Magolfin Day

...for now 🫣

I will! I have a sketch of them I did a while ago I just need to get around to colour it 😩

A day to create and celebrate the myriad romantic possibilities between the two greatest minstrels doomed to live, Daeron and Maglor.

Happening Sunday, April 12, 2026 around the world in Your Timezone.

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MAGOLFIN DAY IS HERE, and we are but EIGHT WORKS away from #50ficsmagolfin! can we do it??!! maybe!!!!! is your mod running on dayquil and pure magolfin vibes? yes he is!!

A devout kiss, the saber's hilt (chapter 1: the honor of a man whose life is spotless) by hautdesert

OR: Nolofinwë, the gentleman, the bourgeois, reasonably prosperous and successful strictly within the parameters of acceptability, allows himself no conscious fantasy but that of love.

5.3k | Rated T (E pending)

“I did not think it was sordid, only unworthy of you,” Nolofinwë answered. The handle of the door was cool beneath his fingers—a thumb’s length, perhaps, between himself and freedom, escape from the cloying perfumed tether of this room which he should never have sought out or returned to. He had only to turn the knob, but his hand was slackening, aching to fall at his side, yearning to reach out for that womanish silk, those frail wrists. He steeled himself. “I see that perhaps I was mistaken. Good evening, monsieur.” He had gotten the door ajar, at least, for the smell of sweat and powder and cigarettes came in from the hallway, when Laurë caught his sleeve. He had to angle his head to look Nolofinwë in the face: his gently curling hair, damp, fell back around his ears. “Come to my house,” he said, in the sweet low cadence of entreaty. His eyes were like polished wood, like velvet, dark and fathomless, taking in light without reflecting it. “I would speak with you further—if my profession is unworthy of me, this place cannot be fit for you. Valinórë merits not your slightest glance.” His hand slid down to touch Nolofinwë’s wrist. “Monsieur Arakáno, surely you haven’t found me out these months only to exchange pleasantries. You are a gentleman; you send me flowers, you make me presents. What am I to think?” “That I am not the kind of man who visits whores,” Nolofinwë said roughly, and plunged into the yellow light of the hall, fleeing from that upturned face as if before the mask of death.

for @i-am-a-lonely-visitor @magolfinday

(Fingolfin/Maglor, triple drabble, T)

“And that, my friend, is how I got myself into this situation,” said Maglor, and sat back, showing Pengolodh his blackened hand. 

Pengolodh paused, pen to paper.

The campfire crackled.  The waves crashed.  The Kinslayer grinned at him.

“I can’t write that,” said Pengolodh.

“In hindsight, I can see that several of our choices were flawed—”

“Not that!  Everyone loves a tragic hero.”

“Well, then,” Maglor said, frowning.  “What’s the problem?”

“I can’t write about you and your uncle sucking each other’s dicks on the eve of every battle for four hundred years!”

CORONATION

for @magolfinday

Rating: E | No warnings Relationship: Fingolfin/Maglor Words: 2.2k

The High Queen of the Noldor enjoys a private coronation.

for @magolfinday

Fingolfin/Maglor

Summary:

“Hello again, handsome,” a melodic sultry voice came through the video call on Nolofinwë’s screen. “How’s my most generous admirer been?”

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for @magolfinday

Fingolfin/Maglor

Summary: Fingolfin makes a visit to Maglor's Gap and spends a short vacation there full of good food, music, and cheer, and most of all, the delightful company of horses. But the underlying attraction between uncle and nephew is undeniable.

Snippet:

"Hail, High King, and be welcomed at the Gap!" Maglor's sonorous voice called out over the plain as Fingolfin and his escort rode through the tall grass and blooming milkweed.

It was a rare thing, if ever, that the High King would leave his stronghold of Barad Eithel, and especially to come East to his half-nephews' lands. The Fëanorions - other than Maedhros - in turn did not make the effort to travel West either, though in Maglor's case it was excusable, defending the large stretch of wide-open flat lands at the Enemy's front porch so to say. All this to say that Maglor hardly ever left the Gap, save the short stints to Himring and Thargelion when the need to check or bother his brothers arose, just as Fingolfin stayed in his own fortress, making the Dagor Aglareb the last time uncle and nephew had seen each other, and not once since the Long Peace had set in, if memory served right.

LITERALLY forever ago @sallysavestheday, @riding-with-the-wild-hunt and @balrogballs tagged me to share a tiny snippet of what I'm working on. This was meant to be done for @magolfinday for @i-am-a-lonely-visitor but unfortunately life came at me fast, so here we are. Not tagging anyone, but if you would like to share a WIP snippet, please do! Here is a little snippet from transfemglor and Fingolfin flirting at a masquerade in Georgian England Tirion, except Fingolfin thinks that's his brother in drag for various comedy of error reasons:

“Not at all, my lady,” he said guardedly. “I would merely have the pleasure of truly knowing with whom I speak.”

“What lives in a name but the power of mastery?” The reddened mouth arched into a pretty little bow, accentuated by the deftly placed heart-shaped patch at the corner. “The nameless woman belongs only to herself and may roam as she pleases. The wild horse who is named is bridled and trussed for the speaker's pleasure. You would seize my name and then be king over me — and I would be your humble servant, at your service and at your pleasure, would I not?”

These too were words his brother had spoken, but now twisted and turned, mixed with such vulgarities a man of lesser stature would have blushed in embarrassment. Heat spread through him at the thought of that rosebud bosom, reddened by its trussing. And what a thing to feel! His own brother — no this was a vile, vile game.

“No, my lady is mistaken,” he protested. “One merely wishes —”

“But how disappointing!” A wicked smile grew beneath that silvery mask. The beautiful alto grew husky. “I did not say I was uninterested in being unkinged and ruled by your undoubtedly iron sceptre.”

“I have no wish to rule anyone, least of all you, Fëanáro,” he said in a low voice. “Cease this game immediately.”

“But you do want to be a king.” A brief smile, sly, knowing and infuriating. “All men want to be kings — and thou not least amongst them, my lord Istarno.”

“In your last life you managed to marry your nephew—twice, I’m told—without so much as a wedding cake. Well, now you’re back, and he’s back, and this time we’re going to have a proper party, and we’re inviting everyone.” Only now did Anairë hold out a hand to hoist Fingolfin up. “You and I are divorced, by the way.” ~ Maglor sails to Aman, Fingolfin returns from Mandos, and Anairë plans a wedding.

The Afterparty | 17k | M

MAGOLFIN DAY IS HERE, and we are but EIGHT WORKS away from #50ficsmagolfin! can we do it??!! maybe!!!!! is your mod running on dayquil and pure magolfin vibes? yes he is!!

Armed with guile, determination, and Anairë’s stolen wedding dress, Makalaurë sets out to give Ñolofinwë a night he’ll never forget. Unfortunately for him, Ñolofinwë has plans of his own.

Featuring Makalaurë’s itty bitty titties, a never-ending pile of paperwork, burgeoning nationalism, an unexpected appearance from Fëanáro, and, of course, the Finwëan arms race.

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