#silvergifting fic

[saintstars]

@silmarillionstockings for @vaciena with a short fic here on AO3 too

A re-embodied Celebrimbor confronts the Necromancer of Dol Guldur expecting an easily overpowered ringwraith, and not at all prepared for it to turn out to be Sauron, who he must battle to become the only lord of the rings

[belforte]

After a looong time.....

New chapter of May This Flesh Breath >:)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/72254216/chapters/217451321

[prackspoor]

“You are unusually verbose and eloquent for a cat,” Artanis said. “Who taught you?”

Friends, Wraith replied calmly. I have quite a few of them, your nephew numbering among those most near and dear to my heart.

Celebrían had to turn away and suppress a coughing fit.

Celebrimbor met Artanis’ disbelieving look with a shrug. “What can I say? I do like cats and cats like me.”

Lay it on a bit thicker, why don’t you? Wraith spoke in the back of his mind.

I struggle to keep up with the standards of implausibility you’ve been setting, you precocious furball, he shot back, carefully keeping those thoughts separate from the rest of his mind – and his aunt’s inquiring gaze specifically. When Artanis kept looking at him sceptically, Celebrimbor felt compelled to reach out and pet Wraith’s head.

The cat let it happen and purred. Do you know I’ve thought of fifty ways to murder you? she asked mentally.

[xximmortalkissxx]

How You Turn My World, You Precious Thing 🔥🖤🔥

AO3 Link

Summary: What happens when Annatar's "seduction" of Celebrimbor continues to fail year after year? Leading to the first—and definitely not last—crash out of the age.

Dividers: saradika

An unusual silence had fallen over the great forge.

Gone were the pleasant ting of hammers, and the gentle hiss of quenching steel. Neither the Gwaith-i-Mírdain nor their eager apprentices remained within the barren halls. Workstations lingered in despair, cold and forgotten, while the dissonant hum of jovial voices echoed in the distance.

The cause of this current vexation? Nost-na-Lothion—a favorite and entirely trivial—holiday among the elves. Celebrating the birth of flowers and return of spring.

Since the founding of Eregion, Celebrimbor had encouraged his subjects to revel in the celebration. Forgoing the forge for a week of feasting, frivolity, and fornication.

Annatar loathed it.

Yet even the proud Maia couldn't escape this merry torment. Secluded within his decadent chamber, he stood before an imposing mirror, inspecting every minuscule detail of his fair form. From the golden silk draped over his lithe body, to the glittering gems woven around him on delicate vine-like chainlets. Then finally, the finishing touch—a circlet of pure gold— accented by countless opal flowers.

Annatar set it carefully upon his brow, taking a moment to comb his fair hair, watching as the locks cascaded to the small of his back.

"Tch…" he chided himself with a sharp click of the tongue. Here he was, fidgeting like a fool, and for what? An elf? Humiliating. But after so many long years of working beside the greatest smith of this age, Annatar was at a loss.

Celebrimbor was yet to be seduced—at least—not entirely.

By now Annatar was second to but a few in Celebrimbor's inner circle: a fair, but entirely too nosy cousin; one infuriatingly astute dwarf; and a handful of altogether forgettable artificers. Tyelpe, however, never summoned them to work alongside him into the small hours just before dawn. Sharing dreams, wine, and the singular rush of innovation. No, those hours belonged to Annatar.

And to Annatar alone.

So why was it Celebrimbor only ever approached him with amity? Every touch from him was careful—chaste even. A soft squeeze upon the shoulder, the steady, guiding, touch of his hand. But never anything more. He had even crafted a form the Fëanorian would desire. Damn him. Lithe, fair, and with hair so golden it rivaled all the irksome Arafinwëans rolled into one.

Exiting his chamber like a tempest, the Maia swept down the hall, golden robes billowing behind him in his fury. "To the Halls with this…" he hissed, chafing against the thought of yet another Nost-na-Lothion where Celebrimbor—cheeks flushed with strong Greenwood wine—found another to fuck in the secluded gardens of Ost-In-Edhil…

'Ooh, no. This game the Lord of Eregion is so obviously playing? It ends now.'

The doors nearly flew off their hinges upon Annatar's arrival. But Celebrimbor neither flinched, nor bothered looking up from his work. He was quite used to the Maia's fiery moods by now, and simply kept writing—though a flippant smirk did begin to creep across his comely face.

"What has your linens in a twist this afternoon, mellon? I didn't think there were any apprentices left to stoke your wrath."

The incessant scratching of the pen continued, causing one of Annatar's golden eyes to twitch. Not once had Celebrimbor deemed to look up at him. Not once.

"I despise idleness," Annatar replied sharply, closing the distance between them in a few measured steps. "Idle hands–"

"Are the Marrer's playthings, yes, yes. You sound like my Natto," Celebrimbor replied, licking a finger before flipping the parchment. "It's a week of well earned frivolity. 'In all things there must be moderation.'"

"Including moderation." the Maia huffed, irritated that the elf would dare recite Rúmil to him—let alone get it wrong on purpose. "How long do you intend to keep scribbling away at that speech? Even your High King has a servant write those for him. You're the lord of this land. Delegate."

Celebrimbor replied with a sudden hearty laugh, causing Annatar's fëa to flutter, like a moth trapped within a burning lantern. "You do remember it was my grandfather who invented this script, yes?" The elf quipped, clearly amused, despite the rancor of the Maia before him. "Were I to delegate this task to someone else—Eru forbid—how could I look myself in the mirror each morning?"

"Quite easily I'm sure," Annatar replied coolly, perching himself on the desk. "Well? Let's see what you have then." With a flick of the wrist his palm opened, grasping impatiently, all the while his gaze wandered with feigned disinterest.

Choosing to indulge him, Celebrimbor relinquished the parchment and watched as Annatar's keen golden eyes began quickly scanning the parchment. Only to track the same line on loop, over and over and over again, his peculiar mind clearly stuck on something.

"Well? Any thoughts?"

A heavy, suffocating, silence filled the air. Then suddenly, the Maia's hand loudly slapped the table, pinning the parchment beneath his palm.

"Do you not find me attractive?" Annatar asked at last. All the while, the thin mask of temperance he wore so well, began cracking under the weight of his immense vanity.

"What?"

The sound of the Fëanorian's choked laugh both enraged and excited him. Never had a being so thoroughly vexed Annatar this way. Somehow, this beautiful, irritating, industrious, deluded—brilliant elf had him utterly debased. Practically begging for the warmth of his gaze.

It was unbearable.

"We've worked alongside each other for decades, Tyelpe. For decades I have lavished you in knowledge, praise, and attention—freely! I've even bent myself over the damn anvil—like a fool—just to catch your entirely oblivious eye. And what do you do? You sit here laughing!" Annatar snapped, cheeks glowing like smoldering embers.

Celebrimbor attempted to steel himself, clearing his throat with as much decorum as he could muster. But the look on the Maia's face was downright uncanny—and quite frankly hilarious—like looking into a distorted carnival mirror a little too long.

"Incredible. Truly," The elf remarked, resting his chin upon a closed fist. "All these long years—all your strenuous efforts—and you never thought to simply just, oh I don't know, ask me? Until just now?" Celebrimbor quipped, pointing an accusatory finger down towards the desk.

"You mock me."

"Mock you Annatar? One of the ancient and powerful Maiar, master disciple of Aulë, my partner in craft? Perish the thought..."

The look Annatar shot him could have frozen the great hearth itself.

"Well…alright—a little bit," Celebrimbor confessed with a shrug. "But be honest, that's part of my appeal, isn't it?"

"Hardly."

Annatar dropped himself from the desk, with a light thump. He would not be baited like some animal by a meager Noldo lord.

"Wait,"

Celebrimbor's hand shot out, grasping Annatar's wrist like a vice. It would have been all too easy to break free, to keep his pride intact, but there was something in his voice. Something compelling him to stay.

"I haven't answered your question..."

"Oh? Do you plan to?" Annatar scoffed, rolling his eyes at the impish grin spreading across the Fëanorian's generous mouth. "Or am I in store for more hilarious jests?"

Celebrimbor responded with an amused chuckle—one Annatar had heard many times behind closed doors—but never directed towards him. Then, before he could react, the room rushed past. Stopping only when Celebrimbor's lips crashed against his with a sharp intake of breath.

In every indulgent daydream, he had envisioned Celebrimbor taking him gently. Similar to the way he approached a preliminary design, with tentative hands and unhurried kisses. How wrong he'd been. If there had been any lingering doubts—concerning the potency of Tyelpe's Fëanorian blood—they were quickly snuffed out.

Because Annatar was being devoured.

Devoured by the infamous flame and fervor of Fëanor's doomed house. Melting under Celebrimbor's touch like the liquid mercury of his eyes. He was all but crushed between the elf lord's body and the stone wall, accepting Celebrimbor's tongue with an indulgent moan. All the while, the smith's calloused hands crept up his robes, squeezing the Maia's ass with a possessive hunger.

Feeling himself in a receiving mood, the Lord of Gifts tightened his legs around Celebrimbor's waist like a feasting snake, rolling his hips in open invitation. "Take me." he commanded in a whisper, mouth hovering along the shell of Celebrimbor's ear, before biting down. "Tyelpe. Please…"

The smith hissed through gritted teeth, but the pain only seemed to excite him more. "Mmm… I don't think so," He whispered into the crook of Annatar's neck. "Not while there's an empty forge beneath our feet…"

Gasping, the Maia lost himself in the white hot pleasure of Celebrimbor's teeth sinking into his neck. Soothed only by the smith's mouth sucking shamelessly upon his abused flesh.

"All that haughtiness—all that certainty—and you still miscalculated one variable in your seduction," The Fëanorian crooned, releasing Annatar's neck only to mutter the Maia's undoing against his ear:

"I want to be the one bending you over the anvil, Artano…"

—or— Annatar Crashes Out After 20+ Years Of Trying To Seduce Celebrimbor

[mai-komagata]

Goo-ron/Tentacle Sauron Silvergifting fic

Emmanuelle goes to dinosaur land

Summary: Celebrimbor gets separated from Narvi during an expedition exploring the newly discovered Glittering Caves. He finds a tentacle creature there that needs something from him to survive. 

Author’s Notes: I finally wrote Goo-ron/Tentacle Sauron fic! This was written for the tolkienpinupcalendar Monsterfucker May 2025 event. Anything that needs warning should be in the tags. This will be part of a two part series, so subscribe to the series (Heavenly Creatures) if you want to read the sequel. It should come out in a day or two (or less depending on how quickly I type tonight). Enjoy!

Rating: Explicit. PWP sorta, but not particularly cracky, but i mean its still tentacle monster sex. Consensual, except for Sauron's secret identity.

tagging @tolkienpinupcalendar -- feel free to reblog or repost.

ETA: Also turns out cross country trains are ideal for writing. Here is the post for the sequel!

[ilyapasta]

Chapter 2 of my Sauron fucks his way through Eregion story. This time, Celebrimbor needs to be distracted while the siege of his city happens right outside the window. How will Annatar cement his illusion? (With dick)

Takes place after Season 2 Episode 6: Where is He? Each chapter can be read as a stand alone fic as well.

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[prackspoor]

Daeror looked up at Annatar. “I will never be able to understand the fact how you, a god, can malign the finest and oldest of arts. I mean, you were literally there when the universe was Sung into being. You took part in it.”

“I do not malign music. I just like math better,” Annatar replied. “Besides, they are two sides of the same coin anyway. I just happen to prefer the more analytical side of it.”

Daeror squinted up at him. “Alright. Out with it. Why are you really here?”

“Can I not visit my best friend to have a brief chat?” Annatar drawled.

“Now I’m scared.”

“I’m being nice.”

“I know. That is why I am scared.”

[sarriane]

silvergifting prompt fill: One Night

From bluesky prompts: erulasse asked for "celebrimbor crushing on annatar 🤭"

A/N: I’ve read one or two fics where these two stay at an inn, but there is a DEARTH of There Was Only One Bed fics in this fandom! Perhaps this is more yearning than crushing, idk, these two are determined to be angsty. 

*

Twilight has fallen over the woods by the time they reach the little inn. The pouring rain has soaked their clothes and slowed their progress on the muddy path up and down the mountain foothills. Celebrimbor stables their horses and splashes through the puddles to the inn.

The inn is warm from the crowded bodies of travelers and well-lit by a crackling fire. The air is stuffy and smoky. Celebrimbor drifts through it until he finds Annatar deep in an argument with the landlady. He stops him with a hand on his shoulder. Annatar turns.

“What appears to be the problem?” Celebrimbor asks, raising his voice above the din. He looks between the harried innkeeper and Annatar’s stoic, unreadable face.

“We’ve only the one room left,” the innkeeper says. “Unless you’d rather the common room.”

She raises an eyebrow, as though she’d like to see two elven lords sleeping on the floor amongst the men that had wandered in on a rainy night.

“It would be peaceful in comparison to the hospitality of the dwarves,” Celebrimbor says dryly. Annatar flashes a rare smile at his joke when the innkeeper doesn’t seem to understand. Celebrimbor can’t crush the flip his stomach has done at the sight of that smile.

He exchanges money with the lady, buying their dinner and a room for the night. The two of them eat quickly, ignoring the stares from other travelers, and trudge up the creaking stairs to the tiny attic room. Celebrimbor tries not to look at Annatar. 

The room is unbearably quiet. It has a single bed, two chairs, and a rickety old table. The tiny fire crackles and the shutters shake from the rainstorm outside. The two of them open their saddlebags in search of dry clothes. Celebrimbor checks that the precious pouch of metals and jewels is still tucked into the hidden lining he’d sewn into the bag.

Besides him, Annatar lets out a rare curse. Celebrimbor looks up in surprise.

“My bag has leaked in the rain,” Annatar says, holding up a soaked tunic. 

“We’ll hang them by the fire,” Celebrimbor says. They leave a chair in front of the grate and drape their wet clothes over it. 

Annatar begins to peel out of his shirt. His trousers come next, as though he is undressing alone in his room. Celebrimbor’s mouth goes dry. He looks down, waiting for the moment to end, until he realizes Annatar intends to stay in his underthings until his clothes are dry.

Celebrimbor looks away and tries not to blush at the image before him. Out of his clothes, Annatar is almost too perfect, somehow, too smooth and golden and strong. Celebrimbor is used to watching his arms flex and bulge as he works in the forge. He sneaks another look, catching a glance at his chest, pink nipples and more muscles. 

If he isn’t careful, the tips of his ears will turn pink and give away that he’s looking -- if they haven’t already.

Celebrimbor distracts himself by looking through his bag and pulling out one of his largest shirts. “Try this,” he says hopelessly, already knowing it won’t fit over Annatar’s chiseled chest.

When his clothes prove too small, Celebrimbor gives up -- then realizes it’s his turn to change. He pulls his tunic over his head quickly, then hastily begins untying his trousers. He hears Annatar stretch out on the bed behind him, yawning. 

He feels eyes on him, watching silently like he doesn’t know he shouldn’t. Celebrimbor knows all too well, knows it intimately, how it feels to watch when you should not. He only watches Annatar when he knows he won’t be seen: when he is focused and at work at the anvil, when he translates scrolls in the library, when he stands in the dark courtyard where he thinks no one is watching and watches the skies at dusk between the sunset and the first twinkling stars. 

His fumbling fingers finally untie his trousers and he hangs them before the fire. He changes quickly, finding himself shivering from his cold, wet clothes. The air is chilly in the room, despite the fire.

“We should stay an extra day,” Annatar says thoughtfully. “This storm came down from the mountains and will continue all day tomorrow. It’ll wash out the paths.”

“We’re only a day’s ride away from the next town,” Celebrimbor says, heart in his mouth at the idea of another day in this room with Annatar. “We can stand to survive a little rain.”

“Your teeth are chattering,” Annatar admonishes, as if Celebrimbor has proven his point. “Come. Get into bed.”

Celebrimbor had seriously considered sleeping on the floor, but Annatar’s voice commands him into bed beside him. The straw mattress is lumpy, but comfortable enough. The wool blankets are warm, if unfamiliar. 

There’s just enough room for Annatar beside him, warming him, to close for comfort but too far to bring him relief. His golden hair is dark and stringy from the rain. It falls on his bare shoulders and reminds Celebrimbor that he’s undressed.

Proximity brings a kind of aching, wishing feeling to Celebrimbor’s chest. It holds his heart in a fist, telling him both to reach out and to stay away. He feels an awful need and dread all at once. His head is swimming.

“Annatar --”

“I’ll leave you to sleep,” Annatar says, slipping out of bed and pulling the other chair by the fire. He begins to run his fingers through his hair to dry it. Celebrimbor shuts his eyes to the view and hopes sleep takes him before his desire.

+++