Fanworks Tagged with Fëanor

“Can I not what?” he asks, at last. “What do you want me to say, Nolvo—oh no, brother, please do not wed, so that we may continue our ill-advised perversion behind closed doors? Do you want me to fuck you slow and gentle, tell you that it has always been you? That I will ruin your wedding and leave my wife, so we may run away to live life—“

Nolofinwë reverses their positions with such force that Fëanáro is slammed into the wood panelling, all air punched out of his lungs. This is more like it; this is how they began, what they know; what is, in the end, all they ever ought to be to each other—Nolofinwë’s features contorted in fury and hurt, Fëanáro baring his teeth like he is just waiting to cause more of the same.

They stay there for a moment, both breathing harshly, a precipice that is only waiting for them to fall.

Fëanor, Fingolfin, and their last night before Fingolfin is to be wed.

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Fëanor watches from the Halls. 

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The Fëanorian Zine features art and fiction centered on the House of Fëanor from thirty creators. The Fëanorian Zine is being hosted by the SWG, and you can read the zine and download a copy for free here!


The contributors who have participated are as follows;
Isilwhore, Balrogballs, Firefly, Whovianofmidgard, Nighttimepatrons, Astral, Isilwhore, Katarrinskey, Rainfeather, Dragonbornsandwaffles/beatles4ever65, Transsexualhamlet, Sage, Iwi, Starillion, Thelien, Angamaite, Truc, Mag-lore, Mauvearts, rputthebottledown, StarsOfArda, JoeTamy, Laerthel, Curufiin, Swordhound, Elrond's Library, Peasant-Player, Tomefaired/Solmarillion/Soleil, Starshadeemily, Sesamenom.

Their handles are all stated in the Zine's index page, please welcome them and enjoy all of the hard work they have done for the project!

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Various short pieces for the Great Beleriand Bake-Off PLUS! Instadrabbling session that Himring and I cohosted on the SWG's Discord. Maglor learns perfectionism from his father. Nerdanel becomes of the subject of the national epic of ugly girls. 1980s!Maglor discovers Lúthien as a calendar girl, and medieval!Maglor gets paid in gold. Tilion muses on the end of the world and his prophesied violent death.

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“You know as well as I do that the aphrodisiac is never meant to be consumed in such a high quantity,” Ñolofinwë says evenly. “It is well known to be lethal in such a high dosage if there is no one around to lay with.”

Fëanáro shoots him a scathing glare, as if Ñolofinwë has said something incomparably stupid. “I am well aware of the properties of the plant,” Fëanáro says flatly, shrugging his jacket off and glaring at the pollen on it. “But I am not alone, am I?”

It takes a moment for Fëanáro's meaning to hit him, and he does not quite stop himself from gaping when it does. "We cannot lay together!" he exclaims, voice going humiliating high with horror. "You are my brother!"

The words earn him nothing but a disparaging snort; Fëanáro only half paying him any attention at all as he glances around the clearing. "You are not my brother," he says, and the words are not even cruel, only a simple fact. "I am not going to die because of your useless morals."

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Feanor develops something even better than the Silmarils. 

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His life in Valinor.

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The twins were bored. That, in Tyelkormo's experience, was a very, very bad thing, more so when Maitimo wasn’t actually home to deal with the terror and he was himself supposed to be the Responsible Adult. 

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Terentaulë, the wife of Curufin, follows her husband and his family into banishment to Formenos. She leaves everything she loves behind to endure a cold and ever-maddening life making a political point she isn't sure she fully believes in. A Gothic story for Samhain, told in four triple drabbles.

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Fëanor dreams of darkness, and there is only so much Finwë can do to help. Written for the 'The Only Thing to Fear' challenge.

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Robert Oppenheimer finds himself back in the Jornado del Muerto desert with Fionn and Saunders in this epilogue to Trinity, inspired by Anérea's illustration that accompanies Grundy's interview with me for Mereth Aderthad 2025.

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“It is called having friends, Fëanáro; you should try it sometime,” Nolofinwë spits, and it comes out sharper than he means it to, but he is—

Lord, he is tired; of Fëanáro’s vitriol, of how easily he himself still unravels at the slightest push. How effortlessly Fëanáro slides beneath his skin, and Nolofinwë wants to dig his finger into the unmarked flesh, wants to hurt, wants—

He wants; that is perhaps the most terrible part about it all.

---

Ever has the House of Finwë been renowned for its sense of competition. This, though, Nolofinwë knows, must put even the worst of it to shame.

Or: Fingolfin and Fëanor will turn even brother-fucking into a contest. Who could have guessed.

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"You would be better off on your knees doing something useful with your mouth than using it to criticize me," Finarfin snaps, eyes hard as he watches Fëanor. "I have ruled Tirion far longer than you ever did. I do not want nor need your advice."

Fëanor stops pacing, raising an eyebrow and refusing to let his shock at the statement show. Of all the crass things he might have expected to come from Finarfin's mouth, that would never have been one of them. "Bold words," he says after a moment, tilting his head in consideration. "Whatever must the guards think of you saying such a thing to your own brother?"

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“We are going to get caught,” Fingolfin hisses, though he makes no move to actually push Fëanor away from where he’s sucking a bruise onto Fingolfin’s collarbone. Fëanor hums, shoving a knee between Fingolfin’s legs and smirking against his skin when he’s forced to bite back a moan, hips jerking up.

“Do you want me to stop then?” he asks, voice rich with amusement as he kisses his way up Fingolfin’s neck. “Tell me,” he whispers, mouth hovering over Fingolfin’s. “Tell me you want me to stop.”

Fingolfin is genuinely worried they are going to get caught. It does not stop him from cursing quietly and kissing Fëanor to shut him up.

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Fingolfin wants Fëanor absolutely shattered in his bed, his name the only thing in Fëanor's mouth, in his thoughts. He wants to break Fëanor down to his most basic essence, a flame hiding in the body of an elf, and then slowly build him back up again as if feeding a fire on a windy night. Wants to make himself an integral part of the rebuilding so that he can never be erased, never be shoved out. He wants to be fully given what he was always denied—

—Fëanor’s trust. 

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“You do not have to do this,” Fëanáro murmurs, voice strangely gentle.

Ñolofinwë shrugs, feeling tired to his bones, and completely unwilling to leave Fëanáro's side. He slides the sponge over Fëanáro's shoulders, shifting Fëanáro's hair out of the way so he may run the sponge across the back of his brother's neck. "It is customary, is it not. For one to be prepared for their coronation by their family."

Fëanáro makes a strange noise, half-laughter, half-scoff. “I do not feel this is quite the manner my sons would have helped me prepare,” Fëanáro says dryly.

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Fëanor did not know how to explain the ill-defined uneasiness and the almost instinctual dislike he felt, how impossible it was to reconcile the impression he had gotten from the tapestry in Mandos to the reality of Daeron in person, in life. “He seems careless,” he said, because he did not know how else to explain. 

“That is certainly not true,” said Nerdanel, “though I know well that I cannot expect you to take my word for it. It is long since you placed any trust in anyone’s judgment aside from your own, flawed though it is.”

Midwinter is meant to be a time of feasting and merriment, but Fëanor does not find it so, especially with Daeron of Doriath in attendance. 

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Fingolfin died. Or so he thought. Until he suddenly, disorientingly finds himself reliving one of the worst days of his life.

This time though, it goes differently.

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The birth of Tylekormo Turkafinwë had been a joyous occasion.

But a memorable one.

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“He is my brother,” Ñolofinwë says once more, willing her to understand. “He is half of me. What is a fëa worth if half of itself is gone?”

Ñolofinwë is scared that if he takes all that his brother is, and unravels the braid, takes out all of the love, winds what’s left back together — he is so terribly afraid that it will turn into a bitter hatred so dark and violent it may finally rival his brother’s.

He cannot risk that. He cannot. Better to die with love in his heart than live and become an angry, bitter version of himself.

Or: Ñolofinwë begins coughing up flowers and Fëanáro learns that hatred does not erase the duties of a brother.

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This presentation for Mereth Aderthad 2025 discusses the parallels between the concept of abnegation in the scientific work surrounding the atomic bomb and in The Silmarillion. The relinquishment of self-interest in favor of the interests of others, abnegation was identified by Tolkien as a powerful act of spirit and reason. The legendarium has many examples of the complexities of abnegation, which parallel similar discussions held by physicists during and after World War II.

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“If I did not know better,” he says in a low voice, patience frayed thin, “so close do you insist on being to me, that were you anyone else, I would think you are trying to seduce me.” 

Ñolofinwë blinks up at him, eyes hazy and unfocused and so very, very blue. “Would it work if I were?” Ñolofinwë asks in the tone of one who is trying very hard to focus.  

Fëanáro stares. Locks his jaw and does not allow his mouth to drop open in shock. "I know you are drunk, but do be serious, Ñolofinwë," he snaps after a tense moment of indecision on how to respond to such an absurd statement. "You cannot seduce those you share blood with, no matter how little it may be."

“Should not,” Ñolofinwë says promptly, one hand coming up to clutch at Fëanáro’s shirt. “You should not seduce kin. But it is possible if one wishes to.” 

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All written for SWG instadrabbling sessions. Updated in January 2026 with Aredhel.

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Finarfin makes it a rule for his life to stay as far from Tirion and the mess that is his brothers, but during an important festival the house of Finwë gathers to celebrate together.  As he tries to cope with the resulting headache, he helps Finrod make a new friend.

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“Come on.” Maedhros grabbed his hand and pulled him along down the path, both of them quickening their pace now, until the trees opened up into a wide meadow filled with flowers, bright yellow celandine and dandelions and sweet-scented pale chamomile mingling with cornflowers and irises. On the other side of it was a larger party than Maglor had ever seen in Lórien—five figures sitting in the grass. Huan barked again, and they all looked up. “It seems everyone has come to fetch us home,” Maedhros said, laughing, as all their brothers scrambled to their feet.

After years in Lórien, Maglor and Maedhros are ready to return to their family and to make something new with their lives--but to move forward, all of Fëanor's sons must decide how, or if, they can ever reconcile with their father.

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