Fanworks Tagged with Erotica

Order is his goal, something Morgoth only uses to create chaos later, but there is a sliver in Morgoth only Mairon sees.

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Two of Finwë's granddaughters spend a few nights together.

feat: genderbent maedhros

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Fingolfin and Maedhros both have particular needs. They find fellowship over this.

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Fingon makes a small request to Maedhros. She obliges.

featuring Trans Fingon and genderbent Maedhros.

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They marry in a field, years after leaving the halls.

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Fingon knows that it is reasonable for Maedhros to go east, good, even. That doesn't mean he's happy about it.

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How long ago had he realized his sister was who he belonged to? In their childhood, when the entire world seemed to be just their parents, and the two of them? Or maybe when they first spent time apart, her absence breaking his heart like nothing else? But most likely it had been during those latter years of youth, when Maedhros had first told him that she was in fact a maiden, giving him the courage, nay, the knowledge to be a man. Were they not linked together from then on, as a man and a woman, even more intertwined than husband and wife? What a pleasure it had been, to first kiss her.

t4t maemag with transfem maedhros!

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Maglor falls in love. Maedhros lets him.

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Frustrated by Maedhros' failure to answer entreaties to join in an assault upon Angband, Fingolfin comes to Himring himself. Negotiations start poorly, but Maglor is quick to propose a solution: a riding trip through the blooming plains of Ard-galen.

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Years after the death of her wife, Hemmoril shares a sweet Yule evening with an Easterling Woman.

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Hemmoril, Maglor's best friend and horsemaster, says a quick goodbye to her wife as the Dagor Bragollach looms.

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Ñolofinwë makes a pained noise and pulls back enough to look him in the face, before his eyes seem to get caught on Fëanáro’s collar, on his chest, his shoulders. “You are in my colors,” Ñolofinwë says softly, traces his finger along Fëanáro’s collarbone and down the front of his tunic. His eyes, when they meet Fëanáro’s once more, are blown out with a disgusting, greedy desire, and understanding strikes Fëanáro.

“Oh,” he breathes, thinking that he should likely have guessed at the reason on his own. He had anticipated that the outfit would garner a reaction from Ñolofinwë, this is true. He cannot say that this was ever one of the reactions he had anticipated. “How shameful of you,” he says quietly, watching the way Ñolofinwë’s eyes drop down to his mouth as he speaks. “Does it not shame you that you should want me in such a way?”

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Beleg seeks, by all means that he might, to persuade Túrin to return to Doriath with him. But two can play at this game.

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“Have you ever kissed anyone?”

Findekáno stills, and finally looks at Maitimo. Finds him already staring back, unflinching and—hungry, almost, Findekáno would call it, if he did not know better.

“I have not,” he says, his heart hammering madly inside his rib cage. Still, he adds, all bravado, “Why? Have you?”

---

It starts reckless and stupid. Which is to say, it starts with them.

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Fëanáro thinks of many things during his exile for he has nothing but time and a chest full of fury.

He thinks of his hatred for Melkor. He thinks of his children and the toil the exile is taking on them even if they will not voice it. He thinks of his father and the disappointment he’d just barely been able to see hidden beneath the concern. He thinks of Nerdanel and cannot help but wonder if she saw this coming. More often than not though, he finds his thoughts dwelling on Ñolofinwë.

On how wide and endlessly blue his eyes had gone when Fëanáro had set the point of the sword to his throat.

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"You should tell me to stop," Fëanáro says softly, taking the last step and pressing himself flush against Ñolofinwë.

Ñolofinwë swallows with some difficulty, tilts his head back against the door to meet Fëanáro's eyes. "You are my brother," he says, voice wavering. "We should not."

Fëanáro smiles wryly. "That is not telling me to stop."

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Fëanor spends more nights than he cares to admit to at Fingolfin’s these days. More time than he cares to admit to thinking about Fingolfin these days. Feels some days though as if Fingolfin is the only bit of this new age that is easy at this point.

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Fingolfin does not look up from his book when he hears footsteps approaching and pays no attention to Fëanor walking into the room. What he emphatically does pay attention to is Fëanor going to his knees in front of the chair he is sprawled sideways across and burying his face against Fingolfin’s stomach, both of his hands clenching tight around Fingolfin’s shirt. He blinks down at Fëanor’s head in confusion and runs a hand over his head, dragging his fingers through Fëanor’s hair. “Náro?” he asks quietly. “Has something happened?”

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Uinen and Ossë have lost track of the Noldor's Songbird, his laments gone silent. When they do, Uinen nurses him back to health, and then some.

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Alphangil lives in Eglarest following the Dagor Bragollach, while Fingon remains in Hithlum. During a visit by Maedhros they find a way to bridge the distance.

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Alphangil surprises her wife Fingwen and their lover Maedhris in the gardens of Barad Eithel. Fluff and smut ensue.

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And he would not fool either of them, clearly, claiming that it did not settle something within him that has been in uproar ever since they set foot on Beleriand’s shores.

“Go on,” Maedhros says, his voice gentle now. “Will you not do this for me, Káno?”

Maglor knows what Maedhros is doing, allowing him to pretend. And yet—

And yet. Maglor would not deny him anything, not any longer. He cannot.

Maglor struggles to give up control. Maedhros makes sure that he learns.

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Fingon returns to Barad Eithel after a late-autumn hunt, finding someone unexpected with his wife. The night takes an even more unexpected turn for all three of them.

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Blowjob diplomacy.

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"Would it help,” Maedhros starts, his tone pensive and his fingers pressing more firmly against Maglor’s jaw. “Would it help if I did not forgive you as easily? If I punished you for what you did not, could not do?”

It takes a moment for Maglor to understand, Maedhros pushing images into his mind—of rope and chains and bruised skin, of pain and pleasure mingling without release.

It makes him shiver, the thrill quickly followed by shame hot enough that he wants to flinch from it.

---

Maglor is unable to let go of his guilt. Maedhros gets inventive about it.

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