give me your hand

~ Tolkien elves in my head ao3 though mainly for lurking, 30-something

[istaricelebelasse]

Fingolfin looks like Feanor. He knows this. Has always known this.

(He wonders, absently, whether he should be using that past tense, now that his brother is gone.)

He looks (looked?) like his brother. It was one reason that Feanor hated him so much more than Finarfin.

Still, it should not sting his heart so much. Should not hurt as much as it does, when the eldest of his nephews wakes on his sickbed and calls him ‘Atya’.

[silmsmutweek]

Welcome to Silm Smut Week! Sept 28 to Oct 4, 2026

A fandom event celebrating sexually explicit fanworks based on the The Silmarillion and related legends!

About & How to Participate

Themes and Prompts

AO3 Collection

FAQ

Rules

To have your work shared on the event’s page, please mention the blog @silmsmutweek in your post AND include the tag #silmsmutweek2026 in the first 10 tags.

This event is run by @ettelene and @polutrope.

[iceyvovo]

Sometimes, I'm sitting down and writing in a cafe. The elderly couple closeby smile at me. I smile back at them. They have no idea about the horrifying depth of pure smut that I am typing away on my computer five feet away.

And then, quietly, I wonder if they sitting there thinking the same thing: Look at her. I bet she's thinking we just look like some cute old couple drinking tea in a cafe. She has no idea at the utter smut we have written and passed around to a hundred different friends.

I love this so much that I make it a headcanon for all elderly couples I sit next to. Which is a surprising amount, and I look forward to being one of them.

[iceyvovo]

Fingolfin: Just because your pain is understandable, doesn’t mean your behaviour is acceptable. Feanor: Just because you can string logic together, doesn't mean it has anything to do with me.

Fingon: Just because your behaviour is unacceptable, doesn’t mean I don’t love you. Maedhros: Just because you love me despite my behaviour, doesn’t mean it's an admirable choice.

Celebrimbor: Just because I’m blood of Feanor, doesn’t mean I’m going to make terrible life decisions— Annatar: *waves*

[havingapoemwithyou]

stability is a feeling by Nazifa Islam

[iceyvovo]

thank you @angband-thrall-no-1035 for the tag!! <3

guess the pov based on a line (pfft. line. yes. a single line)

--

The second question sits deeper in his chest. It would be unfair to ask- or at least unwise, with the deepening splinter stuck fast between them. He asks it anyway.

‘Do you love me as much as you love him?’

There is wine in the slant of his father’s lips, yes, but only sober comprehension painted over the rest of him.

The ensuring silence is a scalpel taken to the soft structures of his heart. 

--

Tagging anyone who is reading this to give us a guess the pov snippet:)

[queerofthedagger]

I'm on record with my conviction that a spoiler can't ruin a story if it's actually well-written so I might be biased here, but truly one of my favourite things tolkien does is, "this is elf mc elf face. he will die a tragic and painful death, even though he doesn't know it yet. anyway now that you know this crucial fact here's his story." and it slaps every single time. like yeah! exactly!!! mwah

[avantegarda]

video game and film fandoms will come and go for me but the Silmarillion fandom will never die. because that book came out like 50 years ago and we're all still trying to figure out what the hell is going on there.

[zishiyao]

Average Otome Game Experience Somehow you always pick the one option that leads to a Bad End.

[iceyvovo]

Teensy but late for @feanorianweek oops! Look, I tried.

-> Maglor delivering Feanor's eulogy. Also here on AO3. Rated G. Warning: Fëanor dies. Canon-divergent (or is it?! We will never know).

Maglor can feel the terrible weight of the words leave his mouth. The rushed scratching of the scribes, racing to record his every word, might as well be carved beneath his skin for how it makes his body crawl.

Yet the eve is mercifully still. The Song in his voice carries easily to the thousands gathered before him. He tells of his father’s death, tastes history forming on the tip of his tongue.

And not a word of it is true.

“Think you, in death, his eyes cast to Aman? To comfort? Retreat? Nay. They cast North.”

Self-disgust settles as a low ache. Ever the performer, Macalaurë. Your first act as King is to deceive your people. Spectacular. It is all too easy to speak those well-worn phrases and arguments—glorifying the Oath, throwing doubt over whichever Valar happens to spring to mind, doubling down on the virtues of creativity, liberty, ingenuity—words he’s regurgitated in speeches unnumbered, written for his father, for Nelyo. 

Is he wrong to do this? Do his brothers, solemn and silent beside him on the dais, detest his words as much as he? 

“…Says he, ‘I honour not the one who perseveres with hope, but the one who walks beyond hope’s horizon, and stops not there.’” 

His father’s eyes had not cast North in those delicate final moments. 

They had filled with tears, the bloated, lash-clumping kind that spill over freely on the other side of shame, clear pathways over ash-smeared cheeks. Maglor cannot let himself recall—not yet, not with how his throat tightens and the weight of his father's cloak sits heavy on his shoulders—his own hysterical grip closing around Fëanor’s fingers, only to find them horrifically loosened and already cooling from blood loss. No, no. You have strong fingers. Close them over mine. Grip me. Hold me. 

More time I would have— Fëanor had spoken softly, his head nursed gently upon Maglor’s lap, lips soft with nostalgia and death but he eyes still deceptively bright even in those brief last moments. —But if not that, let me see you, let me look upon you. 

Not North. Not West. 

Fëanor’s eyes had cast upon his sons, flittering between all seven of them from one to the next, to the next, to the next, lingering longingly, indulgently, upon on each of them as if loath to move on, yet loath to linger lest he rob himself of one more look at his other darlings, before their final close.  

"…Think you, the sun may rise and moon may dance while his feet were swift upon Beleriand? Nay! Think you, the soft underbelly of Arda could support three such creatures of light? Nay! One had to leave for two others to be born—say I!…”

They had found him flung over the unidentifiable remains of a corpse, his fëa unspooling from his flesh with disturbing momentum. 

When Maglor had reached in with Ósanwe, his father had sent him reeling straight back into his own body but he'd glimpsed enough: a laceration can be stitched, a bone mended, but bludgeoning force delivers injuries to organs like ripened fruit dropped one too many times from a height. Fëanor was bleeding into places unreachable, seeping from vein into cavity to pool around organs. 

Curvo had begged otherwise, shaking horrifically, mouth behind his ear and chest plastered to Maglor’s back as if it might somehow lend Maglor the strength that he knew he didn’t have, please, please, Cano, Cano, please, help him, please. 

His voice cuts through the valley, missing not a single ear. Set in a wide circle around them, some twenty feet high and thirty wide, eight pyres are waiting to be lit by flaming arrow.

“Think you that Morgoth has been able to release his held breath since Fëanor drew his first upon this new soil? Let the craven breathe easy now. Let him recline at ease. Let him think us broke..."

There is poetry in it, Maglor thinks. A man who leads a people across a continent for jewels, and spares neither parties a thought in his dying breath. The ballads I could have composed, those beautifully faceted dimensions of ironic tragedy that translates so well into song and play. The tightness that threatens to clamp his throat bids him to speak it, that harrowing, beautiful truth. But it will remain in seven minds alone. Or six. 

History need to be written tonight: hero-vengeance, not familial love. Spite, not softness.

Fëanor had time left only for loving his children, gazing at each in turn, whispering to bequeath upon them their new names: Sindarin names that they had yet confirmed. Let these be my last gift to you. They had sounded shocking, choked out through a ruined throat. He had heard Maglor, and embraced it whole. 

As if Fëanor would ever allow another to form the letters and sounds that will shape his children’s names. 

Celegorm, impatient, dips his arrow in the fire. Nocks. 

“Tell me how death closes its fist around flame without catching alight. Tell me that Mandos does not nurse blackened fingers this very moment.”

They had little warning for that final moment. Fëanor had gripped them all at once, gathered the fraying edges of their spirits and wound them so tightly together that Maglor had glimpsed, briefly, images and ideas beyond his ken; the frightening rip-tide of Fëanor’s intellect; an ocean, the Ilmen. He had welded them together one last time as eight points held into one searingly familiar core, and pulled—

(Maglor had hoped then, for fleeting moment, that Fëanor had found a way to survive—some miracle of using the power of their fëar, all eight of them—and each of them would unquestioningly have given it—to re-open the crushed arterioles and mend the pulverised flesh. It hadn’t even been that he let himself hope, either—he simply had no ability to resist this one final emotional reprieve, not strong enough to reign it in when the light presented itself.)

—and cut. And mended the shockingly distended space left behind, stitching the gaping wound his fëa. And released. 

When Maglor opened his eyes there had been fire and a numb beat of incomprehension. Then Maedhros was falling forward into the flames, face twisted with naked agony and unraveling like lost child, taking the rest of them with him. It was the first time they had ever experienced it: a world without the horizon of Fëanor in very corner of their mind. The feeling of being loosened from a steady grip, as seven distinct gems might be knocked clean from their their golden setting, scattered each into their own dark and sticky crevices.

The arrows fly, flame-lit.

Maglor Sings them each to their individual destinations and watches the pyres roar to life, light blotting out the stars above as one by one the fuses catch, and Curufin’s fireworks are sent two hundred feet into the sky, exploding not with the usual visual splendor of celebration, but with a single deafening boom that Maglor feels vibrate from the base of his gut to his throat.

Eight of them, the points of a star. 

He doesn’t block his ears as others do, simply embraces the high-pitched tinnitus that consumes his mind in the ensuing silence and ignores the itch on his tongue.

Pitiable, he thinks, watching the smoke curl around the stars. Father falls upon them with sword, Maedhros faces directly with his tongue, and I tap a fiery rhythm into the sky from a safe distance.

Distance enough that it will not near shake the battlements of Thangorodrim. Maedhros will certainly not hear it, if he lives still. But Maglor needs only the slightest tremor of eight rhythmic, evenly spaced vibrations, to carry through earth and stong to reach deep into a dark mountain and caress a dark throne. No orc will feel it, nay. 

A fallen Valar just might. 

[feanorianweek]

Feanorian Week Reminder (2026)

Hello Silmarillion Fandom! This is your reminder that Feanorian week will be taking place next month. Below are updated prompts (you are still allowed to suggest prompts)! When is it?:   March 23rd, 2026—March 29th, 2026       

The prompts are as followed:

Day 1- Maedhros - > Childhood, Kingship, Angband, Coping, The Union, Relations with Different Races

Day 2-Maglor -> Childhood, Spouse,  Music & Songs of Power, Elrond & Elros, Kingship, Maglor’s  Gap, Redemption

Day 3- Celegorm - > Childhood, Hunting, Orome & Huan, Strength & Beauty, Luthien, Nargothrond

Day 4- Caranthir - > Childhood, Spouse, Betrayal, Lordship, Dwarves & Humans, Marriage, Appearance

Day  5- Curufin - > Childhood, Spouse, Celebrimbor, Forge Work

Day  6- Ambarussa - > Childhood, Lordship, Regrets, Twin, Hunting, Nandor

Day 7- Nerdanel and Feanor-> Mahtan, Finwe & Indis, Marriage, Reunion, Traveling, Creation, Healing

Rules: You are allowed to post anything fanrelated on the days.  If the prompts are not to your liking, you can do your own thing.  The tracktag is #feanorianweek.  Tag your work accordingly!  Have fun and be nice to others. Disrespect towards others will not be tolerated. 

[iceyvovo]

i just wonder if, after years of torture, the first time Maedhros actually has a moment to pause and process anything at all is when he is hung and left alone on the mountainside. Here, he pushes aside all thoughts of his torture and fate, and instead finally-finally takes the time to begin grieving his father.

[reypevensie]

Silm Hot Take:

Fëanor would’ve hated Henry VIII to the point where he would pay an unbelievable amount of money just to spit on his grave.

[iceyvovo]

but seriously, imagine you are Avari, or a grey-elf who never crossed the Erid Luin, born of parents who refused the call almost entirely.

Imagine being captured at a young age to work as a slave in Angband for the next 1-2 millennia.

You know almost naught but hard labour, starvation, darkness.

Imagine then, how you might feel as Thangorodrim's peaks are tumbling and Eönwë, sword sheathed, tears streaming across his cheeks, offers you his hand.

[dinogalad]

Fëanor, whose love for Curufin runs deeper than fire and is loved in return. Fëanor, who molds his son into his mirror with deliberate hands, dressing him in his own likeness as though reflection were more than lineage. And when Curufin grows older, carving himself into more modern shapes, Fëanor follows, altering his hair, his bearing, his very silhouette, because anything that graces Curufin must also grace him, must complete the image he cannot bear to relinquish.

In the shadowed silence of the Halls of Mandos, Fëanor clutches at what remains, weaving guilt with tenderness as he begs Curufin to stay beside him. “If you loved your atar, would you leave so easily?” he breathes, softly. And Curufin, last of their line to step toward rebirth, lingers beneath the weight of a love that blurs the line between devotion and possession.

For Fëanor’s love is fierce, incandescent, and ruinous. He does not correct his son; he doesn't lecture him. He does not guide him; he adorns him. He spoils Curufin with the same ruthless intensity he once poured into the Silmarils. Hoarding, grasping, unable to let the light he created ever slip from his grasp again.

[iceyvovo]

Does Feanor have dimples?

Yes

What. no.

Yes, but only when he's relaxed, and even then they are very subtle.

Voting ended onDec 4, 2025

[morraly-gray-midnight-fangirl]

I just posted a story on Ao3 for the first time

Why is my heart playing the drums on my ribcage and why do I care what the strangers on the internet care about my writing?