Exploding. A moot enjoyed my penis headcanons (sorry for vaugeposting btw) and i didnt realize and out of a shame i DELETED THE POST suddenly IM SO SORRY FOR ANY PENIS FANS
My point still stands about the waxing though.
Todomatsu def waxes himself and he helps jyushimatsu wax too (to be aerodynamic). The sizes i chose were kinda random except for choromatsu jyushinatsus and ichimatsus.
Choromatsu def has a long skinny penis and ichimatsu def has a chub.
Jyushimatsus constant boners is canon but id like to think that he's a bit more sensitive than the rest of the brothers and can cum very easily.
Choromatsus easy to rile up but it takes him ages to arrive (thats why hes fappymatsu)
Realistically osomatsu choromatsu and karamatsu would trim (oso not as much). Ichimstsu doesnt even try.
I think i mentioned osomatsu getting utis constantly and being a little smelly. Yeah.
I still forever stand by my 3 or maybe 4 inches if im being generous jyushimatsu penis im sorry him having a big penis isnt hot to me i want his penis small and gropeable.
alright im drunk so now im posting this... wrote this at 4 am based off that cursed post about medieval kings and their nips
this doesn’t have a title it’s just (pg-15) for Nips
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The High King of the Noldor must be both steadfast and resilient, a beacon of hope to his people, a shining light in the endless fight against the Darkness. This Fingon knows, his father had taught him well. You must show your strength, and your influence, enough to dispel any doubts or wavering loyalties. But never flaunt it! his father had said, deep in his cups and splashing wine onto the tattered carpet. And Findekáno, above all else, you must observe the proper courtesies, and– he had let out a deep sigh, then– and the traditions of our people. Do you understand?
Of course, Father, he had responded dutifully, the fool that he was.
All of them, Findekáno, his Father had said with that strange, wild look in his eyes.
How he wishes he still had no idea what his Father had been on about. Alas.
“Shall I send the next one in, your majesty?” his steward prods gently from somewhere behind the throne. Fingon lets out a deep sigh, counts to three very slowly, and peels his face off the palms of his hands.
The sleeve of his tunic brush over the exposed right side of his chest, and he barely controls his helpless choke of despair. His steward ignores him, already moving towards the doors to usher in a new, fresh hell.
It’s very cold, in the throne room, and he’s had twelve vassals before him already. He thinks he might be chafing.
The doors open, and oh sweet Ëste, it’s Misseno, one of his father’s longest-standing and most lecherous vassals, with his thin, chapped lips and dark, greedy eyes. He grips the scepter tightly in his hand, and plants a smile on his face to hide the revulsion in his stomach.
“Hail Fingon, son of Fingolfin, scion of Finwë and High King of the Noldor!” Misseno says in that nasally little voice of his. He sinks to his knees before the throne, head bowed low in prostration. "I come before you to pledge myself and my house to your service."
Fingon shifts uncomfortably, hesitating a moment in a desperate attempt to delay the inevitable. "And I accept your pledge. Rise, loyal vassal."
He does rise, and oh, the disgusting old man– he is doing nothing to contain the blatant eagerness in his movements, all but scrambling towards the throne. Eru, just let it end. Is he not one of the Dispossessed? Should Manwë not want to strike him down, as an example to any who might shed Eldar blood?
"I prostrate myself before thee, oh High King, and await thine boon."
Just get it over with, there surely cannot be more audiences today. He glances towards the window longingly; the hour is late already. He shrugs the sleeve of his robe further down his shoulder, grinding his teeth.
"With the power I possess as High King of the Noldor, I grant thee mine protection in these dark times," he recites, flat and detached. Misseno leers. Ugh.
"I accept it," Misseno murmurs, and leans forward.
He keeps his gaze trained on the far wall as Misseno's lips close around his right nipple, and eugh, is that his tongue– enough of this. Enough.
He plants his foot, well hidden by his elaborate robes, on Misseno's chest, and kicks him lightly away. Teeth catch on his nipple as he stumbles backwards and Fingon has to bite his tongue as the sensitive flesh stings, oversensitive and raw. Enough of this. I am the King.
"The House of Fingolfin thanks you for your continued support," he says as quick as is still polite, not looking at Misseno, the cur, as he gathers himself off the floor. "Naiquerë," he calls, tugging his sleeve back up his shoulder and carefully concealing the wince as the silk brushes over abused skin. Eru, he needs a bath. Or twelve.
"Right this way, my lord," Naiquerë says, ushering Misseno out the door, and finally, finally, it's ove–
"A rider, your majesty!"
Fingon barely restrains his scream. He grabs the scepter, rubbing at the corner of his eye socket with his thumb.
"I do not have time for another appointment today, bid them wait until the morrow–" or never, perhaps they will fall from their horse and–
"He bears the Eight-Pointed star, your Grace."
There's a hush from his courtiers, and then an outburst of whispers. Fingon ignores them, heart suddenly pounding in his chest.
"Send him in," he commands, almost stumbling over his words in haste, and it's a testament to his long training that his voice does not shake at all.
There has been no news from the East since the battle, save for scattered reports of utter destruction, and of a fire that burned for days. Of Himring, they've had no word, and Fingon forces himself to take a deep breath and to not look to hope. It's just a rider, it could be anyone–
A clap of thunder rings in the distance. The doors blow open with a gust of wind.
His red cloak is torn and mud-splattered, his armor tarnished with ash. His sword is tight on his belt, and the fur around his collar is singed. But oh, it's him, he's alive. He's alive.
"Hail Fingon, Fingolfin's son, High King of the Noldor," says Maedhros Neylafinwë Fëanorian, voice booming in the sudden stillness of the room. Fingon feels weak with relief, and only remembers at the last moment that he should not be smiling like a lunatic at one of his vassals in the middle of his throne room. He forces himself to remain in his chair as Maedhros approaches the throne.
"I come to pledge fealty for myself and the house of Fëanor," he says, eyes dark and fond, not breaking eye contact for a moment and he kneels at Fingon's feet. Fingon curls his fingers around his scepter to stop from reaching out like he wants to. The courtiers wait with baited breath. He forces another breath and rises to his feet. They're in public, he has to make it good.
"The House of Fingolfin welcomes the House of Fëanor as friends, and as allies," Fingon proclaims, loud enough that the naysayers might be silent for once. "I accept your pledge, and that of your house. Rise."
Maedhros smiles beneath the curtain of his hair, and pushes gracefully to his feet, stepping almost to Fingon's feet, before kneeling once again. Fingon freezes.
Oh.
Oh no–
"I prostrate myself before thee, my King, and await thine boon."
The hall is utterly silent. Fingon drops back to his throne with as much grace as he can muster. You bastard, he thinks helplessly. Maedhros smirks from behind his hair, where only Fingon can see. Of course he would observe the proper forms. He's Fëanorian. For Eru's sake.
It takes all of his remaining willpower to keep a straight face while he slips the robe back off his shoulder. Maedhros keeps his head bowed.
"I grant thee mine protection," Fingon proclaims, and if the words sound a bit wobbly, well, it's the best he can do with Maedhros kneeling before him, so close that he can feel the heat of him, alive. "With all the power I possess as your King," he finishes breathlessly. I shall kill him for this later.
Maedhros looks up from under those infuriatingly long eyelashes and he suddenly feels all of twenty years old, staring up at his eldest cousin in awe as he spills juice all down his front.
"I accept," Maedhros says, eyes dark with intent, and Fingon trembles.
Damn him, he thinks helplessly, and then Maedhros pushes to his feet, and leans forward, hair as a curtain around him.
It takes every drop of resolve and then some to keep still as his soft lips press lightly to his aching nipple, and oh, it's been so long, damn him. Maedhros lathes at it gently with his tongue, a sympathetic sound muffled at the back of his throat, and Fingon does not cry out, nor do his limbs shake with weakness, and nor does he throw Maedhros over his shoulder and carry him out into the night, away from prying eyes where he might have him all to himself. He is the King, he can withstand more than–
Teeth! A light scrape, and then he tugs, tongue flicking over the tip and he lets out a gasp, shuddering in his seat.
Somewhere behind him: a cough.
Maedhros stares at him as he swirls his tongue once again, and winks. He's suddenly quite grateful for the heavy ceremonial robes across his lap. Damn him, damn him.
"The House of Fingolfin thanks you for your continued support," he manages somewhat maniacally, pushing to his feet unsteadily. Maedhros pulls away, and damn him again, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Fingon forces himself to look away.
"Come, cousin, we have much to discuss," he threatens, and slips the sleeve of his robe back onto his shoulder. He doesn't stop to see if Maedhros follows as he walks towards the doors; he knows he will.
