#silmsmutexchange

[silmsmutexchange]

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[whovianofmidgard]

A treat fic I made for both @jouissants @i-am-a-lonely-visitor for the @silmsmutexchange , since I couldn't resist the prompt

Summary: Fingon has disappeared from the Mithrim camp and his absence only further fuels the unrest between the Nolofinwëan and Fëanorian factions. Could an arranged marriage heal the rift between their feuding Houses?

Fingolfin/Maglor

Snippet:

The new lights in the sky came and went and came and went, counting their journey as days and nights. Several of these days had passed since Findekáno had disappeared from the Mithrim camp, with a single note left behind that said he was going to find Maitimo and rescue him if he could. The first-born son of Nolofinwë, venturing alone into the lands of the Enemy with nothing but a bow and a harp. It was certain death.

Findekáno's absence only fuelled the unrest between the Nolofinwëan and Fëanárian factions, and the longer he stayed gone the more likely the possibility of a civil war became.

Neither Makalaurë, Regent King of the Noldor in absence of his elder brother, nor Nolofinwë, Prince and leader of his people and not so secretly referred to as their own King, wanted that to happen.

Uncle and nephew sat face to face across the council table, inscrutable masks of blank expressions reflected back onto each other. Carnistir sat beside his brother, appointed as chief advisor of laws and finances, while Nolofinwë was flanked by his second-born, Turukáno, on one side, and Findaráto on the other, representing the Arafinwëan faction.

"The scouts reported nothing of Findekáno's whereabouts," Carnistir said to the council at large, hands busy shuffling the appropriate papers. "Yet neither had they seen a change in the orcs' behaviour. They cannot stand the Sun and withdraw from its light, but the dark fumes that spread across their land allows them to roam around throughout the day for a while. The scouts had not crossed over the border as of yet."

Nolofinwë sighed, hiding his face in his palm in silent worry. He had already lost one son, his youngest, when they had set foot on Beleriand, and as the number of days grew without any sign of Findekáno the more likely it seemed he was to lose yet another.

"The mood in our camps only worsen, and my people do not see any tangible results or even progress. They are demanding that you either make action or give us recompense," he relayed, none too happy about the situation.

"Otherwise, the people's temper may boil over and they may revolt against the Fëanárian Host, with or without Atar's approval," Turukáno added, and Nolofinwë squeezed his eyes shut at his son all but threatening his half-cousins with war.

Carnistir scoffed, face darkening with the beginnings of anger. "We have already given our recompense, or are the thousand horses gifted, food from our hunts and harvest shared and a treaty for ongoing trade mean nothing to them? Perhaps we should rescind our gifts and see how they'll fare without our generosity."

"Moryo, enough!" Makalaurë raised a hand and shot his younger brother a sharp look. Carnistir sniffed, his annoyance clear for all to see, but fell silent as bidden, an angry red flush staining his cheeks.

Makalaurë composed himself and took a deep breath before turning back to face his uncle and cousins.

"I'll send Tyelko out with a contingent at first light to sweep through Anfauglith and the foothills of Thangorodrim while under the protection of the Sun. Volunteers from your Host may join in on the search. Either they will return successfully with Finno, or they will be appeased by the firsthand accounts of their own people reporting back what they had witnessed of both the Enemy's lands and forces and our own efforts of goodwill."

"It will give something for Tyelko to do at the least," Caranthir snidely remarked under his breath. With tensions so high everyone was plenty agitated and on edge, none more so than Tyelkormo who stalked the halls of their keep and the Fëanárian campsite like a caged animal, quick to jump into any altercation and snarling and snapping at everyone. He hated the standstill of a precarious political situation he could not course correct for his own gain, rather escaping the stifling atmosphere by joining patrols and hunts. Perhaps only Curufinwë surpassed him in the foulness of his mood, although he managed to keep face in sight of their people, his ire and vocal displeasure only reserved for the close circle of his family.

"Thank you, cousin," Findaráto was quick to accept the offer, ever the peace keeper. "I am sure the opportunity will smooth out some ruffled feathers."

"For a time..." Turukáno said ominously.

"Yes, thank you, Kanafinwë," Nolofinwë repeated the sentiment, the final pieces of his politician's mask breaking after a long day of fraught emotions, left only with the image of a worn and troubled father.

"I believe that should be all for today."

Makalaurë nodded, the rigid tension in his shoulders easing up a fraction. "Agreed. Council dismissed."

As Carnistir gathered his papers and filed out of the room behind Turukáno and Findaráto, Makalaurë remained seated and much to his surprise so did Nolofinwë. His uncle looked as heart sick as he felt himself to be since Maitimo's capture, and in a miserable sort of sympathy Makalaurë cast his mind to something, anything that may alleviate this slow grinding pain of their fëar.

"Have you tasted the Sindar's wine yet, Uncle?" he asked, and internally cringed at himself. The weight of the Noldor's fate rested on their shoulders and Makalaurë was here suggesting drinking their sorrows away. How droll. How original. How very dismal.

"It's a bit dry but stronger than anything we've had in Aman."

Nolofinwë blinked up at him, and it seemed to take some time for him to comprehend his nephew's inquiry. Good, Makalaurë thought. At least his clumsy offer seemed to pull his uncle out of his grief wallowing.

"No, I haven't had the pleasure," Nolofinwë cautiously answered.

Makalaurë rose from his seat and rounded the table to be directly beside his uncle and offered his hand.

"Come. I keep a bottle in my living quarters."

Read the rest of Ao3

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Diversion of a Different Kind

For @oakenting. I hope you like this!

Event: @silmsmutexchange

Pairing: Trans-masc Celebrimbor (Telperinquar/Tyelpë)/Narvi

Rating: Explicit

Themes: Smut

Warnings: Trans Masc Character | PIV sex | Butt Plugs | Restraints | Orgasm Denial | Body Worship | Oral Sex | After care

Word count: 1.2K words

Summary: Telperinquar and Narvi indulge a new diversion after the dwarf crafts something uncommon for them to use.

Minors DNI | 18 plus

Read the full story here:

[oakenting]

Hello! I was assigned your request for Silmarillion Smut Exchange, and I wanted to ask if there is any one particular paring (or several pairings) on your list you are especially partial to. Thank you!

Oh hi there!

Thanks for asking :) I added the pairings more or less in the order I prefer. I do have a soft spot for Indis/Nerdanel at the moment (because I wrote something for them for TRSB). Also there's never enough fem!slash imo. That being said Celebrimbor/Narvi would actually be higher on the list because I live dwarves, I just found them last.

I hope this helps a bit in deciding :) I know I left my request pretty open. There's just so many things I like.

[melestasflight]

‘You have returned to Middle-earth for Maglor Fëanorion, you said?’ Elrond asks. ‘Yes, I am to beckon him come back to Valinor at last,’ Fingon answers hopefully. Few others had been willing to return to Middle-earth, and Fingon had already saved a Fëanorian cousin before. That made him more qualified for this task than most.

Had a blast writing this Fingon/Maglor for @silmsmutexchange based on @whovianofmidgard fantastic prompts. Shoutout to @from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras and @mircallaruthven for helping me spin the Rohirrim worldbuilding. This was a new challenge for me.

[queerofthedagger]

Silm Smut Exchange Rec List

A quick rec list of my faves so far from the @silmsmutexchange in no particular order! <3

---

The Land Was Fair by polutropos ( @polutrope )

[Fingolfin/Maedhros/Maglor | 7k | E]

Tags: Canon Era (The Silmarillion) | PWP | Family Drama | Family Bonding | Trans!Maglor | Size Kink

Summary:

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.

Why I rec this: I am absolutely in love with this Maglor, I'm still thinking about him. On top of that, the descriptions and prose are marvellous, and I loved loved loved the hints at Fingolfin's and Maglor's past, and where they all are now! <3

---

blood on blood by lonelyvisitor ( @i-am-a-lonely-visitor )

[Fingon/Turgon | 4k | E | chose not to warn]

Tags: Pre-Canon (The Silmarillion) | Years of the Trees | PWP

Summary:

When they were boys he had wrestled him, until he found Turukáno was bigger, and talked down to him on nearly every subject until he found Turukáno was wiser. Since his majority he has largely been ignored, which suits him. Findekáno has his popularity, his notoriety—if his younger brother bores him, then let him leave him be. And yet here is Findekáno, legs splayed, daring him to watch as he fists his half-clothed cock.

Why I rec this: I have not stopped thinking about this Fingon, about the entanglement of them all (there's some background Russingon and Maemag in here that's incredible), and what an arrogant mess these shining Princes of the Noldor are, all glamoured depravity and superiority complexes! <3

---

Of Infinite Space by jouissant ( @jouissants )

[Fingolfin/Maglor | 5k | E]

Tags: Canon Era (The Silmarillion) | Arranged Marriage | Transmasc Maglor | Trans Pregnancy

Summary:

Maglor wonders whether he is to be the locus of Fingolfin’s pain, and he shudders in the chill of the morning. One should fear to be so, even for a kind man.

Why I rec this: I am such a sucker for arranged marriage, and this is like a study in all my favourite things about it. The dynamic between them is SO good, and as always, jouissant's takes on Maglor's gender fuckery just hit all the right spots for me! <3

---

Sing Thy Memories, Take My Hand by Melesta ( @melestasflight )

[Fingon/Maglor | 6k | E]

Tags: Canon Era (Third Age) | Rohan | Reunions

Summary:

‘You have returned to Middle-earth for Maglor Fëanorion, you said?’ Elrond asks. ‘Yes, I am to beckon him come back to Valinor at last,’ Fingon answers hopefully. Few others had been willing to return to Middle-earth, and Fingon had already saved a Fëanorian cousin before. That made him more qualified for this task than most.

Why I rec this: Melesta's Fingon remains one of my favourites, and I adored this take of him amidst Rohan culture, as well as the way he puts his gentle but unyielding stubbornness to use on this particular Son of Fëanor. Something so bittersweet to this that ached in all the best ways <3

---

Dawn Song by sallysavestheday ( @sallysavestheday )

[Fingon/Maedhros | 1k | M]

Tags: Post-Canon (The Silmarillion) | Re-embodiment | Established Relationship

Summary:

Maedhros is a burning coal amid the crisp, white sheets, with all his copper hair spread out in glory. When he throws back his head, demanding touches, those soft strands catch the light and spark to flame. Post-rebirth delights for Russingon.

Why I rec this: An absolute stunning piece of prose and tenderness to bask in, in the rare case of Russingon where nothing terrible happens or looms. This made me smile like a fool through all of it and some time after <3

---

Fire Dance by justonelastdance

[Aegnor/Fingon | 4k | E]

Tags: Canon Era (The Silmarillion) | Friends to Lovers/Friends with Benefits | Angst & Fluff & Smut

Summary:

Fingon and Aegnor - friends and lovers from the Years of the Trees to the end.

Why I rec this: This was not a pairing I've considered before but I was immediately sold. I loved how their friendship shone through the entire time, even as they went to the highs and lows of the classic Silm canon. Such a lovely fic! <3

[meadowlarkx]

Singularities

Haleth had found what she sought under the tunics and held it aloft in triumph. “If I had this, no one would question my lordship. I should wear it to your feasts.”

Caranthir froze. His face grew hot with shameful alacrity. Was there anything worse than being caught in the attempt of something, in the desire for something? He had not known she had ever found it, buried in his things beneath a cunning panel in the oaken box. I care not what she thinks of me, he told himself, defiant. But of course it was a lie.

My contribution for @silmsmutexchange, for the wonderful BaccaratBlack / @elentarial ! | Haleth, trans Caranthir, pride, and strapons | Read here on AO3

[silmsmutweek]

Challenges

Starting Sept 6, we'll be posting a creative challenge every Friday and Saturday to help get your creative juices flowing.

During Silm Smut Week (Sept 30 to Oct 6), we'll continue to encourage engagement with some simpler daily challenges!

We'll update this post with a list of challenges as they are released.

Challenges to Date

Indulge. Set the word ‘cringe’ on fire. Throw that voice of judgement from the Caragdûr. Create a fanwork for pure pleasure.

Collaborate. Co-create a fanwork with someone else.

Give. Fill a smutty prompt (@silmkinkmeme has lots!) or invite others to send you smutty prompts.

Exchange. Create art for someone else’s smut fic or write a smut fic based on someone else’s art. Be sure to credit their inspiration!

Inspire. Create a playlist of sexy tunes for a favourite character or ship.

Share. Create a list of smutty recs. If you like, you can theme your list around a specific Silm Smut Week day or prompt.

Encourage. Nominate tags for @silmsmutexchange, a new mature & explicit fic exchange running Oct-Dec.

Engage. Leave a comment or send an ask to a creator letting them know what you like about their work. Consider asking a question, too

Appreciate. Find a smut fic with fewer than 20 kudos and/or 2 comment threads, read it, and leave a comment.

Discover. Read a smut fic posted on a smaller archive or community. We’ve already started a search for you on the Silmarillion Writers’ Guild!

Venture. Read a kink or trope you’ve never read before (and don’t forget to comment if you liked it!). 

[runawaymun]

Authors are unmasked for the @silmsmutexchange :D so now I get to share the fic I got to write for @senalishia

Coda (E) - Gil-Galad/Elrond/Celebrían

Elrond gets tied up, edged, and fucked within an inch of his life -- all in that order. 🫡

This was a lot of fun to write! Features improper use of Songs of Power and a very healthy dose of Eldritch Peredhel, because of course. Enjoy!!

[maironsbigboobs]

For @silmsmutexchange I wrote a little piece of Arafinwë being a dreadful tease, Fëanor being a dashing knight, and Finwë being completely oblivious.

For @a-world-of-whimsy-5 🥰

Favoured

E, 3.6k, Fëanor/Finarfin. No Archive Warnings

Additional tags: Half Sibling Incest, Medieval AU, Jousting, Secret Relationships

Arafinwë provides his brother with some motivation to win a joust.

“Leave us, Netiltamo.”

The silken voice of his brother interrupted the clanking as Netiltamo struggled with the armour. His squire was still a boy, and neither strong nor tall enough to properly help Fëanor into his armour. He would not have taken him on if Maedhros had not reached an age to have squires of his own, and Nerdanel had not insisted on it - he was some cousin of hers, and for her alone would he do such favours.

He hovered hesitantly, looking between the princes. Fëanor rolled his eyes. “You heard him, boy. Go and prepare my horse. I trust you know how?”

“Yes, my lord.” He bowed hurriedly, first to Fëanor and then Arafinwë, and then all but fled from the room. Arafinwë's laugh was smooth and sweet as honey.

“I am surprised you keep him, brother.” Without Fëanor’s asking, he pulled on the strap of his breastplate, strength behind slender fingers. “You were never the type to suffer incompetence.”

His youngest brother had always been a mystery to him. Sent away as a ward as a boy, Fëanor recalled he had gone from infant to man in what seemed like an instant - and what a man he had become, willowy and golden and always arrayed in riches. His wife’s riches.

Fëanor’s heart grew cold. Since Arafinwë's wedding almost a year ago, they had not been alone together. His brother was likely no longer interested in their game - and yet, here he was, tightening the straps of the armour, and his fingers seemed to seek any small inch of exposed skin. Fëanor frowned. He disliked how Arafinwë toyed with his words; he never said what he was thinking, and Fëanor, usually so sharp, always found it hard to perceive his mind.

“Why have you come, Arafinwë?”

“Why do you think I have come?”

“I do not know.” Envy sparked. Why did he think Arafinwë had come? What kind of a question was that - how was he to know his brother’s thoughts, when he had so suddenly declared he was to be married, and left Fëanor cold? “Why should you come to me, when you have a wife now, and by all accounts you have hardly left her side since your wedding day. No doubt she gives you something you enjoy far more than my company, since I have not even had a letter, never mind an invitation to Alqualondë.”

Arafinwë's pale eyes had darkened, and his laugh was husky. “Your envy compels me so, brother. Fear not. You are not forgotten.” His hand cupped Fëanor’s cheek, brushing his thumb over the arch. “They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, but mine has grown... hungrier. I wondered if you still thought of me. Of us.”

He held his face still, leaning close. Fëanor could smell his expensive perfume, crisp and fresh as the sea air. His lips were pink, full - they were so close that Fëanor could see the faint wine stain on them.

“I have missed you. Of course I still desire you, Arafinwë. Your kisses haunt me.” Fëanor closed his eyes, leaning to kiss his brother sweetly.

But he found instead cold metal, as Arafinwë raised his helm, laughing. “Not here, brother. Anyone might see.”

“Is it not scandalous enough that you dismissed your squire so tersely?” Fëanor countered, flush with wounded pride. “There will be questions.”

“Questions?” Arafinwë laughed as he lifted the helm. “What questions should there be, of a man helping his brother prepare to joust.”

“You have a different kind of jousting on your mind.”

He set the helm on Fëanor’s head, and Fëanor lamented the loss of his touch. It had been too long since he had felt an intimate touch; Nerdanel devoted more time to her craft than their marital bed these days, and, after seven sons, he did not hold it against her - but as much as he still enjoyed her companionship, sometimes he still longed for more than his own hand.

“But if it is rumours you want, dearest brother, perhaps this will cause them.”

Arafinwë's long hair was bound into a crown with white ribbons, and with nimble fingers (and enough ease that Fëanor suspected this had been his intention all along) unthreaded one of the outermost ribbons. He pressed it first to his lips in a tender kiss, and then tied it around Fëanor’s upper arm.

He kissed the cold metal, but Fëanor would have sworn to all the gods that he felt the warmth of his lips through his armour. “A favour, for my princely champion.”

“You will raise Father’s eyebrows.” Fëanor thought of their father, seeing the white ribbon fluttering around his arm, and the conspicuous absence of it in Arafinwë's hair. A pity he would not see his expression from the field.

“Be serious, brother. He would simply be pleased we are, ah, how does he say it? Playing nicely.”

Fëanor laughed. Arafinwë was right; their father would overlook many transgressions if he could pretend his sons were getting along. Perhaps he already knew, and turned a blind eye to it. That would not surprise him.

“Now.” Arafinwë pressed another kiss to the cold metal over his cheek. “Win a golden laurel for me, my prince, and I will give you the sweetest prize.”

Then he was gone, without another word, the tent flap blowing the breeze behind him. Fëanor sighed, collecting himself before he followed. He had a tournament to win. As he followed his brother out of the tent, Netiltamo brought his horse over, and Fëanor led it to the waiting grounds while the young man struggled to carry his lance.

A lesser man than Fëanor might have found such stimulating thoughts a distraction, but as he mounted his horse and readied his lance, he felt only intense focus. He had dismissed this tournament initially as dull pageantry; now he had a reason to win.

The first joust was easy, against an adolescent grandson of Ingwë. It took only a single round to knock him off his horse, to wild applause. He glanced at the royal box and smiled beneath his helm.

Arafinwë was there, and over the field their eyes met. Arafinwë lifted his drink to his lips, taking a long, slow drink, and as he lowered the goblet Fëanor could see the drops of purple wine still on his lips. Never breaking eye contact, he watched his brother’s pink tongue dart out and lick the drops.

Wretched man. He gripped the lance tightly. He could not afford to lose focus. If Arafinwë’s taunting led to his defeat, his brother would be insufferable.

He waited as the rounds continued, defeating another three knights with relative ease. His mind kept turning back to Arafinwë, and the prize he had promised if he won. It made it easy to drown out the rest of the rounds - he had never found watching as entertaining as competing.

Finally, it came down to him, and one other competitor.

Across the field, his next opponent — a pale haired Telerin man, with a trio of pink seashells painted on his breastplate — was having his saddle adjusted. The man had already proven himself in the earlier jousts, unseating two princes and a lord’s son in the preceding rounds.

But Fëanor was certain he would be his match. The white ribbon on his arm fluttered in the breeze, fueling his confidence. He looked over at the royal box again. His father was leaning forward, gripping the edge of the box. Arafinwë was relaxed, whispering in his wife’s ear.

Once more, envy twisted in his gut. How unfair, that she could touch him how she pleased, kiss him when she desired, how she could demand his fidelity. He could do all those things better, in her place, and yet Arafinwë was there mooning over her like he had not taunted Fëanor only an hour ago.

A horn’s sharp call. Fëanor snapped back to attention.

A second call, and then the sound of thundering hooves as both knights charged. Fëanor’s lance was steady in his grip, his eyes sharp as flint beneath the gleam of his helm.

The impact came hard and fast. Fëanor felt the jarring shudder of his lance as it struck true against his opponent’s shield, but the angle was wrong, too steep, the blow too glancing. The lance splintered, shards of painted wood scattering like embers into the air.

He reined in his horse sharply, tossing the shattered haft of his lance aside with a casual flick of his wrist. His squire darted forward to offer another, but Fëanor did not take it straight away.

Instead, he looked again to the royal box. He could not see Arafinwë at first. Then he emerged from behind a curtain, flushed with the wind, or perhaps the wine. Eärwen was still beside him. Fëanor reached up and felt the smoothness of the ribbon between his fingers, and thought of Arafinwë’s tender kiss, of the sweetness victory would bring.

He took his lance and faced the field again.

The second pass was faster, more brutal. Fëanor’s new lance struck the knight’s breastplate with enough force to crack the painted design that adorned it, like splitting open the middle seashell. The blow sent the other knight reeling, his balance faltering, but he managed to stay astride. Fëanor felt the force of the other knight’s lance against his shield, the impact ringing through his arm like a hammer strike. It would ache for days afterwards, but in the moment the pain was meaningless. The winner’s laurel was all that mattered now.

He swung his horse around for the third turn, another fresh lance hurriedly pressed into his hands. He did not look at his brother, or anyone else. He could not afford a lapse of focus.

As the third horn blew, Fëanor’s horse leapt forward, the knight’s heels driving it to almost reckless speed. His lance was steady this time, his aim true, and as they closed the distance, he adjusted at the last possible moment, shifting the angle ever so slightly.

The Teleri knight’s lance came forward—but Fëanor was faster, stronger, spurred on by the thought that Arafinwë was watching. The tip struck his opponent’s shield with an almighty crack, the sheer force of it ripping the shield from the knight’s arm. Fëanor drove the lance upwards, catching his opponent square in the chest.

The knight toppled, his horse rearing in protest as he crashed to the ground with the sound of clattering steel.

Fëanor reined his stallion to a halt, lowering his lance slowly as he turned to regard his fallen foe. The knight was being helped to his feet by his squire, his helm askew and his pride in tatters. Fëanor grinned.

I must ask Arafinwë to compete next time. He would take deep pleasure in seeing him sprawled in the dirt.

The crowd erupted. He could see his father cheering, even his stepmother clapping from her seat. But as he approached the box to take his victor’s laurel, he only had eyes for Arafinwë. By the gods, he looked beautiful there, cheering and laughing. Fëanor was seized by the urge to kiss him.

In another life, it would be Arafinwë he knelt before, hair tumbling in inky waves down his back as he tucked his helm under his arm. It would be Arafinwë’s delicate hands that placed the golden laurel on his head, not the Queen’s. It would be Arafinwë’s honeyed voice that declared him the victor.

But that life could not be. Fëanor rose to the crowd’s raucous applause, tall and proud. His father clapped him on the shoulder, his hand just above the white ribbon. If he thought anything of it, he said nothing, but Fëanor was certain his gaze lingered on it a moment too long.

“Congratulations, my son!” Finwë beamed, “An excellent performance, as ever! You had even Arafinwë on the edge of his seat, and you know how he finds jousting dull.”

“My brother wields his lance so boldly,” Arafinwë said, dryly. “I found myself trembling with excitement.”

“See, he even admits it.” Finwë did not seem to find his comment strange, only laughing. “Go and get yourself out of this dusty armour, son, and then we can truly celebrate! Steward! Bring out the best wine!”

Fëanor bowed his head to his father, and, with a pointed glance at Arafinwë, excused himself to his tent.

It was warm in there, and he discarded his helm, shaking out his hair. The silence felt heavy, the outside world muffled by the fabric walls.

“There is my bold and shining knight.”

Arafinwë had slipped in behind him, and now pressed himself to Fëanor’s back, his arms slipping around his waist. Fëanor heard the click of a buckle, and then felt his greaves fall away and clatter to the fall. So much for silence.

“You rode so well today.” Arafinwë laughed as he continued to strip Fëanor of his armour. “If only I were a horse.”

Fëanor was silent, drinking in Arafinwë’s words. Desire consumed him; it burned like flame in his gut, turning him to ash from the inside out. Twisted desire, almost sickening in its strength, for his own brother. It was a force he reckoned with every time he saw Arafinwë, since that first stolen kiss. Sometimes, on lonely nights, he entertained the fantasy of taking his brother to wife and keeping him, adorned in naught but gold, away from the sight and scorn of other men. It had only ever been a dream, and yet now it felt more impossible than ever, with Arafinwë wed and far away. It only made the desire burn hotter.

His brother turned to stand before him inside, pressing a feather light kiss to the curve of Fëanor’s jaw. Pulled back into the present, Fëanor smiled, cupping his cheek. Oh, how he longed to devour him.

“We will be heard here. There are people just outside.”

“You had best stay quiet, then, if you want to enjoy your prize.” Arvo sank down to his knees, elegant as ever. With deft fingers, he freed Fëanor’s cock from his breeches, curling his hand around the girth of it. “I know that is a challenge for you, brother.”

“You have such an attitude today, brother.” Fëanor sighed, soft and content, as Arafinwë took him in his mouth. It was blissful; the warm, soft heat of Arafinwë’s mouth around his cock, and it took all his willpower not to spill there and then.

Arafinwë did not make it easy for him. What he could not fit in his mouth he stroked with a feather light touch. As he pulled back to catch his breath, he teased the head of his cock with his tongue, flicking over the silt, looking up at Fëanor as if daring him to lose control.

“If you are trying to impress me, you will have to try harder.”

Arafinwë said nothing, but took that as a challenge, sinking down on his cock until he gagged, coughing around him - but he did not stop, only slowing, until his nose was pressed against the soft curls at the base of his cock. Fëanor studied him - Arafinwë’s eyes closed, his cheeks hollowed, the watery tears on his lashes.

“This is what you were made for, brother. Forget your diplomacies and paintbrushes; you were born to swallow my cock.”

He felt Arafinwë moan around him, the vibrations sending a piercing bolt of desire through him. Since this was his prize, he let Arafinwë do the work, as he slowly bobbed his head back and forth, laving his cock with his tongue as he did, and raising one long fingered, graceful hand to stroke his balls, knowing exactly how Fëanor liked to be touched.

“Perfect, little prize. You are wonderful.” he praised, closing his eyes and relaxing, his cock twitching in Arafinwë’s mouth. As much as he wanted this to last, the thought of forcing his brother to swallow his seed was deeply appealing. “Take all of it, brother, you are a perfect royal slut.”

Arvo sat back on his haunches. His lips were pink and swollen. Fëanor's cock throbbed at the sight, but he scowled, disappointed at losing the heat of his mouth.

“You talk too much.” Arafinwë’s gaze was overflowing with desire. Fëanor knew what he was pushing for - and, well, he saw no reason to deny him today.

“Brat.” Fëanor hauled him up the collar of his shirt, shoving him against the table. It rattled dangerously, but for now it would hold firm. “You are fortunate I do not have the patience to teach you a lesson.”

As Arafinwë laughed, Fëanor pulled down his trousers and pushed up his long tunic, running his hand over the smooth skin of his ass. Even (especially!) here, Arafinwë was beautiful.

He slipped his fingers to his hole, thinking of how best to tease him, when he found Arafinwë had already thought ahead. His fingers came away slick.

“Whore. When did you do this?”

“While you were jousting.” Arafinwë’s face was pink, and Fëanor noted with pride how lust had turned his pale eyes to deep sapphire. “‘Twas Eärwen's idea.”

If he had been of a clearer mind, he might have questioned that further. But as it stood, he knew they had little time, and his lust threatened to overwhelm him - besides, he wanted Arafinwë thinking of him, not his wife.

“Please, brother.” Arafinwë moaned as Fëanor ran his finger over the rim of his hole, just barely slipping two of them inside. Arafinwë squirmed.

“Now who is making too much noise?” Fëanor taunted, but he gave in, burying himself deep within Arafinwë. For a moment, all was still - there was nothing in the world but the two of them and the ecstasy of their union - Arafinwë seemed made for him, drawing him in, welcoming him. Fëanor leaned over him, smothering his body with his own weight. The movement elicited another needy groan, louder and more desperate.

“Perhaps you need some help keeping quiet.” His gaze landed on the ribbon on the floor. Fëanor withdrew, leaving Arafinwë whining at the emptiness, and retrieved it, running the silk through his fingers.

“Hush now, Arafinwë.” He balled up the ribbon and shoved it into his mouth. Arafinwë glared at him, but the indignant noise he made was well muffled. Much better.

With a single rapid thrust, he was inside him again, and Arafinwë’s head lolled against the table as he rocked his hips back to meet each of Fëanor's thrusts. He fucked him hungrily, nails digging into his hips where he held him, the only sound in the room his soft panting, Arafinwë’s muffled moans, and the slick sound of flesh on flesh. He had intended to draw it out, savour Arafinwë’s body, but the intensity of his lust consumed him, chasing all thoughts from his mind except his desire.

Arafinwë was no less eager. Fëanor watched him, clumsy in the haze of arousal, slip his hand between his legs to relieve the burning need for touch, watched his head press against the desk in an effort not to cry out. Fëanor chased his climax, pounding ever more fiercely into Arafinwë’s pliant body.

Arafinwë gave a muffled cry of his name and arched, every muscle of his body tight and clenched. He was beautiful as he climaxed, nails scrabbling for purchase on the desk - if he were ever to paint a portrait of Arafinwë, it would be in a moment like this.

Fëanor could hold back no longer. He fucked Arafinwë through his climax, leaving him limp and whimpering, until the pressure building in his gut reached a breaking point, and he spilled inside him with a long, drawn out groan, biting his own sleeve to silence it.

Panting, he leaned down, savouring the comforting feeling of being inside his brother until he became too sensitive. He pulled out, then kissed his shoulder softly before gently taking the ribbon from his mouth. Arafinwë grinned lazily at him.

“You’ve made a mess of me, brother.”

“It is never your fault, is it, Arafinwë?” Fëanor snorted, retrieving one of the rags used to polish armour, and wiping himself with it. Ever the gentleman (or, at least one in his own mind) he cleaned his brother up too, before casting the rag aside. Not the best solution, but there was something tantalising knowing that Arafinwë would return to the celebrations with the evidence of their deed still inside him.

Arafinwë laughed, standing up and fixing his clothes. Thankfully, his tunic was long and thick enough to hide anything suspicious, and Fëanor was beginning to suspect that Eärwen would not be questioning him about it - or rather, her questions would be of quite a different nature. Perhaps he had been hasty in writing her off as just a pretty, young, princess.

“Thank you, brother, for the reunion. I had truly missed you dearly in Alqualondë.” Arafinwë checked his reflection in a polished shield, tucking in some loose strands of hair. “I must invite you to come and stay with us there at some point. I am sure Eärwen will be thrilled to host you.”

He did not wait for an answer, slipping out of the tent and disappearing.

Fëanor looked down at himself. While he was sure his father would sing his praises even if he turned up in his sweat-soaked tunic, he decided it was not quite fitting of the tournament’s victor, and turned to his trunk to change, the golden laurel still gleaming on his head.

Some prizes could impress even a prince.

[silmsmutexchange]

Save the date(s) for Silmarillion Smut Exchange 2024!

What:

A gift exchange for mature and explicit Silm fanworks (fic and art), hosted on AO3. You'll sign up to create and receive a work of fanfic of minimum 1,000 words, or a piece of fanart consisting of, at minimum, clean linework on unlined paper featuring a character or ship from The Silmarillion. Either will have a mature or explicit rating.

When:

Nominations: Sept. 30-Oct 7, 2024

Signups: Oct. 8-15, 2024

Works due: Nov. 22, 2024

Works revealed: Nov. 29, 2024

Creators revealed: Dec. 6, 2024

Questions?

Send an ask or email silmsmutmod@gmail.com.

[whovianofmidgard]

This is the gift I wrote for @unendingwanderlust for the @silmsmutexchange ! It was fun working on your fic!

Summary: Glorfindel meets a mysterious water spirit who plays the harp with breathtaking skill and hides his face from the world. The Balrog Slayer had always wished to learn the harp and for a small price of food the spirit agrees to teach him. But who is this water spirit? And why does Glorfindel feel like he is missing something obvious?

Through a window to the past, Laurëfindil is madly in love with Makalaurë, but certain hardships and the Oath keeps the two lovers apart.

Glorfindel/Maglor

Snippet:

“Oof,” Laurëfindil grunted as his friend ran into him and they both fell in a heap upon the stone tiles of one of Tirion’s smaller squares. Fortunately, neither him nor Ehtelion hurt themselves in the fall, and the two growing elflings laughed the incident off.

The pitter- patter of another pair of small feet came up to the pair, and huffing and puffing Turukáno stopped before them.

“Get up, quickly! Before he finds us,” the little Nolofinwion told them. He did his best to tug Ehtelion off of Laurëfindil with what small amount of childish strength he possessed. Yet he was not fast enough to make his friends stand and abscond their minder in time, for in that moment he turned up to the square and spotted the three elflings.

“There you are!” Makalaurë said with an exasperated smile. He hurried over to his charges and helped Laurëfindil stand and dust both him and Ehtelion off, gently fussing over them. The young Fëanorion prince only had his first growth spurt of adolescence, but according to his father and mother he was old enough to wrangle his smaller half-cousins and their little friends.

“I told you to be careful running on the smooth stone. At least you are not injured, then what your mothers would say when they come fetch you? Ehtelion, you didn’t break your flute, did you?”

“No, Káno,” the dark haired elfling replied, taking off the instrument’s case from his shoulder and showing Makalaurë that his silver flute was still perfectly intact.

Makalaurë nodded and placed a hand to the child’s shoulder, guiding them towards the centre of the city square.

“Good. We can sit by the fountain and practice a bit,” he said. Then he looked back where the other two elflings stood. “Come along, boys. You can play where I can still see you.”

Laur ë��findil beamed up at the older boy and merrily skipped after them, his untamed golden mane bouncing around him. Turukáno blew a raspberry at his cousin’s back, but sullenly followed him too.

As Makalaurë and Ehtelion sat on the wide rim of the fountain, pulling out and tuning their respective instruments, the other two plopped down on the ground a little way away so their talking wouldn’t bother the musicians. Laur ë findil listened to even the simple scales with rapt attention, his eyes mainly following the mesmerising way Makalaurë’s elegant fingers glided across the strings.

“Why did we have to be stuck with Káno?” Turukáno grumbled by the blond boy’s side.

Laur ë findil frowned. “What’s wrong with Káno?”

He liked the second son of Fëanáro. Makalaurë told the best stories and sang the prettiest songs, and he was so dazzlingly talented that he already tutored a few young students, despite himself being young and not yet past his majority. Maybe one day Laurëfindil would work up the courage to ask the Fëanorion prince for a few harp lessons, if only to be the centre of the older boy’s attentions. That was one thing he envied Ehtelion for, that his flute lessons allowed him to spend so much time with Makalaurë.

Turukáno huffed and heavily rested his head in one of his hands. “He always takes us to boring places. No blocks or sand to build castles with, no sticks, logs or leaves to make a fort or a tree house. Not even things to climb or hide in. Just a stupid open square and a fountain.”

“We could splash in the fountain,” the blond boy offered.

“And soak all my clothes? Ammë would kill me.”

Laur ë findil shrugged, out of ideas of what else to play. He was too enamoured with the harp and flute music to come up with something entertaining for Turukáno anyway.

“Well, I like Káno,” he eventually said, the thought of his friend disliking the person he admired not sitting well with him. “I think he’s pretty and he sings nice. And I like that he’s gentle.”

“Finno’s gentle,” Turukáno said, affronted in the name of his brother. Then he added, “So is Ingo.”

True, but Laurëfindil thought it was not the same. Findekáno was kind as long as his impulsiveness didn’t get in the way, and threw fists when he was seriously riled up. Findaráto did not have a single cruel bone in his body, and tried to fix everything with calm words.

Makalaurë on the other hand possessed just as sharp a tongue as the rest of his family, but went through his days with grace and kindness instead. However, he was not afraid to use sharp words in the face of injustice or to protect those he loved. The fact that Makalaurë was capable of being vicious but chose not to be, while also willing to unleash that side of him when it was needed was what had captivated Laurefindil.

“I like that he chooses to be gentle even though he could be mean,” he simply explained to Turukáno. He then turned his attention back to the musicians, back to Makalaurë, Laurelin’s golden rays glinting off of the cascade of dark curls, and lovely voice raised in song accompanied by harp and flute. He was the most beautiful elf the blond elfling had ever seen.

“One day I am going to marry him,” he said mostly to himself, and lost himself in the music.

Read the rest on Ao3

[silmkinkmeme]

Promptfest Index

The kinkmeme's month-long Promptfest is over! Thank you everyone who followed it, reblogged the prompts and wrote fills for them. The Promptfest was certainly a success as it's seen a drastic increase in the number of prompts and fills during the last month. As of now, there are 351 prompts and 169 works in the collection as well as several new prompts in Prompt Post 1 on dreamwidth.

I will give it a few weeks and sum up the fics that have been written for Promptfest prompts. We already have several. For now, take a look at the Promptfest Index below, maybe you'll like some of the prompts. You can even find inspiration for @silmsmutweek or @silmsmutexchange in some of the prompts.

Day 1 - Celegorm/Orome, Celegorm/many others - gangbang

Day 2 - Gen/optional ships - Shaving

Day 3 - Caranthir/Haleth/Caranthir's Wife - anything

Day 4 - Pregnancy/Breeding kink Curufin/Finrod

Day 5 - Phantom of the Opera inspired orc-elf relationship

Day 6 - Eärwen/Finarfin- gentle femdom, hair kink

Day 7 - Fingolfin gets fucked by Ringil's hilt

Day 8 - Any - Menstrual Sex 

Day 9 - Elrond, the dragon, kidnaps Disa, the princess

Day 10 - Gap Filler - Post-Nirnaeth Wanderings of the SoF

Day 11 - Feanor rides Nerdanel's strap

Day 12 - Tulkas/Fingon, Sexy Times

Day 13 - Turgon and Maeglin

Day 14 - Russingon - Introducing a third/proxy fucking

Day 15 - Maedhros as a werewolf

Day 16 - Finrod/Maglor

Day 17 - Fingon and Finrod Helcaraxe Bonding

Day 18 - Maedhros doms Fingon to trust himself again

Day 19 - Elros seduces Maglor

Day 20 - Rarepair woes: Finrod/Maedhros/Maglor

Day 21 - Nolofinweans should be leashed, sexily

Day 22 - Soft Russingon - comfort fic

Day 23 - Touch-starvation and non-sexual intimacy

Day 24 - Kink-Rape/Noncon

Day 25 - Anthology of female friendship

Day 26 - Maedhros/Maglor, king/vassal dynamics

Day 27 - maedhros and maglor share each other's partners

Day 28 - Maglor time travel AU

Day 29 - Aredhel/Fingon (Others/Fingon), Feminization

Day 30 - Indis doms Feanor

[oakenting]

Feeling love all around me

My submission for @silmsmutexchange written for @that-angry-noldo

Summary: Eärwen and Arafinwë make love to Eönwë who has never tried incarnate pleasure before. Rating: Explicit Fandom: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien Relationship: Eärwen/Eönwë/Finarfin Characters: Eärwen, Eönwë, Finarfin Tags: Smut, Touching, First Time, Vaginal Sex, Love, Threesome - F/M/M, Slow Build, Interspecies, Maia Otherness, Scars, Tenderness, Tender Sex, these three care for each other and it's beautiful Word count: 2.6k

Read the story on AO3.

I had a great time writing about these three and I hope it shows :D

[fanwork-exchange-promos]

Silmarillion Smut Exchange

Posted by: silmsmutexchange Link: Dreamwidth,Tumblr, AO3 Description: A gift exchange for mature and explicit Silmarillion fanworks (fic and art), hosted on AO3. You'll sign up to create and receive a work of fanfic of minimum 1,000 words, or a piece of fanart consisting of, at minimum, clean linework on unlined paper featuring a character or ship from The Silmarillion. Either will have a mature or explicit rating. Schedule: Nominations: Sept. 30-Oct 7, 2024 Signups: Oct. 8-15, 2024 Works due: Nov. 22, 2024 Works revealed: Nov. 29, 2024 Creators revealed: Dec. 6, 2024 comments via The Fandom Calendar https://ift.tt/PGIJp6D

[oakenting]

Everyone go read this great story I got gifted!

It's tender and kinky. Narvi worships Telperinquar just the way he deserves!

I like it very much, @a-world-of-whimsy-5 😊

Diversion of a Different Kind

For @oakenting. I hope you like this!

Event: @silmsmutexchange

Pairing: Trans-masc Celebrimbor (Telperinquar/Tyelpë)/Narvi

Rating: Explicit

Themes: Smut

Warnings: Trans Masc Character | PIV sex | Butt Plugs | Restraints | Orgasm Denial | Body Worship | Oral Sex | After care

Word count: 1.2K words

Summary: Telperinquar and Narvi indulge a new diversion after the dwarf crafts something uncommon for them to use.

Minors DNI | 18 plus

Read the full story here: