Next to your brothers, you grin as you see the Feanorians walk in. And there he is: Uncle Feanor.
Beside you, your twin sighs. Of course, Finrod never understood the fun in your ragebaiting. He was too much of a saint to.
There was a reason, after all. You were the only Arafinwean to spend that long in the Halls of Mandos.
You're weaving through the crowd toward your beloved uncle when your aunt, Nerdanel, catches your eye. To your horror, she promptly steers Feanor away. Dodging you. Effectively pushing Maedhros into your path. And just like that, you lose sight of your prime entertainment behind a mountain of elf.
"Not now, Nelyo. Step away," you say, leaning to the side to catch your uncle’s eye.
You had just the phrase, the one guaranteed to ignite him like dry kindling.
To your ire, Nelyo calmly retrieves a chalice of wine and manages to lure you into a detour. Somehow, he convinces you to give him a full tour of the traps you had laid across your wing of the palace.
By the time you're back, the feast is in full swing. You are stuck in a debate with Celegorm when the moment strikes.
Your uncle Feanor is seated just three places away.
You spot the exact moment your aunt notices the gleam in your eyes. Nelyo is far off, deep in conversation with the Peredhel, and your path is clear.
Feanor is passionately arguing history with Findis when you lock in.
"No, it was not that year, Findis," he says, hands slicing the air. "That line of Men ends well into the sixty-seventh Age of—"
He makes the mistake of looking your way, and your hands are already up.
"Six, seven," you grin, moving your hands like elfings do. The silly trick had many ancient beings scratching their heads.
Feanor combusts.
He throws his napkin on the table and nearly launches himself across it to throttle you.
But you're already laughing, breathless.
Oh, how dull Valinor had been in his absence.
You were there when your beloved uncle asked Galadriel for a strand of her hair.
Right in front of you. Without so much as a glance your way. As if your hair, longer, glossier, and objectively better curled than hers, didn’t exist.
You clutched your metaphorical pearls as Galadriel politely refused him, and then stayed long enough to witness the full dramatic arc of your uncle’s wounded pride. He stormed off like a tragic hero from an unfinished epic.
Tsk, tsk. This would not do.
So, at first light the next day, you paid him a visit.
In the quiet hours of Laurelin, you made your way to his forge.
Letting yourself in with your self-appointed entry pass, which was just a crumpled scrap of paper featuring a stick figure labeled "Feanor's favorite person", you left him a gift.
When he arrived later, he found the forge littered with shimmering strands of golden hair.
Tightly coiled curls. Ones he didn’t remember asking for.
And on the anvil, you left a drawing: the two of you, hand in hand, both grinning. He was unmistakably labeled "Uncle Curu", and you had given yourself a sparkly crown.
The streets of Tirion fell quiet as you walked away from the forge.
A bald head glinting in the morning light is an unusual sight among the Eldar.
You were twenty paces out when you heard your uncle’s war cries echo through the city.
"And the winner of this competition is... the Curufinwe Slammer Mechaninator," a confounded Maia announced, hesitating slightly over the syllables.
You jumped in your seat.
Proudly, you stood and bowed to the supportive, if equally confused, audience.
And of course, you made a point to smile at your dearest uncle as you made your way up the stage to accept your award.
The Curufinwe Slammer Mechaninator was your latest invention.
Elegant? No.
Functional? Debatable.
Devastating? Absolutely.
Your model sat proudly in the front row: Findekano, wearing the most extravagant braids seen in Tirion since the Days of Bliss. His updo blocked the view of at least ten people behind him. Tiny bells jingled every time he shifted.
He waved as you passed, beaming.
"Thank you, thank you," you said, dabbing away faux tears as you accepted the prize. You turned to the audience, voice trembling with staged sincerity.
“My inspiration for the Curufinwe Slammer Mechaninator is none other than my darling uncle.”
You smiled sweetly with a wicked gleam in your gaze.
Feanaro’s eyes narrowed. His fingers curled. Someone said later they saw his jaw click.
Findekano's bells jingled again.
Never again was Feanaro seen in braids.
The next morning, he sent a formal proclamation to the Tirion Herald, denouncing “ornamental hair vanity as a corrupting influence on craft.”
You had it framed.
It was supposed to be a quiet afternoon.
You had been sent. Politely exiled, really, to Feanaro’s study with a stack of grammar exercises and an ink-stained scroll titled “Linguistic Structures of Early Quenya.”
“Ask your uncle for help,” someone had said, clearly trying to remove you from the palace kitchens.
They hadn’t meant Feanaro. But he was the only one home.
And now here he was: sleeves rolled up, jaw tight, hovering beside you.
“This is simple,” he said, tapping the table. “You decline the noun according to case, number, and function.”
You squinted at the page.
“I just think accusative case is… aggressive,” you said thoughtfully. “Too accusatory.”
“It should be,” Fëanáro said through his teeth. “It is the case of direct action.”
“That sounds very judgmental of inaction.”
“It is grammar, not philosophy.”
You tapped your quill against your cheek. “Isn’t all grammar philosophy, though? Isn’t every sentence a declaration of belief?”
He stared at you.
Then walked to the other end of the room.
Then came back.
“You cannot keep dodging the assignment with riddles.”
“I’m not dodging,” you said. “I’m contextualizing.”
He inhaled sharply. “Translate the sentence.”
You looked down at the line. “The fire consumes the house.”
You raised your hand.
He did not look pleased. “Yes?”
“Is the fire a metaphor?”
He closed his eyes. “No.”
“But you are very famously metaphorical with fire, Uncle.”
“The fire is not me.”
“I never said it was, but now that you mention it…”
His hands flexed on the back of the chair.
You beamed.
Finally, he sat down, folded his arms, and said coldly, “If you can name the subject, object, and verb of the sentence correctly, I will ignore the last two minutes.”
You paused.
“Define ‘correctly.’”
He stood up again.
It was stifling.
He didn’t belong here.
Not after an eternity in the Halls of Mandos. Not after the weight of what he had been, and what had burned with him.
Who had asked for this return? Who had thought it wise?
He was Feanaro. The doom of the Noldor, the architect of their unmaking.
He shouldn’t have come.
He was already halfway to the door when it came. That voice.
“Leaving so soon, Uncle?” You're standing in his path.
Of course you are.
He feels the old instinct first. The desire to snap, to fling a curse and storm out.
But the edge falters.
Because yours is the first voice to greet him. The first not to whisper behind a hand or weigh him with silent judgment. The first to call him with such familiarity.
And for reasons that unsettle him, he does not move.
Surprise flickers in your eyes before you bury it under that same too-wide grin you’ve always worn when you’re about to say something irritating.
“Come on,” you say, casual as ever, “at least stay long enough to pretend you’ve missed wine.”
You reach for his arm without waiting for permission. Of course you do.
Shameless and criminal (Feanor x Reader Silmarillion fic)
Contains: Nerdanel breaks up with Feanor, Fem!Reader, reader is kind of shameless kind of shy, reader doesn't have a lot of experience kissing, Feanor being an asshole, tw: forced kissing, argument, ended marriage, kissing, Feanor gets away with it kind of, hurt/comfort, fluff
Feanor and his sons were returning to the city of Tirion.
Oh, how they were welcomed! The wisest men approached them, curious to hear about their travels. The most talented musicians plucked their harps, drowning the street in a chorus of elevating melodies. The crowd of elves parted, as the Feanorian men rode their horses through the square.
You had come to see him, but you did not expect him to pay you much attention. He had not accepted you, despite the fact that Nerdanel had recommended you to him.
Feanor, the oldest son of Finwë and a master craftsman, seemed to glow faintly as he carried himself on top of his horse. His sons rode their horses next to him. A magnificent sight.
They seemed to have slowed down to walking speed, allowing elves to come to meet them.
The air around Feanor seemed more mighty and unapproachable compared to his sons. He talked only to a few elves. He seemed to judge people quickly, falling silent as if to punish the foolish soul for wasting his time. His powerful and cold demeanor seemed occasionally come to life as he kept captivating the crowd with his charisma. An occasional witty and merciless laugh escaped him, startling the people around him.
Nerdanel had ended her relationship with Feanor a few months ago. It had come as a shock to you. Of course because you had not expected the marriage to end after Nerdanel had birthed seven children to Feanor. However the news had startled you also because you had suddenly needed to decide if you wanted to tell Nerdanel that you fancied her husband. She was your very wise and very powerful friend after all.
Feanor had experienced a shock too, despite the way he had carried himself in an unshakable fashion. Nerdanel had known this. She had also known that you liked Feanor. So she had recommended you to Feanor. She had told him that you could be his new companion. His new mate.
Feanor had refused. He had called the idea ridiculous.
Nerdanel had insisted and left it at that. She had encouraged you to do sweet things for Feanor. She had seemingly decided that life was not worth living if you could not make a fool of yourself once in a while. She had followed her own advice and slept with multiple new suitors after ending things with Feanor.
Feanor had not been happy about that. And he had not been happy about you coming to him with gifts either.
"I'm afraid I don't need any scented soap as a gift, especially not ones that are offered with secret intentions", Feanor had said, not hiding the fact that you were bothering him.
"Am I bothering you, my lord?" you had asked.
"Yes." The answer had been swift.
"Why? I'm not asking you to kiss me, even though that would be nice if you want to", you had said with a hopeful look in your eyes.
"Are you genuinely asking me to kiss a woman who works at a bath house? I bet you are not even educated", Feanor had said while looking irritated, ending the argument there.
You had approached Nerdanel afterwards, complaning about the way she had encouraged you to go to Feanor only to be insulted by him.
"He said that I'm not worthy of him. Why would he want to kiss someone who is less educated than him?" you had said.
"I'm gonna talk to him about that. You are good as you are. He's coming up with excuses. He didn't say anything about your education when I first told him about your feelings", Nerdanel had said.
"Really? Then what was the reason he refused me?" you had asked, feeling both foolish to ask this kind of question and suddenly honestly intent on knowing the answer.
"Nothing. He just said that it was ridiculous", Nerdanel answered apologetically.
You had had your eye on Feanor for a long time. It was a childish crush. But after you had become friends with Nerdanel, you had treated your crush like a fantasy. Something nice to imagine, that would stay in your imagination. You had imagined giving Feanor gifts, making him laugh, kissing him. Having the attention of a powerful man on you. It had been your own little secret.
Now it wasn't a secret anymore. Feanor knew about your crush, so you had already made a fool of yourself. You decided to try to make him happy and give him more gifts.
That's how you ended up approaching him as he returned to Tirion on horseback with his sons.
When you saw the crowd surround Feanor and his horse, you started walking towards him with a goblet of wine in your hands. It was terrifyingly easy to make your way towards him and you were starting to second-guess yourself.
This was a public situation. You shifted the goblet in your hands uncomfortably. You felt exposed.
You knew that you were intruding. What were you thinking, approaching Feanor in front of his sons? You were too young for him.
You wore an uncomfortable expression, a twisted mask of embarrassment, as you walked through the crowd. It was not a cute and shy look. It was a frozen smile on your face, an embarrassing and almost apologetic look. But despite everything, it was soft. And you held your head high.
Feanor noticed you despite appearing distracted. A caring face, twisted with embarrassment, approaching him with a gift. Feanor turned to look away, dreading this interaction. But somewhere inside his heart he felt a sensation of warmth.
You stopped in front of his horse and lifted the goblet, ready to hand it to him.
You could hear a couple of his sons whispering to each other.
You stood there, scared and begging in your mind for Feanor to take the goblet.
And finally he did. You felt him grab the goblet and you looked briefly at him. He did not meet your eyes, turning away from you. You turned quickly away, escaping through the crowd.
Feanor's expression was dark, but he drank from the goblet all the same.
---
One day out Feanor approached you out of the blue.
You were seated at a small table that was located in front of a beautiful bath house where you usually worked. The building looked almost like a temple. The elves who took care of the bath house offered a cup of tea to everyone who took a bath in their beautiful pools of water. That's how you had ended up sipping tea from a cup while wearing a bathrobe and chatting with your friend who was wearing the same attire and sitting in front of you across the table.
One moment you were relaxing pleasantly, next you were being judged by the mighty Feanor who was towering over you in all of his glory.
"Good afternoon, (Y/n)", Feanor said stiffly. "I'm looking for Nerdanel. I'm afraid I must talk to her. I find my thoughts unpleasantly tangled. Apparently it is impossible for me to clear my head without her advice. I trust that you have an idea where she is, you are her friend after all."
"M-my lord!" you exclaimed in surprise when he suddenly appeared surrounded by such serious air, but quickly you understood what he asked of you. You decided to be careful, out of loyalty and bracing yourself for his anger. "It is not my right to say where Nerdanel is. I would not betray her trust by exposing her."
Feanor's shadow seemed to suddenly fall over you. You could not look him in the eyes. You could feel him stand next to your table, silently. The air seemed cold. You could see your friend hold her breath.
"You would deny me information about my family?" Feanor asked, his voice threateningly low.
"Well... she is not your wife anymore, is she?" you said meekly with wide eyes.
Feanor's breath hitched.
Suddenly he slammed his hand on the table in front of you and leaned down close to your face.
"You!! This is all your fault! You wanted Nerdanel to leave me so you could have me to yourself, didn't you?! You have convinced her to abandon me!!" Feanor shouted at you in fury.
"What?! No!! You are wrong! That's not it at all!" you shouted at him, leaning back in fear.
"You are a selfish woman, not to mention delusional!! I will never be with you! I will not give you what you want! I would kiss a thousand women before you!" Feanor spat.
You saw Feanor move quickly on the other side of the table, where your friend was sitting. To your horror he leaned down, kissing them forcefully on the lips. Then Feanor turned to look at you with righteous anger, not ashamed despite stealing a kiss from somebody who had nothing to do with this.
"There!! Go ahead a weep!! You will never end up with me!!" Feanor spat at you before turning around and storming off.
You were shaken after that. You and your friend spent the next hour trying to calm down and comforting each other. You made sure that she was okay after Feanor had forced a kiss on her. You went to your home later feeling lost and messed up.
---
The three days after Feanor's outburst you were sitting under a tree in a garden and admiring the flowers that were floating through the air all around you.
This was a temple garden. The temple had been built for Aulë, the vala. The garden was beautiful. The trees were full of blooming flowers. Flower petals fell through the air, making the garden seem like a daydream.
You leaned back to lay down under the tree. You closed your eyes, letting the sound of wind and leaves ease your mind. You tried to forget about Feanor. Nerdanel had said that the oldest son of Finwe had calmed down after that day. Thankfully.
You fell asleep.
You woke up later, opening your eyes to see the leaves and flowers sway in the tree above you. It was beautiful.
You turned your head slightly to the side, realizing that somebody was laying down right next to you.
"AAAAH!" you panicked, scrambling to push yourself away.
The person lying next to you grabbed your wrist and pinned it against the ground, preventing your escape.
You fell on your side, looking up at your capturer from where you were laying on the ground.
It was Feanor.
"Don't move", he said.
You froze, staring at him.
He was holding your wrist in place. You could feel his grip. He wasn't letting go. He could easily close his hand around your wrist, his palm twice the size of yours and the fingers long and strong. You felt like your soul was wavering in front of his power.
He looked mighty, as always. Also unenthusiastic and tired. But as tired as his eyes looked, he was focused on looking at you.
"I'm sorry", he said. "Is your friend okay? I must have terrified them."
"What?" you asked, still in disbelief.
"I said I'm sorry", Feanor said.
You stared at him, remembering the way he had acted. The anger on his face. His arrogance.
You sniffled a little, your eyes teary.
Feanor's eyes widened. He looked regretful.
"Are you afraid of me?" he asked, sounding heartbroken.
"A little", you managed to say in a small voice as more tears came.
Feanor reached out, pressing you against his chest.
"Don't be afraid of me", he pleaded. "Nerdanel will kill me. She is furious with me."
You hid your face in his chest, letting the tears fall.
"I'm sorry for not appreciating your gifts. They were very lovely. I was an imbecil for not appreciating them", Feanor continued quickly, his voice quiet and desperate.
You tried to breath slowly, your sobs dying down. Your face was a mess.
"I'm sorry for saying that it was your fault Nerdanel left me. I'm sorry I said you were selfish. I'm sorry I kissed your friend. I'll apologize to them later."
You sniffled against his chest, nuzzling closer to his heat. His body felt large and powerful against your skin.
You felt Feanor shiver a little. The thought of making someone so respected and powerful shiver made you feel a little giddy.
Feanor smoothed a hand over your hair and you realized that he was acting softer than you had ever seen him act before. You tried to move your hands away from his chest, afraid that you would ruin the moment. Instead you felt that his hand was still closed around your wrist.
The thought of your wrist remaining in his grip made warm comfort spread through you.
"It's funny", Feanor said, petting your hair. "I have not comforted anyone like this after my children grew to full height."
"I like it", you said boldly with all the softness you had.
"You do?" Feanor asked and it sounded like he was smiling. "I have to admit that I enjoy this too."
You sighed softly and smiled with your cheek against his chest.
Feanor seemed to have calmed down. His voice was relaxed and deep again.
"You caught me off guard", Feanor said. "Out of all the times I have visited this place, I have never fallen asleep here. Usually I come here to feel connected to Aulë. Were you really sleeping?"
"Yes", you answered. "Did you think I was pretending?"
"As I was approaching you I thought that maybe you were. I thought that you were trying to catch my attention, lure me closer", Feanor said while smiling.
"Hey! I wasn't!" you denied the accusation.
"Alright, alright! I'm sorry! What can I do to stop hurting your feelings? It keeps happening", Feanor said thoughtfully.
"You can apologize one last time", you said.
"One last time? And then I am forgiven?" Feanor asked.
"Yes."
"Alright. What should I apologize for?"
"For saying that you would kiss a thousand women before me", you said in a small voice.
"Ah... I did say that, didn't I?" Feanor said regretfully.
He fell into a thoughtful silence for a moment before he looked at you.
"Should I demonstrate how wrong I was?"
You blushed.
"Yes... if it's okay with you", you said.
"Well, Nerdanel has kissed many people after leaving me... so there's nothing holding me back, is there?" Feanor said.
"One kiss", you said, full of anticipation and disbelief.
"One kiss", Feanor confirmed.
Feanor let you lay on your back on the grass. He shifted into a sitting position and crawled on top of you.
You were nervous and unsure what to do. You assumed that Feanor would now how to perform.
You looked at him as he moved carefully and slowly to cage you between his arms. It felt like he was trying to not scare you.
It took a moment before Feanor moved any closer to you after positioning himself above you. It took a moment for him to even meet your eyes.
And when he met your eyes, the trusting and soft look you gave him made him smile just a little and before he began to move his face closer with the same carefulness that he had done before.
You imagined him having a lot of experience. The thought was thrilling and definitely somewhat overwhelming. You stayed still, looking and looking and looking as his face moved closer, slowly and carefully, giving you every chance to move away or tell him to stop, but you didn't.
When Feanor's face was only a finger's length away from yours, you saw his mouth open slightly. Then you saw his eyes move down, look at your lips.
A moment later he was so close you could see only him. You were breathless. Overwhelmed in the best way. Waiting. Waiting.
And there it was! His lips were attached to yours!
His and your lips pressed together. It was intimate, so impossibly warm and soft and intimate.
He pressed closer, chasing your lips. His lips moved against yours, like waves. You moved your lips, embarrassed when you didn't get it right away.
He pulled away and you both breathed. Then he closed the gap again. You welcomed his lips, feeling impossibly giddy when you felt them.
You felt Feanor pin one of your wrists against the ground. It send a delicious thrill through you.
Your lips had gotten wet. It felt amazing. To move your lips against Feanor's.
You continued for awhile. And every second was stretched in honey.
I'm an Aromantic asexual, so I just need to know if it is reaction or not, who'd be the wine aunt with me. Complaining and talking crap, not fond of kids. Like no harm would would come to the child.. But how. Do. I. Hold. This. Squirmy. Crotch. Goblin. Also what the hell do you say to kids? Googoo muck? I just need someone to be a crow with me on a gravestone talking sh.t.
The chaotic storyteller — loud, dramatic, and always with a drink in hand—they dominate the gathering with wild tales, some true, some exaggerated.
— Feanor, Celegorm, Fingon, Glorfindel, Egalmoth
The elegant wine connoisseur — refined, stylish, and well-versed in vintages, they sip slowly and offer sophisticated conversation, judging everyone's choices.
— Fingolfin, Finrod, Gil-galad, Elrond, Erestor
The emotional oversharer — after a few drinks, the floodgates open—secrets, regrets, and unsolicited advice spill out as they cling to their glass.
The gossip-loving instigator — lives for the drama, subtly (or not-so-subtly) stirring the pot while pretending to be neutral, all with a knowing smirk.
Hello, hope you’re having a lovely day! I absolutely love your Silm reactions, so how do you think the elves would react to getting in a brawl with someone and you, in panicked protection/defence of your elf, step in front and take a blow that was meant for them?
They see red the moment you take the hit, knocking down the person without hesitation. Their rage is swift, and they don’t stop until the threat is battered. Afterwards, they turn to you, demanding to know why you did such a reckless thing, they are shaking between anger and worry.
They finish the fight quickly, making sure no one else lays a hand on you. Once the fight is over, they kneel beside you, masking the deep worry beneath. They don’t scold you—not yet. That will come later.
Their first reaction isn’t to retaliate, but to catch you before you fall. The fight fades into the background as they press a hand to your injury, seeking to sedate the pain. Their desperation is clear in their touch, their voice, their eyes—because seeing you hurt is not an option.
Are reactions open? If not, ignore. Um but elves reactions to s/o getting in a bar fight and going wild, like this person became their embodied rage room, breaking dishes edit type vibes lol.
Scared, shocked, bewildered and confused. Why are you fighting? Why are you being so unruly? Your elves would be quick to pull you out of the fight, ignoring your protests and dragging you away from the individuals you were fighting. Expect a long lecture…
Are more inclined to stand from a distance and watch as you. Highly doubt that they would be concerned with the reason why you were raging. They know for a fact if you were unruly to this point, then it must have been for a good reason…
Request: Hello!!! Hope everything is okie dokie on your end!! So this is like an alternative timeline sorta thing. Could I maybe request a fic where a severely wounded Fëanor does survive the battle, but he's badly hurt, barely holding on, and a mortal!reader helps him recover? We know Fëanor would be too proud to accept any help from anyone let alone a mortal, but over time he comes to rely on the reader, and secretly enjoys being doted on? And mayyyybe little bit of romance between them...?😁 Hihii! Thank ya and take care!!!💖💖– @koyunsoncizeri
A/N: This was an interesting piece to spend a long time concocting. Most pleased with this yearning troupe—gives me life. Thank you for requesting and giving me soft Feanor.
Synopsis: And it terrified him—a mortal who was able to break down his walls and leave him yearning like a fish in search of water. Who were you to make him this weak?
Masterlist | Navigation
The dim glow of the fire flickered against the modest wooden walls of your home, casting long shadows that danced and shifted as the flames licked at the logs. Outside, the wind howled faintly, a distant voice in the vastness of the night, but inside, warmth and quiet enveloped the space—save for the occasional grumbling of your stubborn guest.
“Oi, cease your movements, your wounds are still fresh.”
Nothing.
“Will you put that down? That is not a toy.”
Nothing.
“Oi, elf boy! Quit moving or you will feel this hot wooden spoon.”
Well, that did something.
Standing there in a widened stance, hand on your hips, sleeves rolled up to your elbows and a look of ‘so help me God, I will throttle you,’ on your face as you stared at the raven-haired elf trapezing your dollhouse-sized home—compared to his towering seven foot and more frame. Still covered in bandaged and faint scars from his tumble with those fiery creatures in the North, Feanor paused midway examining a jar filled with some liquids that smelt like alcohol and what appeared to be venomous creatures, to throw a look of ‘come hither.’
“You mortals,” he murmured, tilting the jar and watching the brown substance shift loosely within. “So quick to violence.”
“If only you knew,” you sighed, returning your attention to the bubbling cauldron over the fire. “I spent all morning hunting down your favourite mushrooms because you are a picky bastard, and yet here you are, prancing about my house like an overgrown child instead of resting.” You were tempted to launch your wooden spoon, freshly drawn from the cauldron, and wack his head with it, but that would only create another session of his temper tantrum.
As you stirred the soup, inhaling the fragrant steam curling from the surface. Behind you, you could still feel him, standing there, likely observing you with that unreadable expression of his. He had done so for days now—watching you as you moved, as if you were a puzzle he could not quite solve.
You heard him hum—a sound of neither agreement nor dismissal—but he finally set the jar back onto the shelf. A small victory, you supposed. “What is this concoction?”
Heaving, you focused on the heat and stirred the soup, adding in the fine herbs. “It is a cure for venomous injuries.”
“And how does it work?” he inquired, holding the jar up to the light. The size difference between his hand and the jar made it appear like a small bottle.
“If one were to be bitten by a venomous creature, consume a mouthful to purge the body of the toxins. Would you like to test it yourself?” you replied, unamused at his fascination. To this day, you still do not understand the fascination that his kind had towards humans. You were smaller, some matching the height of elven women, slower, aged and less refined—hardly any reason to be enchanted. Rather, disenchanted was a better response, yet you were stuck with one who broke the typical themes of interest.
“Once again, you mortals have sedated my curiosity—for a moment,” he muttered before seeing the jar once more and turning on his heel to scour the tiny house.
You rolled your eyes at his comment. There it was again—the ever-condescending ‘you mortals…’ followed by some half-hearted remark that barely qualified as praise. As if you should be grateful that a being as great as he had taken an interest in your primitive existence. First Thingol’s kin, and now him—a different race of elves who had a fondness for the arts, or perhaps just him.
Turning your head to catch him staring at the metalwork of your water system—which he had been learning for the last two weeks—his mouth was moving at an unrecognisable speed. Muttering calculations and theoretics of the mechanics he was taught by Aulë and Mahtan, comparing them to your craft.
“How long are you going to stare?” you called out, not breaking his focus or attention, but enough to earn you a grunt. “You are genuinely obsessed; most would not be.”
“I am not most.” Came his subtle response while he stroked his chin as though he had a beard.
Giving a small ‘humph’ and setting your spoon down, you stepped away from the fireside and began gathering the bits of mess lying around the house. “You are indeed not most,” you commented with a smirk. “You are simply an elf who had seen death which resulted in you being draped in excessive bandages. Most would not charge at three or more fiery beasts and expect to win—clearly, you are more.”
Thankfully, your head was down as you gathered the doily and withered flowers off the table, missing the ‘how dare you’ expression. Anyone else would have melted on the spot, even squeak out an apology, but you, unbothered. In the two weeks he had been within your company, you had done more damage than the Balrogs had managed—quell his pride. You could sense the heat of his glare, smouldering it was in fact, less than in the beginning, it only served as humour to your bored, tranquil days. Something that felt more like calm amusement than the wrath of a fiery storm. Tolerable.
“I will have you know that I—”
“—faced the mightiest of foes, the Great Enemy of the North, and survived to fight another day,” you interrupted, finally looking up to give him a tender smile with a small, reassuring shake of your head. “It is not something to be taken lightly.”
His arms folded across his chest—then immediately unfolded as he winced at the motion, pain flickering briefly across his expression. He tried to suppress it, his pride refusing to acknowledge his own weakness, but you had seen it.
Sighing, you step toward him. “Sit down before you rip your stitches,” you said, the amusement in your tone fading into something softer.
He did not move, prompting you to exhale slowly, tilting your head. “Fëanor.”
His jaw tightened as if warring with himself before he begrudgingly moved to take a seat on the wooden bench near the hearth. There, he sat stiffly, as if the mere act of compliance wounded him more than the battle itself.
You crouched in front of him, fingers reaching for the bandages around his ribs. He flinched—just slightly—but did not stop you as you carefully unwound the wrappings to inspect the wounds beneath. The deep gashes had closed, the flesh mending slowly, but bruises still painted his skin in shades of deep violet and blue.
The fire crackled softly in the hearth, its glow casting shifting patterns of gold and amber across the wooden walls. Shadows flickered along the grain of the floorboards, elongating the space between you and him, yet the air between you felt unbearably close. He sat stiffly on the bench, his mountainous frame oddly subdued, his shoulders still drawn taut as you crouched before him, carefully unwinding the bandages that bound his wounds.
His skin was warm beneath your fingertips, the flesh no longer torn as it had been when you first found him—broken, battered, but not defeated. Never defeated. The bruises remained, deep smudges of violet and blue painting the edges of his ribs, but the worst of the gashes had closed, and healed over time and care.
“You heal well,” you murmured barely above a breath as your fingers ghosted over the smooth, newly-mended skin.
There was a sharp exhale through his nose, shifting slightly beneath your touch. “Of course I do,” he scoffed, but his usual sharpness was absent. The words lacked their customary bite, ringing hollow in the thickened air between you.
You glanced up at him then, your face close to his, close enough to see the exhaustion lining his sharp features, the way his lips parted slightly in an unspoken thought. The firelight caught the dark waves of his hair, casting a soft sheen over what should have been wild and untamed, yet now seemed almost...hesitant. He was always a force of motion, a wildfire that consumed all in his path, yet now, he was still—unnervingly still.
His mismatched eyes, filled with the sparks of something unknown, burned into you with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. He was watching you again—not as the strange mortal who had taken him in, nor as the healer who had bound his wounds. There was something else in his gaze now, something unreadable, something unwanted if the flicker of tension in his jaw was any indication.
“You should be grateful that you are here, alive,” you murmured, tilting your head slightly, the corner of your lips barely curving into a smirk. “You should count your blessings.”
A muscle in his jaw twitched.
Fëanor did not answer immediately, and for a moment, you wondered if you had finally pressed too far. He was not one to dwell on the past—his entire life had been defined by the forward momentum of his will, the sheer force of his existence too great to linger on what was. And yet, something unreadable shifted in his expression, something that did not belong to the proud warrior who had fought fire with fire, nor the brilliant craftsman whose hands had shaped wonders beyond mortal comprehension.
It was a hesitation. A pause in the storm.
He swallowed, the movement barely perceptible, but you caught it, nonetheless.
Grateful?
He should have been dead. Would have been dead, had it not been for you, a mere mortal who had found him among the scorched remains of battle, who had dragged his barely-breathing body from the clutches of death itself. He should have resented you for it.
He had been a king. A leader. A father. A husband. He had known what it meant to be bound to another, to share space, to accept care. But that life was gone, shattered long before his body ever fell to the flames. His marriage had ended long before death had first reached for him. And yet here you were—offering him care he had long since forsaken, offering him patience, offering him something he had not asked for but had begun, over these weeks, to expect.
But he didn’t. And that was the problem.
No one had dared tend to him since Nerdanel had left. No one had been allowed. And yet, you—a mere mortal, a lesser being by every elven measure—had not only mended his wounds but had dared to scold him, to tease him, to touch him with the ease of one who did not see the legend, only a man.
That should have infuriated him. And yet, his gaze continued to linger.
On the curve of your lips, the delicate line of your throat as you tilted your head, the stray strand of hair that had fallen loose from behind your ear. The hands that had time and again seen to his wounds with the care he had not deserved. The very same hands that had struck him with a wooden spoon the first time he had tried to move before his body was ready.
He had scoffed at it then. But now, in this closeness, in this unbearable stillness, he was left to reckon with a far more troubling truth.
What was this? This need?
He had come to like it.
The doting. The attention. The quiet, steady presence of you in this little home.
He had craved it.
A sickness took root in his chest, something far more suffocating than his wounds, far more dangerous than the lingering weakness in his limbs.
His hands curled into fists at his sides, his knuckles taut beneath his skin. It does not matter, he told himself. He was leaving soon. He had to leave. He had no place here.
And yet.
And yet.
His next words left his mouth before he could stop them, low and quiet, as if they had been stolen from the depths of his mind before he had a chance to cast them aside.
“Then I only have one blessing to be grateful for.”
Your breath hitched slightly, hands stilling against his skin. There was a brief moment as you searched his gaze, unsure if he truly meant what you thought he did. Enough for him to know that you understood. His expression remained unreadable, but the way he held your gaze—steady, unwavering—sent warmth curling in your chest. The space between you was unbearable now, the air thick with something unspoken, something vast and terrifying in its weight.
Your fingers, still resting lightly against his bandages, trembled for the briefest moment before you swallowed, pulling your hands away.
“The soup will be ready soon,” you murmured, standing and turning away.
Fëanor exhaled, slow and measured, as if that breath was all that was keeping him from being swept into something he could not control.
He did not stop you as you moved away. And yet, as he watched you—this stubborn mortal who had refused to let him die—he could not shake the thought that had begun to take root. That leaving this place, leaving you, would be a battle of its own. And damn anyone who prevented him—he could not leave without you. And it terrified him—a mortal who was able to break down his walls and leave him yearning like a fish in search of water. Who were you to make him this weak?
And before he knew it, the words came tumbling out before he could stop them. He did not look at you immediately. He stared at the floor, at the dying embers in the hearth, his lips pressed into a thin line.
“I am leaving soon,” he said at last, quietly.
You stilled, spoon in midair and bowl in hand, swallowed past the lump in your throat. “I know.”
A pause. Then, you felt his hand reach out to gingerly curl around your wrist, prompting the spoon to be released, as if you were his most precious glasswork—enough to keep you there.
“I do not wish to go.”
Your breath stuttered.
Slowly, hesitantly, you turned to face him. He finally lifted his gaze, and in that moment, Fëanor, the great and mighty warrior, the King of the Noldor, was just a man. A man who had lost everything and had, in the most unexpected of places, found something worth holding onto again.
And for the first time, he admitted it.
“I do not wish to leave you.”
A quiet stillness settled between you. The weight of his words hung in the air, unspoken yet undeniable.
You studied his face—the proud tilt of his chin, the flicker of uncertainty in his mismatched eyes, the way his fingers still curled lightly around your wrist as if hesitant to fully commit to what he had just confessed. It was not an easy thing for him, you knew. He had spent so long burning, consumed by his own fire, forging himself into something untouchable. And yet, here he was—revealing something raw, something fragile, something he had likely never intended to say.
You exhaled softly.
“Then don’t.”
He blinked. Just once. As if startled by the simplicity of your response. No grand proclamations, no desperate pleas—just a truth laid bare, plain and unembellished.
His grip on you tightened just slightly, as if testing whether he could believe in it.
You tilted your head, your voice quieter this time. “Stay, if that is what you want.”
There was no demand in your tone, no expectation. The decision had always been his to make—would always be his to make. And for a man who had spent a lifetime consumed by choices that had shaped empires and shattered worlds, perhaps this—this—was the one choice that truly mattered.
His lips parted slightly, something unreadable passing over his expression.
Then finally, his fingers slipped from your wrist, only to settle against your hand instead, turning it palm-up in his grasp. His thumb brushed absently over the skin there, his gaze still searching yours as though waiting for some unseen force to pull him away.
It never came.
“…Then I will stay.”
Not forever. Perhaps not even for long. But for now.
And somehow, for a man who had always burned too brightly, too briefly, that was enough.
Request: Hi! I’m so happy you opened the request again!☺️ I wanted to ask if you could do the “When you fake an orgasm” with the Feanorians, the one for the Ainur was amazing!! Thank you and have a great day💖
A/N: I didn’t include the twins in this because I was unable to write smut for them. I don’t know why, but I can never envision smut for them, it doesn’t click for me. Sorry, but I also hope you enjoy it!
Warnings: smut, fem!reader, rough sex, spanking, fingering, overstimulation, edging, multiple orgasms, orgasm denial, cunnilingus, oral sex (male and female receiving), manhandling, restraints, dirty talking, pet names (kitten, little one, bunny, good girl, princess), punishment, reader being mocked
Masterlist | Navigation
Feanor — I don’t know if I should clap you on the back and say, “Great job for challenging a man like him,” or be concerned that you chose to challenge a prideful man like him. Because baby, he’s not letting that slide on his pride. Verdict? Punished
He sensed it, the minute you tossed your head into the pillows and released the most ear-aching groan you attempted to have sound believable, he stopped. There was no shouting, no groaning or fuming like he usually did—he simply pulled out with a loud slick, the look of pure dissatisfaction on his face, and climbed off the bed to stand at the foot. There was a sharp gleam in his eyes the longer he looked at you, contemplating what punishment to dish out—so many options, a lot of time to execute them all, which one came first. He chose to say nothing, instead grabbing you by your calves and dragging you to the foot of the bed.
Before you could properly react, he snatched you by the arm and spun you around, planting your face into the mattress with a hand gripping the back of your neck to firmly keep you rooted. A high-pitched squeal left your throat, but it wasn’t from the sudden roughness of his actions, it was from the loud crack of a hand across your ass, followed by the immediate dragging of his fingers through your folds to harshly rub your clit. “Feels good doesn’t it? So good you could cum all over my fingers right now,” he muttered in your ear, pressing more weight against your sweet spot once he found it, causing a string of gibberish to leave your lips. “Then why don’t you cum right now. Fake another one if you dare.”
“F-Fea…nor—shit—was just a—ngh—joke,” you cried out as you wiggled your hips against the thrusting of his thick and calloused fingers.
“A joke,” he gasped lightly with humour in his tone before continuing, “then I too should give you one as well.” Then, he withdrew his fingers an inch away, listening to you crying out from the loss of pleasure. “Let me give you the best joke in the history of the Noldor—so good, that you’ll remember it forever and even learn a lesson from it.”
Maedhros — what can I say. Best rough fuck of your life? This man had his own sense of humour, and he was about to display how funny he could be during a crucial act since you wanted to play games.
The moment your lips parted to gasp, fingers digging into his biceps and legs tightening around his waist, he smirked. The hands on your waist slid downwards to grip your thighs and curl them into your chest, flush against your breasts while pressing his weight upon you, essentially pinning you beneath him. The new position had his heavy cock pressed deeper within your walls; you were scrambling to find purchase along his sweaty back. “Nggh, fuck—too deep, Mae,” you whined with a pout, brows furrowing and lip biting as he doubled the pace, making the bedframe shake.
“Hmm, I’m as deep as I should be,” he purred against your lips while one hand from your thigh reached up to grip your chin, forcing you to keep eye contact. He chose to roll his hips, his flared tip rubbing against your sweet post, prompting your eyes and walls to flutter as you genuinely came around his cock, a warm gush of your juices coating his length. “That’s more like it. That’s how you should look when you’re about to cum all over my cock,” he grinned and pecked your lips swiftly. “All fucked out, not that phoney performance.”
“M-Mae…please, ’s too much.”
“Uh-Uh.” He was having fun with this, giving your face a small shake while his grip on your jaw tightened. You could feel him deep in your stomach—getting deeper—and the loud squelching sounds of your cunt gushing around his length telling you that he didn’t plan on stopping. “I’m having just as much fun as you faking your orgasm, melda. Why should I stop when all you have to do is lie there and take my cock?” he whispered cynically with a wicked grin. “Or do you want to fake another orgasm again?”
You shook your head, struggling to keep up as another orgasm was approaching after he fucked you through the recent one.
“Good,” he hummed and lifted his body slightly off you, releasing your chin. “Now be a good girl and cum for me again.”
Maglor — the gentle poet isn’t always as gentle as everyone considers him to be, you know? Kano has his tricks up his sleeves, and one of them is ensuring that you’re not leaving this bed unsatisfied, no matter what it takes.
He didn’t even wait for you to finish before he came to a complete halt, staring at you with all the restraint and disbelief. And then, ever so slowly, he broke into a smile—a cunning, wicked smile. “My, my, my, princess. You didn’t tell me that we were performing. Had I known—” he growled and suddenly pulled out to flip you onto your knees, pushing your face into the pillows and sinking your back into a beautiful arch. “—I would have put on an equally, captivating performance as well.”
Whimpering, your excuses falling short when you felt his fingers trail down your spine to dip between your folds, spreading your wetness around to rub lazily circles around your clit. “I hope you know how great of an improviser I am—one of the best. So, I hope you can keep up. It would be a shame—a real shame if you were unable to…” That was all Maglor needed to do to have you falling apart under his touch. Those skilled fingers, working you to the brink and bringing you back down, edging you as if he was playing his harp and plucking strings of cries with each pinch or flick.
His other hand rested at the centre of your back, applying just enough pressure to warn you of his warrior’s strength underneath while his fingers ran through your fold, circling your clit and then down to your entrance, doing everything but sinking inside. The needy whines you released only fuelled him to continue his ministrations as you begged him.
“Kano, quit playing—please, put it in,” you groaned, voice muffled as you pushed your face into the pillow to swallow your needy cries which he revelled in.
“Kano quit playing,” he mocked, laughing at the end as he pulled his fingers away to give your ass a solid smack, jolting you forward. “How demanding? What are you, a star actress who can’t play her part correctly?” In an instant, just as the response was at the tip of your tongue, his cock plunged into your cunt and immediately started moving without an inch of reprieve. “Why don’t you leave the improvising to me, sweetheart, and just do what you’re supposed to. Cum for me when I fuck you.”
Celegorm — gosh, you’re giving his man a game. A thrill. A chase. He’s a hunter—this is the type of game he’s into. Make him work for his prize, and you, my dear, were so kind to delectably present him with the best challenge ever. One neither of you would ever forget.
Coming down from your so-called orgasm, had you trembling in Tyelko’s hold. Ankles locked around his neck, nails curling into his meaty biceps and jaw slackened as you mimicked the expression of ecstasy, but that was never enough to fool the hunter. For in an instant, he leaned into you further, pressing more of his weight against you, squeezing your thighs against your chest, caging you in like some prey with those gleaming, green eyes. “Little bunny wants to make me work to earn an orgasm from her, huh? Acting as though I wouldn’t know what this pussy feels like around my cock,” he taunted with a sickeningly, sinful laugh.
“T-Tyelko, don’t—” Your attempted words were immediately cut off by an abrupt tumble as he rolled over to place you on top, adjusting your legs to straddle his hips, yet pulling you down, chest to chest.
“Shh, kitten. You don’t need to speak—you’ve told me enough.” His cock still buried deep within, started moving sluggishly at first—just for a few strokes to get you relaxed—while he gingerly took both your wrist and bound them with one hand behind your back. As slowly as he moved, it was enough to make your stomach flip. And like the predator he was, his feet planted into the mattress and instantly thrust upwards with much more force jerking you forward, save for the strong arms around your waist.
A loud crack of his hand followed against your ass, groping the flesh before sending another, matching the intensity of his thrust. “Just like that—feels so good doesn’t it? Nice and deep enough to fake another?” he growled, increasing his tempo for the sound of sweaty skin clapping against each other to ripple around the room.
“T-Tyel–…ko—fuck! ’m s-sorry…slow down—ah!” Sputtering his favourite chorus of gibberish, he merely grinned and sunk himself deeper into your cunt, purposefully rubbing his cock head against your sweet spot which had your nails digging into your palms and more juices dripping down his cock.
“Not at all kitten. I’m right where I need to be,” he purred and cracked another hand across your ass. “Chasing as many orgasms I can get all night long.”
Caranthir — he doesn’t do anything half-assed, so why would you make him feel like he wasn’t performing up to standards, huh? Don’t you think that you’re about to be reminded to never test his skills?
A hand pinning the back of your neck to the polished desk while the other torturously dragged its fingers through your dripping cunt—if you thought Moryo was about to let it slide with a fickle excuse of ‘I was just tired,’ you were fooling yourself. He didn’t appreciate the gesture and was fixated on ensuring that you never thought about attempting your foolish jest ever again. And judging from how his fingers glided so smoothly through your cunt, your juices coating his palm and wrists, and the obscenely loud echoes of your thirsty walls sucking him back in, he was making a point. All of this when it was your umpteenth orgasm for the night, and he wasn’t letting up. No amount of, ‘I’m sorry,’ ‘Please don’t tease me,’ or ‘It was just a joke,’ could reduce the number of times you’ve cum all over him.
“Have you learnt your lesson yet, melda?” he questioned with such authority, yet a distinctive quietness in his tone. His question was followed up by a sudden contracting off your walls, spasming around his fingers as they remained still and pressing against your sweet spot. Within seconds, another gush of your arousal oozed out, making his rings and bracelets glisten under the lamps. “Hm, not yet it would appear.”
“Moryo—”
“Silence. You had your chance to answer and missed the opportunity. It is clear to me that you still crave more, so I shall give you more. Enough that you will not attempt such foolishness again.” There was a faint smirk in his tone as he leaned down and pressed a kiss to the centre of your back, the same time his fingers regained their pace and continued to fuck you through your orgasm, into the next one. The tremble of your legs as shivered with oversensitivity made him laugh airily, not slowly or increasing his pace, keeping you right there, and giving you want you clearly desired from the start. “You’re doing so well, darling.”
Curufin — nothing misses his eyes. Nothing misses his focus, and you thought it would be a brilliant idea to test the man who was cunning, perspective and undoubtedly harsh when it came to dishing out punishment? Good luck.
“Open—wider.” Just as swiftly as the command came, your mouth was filled with the sliding of his thick cock between your lips to rest heavily against your tongue. He wanted to silence those nasally cries you emitted earlier, calling it the regular sounds you made when you orgasmed, and listen to you gurgling on his cock, rethinking your options. “Just like that. You sound much better.”
All you could do was look up at him through your teary lashes while he tossed his head back, hands tightening in your hair as he held you still. He didn’t move too slow or too quickly, just at the right pace to satisfy him and leave you clenching around nothing in anticipation. A soft, muffled whine escaped your throat when he pulled back, leaving his tip to rest against your lips, causing him to finally open his eyes and look down at you—with disappointment. “What’s wrong? Finally ready to apologise so I can make you cum for your ridiculous stunt?”
You nodded, pouting up at him with your teary eyes, knowing the effect it always had on him. “I’m sorry…won’t do it again.”
Instead, he scoffed. You were so shameless. Fake your orgasm and then had the audacity to be wet while he fucked your throat, wanting his cock to quench your heat. If anything, it made him more irritable. “I’m not so sure that you are sorry,” he corrected, biting his lower lip. “You just want me to stuff you with my cock like the needy little thing you are.”
“You can do whatever you want,” you pleaded. “I just want to cum.”
Rolling his eyes as he tapped his cock head against your lips, signalling you to open up, he pushed into the warmth of your mouth again, exhaling deeply at the welcoming of your heat and wetness. “I am doing whatever I want, darling. And that’s making sure you don’t cum like you wanted from the start.”
Celebrimbor — okay, why would you even try this stunt on this pookie wookie? He’s trying his best to bring you the best pleasure you ever had in your life with passionate precision and you of all things to do…fake your orgasm. Go stand outside in the rain, for making him feel like his performance wasn’t good enough,
His hips stuttered the minute you started vibrating and clinging to him, giving him a world-altering performance of you orgasming. There was a look of sadness washing over you as he continued to observe your shaking figure under him—you were so caught up in acting to notice that he had stopped and slackened his hold on your hips, slightly sitting on his hunches. The way his brain was calculating what to do in the face of such an event he never thought would occur to him. Then, he recalled—a conversation between two of his Lords he overheard speaking about their wives pulling this same stunt.
So, it was a thing. Just you attempting to trick him. He was still saddened deep down, but with a fervour.
Gingerly, he pulled his cock out and shuffled off the bed, noticing how you watched him with curious eyes. “Where are going? You haven’t finished?” you worried, sitting upright and frowning as he slipped back into his trousers, keeping it loose around his waist.
He said nothing as he reached into the drawers for a pair of handcuffs, designed just for you. A little something he was working on for a while to surprise you with, and what a joyous occasion it was for him to introduce them to you because, in mere minutes, your hands were cuffed to the headboard and left sobbing—begging for release, overstimulated. Tyelpë’s mouth worked so fervently against your pussy, giving you all the orgasms in the world so you would never test his abilities again.
A languid drag of his tongue against your clit, followed but a sharp suck had your toes curling, yet, unable to move from the iron grip that held them apart. You were beyond sensitive, unsure if he could milk another orgasm from your thoroughly wracked body.
“Hmm, do you think you can give me one more?” he peered up at you through those gorgeous emerald eyes. How could you say ‘no’ even when this was punishment? And yet you found yourself nodding slowly. “Lovely, let us see if this would be the one to remind you to never try that trick again.”
