#Tolkien fanfiction

[sauron-kraut]

metamorphosis

Summary: Annatar muses about sacrifices, about fitting in. And about Celebrimbor.

A rather quick triple drabble because they've been on my mind and for whatever reason I have never written anything for them before?! Enjoy.

Pairing: Mairon/Annatar x Celebrimbor

Words: 300

Warnings: non-explicit sexual content, a bit of violence

As always: If you like this little piece, comments on AO3 are appreciated! 🖤

Not beta read!

Find it here under the cut.

After changing his skin, Mairon stands bare before a mirror. No, not he, the other. He runs his fingertips over this body (his body?), traces curves and bones unknown. He looks down at his hands. The trembling stops. 

Gone are nails like claws, all sharpness in him trimmed to prudence. 

Gone are the fiery locks, framing him like a radiant mantle. This is no place for vanity. 

Mairon (Annatar) touches his elven ears. Unadorned. His fingers trail over his jaw, now slightly more pronounced. 

In soft waves his white-blonde hair cascades down his shoulders, shoulders that are broader, somewhat. 

Annatar smiles at his reflection. He runs his fingers through his hair, picks up a plain robe folded on a simple chair. 

Do not frighten them with brilliance. Modesty soothes.

He steps closer to the mirror. Pulls the lids of one of his eyes open. 

Gone is their brightness. Smothered serpent. Fire dulled to honey. 

Sweeten their ruin.

Annatar takes root in the city. His new flesh moves among them with ease. The flesh feels different.

When, shrouded in candlelight and wine-drunk nights, at last he lures the elf between his thighs, it feels different. When the elf thrusts inside him, all red-stained lips, grim and proud heart soft from wine, it feels different. How did it feel with Him? It is so long ago. He clutches Celebrimbor to his chest like a dying thing that night. The flesh wants and gasps and pleads.

Stoke his ambition. Sing to his desires.

For centuries, he makes himself a home.

Obsession whips the elf along. For centuries. Grandfather-shadow, some things are inescapable. He forgets his place.

His throat feels good beneath Annatar’s hand.

And when these hands torture, when they maim and when they murder, then, at last, this flesh might become home.

[oatmealcraisin]

Remembrances of Russo

Art by me here, fic written by the wonderful eris_of_imladris!!

Author: eris_of_imladris Artist: @oatmealcraisin

Rating: G Characters: Elrond, Elros, Maedhros, Maglor Relationships: Elrond & Elros, Elrond & Elros & Maedhros & Maglor Warnings: no archive warnings apply Wordcount: 5.5k

Maedhros connects with Elrond and Elros by making them a stuffed fox. Russo joins the twins - and later, Elrond - for millennia of love.

This was such a fun artwork to work on for TRSB24, and the story written for it matches so perfectly! Definitely give it a read!

@tolkienrsb

[sammybunny711]

SHOUT OUT to all the wonderful Rings of Power fanfic writers. You guys are so amazing and it always makes my day to find new fics in this fandom. It's amazing how much blood, sweat, and tears have gone into these fics and that we're all doing it out of love for the Fandom, the show, and these beloved characters. Thank you to all of you writers out there who have provided me with HOURS of entertainment just because you wanted to.

Thank you!

[tolkienpinupcalendar]

Dead Dove December

It's that time of year again! Time to cozy up with blankets and hot cocoa, and read some beautifully crafted non-con smut . . . Everyone does that, right?

We are bringing Dead Dove December back with all new prompts!

As always, any fic, moodboard, fanart, edit, etc is allowed to be submitted!

To Submit:

Tag us @tolkienpinupcalendar

Use the tag #tpcdeaddoveedevember

Use the smutmissions form here

We look forward to seeing what you create!

Mods @bellejolras, @the-girl-with-the-algebra-book and @frosticenow

[feanors-mom]

Thoughts on Tumblr thus far:

Only been on here a little while and I REALLY appreciate how the algorithm on this platform ONLY shows me content I’m actively engaging with or have explicitly indicated interest in (following tags etc)

I don’t need to see the latest mass shaming (twitter), glamping adventures (IG), my boomer neighbor’s political thoughts (Facebook), or even the latest dance trend (TikTok) (ok fine show me the dance trend I guess)

But here, it’s just straight up demon, vampire, and elf stories/art and the occasional TV or film gif because that and only that is what👏i👏want👏to waste time on this week.

Praise the Ainur for tumblr yall

Keep shipping every single character in the legendarium and then keep making your own OCs. I’m here for it 🙌*

*except Elrond, that little Maiar-than-thou mansplainy shit, I hope Sauron takes u down a non-canonical notch in trop s3 iykwim. Always hated you, shouldve pushed Isildur in the fires your own damn self

[echo-bleu]

Noldor Hair Headcanons (3/4)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | On AO3

Some lighter Kidnap Fam content, after the downhill freefall that was the last chapter. With a dash of Finrod in Valinor.

Elrond and Elros have never had their hair braided when they end up with Maedhros and Maglor.

They don’t realize what they’re asking when Elros grabs a hairbrush and puts it in Maglor’s hand.

Maglor understands that, but decides that the twins need parental care, even though he has no right. He brushes their hair and leaves it loose at first.

But the twins have watched Maglor braid Maedhros’s hair and they soon start asking for more interesting hairstyles.

Eventually Maglor explains to them that it can only be done by family.

The twins have a whole silent conversation.

“What does it take to be family?” Elros asks eventually.

Well, braiding an unrelated child’s hair is pretty close to informal adoption.

Elros forces the brush into Maglor’s hand again.

Maglor stares.

Elrond shakes his head and runs out.

Of course, Elrond must hate them. He has every right. Sure, Elros has started to warm up to them, but that’s just because he’s affection-starved, probably. They’re still kidnappers.

Maglor is about to put down the brush and try to refuse when Elrond comes back.

He’s holding a second hairbrush.

He hands it to Maedhros expectantly.

Maedhros cries.

Maglor cries.

The twins’ hair really doesn’t hold braids very well, and they’re still kids who run around and play, but damn them if Maglor and Maedhros aren’t going to do their best.

Now all of their people can see that the twins are well-loved.

Maedhros and Maglor also proudly sport a few clumsy, wonky braids each.

They’re less wonky with time, and eventually the twins are doing their fathers’ (kidnappers’) hair as often as not.

Finrod is reembodied shortly before Eärendil and Elwing gets to Valinor. It’s too early and he’s Not Doing Well. While in Middle Earth, he was the one who let basically every one of his friends braid his hair, now he can’t stand the thought of someone touching him that way.

But Beleriandic battle braids feel wrong in Tirion. And he’s desperately trying to reckon with his trauma, with Sauron defeating him by singing about the kinslaying, so he can’t leave his hair loose like the Teleri.

And he can’t quite get the sight of Edrahil’s bloody braids spat out by a werewolf out of his head.

He wears nothing but the very strange-looking (to Amanyar) Mourning Braids he designed after Dagor Bragollach for a couple of years.

Then after an episode of really bad depression and nearly fading, he cuts his hair short.

No-braiding-possible kind of short.

While not unheard of in Beleriand (sometimes former thralls keep their hair very short, like Rog), it’s unthinkable in Valinor, especially for the Crown Prince of the Noldor.

He is stared at a lot, his reputation goes down the drain, but to Finrod it’s liberating.

He does let his hair grow out again eventually, but only when other Exiles start coming back and choose to keep the Beleriandic braid styles, and it becomes a fashion statement rather than a mark of shame.

Finarfin is Very Shocked arriving in Beleriand when he finds his (single remaining) child with her hair loose and everyone else with weird self-braided battle hairstyles.

After a battle or three where he ends up with his hair matted with blood and mud, he caves and gets Galadriel to give him battle braids.

By the end of the war he’s even learned to do them himself! Let it not be said that King Arafinwë Ñoldóran didn’t rise to his calling.

The night before sending the Elrond and Elros to Gil-galad, Maedhros and Maglor undo all of their braids. Everyone cries.

Maedhros and Maglor meant this to minimize the ‘taint’ their names would put on the twins, by making it look like they were still hostages to the end, but the twins stop on the way to do each other’s hair because one does not meet a king with their hair loose, they have manners (which the Fëanorians taught them, so they’re Very Specific Manners), so the effect is lost. Gil-galad has Questions. The twins refuse to lie.

Then, before going to steal the Silmarils, Maedhros and Maglor do each other’s hair, in a style of their father’s that they haven’t worn since the Oath.

Maglor braids a single golden ribbon into Maedhros’s hair.

They have very few pieces of hair jewellery left of their brothers’, but they use all of them.

They both know it’s the last time.

To be continued

I did some sketches for visual reference of a few of the hairstyles mentioned here, if you want to see what I'm imagining!

[valardynasty]

Galadriel et Annatar

Création par Intelligence Artificielle

[searchingforserendipity25]

Fearing Not A Shadow Nor A Chill

Day 5 of @elrondweek. Elrond/Celebrían & Children. Here or on AO3.

-

"I used to long very much," Celebrían had told him once. "For a playmate as near in age as Elros was to you."

Elrond had not answered. He walked beside her, by shores of the Aduin's first strong fountain-streams, and very carefully did not look too plainly upon Lady Celebrían's curved mouth, the yarrow leaf she turned and turned between her fingers.

He needed not to speak. Lady Celebrían, he had learned very quickly, was not one to wait very long to complete her ideas, none of which, she plainly felt, required much counsel or permission at all.

"Amroth was so much the elder, and so much a stranger even to my parents, who loved him as a cousin and as a son. I was lonesome and without companions, and though the joys and secrets of Lórien need not be shared to be true, still I have found them to be the greater when seen by two, and not one alone."

"So it is, in most places I have journeyed to, and not Lórien alone," said Elrond, carefully. It was the early days of their friendship, and already he had learned to be cautious with his mind and words and heart near Lady Galadriel's daughter, grey-eyed Celebrían whose conversations was like the waters of her own lands, leaping, quick and meandering and full of hidden roots to trip upon.

"I suppose, then, you would wish for children, and not one alone. That is good." Celebrían said, as if it were a natural thing to speak of, on the eve of battle, to the king's own herald.

Her eyes shone, too, with a brightness of sun on water, a glimmering laughing attention. Elrond's heart tripped in his chest, slipped from him again and again.

"I said to Elros I would not marry, if I could not present my children to their uncle."

"He must have teased you very badly," Celebrían guessed, looking at him through her lashes rather shamelessly. "I am sorry I shall not meet him; but then he has so very many descendants, some evil and some not, which on the whole may be better. He may not have wished you to know them, but not much can be done on that account; and at least any children of yours shall not lack for kin. How many would you prefer?"

Elrond, more ancient than some of the rivers and mountains of Imladris, wise in languages and laws and magics, stared.

Smiled, too, a little helplessly. He could not ever quite stop turning towards her when she looked at him with all that bare attention, and he never would; and knowing he never would did not much help in delaying love from taking root.

"A maiden," he said. A woman-child, with Elwing's quick hands at the loom, and Celebrian's way of worrying at the corner of her mouth with her thinking - he saw it, that sure alighting of love.

Celebrían nodded. As if it were that simple - as if it were an agreement, a handfasting, a promise.

"It will be good for the boys to have a sister," Celebrían said. "I used to long very much for a playmate near my age, and another a little my elder, to hide mischief from our parents better."

Elrond, old enough to remember when islands rose at the will of the gods, and all the sea-loving birds flew Westwards in a rush, smiled at her, helplessly enchanted.

-

The days of their early friendship: war ravaged the lands beyond Elrond's hidden valley fortress still. He had not known how to love her. His heart sang, assured from the first, a winged thing certain of its perfect flight - but he had not known her, truly.

He had not meant to be more than a host, her mother's friend - for whatever little that meant. Celebrían was not one to care very much for other people's good intent, when hers was so often an improvement.

For many years they were half-stranger and half-lovers, looking at each other with clear eyes. Over riverbanks and running fountains, desks and dances and the narrow, narrow curving staircases of Imladris, where the brush of a sleeve against a curling palm could be hidden, almost an accident, almost nothing.

To be wed was a thing the Noldor choose only in times of peace, though the the Sindar delayed seldom. Elrond's parents had not waited, and not their parents either; but he did. He was only himself, and too himself to dare otherwise.

Celebrían, he knew, would not have been against a bold flight of passion, not least eloping while her father tarried - would serve him well, she thought.

For Elrond only she delayed. Went patient with her words, and deeds, and the turnings of her mind, as she never had before, or would again.

He thought of it, afterwards, when her ship went where the gulls loved to go, to the place where Elwing's tower rose high, and beyond. All that times spent, that half-time.

There had been a sweetness, too, in the stretching of anticipation, but he could not be certain, afterwards. How they had tasted in his mouth, those kisses ungiven; if his hand had stung to brush her silks, if it had hurt half as much as remembering it would for many centuries.

-

Twins, they had, on purpose. Celebrían was determined, and determined to wait until Elrond was certain he could stand to want it - two little souls, as near in age as Elros had been to him.

Two were enough, they both agreed. Two sons, alike to each other to the tilt of their noses and the curl of their braids. Celebrían's children, restless and in love with the world.

Elrond's children, too, though it felt marvelous and absurd and terrible, many times, to claim such joy as his own. His children, who held his hands as they crossed the many bridges of Imladris, and brought him small treasures, and shared the same closeness he had once known with his own Elros.

Elrohir liked to run, to sing, to make mischief and pull laughter out of Imladris's people like a spark out of a flint - a brusque little surprise, flaring and vulnerable.

He had Celeborn's mouth, and Celeborn's way with beasts and rooted things, and rarely was he ever alone, pockets full of little lizards and shoulders covered with dark eyed minks, ancient serpents twining around his small, very breakable wrists.

He made friends wherever he went, respectful and cheerful and terribly silly; Glorfindel, once of Gondolin by way of friendship with Turgon and Finrod before him, spoke at times with Celebrían of her uncle.

He never made a comparison, never said the words; but it was perhaps a good thing Elrohir had been born of a people and a time with no need for the raising up of new kingdoms. It was perhaps a sorrow, too, but Elrohir never seemed to feel the lack of greatness very sharply, nor the pulling tides of the past either.

Elladan was not so.

Elladan spent half his childhood trying to escape the valley, and the other half hiding wherever he could, in a dozen secret little places that became veiled even to Elrond's senses far too quickly.

He felt sadness very keenly, his mind open like Elrond's to the many voices of the wind and the water and the earth, yet more like his mother's kin, in how the shadows on the hearts of those near and far struck fear and unease and anger in him.

He wept very often, and afterwards laid on their chests, all exhausted weight and heavy eyelashes. Elrond held him the tightest; Elrond was very determined to do so always.

For comfort, Elladan liked to play with the rings in his father's hands, to follow the trail of Iathrim inkings and hunting scars beneath Celebrían's skin. And then of course his brother came to find him, whenever he was distressed, as Elros had found Elrond in Amon Ereb and Sirion and Mithlond, wherever in dying Beleriand that long terrible war brought them.

"This is very good," Celebrían conceded, pressing her nose against their sons's sweet curls, one after the other.

Celebrían pressed her palm to his, her long marked fingers against his rings, Vylia flaring cold and alive wherever at her touch. Her attention set upon him was no less heady. His breast sang towards it only the most surely, whenever his wife's sly joy pressed against his mind; and for an instant the shadow of what might be was easy on it, nearly easy.

She had always seen him very easily, Celebrían Galadriel's daughter. Braver than he, and less patient, was the Lady of Imladris.

"Very good, and no one left lonesome; but I do recall there is a thing not yet done, that I would like to accomplish, and Elros Peredhel would be sure to tease us both very badly, if we both put it aside, on his account."

She came last, the maiden-child with a worried mouth. Tall and fair and not quick to laughter, eager to learn, his stubborn-minded cupbearer and apprentice and scribe.

Then Elrond was happier still, for many years; he had half-forgotten the old images of foresight. It was a long time before his daughter Arwen took to the loom, sitting intent and silent by her mother's bedside, weaving love into a cloak fashioned for warmth; a traveling garment, spelled against the sting of salt.

[lathalea]

Congratulations on your followers! 🎉✨🧚🏼‍♀️ I am so happy to see you on my feed that I am not sure what I could even request… Would it be ok to request an Aragorn x reader ficlet with

26. Hurt/Comfort AU and 

5. “You did this for me?” (Maybe Aragorn got protective of the reader and she takes care of his wounds… just a little suggestion)

I am really not sure if I did this right and I apologize in advance if I did something wrong or made you uncomfortable. Thank you for doing this 💜 I hope you have a wonderful day Take care <3

Thank you so much and thank you for your wonderful ask! I hope you will enjoy the story I wrote for you... and I hope you don’t mind I tweaked your prompt a tiiiiiny bit ;)

The Golden Hour 

The sudden battle with the Ringwraiths at Amon Sûl took a toll on everyone. Frodo’s wound was serious — more serious than you have ever seen. It was a Morgul-blade, after all. The other Hobbits were shaken, but unscathed. What a relief. But then you noticed Aragorn clenching his left hand and giving out a slight hiss.

“You’re wounded!” Instantly, you recalled that he held that burning torch in this hand, attacking the wraiths with it mere moments ago.

“It’s nothing, my lady.” He shook his head and examined Frodo’s wound. “This is beyond my skill to heal. He needs elvish medicine.”

“Rivendell?” Your gaze met his. There was a frown on his handsome face when he nodded in agreement.

“We have no time to lose,” he said, looking at Frodo's pale face.

“I’ll take him there,” you stated. Your bay mare whinnied in agreement. It would not be your first race against death, and the Ranger knew it well.

After you placed Frodo safely before you, Aragorn gave your hand a squeeze.

“Ride with the grace of Valar.” He spoke with a glint in his eye.

The coarseness of his skin against yours made you tremble a little, and you looked away. You did not want him to read what hid in your eyes. He was the Strider, the legendary Ranger of the North, and you were… well, just you. A girl from nowhere — or everywhere. You met on the trail a couple of months ago and since then you travelled together. Both of you seemed to enjoy each other’s company. You exchanged tales by the fire, sang songs under the stars, or simply rode in silence, admiring the beauty of the landscape ahead of you. 

Then four hobbits joined you in Bree and from their whispered remarks you understood that the Strider was guiding them somewhere. Wandering hobbits were quite unusual, just like their mission had to be, but you never asked any questions. You understood they had their secrets, and you respected it. In the meantime, you scouted the area, took night watches together with Aragorn, and made sure that Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin were safe. Now, you were about to do it once again — for Frodo.

And so you rode like the wind, day and night, night and day, fleeing from the black shadows trying to catch up with you. But you and your mare were faster, leaving the dull thudding of their ghastly steeds’ hooves behind.

You crossed the fast-flowing waters of the river Bruinen with haste, and soon you found yourself in the Last Homely House, Lord Elrond’s domain. He was glad to see you in Imladris again and took care of the barely conscious Frodo right away. Elrond’s healing powers were legendary, so you were almost certain that he would succeed. And so he did.

A couple of days later Aragorn and the three hobbits arrived, exhausted and hungry. You could not help but notice how he held his left hand, fisted and close to his chest. There were deep shadows under his eyes.

“Let me see to your hand,” you said, closing the distance between you.

“The hobbits first,” he spoke quietly. You knew his face well by now; it was pale. Too pale for your liking.

That was when lady Arwen arrived, welcoming the new guests. As soon as you exchanged a glance with her, she swiftly moved towards Sam, Merry and Pippin.

“Welcome to Imladris, dear guests. May I offer you a place to rest and something to replenish your strength?” she spoke in her melodious voice, turning to the hobbits. Only then did Aragorn allow you to take him to his quarters.

You rolled up his left sleeve when he sat on his bed, and then you examined his arm. It looked like a large part of his hand and forearm was covered with burns, probably when one of the wraiths attempted his final attack, his robes on fire. You worked slowly, meticulously, and as gently as you could. At the end, you covered his skin with an elvish ointment given to you by lord Elrond and bandaged the worst-looking wounds. It would take some time, but you knew he would be fully healed. 

When you were done with your work, he was already asleep. The only thing you could do was to cover him with a blanket and leave him to rest.

***

A few days later you decided to take a walk in lord Elrond’s gardens. Whenever you visited Rivendell, you liked to stroll through this magical place, but this time you were not alone. On the path ahead of you, you saw a familiar figure bathed in the warm light of the evening sun.

“My lady,” the Ranger bowed his head and you saw how differently he looked from the man you had come to know on the road. Gone was the tiredness from his face and the grime from his clothes. Now, he wore green elvish robes, and his freshly washed hair softly fell onto his shoulders. In the golden light of the setting sun he looked more like a ruler of an ancient realm than a travelling swordsman.

“I have been looking for you,” he added. “I would like to thank you for what you did: for saving Frodo’s life, and with him, perhaps even something greater. And for caring for me when I needed it the most.”

“I haven’t done anything unusual. This is what one does when their travelling companions are in need. How is your arm doing today?” You glanced at his freshly bandaged arm.

“It is better, thanks to you.” A small smile appeared on his face, reaching the grey pools of his eyes. There was something in his gaze that made you smile back at him.

“Tomorrow I will have to leave Rivendell and continue my journey,” Aragorn continued. “It is a perilous one, and I do not know when or if I will return. I would like you to have this as a token of my appreciation. Something to remember me by, perhaps.”

“A necklace? Is that a mountain crystal? You made this for me?” you blinked in disbelief, looking at the crystal glinting golden in the sun, and at the elegantly interwoven leather straps that held it.

“I began making it on the road. They call this kind of crystal the elvenstone. May I?”

“Of course.” You bit your lower lip as Aragorn placed the necklace around your neck. He stood so close to you, you felt the warmth of his fingers brushing against the sides of your neck, and there was that smell of herbs, leather, and pipeweed, one that you could recognize even with your eyes closed.

“So very beautiful…” you whispered, touching the glistening crystal with your fingers.

“Very…” added Aragorn, but his eyes were set on your face. You swallowed.

“I will wear it every day with pride.” You heard yourself say. “But it will not remind me of you because I will be by your side.”

“But… My lady, the journey ahead of me is full of danger, I cannot…” He began, taking your hand in his.

“We have survived quite a few dangerous situations together, haven’t we? I believe we will survive a few more,” you smiled at him, finding golden sparks of sun among the grey clouds of Aragorn’s eyes.

“I believe we will,” your Ranger agreed and you knew that at dawn, you would be riding out from Imladris together.

Thank you for reading! If you liked it, please consider leaving a comment or reblogging 💙

➳➳➳ Here's the HUGE Celebration Masterlist! 💎

📜 Searching for more stories to read? Check out my masterlist!📜

[leucisticpuffin]

coirë | a stirring

“Thou callest this season beautiful,” he said one morning, watching shadows shift through the canvas as an attendant cleared the doorway of snow. “Forgive me, but I cannot see it.” “But thou hast seen it not,” protested Findekáno, setting aside his mortar and pestle. (The skill of preparing medicines he had picked up in the fearful days of the last winter, needing desperately to be useful, and yet unable to look at the wound wrought by his own hand.) “Not everywhere is so grey! Come, Russandol; I shall show thee why we name it so.”

Read the whole story on AO3

[aeviagreenleaf]

Chapters 1 and 2 for my Saurondriel fanfiction are live and you can read them here:

Please note the rating and tags~

[oatmealcraisin]

Childhood Tales

Art by me here, fic written by the wonderful Aprilertuile!!

Author: @aprilertuileviresse Artist: @oatmealcraisin

Rating: G Characters: Maedhros, Maglor, Nerdanel, Fëanor Relationships: Maedhros & Maglor, Nerdanel & Fëanor Warnings: no archive warnings apply Wordcount: 6.3k

Tales of Maglor and Maedhros, as children in Valinor, during the years of the trees.

I loved this idea of young Maedhros and Maglor, and my author did such an awesome job capturing the feel of being kids!!!

@tolkienrsb

[sammybunny711]

Morgoth's Shadow Updated Chapter List

Chapter One: The Decision

Chapter Two: A Time of Peace

Chapter Three: Slipping

Chapter Four: Let Me Be Good

Chapter Five: Hands Off

Chapter Six: A Serpent's Tongue

Chapter Seven: Poison Touch

Chapter Eight: Separation

Chapter Nine: Gravity

Chapter Ten: Plummet

Chapter Eleven: Borrowing

Chapter Twelve: The Man with the Chancellor

Chapter Thirteen: A Change of Direction

Chapter Fourteen: Devil

Chapter Fifteen: To the Winds

Chapter Sixteen: In These Shackles

Chapter Seventeen: A Black Sky

Chapter Eighteen: Beneath the Trees

Chapter Nineteen: Look at What I Can Do (NEW!)

Thank you to everyone who has read, bookmarked, given kudos, and commented on my longfic in the making. I appreciate it! I update usually twice per week on either Monday/Tuesday or Thursday/Friday! <3

[tolkienpinupcalendar]

Kinktober

We are happy to announce that for Kinktober we are working with @acorn-and-oakleaves!! This month's prompts are done in a light-to-dark order. White Chocolate prompts being light lightest and Dark Chocolate being the darkest 🌶️. Have fun mixing and matching or sticking with one level! The choice is yours. For bagginshield works feel free to tag both @tolkienpinupcalendar and @acorn-and-oakleaves. If you are working on other ships from Middle Earth feel free to just tag @tolkienpinupcalendar. Any ships welcome!

Thank you to @fantasyinallforms for working on this collaboration with us!!

We look forward to seeing what you create! Mods @the-girl-with-the-algebra-book and @frosticenow

[imakemywings]

You Can't XXXX in Here, This is the War Room!

Fandom: The Silmarillion

Pairing: Maedhros/Thingol

Summary: Blowjob diplomacy.

GOD okay I actually got something out for @silmsmutweek (Day 2: Crosscultural Relationships). Complete with outdated quote reference.

AO3 | Pillowfort | SWG (other links to come, when I feel like it)

            It was said that the reason Elu Thingol so rarely ventured out from under tree was because his life was intertwined with that of the forest. Sometimes, it was hinted that this was the cost of his union with Melian the Maia; other times that it was a burden he had taken on for the prosperity of Doriath. Maedhros suspected the true reason was far more prosaic: Thingol simply preferred not to stray far from his wife and daughter.

            Nevertheless, he had come to Himring.

            With him came a whole retinue of Doriathrim, including Captain Mablung, who had never taken much of a liking to Maedhros, and, to Maedhros’ chagrin, his loremaster and favorite minstrel, Daeron, who had an irritating habit of writing insulting rhymes about anyone who might amuse him (usually those who desired it the least). Some two hundred Iathrim accompanied the king north, while Queen Melian and Princess Lúthien remained to rule over Doriath.

            Nearly five years had passed since Maedhros had been in Doriath.

            In the interim he had maintained a correspondence with the king, and he had believed that his memory was keen and kept the details of that visit in good order, but he was beginning to falter in that conviction.

           

They had met in Himring’s war room—so the residents of Himring castle had begun to call the hall where Maedhros convened with his captains and generals—to discuss the war. Always, the war. All his months in Menegroth had not been enough to bridge Maedhros and Thingol’s differing views on how it ought to be approached, yet if Thingol did not bend to Maedhros’ will, he did continue to listen to Maedhros’ arguments, and Maedhros would have to find reward in that.

            Though it was not the war foremost on Maedhros’ mind, even as he gave Thingol and his companions more detailed updates than he was able to provide by letter.

            With distance, and time, it had been easier to tell himself that his experience in Doriath was an anomaly. That he had gone a little dizzy and gotten off course, but that it was no more than that. The frequency with which Elu Thingol had appeared in Maedhros’ thoughts since was easier to dismiss when he was so many leagues off, out of Maedhros’ reach and therefore, as good as a fantasy. Now he was in the room with Maedhros once more, and memory did not serve for the full glory of the Greymantle, the Elf who had ensnared a Maia.

            Maedhros did not ask Thingol to stay behind as the others filtered out of the room, but he did. He murmured something to Mablung and his men left him, and when the door closed on Mablung’s heel, Maedhros was far too aware that it was the first they had been alone since they had said goodbye in Menegroth—not the formal send-off he had been given, but before that, in Maedhros’ private chambers.

            Thingol leaned against the back of one of the chairs around the table strewn with maps and movable figures representing various forces and studied Maedhros with eyes of piercing gray, aglow with the blessings of Telperion and Laurelin, whose light would grace Elfinesse no more. His crown was woven that day of thick vines of ivy, with a peppering of small white flowers Maedhros did not bother to identify. Thingol was resplendent in jewels, and he enjoyed wearing them, but if Maedhros had to say, he preferred the king like this, adorned in the flora of his realm. Maedhros had thought many times in the days preceding Thingol’s arrival what he might say, but each now sounded trite, pathetic, or melodramatic in turn. Thingol did not rescue him either; as the silence stretched on, Maedhros’ brain skidding off track as he tried to land on a proper greeting, the corners of his mouth began to life in an amused smirk.

            At length, just before Maedhros could say something about the issue of joint troop exercises—something only tenderly approached from either side—Thingol disarmed his efforts with: “I have dreamed of you since you left.”

            Maedhros’ mouth was lined in wool.

            “Good dreams, I trust.” His voice sounded to him as if it were someone else speaking, because while his mouth moved, his mind was busy screaming its reciprocity of the claim. Now, with Thingol before him, with his low, smooth voice in Maedhros’ ears, with his form just a few paces out of reach, Maedhros’ memories of those dizzy days in Menegroth seemed to explode in vividity, from his first suspicious approaches to his final tight goodbyes.

            “Good and bad,” Thingol replied simply. His long fingers stretched along the back of the chair, and the memory of those spidery hands combing through Maedhros’ hair made his knees wobble.

            “Bad?” he queried, quirking an eyebrow.

            Thingol stroked the back of the chair and simply gave Maedhros a look as if he expected Maedhros to know to what he referred. And didn’t he? They both knew how familiar Maedhros was with the realm of nightmares. Briefly, this opened up a shocking line of consideration: that Thingol had dreamed of Maedhros suffering, and counted this as a nightmare. It was something more exposed than Maedhros had expected to hear from him so soon into this visit, and he put it aside for the time being.

            Instead, he crossed over to where Thingol stood.

            “I am bored with dreams,” he said, and gripped the front of Thingol’s robes. It was a lie to say he had forgotten that he needed to tilt his chin up to meet Thingol’s gaze when they stood this close, for it had agitated him too much to forget it, but he had perhaps lost the full sense of the feeling.

            Thingol was not bothered with Maedhros’ audacity. Rather, he looked only more entertained. He stroked a hand down Maedhros’ cheek, tracing his fingertips along the edge of Maedhros’ jaw.

            “Perhaps this is a dream,” he suggested, yet for the amused slant of his mouth, there was something softer in his gaze which Maedhros could not look away from any more than he could acknowledge it.

            “No,” he answered at once. “It is not.”

            “You sound so certain.”

            “I would know if it were.” The dreams in which Maedhros had occasionally taken comfort over the years could not hold a candle to the intoxicating reality, and if he thought this line of thought too obscure for Thingol to follow, he was wrong.

            The king’s smile widened.

            “Do you find the truth more pleasing?” he asked.

            Maedhros thought only I do, and said nothing, and then leaned up to secure his mouth over Thingol’s. If he had been unsure at the start whether Thingol would wish to continue their trysts of before, the king’s fluttering lashes and teasing touches of the last few minutes had reassured him. And indeed, Thingol gripped his hips at once, pulling Maedhros against him with strength that still surprised him for all he had felt it before, and Maedhros gasped into his mouth, unable to stop himself from attempting at once to press against Thingol’s thigh. Every dream he’d had about Thingol since their last meeting seemed to rush back over him at once, and his body was one giant ache.

            The king’s mouth parted; his tongue pressed against Maedhros lips, past the seam; his hands slid back to grasp at Maedhros’ ass, and Maedhros swallowed a whimper. In Himring, Maedhros was the final authority. Among all his brothers’ lands, he was the final authority, no matter how many crowns they stacked on Fingolfin’s head. Among their mortal allies, his word was all but absolute. But with Thingol, it was not so. With Thingol, he could—and often was—overruled. And he was not asked to be an authority in anything.

            Maedhros wanted to swallow him, to rend his flesh and nourish himself with it, keep it for himself as a part of his own body, and yet he was assured that Thingol would not permit such a thing to pass, and so Maedhros need not temper his fire, for Thingol would ensure it did not do harm. If Maedhros was the fire, Thingol was the hearth which ensured no damage would come to the home.

            Thingol’s hands moved up to cup Maedhros’ face, and a shudder went through him at the delicate touch; when he drew back for air, panting, flushed, he was looking directly into Thingol’s eyes, so near he could count his individual eyelashes and see the spokes of his irises. His flesh hand was still fisted in the front of Thingol’s robes.

            For a moment it was quiet but for their heavy breathing, as they studied one another, both on the verge of speaking, or choosing not to speak. Thingol’s thumb stroked Maedhros’ cheek. Maedhros could feel himself swelling almost more in response to these more innocuous touches of Thingol’s than of the groping of his ass.

            Eventually, rather than speak, Thingol kissed him again, and Maedhros surged up against him; this was easier than words, easier the confessions, easier even than writing Thingol letters in which he constantly debated how businesslike it ought to be and what, if anything, should be said of his own feelings. He tried to draw Thingol away from the table, but Thingol jerked him back, digging his fingers into Maedhros’ belt and holding him firmly in place, a bit of physical control that made Maedhros’ cock throb with all the urgency of his body telling him the time was nigh to create an heir to the family name.

            Then the king’s hands went to his hair, and Maedhros did not know or care if this lord of Sindar knew anything about Noldorin cultural customs regarding hair, he only knew that he had wanted this almost more than he wished to keep breathing. His hand scrabbled at Thingol’s chest, the prosthetic against Thingol’s ribs, probably pressing too hard, and he had managed to insinuate one of his legs nearly between Thingol’s knees.

            Maedhros was biting at Thingol’s lower lip, pulling with his teeth, which the king allowed to a point, and then gripped Maedhros’ hair tight at the back of his head and pulled him away. Maedhros was short of breath again, and his skin felt as though he was a storm cloud, a repository of lightning.

            Thingol observed him for a moment, with a self-control that made Maedhros shaky on his feet, then leaned down and pressed his hot mouth against the crook of Maedhros’ neck, which made Maedhros shiver and nearly go limp in his grasp until he felt the sharp nip of the king’s teeth, which had him alert again at once. Thingol bit him to the point of pain and then softened it by lapping at the spot with his soft tongue, and Maedhros was glad that Thingol could not see the wanton expression he was giving to the windows, though he could doubtless feel how Maedhros’ flesh hand had shifted to claw at his back, fingers bunching up the fabric.

            Maedhros tried to press closer, and choked on an effort to swallow when he was finally able to feel the king’s arousal against him. He did not think; his flesh hand was fumbling for Thingol’s crotch immediately, eager to press his fingers against that bloom of desire, kneading his hand against this evidence that Thingol had wished for this as well.

            Thingol gave a low, almost sighing sound of approval and curled more over Maedhros’ form for a moment, before he retreated to look at Maedhros’ face (which he schooled into something hopefully less obscene).

            “What do you wish for, Maedhros?” he asked. Maedhros hated this game almost as much as Thingol enjoyed it. Their first time together in so many years, Maedhros would have hoped that Thingol would simply give him what he wanted—as he so often seemed to know without Maedhros having to voice it—but of course he had missed making Maedhros say it out loud.

            Stubbornly, Maedhros remained silent.

            When Thingol did not give way either, Maedhros simply began to sink to his knees, determined to have what he wanted, but Thingol slipped away from him, and Maedhros felt a chill even in Himring’s well-heated core suddenly bereft of the king’s closeness. Thingol ambled down the length of the table to where Maedhros’ own chair sat at the head; he gripped it by the back and dragged it well away from the table and flicked it with a careless hand so that it faced Maedhros. With a swirl of his robes, he took a seat, his knees spread so far apart that Maedhros could clearly see the bulge of his cock pushing at the fabric.

            “Then have it,” he said and Maedhros released a silent prayer of gratitude. For what, he wasn’t entirely sure, except that at least a part of it was that he did not have to say aloud what he had been thinking.

            Out before him stretched the king’s long, shapely legs (which was the only reason Maedhros had yet determined for why Melian sometimes called him “grasshopper,” usually attached to a great many cloying adjectives) and he seemed entirely as comfortable as if he sat upon his own throne back in Menegroth.

            He came to Thingol at once, determining that he would have more time to admire Thingol’s legs later, and hit the ground between Thingol’s feet so hard he was sure his knees would be bruised by the evening.

            His flesh hand trembled as he parted Thingol’s robes, and he licked his lips reflexively when he revealed the king’s shorts and the proud tent there. He jerked at the waistband, impatient, pulling Thingol’s cock out as quickly as he could and lowering his head to kiss at the hot length. Thingol groaned and one hand was in Maedhros’ hair again, stroking and tugging gently.

            “Such an industrious one you are,” he breathed. Maedhros ignored him, and took the tip of the king’s cock into his mouth. Thingol’s hand pulled a bit more firmly against his hair, but he pressed against the feeling, taking more of Thingol in, until he let out another groan, his hips canting towards Maedhros’ mouth. “Good boy,” he panted, scratching affectionately at the back of Maedhros’ scalp.

            It was just as he remembered: there was so much of Thingol, but Maedhros was set on his purpose. Perhaps more than he ought to have been: his prize struck the back of his throat, making him gag, but he tried to swallow it anyway. Thingol briefly tried to withdraw, but Maedhros ducked his head to follow, drool dribbling over his chin as he made a truly valiant effort to take all of Thingol’s considerable presence.

            Thingol quickly forgot his concern for Maedhros’ single-mindedness, his head tipping back against the back of the chair, soft noises of pleasure whispering past his lips as Maedhros sucked ardently at him. He used his hand to vigorously stroke what of Thingol he couldn’t get in his mouth and if he had a moment of thinking about the sight that would greet anyone who entered, of the lord of Himring, the heir of Fëanor, of Finwë, on his knees worshipping the cock of Elu Thingol, seated in Maedhros’ own seat of rule, his throne as it were, then it served only to thrill him more (mainly because he did not have the presence of mind to consider it realistically).

            Thingol pulled at his hair again and Maedhros groaned around his full mouth, bobbing his head more enthusiastically, relishing the tension that went to the roots of his hair and made goosebumps break out against his skin. Very quickly it seemed everything he touched was a mess of his own saliva, but he didn’t have time to worry about that.

            He could have done this with someone else in the years since he’d left Menegroth. He hadn’t.

            His prosthetic hand was braced against the leg of the chair as Thingol’s hips began to shift rhythmically towards him, gently at first, then with more insistence. When he made Maedhros gag again, he pulled Maedhros’ head back forcefully, but when he gazed down on Maedhros’ face, his cheeks pink, his lips wet and red, his chin shining with spit, he found himself enraptured.

            “I want it,” Maedhros said hoarsely, leaning down to kiss Thingol’s slick cock. “I can take it. I don’t break.”

            Thingol considered this for entirely too long, then loosened his grip on Maedhros’ hair and let him at his goal again. Maedhros swiped his tongue over Thingol’s balls before dragging his tongue along the length of him and starting to take him in again. One arm he hooked behind Thingol’s knee, his flesh hand resting on Thingol’s thigh.

            “Be careful of yourself,” Thingol murmured. “I will be very disappointed otherwise.” It was true that Maedhros often pushed himself beyond reasonable limits in all things. It was also true that Thingol would trust him, until proven unreliable, to voice his own boundaries.

            Soon he had Thingol stifling moans again, rocking his hips towards Maedhros’ mouth with poorly-disguised need, guiding Maedhros’ head with his hand to get the angles he wanted. Every response, every hint of the suggestion that Thingol wanted this, went through Maedhros like swallowing a brand of fire. He was only dimly aware of his own arousal straining frantically against his clothes, and he was content to ignore it to focus on the increasingly aggressive rhythm of Thingol’s hips.

            “That’s it,” the king breathed, massaging the back of Maedhros’ head with his hand. “Good boy, yes, that’s it.” Maedhros head him swallow down a louder moan and if his mouth had been less full, he would have smirked. “I’m going to finish soon,” Thingol warned him with the carefully moderated tone that meant he was on the verge of losing control, a narrow space which Maedhros would have inhabited indefinitely if he could have. “I want you to swallow.”

            As ever, the tension between being aroused to be ordered by Thingol and the balking of his pride seized Maedhros, but in the end, he ran out of time to decide if he wanted to spit on the floor just to be disobedient: Thingol came while he was still thinking about it.

            It was what he wanted anyway—to suckle at Thingol’s cock as the king thrust his seed down Maedhros’ throat, spasming his pleasure against Maedhros’ face. The taste was never something he’d enjoyed, but the feeling—that he had craved since Thingol had first dismounted his horse in Himring’s courtyard.

            After, Thingol sank boneless back into the chair, his eyes fluttering shut.

            “I will assume, then, that you are pleased to see me,” he remarked, eyes still closed.

            Maedhros sat back on his heels, trying to wipe his face clean with the back of his flesh hand.

            “I am not displeased,” he said primly, with a thick pearl of Thingol’s ejaculate still at the corner of his mouth, and Thingol opened his eyes to laugh.

            “Not displeased,” he echoed. “Why Maedhros, I do believe this is as ardent as I’ve heard you. Should I expect a proposal forthwith?”

            Maedhros snorted and rose to his feet, slightly unsteady as his knees protested their unceremonious treatment. He felt, somehow, calmer, although his own body was increasingly trying to make its needs known.

            Relaxed in Maedhros’ chair, Thingol made himself presentable again, smoothing his robes down as if Maedhros had not just moments ago had his head buried in them. The king rose in a fluid motion, his silver braids glinting in the light.

            “Perhaps my host will now allow me to return a favor,” Thingol said, gliding up to him, one hand reaching to cup Maedhros through his clothes before he could get too far away. Maedhros’ eyelashes fluttered, but he said:

            “You needn’t, my guest.” This he used to poke at the way Thingol had addressed him in Menegroth, and it pleased him to see Thingol smile, understanding the jest.

            “No, I needn’t,” he agreed, stroking Maedhros almost fondly. “Yet I wish to do so. Will you deny your guest his desire?”

            “Surely you would find a way to make it a problem for me,” Maedhros groused without bite.

            “It seems to be a problem for you presently,” Thingol pointed out, at which point Maedhros became aware that he was leaning towards Thingol to press nearer to his hand. Thingol kissed him, and Maedhros surrendered. He let Thingol back him up against the war table, and then turn him around, so that his back was against Thingol’s chest. He allowed Thingol’s hands to root through his clothes while he nibbled against at Maedhros’ neck and ears, until he reached what he sought, and took his time drawing Maedhros’ cock out.

            “Mm…”

            “You were right, about the dream,” Thingol murmured, and Maedhros shivered against him. “None of those dreams ever pleased me as much as this.” Thingol’s hand stroked him, while the other fondled his balls, and Maedhros groaned, not bothering to stop the movement of his hips against Thingol’s hand.

            He was aware too late of what Thingol meant to do, and past caring by then—Thingol stroked him until Maedhros teetered on the edge, biting his lip past the point of pain to keep quiet, where Thingol held him exquisitely, as he was wont to do.

            “Are you ready?” The king’s voice was soft when he spoke, and if Maedhros had asked Thingol to let him back down, he would have, and not complained or needled him about it. If Maedhros had asked to be held in restraint longer, Thingol would have done it gladly. But Maedhros only gave a jerky nod, so Thingol stroked him with purpose to his finish, until Maedhros could not stop himself from spilling across his table (not, however, on any of the maps, which he later surmised Thingol had minded).

            “You’ve made a mess,” he gasped.

            “You’ve made a mess,” Thingol corrected, sniggering as if he were not a king of Elves, one of the oldest corporeal beings of Arda, the sworn husband of a divine Maia.

            Maedhros made a wordless noise of complaint, but Thingol nuzzled against his neck and tucked his cock away, although Maedhros was relatively sure he wiped his hands on Maedhros’ tunic and robes as he rearranged them.

            “I am quite pleased this could be a productive meeting,” said Thingol briskly as he drew back, tucking a loose lock of hair behind his ear. Maedhros wished abruptly he hadn’t, so that Maedhros could do it for him, and considered what miserable chore he would assign himself to scrub that thought away. “I had so hoped it would be.” He flicked his eyes to the table, Maedhros still catching his breath. “I’m sure you will want to have someone clean that, though.”

            Maedhros ground his teeth: Thingol knew he wouldn’t. Maedhros would not call anyone else to clean it for fear they would know exactly what it was; Maedhros would clean it himself, which Thingol had surely known when he made Maedhros do it.

            There was a self-satisfied gleam in Thingol’s eye, an impudent smile on the edge of his lips, and Maedhros wanted to kiss it.

            “It is my duty to clean up for my guest,” he replied. Thingol laughed.

            “Once my host is done cleaning, perhaps he will pay me a visit. I must rest and change from the journey—” Not true, and they both knew it, he wasn’t the least bit tired, “—and I would welcome his company. Sheets of parchment and dreams are a poor replacement for reality.”

            Maedhros arranged his expression and nodded, looking at the floor by the door as his heart leaped in his chest.

            “I will of course, be a gracious host,” he answered carefully. “His Grace can count on my visit.”

            “Wonderful.”

            And it was.