Fanworks Tagged with Creator Chooses Not to Warn

He was going to die. The molten rocks would burn him just like the cursed gem in his palm did. Maybe less painfully but still being burnt hurt and Maedhros knew it. He intimately knew it from his time in Angband where Þauron burnt him often in frustration and to toy with him and his master burnt his skin even more often just to mock his ancestry. At least here he would pass on to Mandos and not linger in pain only to be sewed back together to be tortured again and again.

But it wasn't true for his next clear memory was of the same pain from which he escaped soon and half-mad entered the Girdle to never never leave till now.

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Dye Days are uncomfortable. The newly arrived party from Imladris makes it even more uncomfortable.

Written for S&D 2025, Slide 18 Blood On Their Hands by Zhie

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Mairon hates all endings.

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A rather emotional Beleg-comes-back-to-Túrin acrostic.

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Ungoliant's brood cause her annoyance as they grow up and turn into normies.

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How high a price, not only for words but for blood on holy shores? For smoke on the horizon? For trust and love unyielding, tossed aside in the hours of one dark night? And what, then, the price for unearned forgiveness? For offering the other cheek, for offering to slay kin all over, again, again, again in his name?

“Would you have come with me, if I had asked?” The truth is, Fingon is not sure of the answer. The truth is, he had asked himself, nights on end, what the answer to that question would be. Had asked himself where they had gone so wrong, that he no longer knew.

“Would you have asked, if you were sure of the answer?”

Fingon rescues Maedhros. He and Finrod grapple with the aftermath.

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Maedhros watches him for long moments, his eyes cold in the dim light of morning. “If I wanted to talk to you, I would ask, not use my brother to trick you.”

The implication lands like a blow, precise and devastating. Finrod takes another step closer, then stops himself, fists clenching at his sides. Maedhros has ever been like this, to him—every single word eliciting a reaction; making him fly, bringing him low, tearing him open. What a terrible thing to still find it true, so many years and betrayals later.

Once, Fingon and Maedhros had been Finrod's lovers, the past participle of it carrying the sentence. As it turns out, not everything agrees to be relegated so neatly.

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“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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From one panting breath to the next, the forest goes silent and empty, its absence like a blow. The shadows lengthen, thicken, turning into a tangible, weighty thing that shivers across Celegorm’s skin. It is silent, and he is alone. The hair on his body stands with dread and shivering anticipation.

He turns still. Against the back of his neck, he can feel hot breath; can feel the presence, wrapping itself around him, both home and threat.

“Do you think you can outrun me?”
 

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Celegorm refuses to return. Oromë gets inventive about it.

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In the war camps of Beleriand, Finarfin assembles the missing pieces of his family’s history; assembles the bits and pieces that make not-regret calcify into something jagged and uncomfortable, where it makes a home beneath his breastbone.

He meets men whose ancestors used to march beneath his son’s banner. Most of their house, too, is decimated now, a strange, hollow kinship that Finarfin wants to flinch from, and that they weather as they bend their knees to him, seeing someone other than Finarfin. He meets victims of his nephews’ terror; meets those who are left of Fingolfin’s people, of Fingon’s, of Turgon’s. Learns how they passed, each of them falling to blazing heroics and bristling despair, and wonders how any of them are ever meant to return from this. How these serrated, brittle remains of a devastated land are meant to be spit out into Aman’s idle serenity, and not break the world all over.

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Finarfin, the War of Wrath, and the price it demands.

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On the day I became a god the darkness of the night sky shone as bright as the future ahead of me - swallowing whole what shan't have been for alms were a currency owned by the rich...

...or a gift too many during the crossing of the Helcaraxë.

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Mairon gets a mysterious gift from his best friend's boyfriend during Utumno's celebration of the winter solstice. Chaos ensues. 

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There is a creaking in his ear, a rumble born low to rise above and beyond and the sound of glass shattering. There is blood on his lips - and shards in his eyes.

His heart 𝑎𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑠 .

“I 𝑎𝑚 sorry, Atya.”

Maglor still doesn’t know - and it’s 𝑘𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔 him.

“I am 𝑠𝑜𝑟𝑟𝑦."

...or another world slowly falling apart as Maglor struggles to Forget-Me-N̶o̶t̶s̶.

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Pengolodh interviews a kinslayer.

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In the wake of the fall of Númenor, the penal colony at Andrast is liberated by Sauron's forces. One of the Historians' College of Númenor bears witness.

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After Maedhros and Maglor stole the two silmarils and escaped Ëonwë's camp, Elrond and Elros had followed the two in secret. And when the two casted the gems in their respective resting places, the four of them woke up to a dark Arda, along with the cursed beloved gems.

Nothing was right in this Arda.

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Hastaina-marred, she was, they both were but with passage of time the pain should subside, shouldn't it?

In an AU where Huan fought Carcharoth much earlier and wasn't there to protect Beren and Luthien from Celegorm. It was the aftermath of it.

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For this month’s ‘The Only Thing To Fear’-challenge, I tried something a little different- which was to write short ficlets for as many prompts as possible. (Admittedly, I wanted them to be drabbles at first, but I just couldn’t manage).

Some of these turned more into PTSD-stories than phobias, but I think it still fits the challenge.

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Those who survive do so by cutting parts of themselves off; their innocence, sacrificed to the altar of devouring hunger. Their faith, drowned alongside their children. Their fingers, toes, limbs, coin the Ice demands in exchange for passage.

Those who survive do so in despite; they do not know yet that this will be true for centuries to come.

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The House of Nolofinwë, and their time on the Ice. A deed of great renown and endurance, told in an assortment of loosely connected drabbles.

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Pengolodh tries to write about the kinslaying at Sirion. He fails.

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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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After a breakup, Maglor pays a visit to Himring. It would be more relaxing if his brother's boyfriend wasn't visiting too.

A Fingon/Maglor romcom.

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It is clear that that had not been Curufin’s plan, but that Finrod’s tardiness must have got the better of him. He is dressed only in a burgundy robe of silk that leaves little to the imagination, where it hugs him close, a stark contrast against his pale skin. Wears, far more notably, the Nauglamir around his pale throat, a blatant taunt made all the more offensive by the fact that he is not even awake to throw it into Finrod’s face with scathing words.

Finrod closes the door behind himself carefully, then lingers by the doorway. Outrage is mingling with arousal at the sight—the long lines of Curufin’s body, the way the silk clings to him, hides him elsewhere. The way his hair has come loose from its braids, like ink spilt around him.

The colours of Finrod’s house sitting snug around his throat, put there by Curufin himself, no matter the impudence of it.

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Finrod is not fool enough to have missed the way Curufin, too, at times looks at him. Is not fool enough to make himself believe that his own attraction is some new thing, something only pushing to the surface now that they are trapped together like this, the undeniable way Curufin had saved Finrod from a worse fate, tonight.

Not that Finrod will ever thank him for it; he cannot. But he knows Curufin’s sharp-tongued, bristling demeanour for what it is, and it does not change that the two of them, whatever lies between them, are a cataclysm waiting to happen. Does not change that, in truth, Finrod should be careful to turn his back, lest he find a knife in it.

And yet.

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Curufin and Finrod get snowed in. It goes about as well as can be expected.

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In the corner of his eye, Finrod’s form morphs and twists, dark spots against the flickering light like gore and blood on sun-kissed skin.

Is this what he did to you? Curufin had asked once, one of the first times—drunk, not-grieving, his mind a war zone. Finrod had smiled at him then, almost tenderly. It revealed the gorge within his well-loved cheek, and Curufin would have flinched if not for the memory of pressing his fingers there, a coward’s imitation of intimacy.

“Worse,” Finrod’s ghost had said, and then had vanished, leaving Curufin to the rolling nausea of sour wine on an empty stomach.

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On the eve of the battle for Doriath, Finrod pays a visit—or rather, whatever is left of him does.

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