Fanworks Tagged with Sexual Content (Mild)

The weapon was expertly wrought: perfectly balanced, wickedly sharp, glinting under the distant stars. Silvered light danced across the black galvorn like moonbeams upon the jewelled waters of Celon.

He turned and presented it to Aredhel with pride, setting it lightly in her waiting hand. “Is it to your tastes, my lady?”

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This is my collection of ficlets for the various prompts of Non-Con November 2026, I'll update the tags as I upload my fics, each prompt will be a new chapter. This writing event specifically focuses on the absence of consent, so keep that in mind! Current average chapter/ficlet length is 450 words.

Day 1: Groping (Maeglin/Dark!Glorfindel)

Day 2: Marital Rape (Aredhel/Eol)

Day 3: "Call Me Master" (Morgoth/Sauron)

Day 4: Roofies (Sauron/Celebrimbor)

Day 5: Ignored Safeword (Maedhros/Fingon)

Day 6: Chains (Melkor/Mandos)

Day 7: Protective (Sauron/Ar-Pharazon)

Day 8: Knifeplay (Sauron/Thrall)

Day 9: Bottom Aggressor/Top Victim (Sauron/Maedhros)

Day 10: "Be Honest" (Celegorm/Finrod)

Day 11: Targeted (Maeglin/Dark!Ecthelion)

Day 12: Stockholm Syndrome (Melkor/Tulkas)

Day 13: Kissing (Arien/Tilion)

Day 14: Escape (Feanor/Dark!Manwë)

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Step 1: Drink way too much wine.
Step 2: Try to sleep with Finno.
Step 3: Watch your brilliant plan turn into an absolute, heartbreaking disaster.

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Amathorn’s life has always been full. As Gil-galad’s chief guard since his childhood on the Isle of Balar there was no way for it not to be. He never found romantic love, and that never bothered him, he was busy.

When he feels the call West half a millennium after Gil-galad’s death, he assumes this must mean that he is to be released from the Halls of Mandos and re-embodied soon, and goes to him gladly. This does not turn out to be the case however, and instead, he crosses paths with a beautiful Teleri artist. Amathorn has lived for over four and a half thousand years. He has never felt like this before. Oh no.

Written for Aspec Arda Week 2025 featuring a demisexual grey-aro OC, and aroace Gil-galad!

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Haleth will break Aredhel’s heart, but not before loving her.

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Eärendil arrives in Valinor with a special delivery. But in this version, it’s not Eönwë who hails him…

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He kisses Finrod again when the serious expression does not lighten. Twists them and presses Finrod down into the bed, kissing him hard and deep until he's gone completely boneless beneath Curufin. He has the brief, mad thought that perhaps if he is still kissing Finrod when the next day begins, then maybe that will be enough to stop the constant unsinging.

By the gods he wishes it were that fucking simple. 

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Fingolfin is, at best, half-sure of how exactly he has ended up in the predicament he is currently in. Knows that it is, of course, Fëanor’s fault.

No matter that it is a new age, it is still, somehow, always Fëanor’s fault.

Though, of all the situations that Fëanor has led him into, this is by far the most benign, if not the most confusing. 

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Thirteen years before the War of the Ring, an orcling — more intelligent and more curious than most — is born in Mordor. His curiosity will lead him to both incredible discoveries and perilous situations, all of which will shape him into a leader unlike any Mordor has ever known. But to become that leader, he must defeat all his rivals, especially the most abhorrent of them all — his enemy since earliest childhood.

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Finwë received his crown from Manwë Súlimo himself, so he knows what it is to be betrayed. 
Fëanor received his crown from Finwë, so he knows what it is to die. 
Maedhros received his crown from Fëanor, so he knows what it is to burn.
Fingolfin received his crown from Maedhros, so he knows what it is to be broken.
Fingon received his crown from Fingolfin, so he knows what it is to despair. 
Turgon received his crown from Fingon, so he knows what it is to stand firm. 
Gil-galad received his crown from them all, and it’s too soon to know what he’ll do.

Gil-galad, burdened with the memories of all his predecessors, does his best.

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Indis and the fall. Drabble series.

Chapter 1: Miriel makes a dress for Indis.

Chapter 2: Melkor watches Indis dance.

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Mairon humbles himself before the conquering Númenorean king.

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Pride goes before a fall, but some falls are deliberate.

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Have you ever wondered what would happen if the characters in The Silmarillion were smoooooth like they were sippin' a Sex on the Beach on a party barge in the harbor at Alqualondë? The "Yacht Rock Silmarillion" retells The Silmarillion as though the characters all had perms and had one too many buttons open, revealing too much chest hair, but hey, no one is killing anyone! This playlist follows the events of The Silmarillion through yacht rock songs.

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"Move farther north," Caranthir says to her a month after the attack, gaze steady on her even as his hands continue briskly gutting fish. "There is plenty of land closer to my fortress, and my people can help protect yours if there is another attack."

Haleth looks up from her own fish, frowning a bit at the sight he makes. Even after a month, she hasn't grown used to the sight of this elvish prince so casually working with the rest of them. She opens her mouth to refuse, proud of her people and their independence, having no desire to be indebted to anyone, but the words catch in her throat as she meets his eyes. She thinks treacherously of his mouth against the inside of her wrist, and what comes out instead is, "How close to your keep are you trying to drag us? And what is the cost?"

Or: Caranthir asks and Haleth agrees. This does not mean they were prepared for what follows.

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There is nothing for Celebrimbor here in Nargothrond. No one foolish enough to befriend him, no one brave enough to forgive him after what happened in the passes, only the comfort of the warm forge-hall waiting for him.

Then Felagund opens his mouth to sing.

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But how could they ever think to sleep on a night such as this? Their hours together are already so short, and in these days of encroaching darkness they only grow shorter. Tonight Fingon’s bed is warm, and Fingon is also, and Maedhros is loath to close his eyes even long enough to blink.

***

Maedhros, Fingon, and their final night together before the Nirnaeth Arnoediad.

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Eventually they arrived, and Echeleb and Dernodhos ushered Anniavas in.  Dernodhos found an old thin pallet somewhere and unrolled it on the floor, made him lie down with Limral—who had immediately perked up and started sniffing the air—and went and found them a heavy piece of cloth to use as a blanket.  The frayed and ragged edges and complex, cut-off pattern made it look as if it had once been part of a larger tapestry.  It was beautifully woven, but singed dark in places, where fire must have touched it.
    “What’s this?” Anniavas asked, sleepy and curious—at least it was something to focus on other than his current fears.
    Dernodhos paused, running her fingers along it, with an expression on her face he hadn’t seen before.  “A memory,” she said.“Of a story from long ago.”  She ruffled his hair gently.  “I’ll tell you about it another time.”

-- The Mirror Crack'd, Chapter Seven, Without the Hands of a Healer

A series of perfect drabbles about Dernodhos's blanket.

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In the aftermath of the third kinslaying and the death of Amrod and Amras, Maglor needs to reassure himself that Maedhros is still there with him.

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Celebrimbor tests a new idea, sets Narvi a challenge, and makes a confession.

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In the darkness just before dawn, Haleth of the Haladin meets an Elf-lady with eyes as bright as a falcon's, and both their fates are changed.

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Narvi adorns Celebrimbor with jewelry while telling him a story about the creation of mithril.

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Feanor and Fingolfin, from their youth to their fall.

"I will do this gladly," Fingolfin said, whispering into Feanor's mouth, grasping for reasons and sense. "Gladly, if it will bring peace between us. If it will end the madness."

"The madness will not end," Feanor said. "There will never be peace."

Chapters 1-11 and 18 were originally posted on fanfiction.net in 2002 and slightly revised for this version. Chapters 12-17 were written in 2026.

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These were simply flashes, a hint of a wider, greater world. A tantalizing glimpse of more, always at the edge of awareness, never within reach. Míriel would grasp it, if something as intangible as the concept of color could overflow in bounteous wonder over her hands.

But then fire was caught, tamed and kept and cherished, and their world was suddenly awash with light. The world expanded, a pageantry of blues and greens and browns. A cacophony of color, overwhelming in its saturation.

In which Míriel falls in love with the colors in the earliest days, and Indis too.

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Finrod is called to Mandos to speak with the spirit of a kinsman who is pardoned, yet refuses to rejoin the living.

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