Tumgik
#silm fanfic
cilil · 3 days
Text
Tumblr media
Maedhros
⌔ Synopsis: Maedhros Fëanorion, before and after the Oath. ⌔ Warnings: Angst ⌔ Double drabble
Tumblr media
Maitimo he had been named, tall and beautiful even among the princes of Noldor, his father's eldest. Beloved brother, cherished kinsman, his family's pride and joy. 
Admiration followed him wherever he went, even when he felt undeserving of it. Being the voice of reason in the middle of chaos was at times a thankless task, and his feelings for Findekáno were a shameful secret he sought to hide; yet in the end, these burdens were born from love and passion, and Maitimo wouldn't have it otherwise. 
Whatever the future might bring, he was certain he would be able to endure. 
Maedhros he is now called, though he has long felt undeserving of such a name. 
Too many scars now mar his body; some tell stories of survival and endurance, others of his crimes. Redder than his hair is the blood staining his remaining hand. 
His name is no longer spoken with admiration and love, fear and disgust have taken their place. Kinslayer, the people whisper, murderer. And Maedhros knows what he has done and doesn't speak of it. 
He watches his father die. He watches his brothers die. He watches his beloved Finno die. 
Silently, he regrets that terrible Oath. 
Tumblr media
Thanks for reading! ♡
@feanorianweek
23 notes · View notes
sotwk · 4 months
Text
Tumblr media
About This Recommended Fics List:
All the Tolkien fanfics in this list meet the following qualifications:
Fandom: All-inclusive Tolkien (LotR, Hobbit, Silm, RoP) Type: One-shot Length: approx. 1,000-6,000 words Ship/Pairing: Any, including OCs and Reader Inserts Rating: G or PG-13 Content: No excessive angst, violence, or death. No unresolved stress. Happy endings only!
Disclaimer: I (@sotwk) have not personally screened all of these fics for their content. There may be triggers. Please read descriptions, take responsibility for your own media consumption, and observe the Golden Rule: Don't Like, Don't Read!
Link sources are either Tumblr or Ao3. Some Ao3 works are locked to registered users only.
This list of comfort fics is a collaboration and compiled through the recommendations of Readers. Thank you to everyone who contributed!
This remains a work in progress, and I will continue to accept recommendations. Please send them via DM, Ask, or Reblog. We need more, please!
Tumblr media
Last updated: 1/23/2024
THE LORD OF THE RINGS
Aragorn
Hush Now by @entishramblings
Mirage @sileastral
Boromir
You’re the one who’s calling me to heaven by @cauliflowertree
A Shield Against the Snow by @scyllas-revenge
A Thief in the Night by @scyllas-revenge
The Floor Is Molasses by @scyllas-revenge
Anything But This by @minaturefics
Elrohir
Just a Little Longer by @theelvenhaven 
Elrond
The Weft Between the World by Antarctica_or_bust
Eomer
Alive and Alight by @minaturefics
Fair Enough by @middleearthpixie
Wildest Dreams by @scyllas-revenge
Blue Moon by @epilogue-and-prologue/@absentmindeduniverse
Eowyn
An Idiot's Guide to Gift-Giving by @scyllas-revenge
Faramir
Wrong Conclusions by @minaturefics
Frodo
Arda University by @lady-of-imladris
Over Joy by PurpleProsaist
Gandalf
Days for which they sit and wait by BloodwingBlackbird
Gimli
Mahal's Gift by @lemonsprite
Haldir
Unfairness by @errruvande
Serenade by @glassgulls
Three Weeks on the Nimrodel by @from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras
Legolas
Sending Memes by @ironmandeficiency
Elucidative by @shrubdaddy
Winter Forest by @wordbunch
The Cruel Nature of the World by @entishramblings
What Haunts Your Heart by @entishramblings
Lindir
Bottled Up by @heilith
Merry [Seeking recommendations!]
Pippin [Seeking recommendations!]
Samwise
Better Company by @wordbunch
Let Met Take You Dancing by RaisingCaiin
Tumblr media
THE HOBBIT
Bilbo
Primary Sources by bunn (@cycas)
Why Hobbits Eat So much by Madkat89
Fili 
Sweets by @blairsanne
Lost My Way by @lathalea
Kili
Sapphires by @lathalea
Catch Her by a_daydreaming_writer
Porridge by @fili-urzudel
Insecurities by @bookworm-with-coffee
Tauriel 
Royal Jar Opener, Reporting for Duty by @unendingwanderlust
Heavenly Inferno by midearthwritings
The Pairing Ceremony by dumbassunderthemountain
You Are My Happy Place by SmartassUndertheMountain
Liantë by WritingsOfAHobbit
Thorin
In The Woods of Ered Luin by @enchantzz
A Long Lost Home by @babe-bombadil
Dead End by @fizzyxcustard
The Arrival by @lathalea
Strong by @lathalea
Thranduil
Nothing by @entishramblings
Goodnight by @heilith
Under A Starless Sky by My_Marvel_Musings and RinzlersGhost
Tumblr media
THE SILMARILLION
Finrod 
here, at the end of all things by Dalliansss
Glorfindel 
Warmth by @on-a-hill-by-the-sea
Stay the Night by @theelvenhaven
Golden by molerein 
Tumblr media
THE RINGS OF POWER
Elrond
My shadows by @thesolarangel
Dating shy Elrond by @thesolarangel
Perfectly Proper by @wordbunch
Haladriel 
Stay by @scriberated
Covered in Colours by myfavouritelunatic
It’s the Last Thing I Wanted (It’s the First Thing I Do) by Helholden
Stay by @scriberated
Covered in Colours by myfavouritelunatic
It’s the Last Thing I Wanted (It’s the First Thing I Do) by Helholden
Tumblr media
Divider credit: @saradika-graphics
Please remember to Support Your Writers and consider leaving a kudos/like or comment/reblog!
170 notes · View notes
potatoobsessed999 · 5 months
Text
Finrod Felagund. "Philosophic discourse regarding the enmity of Orcs with Elves." The Philosophy of Finrod Felagund. 2nd ed., edited and translated by Vardamir Nólimon, Armenelos, S.A. 130.
[Ed. note: Private papers of Finrod Felagund. Written in his own hand. Dated to the season of Firith in the year 455, shortly before the Dagor Bragollach.]
Fact: According to the lore of our people from the days of Cuiviénen, the Enemy fashioned Orc-kind by his torture and slow corruption of Elven captives.
Question: How did our people learn this lore? Can it be that any ever escaped from the depths of Utumno to serve as witness?
Fact: In the lore we got of the Valar there is to my knowledge no teaching regarding the origins of Orc-kind.
Conjecture: It may be that our lore is not reliable on this point.
Fact: There are a few among us who dwelt at Cuiviénen, and others of their number abide yet in Aman; none of them have to my knowledge disputed the accuracy of our lore on this matter.
Fact: The fëar of Elves and Men have their differences from one another, but none so fundamental as the distinction between the fëar of the Eruhíni and the spirits of the non-speaking creatures. The spirits of non-speaking creatures cannot properly be called fëar, as the distinction in question is one of kind and not of degree. (Indeed fëar cannot be spoken of at all in terms of degree or size, as each fëa is itself indivisible.)
Fact: The lore we got of the Valar tells us that the fëa cannot be destroyed by any means.
Fact: Also of that lore, we know that the Enemy cannot truly create, only twist in mockery what has been created.
Fact: Also of that lore, we know that the Dwarves have their fëar of Ilúvatar alone, and not of Aulë. Before the granting of their fëar they could not speak, nor had they any will of their own, but could only obey the will of Aulë.
Fact: Orcs speak, and there is sense behind their words.
[continued on Ao3]
163 notes · View notes
dalliansss · 1 year
Photo
Tumblr media
From behind them stepped out three elves, all of them looking worse for wear than her Beren, but their individual beauty remained undimmed despite their matted, tangled and bloodied hair. There is her kinsman Finrod, who beamed in recognition upon seeing her. A brown-haired and green-eyed Noldo behind Finrod looked at her in awe, but then offered a bow. Then, behind the two of them stood a very tall Noldo with fiery red hair the likes of which Luthien had never seen before. He was bloodied all over: his face, his chest, his hands and arms. But Luthien knew the blood was not his own, but that of a werewolf, or perhaps a vampire. This Noldo was scarred everywhere: shoulders, on his middle, by the sides of his hips. Luthien knew then that this must be Maedhros, eldest son of Feanor, whose fury against the Enemy and the enemy’s forces were sung by minstrels, even Daeron. All the elves were as naked as Beren, but they were unbothered by it.
“My lords,” Luthien briefly touched her right hand over her chest, then held it out to them in a gesture of greeting and friendship. “My heart sings that Huan and I reached this place before it was too late, and though I mourn those whom we can no longer help, I sing for them also, for they will suffer no more. I am glad you are alive with Beren, and that you have aided him. I am Luthien of Doriath.”
“Princess Luthien,” Finrod returned her greeting. “I would be embarrassed meeting you like this, but we make do.” He laughs. “This is Edrahil mine captain—” here he gestures toward the brown-haired and green-eyed Noldo. “And this is mine cousin, the former Lord of Himring, Lord Maedhros Feanorion.” Maedhros simply bowed at her, avoiding looking her in the eye.
-- There and Back Again || available on [AO3] Or, an AU take on the Quest for Silmaril, where Maedhros joins Finrod and Beren -- and against all odds (with the help of mutant sorcery that confounds even Gorthaur the Cruel), they manage to rescue one of the gems, and Finrod survives all the way until the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. High King Fingon, in turn, reigns well until the War of Wrath and possibly well into the Second Age.
--
Super gorgeous artwork I commissioned from the lovely @sauroff. I adore their design! Look how beautiful Luthien is!  They have commissions OPEN, so do check them out! ✨❤️
545 notes · View notes
sillysistersusi · 4 days
Text
Because they loved us so
Fandom: The Silmarillion
Celebrimbor & Elrond
Summary: Elrond and Celebrimbor braid each others hair and talk about the family they have lost.
Celebrimbor laughed as he continued to braid Elrond's hair. "Uncle Maglor did what?"
Elrond wiped a tear away from under his eye, for he had laughed so hard that his eyes had begun to water. "Yes, Maedhros was anything but enthusiastic about it, but in the end even he could not help but grin."
"I really did not think Maglor would be so bad at baking, because he is not bad at cooking at all," Celebrimbor said gently. "Atya was actually marvellous at baking, even if he did not do it often." He fell silent.
Celebrimbor hadn't wanted to talk about Curufin at all. It was the one subject that was taboo in his mind. He almost never spoke of his father anymore, as much as he felt the need to. Not after everything that had happened.
His hands became still in Elrond's hair.
Like every time he thought of his father, Celebrimbor was overcome by this incredible surge of emotion.
His mind always thought briefly of the beautiful moments. How Curufin had taught him how to forge, how he had cuddled him in the evening until he fell asleep or how he had put a protective arm around his shoulders.
But then his thoughts always drifted to another time. A time when his father was under so much pressure to please Fëanor that he only worked and hardly had any time left for his family. Then came the memories of the battles and how his father had sometimes returned covered in blood and just sat there staring at the ground for a while. Once Celebrimbor had gone to Curufin at such a moment, hoping to help him, and Curufin had pressed his face into the side of Celebrimbor's hair and cried. Celebrimbor had never seen his father cry before.
After that came the memories where Curufin was... was different. Meaner. Celebrimbor had decided then to stop blindly trusting and following him.
But to this day, he wondered if that had been the right decision.
"It is all right." said Elrond, who was still sitting with his back to him, obviously to give him some privacy, something Celebrimbor was very grateful for, because as always when he only thought about Curufin, he had started to cry.
Carefully, he leaned against Elrond's shoulder from behind and buried his face in his neck. "Sorry. I- I should have known not to mention him, and now I have ruined everything."
"No, my friend. It is all good. "Elrond gently placed a hand on Celebrimbor's knee. "If you want to talk about it, that is fine. He was your father and you loved him incredibly. And I am sure he loved you too, always."
"I just miss him so much, you know?" Celebrimbor stammered softly and Elrond nodded. He understood all too well. He also missed Maglor and Maedhros. Sometimes, when he lay in bed at night and couldn't sleep, he thought he could hear Maedhros' rough voice saying goodnight and Maglor singing a lullaby. He always fell asleep immediately afterwards, with a smile on his lips and tears in his eyes.
But he also missed Elwing and Eärendil, even if his memories of them were few and hazy, he felt a longing in his chest for them.
"Sometimes I think about whether I could have saved him if I had gone with him," Celebrimbor whispered softly and sniffled. "Maybe it would have been all right then."
But Elrond knew that probably wouldn't have happened. "I have seen the effects of the oath on Maedhros and Maglor. No matter how much Curufin loved you, the pressure of the oath would have destroyed him sooner or later. And I am sure he would have pushed you away before that happened, precisely because he loved you so much."
"But if it is so clearly the truth, why does it hurt so much?" Celebrimbor pressed himself tighter against Elrond, because whenever he felt so helpless, all he wanted was to be surrounded by the warmth of someone he cared about.
"I guess it hurts because you loved him as much as he loved you," Elrond replied softly. He wished he could do more to help his friend.
"I am really sorry for crying all over you." Celebrimbor said quietly and full of shame. He lifted his head slightly.
"As long as you need me, I will be here to catch you, just like you do for me and all our other friends. You cannot always be strong, Tyelpë," Elrond whispered. "I am the last person who would tell you not to cry."
So Celebrimbor pressed his face back into Elrond's neck and wrapped his arms around his waist to press himself even closer to him.
41 notes · View notes
isilwhore · 1 month
Text
Tumblr media
For @maedhrosmaglorweek Day 6, an AU that fixes nothing and makes everything worse (sorry)
****
“…but less evil shall we do in the breaking.”
Maglor knows his argument has been lost. Still, one final plea is cast upon the night’s wind:
“Please.”
But Maedhros does not stop, nor look back. He only answers, “I need you.”
Maglor swallows back a response. His brother has seen the Darkness. He carries a piece of it with him. It usually lies just beneath the surface, under his control; lately it has shown itself more frequently, more fiercely than ever.
And Maglor understands. He pities him, defends him, loves him. He always has. But he can no longer follow him. It pains him to think it and now to speak it, and it only comes forth with every bit of courage and strength he can muster.
“I cannot do it.”
He collapses to the ground, weeping. His cries are not deep and piercing like his singing, but weak and pitiful, barely registering in the silence.
Maedhros turns to him with a fiery stare. Maglor recoils from this wretched, familiar flame. He has seen it many times; it takes them all, eventually.
“You are bound by our oath. Our brothers died for this.” His voice is powerful yet empty.
“Then let me fail, as I failed to save them.” Maglor chokes over these words; he will never forgive himself for it, even though they were doomed to their fates. “I am ready to face judgment. I want to go back.”
When he feels the blade press against his neck, Maglor knows his brother is gone. The madness has finally claimed him, and soon he too may become no more than ash in the wind.
“Please, Nelyo,” he shivers. He thinks briefly of their father and shakes the memories away. Then he recalls the boys he raised as sons; how he loved them and sent them out into the world with everything he could teach them, sent them far away from his weary heart. That is how he saved them. But saving Maedhros may be beyond Maglor’s power.
Maedhros lowers his sword and stands completely still, save for the rise and fall of his broad chest. His eyes are ablaze. And empty.
“Nelyo, you are broken, we are broken. Nothing may mend you now but I love you still. Come with me, or let me go. I beg you.”
He reaches out to touch him, to graze his scarred cheek or smooth back his hair, which has grown wild during their roaming. But Maedhros pulls away in agony, as if his brother’s hand is a torch.
“It will be over soon. We shall end this! Together.”
“No, please no! Come back to me, Nelyo!” Maglor fears the madness will overcome him now too. He wishes for it to come quickly; perhaps this would be easier if he had already lost his mind. He lets out a wail and leaps at his brother. He grabs for his once fine cloak, now weather worn and ragged, a last desperate effort to shake sense into him, or hold him or…
It is a mistake, for Maedhros has quick reflexes and the flame sparks and overtakes him. A flash of silver, a flash of red.
And now it is too late to save either of them.
Although it takes no time for Maglor to fall, it feels like centuries. An indescribable sound escapes Maedhros, like a terrible roar, deeper than the ocean and darker than the Void.
Maglor realizes he is dying and it is a strange relief. His mouth moves quickly, silently, one last song upon his lips.
“Thank you.”
His eyes open wide and catch their final sight: his brother, his Nelyo as he once was. Maglor had pitied him, defended him, loved him. He always had.
“I never meant to hurt you. Some peace for you now, I hope.” Maedhros holds him and sobs and it feels like centuries.
“But no peace do I deserve. Now you will meet your judgment, and I shall never face mine.”
34 notes · View notes
Text
Tumblr media
❝ "Come, Mulkhêrînim, and do not be shy. The Elf-prince is yours to use tonight, for this is how the Lord rewards his loyal subjects." ❞
⊱ Prompt: Pillory/stocks, free use ⊱ Pairing: Númenórean cultists x Maglor, Mairon ⊱ Synopsis: Mairon captures Maglor and brings him to the Temple of Melkor as a gift to his loyal followers. ⊱ Featuring: The Cult of Melkor is also a deranged sex cult now because Mairon said so, references to past Angbang ⊱ Warnings: Non-con, ritualistic gang rape, sadism & voyeurism (on Mairon's part in particular), the prompts by themselves
𝑨𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓'𝒔 𝑵𝒐𝒕𝒆: Another one for @tolkienpinupcalendar's Dead Dove December; we're nearing the end (one more regular chapter that I have already written plus a bonus fic I'm currently working on).
Mulkhêrînim - (Adûnaic) - Children of Melkor. Thought it would be a lovely way for Mairon to address them like that as an ultimate affront against Eru. Translation by me with the help of this dictionary (because in the Tolkien fandom even the nasty porn needs linguistics!)
Tumblr media
"I have a special gift for you today, oh faithful Mulkhêrînim." 
His loyal cultists mumbled among themselves when Mairon presented them with the exquisite treat he had captured. 
At first glance, it appeared to be yet another captive, like the innumerable amount he had caught in the service of his lord – a dark-haired man, albeit handsome by incarnate standards, was kneeling on the dais in front of the altar, his head and hands secured by a hastily erected pillory, naked save for a flimsy loin cloth. 
The more perceptive among Mairon's followers, however, had already noticed what made this one special: The pair of pointed ears sticking out from the mess that was his hair, almost defiantly announcing his identity as one of Ilúvatar's immortal children. 
"Is that an Elf?" one of the cultists gasped, pointing at the helpless prisoner. 
"Indeed it is, very good," Mairon purred and stood next to the Elf in question to almost tenderly pull his hair out of the way to show them off. "But not any Elf; I have captured one of royal blood." 
The whispering among his followers intensified, and he savoured the tension before the anxiously awaited revelation. 
"Meet Prince Makalaurë, also known as Maglor, the last living son of Fëanor!"
Laughing and jeering erupted from the crowd, their faces changing from curious to ravenous within seconds. Maglor, however, remained quiet, merely pressing his lips together and hardening his gaze. 
I suppose his dear brother told him what happens to those who talk back, Mairon thought with a pleased smirk. 
"Our minstrel's lonely wanderings have finally come to an end, so that he may grace us with his presence instead," he declared with a grand gesture, smugness bleeding into his tone like black ink dripping into water. 
"Will he be a sacrifice to the Lord?" a younger cultist asked. 
Mairon laughed. Oh, Melkor would be delighted to witness this scene; he could practically hear his gleeful laughter echoing through the temple from beyond the circles of the world, could see his eyes gleaming with dark amusement, could feel his joy – but he swiftly tore himself away from his memories and imagination, lest he be distracted for too long. 
"Perhaps he will be in time," he drawled, "though for now he shall serve you." 
His mortal followers, while loyal and so very eager to attain the immortality he had promised, didn't seem to grasp the meaning of his words, looking up at him expectantly. None had the courage to ask. Mairon suppressed a sigh of exasperation and the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose and stepped aside so they could properly admire Maglor's scantily clad form.
"Have you never dreamed of getting a taste of what we will conquer? Of enjoying the pleasures of immortal flesh?" He chuckled. "Such rare blood is too precious to spill with haste, would you not agree? After all..." 
In one swift movement, Mairon raked his claw-like golden nails down Maglor's back, drawing blood and eliciting a piercing scream. 
"He has such a beautiful voice, for which he is renowned to this day. What a waste it would be to not enjoy his illustrious company..." 
Murmurs of agreement rose within the crowd, and a few cultists came closer, looking up at their high priest as they waited for permission. Mairon stepped back to make space for his followers and beckoned them with an elegant wave of his hands, causing the golden bangles on his arm to clink and tinkle. 
"Come, Mulkhêrînim, and do not be shy. The Elf-prince is yours to use tonight, for this is how the Lord rewards his loyal subjects." 
A heady mix of lust and greed filled the room, and he inhaled it eagerly, a warm shudder going through him. He was going to enjoy this spectacle greatly. 
Had he caught any other Elf, he would have to be worried that their fëa would all too soon flee to Mandos, unable to endure such violation, but the Fëanorion's ill-fated oath would keep him chained to his hröa. 
Robes billowing behind him as if moved by an unseen tempest of malice, Mairon strutted around the altar and leapt onto the lap of Melkor's statue with feline grace, taking a seat like a king would sit on a throne. 
"Do you see that, precious? Almost like home," he whispered to the statue and pressed a reverent kiss onto the cold marble hand, exactly where his ring would have been. 
Maglor didn't scream when his loin cloth was torn off him, nor when greedy hands explored his body and fondled him like a common whore. He didn't grace his captors with any pleas or protests. Only when one cultist knelt behind him and forced his cock inside, he finally cried out. 
Mairon smiled. Awaken their lust, and they are reduced to mere animals, as you taught me yourself. 
The scene unfolding in front of him was chaotic, erratic and filthy, just like Melkor would have loved it. The Man's coupling with their Elven captive was frenzied and hasty, gripping his hips with his knuckles white, chasing his pleasure. Maglor himself was soon silenced – in spite of his wonderful voice and the lovely sound of his screams – by another cultist forcing his mouth open to shove his cock down his throat.
"Let's see what else he can do with that talented tongue of his," another commented on the act, followed by raucous laughter. 
Mairon considered chastising them for not appreciating the beauty of a voice trembling with pain and despair, but instead kept a serene expression as if it had been an amusing statement. He couldn't quite fault them for it; after all, mortals were ever so impatient, and their new toy had many of them to satisfy. 
Whenever one finished inside of him, another would take their place. A young initiate was sent to retrieve some oil for additional lubrication and returned with a pitcher containing the very same sacred oil that was used in their ritual sacrifices – another thing too entertaining to be irked by, and thus Mairon remained silent, smiling and nodding along whenever one of his followers looked up at him for encouragement. 
"Let us see if they can break him, precious," he whispered to the statue. 
Maglor's head hung low whenever no one held it in place, though he had little room to move. The pillory kept him upright even as knees gave in, and seed had begun leaking out of him and down his thighs. Mairon was delighted to see droplets of red marring creamy white and caught the distinct scent of blood. Still, it didn't stop his followers from using their new toy like wild beasts mounting one another during mating season. Some also opted to help themselves before or after their turn, spilling onto whichever part of Maglor they could reach. 
Mairon hadn't paid attention to the passage of time, but he estimated a few hours had passed when they were finally done with the Noldorin prince, readjusting their robes and withdrawing from him while glancing up at their master. Abandoning his comfortable seat on the statue – though most unwillingly – he stepped closer to survey the results. 
Despite no longer being gagged, Maglor was eerily silent. His entire form was stained with viscous white, his face in particular, his lips were swollen, his legs trembling, his hole loose and leaking. 
Mairon graced his followers with a bright, pleased smile as if they had done him a great kindness and placed his fingertips together. 
"Well done, Mulkhêrînim. Our Lord shall look down upon you with benevolence and grant his favour to those who stand against his enemies." 
Maglor let out a small snort, yet the spark of rebellion was short-lived when Mairon backhanded him across the face with graceful elegance that belied the force of his blow. 
"Now take our guest to the King's dungeons and make accommodations worthy of a prince." 
The sweet smile on his face then twisted, showing sharp teeth, and his voice darkened as he added, "And make sure he cannot escape, lest you wish to invoke our Lord's wrath." 
Tumblr media
Thanks for reading! ♡
31 notes · View notes
who-needs-words · 21 days
Text
I’ve got a proposal? Challenge? Experiment? For russingon shippers.
I’m fairly ambivalent towards the ship. They’re such a common ship that they slip into a number of the fics I’ve read- but rarely if ever the focus. I’ve reblogged art and read the meta. But I never seek out content.
What fic recs will change my mind from ‘eh’ to ‘oooh’
27 notes · View notes
demonscantgothere · 4 months
Text
(You and I) Drink the Poison from the Same Vine. Morgoth | Melkor/Sauron | Mairon. Explicit. 6.9k | 3.6k chapter [2/4]
Tumblr media
From Almaren, to Utumno, to Angband, to Tol-in-Gaurhoth — all of his life, Mairon has been running.
“I’ve always been that,” Mairon shot back. “Do not mistake simple ignorance for innocence—” “Yes, you have,” came the softer agreement, “but now you are mighty. I would have hardly called you ignorant in those days—” “—Yes, you would have,” Mairon snapped, grasping Melkor’s chin in a way that mimicked the hold the Vala had on him during their first kiss, digging his nail into the flesh of his lover’s cheek. “You were forceful.” “Yes, I was,” Melkor agreed in a mere whisper, his usually bright eyes quite dark this time, absorbing in all of the shadows instead of the light. “I had to test your mettle,” the Vala then murmured. “See what the Admirable was truly made out of . . . ”
Keep Reading
32 notes · View notes
fraeuleinfriedhof · 4 months
Text
Plaything
Quick double drabble for Ar-Pharazôn/Mairon:
For once Mairon finds himself in a situation where he is not in full control as he resides in Númenor as Ar-Pharazôn's prisoner, advisor and, well, plaything.
Warnings: vomiting, alcohol consumption, non-consensual touching
I needed Mairon to suffer, it's been too long. Will explore this dynamic in a longer fic that's been sitting in my docs later.
As always this would not exist without the conversations between @lvsifer and me.
Mairon rushes through the hallways, the heels of his boots clicking in quick desperate succession. He crashes into his chambers like a raging firestorm and slams the door shut behind him.
The Maia leans against it and breathes harshly before sinking to his knees, holding himself up with one slender hand as he notices he is still holding his glass of wine in the other. 
Some of it has spilled on his robes.
Mairon is drunk. 
He asks himself if this time he might have bitten off more than he can chew.
So alone, he is so alone in this land.
The seduction had worked even better than he had intended.
The king can’t keep his fingers off his trophy prisoner.
Mairon wants it to stop.
His hand on Mairon’s thigh when he sits next to him at the banquet. His hand on the small of Mairon’s back, wandering lower shamelessly. The smugness with which he is told to come sit on the king’s lap for all to see.
And Mairon opening his legs for him in the dark.
At least he gets told he is beautiful.
Disgust rolls through his body.
Mairon throws up on the cold stone floor.
30 notes · View notes
cilil · 2 days
Text
Tumblr media
Maglor
⌔ Synopsis: Maglor Fëanorion, before and after the Oath. ⌔ Warnings: Angst ⌔ Double drabble
Tumblr media
Makalaurë, for as long as he could remember, had been an artist, a singer, a musician, an actor. His harp was his trusted companion and his voice charmed even the Ainur, whose roles he would sometimes play in Ilmarin's theatre. 
A smith like his father or a sculptor like his mother Makalaurë had never been, but it mattered not. He had his own passion, his own art, his own destiny. 
It was hard to stand out as a son of Fëanáro, the mighty and renowned crown prince of the Noldor, as one of seven children; but Makalaurë had done it. 
Maglor has long since become a warrior, fighting in eternal service of his father's Oath. One of seven kinslayers, one of seven doomed princes, pitied and loathed. 
His sword remains by his side always, bloodstained and ready to be drawn at any moment. His harp he carries still, stubbornly hidden underneath his cloak, but he sings little, for his voice is hoarse from battle cries.
One by one his brothers fall, until at last even Maedhros abandons him. 
Maglor contemplates joining the jewel in the sea, but does not. 
Thus he becomes once more renowned — as a lonely, grieving minstrel. 
Tumblr media
Thanks for reading! ♡
@feanorianweek
21 notes · View notes
Text
for @eilinelsghost. dear frankie, you are such a genuinely wonderful, talented, amazingly intelligent and kind presence on this hellsite and the world at last, and deserve all things lovely. have some balan/finrod as a humble offering among with all the rest! <33
--
“Very pretty it is, to be sure,” Bëor said, voice rasping low, painfully low in throat eve as his face creased with mirth. “But I am sure I do not know what I would do with a handful of your hair, Felagund! Strange creatures the Eldar be indeed, to so long for that exchange.” 
Finrod's eyes widened. His mouth was less dire than it had been for days, but there was something somber still about the tilt of his brows. 
Balan would feel rather like a fiend to prickle him for his entreaty, if he were not being half-cheated by its terms.
“It is a perfectly common sharing of tokens among my people.” 
“Among my people the throwing of leaves and pointing of fingers is a perfectly common exchange of tokens when one is being a daft liar, too, and I do not think you so eager for that! You fairies are dreadfully jealous of your braids, one and all.” 
Finrod was not bold enough to deny it. Perhaps he was in earnest - the notion only made Balan ache more fiercely. 
They were very careful about their gifts, the two of them, since their first exchanges had ended in mild poisoning, and Finrod finding how very much his constitution disagreed with the smoking pipes the Edain favoured. 
Finrod had been almost diffident in his offer, as he had not been for years. He looked down now at Balan now, palms pressed together in the way Balan had learned he did when he was uncertain of which question to request. 
 “It does happen rarely, and I do not say It is not a tremendous honour. I ask much from one who is dear to me; too much for a whim; and I am sorry for it.” 
Balan sighed. His bones felt too tight. His mouth was parched, but he did not wish to ask for a glass of water, and he was not certain he would be able to cross the room easily; and he was not certain Finrod would be able to withstand it easily. 
Finrod seemed not less brittle to his eyes. Singing too long left the line of his cheeks sharper, his eyes dangerous as wisps of light over bog waters. His dear lord, who had not slept in many nights to keep him from the edge of mortal harm. 
He clasped Finrod’s hand warmly. The fine, long bones stilled for a moment, and then wound between his with accustomed gentleness.
 “It is that must apologize,” Balan said. “Ask what thou wilt as a gift, and never doubt it be thine. Art not not my lord, and my dear friend? It would be a honour to have such a token, for even a meager hair would be a treasure given from thy hands. But I suspect it is not thy people’s way to be light about such thing; and I think fear moves thee in this more than a mere whim. If it is so, I would not have it not be kept silent, and take insidious root.” 
Finrod’s fingers tightened around his. He strove for lightness of tone, and failed as he rarely did when he attempted it. “Thou canst not wonder that I fear! Warm as coal was thy brow, and heard not what I said when I spoke.” 
Balan tilting his head to meet Finrod’s eyes, smiling almost despite himself at the light of love on the king’s face. He bent, and kissed the fine knuckles; and at last Finrod smiled as well. 
Only then when he knew he was heard entirely did he say, “Felagund, dear lord. I am not dying; nay, not yet, and not soon either I judge. This is but a spring cold, from the changing of the wind and the cold air. Dangerous if uncared for; but thou hast cared for me better than ever my people were loved. It shall pass. Indeed, after the songs and pastes and infusions, it is nearly gone already. I would say if it grew worse, be not afraid of that.” 
Balan was struck once again - as he often was - by how real Finrod was, for all his strangeness. This cheekbone was very like his own; the eyes that shone and saw the world in different shades, the quick mind that guessed at the unknowable and predicted past and future. They had made a friendship out of generous wonder in each other and for each other. The last thing he wished was to make Finrod doubt it. 
He found the strands of his head strange tokens to exchange, but it seemed discourteous to refuse the trade outright, when Felagund was so plainly well-meaning.
And so peculiarly covetous, too. Balan was not blind to the way Finrod stood raptly with held breath, whenever he saw him brushing back his hair after swimming, or oiling the strands and redoing the braids by the fire in the evenings. 
He could not say he disliked the attention, that he had not met Finrod’s glances a hundred times.
He could not say the offer was not to him what he knew to be to Finrod - he had seen too many elvish warriors with the braids of their betrotheds carried in medallions about their necks, or kinsmen wound in goldwire and silver, set with amber and pearls around their wrists.
 Solemnly, Finrod brought out one of his many knives. A swift stroke, and one of his impossibly bright braids fell into Balan’s palm; and his own closed around Balan’s own gift. 
Finrod studied it with such care, Bëor's spindly, bristling braid, the gray threaded with the fading fairness of his hair. 
Balan looked at his hand, a little disbelieving. More beautiful than gold was that slender braid, enthralling as the stars, thin and fine as spidersilk - Balan had stared at it as often as Finrod looked at him in admiration.
 It was not less lovely for being in his hand, and seemed all the more startling in its beauty; but Balan’s eyes were still, always, for the curling strands that framed Finrod’s temples, the fine lashes that kissed his cheeks.  
How strange it was, that all the brightness in him should be turned to him, bent like a candlewick under the weight of its own flame. All the time he had known Finrod he had seen him lonesome among his people, lordly and unwed, brushing his own hair alone; and it had wounded him from the first.
For all the differences between them, that particular loneliness was something Balan recognized so well.
His hand fit so well in Balan's, all the same. He had held him for days and day, without letting go: whenever Balan was strong enough to open his eyes, he had seen him - his golden braids fraying, unattended, as he willed Balan to live. 
In the delirium of his fever Balan had dreamed foul dreams. It had felt to him as if a great darkness had descended upon Finrod, as if great walls of stone parted them; crushed, limbs heavy, he had cried out. Reached for him, as if were being chased by a prowling thing, and growing ever more distant; and now he saw, clear as grass, a mirrored anguish in the way Finrod held Balan's cut braid as if it were half an heirloom already. 
"Thank thee," Finrod said, grave as if it were a rite.
“I am very generous,” Balan agreed, teasing as well as he could. His heart pressing painfully against his ribs. He felt feverish still, with fear and boldness now; but he had to speak, say this much at least. “But I fear I am about to be more outrageous still; for there is beauty greater still I would have, still. Among my people, embraces are also exchanged as tokens, between friends who hold each other dear.”
Finrod's breathing hitched and ceased again.
He did not say he had heard the words unspoken. He did not speak of death; or love. The gift his people gave and traded as promises unspooled itself in Balan’s hand, and nothing like an oath came with it; but Balan needed nothing of the like tonight.
If it was greedy to ask for more, it would be cruel to give less, when even his ageless face was dimned with the weariness of the vigil he had kept by Balan's side, his shoulders tight with fear. 
“So it is, among my people as well,” said Finrod, and stopped, until Balan thought he would turn his face away, and rise, and hide the dark rope of Balan’s hair away forever to be wept over in days and years to come.
But the grip between Balan’s fingers eased, then grew stronger again. Finrod bent down over the bedside; until Balan touched the living strands of his hair, entwined his fingers about it.
That was too much. The dark braid was set aside carefully; and then, swiftly, with a surge of urgency, Finrod held him. Laid his hands over his back, feeling the movement of his heart and lungs; and Balan stroked his head with its wisps of shorn hair, eased his fear as well as he could.
Tomorrow, the cedarwod casket that held Balan's pins and rings, Belen's childhood gifts of bone-whistles and Baran's prettiest pebbles would receive a new, no less beloved treasure. Tomorrow, Finrod would hide the stands of Beren's hair away in truth, somewhere secret and well-kept where tokens of love could be held without marring for many centuries.
For tonight they could give each other this gift - grasp tight, and not let go until the sun rose over the mountain.
36 notes · View notes
Text
Forever Together
Pairing: Argon x Reader
Summary: You and Argon share a quiet moment together while travelling over the Helcaraxë.
♡♡♡♡♡♡♡
You felt like your skin was on fire as Argon's warm hands stroked over your exposed skin. It seemed so long ago since you had last felt his warmth.
It had been a long time. You had set out on the ice several weeks ago, but you had rarely rested, and when you had, Fingolfin had assigned your husband some sort of task. Of course you understood that this was important for your survival, but you still felt cold and abandoned sometimes.
Argon seemed to notice that. While you continued to fight your way through the snow during the day, Argon, who always walked in front next to his father, fell further back to take your hand for a moment. His fingers clasped yours and the ice no longer seemed so cold to you.
After a while, Fingolfin had decided that you would have to take a longer rest, as all of you were getting slower and slower due to your exhaustion, making you even more vulnerable on the open road than you already were.
So you put up some tents to protect you from the cold and you tried to get some sleep.
When you fell asleep you were freezing, but when you woke up you could smell Argon's familiar scent and feel his hands gently rubbing every bit of skin they could find to keep you warm.
You kept your eyes closed for a moment. You had missed his gentle touch so much.
The warm days in Valinor when you had picnicked or gone swimming in the lake together seemed centuries ago.
"I know you are awake," he whispered and kissed you gently on the forehead. You could hear the smile in his voice. He pulled his hands away and let himself slide under the covers behind you.
You whimpered softly and snuggled back against Argon. "Please do not stop."
He laughed softly. "Do not worry, my love, I will prevent you from freezing to death." He wrapped his strong arms around you and turned you round so that the tips of your noses were touching.
His warm breath brushed over your face and drove away any feeling of cold. "Do not worry, Melda." Argon whispered and kissed you softly. His hands gently stroked down your body, from your cheeks to your hips, where he pulled you even tighter against him. "Tonight I am all yours."
He winked.
"Arakáno!Turukáno, Elenwë and Itarillë are right in the tent next to us. So we won't be doing anything like that." you said, but you had to smile.
When Argon saw your smile, he let out a pleasant sigh. One of his hands travelled back up to your face and gently stroked your lips to trace your smile.
Then he leant forward and kissed you again. At first his lips brushed only lightly over yours, but soon his kisses became firmer and more passionate. He pushed himself off the ground a little and carefully rolled onto you.
Your hands stroked through his hair and soon found their way to his cheeks.
You let out a surprised noise. "Arakáno?" You broke away from him. "Oh, why are you crying."
His cheeks were full of tears.
Argon's fingers gently stroked your cheek as he looked down at you.
"Because you are only here because of me. You deserve better than a tiny tent in the cold, wet snow. I am so sorry that I cannot give you more."
"Oh Arakáno." You gently took his face into your hands and began to brush away his tears with your thumbs. "Do not blame yourself."
"But it is true." His other hand found its way to your hair and stroked softly over it.
"Yes," you said softly, "I am here because of you. I am here because I love you anb because I cannot bear to live apart from you. I would make that decision again if it meant having you by my side. Because Valinor would be colder than the Helcaraxë without you, Arakáno."
He looked at you from his gentle eyes as more tears ran down his cheeks. "Thank you," Argon finally said, "Thank you for being by my side."
"Let us always stay together, no matter where we go," you said softly, wrapping your arms around him.
Argon lowered his head onto your chest, a position you don't normally lie in as he was so huge, while you gently stroked his hair.
"It will be all right, my dearest Arakáno."
♡♡♡♡♡♡♡
19 notes · View notes
dalliansss · 1 month
Text
“We need to dispose of this creature,” Curufin says, mirroring Celegorm’s sentiment.
“Do you think we can eat it?” Finrod wonders out-loud. “Steaks.”
Curufin rolls his silver eyes so hard, Turko briefly worried they might pop out of his head. “Ingoldo, do you remember when you first encountered potatoes? Yes? You ate them raw and food poisoned yourself. We are not eating anything wrought by Morgoth’s foul sorcery. Away with the idea!”
Finrod pouts mightily and harrumphs. Then Edrahil calls the King for an urgent matter, and the golden one flounces away to follow his captain. Turko shakes his head.
“Only one elf mad enough to suggest to try eating a godsdamn dragon,” Turko says, bemusement in his tone.
Curufin crosses his arms. “I’m dumbfounded you hadn’t suggested it first, hanno.”
“Are you shitting me? With the stink this creature has? Not even my most rabid dogs will want a piece of it.”
[Dragonsmoke / AO3]
59 notes · View notes
sillysistersusi · 29 days
Text
Slipping through my fingers all the time
Fëanor x Nerdanel
Summary: When Nerdanel woke up and the other side of her bed was cold, she panicked. Or: Nerdanel is afraid to lose the people close to her again.
When Nerdanel woke up and the other side of her bed was cold, she panicked.
Since Fëanor had moved back in with her three weeks ago, her bed had not been cold when she woken up. Instead, she had felt his gentle fingertips on her cheeks, his breath on her neck or she had opened her eyes to his warm smile.
It had taken a long time before Fëanor had dared to speak to Nerdanel again. He had been reembodied months ago, but he had been afraid she would hate him and he had told her he couldn't bear it if she had hated him.
The truth was that Nerdanel had never hated him. She had been angry. Very angry, in fact. But she hadn't hated him.
And now he was back and she had always woken up to his warmth, but this time it was different. Fëanor wasn't there.
Had she perhaps just dreamed it all? Had Fëanor never really returned? Had these dreams only arisen out of her desire to have her beloved husband back?
Panicked, she sat up, slipped out of bed and ran through a house that was far too big for her alone. She had thought all these years that she would drown in the sheer size of the home that once was filled with love, now that the laughter of her sons and the warmth of her husband were gone.
As she turned a corner, she bumped into someone.
"Fëanáro!" she gasped. Fëanor stood in front of her, a cup of steaming tea in his hand.
"Nerdanel? What is wrong dear?" He carelessly placed the cup on the nearest cupboard and turned to her.
"Fëanáro." she whispered, because she was so relieved to see him. She felt so light that she wouldn't have been surprised if she had suddenly been able to fly.
It was only when Fëanáro's fingertips gently touched her cheek to wipe away a tear that she realized she had started to cry.
"I thought- I thought you were gone," she whispered and sniffled.
He frowned worriedly. "But my dear, why should I be gone?"
"I- I was afraid I might have dreamed it all." she whispered softly. "That you had never really returned."
Fëanor placed his hands gently on her cheeks and then leaned forward to kiss her eyelids. "I am here." Then he kissed down the bridge of her nose. "And I will never leave your side again." He pressed his lips to hers and and wrapped his arms around her to pull her tighter against him.
"I am yours forever, Nerdanel," he whispered against her lips. "And I will never leave unless you ask me to."
"I never want to be without you again, my dearest Fëanáro." she breathed and kissed him again. "Why are you up so early?"
He rested his forehead against hers and rubbed their noses together. "I made you some tea to wake you up. You were still fast asleep when I woke up and I thought it would be nice."
"But why so early?" she asked gently.
Fëanor pulled her closer and kissed her again, harder this time, which was exactly what Nerdanel needed, because the feeling of his kiss lingered on her lips after he had already pulled away. It was a reminder that he was there. "We were supposed to visit Maitimo and Findékano today. And they live a bit out in the country, so we have to leave early."
In her panic, Nerdanel had completely forgotten.
"I am sorry," she whispered quietly.
Fëanor shook his head. "My dearest." He kissed the corner of her mouth. "You have done nothing wrong. Never. It touches me deeply that I still mean so much to you after all this. But rest assured, I would never make the mistake of leaving again, because you and our children are what give my life meaning. You are the true treasures I should have fought for, and I know that now."
"Oh Fëanáro." She gently stroked his cheek. "Let us put the past behind us once and for all and be happy that we have each other again. I love you."
"I love you too, Nerdanel." he whispered against her lips before kissing her again.
38 notes · View notes
isilwhore · 1 month
Text
Maedhros & Maglor Week - Day 3
Two drabbles for @maedhrosmaglorweek :
Maedhros struggles with the half-written message beneath his fist. Maglor watches, yet hesitates to offer help. His brother will ask if needed. He rarely does.
“You are very persuasive, Nelyo. Do not fret over each and every word!”
“How do you do it? How do you create beautiful verses that leap from page to one’s heart and mind?”
“I write what I feel,” he answers. “Then out it flows, like the mightiest of rivers.”
Maedhros flinches, his eyes turn dark. “Some feelings have no language and thus can never be spoken,” and he crumples the paper with his one hand.
****
And, because things often get way too depressing for them, a little bit of happiness during more peaceful times:
“I am honored you have invited me to this feast,” Maglor whispers, a smile betraying his latent joy.
“Well Káno, you will not cause any embarrassment. Or start arguments. And your talents are appreciated at such gatherings.”
“Ah yes, I am merely here to sing,” he exhales an exaggerated, playful sigh and Maedhros laughs. That is the best music, he realizes; his brother finally laughing again, the clink of glasses raising hopeful toasts, the strum of his harp.
If only the rest of our brothers were tame enough to join, he thinks. Then everyone would surely be entertained. Or offended.
38 notes · View notes