He lounged against the worktable, the gold hems of his robes dragging carelessly through the dust; he was thoroughly enjoying himself.
“Hauling stone like a dockworker..." he said, "It is catastrophically unrefined.”
Nerdanel dropped the crate beside a half-built kiln and glanced at him once before snorting.
“If the prince finds the labor too vulgar,” she said evenly, “the gardens are several courtyards away. I am sure the flowers miss you terribly.”
Fëanor tracked the movement of her shoulders, a faint, heavy-lidded smile playing on his lips.
"No, I have no intention of leaving," he leaned forward, resting his chin in his hand. "I find I much prefer the... brutality of your craft, than soft hands and fragile sighs."
“Then, move,” she said, approaching. “You are standing where the stones go.”
Nerdanel stepped past him toward the staging pile and slowly turned her gaze to him.
He was even more beautiful up close.
An intolerable thing to recall.
The lines of his face looked carved in marble, his infamous silver eyes bright beneath dark lashes, and he smelled faintly of flowers as if he wandered out of a poem by mistake.
But she’d be damned if she let him see her swoon!
Fëanor stood up, stepping closer into her workspace.
His eyes dropped to her hands that daily conquered stone and clay.
He fantasized, not for the first time, about those heavy hands handling his body with the same uncompromising strength she used to break marble.
"Careful, prince, do not get too close to the site," Nerdanel warned, her gaze flicking slowly over the length of him. "With such a narrow waist, I might accidentally break you in half if I stumble."
Fëanor’s breath hitched.
A thrill ran down his spine at the image.
“Mercy, Nerdanel,” he murmured. “You cannot say things like that to me."
I never thought I would write this pair lmao complete version on AO3 (487 words)
