Guess Who's Coming to Dinner by oshun

Culture Clash

“Could you please stand up straight for once, Findaráto?” Amarië snapped, grabbing him by the upper arms and yanking—hard.

“Oww! What a grip you have. Relax. Don’t be anxious, precious girl. They’ll love me,” Findaráto said. “Everyone loves me.” Her sweetheart’s merry face, tempered by intellect and good will, could have charmed Lord Námo himself, were the Doomsman of the Valar not known to be suspicious of curiosity and repelled by smiles.

“See. That is exactly what I mean. Arrogant, vain, think you know everything.”

“Don’t start that again! I don’t profess to know everything. A lot maybe . . . ” he teased, before lowering his golden brow in disappointment, only to brighten again instantly. “But I do know people are largely disposed to like me. I’m friendly. It worked with you, didn’t it? And I cannot imagine a harder nut to crack than you.”

He grinned at her, the force of his lusty intent shining through and taking her breath away. He had certainly won her. In no time at all, he had claimed a first kiss of her. A few more meetings and she permitted him to fondle her breasts, something she had never imagined she would allow, especially not to this smug Noldorin prince. Now they could not keep their hands off one another. It was ridiculous and shocking for such a carefully raised Vanyarin maid to have given so much so soon. Meanwhile, he preached at her relentlessly about how it was only normal and natural and when his clever hands were in her panties that seemed logical and reasonable to her as well. This visit to her parents was long overdue.

But she could not help but consider how his vivacity and unselfconscious sensuality might be viewed through the cold eyes of her parents. They might be narrow, but they were far from stupid and not mind-blind either. How would they interpret his extravagance of dress and the Finwëan self-assurance of his bearing? He was as far as one could be from the serious, virtuous Vanya that they had hoped would press suit one day for the hand of their only daughter. Not to mention that he was Noldorin royalty. They had never imagined a prince of the Noldor, much less the heir of the feckless youngest son of King Finwë. Arafinwë was generally well-liked, but known among the more traditionalist of the Vanyar for his obsession with the Teleri, for his pretty, flighty wife, and their gaggle of wild, unconventionally-schooled, overly cunning children. She thought, ‘This brash young Noldo thinks he will seduce my conservative father and dour, pious mother? Ha! Without my help, he won’t!’

She looked him up and down, assessing the soft creamy linen of his tunic, longer than he usually wore. That was good. And his loose Vanyarin-style trousers still looked a bit too expensive, but at any rate were simple. He had taken her advice on clothing at least. The effect was much more suitable for their purpose that day than his usual bright-colored skin-tight leggings and short, sleeveless tunics trimmed with gold and silver braid that revealed his not inconsiderable assets and caused maximum impact, for good or ill, depending upon the viewer. She tried to suppress a shudder of delight at the thought of what the clothing he now wore concealed from the casual observer.

“Do I pass inspection, my lady?” he asked. The sly way he cocked his head her told her that he already sensed her approval. He had shed all of his glittering rings and wore only a wide gold band on one wrist, studded with pearls and lapis lazuli. “If we succeed and they permit me to court you, I intend to make love to you.” He leaned into her and whispered in her ear. “Oh, my love! The things I will do to you. I will tease you until you beg me to take you. Then I will fuck you so long and hard.” She jerked her head back and clapped a hand over his offending mouth. Such overconfidence! But she did not even bother to argue. Of course, she would permit him. She was dying for it, ached for it.

“Give me the bracelet,” she said testily, still shivering from her flash of goose bumps, holding her shoulder bag open to him. He smirked at her—so cocky and aware of his power. But he obediently dropped the heavy bauble into the bag.

“You can keep the pearl earring,” she stammered trying with limited success to control the husky tone of her voice. “It’s more subtle at least than the gaudy diamond you usually wear.”

“Gaudy indeed! That diamond was my last begetting day gift from my grandmother Indis of the Vanyar, a lady of considerable taste.”

“Among the Noldor perhaps. Her own people think that since she married King Finwë she has adapted to the customs and manners of yours with a too obvious enthusiasm.”

“Whatever you say, beautiful! Today is all about you and what you judge will please your family. I can be adaptable too. I will be a perfectly respectable Vanyarin suitor.”

“Ha! I know the effort it costs you to try. And I do appreciate it.” Her dear impatient boy—this incomparably attractive young man—had shown his willingness to make whatever necessary compromises would gain them the greatest amount of freedom to spend more time together. His hopefulness, winning in its absolute sincerity, might be transparent enough, despite his external composure, to soften her parents. They were not entirely heartless. “Oh, don’t forget! Do not touch me after we go inside.”

He looked up from brushing imagined lint off the sleeve of his tunic and captured her eyes. His handsome face softening into pure adoration and desire, his voice turning solemn, nearly reverential, he said, “Surely they will believe me when I tell them how much I love you and how I would do nothing that would ever hurt you in any way? Oh, my darling, I want you so much.”

“Well, if you want me, you must please them. This is a bold move we make today, my love. If they do not grant you leave to court me—if we fail—then they will guard me even more closely than before. The stakes are high, but if we win, then we may spend much more time together—alone. Almost unlimited.” That time she sensed a jolt of poorly constrained arousal within him and continued to press her advantage.  “Among the Vanyar the acceptance of a declaration of intent to court a maiden is very little different from a betrothal and scarcely a hair’s breadth separates a betrothal from a marriage.”

He held out a steady hand and she took it, trembling but intent upon going through with this.

“Let’s go then,” said Findaráto. “I’m ready for all of that! And I feel lucky today. What could possibly go wrong? We love one another so much.”