Chronicles of Ragebaiting Feanor
AN: This was so fun to write.
Pairing: Feanor and niece/nephew reader
Genre: Fluff and platonic
It is relatively easy.
Your uncle Feanor is the life of family parties.
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.
And, stranger still, he lets you
