Fanworks Tagged with Adult

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

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

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

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Of course it was a trap.
Maitimo has to survive. He must. But what price is too high to pay for survival?

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This is basically the background smut for ‘Yet We’re It’s Making Good, For This’ 😅

During the great journey, there was a lot of trying out amongst the Quendi. And from some trying out, there came more…

(Written for Silmsmutweek 2023)

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

***

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

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Aerin is miserable and bitter under the domination of Brodda and his people.
A horrible ficlet.

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Erestor lay up against a tree, brown washed to black in the wet of the snow. The black disc of the new moon sailed across the dark sky. Erestor wished it were gone. He had no need to look into dark eyes any longer.

He was dying.

(AKA Erestor unwittingly travels back in time to the days between the Dagor Bragollach and the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, meets the sons of Feanor, Thingol and his ilk, many Laiquendi, many Dwarves, and Men besides, and THEN decides to solve the drowning of Beleriand himself. This has nothing to do with his personal problems. Nope. Not at all. Erestor is having regular feelings.)

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

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

A series of perfect drabbles about Dernodhos's blanket.

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

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In an effort to worm his way into the ranks of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, Annatar makes moves to seduce Celebrimbor and his partner Narvi, hopefully without the other's knowledge. Things don't go according to plan... or do they?

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You see, I was so enamoured of this last thought as it seized me during the feast, and I could think of nothing only the Crown Prince and his Lord coming together at last in an urgent collision of desperate need for one another. Further, I had unquestionably overdone it on the wine, and so alas: a short story has been born. Entirely fictional of course; it came to me and I could not rest until I had written it down. Indeed I could not even sleep! Long was my labour as I bent over my desk until the early hours of the morning putting words to page. I have attached it to this correspondence for your enjoyment. Do let me know what you think.

Yours,

Ceirel

Armed only with pen, paper, and the delusional conviction that Lord Maedhros of Himring is in a secret relationship with the Crown Prince of the Noldor, the daughter of one of Maedhros' most trusted courtiers begins to explore the world of erotic fanfiction. Things quickly spiral out of control.

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Feanor and Fingolfin, from their youth to their fall.

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

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

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

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Celegorm does not like the idea of fleeing to Nargothrond. He likes it even less for the nagging fear that Curufin will prefer the Arafinweans to him, will abandon their Oath to keep them happy.

He'll do anything to stop that. Curufin will accept it eventually.

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Finrod and Bëor stop for a while on the road to Nargothrond to rest. The bodies of the Secondborn often grow weary, and Finrod laments, massaging Bëor's back and renewing his beloved's vigor with the work of his hands. But Finrod has other burdens of his own, Bëor soon discovers, returning Finrod's favor in the best way he knows how.

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The sea has called to Elwing all her life, and beside its waters is where she wishes her sons to be born. It is not an easy birth. The sea takes, and the sea gives.

Thank you to AnnaRobots for beta-ing!

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He was going to die. The molten rocks would burn him just like the cursed gem in his palm did. Maybe less painfully but still being burnt hurt and Maedhros knew it. He intimately knew it from his time in Angband where Þauron burnt him often in frustration and to toy with him and his master burnt his skin even more often just to mock his ancestry. At least here he would pass on to Mandos and not linger in pain only to be sewed back together to be tortured again and again.

But it wasn't true for his next clear memory was of the same pain from which he escaped soon and half-mad entered the Girdle to never never leave till now.

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A winter night in Himring. But inside the quarters where fire blazed in hearth was warmer, and not only from the fire or quilt.

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In what Maedhros was re-embodied early and was sent back to Middle Earth on his volition with Glorfindel.

This isn't about what happened right then but years after Fall of Sauron when he still refused to return to Valinor.

He found a strange sapling at the shore of what remains of Cuiviénen.

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“They can’t just assume we’ll let them leave us behind.”
“But they are, and they will. Our fathers are the Heads of their Houses. Fëanáro is king. Defiance would be treason, beloved.”
“I am his firstborn.”
“You are his only daughter.”
“I have done everything to be the son he wished me to be.”
“And yet, you are not.”

Findekánë and Maitindë do not go to Beleriand with their fathers. This changes very little, and yet so much.
For Scribbles and Drabbles 2025 SFW Slide 213 Two Queens

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Aredhel enjoys watching her Feanorians play.

For S&D 2025, NSFW Slide 24 - Finding Relaxation by Fiamma Galathon

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I could get drunk off of her alone, nevermind the wine.

Amárië catches the attention of the Princess of the Noldor during an annual ball.

For Scribbles and Drabbles 2025, NSFW Slide 25 by Zhie

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The publication of a scandalous new novella takes the world of Númenorean literary circles by storm. But who *is* the mysterious author 'Anna'? And why did she pen such a risqué romance? Is it, as some claim, a disgusting piece of dreck that displays the degeneracy of the times? Or is it a clever social commentary hidden behind a front of taboo titillation?

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 Last night, the King’s Men put to death a large group of dangerous radicals in the Artists’ Quarter of Armenelos.  Caught only a few hours before their planned assassination attempt on Tar-Míriel, they forced our heroic enforcers to battle for their very lives.  Unfortunately, the splinter group of Faithful fanatics were unwilling to surrender peacefully.  A large number of weapons, including incendiary devices, were recovered from the basement of the house in which they had been planning their cowardly and devious attack. Although all of the royal guard survived, one of their number was carried to the local hospital with severe injuries; he is expected to recover.  
    Citizens are asked to report any unusual activity to the King’s Men. Now, more than ever, Númenor must stand together against those who would destroy her.
    —Short Bulletin in the Armenelos Times, Year 11 of the reign of Ar-Pharazôn

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“Can I not what?” he asks, at last. “What do you want me to say, Nolvo—oh no, brother, please do not wed, so that we may continue our ill-advised perversion behind closed doors? Do you want me to fuck you slow and gentle, tell you that it has always been you? That I will ruin your wedding and leave my wife, so we may run away to live life—“

Nolofinwë reverses their positions with such force that Fëanáro is slammed into the wood panelling, all air punched out of his lungs. This is more like it; this is how they began, what they know; what is, in the end, all they ever ought to be to each other—Nolofinwë’s features contorted in fury and hurt, Fëanáro baring his teeth like he is just waiting to cause more of the same.

They stay there for a moment, both breathing harshly, a precipice that is only waiting for them to fall.

Fëanor, Fingolfin, and their last night before Fingolfin is to be wed.

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From one panting breath to the next, the forest goes silent and empty, its absence like a blow. The shadows lengthen, thicken, turning into a tangible, weighty thing that shivers across Celegorm’s skin. It is silent, and he is alone. The hair on his body stands with dread and shivering anticipation.

He turns still. Against the back of his neck, he can feel hot breath; can feel the presence, wrapping itself around him, both home and threat.

“Do you think you can outrun me?”
 

---

Celegorm refuses to return. Oromë gets inventive about it.

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Luthien helps unlock Galadriel's Sight

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