theexistentialmeow

[theexistentialmeow]

Written for Russingon Week Day 7: Post-rescue from Thangorodrim (by a few years) but also Fluff. Wordcount: 3400 found here on ao3 Vibe: Fingon tries to not be himself and fails spectacularly. Which is a blessing Maedhros forgot he never lost. "And now that it’s happened, and they are finally, finally, alone together, all Fingon can think is why didn’t I just fuck the sense back into him before I left?"

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Celegorm’s first diary entry (and last?)

Oromë’s cock is bigger than seems reasonable. And he shrunk himself for me? Well. I have to stand up to write this. 

He knew I was hard before I even approached him, the fucker. His nose is better than mine. Smelt the blood in my cock. I can’t yet smell an erection from forty feet. Something to work on. 

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Fëanor's twitter feed

hc that Fëanor was secretly boosting up certain trends as he was campaigning to leave Valinor:

#IStandWithFëanor #ElvesAgainstMorgoth #NotMyValinor

Meanwhile in the twitter storm Celegorm & Curufin are whipping out these bad boys:

#FlyAwayManwë #WhoTurnedOutTheLights #ValarCringeMemes #FinalBossMandos

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After two years of unbroken domesticity, Surit finally gives in and writes an enduring order on Tennal to make sure he rinses his cereal bowl if it's likely to sit in the dishwasher for more than ten hours.

He still feels guilty every time he hears Tennal put the tap on and open the dishwasher.

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Maedhros: So we were thinking we'll go back across the water and lend a hand to Fingon & Co? Feanor: Fingon, hey? He, he, he- Maglor: No. No. Don't say it. Feanor: -he he he he- Maedhros: Please dad, resist. resist. Feanor: Fin…gone. Get it?! M&M: ... Curufin: *laughs loudly*

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During Maedhros’s capture and time as hostage, multiple requests were sent from Thangorodrim back to the Noldor; Maglor responds in the only way he knows how. Word count 480. ao3. M for mentions of torture. Brotherly anguish.

The letter is written in blood.

Which, Maglor realises with a churn of his gut, is likely Maedhros's own, dried dark in the candlelight of the tent, but blood all the same.

His eyes barely register the words on the page, mind ablaze with every question he's wanted to scream through his grief for weeks.

Are you in pain? Is your mind your own? From where do you bleed, dear brother? 

Outside, there’s a screech, a yell, a grunt.

The small band of orcs waiting for his reply are growing impatient. Maglor looks longingly to his sword, wants nothing more than to cleaver them apart, one by one—and he could, they are weak, and this is his camp. But then what suffering would that bring unto Maedhros? That he hasn't already borne, that is.

He quickly discards the idea of showing the letter to Turco, to Curvo especially. None of his brothers need to see this—

To see how each individual letter is ill-formed, as if penned with a trembling hand. To see the drops of blood wiped away in at least two places. To see where the downstroke of the Quenya consonants are too long, as if a weakened wrist has lost control and overshot.

To see, to see—

—the perfectly round drops of something else—something clear, smudging the bloody words in too many places. Perspiration, Maglor thinks. Hopes. Drool, even.

Yes.

Anything but tears. Maedhros never cried.

He brings the crumpled parchment to his own cheek, his lips, his chest, ignores the anguish that threatens to split him apart, tries his best not to contemplate how Maedhros would have known that Maglor would see it all—all that was written in words, and then everything else.

The only comfort of it all is that Maedhros is alive.

Or was alive, when the letter was inked, because this is definitely his older brother's handwriting, despite the shakiness and imperfections. Despite it being a message that Maedhros would never write voluntarily, asking a question that Maedhros would never utter, because he would already know the answer.

(No, they will not retreat to Valinor. No, they will not flee South. No, they will not cease the siege, bound by oath.)

Maglor turns the ring at his index finger; the symbol of the High King of the Noldor; the same damn ring Maedhros had pressed into Maglor's palm just before he left. Just in case, he'd whispered, eyes fire and promise, just in case.

No.

His reply is simple, barely a single line. 

It will never reach Maedhros, he accepts that even as he inks his quill, fingers trembling, careful so the fall of his own tears miss the fresh parchment, and writes the only thing he ever could,

Maitimo. You are loved.

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Both Fëanor and Fingolfin rush to Thangorodrim to their respective deaths, and are both described as 'fey' in their charging forward. ie. completely taken by their conviction and unable to be convinced otherwise.

The crucial difference being that Fëanor believed he was on a winning streak and wanted to end it once and for all, whereas Fingolfin was in despair at how hopeless it all was and knew he wouldn't make much difference even if he challenged Morgoth (of course, he did).

I like to think that if the roles were reversed, and it was Fëanor who was hopeless and Fingolfin who was full of hope, that they might have actually done the same anyway. (By nature however, I don't think Feanor is the sort to lose hope. I think he's the sort to always think he would have the upper hand, even if he doesn't. Both a weakness and a strength, i suppose)

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Maeglin didn't do good things, yes okay. But my heart still breaks because "Melko wove about him the spell of bottomless dread, and he had thereafter neither joy nor quiet in his heart."

like no one deserves that. no one. what does bottomless dread truly even mean? poor bby. melkor didn't need to corrupt him, maeglin was doing a good job of it himself, but he did anyway.

it's just so sad.

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once, before, Fëanor was truly adored

because there was a time, when the trees were shedding light and before the silmarils were made, when people dearly loved him. He was charismatic, generous with his time and compliments, intelligent, delightfully creative, stood behind lemonade stalls with his sons, and made people laugh so much that everyone wanted him giving speeches at their parties- which he did, with an open heart. (He hurt, too, because at those same parties would be Indis with his half-brothers and he yearned terribly for the adoration from a mother he never knew.)

Before the silmarils, he was the silmaril himself. Then they were created and began to outshine even his own person, and he was lost.

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it's interesting how in other fandoms we categorise fic by things like fluff, non-con, dub-con, pwp. But here in tolkien elf-land we use far more subtle categories like incest, incestuous, and threesome incest.

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If they were all a season, which would they be? Feanor (summer), Maedhros (autumn), Finrod (Winter), Fingon (Spring). Found here too.

Summer (Fëanaro)

Eyes shy beneath your radiance glaring still through our closed lids, closed too, to the possibility that coils readily in your palm.  You forge, steady-handed, our horizons, blind willingly to the destruction in your wake.

When we beg for mercy, you scorch the ground beneath us with your laughter. When we weep for your brilliance, you wrap around our desire, and stake us upon the flaming earth.

Fall (Maedhros)

White-grey ash thick upon our lashes, Arda’s veins long since dried, we retreat, blackened like the bark; withered; brittle. And it’s here you rise strong, burnt like the land from which you sprung, and speak to us of endurance. (—you, who stand between fire and the long night, knowing not your own proximity to your Fall.) But we, thirsting, turn our helpless eyes to where you blaze upon that final Edge, if not for our lack of will, but for the promise in your burnished figure: opening skies to spill your rain, directing us to your cooling lake, bidding us drink.

Winter (Finrod) Calm now, we settle. For you receive us indiscriminately, arms wide, folding us in. Undemanding, you provide warmth that turns our cheeks and colours them pink. Only then in this stillness we learn, —like the stars, the sweetness of your stability. Of your heroics we learn not. That the world from which you quietly shield us, —the world you love without condition in all its cruelty— is the one you allow to douse your final song. Allow: for with your passing you know, regretless, hope may be delivered yet.

Spring (Fingon) Spinning circles upon warming earth you burst forthwith, contagious in your abundance. As brambles grow without direction, not to spite the long night but by design: following no rule but your own nature. You seek no retinue, save only release for the seeds you sprinkle with each generous glance. For you understand that we— who delight in the fragile new leaves that unfurl in your passing— are ourselves the softness that grows, fragrant and wild, cushioning bare feet as you dance.

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And Finrod fell before the throne

this is the one line to rule them all that has been tattooed across my soul in rainbow glitter. there are so many others but this one,

this one,

ffff

if I had to explain why, I would say it is the combination between what is an incredibly heroic action taken by Findarato - a selfless verbal spell battle against a Maia and in such a hopeless situation - combined with the absolute insane opportunity to over-sexualise and insert 105 kinks into this exact moment.

it's this combination that, like.

i just, why?

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soooo. what coffee/tea are they all drinking?

Maedhros: Lavender tea. Doesn't actually like it but someone told him it’s good for insomnia. 

Maglor: Hot chocolate. Gives the marshmallows to Caranthir.

Celegorm: Does not need coffee. Everyone actively avoids giving him anything caffeinated for good reason.

Caranthir: Anything black. Not fussy.

Curufin: Espresso at 7am, 9:30, 11:15, and then 1:30pm. Trusts no one to make it other than himself. Coffee bought out is often returned and refunded in full. 

Amrod & Amras: Mocha. 

Finrod: Iced Caramel Soy Latte.

Fingon: Instant coffee. Whatever is cheapest. 

Turgon: Earl Grey Tea. Milk, no sugar. 

Maeglin: Boiled water with a dash of milk.

Feanor: Thinks all coffee is the same and orders “one coffee, thanks” at the counter. No one corrects him.

Fingolfin: English Breakfast. Almond milk because he’s lactose intolerant. 

Finarfin: Jasmine tea.

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i don't know who needs to hear this but there were only two days when Annatar and Celebrimbor were together that they actually didn't fuck. One was when Celebrimbor injured himself on the tools, and another when they were interrupted due to a literal attack on the city

please note this means that they were fucking on the day Celebrimbor was murdered, and each one leading up to that

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The battle of ink continues between Curufin & Caranthir in the final chapter.

But Curufin plays the long game and Caranthir doesn't see it coming.

(Maglor knows exactly what Curufin did, but loves his mini-Feanor so much that he says nothing. After all, he'll bring hot cocoa to Caranthir when he's in bed and sing to him.)

(Maedhros is oblivious but this has less to do with his insight and more to do with finding a remedy for the twins' hangover while trying to stop Celegorm from annoying Fingon.)