beautiful there, cheering and laughing. Fëanor was seized by the urge to kiss him.

In another life, it would be Arafinwë he knelt before, hair tumbling in inky waves down his back as he tucked his helm under his arm. It would be Arafinwë’s delicate hands that placed the golden laurel on his head, not the Queen’s. It would be Arafinwë’s honeyed voice that declared him the victor.

But that life could not be. Fëanor rose to the crowd’s raucous applause, tall and proud. His father clapped him on the shoulder, his hand just above the white ribbon. If he thought anything of it, he said nothing, but Fëanor was certain his gaze lingered on it a moment too long.

“Congratulations, my son!” Finwë beamed, “An excellent performance, as ever! You had even Arafinwë on the edge of his seat, and you know how he finds jousting dull.”

“My brother wields his lance so boldly,” Arafinwë said, dryly. “I found myself trembling with excitement.”

“See, he even admits it.” Finwë did not seem to find his comment strange, only laughing. “Go and get yourself out of this dusty armour, son, and then we can truly celebrate! Steward! Bring out the best wine!”

Fëanor bowed his head to his father, and, with a pointed glance at Arafinwë, excused himself to his tent.

It was warm in there, and he discarded his helm, shaking out his hair. The silence felt heavy, the outside world muffled by the fabric walls.

“There is my bold and shining knight.”

Arafinwë had slipped in behind him, and now pressed himself to Fëanor’s back, his arms slipping around his waist. Fëanor heard the click of a buckle, and then felt his greaves fall away and clatter to the fall. So much for silence.

“You rode so well today.” Arafinwë laughed as he continued to strip Fëanor of his armour. “If only I were a horse.”

Fëanor was silent, drinking in Arafinwë’s words. Desire consumed him; it burned like flame in his gut, turning him to ash from the inside out. Twisted desire, almost sickening in its strength, for his own brother. It was a force he reckoned with every time he saw Arafinwë, since that first stolen kiss. Sometimes, on lonely nights, he entertained the fantasy of taking his brother to wife and keeping him, adorned in naught but gold, away from the sight and scorn of other men. It had only ever been a dream, and yet now it felt more impossible than ever, with Arafinwë wed and far away. It only made the desire burn hotter.

His brother turned to stand before him inside, pressing a feather light kiss to the curve of Fëanor’s jaw. Pulled back into the present, Fëanor smiled, cupping his cheek. Oh, how he longed to devour him.

“We will be heard here. There are people just outside.”

“You had best stay quiet, then, if you want to enjoy your prize.” Arvo sank down to his knees, elegant as ever. With deft fingers, he freed Fëanor’s cock from his breeches, curling his hand around the girth of it. “I know that is a challenge for you, brother.”

“You have such an attitude today, brother.” Fëanor sighed, soft and content, as Arafinwë took him in his mouth. It was blissful; the warm, soft heat of Arafinwë’s mouth around his cock, and it took all his willpower not to spill there and then.

Arafinwë did not make it easy for him. What he could not fit in his mouth he stroked with a feather light touch. As he pulled back to catch his breath, he teased the head of his cock with his tongue, flicking over the silt, looking up at Fëanor as if daring him to lose control.

“If you are trying to impress me, you will have to try harder.”

Arafinwë said nothing, but took that as a challenge, sinking down on his cock until he gagged, coughing around him - but he did not stop, only slowing, until his nose was pressed against the soft curls at the base of his cock. Fëanor studied him - Arafinwë’s eyes closed, his cheeks hollowed, the watery tears on his lashes.

“This is what you were made for, brother. Forget your diplomacies and paintbrushes; you were born to swallow my cock.”

He felt Arafinwë moan around him, the vibrations sending a piercing bolt of desire through him. Since this was his prize, he let Arafinwë do the work, as he slowly bobbed his head back and forth, laving his cock with his tongue as he did, and raising one long fingered, graceful hand to stroke his balls, knowing exactly how Fëanor liked to be touched.

“Perfect, little prize. You are wonderful.” he praised, closing his eyes and relaxing, his cock twitching in Arafinwë’s mouth. As much as he wanted this to last, the thought of forcing his brother to swallow his seed was deeply appealing. “Take all of it, brother, you are a perfect royal slut.”

Arvo sat back on his haunches. His lips were pink and swollen. Fëanor's cock throbbed at the sight, but he scowled, disappointed at losing the heat of his mouth.

“You talk too much.” Arafinwë’s gaze was overflowing with desire. Fëanor knew what he was pushing for - and, well, he saw no reason to deny him today.

“Brat.” Fëanor hauled him up the collar of his shirt, shoving him against the table. It rattled dangerously, but for now it would hold firm. “You are fortunate I do not have the patience to teach you a lesson.”

As Arafinwë laughed, Fëanor pulled down his trousers and pushed up his long tunic, running his hand over the smooth skin of his ass. Even (especially!) here, Arafinwë was beautiful.

He slipped his fingers to his hole, thinking of how best to tease him, when he found Arafinwë had already thought ahead. His fingers came away slick.

“Whore. When did you do this?”

“While you were jousting.” Arafinwë’s face was pink, and Fëanor noted with pride how lust had turned his pale eyes to deep sapphire. “‘Twas Eärwen's idea.”

If he had been of a clearer mind, he might have questioned that further. But as it stood, he knew they had little time, and his lust threatened to overwhelm him - besides, he wanted Arafinwë thinking of him, not his wife.

“Please, brother.” Arafinwë moaned as Fëanor ran his finger over the rim of his hole, just barely slipping two of them inside. Arafinwë squirmed.

“Now who is making too much noise?” Fëanor taunted, but he gave in, burying himself deep within Arafinwë. For a moment, all was still - there was nothing in the world but the two of them and the ecstasy of their union - Arafinwë seemed made for him, drawing him in, welcoming him. Fëanor leaned over him, smothering his body with his own weight. The movement elicited another needy groan, louder and more desperate.

“Perhaps you need some help keeping quiet.” His gaze landed on the ribbon on the floor. Fëanor withdrew, leaving Arafinwë whining at the emptiness, and retrieved it, running the silk through his fingers.

“Hush now, Arafinwë.” He balled up the ribbon and shoved it into his mouth. Arafinwë glared at him, but the indignant noise he made was well muffled. Much better.

With a single rapid thrust, he was inside him again, and Arafinwë’s head lolled against the table as he rocked his hips back to meet each of Fëanor's thrusts. He fucked him hungrily, nails digging into his hips where he held him, the only sound in the room his soft panting, Arafinwë’s muffled moans, and the slick sound of flesh on flesh. He had intended to draw it out, savour Arafinwë’s body, but the intensity of his lust consumed him, chasing all thoughts from his mind except his desire.

Arafinwë was no less eager. Fëanor watched him, clumsy in the haze of arousal, slip his hand between his legs to relieve the burning need for touch, watched his head press against the desk in an effort not to cry out. Fëanor chased his climax, pounding ever more fiercely into Arafinwë’s pliant body.

Arafinwë gave a muffled cry of his name and arched, every muscle of his body tight and clenched. He was beautiful as he climaxed, nails scrabbling for purchase on the desk - if he were ever to paint a portrait of Arafinwë, it would be in a moment like this.

Fëanor could hold back no longer. He fucked Arafinwë through his climax, leaving him limp and whimpering, until the pressure building in his gut reached a breaking point, and he spilled inside him with a long, drawn out groan, biting his own sleeve to silence it.

Panting, he leaned down, savouring the comforting feeling of being inside his brother until he became too sensitive. He pulled out, then kissed his shoulder softly before gently taking the ribbon from his mouth. Arafinwë grinned lazily at him.

“You’ve made a mess of me, brother.”

“It is never your fault, is it, Arafinwë?” Fëanor snorted, retrieving one of the rags used to polish armour, and wiping himself with it. Ever the gentleman (or, at least one in his own mind) he cleaned his brother up too, before casting the rag aside. Not the best solution, but there was something tantalising knowing that Arafinwë would return to the celebrations with the evidence of their deed still inside him.

Arafinwë laughed, standing up and fixing his clothes. Thankfully, his tunic was long and thick enough to hide anything suspicious, and Fëanor was beginning to suspect that Eärwen would not be questioning him about it - or rather, her questions would be of quite a different nature. Perhaps he had been hasty in writing her off as just a pretty, young, princess.

“Thank you, brother, for the reunion. I had truly missed you dearly in Alqualondë.” Arafinwë checked his reflection in a polished shield, tucking in some loose strands of hair. “I must invite you to come and stay with us there at some point. I am sure Eärwen will be thrilled to host you.”

He did not wait for an answer, slipping out of the tent and disappearing.

Fëanor looked down at himself. While he was sure his father would sing his praises even if he turned up in his sweat-soaked tunic, he decided it was not quite fitting of the tournament’s victor, and turned to his trunk to change, the golden laurel still gleaming on his head.

Some prizes could impress even a prince.

[syrosaur]

[whorefindel]

being a silmarillion fan is looking at a piece of fanart featuring forty different elves who all have the same shade of either black or gold hair and instantly being able to tell by their vibe who is who and which finwhatever is which

[catsandcatci]

had a revelation

[juleisdrawing]

sons of Finwë

[mandhos]

[kudriaken]

Finwe`s family.

[sakasakiii]

morning routines ft. the firstborn sons and their parents (who turned out WAY more lovey dovey than i intended omg)... i was inspired by this cute art from @/Worvies on twitter and decided to use it as a chance to draw how locked in i think they'd be when it comes to getting ready in the morning HAHAHA

in terms of who wakes up earliest to latest i think it'd go: fingolfin -> finrod -> nerdanel -> earwen -> feanor -> maedhros -> anaire -> fingon -> finarfin !!! i also never thought abt it before but. elves with makeup!!! i wonder what the various trends in valinor would be and how long theyd last....

[nailsinmywall]

sons of finwë during the years of the trees

[inthehouseoffinwe]

Fëanor, Fingolfin, and Finarfin loved all their nephews and nieces I take no argument. They showed it in different ways, but there were never any malicious thoughts towards them.

Any competition they had was between each other (though Finarfin was very much youngest sibling literally cba to deal with his older brothers.)

Fëanor: Always has too much food, used to his kids bringing over their respective favourite cousin for a meal because they were out playing too late and he’s not exactly going to send a child home hungry. As they got older it was because they’d been out and this was the closest place to disappear away to and crash. He’s used to seeing various kids sprawled across the carpet in the living room, waking up with headaches and groans. He’ll never admit it, but he finds it hilarious and enjoys seeing the children happy. If his brothers ask? ‘What do you mean they were out, I’ve had your children here with me all night.’

Fingolfin: One day I’ll stop linking this post but I really like how it turned out so you get to see it again! Fingolfin happily lets them traverse his house, go through his belongings. He’s very much a partner in crime, helping them sneak around, acting as lookout. Pretending not to see a majority of sweet pasties disappear overnight. He lives closest to the busy parts of the city, so it’s not unusual for the kids to get ready at his house if they’re going out anywhere or even preparing for Court. Most of the kids have their own shared room, and they’re full to the brim of everyone’s clothes, jewellery, shoes. Essentially a whole wardrobe. It gets messy, but he loves seeing his house full of life. Even if he could do without the mess Tyeko and Iressë bring in… and the various musicals at 3am. ‘You know we never tire of having you here… but perhaps you could tone down the partying? Just a little?’ He wouldn’t have it any other way.

Finarfin: My guy ofc has his house by the sea which like Fingolfin’s, has many many rooms full to the brim with clothes and jewellery. It’s essentially a home away from home for his niece and nephews, they don’t have to pack because everything’s already there. As youngest uncle and closest in age, he’ll just so happen to tell the kids where to have fun. He had the least pressure on him growing up and knows the best places in Tirion and Alqualondë. Going to Finarfin’s is like going on holiday, he’ll back them up and make sure they can do what they want without worrying about their reputations as princes and princesses. ‘The kids are far too stressed and don’t get to come here often, brothers. Let them have their fun. I’ll take care of them.’

Bonus!

Finwë: The mastermind. The accomplice. The alibi. He has a wild side to him born in Cuivienen and honed over the Great Journey. Court life is too stuffy even for him sometimes, let alone his grandchildren. He’s the one telling them all the wild things he got up to in his youth with a wink at the end subtly telling them how to do things their parents definitely would not approve of. High King Finwë would never! High King Finwë definitely would, and he’s making sure his grandkids get the experience too. He’s the one who gets the parents to leave for weeks at a time and his grandchildren have the time of their lives. ‘My sons, you worry too much! Don’t you trust your father?’

[sesamenom]

o monstrous craven lord

[tolkien-povs]

Things the Finwëans have definitely said about other Finwëans, PT 1:

Angrod: Caranthir? More like "Crack-anthir".

Fingolfin: Curufinwë isn't even salty at this point. He's just upgraded to "ocean cocaine" now, which probably isn't something I should be joking about because he'd invent it.

Finarfin, seeing Finrod as a newborn fresh from the womb: My Eru, he clearly doesn't have my genes!

Finrod: You see, Tyelkormo is a nice person at heart. You just have to... force yourself to see the good in him. Like, just peel the layers of his heart until you're left with nothing.

Celegorm: Arkáno? Who's he, some spawn of Uncle Nolofinwë?

Aredhel: Oh, Artanis? Well, yeah, when you see her, she's all about fire and swords and stuff, but really, she's about fire and sparkly dresses.

Turgon: Circles? I love circles, especially circle theorems! ...Oh, we're talking about family trees?

Fëanáro: Irissë is the daughter I never had. And no, I did not kidnap her when she was a child, despite everything her father may say.

Caranthir: Last night, I dreamt that Artarestro had me arrested for tax-evasion, which is funny because I never pay taxes.

Galadriel: When I found out that Kanafinwe actually survived, I was surprised. Mainly because I expected him to die.

Elrond: When I came to Valinor, I was shocked when I saw my family. But that's because I expected them to be in the Void.

Maedhros: One thing I hate about being the eldest is that everyone assumes I order the babies around. I do not. The babies order me around.

[xiphoid-processing]

Noldorin family trees again bc its been like. 2 years and ive changed everything

design notes below readmore

-originally wanted finwe to be very blue bc of the color coding w miriel and indis, and then their children ie: Fëanor wearing red bc he's Míriel's son, Fingolfin wearing blue bc he's Finwë's son, and Finarfin wearing green bc he's Indis' son. scrapped it bc he looks good in white and gold but the idea stuck around with the silver n gold

-little gemstones on Finwë's headdress are red and green for his wives. similarly Fëanor's are only red for his mother

-Finarfin wears a more vanyarin style compared to his siblings, aside from Lalwen but her style is also like. noldorinized

-the different clans of elves have different resting positions for their ears! the vanyar have theirs almost straight up, the noldor have the classic kinda-up, and the teleri have theirs parallel to the ground

-thr large headdresses Finwë, Fëanor, Fingolfin, Maedhros, Curufin, and Fingon wear are like noldorin royalty stuff for eldest sons/heirs. While i do think Maedhros is Fëanor's heir i do think some favoritism let Curufin wear one too. i dont think i need to explain why Curufin's looks so similar to Fëanor's

-fingolfins headdress is meant to resemble the sun bc he's the first High King under the Sun and Moon

-the nose ring that some of them have is a Vanyarin style indicating that they are married

-Maedhros and Fingon have similar headdreses bc i think it would have pissed tf out of their fathers. also i think its funny

-Nerdanel and Anairë are noldor, but to me they are from noldorin minorities which have slightly differing cultures frm the majority which is why their clothing is slightly different

-that boob window thing Nerdanel, Maedhros, and Celegorm have are specific and iconic to the Aulendil

-Maglor is channeling Míriel’s clothing style here, which although might come off as a bit feminine is not. i dont think elves would be very strict abt that kinda stuff

-Míriel and Celegorm have albinism

-the Ambarussa aren't quite identical and i think they have very dif personalities and styles. to me. Amras (short hair) is more mainstream noldorin while Amrod is more of their mothers style

-while he and his siblings r very noldorin in style, Argon is channeling his mothers style more than the majority

-the mark on Eärwen and her children's lower lips are a coming of age kinda thing. dont ask me how they get those vibrant colors bc i dont know

-the gold on Eärwen’s headscarf is meant to resemble fishing nets

-each of Finarfin and Eärwen’s children channel a dif. part of their heritage in their clothing--Finrod is a noldorinized vanyarin style, Angrod and Aegnor are different kinds of Telerin, and Galadriel is Noldorin

-the like. shark tooth necklaces that Angrod and Aegnor have is a symbol of being an accomplished fisherman

-everyone born in Valinor has light in the center of their eyes which correspond to the light of the trees they were born under. this doesnt really matter and you cant really see it but its important to me that you know

-on that note, Finarfin has both lights in his eyes bc he was born during the mingling. bc i can do whatever i want

[doodle-pops]

Okay, so I've been thinking:

You know the Dom-Elves? What would happen if S/O managed to get them tied up, and overstimulated? Like, can they even be overstimulated? What if S/O makes them cum so many times, would they even beg for her to let them have a break?

I apologise if NSFW isn't allowed, but this has been a burning question in my mind, lol. No need to answer if it makes you uncomfortable, or goes against the reactions for this month.

A/N: There’s nothing against NSFW content on my blog :)

For hard!dom elves…

— Feanor, CELEGORM, Caranthir, CURUFIN, Fingolfin, Turgon, ECTHELION, Maeglin, Gil-Galad, THINGOL

For soft!dom elves…

— Maedhros, Celebrimbor, FINGON, Argon, FINARFIN, FINROD, Angrod, Aegnor, GLORFINDEL, Egalmoth, BELEG, Rog, Elrond, Elladan, Elrohir

Overall, both groups would have a moment in their mind of wanting payback for allowing you to have your way. A bit of regret deep down, because “this was not what I had in mind when I said have it your way.” Elves can become overstimulated, so yes, they will feel the mixture of pain and pleasure, causing a few to beg you to release your hold on them. While some would rip free of the restraints, and others would sit back and plot for your turn.

Begging for release…

— FEANOR, Maedhros, Celebrimbor, FINGON, Finrod, AEGNOR, MAEGLIN, Beleg, Elrond

Rip free of restraints…

— CELEGORM, Argon, ANGROD, EGALMOTH, THINGOL, Beleg,GIL-GALAD, Elladan

Silently plotting…

— MAEDHROS, Caranthir, CURUFIN, Fingolfin, TURGON, Finarfin, Finrod, GLORFINDEL, Rog, Elrohir

[psstwantsomecheese]

Finarfin will usually remain neutral whenever Feanor and Fingolfin get into dumb arguments but since music is an important part of Eldar culture and all three of them happen to have sons that are really talented harpists I like to think it's one of the only true petty rivalries that Finarfin allows himself to indulge in because

1. Eh it's not killing anyone

2. Get some really good bangers out of it

3. Fuck you Kano wishes he could play as well as my Findarato

[erendur]

The Gil-Galad choice

You know the Peredhil choice ?

Well, let's imagine that in light of a. his dubious parentage (somebody somewhere must know the truth, but they won't tell) and b. his long and honourable service as High King of the Noldor and also c. his heroic deeds, a reembodied Gil-Galad is also given a choice : he gets to choose to which branch of the Finwean family he is going to officially belong.

So one sunny day in Tirion (they are all sunny, it's Valinor and it's boring, but they have chosen that particular day so), all assemble in the grand public square in the middle of the city, in which Prince Fëanáro had once memorably threatened his brother Prince Ñolofinwë with a sword and on another occasion called the Noldor to rebellion and also sworn an Oath (nothing much happened there after that), to hear the head of each of the three Houses of the Sons of King Finwë present to Gil-Galad their arguments as to why he should chose them.

The current King of the Noldor, Arafinwë, goes first.

He is feeling a bit light-headed and jittery, because the poor guy has been in charge of what was left of the Noldor after the departure of the exiles, had to manage the de-Fëanárification process (see there), the tense relations with the Vanyar (while being himself part-Vanyar - awkward), the even more tense relations with the Falmari (his wife is a Falmar - awkward doesn't even start to cover it), and as if that wasn't enough has also had to manage the thickening stream of reembodied Noldor coming back to Valinor over the centuries - and these guys range from the frankly annoying (won't shut up about their war exploits, sing inappropriate songs in public, have adopted weird, Avarin/Mannish ways) to the downright terrifying (you'd think the reembodied Fëanorians and you wouldn't be wrong, but Arafinwë is particularly appalled by the crazed look in the eyes of some of his son Finrod's followers).

In short, the only reason why Arafinwë hasn't had a burn-out yet is because it's technically impossible in Valinor, and his body is betraying him by holding on. He sees a vague window of opportunity there : maybe Gil-Galad will want the crown ???? And will manage the Noldor for him ??? After all a lot of the recent arrivals are his people !!!! And Arafinwë can take his wife to the sea-side (away from any Falmari settlement) and have a good 500 (Valian)year-long nap !!!!!

"Oh, wise Gil-Galad, the echoes of your wisdom and of your proud and determined leadership of our people have of course made their way to us..." Arafinwë starts.

Gil-Galad immediately takes three steps back. He knows the over-eager look in Arafinwë's eye. He's been fooled once. He won't be fooled twice. He is staying the hell out of crown-throwing distance.

"And, er, I would be honoured and proud to count you as a member of my House, where your, er, wise advice ? Would be most appreciated", Arafinwë keeps plodding on, the light in his eyes going progressively duller and duller as Gil-Galad's gaze remains stubbornly fixed somewhere in the general distance and his facial expression carefully arranged in a polite not-on-your-life expression.

"My son Felagund and his wife Amarië would be most eager to welcome you among us as well", here Arafinwë points in the general direction of what looks like a tall mound of golden hair and jewellery, topped with a couple of live snakes, that on closer inspection reveals itself to be a smiling Findaráto.

He waves enthusiastically in the direction of Gil-Galad. His equally golden-haired and bejewelled wife does the same. They both wear late-Númenorean fashion (as in, the latest in Númenorean fashion before the boats stopped going there) which, to Valinorean eyes, make them look like the equivalent of pot-smoking hippies, but their friendly appearance is canceled out by the feral looks of Felagund's followers, all of them dressed in some form of forest/jungle tactical camouflage, some with added wolf pelts, others with live poison-dart frogs jumping on their shoulders (and hair accessories that look suspiciously like darts), and with facial expressions worthy of later-stages Fëanorians (they've seen the darkness. They liked it). Gil-Galad waves back weakly.

"And, er, you might also have heard of my sons Angaráto and Aikanáro ?" Arafinwë continues in an even more depressed voice than before.

Two buff-looking golden-haired Elves, one vaguely fiery-looking, wave in Gil-Galad's direction. They look nice and fierce but he has literally zero idea who they are. Still, he waves back a bit more enthusiastically. "And of course, you know well my daughter, Artanis", finishes Arafinwë, a bit more enthusiastically.

Gil-Galad gives a little shudder there. He does know her well indeed.

Arafinwë goes back to his seat, looking like he needs a nap more than ever. His wife gives him a sympathetic look. Looks like today is another day he won't manage to get rid of that damn crown.

Ñolofinwë stands up next.

He's a bit the worse for wear (for an Elf) because the night before was the Crossing of the Ice evening, a bi-weekly event during which veterans of the crossing of the Helcaraxë meet up to commemorate the crossing of the Ice (they trade anecdotes in a loud voice, sing in an even louder one, drink a lot and sometimes cross the ice over the Tirion river when they have managed to pester a Maia enough that they have conjured up some - not to be mistaken with the Dagor Aglareb night, a weekly event commemorating the Dagor Aglareb, during which they trade anecdotes in a loud voice, sing in an even louder one and drink a lot, or the Siege of Angband night, a weekly event commemorating the Siege of Angband, during which they trade anecdotes in a loud voice, sing in an even louder one and drink a lot - all of which celebrations end up in the small hours of the morning when a very tired-looking Arafinwë, cloak hastily thrown over his nightclothes, drags himself out of bed to politely ask them to go home). Ñolofinwë is very bored to have nothing much to do after having been High King for so long, and therefore consistently organises attends every single one of these celebrations.

"My dear chum", Ñolofinwë starts in a booming voice that fails to be entirely patronising only because it is still slightly hoarse from the recent celebrations, "I think you and I will see eye to eye. You know, of course, of my own paltry feats of arms."

Here Ñolofinwë stops to let off a short, self-deprecating laugh, which, like the word "chum", he thinks makes him look likeable and approachable by the common Noldorin soldier.

"How I lead my people through the dangers and harshness of the Helcaraxë, how I was unanimously chosen as the leader of my people, how I came up with the idea of, and maintained, the siege of Angband against impossible odds, how I and my people won the glorious Dagor Aglareb, how I personally challenged the Enemy in a single duel and gave him wounds from which he suffers to this day."

At that point almost every member of the assistance that is not a close personal follower of Ñolofinwë is rolling their eyes. Yes, he has been a very heroic Elf, but hearing about it non-stop for an entire Age and a half has kind of worn everybody's patience out (especially hearing about it sung at the top of some very drunk Elf-lords' lungs in the small hours of the morning).

Gil-Galad looks a bit taken aback by the familiarity of the tone (NO ONE has ever called him "chum" in his life before - and he's been patronised aplenty in the Second Age by the superb Númenorean descendants of Elros, the half-feral Peredhel whose education he'd thankfully considerably polished before he became the first King of Númenor).

"You've also heard, no doubt, about the deeds of my son, Findekáno, who would give you a warm welcome among our family and join his voice to mine to express how much in your environment a renowned warrior like you would be among us, if he could."

There's a slightly awkward silence there. Everybody knows that unlike his Father, Findekáno doesn't like to hear, and much less talk, about anything that happened in Beleriand, and furthermore suffers from severe agoraphobia due to the manner of his demise, hence his absence from the city square on that day.

"But my son Arakáno is here ! And you know of course of his deeds in Lammoth !"

A tall, dark-haired, stern-looking Elf nods slightly in Gil-Galad's direction. Never much one for smiling, he always looks particularly sour on the days after the bi-weekly Crossing the Ice celebrations, for some reason (his father has never managed to figure out why).

"And, er, my daughter Írissë is also...there", Ñolofinwë adds, a bit falteringly, his eyes scanning the crowd until they finally manage to locate his daughter - Oh, Eru - in the middle of the scant Fëanorian crowd, a smirk on her lips as she sits provocatively on her cousin Tyelkormo's lap, clad in her usual all-white hunting outfit.

She raises her eyebrows and waves at her father, then at Gil-Galad, who does his best not to stare. Oh, dear.

"And my son Turukáno has also made us the welcome surprise to get out of his house and join us today", adds Ñolofinwë acidly. "He is of course the grandfather of the hero Eärendil, as well as the great-grandfather of the first King of Númenor and, er, your former herald, Eirinion", he concludes with more warmth.

Gil-Galad waves at a slightly embarrassed-looking Turukáno, a tight smile on his lips. Elrond is of course his dearest, closest friend, and he has some fond memories of Elros of course, but both of them, and principally the former, are the main reason why his hair went prematurely silver, and responsible for enough headaches over the course of an Age that he had worry lines etched onto his face pre-reembodiment, and while he loves them very much he does not much fancy getting into an even closer relationship with them.

Ñolofinwë sits back down next to his wife, and it's now the turn of the Fëanorians to present their case. Of course, their very presence in the city square on that day has been frowned upon - they rarely leave their settlement of Formenos, much to everyone's delight, and the very idea that they could have a right to present their claim has raised many eyebrows. But they don't have peace and reconciliation processes and committees for nothing, and Manwë had ruled that they should have the right to present their case as well as the others.

It's a surprisingly sprightly-looking Maitimo that jumps to his feet to speak in the name of his House. His father, while reembodied, has been confined to an uninhabited region North of Formenos, where he lives alone with his wife (in between visits from their children and grandchild), who voluntarily decided to accompany him, and spends his days between working in his ever-sprawling forge and trying to convince his wife to have an eighth child (he is nowhere nearer to winning that argument than since he'd started it a few hundred years prior), and never comes to Tirion (Ñolofinwë is half-relieved, half-sad - and bored).

"Eirinion, I have been charged today by my brother Curufinwë, King of the Noldor of Formenos, to convey an invitation to come and reside there as a member of our family, which his official duties sadly prevent him from delivering in person." Maitimo smirks there.

The reason his brother Curufinwë, King of the Noldor of Formenos (the crown has be attributed on a "Oh, you wanted a crown, didn't you ??? Well, here's one ! Be my guest ! YOU are in charge of that troop of bloodthirsty crazy lunatics now !" basis) is unable to attend the meeting is because the Valar have strictly forbidden for the Noldor of Formenos (read : hardcore Fëanorians) to be left unattended at any time, and Curufinwë, as the one in charge, has therefore to remain there. He is also barred from public speaking. And the toilet in the public square of Formenos was clogged (it's part of his kingly duties to take care of it).

"Now, we might not have almost-met under the most auspicious of circumstances back in Beleriand. And the actions of my family and my faction have been indefensible," he pauses long enough to glare at the small group of Fëanorians at his back, daring them to make a protest. No one seems particularly inclined to.

"So of course, we don't have much to offer to tempt you to join us. What do we have, indeed ? A far-out of the way, small settlement, in which people mostly mind their own business. Nothing much to do there, except try on my father's latest inventions, which do not always work at the first try - it took him two goes to get the electricity working in the whole of Formenos, and that revolutionary de-greying hair product he invented was very underwhelming at first. I'm not going to lie, there is no chance that you would ever get any sort of political responsibilities, or even be asked for advice there - my brother Curunfinwë is 100% in sole charge there of dealing with each and any problem that arises, with additional help from my brother Tyelkormo. I - I mean, the Valar, - insist on it. As for grand celebrations of our proud military past, or any current martial activities, you can well imagine that they are entirely out of the question there. There is actually a ban on them."

Maitimo pauses there for a second, deep in thought. "Of course, you also have probably formed a very poor opinion of us, based on the Peredhil situation. Know that we tried our best. All I can say is that they used to bite even more."

He pauses again, and gives Gil-Galad a wry smile. Gil-Galad shudders for the second time on that day.

"What else could I add ?" One of his brothers stands up and whispers something in his ear.

"Oh yes, and Moryo makes THE BEST cookies."