Fanworks Tagged with Adult

“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?”
 

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Celegorm refuses to return. Oromë gets inventive about it.

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Luthien helps unlock Galadriel's Sight

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Celegorm issues an invitation. Finrod takes him up on it--and proves himself the king that neither of them knew he could be.

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The moment of their union is always one of deepest satisfaction to her, to feel him fill her perfectly, as they fit each other perfectly, like they are made for each other.

Well, strictly speaking they are literally made for each other, but Melian has no time for such thoughts just now.

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The Fëanorian Zine features art and fiction centered on the House of Fëanor from thirty creators. The Fëanorian Zine is being hosted by the SWG, and you can read the zine and download a copy for free here!


The contributors who have participated are as follows;
Isilwhore, Balrogballs, Firefly, Whovianofmidgard, Nighttimepatrons, Astral, Isilwhore, Katarrinskey, Rainfeather, Dragonbornsandwaffles/beatles4ever65, Transsexualhamlet, Sage, Iwi, Starillion, Thelien, Angamaite, Truc, Mag-lore, Mauvearts, rputthebottledown, StarsOfArda, JoeTamy, Laerthel, Curufiin, Swordhound, Elrond's Library, Peasant-Player, Tomefaired/Solmarillion/Soleil, Starshadeemily, Sesamenom.

Their handles are all stated in the Zine's index page, please welcome them and enjoy all of the hard work they have done for the project!

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Scenes (often domestic, sometimes intimate) from life in Mordor from the fall of Númenor to the Last Alliance.

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The elves of Beleriand lose the first battle against Morgoth. The Noldor find the free lands they'd been looking for. Lúthien is on the warpath.
And the First Age still is as bloody as it is in canon.
(Please read the author's notes, there will reading-instructions, as this is my first attempt at a deconstructed fic)

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“You know as well as I do that the aphrodisiac is never meant to be consumed in such a high quantity,” Ñolofinwë says evenly. “It is well known to be lethal in such a high dosage if there is no one around to lay with.”

Fëanáro shoots him a scathing glare, as if Ñolofinwë has said something incomparably stupid. “I am well aware of the properties of the plant,” Fëanáro says flatly, shrugging his jacket off and glaring at the pollen on it. “But I am not alone, am I?”

It takes a moment for Fëanáro's meaning to hit him, and he does not quite stop himself from gaping when it does. "We cannot lay together!" he exclaims, voice going humiliating high with horror. "You are my brother!"

The words earn him nothing but a disparaging snort; Fëanáro only half paying him any attention at all as he glances around the clearing. "You are not my brother," he says, and the words are not even cruel, only a simple fact. "I am not going to die because of your useless morals."

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After Maedhros and Maglor stole the two silmarils and escaped Ëonwë's camp, Elrond and Elros had followed the two in secret. And when the two casted the gems in their respective resting places, the four of them woke up to a dark Arda, along with the cursed beloved gems.

Nothing was right in this Arda.

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Hastaina-marred, she was, they both were but with passage of time the pain should subside, shouldn't it?

In an AU where Huan fought Carcharoth much earlier and wasn't there to protect Beren and Luthien from Celegorm. It was the aftermath of it.

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Taking my boys out of Doriath and into a modern AU, so they can be sweethearts without me tearing the relationship between Elu and Melian apart.
On their last day of term, Elu comes home from uni sick. Mablung knows how to make him better.

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Those who survive do so by cutting parts of themselves off; their innocence, sacrificed to the altar of devouring hunger. Their faith, drowned alongside their children. Their fingers, toes, limbs, coin the Ice demands in exchange for passage.

Those who survive do so in despite; they do not know yet that this will be true for centuries to come.

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The House of Nolofinwë, and their time on the Ice. A deed of great renown and endurance, told in an assortment of loosely connected drabbles.

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It is clear that that had not been Curufin’s plan, but that Finrod’s tardiness must have got the better of him. He is dressed only in a burgundy robe of silk that leaves little to the imagination, where it hugs him close, a stark contrast against his pale skin. Wears, far more notably, the Nauglamir around his pale throat, a blatant taunt made all the more offensive by the fact that he is not even awake to throw it into Finrod’s face with scathing words.

Finrod closes the door behind himself carefully, then lingers by the doorway. Outrage is mingling with arousal at the sight—the long lines of Curufin’s body, the way the silk clings to him, hides him elsewhere. The way his hair has come loose from its braids, like ink spilt around him.

The colours of Finrod’s house sitting snug around his throat, put there by Curufin himself, no matter the impudence of it.

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Various instances there are, of the two of them crashing into each other as if it were a contest. In truth, it is unclear who is winning, what they are playing for. Whether there is a prize to be had in the end, or merely mild to severe destruction—of sanity, reputation, hearts; no matter.

It would be wise to stop while he is ahead, Findaráto knows—alas for the ambition and hubris of Finwë’s line.

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Curufin and Finrod, a summer lake, and the folly of youth before the world taught them better.

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Maedhros, unlike most, watches closely—has not known how to do anything but, ever since Fingon brought him back. Does more than that, too, and few Elves care to guard their mind so closely that someone who wishes to would be hindered from catching surface thoughts.

Back in Aman, there was no need; it was a matter of courtesy not to go rummaging around in other people’s heads, and for all of Tirion’s political scheming, not even his father would have ever considered breaching such trust.

This is not Aman, and Maedhros is not his father. And Fingolfin’s mind, for one, is very loud.

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Fingolfin struggles beneath the weight of the crown. Maedhros does what he must to help.

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“It is called having friends, Fëanáro; you should try it sometime,” Nolofinwë spits, and it comes out sharper than he means it to, but he is—

Lord, he is tired; of Fëanáro’s vitriol, of how easily he himself still unravels at the slightest push. How effortlessly Fëanáro slides beneath his skin, and Nolofinwë wants to dig his finger into the unmarked flesh, wants to hurt, wants—

He wants; that is perhaps the most terrible part about it all.

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Ever has the House of Finwë been renowned for its sense of competition. This, though, Nolofinwë knows, must put even the worst of it to shame.

Or: Fingolfin and Fëanor will turn even brother-fucking into a contest. Who could have guessed.

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He wants—oh, Fingon wants so many things. To flee the bathhouse, first and foremost. To meet Maedhros halfway, forget about the ruin they have made of each other—slowly, meticulously, over centuries—and kiss him until their lips are bruised and their lungs empty of breath. Wants to laugh at the absurdity of it all, and perhaps wrap his hands around Maedhros’ throat, ask if he still prefer that Fingon kill him, bloody his own hands once more in ways that can never come off, if only it will bring Maedhros his much-sought salvation.

Fingon wants; ever has it been his greatest vice, that hunger that gnaws through him, makes him reckless, selfish, rapacious.

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Fingon merely needed a bath. Maedhros, as ever, complicates things.

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And Celegorm? Well, Celegorm simply wants a fight, wants revenge, wants to see his debts repaid. He wants to tear that godforsaken forest apart piece by piece, one step further on the inescapable road to their inevitable end.

He knows of monsters, after all. Knows how to speak their tongue, how to coax them along. His brothers, by then, are hardly any different.

Celegorm wants it all to end. He cares little, now, for how they will achieve such a thing.
 

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The Fëanorians, the Second Kinslaying, and how they all reached that point—an attempt to trace their fall from grace, from Valinor to Doriath.

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The fate of lovers has been sealed. After Aegnor pledges his love to Andreth, he seeks out council one last time from his wiser and more grounded eldest brother. However, his hopes that Finrod would join him in this newfound happiness are quickly dashed and it does not go well between the brothers. Finrod finds himself forced to navigate his ferocious and unhinged younger brother with extreme caution, plunging even his own safety into uncertainty. Aegnor finds himself faced with an agonising decition, one that will rip his entire being asunder. Yet hope may remain, and it rests in the palm of none other than Illuvatar himself who, through the sheer force of Aegnor's undying love for one mortal, takes notice. Bending the very stars in the heavens..

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