#feanormelkor

[saintstars]

Melkor seducing bothering Fëanáro

[mirkwood]

Feanor's last words being the three (3) curses upon Morgoth's name is sooo juicy. Like you hate him SO MUCH. so damn much right. you just have to use your last breath to make it known that you are filled w hatred for ur worst enemy huh. juicy.

[sauronpilled]

i think it's about time we think of an (un)official name for feanormelkor.

[iaconite]

"i can take away that sorrow," but it's melkor and fëanor.

[saintstars]

And they were enemies!

[saintstars]

"And when Melkor saw that[...] pride and anger were awake among the Noldor, he spoke to them concerning weapons; and in that time the Noldor began the smithying of swords[...]"

[mirkwood]

feanormelkor/ feanope 31

Hi thank you for the ask!! And sorry for the delay <3

Prompt 31 : After a small rejection

Pairing : Feanor / Melkor

Fëanor can sense the Vala’s presence the moment he enters the forges. 

The air, previously heated by the forge’s flames, abruptly turns icy. The sudden chill makes the sweat on Fëanor’s skin feel clammy. He doesn’t need to turn to see the intruder. Familiar with Melkor's constant lurking, he knows when he is there, watching him silently.

He finds himself instinctively searching for him in every corner, in every dark room.

Gripping his hammer tighter, he wills himself to remain composed. 

“Whatever brings you here,” Fëanor says, his tone devoid of any warmth or welcome, “I have neither the need nor the time for it.”

A moment of silence fills the space between his words and the darkness behind him. As if the presence he felt was nothing more than just a trick of his imagination. 

But still, he waits. 

And there it is, a faint hum that morphs into a deep chuckle, reverberating through the forge room. 

“I doubt you truly mean that, Fëanáro,” comes the response, teasing and casual as if Fëanor is his friend.

It is a cruel melody, a rumble that could shake down the foundations of Fëanor’s resolve. He hates the way it makes him feel. Weak and defenseless against that voice dripping with saccharine deceit and lies.

Turning sharply, hammer still in hand, Fëanor faces the part of the forge where the fires' light doesn’t reach. In the darkness, two fiery eyes meet his gaze.

Melkor finally steps into the light, yet Fëanor can only spot his pale face, cloaked in darkness as he is. Fëanor straightens his back and folds his arms in front of him, waiting for Melkor to speak his lies once again. 

“I have a proposition for you,” Melkor breaks the tense silence while looking around the forge with an innocuous curiocity. Fëanor knows what he is looking for, and he also knows well that it is not here. 

He remains silent. 

“We could achieve great things together,” Melkor says, approaching the bench where Fëanor’s new project sits untouched. “Your brilliance and my insight could create something unparalleled.” 

Fëanor's expression hardens as he turns to face the Vala. "I have no interest in your schemes, Melkor,” he rebukes. “I work alone, as you well know. Nothing can change that.”

Melkor falls silent, his gaze lingering on Fëanor’s workbench, as if it is the most interesting thing in Arda. For a moment, Fëanor wonders if his words have gone unheard. 

“You are making a mistake, son of Finwë,” Melkor speaks again and his voice holds a dangerous edge to it. Gone is the friendly lilt and the false sweetness of it. “You would do well to reconsider my offer.”

Fëanor scoffs, his anger fully resurfacing. “Save your threats. I know what you are and I will not let your tainted hands or your insight near my creations,” he says with a sneer, the fire in his eyes blazing. 

Melkor turns to face him, and beyond the bitter disappointment and frustration, Fëanor can see destruction and death in his steely gaze. 

"You are a fool, Fëanor," Melkor murmurs, stepping away from the workbench and closer to Fëanor until he is mere inches away. "But a brilliant fool."

Before Fëanor can react, Melkor leans in, his lips brushing against Fëanor's cheek in a quick, provocative kiss. The unexpected contact sends a shockwave through Fëanor, and he jerks back, his face flushed with a mix of fury and bewilderment.

Melkor steps back, a satisfied smile playing on his lips. “Do not keep me waiting, Fëanor,” he says. 

Fëanor holds his ground, refusing to look away. It's a battle of wills, and he's determined not to yield. He waits until Melkor chooses to leave, his cloak melding into the darkness as he departs.

Just as quickly as he arrived, Melkor is gone, the heavy iron door of the forge clicking shut behind him.

Fëanor's fingers linger on the spot where Melkor kissed him. He can still feel the warmth of his lips.

A fire ignites in him, a fire fueled by rage and a new unspoken, unacknowledged spark.

Send me a ship and a number

[mirkwood]

Wip snippet

I was tagged by @queerofthedagger thank you sooo much !! 🫶🏻

I am actually so excited for this one since it's my first feanormelkor fic. Basically this one is all about Melkor being obsessed with Feanor and how badly he wants him. Cue Melkor being Melkor ❤

I don't have an actual title just yet but im calling this one "3 times Melkor wanted to taste Feanor and one time he actually did". I think it's self explanatory, isn't it?

Here's the first part of the 4th time, just be warned about a bit of blood mention and Melkor being Weird :

Gothmog, Lord of the Balrogs, is standing in front of him, all fire and flame. He brings with him a stench of blood and ash and despair.  So huge is he that even he, Morgoth, the foe of the World, the darkest and most formidable of the Ainur, has to lift his head to meet his gaze. Truly, one of his greatest creations.  “He is gone,” Gothmog announces, his deep voice thundering through the vast chamber. The echo of it is the only thing that can be heard. Every creature is silent, watching and waiting for their Lord to speak.  But that is exactly what he did not want to hear.  Something new comes to the surface. Another feeling, strange and foreign, one that makes itself known in the back of his throat.  Regret. Disappointment. It almost tastes like defeat. It tastes like the night Feanor denied him. “What of the body?” asks Morgoth, his focus abruptly shifting to the blood dripping from Gothmog's whip. The droplets collect into a small puddle around him, and then slowly dissipate from the heat radiating from the Balrog’s body. His jaw clenches with such a force that for just a moment he thinks it’s going to break from the strain. His loose grip tightens on the armrests of the throne, as he struggles to restrain himself. His fingers dig deeper into the material and the dull pain of his burns surges back stronger than ever.  He doesn’t care. All he craves is to taste him.

Tagging @sauronpilled @afaramir @elvain and anyone else who wants to share their writing!!! Please consider yourselves tagged fr