Fanworks Tagged with Romance

It is nice, the sunlight and the warmth of a solid body against his. It is nice to be able to think, at least for a little while, that perhaps Curufin had been speaking true when he said he was trying. Nice in a way that means Finrod will miss it terribly when it is gone again.

“You are thinking too loudly,” Curufin mumbles against his shoulder. “Go back to sleep, Ingo.”

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Curufin has practiced the words in his head a thousand times, knows what needs to be said to begin to fix this. But what comes out of his mouth instead is, "I'm not sorry." Lie. "I'm not, and I'd do it all again the same way if necessary." Lie. "But I—" and he falters, still unable to push a single truth up his throat. In a way, Finrod is right, he hasn't changed at all.

Finrod is studying him with a resigned air draped about him like a cloak. "Oh, how I hate you," Finrod says softly, fingers loosely curled into fists, and this too sounds like a lie. Neither of them have ever been particularly truthful with each other.

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Before the destruction of Gondolin, Glorfindel was forced to keep many parts of his life a secret. Much of this changed after his second coming to Middle Earth.

Featuring: Glorthelion, intersex!Glorfindel, mpreg, and queerplatonic Glorestor. 

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In the Third Age, a stranger arrives in the area between the Long Lake and the Lonely Mountain. He is not quite what he seems...

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I made a project out of this year’s Silmsmutweek, to accompany the line of the Peredhel through the Ages.

1) Spring; prompts: ritual sex, bathing and washing. Melian and Elu beget their daughters.

2) Summer; prompts: sport and competition. Finally allowed to live their love makes Arwen and Aragorn light-headed with bliss. That, and a little too much wine for the newly crowned King of Gondor. (Not explicit)

3) Autumn; prompts: canon ships, blanket; my first drabble. On a chill afternoon in autumn, Celebrían finds her husband dozing, and finds that something has to be done about it (Not explicit)

4)Fading; prompts: water sports. Elwing can’t have what she wants, and Eärendil has to suffer for it. (He loves every moment of it, though)

5) Winter; prompts: throne sex. Dior has doubts whether he will ever see himself as the King of Doriath. Nimloth finds that it is time for him to truly claim the throne.

6) Stirring; prompts: erotic dance and acrobatics. Ficlet. Beren watches Lúthien dance, and feels life stir in him again. And other things.

7) Dark; prompts borrowed from another day: rare-pair. This one is weird. No more needs to be said

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“We are going to get caught,” Fingolfin hisses, though he makes no move to actually push Fëanor away from where he’s sucking a bruise onto Fingolfin’s collarbone. Fëanor hums, shoving a knee between Fingolfin’s legs and smirking against his skin when he’s forced to bite back a moan, hips jerking up.

“Do you want me to stop then?” he asks, voice rich with amusement as he kisses his way up Fingolfin’s neck. “Tell me,” he whispers, mouth hovering over Fingolfin’s. “Tell me you want me to stop.”

Fingolfin is genuinely worried they are going to get caught. It does not stop him from cursing quietly and kissing Fëanor to shut him up.

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Fingolfin wants Fëanor absolutely shattered in his bed, his name the only thing in Fëanor's mouth, in his thoughts. He wants to break Fëanor down to his most basic essence, a flame hiding in the body of an elf, and then slowly build him back up again as if feeding a fire on a windy night. Wants to make himself an integral part of the rebuilding so that he can never be erased, never be shoved out. He wants to be fully given what he was always denied—

—Fëanor’s trust. 

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“You do not have to do this,” Fëanáro murmurs, voice strangely gentle.

Ñolofinwë shrugs, feeling tired to his bones, and completely unwilling to leave Fëanáro's side. He slides the sponge over Fëanáro's shoulders, shifting Fëanáro's hair out of the way so he may run the sponge across the back of his brother's neck. "It is customary, is it not. For one to be prepared for their coronation by their family."

Fëanáro makes a strange noise, half-laughter, half-scoff. “I do not feel this is quite the manner my sons would have helped me prepare,” Fëanáro says dryly.

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As beautiful as he is dangerous, Aegnor, an elven prince, stands against the looming shadows of Angband. Brother to Galadriel, he commands the siege with a fierce intensity, a duty that exacts a heavy toll on him. But beneath the iron walls he has built lies a broken soul, haunted by a devastating trauma and a well of deep, guarded secrets. His demons, kept at bay by his unyielding intensity that is both his greatest gift and his biggest curse. 

Little does our Noldorin prince know that a chance encounter with a terrified young girl of men will set him on a collision course, igniting an extraordinary bond wrought with challenges, sacrifices, and intense love that threatens to unravel his guarded heart, and all he keeps within it.

Brace yourself for Part I of this captivating tale, where the primal power of love and devestating loss will tear lives apart forever.

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A long time later in Valinor, Maedhros is gathering confidence in his new life with Fingon. He remembers one particular morning during their past lives in Middle-earth.

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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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Ósanwë gives an intimacy to relationships that is almost unmatched.

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

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After the Dagor Aglareb, Maglor and Fingon help Maedhros relax.

Distant sequel to this fic, also featuring Maedhros as a trans woman.

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Rían sitting on the arm of her Entwife girlfriend.

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Inspired by Jaz's Mereth Aderthad presentation Twilight, Child of: Comparisons Between Tinúviel, Lómion, and Undómiel and the idea of reversing or exchanging the roles of these three, plus the chat's insistence that there needed to be Arwen/Idril, with Arwen taking on something resembling Maeglin's role.

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Fëanáro is reembodied as the Fourth Age of the Sun commences, and he has to deal with several things. But there's one thing he cannot quite manage to fix. That is, his relationship with his wife.

Or: five (but more like six) times Nerdanel doesn't reach out, and one time she does.

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Nerdanel and Tinweriel stargaze together and have a lovely little evening.

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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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Celebrian has a few demands for her wedding

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“I do love you, Russandol. You know I do, do you not?”

For a long, drawn-out moment, Maedhros only stares. Something is taking root in his chest, something he knows, then, he will not be able to extricate from himself again. “I know,” he says, voice rough. “I—“

But Fingon stops him, pressing a hand to Maedhros’ mouth. “Don’t, not yet; tell me when we see each other next.”

---

Five times they share their own small ritual upon separation and reunion, and one time it takes a little longer than either of them can endure to mark its completion.

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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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On his way to meet his friend, Elwë strays from the path, and his life will never be the same again.

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“You said,” Fëanáro says quietly, taking a step forward, “that I shall lead, and you shall follow.”

Ñolofinwë bites down the urge to take a step back as Fëanáro takes another step forward. “I said those words and I meant them. You are my brother and now my king, why should I not follow where you go?”

Fëanáro is regarding him far more seriously than he had that night as they stood in front of Manwë and Ñolofinwë wishes to know what brought this on. “And if I were not your king?” Fëanáro asks. “If I were your half-brother only?”

Or: Fëanáro does not steal away with the ships in the middle of the night, leaving Fingolfin to brave the bitter cold. Whether what he does instead is any better depends on who you ask.

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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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