Fanworks Tagged with Adult

The story of the first peredhel, fierce love, and how sometimes the laws of nature will let you think you defied them sucessfully before they catch up to you.

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If she's being honest, she's not yet quite sure why she's still a bit surprised that Caranthir has agreed to be here with her, just this once.

Caranthir, Haleth, and an early summer celebration.

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“If I did not know better,” he says in a low voice, patience frayed thin, “so close do you insist on being to me, that were you anyone else, I would think you are trying to seduce me.” 

Ñolofinwë blinks up at him, eyes hazy and unfocused and so very, very blue. “Would it work if I were?” Ñolofinwë asks in the tone of one who is trying very hard to focus.  

Fëanáro stares. Locks his jaw and does not allow his mouth to drop open in shock. "I know you are drunk, but do be serious, Ñolofinwë," he snaps after a tense moment of indecision on how to respond to such an absurd statement. "You cannot seduce those you share blood with, no matter how little it may be."

“Should not,” Ñolofinwë says promptly, one hand coming up to clutch at Fëanáro’s shirt. “You should not seduce kin. But it is possible if one wishes to.” 

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“Melian had but a moment’s warning ere her entire world was violently turned upside down. Maintaining the Girdle came naturally to her these days, without needing her conscious thought or effort. She kept away whoever had no business being in Doriath, shut out the voices and mental attacks that Mairon would hurl at her, hardly noticing that she was doing it at all.

This, however, was different. Very, very different.”

Or: how things might have gone had Morgoth run out of patience waiting for Doriath’s fall. 

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Three intrepid stellar explorers witness a crack in the edge of the universe and are guided by an ancient spirit animating an automaton to a strange and unexpected place where they hope to rescue their kidnapped cat. A cat who may hold the future--or its inevitable end--in his far-too-ancient paws.

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Order is his goal, something Morgoth only uses to create chaos later, but there is a sliver in Morgoth only Mairon sees.

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Two of Finwë's granddaughters spend a few nights together.

feat: genderbent maedhros

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Fingolfin and Maedhros both have particular needs. They find fellowship over this.

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Fingon makes a small request to Maedhros. She obliges.

featuring Trans Fingon and genderbent Maedhros.

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They marry in a field, years after leaving the halls.

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Fingon knows that it is reasonable for Maedhros to go east, good, even. That doesn't mean he's happy about it.

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How long ago had he realized his sister was who he belonged to? In their childhood, when the entire world seemed to be just their parents, and the two of them? Or maybe when they first spent time apart, her absence breaking his heart like nothing else? But most likely it had been during those latter years of youth, when Maedhros had first told him that she was in fact a maiden, giving him the courage, nay, the knowledge to be a man. Were they not linked together from then on, as a man and a woman, even more intertwined than husband and wife? What a pleasure it had been, to first kiss her.

t4t maemag with transfem maedhros!

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The mood in Maitimo's house has been dark these last few years, and his father's eyes have been following him.

Inspired by the fairytale Donkeyskin

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Maglor falls in love. Maedhros lets him.

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Frustrated by Maedhros' failure to answer entreaties to join in an assault upon Angband, Fingolfin comes to Himring himself. Negotiations start poorly, but Maglor is quick to propose a solution: a riding trip through the blooming plains of Ard-galen.

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After his exile to Formenos, Feanor locks himself in the vault with the Silmarils. Makalaure goes to him.

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Maeglin slips away after the Nirnaeth Arnoediad to find the sons of Fëanor and maybe a happier life away from Gondolin. When he stumbles into Celegorm their first meeting, it is entirely different from what he expected.

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Nerdanel and Tinweriel stargaze together and have a lovely little evening.

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Years after the death of her wife, Hemmoril shares a sweet Yule evening with an Easterling Woman.

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Hemmoril, Maglor's best friend and horsemaster, says a quick goodbye to her wife as the Dagor Bragollach looms.

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Ñolofinwë makes a pained noise and pulls back enough to look him in the face, before his eyes seem to get caught on Fëanáro’s collar, on his chest, his shoulders. “You are in my colors,” Ñolofinwë says softly, traces his finger along Fëanáro’s collarbone and down the front of his tunic. His eyes, when they meet Fëanáro’s once more, are blown out with a disgusting, greedy desire, and understanding strikes Fëanáro.

“Oh,” he breathes, thinking that he should likely have guessed at the reason on his own. He had anticipated that the outfit would garner a reaction from Ñolofinwë, this is true. He cannot say that this was ever one of the reactions he had anticipated. “How shameful of you,” he says quietly, watching the way Ñolofinwë’s eyes drop down to his mouth as he speaks. “Does it not shame you that you should want me in such a way?”

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Beleg seeks, by all means that he might, to persuade Túrin to return to Doriath with him. But two can play at this game.

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One set of twins meets another. A tragic start to the kidnap family, from Amrod's point of view.

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“Have you ever kissed anyone?”

Findekáno stills, and finally looks at Maitimo. Finds him already staring back, unflinching and—hungry, almost, Findekáno would call it, if he did not know better.

“I have not,” he says, his heart hammering madly inside his rib cage. Still, he adds, all bravado, “Why? Have you?”

---

It starts reckless and stupid. Which is to say, it starts with them.

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Fëanáro thinks of many things during his exile for he has nothing but time and a chest full of fury.

He thinks of his hatred for Melkor. He thinks of his children and the toil the exile is taking on them even if they will not voice it. He thinks of his father and the disappointment he’d just barely been able to see hidden beneath the concern. He thinks of Nerdanel and cannot help but wonder if she saw this coming. More often than not though, he finds his thoughts dwelling on Ñolofinwë.

On how wide and endlessly blue his eyes had gone when Fëanáro had set the point of the sword to his throat.

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