Fanworks Tagged with Mature Themes

Aegnor cut him off, eyes blazing in self-defense as he slipped into the half-forbidden tongue of their mother’s people. “I did not know that you knew each other when—”

“That does not matter!” Finrod said, also dropping Sindarin in favor of Telerin. It was easier to argue in the language of their childhood rather than diplomacy. Besides, it afforded them some privacy. “It shouldn’t matter whether she knew me or not! You should not have done this!”

or: Aegnor panics, makes a decision, and goes to his oldest brother for validation. It does not end well.

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Galadriel could never have been expected to take the news of Finrod's death well.

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A sound came, then, that was not sleet or wind or the heavy breathing of one who slept. It was footsteps, crunching in the ice outside. They stopped for a moment, and the tent flap opened, granting entrance to both Ingoldo and a cold gust of air. His face was red with cold.
“How did it go?” he asked in a low voice as Ingoldo turned to secure the flap once more.
“As well as can be expected.”

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Maedhros stands at the battlements of Himring and faces Thangorodrim.

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As a very young elfling, Mablung's heart chooses its companion, and Mablung stays true to this love until the end of his life in Middle-Earth.

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In the wake of the Final Battle of the Last Alliance, Erestor struggles to keep moving and to reach out to friends and family.

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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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The events of Redhorn pass cleave a distance between Celebrían and Elrond neither have felt before. That one terrible event sends shockwaves down the long years that come after.

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When Maedhros returns from Mandos, re-connecting does not prove easy. Nerdanel is determined to care for her son and finds that she must confront grief along the way.

In my dreams my sons wander at length, lost in pathless woods, ancient, sunless and foreboding. In the waking world, Maedhros breathes and moves before me, but is rarely truly there. I see the dream-wraith Maedhros superimposed over my living son, and am sure he never found a path out of that desolate place. The whispers in my dreams insist he never will.

Written for Scribbles and Drabbles 2025 Prompt #53: Night Watch by Zhie, to whom credit belongs for the artwork below (which can also found here).

Many thanks to Elronds_Library and timelessutterances for beta reading, and Double_Sharp for the conversations on equatorial climate.

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“What if,” said Manwë, regarding Maedhros with star-bright eyes, blue as sapphires and piercing as blades, “you were sent from these Halls for a purpose, son of Fëanáro?”
“I suppose, my lord,” Maedhros said slowly, “that would depend upon the purpose.”

Maedhros is sent back to Middle-earth, in the company of the Maia Olórin. 

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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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Maedhros has been captured by Morgoth's forces after the Dagor-nuin-Giliath. Left to rot on his own in a dark cell who knows where, he almost starts believing this will be the end to his story. He was wrong. They were coming for him, as well.

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Terentaulë, the wife of Curufin, follows her husband and his family into banishment to Formenos. She leaves everything she loves behind to endure a cold and ever-maddening life making a political point she isn't sure she fully believes in. A Gothic story for Samhain, told in four triple drabbles.

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"Gather your strength, Daeron. I will get you to the Ford of Bruinen.”
“Will you swear it, kinslayer?” Daeron asked, voice heavy with irony and with something else Maglor couldn’t quite identify. 
He paused for a moment. Then he said, “Yes.” 

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Before the destruction of Gondolin, Glorfindel was forced to keep many parts of his life a secret. Much of this changed after his second coming to Middle Earth.

Featuring: Glorthelion, intersex!Glorfindel, mpreg, and queerplatonic Glorestor. 

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I made a project out of this year’s Silmsmutweek, to accompany the line of the Peredhel through the Ages.

1) Spring; prompts: ritual sex, bathing and washing. Melian and Elu beget their daughters.

2) Summer; prompts: sport and competition. Finally allowed to live their love makes Arwen and Aragorn light-headed with bliss. That, and a little too much wine for the newly crowned King of Gondor. (Not explicit)

3) Autumn; prompts: canon ships, blanket; my first drabble. On a chill afternoon in autumn, Celebrían finds her husband dozing, and finds that something has to be done about it (Not explicit)

4)Fading; prompts: water sports. Elwing can’t have what she wants, and Eärendil has to suffer for it. (He loves every moment of it, though)

5) Winter; prompts: throne sex. Dior has doubts whether he will ever see himself as the King of Doriath. Nimloth finds that it is time for him to truly claim the throne.

6) Stirring; prompts: erotic dance and acrobatics. Ficlet. Beren watches Lúthien dance, and feels life stir in him again. And other things.

7) Dark; prompts borrowed from another day: rare-pair. This one is weird. No more needs to be said

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In the Year 1405, the Witch-King of Angmar begins his plan to conquer the northern kingdoms of Arthedain and Cardolan.  Rhudaur is mostly under his control but Dunadan Houses Melosse and Rhudainor stand in his way in the southeastern part of the failed kingdom.  He brings an Easterling mage, Ethacali to lead the effort to remove any resistance to his coming war.

Based on and inspired by the MERP RPG module of that name.  Image courtesy of the Dark Mage of Rhudaur RPG.

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After his release from the Halls of Mandos, Melkor seduces many of the Noldor with honeyed words and accusations against the Valar.  The Two Trees are ruined and the Sun and Moon arise.  One of these elves, Ardana the Astrologer, leads her people to return the skies to their original form, nothing but stars.  But she must destroy the Sun and Moon to accomplish that from her holds in the south of Middle Earth.

This is a non-canon story that is inspired by an MERP RPG series that was a gift from my aunt.  Most of the characters and settings were from the series and some quotes and songs are taken from Tolkien's writing.  It also ties in with the Wars in Beleriand and two my other two stories, The Dark Mage of Rhudaur and The Thieves of Tharbad.  The story is designed to span three ages.

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In Dor-lómin, Tuor and Lady Aerin both dream of a golden-haired child. (Lalaith is doing her best, considering that she's a young child and also dead.)

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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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Maedhros has received an invitation to one of Elu Thingol's exclusive charity galas. She opts to take her sister as a plus-one. She'll probably regret that.

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“Come on.” Maedhros grabbed his hand and pulled him along down the path, both of them quickening their pace now, until the trees opened up into a wide meadow filled with flowers, bright yellow celandine and dandelions and sweet-scented pale chamomile mingling with cornflowers and irises. On the other side of it was a larger party than Maglor had ever seen in Lórien—five figures sitting in the grass. Huan barked again, and they all looked up. “It seems everyone has come to fetch us home,” Maedhros said, laughing, as all their brothers scrambled to their feet.

After years in Lórien, Maglor and Maedhros are ready to return to their family and to make something new with their lives--but to move forward, all of Fëanor's sons must decide how, or if, they can ever reconcile with their father.

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On the night after the coronation, the wind was cold. Fires still burned in the north; their light could be seen, flickering on the far reaches of the horizon, but they provided no warmth. A figure stood on the ramparts of the keep at Hithlum, where the ceremony had been held, more solemn than joyous. The wisdom of having so many of the rulers so near the great darkness to the north, given what had happened– what was happening– was questionable, at best. But their luck held. For now.

A conversation between two kings of the Noldor.

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...everyone here seemed to think Daeron should return to them equally unchanged, the same merry minstrel he had been long ago before the Girdle had been breached. He was yet a minstrel, and he was often merry, but he had seen and done so much that so many here could never even imagine. He had come very close to death more than once, and yet survived. He did not care what others might think of him, really—except for a select few—but it would be tiresome to be always catching them off guard, and his love for one of the sons of Fëanor would catch many very much off guard, he knew.

Daeron settles back in among his own people, travels to Tirion--and meets Fëanor.

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A short and very personal essay that is a mix of defense-of-genre-fiction and processing my relationship with my dad.  Not intended to tell anyone else how to feel about the fiction they consume, just trying to sort myself out.

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