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i-did-not-mean-to · 2 years

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"Right now, I think I’d like to write a dance scene. Something sensual like burlesque…If you have any ideas, feel free to let me know lol" - Finrod could absolutely pull of a burlesque show!!! feathers, shinies, corsets... Oh yes, Nargothrond Burlesque Night

Dearest anon,

I had to adult today and lost my whole day over it...Nonetheless, here is the ficlet inspired by your genius.

Here is the beautiful beforehand rendition of the scene by @cuarthol who is not only an exceptional author but also a wickedly smart and funny artist as you can see...

Now, without further ado...Ladies and gentlemen...Findaráto...undressing 🤷🏻‍♀️

Burlesque night in Nagothrond

Words: 1,7k

Warnings: CRACK, complete idiocy, nudity, sexual innuendo...you name it...it's awful (oh and yes, they're all related. For those not familiar with the silm)

With a muted thud, Maedhros let himself fall into the surprisingly comfortable chair.

“What is he up to this time?” his brother – come from afar and tired to the bone – asked quietly; after receiving the missive inviting him to a “special night in Nargothrond”, he had ridden post-haste to that enchanted city to see one of his favourite half-cousins.

Times had been hard and bleak, and he was eager to be distracted – if only for the span of a single night – from the terrible doom dogging their every step.

Maglor had been but mildly surprised to find both his other half-cousin, the universally beloved Findekáno – valiantly holding on to his brother’s hand – and his very own Nelyafinwë – ever the protector – in attendance as well.

What caused the esteemed scions of once noble houses – now somewhat fallen into disrepute – more worry was the company of quite a few dwarves and the nervous, breathless giggles coming from a throng of young ladies clad in their best frocks.

“Something shocking,” Fingon shrugged with one of those easy, melting smiles that won over hearts in a single instant, “as per usual.”

He seemed unfazed by the thrumming sense of impatient expectation in the room and Maglor had to bite down on a sharp repartee; it annoyed him how envious he felt whenever he witnessed the loyal and devoted calm on the other’s face in Maedhros’ presence.

A sudden storm of drums interrupted their whispered conversation abruptly and then, the low room was plunged into sudden darkness; they all flinched – the memory of the last darkening still etched into their hearts and souls – but relaxed when a single ray of light fell on a small dais some feet away from their seats.

Finrod Felagund, king and marvel, stepped into the light as if he had been born to wear it, like a garment spun of dreams and hopes.

Smirking, he let his hands flow like pale rivers over the cascades of gemstones wrung around his slender throat and the layers of translucent, iridescent silk he’d shed in a few moments like a butterfly discarding its chrysalis.

“What in Eru’s name?”

Maglor chortled darkly at the choked cry from his brother, wondering if Maedhros was about to jump up and drag his half-cousin – oldest of his line and yet ever the younger kinsman to the firstborn grandson of Finwë – off the stage by his golden hair unceremoniously.

The drums had quieted now, beating insidiously in time with the captive hearts of the audience, while some stringed instrument whined to the longing sighs of a flute.

Ah, Makaulaurë Kanafinwë could and did applaud the ingenious use of music to entice the spellbound bodies into following the seductive rhythm slowly picking up its pace; his own pulse thundered in his throat like a winter storm, and he inhaled the warm air greedily in an attempt to pacify the prick of feral hunger setting his skin aflame.

And then, Finrod danced.

It was nothing like the courtly steps they had learned – in long, excruciating hours of study – in their youth though, this was indecently slow and sensual.

There was something breath-taking and scandalising at the same time in how deliberate those undulating, liquid movements were as their cousin – in a situation like this one, halves and quarters barely mattered anymore – picked up a fan and opened it with a sharp flick of those glittering wrists.

“He has ever been fond of his shiny baubles,” Fingon sniggered as if he was not wearing gold woven into his intricate braids by tender hands and as if he had not offered some of his father’s most prized possessions to his half-cousin in exchange for the crown Maedhros had so selflessly given up.

The boon the honourable Maitimo had eventually claimed as his reparation though had been much more malleable and warmer than any stone or metal could ever be, and everyone knew about it even though nobody wanted to speak the words out loud.

Individual gasps ran like the murmuring of the very ocean through the attending crowd; was it the sheer wealth of jewels twinkling and clinking on that flawless skin or the creature itself – feet moving elegantly and noiselessly to produce a mesmerising rolling motion that accentuated those sharp, inviting hips – that made them pant so?

“Oh,” someone sighed and Maglor’s eyes – hitherto settled in alarm and wariness on his brother – snapped back to the star of the show just in time to see the first layer of silk plummet to the ground like a sheet of multi-coloured snow, revealing shapely shoulders and collarbones so delicate they might have been sculpted by his own mother.

Finrod’s arms – strong in battle and welcoming in bed – waved through the air in a motion that should by all logic have looked ridiculous and – truth be told – turned out to be utterly hypnotising; everything about him was blindingly radiant: his wrists, his garments, his skin, and the wicked gleam in his eyes.

To the now outright playful tunes, he swung his hips in slow circles – every pair of eyes glued to his every movement, a lascivious smile adorning that fair face so many had lost themselves in.

The billowing slivers of fabric spun like wings around those tantalising hips as he kept rippling like a current of colour and light – blurring like a phantasmagoric vision before unblinking eyes – and leaning back seductively until his back formed a beautifully inviting marble arc in the ambient chiaroscuro.

“You should dance for me like that,” Fingon whispered into Maedhros’ ear, which made the tall redhead snort under his breath.

“I do not think so, dearest Finno,” he replied with a warm smile, “I’d look like a scarecrow come to life. I do not have our dear Ingo’s…poise.”

“You could learn,” Fingon insisted eagerly, “I’d worship you, you know?”

The throaty quality of his lover’s tone gave Maedhros pause and – for a second – he truly considered asking Finrod for pointers; it would not have been the first time that they’d exchanged illicit and unsavoury tips and tricks amongst kinsmen.

When they returned their attention to their gracious host though, another swath of nothing had been shed and the fan was back in action, stirring the remaining silk into a dance of its own while granting mere glimpses of skin and sparkling gems to the rapt audience in-between fluid but quick flicks of those flexible wrists.

“This is indecent,” Maedhros ground out, but both Maglor and Fingon wondered if the cause for the furious blush spreading up his throat was entirely due to his blusterous indignation.

With a mirthful chuckle, the king of these hallowed halls started toying with the emerald broach that served as a clasp, holding together that wicked last bastion of decorum, before pulling it out at a torturously slow pace without ever interrupting the languid twisting and twirling of the rest of his body.

It seemed – for a moment – as if Finrod had grown a thousand limbs that all oscillated invitingly and hence, the beauty he wrought washed in waves – set in motion inexorably by his sensuous dancing – over the drowning onlookers.

“Damn that fan,” Maglor cursed as it fluttered like a living creature over the exquisite and shockingly naked flesh of the king while he – still smiling most wickedly – rolled his shoulders and hips to the crooning of the pervasive instruments.

There was a magic in his blood that nobody had ever doubted but to see it exhibited thus – a spell, a curse, an enchantment wrought like iron around the captive spectators – still knocked the breath out of his three friends.

A crescendo of sound and motion – a flurry of skin and gems – and then…silence.

Finrod bowed deeply, the accursed fan coyly covering his most intimate secrets and the piercings the dwarves had granted him as a sign of their friendship catching the light like twin flames, and turned to where they sat in the shadows with a broad, playful grin.

“Well…” Aegnor looked at his brother in bewilderment.

“Well,” Angrod echoed in the same hollow, shocked tone; they had been so looking forward to seeing their oldest brother again but this display of power – pure, primaeval, raw energy – had taken them quite by surprise.

“Oh, look,” Aegnor sniggered, jabbing his elbow into his brother’s ribs, “it’s Nelyo, Káno, and Finno. I wonder how they’ve enjoyed our esteemed sibling’s show.”

“I do not care to know!” Before the words had breached Angrod’s lips though, the young warrior had shot out of his seat to harass his older kinsmen; if there was discomfort or even shame to be endured, it was – as all things were – a burden best shared with family members.

Angrod – hastening after his overly enthusiastic brother – joined them just in time to catch the other Finwëans’ stammered praise; Nerdanel’s offspring always had suffered from the charming disadvantage of blushing treacherously but even Findekáno seemed considerably flustered by what he had just witnessed.

“It was very…interesting,” Maedhros said, his words chewed to pieces by how tense his jaw was clenched around sensations and emotions neither one of Finrod’s brothers cared to investigate.

“He’s done really great with the arrangement, I’ve quite enjoyed the music,” Maglor tried his best to sound debonair and casual, but they had all known each other for too long for socially acceptable hypocrisy and white lies to be indulged without comment.

Angrod doubted that Káno had paid any attention to the – honestly rather mediocre – melodies and he certainly did not hesitate to express that opinion, much to the chagrin of a now beautifully pouting Maglor; he had ever been one of Findaráto’s favourites – that much was common knowledge – and Angrod decided that it might be time for his still somewhat decent brother and him to make a dignified exit.

“I bid you good night, dearest cousins,” Aegnor grinned, “we are sure to meet our beloved brother in the morning when he’s no longer sore from his performance.”

Judging by the feral look in the eyes – flashing dangerously in the low lights that had come on again – of those three fearsome Noldor though, they suspected that the brazen dancer might well find himself tender from other activities come morning light.

Am I the worst? Yes, cannot deny...Did post something not reread or edited...and it's as dumb as it can get...

Nonetheless, if it made you snigger at least once, I would be so happy if you could let me know...

Special thanks to @cuarthol again for demanding his brothers have some fun and for the beautiful drawing ❤��

#semi-request #writing block cure #finrod felagund #finrod dances burlesque #strange pairings in the background #I am lost #crack #humour #not serious #a little sexy #what can I say?#Nudity #the silm #silmarillion #fanfiction #writing

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