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cilil · 7 months

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✦ ⁺ ‧ Day 1 ⁺ Melkor x Mairon ✦ ⁺ ‧ Synopsis: The father of dragons plays with his favourite treasure. ✦ ⁺ ‧ Featuring/prompts: Monsterfucking, draconic!Melkor, size difference, roleplay ✦ ⁺ ‧ Warnings: Smut, rough sex (consensual) ✦ ⁺ ‧ Writer challenges fulfilled: No. 2 (Mairon has a 🐱) Also available on AO3

AN: First one for @silmsmutweek! Suggested by @celebbun, thanks for the idea~

"So pretty..."

Golden chains and exquisite gemstones tinkled softly when Mairon shifted on the huge satin pillow he had been placed on like a crown jewel, showing off his beauty. His fána was bare safe for the jewellery he wore, from a filigree circlet to chain-like anklets, not a single piece of fabric near him that could be used to cover himself. With every rise and fall of his chest, a pair of rubies glittered in dim light of braziers, attached to tiny golden hoops that pierced his nipples, and his arms and fingers were adorned by countless golden bands of all shapes and sizes, all of them crafted by his own hand. Even his lips and eyelids were golden, and his fiery eyes were gleaming with excitement as he beheld the great, dark figure watching him in silence, seated on another pile of gold nearby.

"The most precious treasure in my hoard..."

A couple of smaller trinkets were knocked over and rolled across the floor when Melkor's tail twitched, betraying his excitement. Smooth black scales scraped against metal and stone, nearly invisible in the shadows except for their iridescent shimmer, and clawed fingers dug into a pile of gold as if he was getting ready to pounce.

Melkor was larger than usual in this form, tall and strong like a Balrog. His fána appeared as though a beast slumbering within could no longer be contained, with patches of scales covering parts of his body and sharp, antler-like spikes protruding from his shoulders and elbows, alongside a pair of curved horns adorning his head. Like Mairon, he wore no clothes. Purple eyes fixated the Maia without blinking, and he licked his sharp fangs like a cat about to enjoy a delicious meal.

And that was precisely what he would be today, Mairon thought to himself, his heart beating faster in anticipation. He knew Melkor could hear it too, saw the telltale twitch of his ears as they focused on him. Under normal circumstances he might have had a clever retort, might have challenged the Vala's possessiveness for his own amusement, but not tonight. Perhaps there had been a time where he would have attempted to escape, like a tiny bird helplessly flapping its wings in the jaws of a predator, yet right now, he was just a pretty trinket, another treasure to be hoarded and possessed, and the mere thought excited him.

Mairon felt a treacherous droplet of arousal leaking from his fána and dripping down his thigh, and the sudden dilation of Melkor's pupils and deep inhale revealed that he had smelled it before his eyes had even caught the movement. Swift and soundless like a shadow, the Dark Vala moved towards him. His eyes studied him once again, eerily calm, and Mairon met his gaze fearlessly. He was going to be taken and devoured like a delicious piece of prey and he was looking forward to it. More wetness pooled between his thighs, and with one decisive movement, Melkor grasped his knees to part them.

"Mine." His voice was a low growl, warning and triumph at the same time. He had no patience when it came to claiming what he considered to be his, and the treasure he held in his hands was irresistible. Soft, glistening folds presented themselves to him, a lovely rose gold shade, and the next thing Mairon felt was a big, rough tongue beginning to lick him, causing him to squirm on his pillow. Large clawed hands seized his hips immediately to hold him in place as Melkor continued to taste him, mercilessly coaxing more liquid out of him and providing additional lubricant.

He was going to need it to take him in this form, Mairon knew. It was going to push his fána to its limits, but his excitement was stronger than any fear he might have felt. Enduring the strength of his Valarin lover was a matter of pride just as much as it was a matter of pleasure.

Melkor's tail wrapping around him and his tongue licking a wet stripe across his torso was the only warning he got. In one swift, decisive motion, he was flipped onto his stomach and felt something hot and pointed prod his entrance impatiently before pushing inside. Taking just the tip of it was already a struggle, causing Mairon to gasp and groan with every movement of the Vala's hips. Melkor opened him up through the sheer size of his monstrous form, forcing him to accommodate more and more of his cock.

If he wasn't an Ainu, such a coupling would be beyond his body's ability to handle, Mairon knew, and the thought excited him. He was leaking all over the massive length impaling him, allowing Melkor to slowly but surely enter him completely, marked by a triumphant growl. His fána was so deliciously, maddeningly full, his lower body bulging with every thrust and brushing against the pillow underneath him. The jewellery he was wearing glittered and tinkled incessantly, and it seemed to entice Melkor even further.

"My beautiful, precious little gem," he purred in his ear, nuzzling the back of his neck and nibbling on soft skin.

Mairon was held in place by his weight, his tail and his claws, like heavy chains wrapped around him, and Melkor's larger form covered his. Yet the sensation of feeling so utterly trapped and at his mercy was both thrilling and strangely comforting, satisfying a deep, primal need of belonging to another and being possessed. Every thrust opened him up more, the sensation both pleasurable and painful, its intensity causing him to moan and scream to his lover's delight.

It didn't take long for Mairon to climax, his fána desperately clenching around the monstrous cock inside, its girth and texture causing it to relentlessly stimulate all of his sensitive spots. Melkor chuckled as he felt the Maia's smaller form weakly squirt more wetness all over his cock.

"Eager, are we?" He accentuated his question with a particularly vicious thrust and revelled in the sensation of Mairon twitching and trembling underneath him. "But I'm not done claiming you yet, my love..."

"Ah – please-!"

Mairon couldn't tell what he was even begging for at this point, yet deep down he knew it wasn't for mercy. Never mercy – even though he knew that, ironically, he might be one of very few beings in this world that might receive it from Melkor if he begged enough. No, whatever pleas and cries fell from his gold-dusted lips were part of their game, playing his part as the treasure that he was embodying for his lover's pleasure as well as his own.

Melkor reached out to grab as many necklaces and body chains as he could fit in his large fist and pulled, forcing Mairon to arch his back and pressing their fánar even closer together. "Tell me to whom you belong," he whispered in his ear, his voice a feral growl. "Say it. I want to hear it from you."

"Y-yours..." Mairon failed to string together a coherent sentence when another climax washed over him, but Melkor still wasn't satisfied, tugging on his jewellery again.

"More!"

"I-I'm yours... belong to you... your treasure..."

"That's right." Another deep, vicious thrust. "All mine. My precious, my pretty gem, my little flame to toy with as I please."

Hot liquid flooded Mairon's fána without warning, and Melkor purred from pleasure and relief alike. His rough lips found the Maia's cheek to kiss him as gently as he could in his current shape, fangs brushing against soft skin to leave a tantalising, tickling sensation in their wake, yet exhaustion and the tenderness of his movements weakened the thrill of danger.

Mairon felt loose and full at the same time when Melkor pulled out and began cleaning him with his long, flexible tongue. Was the monstrous form his Valarin lover was currently inhabiting finally satisfied or would he be taken again, he wondered, but relaxed on his pillow nevertheless. After all, it was like Melkor had said: For the time being, he was merely a pretty trinket to be admired and toyed with.

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furious-haste-of-malice · 7 months

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"I heard things about you," he said in a low voice. "They say you gain favours by offering your fána to others. And I know it to be true. Even if you won't admit it, I've seen how you act when we fight. How you will always evade and deny and scream and throw insults, but also show off your fána and make sure it touches mine –"

✦ ⁺ ‧ Day 5 ⁺ Tulkas x Melkor (background/implied Melkor x Mairon) ✦ ⁺ ‧ Synopsis: Tulkas chases Melkor with the intention of stopping him from committing evil deeds - and satisfying an age-old craving. ✦ ⁺ ‧ Featuring/prompts: Hate sex, rough sex, non-con, humiliation/degradation, light bondage ✦ ⁺ ‧ Warnings: Non-con (I mean it), physical violence Also available on AO3

AN: Day 5 of @silmsmutweek. Please heed the warnings - this may be rather unpleasant to read for some of you.

"Get away from me!"

"That'd suit you just fine, huh?"

Black claw-like nails dug into ruddy flesh, leaving angry red marks as the two Valar rolled down a grassy hill in the plains of Valinor. Their fight was heated and bitter, neither willing to give up – Melkor kept insisting that he had done nothing wrong, while Tulkas was adamant that he had been acting suspicious and had decided to apprehend him before any evil deeds could be committed. If anything his resistance made it seem like he had something to hide, as the Champion of the Valar proudly proclaimed.

Despite his best efforts Melkor ended up trapped underneath his bulk when they stopped rolling.

"Look," Tulkas began, and for once his laughter stopped. "You may have fooled Manwë, but I don't believe you've changed. In fact I think you're up to something."

For some reason this idiot has convinced himself that he knows something. Melkor bared his teeth and snarled, though he couldn't shake the vague feeling of dread crawling up his spine. This seemed to be more serious than he had initially assumed, and unfortunately for him, his chances of beating Tulkas in a fight weren't too good. The memories of his painful, humiliating defeat were fresh on his mind and being imprisoned in Mandos for ages had certainly not helped matters.

"So all of a sudden you know better than everyone else? You, Tulkas the wise, the last person anyone in their right mind would ever ask for advice? Don't make me laugh," Melkor sneered. He barely managed to catch Tulkas' fist as the other attempted to retaliate against his mockery.

"Laugh all you want while you still can. I know evil when I see it," Tulkas said.

Melkor's eyes lit up like blue flames. "What do you even want from me?! Your king has accepted me as one of the Valar, yet you continue to pursue me! Do you want me to sit quietly in a corner and grovel at your feet? Would that please you enough to leave me alone?"

Silence ensued as Tulkas pondered those words. His arm relaxed slightly, allowing Melkor to finally push his fist away, but his weight on top of him was unyielding and he couldn't get away; not like this anyway. Perhaps he could find another way – though before he could come up with a plan, he noticed how the other Vala was staring down at him, his expression shifting from righteous anger to something different.

"Please me, huh?" Tulkas mused. "Why, it would indeed. And I must say I'm not surprised that you would attempt to suggest such a thing."

"It was not a suggestion, you imbecile!" Melkor tried to struggle again, only to be pinned to the ground even more forcefully.

"I don't think so."

Tulkas suddenly grasped his chin with one of his large hands, eyeing the Dark Vala with something akin to interest in his eyes.

"My fána is touching yours because I'm defending myself! How on Arda did you fail to understand that?!" Melkor cried out indignantly, but Tulkas wasn't listening. Instead, he reached for his robe and tore it with ease, exposing his angrily heaving chest.

"Aye, even now you deny it, yet I know better," he said and reached for one of his nipples, hardened from rubbing against the fabric. He pinched it, causing Melkor to let out a pained noise before he could stop himself.

"Sometimes I wonder if you want me to chase you, beat you into submission and..." Tulkas used his hand holding the Dark Vala's chin to force eye contact while continuing to roughly fondle his chest. "... offer yourself to me so I leave you alone. Is that it, slut?"

"Unhand me and go play out your sick fantasies with someone else!"

Tulkas shook his head. "You're a liar and everyone knows it."

Faster than lightning, he let go of Melkor's chin to backhand him across the face, causing him to drop to the ground in a daze. While the Dark Vala was incapacitated, he grabbed a rope he had brought with him and tied his hands together before forcibly removing the rest of his clothes.

"I believe I deserve a reward for all the trouble you caused and I'll take it whether you like it or not," Tulkas growled.

Did he... plan this?!

Melkor's eyes widened in panic, and his reaction seemed to please him.

"Now you stop shouting, hm? Don't worry, I'll be gentle if you behave."

Tulkas' weight was suddenly lifted, but any attempt at another escape or defending himself by kicking him was foiled when he immediately took hold his thighs to force his legs apart, positioning himself in-between, and pushing them back against his chest to expose the most vulnerable part of his fána. Melkor struggled and protested as fiercely as he could, but unfortunately the Champion of the Valar was stronger than him.

"Indeed, you're prettier than I used to think," Tulkas mused, not bothering to suppress a pleased groan as he greedily spread him open with both hands and admired the tight, twitching hole presenting itself to him. "And you put up a good fight if you try, as if you were made to be conquered by me... aye, I admit I've been desiring this for a long time."

"Stop! Let me go! I –" Melkor bit his lip. Despite everything, he couldn't bring himself to plead – though something told him it'd be futile anyway, and heightening his enemy's pleasure was all he would achieve.

Impatient, Tulkas spat on his hand and unceremoniously shoved two spit-slicked fingers inside of him, his free hand holding his legs in place. Melkor had to bite down harder to keep himself from crying out in pain. It was the first time someone touched him like this after many years in captivity, it hurt and it was so unlike the loving, gentle touches he remembered from a different time, when he was at home and felt safe and Mairon was with him – no, he couldn't think of Mairon now. He had grown to treasure these memories as one of few comforts he'd had in his lonely cell in Mandos and he would need them again so very soon, he couldn't allow them to be poisoned by another's violation of his fána.

Melkor kept cursing the other Vala and tried to kick him, but Tulkas thwarted all of his attempts and continued to force his passage open with merciless determination.

"Stop being difficult or I'll have to beat you again," he said, and Melkor's blood froze; from the tone of his voice and the utter lack of Tulkas' usual smile and boisterous laughter revealed that this was a serious threat.

He was going to have to endure this too, the greatest humiliation forced upon him by his most hated enemy. His thoughts were racing, desperately trying to find a way out – he wanted Mairon to come and save him, but he knew he couldn't reach him from Valinor and even if he could, what chance would a Maia have against the Champion of the Valar? As the pain between his legs grew and bruises began to form, Melkor even thought about calling for Manwë, but would his holy, perfect brother even hear him? Would he side with him or would he accept what was done to him as yet another justified punishment?

Tulkas forced his cock inside him without warning, and this time Melkor couldn't stop himself from screaming, his lips already bloody from being bitten. It hurt so much more than his fingers, stretching him wide despite his fána's desperate attempts at resistance.

"Tulkas, stop!" His cry was weak, and the only response he received was a dark chuckle as the other Vala began moving inside of him.

"Not before I've gotten my fill of that tight little hole of yours."

Melkor tried to shed his fána then, his ëala wanting nothing more than to escape, but Tulkas' grip was too strong. He was forced to stay where he was, pressed against the ground as the sacred soil of Valinor was stained with their sweat and blood dripping out of his abused hole.

To his horror, he soon felt Tulkas' hand reaching for his cock and stroking him with rough, hasty movements. There truly were no limits to how much he would be degraded, and even when he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to numb himself to the pain and unwanted pleasure, he couldn't stop his fána from responding.

"You're going to cum because I know you enjoy it, slut," Tulkas growled triumphantly.

Melkor didn't bother arguing. By now he had long realised that his enemy was playing out some kind of twisted fantasy he had made up in his mind, and he would see it through to the end. There was nothing he could do to change that, no matter how much he resisted. The only option he had left was to endure, to escape once Tulkas was done with him and find a quiet place to lick his wounds.

There was no relief when the combined efforts of his hand and his rapidly thrusting cock forced an orgasm out of Melkor, causing him to arch his back and coat both himself and his enemy in viscous white liquid. He didn't need to open his eyes to know that Tulkas was smiling. His torment seemed to go on for an eternity until he finally felt something wet and sticky inside him, marring his fána and completing the utter humiliation of his very being.

Tulkas pulled out of him to admire his handiwork, grasping both of the Dark Vala's thighs to keep him from closing his legs.

"You look good like that, fucked open and filled with my seed," he purred. "I'd even say you've never looked prettier."

Melkor only let out a whimper in response, still keeping his eyes closed. He didn't want to see it. He didn't want to process what had just happened. All he wanted to was to leave his fána behind, get as far away as he could, clean himself and forget, forget, forget, until he had successfully convinced himself that his dignity had never been violated this way.

Yet when he was left lying in the grass, leaking blood and cum with every shuddering breath, Melkor couldn't move. His ëala was heavy with shame, as if Tulkas was still on top of him and holding him down, and his breath came in short, uneven gasps. Even his own fána refused him now, tainted with the essence of another, of something repulsive and unwanted.

I'm fine. I'm the mightiest of them all, they'll never truly defeat me.

Instead of opening his eyes, Melkor fled into the depths of his mind and summoned memories of happier times, of bliss instead of pain, of Mairon's smile and his warm, comforting embrace. Mairon would fix this for him if he couldn't. Mairon would make him whole again. It was the only reassurance he had, and he clung to it as his fána went numb and he slowly drifted into a state of unconsciousness.

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imakemywings · 7 months

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Summary: Thuringwethil expected she had signed her doom when she let the princess of Doriath go free. But she may have saved herself in the process.

Length: 3.9k

AN: Luthuri for @silmsmutweek, also fitting in with the challenge "fill a kink meme prompt" for this prompt!

AO3 | Pillowfort | SWG

Photo credit to Dainis Graveris on Unsplash.

It had been such a brilliant stroke of luck for Thuringwethil. Capturing the princess of Doriath, wandering abroad, alone? She could still hear Sauron’s delighted cackling. It seemed Lúthien Eluviel had a restlessness in her that her Maia mother had long outgrown. What a prize they had for Melkor!

When Thuringwethil had let the princess go, she had not expected to ever see her again.

Of course she went whining to Sauron about Lúthien’s alleged threats, about how she said she’d tear Thuringwethil’s skin away as a prize, and claimed there had been nothing she could do to subdue Melian’s wild daughter. Then, she had retreated to Nan Elmoth, the better to get away from Sauron’s ongoing tantrum.

That had been nearly two years ago, and she had yet to return to Tol-in-Gaurhoth.

Nan Elmoth was become a shadowed, ill place, harboring dark things and sickly magics. Past the Girdle of Melian Thuringwethil could not go, so Nan Elmoth was where she stayed, dreaming of a light of pure white shining on the horizon.

In the closeness of that malevolent wood, Thuringwethil wrapped her mind in cotton, shielding herself from considerations of why she had done it. There was no need to think here—she could simply be a beast: hunting, feeding, resting. There was no pretense of humanity here.

The first time Lúthien had entered, Thuringwethil had been certain her mind was going, or that she had come under some wretched enchantment of Nan Elmoth’s unknowing. The light of Lúthien pierced the misty darkness between the trees: a beacon; a target; a horrifying, cleansing force. Thuringwethil could do naught but sit and stare dumbly at the princess’ approach, could put up only feeble resistance to the powerful resonance of her voice, and bent to her will in the end, though Lúthien raised neither hand nor blade against her.

Thuringwethil was one who craved direction: a voice to instruct her, to tell her what to do. For a time, Vairë had been it. But she had heard the voice of Melkor, and it seemed to her that his was the stronger, so she turned away from Vairë and embraced the discord of Melkor, but since she had quitted the service of Sauron—though she had not framed it so when she left—she had been directionless, lost, bestial.

But then there was Lúthien, her commands given in the haughty confidence of a royal brat, telling her: be good, do not kill, do no harm, consider the feelings of your prey, speak not to Morgoth nor to Gorthaur, be better. Many of Lúthien’s commands seemed difficult, even impossible, and most of them felt silly and pointless. Yet Thuringwethil strove to obey, because Lúthien wished it.

Her reward was Lúthien’s presence.

Now, she had grown to expect it—she could feel a miserable restiveness in her breast when it had been too long since the princess had last visited. Each time, she began to wonder if Lúthien meant never to return; she grew snappish, angry, wounded, anxious. She did not recognize herself.

But when Lúthien came, all that had preceded her visit faded away, and Thuringwethil forgot her distresses and even her anger (usually), and welcomed her guest to the best of her ability (limited as it was). Still, she could not pass behind the Girdle, so she could not see Lúthien in her home, and Lúthien warned her it would continue to be so until Thuringwethil could be trusted not to harm the Iathrim or the flora and fauna which also called that forest home, and which the Iathrim treasured beyond all works of their hands.

At the mouth of the cave in which Thuringwethil sheltered, Lúthien called out, as she always did, as if Thuringwethil needed a warning of her presence, as if she had not been tracking her for miles since she first detected Lúthien’s presence in the forest. She called, and then she pressed into the darkness, balancing the handle of a basket in the crook of her elbow—she usually brought something with her when she came. Thuringwethil perched on a rock spire, her clawed fingers digging into the stone with anticipation until Lúthien’s dark head appeared in the around a slight bend in the rock. It hurt to look directly at her, but Thuringwethil looked anyway, taking her stinging eyes as proof of Lúthien’s greatness, of her power.

She could smell the blood on her at once, cutting through the musty dankness of the cave.

“I have brought something for you,” said Lúthien, setting the basket on a flat-ish rock over which Thuringwethil had spread a blanket that Lúthien had brought previously. She unclasped her cloak and folded it up beside the basket, as if she were visiting one of her Elven friends behind the Girdle and there was nothing unusual or out of place. Her deep gray eyes snapped up to Thuringwethil’s snub-nosed face. “What have you done since I saw you last?”

This was customary as well—an accounting of her behavior. In the beginning, Thuringwethil had relished telling Lúthien things she thought would disgust or upset her, even lying about what she had done, but the princess proved to be of sterner stuff than Thuringwethil imagined, and Lúthien’s stone-faced displeasure not nearly as rewarding. Furthermore, Thuringwethil only got rewards when she behaved herself according to Lúthien’s standards. Whatever was in the basket was surely one of those, although it was not that which had Thuringwethil’s attention presently.

So Thuringwethil told. It was all quite dull, except perhaps the part about Sauron trying to force his mind into hers to see where she was and twist her arm into coming back. She’d crawled away as best she could, but the force of her mind was not a match for Melkor’s prized lieutenant. She only hoped he would eventually cast her off as refuse, rather than decide to make an example of her. Lúthien frowned during this story; a furrow appeared between her arched black brows; eagerly, Thuringwethil detailed the experience, enchanted with the notion that her distress could be a concern for Lúthien.

“What will you do about him?” she asked. Thuringwethil shrugged bony, oddly-jointed shoulders.

“Avoid him,” she said. She’d done that even when they were still working together, if only to escape from his constant complaints.

“What if he comes for you?” Thuringwethil shrugged again.

“Run,” she said. “He will not chase forever; he has other things to be doing. Lord Melkor will be displeased if he both loses a servant and wastes time chasing after her. Already he is displeased about you.” Of course Melkor had learned they’d had the princess of Doriath captive and then lost her—and of course Melkor had been in a towering temper about it (“Incompetent, he called me!” Mairon had seethed). “If I am lucky, he will look for something else with which to win Lord Melkor’s approval. If I am less lucky, he will bring Lord Melkor my head on a spike in recompence.” Her tone was matter-of-fact.

Lúthien nodded slowly. Somewhere deeper in the cave, water dripped.

“You may need help,” she supposed. Thuringwethil’s eyes darted around Lúthien’s face. The princess exhaled a careful sigh; the air around her seemed to shimmer: a pearl dropped into a pigpen. Thuringwethil did not ask for her aid; why should she give it? Thuringwethil had done nothing to deserve it; she could not understand why Lúthien paid her any mind at all.

“You’re bleeding today,” Thuringwethil said instead of addressing the larger issue. Lúthien had made it quite clear to her the Children did not like having this remarked upon, but Thuringwethil did not see how this bleeding differed from that of an open wound. Was the Child itself not an open wound? Locked into a single, repetitive fana, and so very prone to injury, so keen to part flesh for the teeth and nails of another and bleed, and bleed—even sturdier Dwarves and Elves broke easily under Thuringwethil’s hands.

Thuringwethil’s comment bought her a cross look from Lúthien, which made the vampire part her lips to show fang in a parody of a smile.

“It is the week of your blood cycle,” Thuringwethil went on, since Lúthien was already annoyed. “Will you let me do the ritual with you?” Lúthien sighed. She had tried in the past to explain this to Thuringwethil, but her misconceptions about menstruation and its function among the Children persisted. Lúthien got the sense Thuringwethil thought she was lying, or trying to conceal something from her.

“It is not a ritual,” said the princess again. “And if you are good, then…”

“I will be good!” Thuringwethil announced quickly. “See how good I will be!” She unfurled off the stalagmite and at her full height towered angular and rangy above Melian’s daughter, the cruel cut of her muscles sharp against her grayish skin, her joints outlined thinly in flesh. She was pleased with herself for sweeping the bones of her kills off to the side of the cave, where Lúthien did not have to step over them as she had done in the past.

This was not the first time Thuringwethil had taken the princess to bed. In the past, such things had never concerned her; she did not understand the Children’s fixation on physical pleasures. Now that she too, was more staid in fana (she could shift still, but it took great effort, and it pained her in ways it never had in Aman), perhaps it made more sense—but she thought the better part of it had to do with the tender and perishable beauty of Lúthien.

This particular delight was something Lúthien could only give her at certain times, and she did not always allow it. But Thuringwethil had been well-behaved lately, desirous to prove herself worthy of Lúthien’s affections, so that day, the princess allowed the vampire to lay her back on the mattress—stuffed with feathers of many birds which Thuringwethil had ended herself for this purpose, for she understood the Children enjoyed such comforts—and admire her supine form: the spray of her ink-black hair against the coarse cloth of the mattress; the allure of her sharp eyes, hooded by the soft pads of her eyelids; the faint points of her teeth, still baby-round to Thuringwethil, but more cutting than among pure-blooded Elves.

Lúthien was not a pure-blooded Elf—she was a strange amalgamation of creation, unique, unknown, dangerous. Thuringwethil licked her lips. Some of Melian’s power flowed in this child, driven by the whims of Elfinesse, for Lúthien was neither entirely Melian nor entirely Thingol—and a great deal of her seemed to be neither of them, but something of her own.

When she allowed such touching, Lúthien permitted Thuringwethil to be shockingly rough, and at times Thuringwethil enjoyed driving Lúthien until she could tell the princess wanted to cry mercy, digging her teeth into those plump pink lips and holding herself back, until her words of reprimand cracked like a whip to put an end to Thuringwethil’s games. However…she began to feel the pleasure in it for her was somewhat lessened where Lúthien’s was overcome with her pain. Still, to see the marks of her hands and teeth blossom across the princess’ fair skin long after they were done gave Thuringwethil a possessive thrill.

Her long-fingered hands trembled as she parted Lúthien’s fleshy legs, tracing a path up to her hips. Methodically, passing her tongue over her teeth, she undid the ties and fasteners of Lúthien’s robes and peeled her out of them until she was splayed in a nest of clothing on the mattress, gooseflesh breaking out across her body. Her nipples puckered, and Thuringwethil brushed her fingers through the shock of black curls between her legs. The wiry hair was wet and matted with blood and Thuringwethil’s mouth parted as she breathed in, to better grab the scent of it.

“Does it taste different? Than drinking of the rest of the body?” Lúthien asked, her curiosity genuine. Elves were always too curious for their own good, but Thuringwethil was happy to indulge her.

“Better,” she said in a throaty, phlegmy purr. She leaned down to mouth at Lúthien’s neck, quivering to feel the princess’ warmth laid so bare against her. Her own ragged tunic she left in a heap by the mattress, so that the wetness of Lúthien’s sex pressed against her bare stomach, leaving bloody streaks behind. “It is…” She struggled to think of the proper word for it. “Rich,” she said at last. “Filling.”

“Ah.” Lúthien’s eyes were half-closed, her head tilted back, but Thuringwethil did not take this to mean she was not paying attention. She’d learned better. “You prefer it for this?”

“For that,” Thuringwethil allowed, rubbing a hand over Lúthien’s right breast. “And this.” Her hands were not shaped quite in the way of Elves, and her touch clumsier on Lúthien’s deceptively delicate form than she would have liked, but it was what she had. She needled at Lúthien’s throat and breasts with her teeth; Lúthien was still teaching her the value of a gentle touch in the midst of her brutality, but Thuringwethil had learned that she could bring Lúthien to pure ecstasy with enough attention to her fana, and she could not let go of the idea of doing it again. However, she was rather accustomed to beating the results she wanted out of the world, which was not always possible with Lúthien.

Lúthien flinched and made a noise; Thuringwethil looked up.

“Only cramps,” Lúthien replied with half a sigh. “Worse today than usual…” She opened her eyes fully to look at Thuringwethil. “Most often it is possible to ignore them. This may help.”

“Oh?” Thuringwethil was not usually presented with the chance to help Lúthien with anything; usually the princess’ directives had to do with Thuringwethil refraining from doing things. “You would allow me to help?”

“Nothing to do with what I allow,” Lúthien replied. “Only with what you can do.”

“The completion of the ritual,” Thuringwethil surmised, her ears twitching. Lúthien heaved a loud breath.

“The completion,” she confirmed. “It may help.” So Thuringwethil did her duty to relieve the pain of Lúthien’s fana; was Lúthien not more likely to keep visiting her if she could make herself useful?

Her teeth left bruises on Lúthien’s heavy breasts, and at her throat, and her collar: pastel purple speckled with red. Her nails raked bright rows down Lúthien’s arms and ribs and thighs. Thuringwethil had seen Lúthien in pain—and the way she gasped and writhed and whimpered now was not that. Heat pulsed through her body, half-trapped in Elfinesse, and Thuringwethil dug into her for the Maia part—the part of them which was alike. There was so much to her—round and soft in so many places, places where Thuringwethil was sinew and bone; she was like a ripe fruit of Yavanna’s children, swollen and sweet with juice and tender flesh, ready to stain Thuringwethi’s mouth and hands at the slightest touch.

“Mm…when did you know?” Lúthien panted, her hands fisted up in the clothes discarded beneath her.

“I smelled you coming,” Thuringwethil murmured, squeezing one of Lúthien’s breasts until she gave a quiet cry, shivering against Thuringwethil’s form. “Fresh blood I might smell a mile away, perhaps more.” Her hand traveled down and dipped between Lúthien’s lower lips, coming away with blood and mucus spread across her fingers. She wrapped her lips around her fingers and sucked Lúthien’s effluvia off, savoring the sharp iron tang, thick with her body’s nutrients. This was meant to nourish the offspring, she knew. It was delicious, and it was hers; she would suck dry what was meant to feed Lúthien’s young; she would swallow a part of the princess and make it a part of herself.

Lúthien squirmed at the brush of Thuringwethil’s fingers and she noticed the princess’ eyes fixed on her as she drew her fingers from her mouth, now shining with only her own saliva.

Lúthien’s efforts aside, Thuringwethil was not one to draw things out or delay gratification: she dropped down onto her belly, threw Lúthien’s legs one over each shoulder, and put her mouth to Lúthien’s flushed cunt. She buried her bat nose in the bloody hair, licking it clean as a wolf to her newborn pup, and mouthed at Lúthien’s slick, yielding opening. Her body was warm, always so warm, and welcoming, inviting Thuringwethil deeper with coquettish strings of blood and tantalizing shreds of organ lining. The blood was hot against Thuringwethil’s cool flesh, smearing across her mouth, her nose, her chin, her cheeks; it was far less a meal than she had had countless times before, yet she felt gorged.

The princess moaned and Thuringwethil thrust her tongue eagerly in, seeking more of her evening meal. Her tongue rasped against the softness of Lúthien’s flesh and Lúthien arched her back off the mattress, her muscles straining to get closer to Thuringwethil’s hungry mouth. She wriggled nearer to Lúthien, pushing her up towards the head of the mattress, and when she thought she had lapped up everything, more oozed out just to tease her.

Lúthien twisted about, her breath coming in pants, and Thuringwethil was stretching her tongue for whatever last drops she could lick away off Lúthien’s insides when abruptly Lúthien’s body went rigid, and then Thuringwethil felt her muscles convulsing. Lúthien quivered against Thuringwethil’s mouth, spasming, and the Elf moaned again, suddenly sounding out of breath. This moment, where she lost control of herself, was something Thuringwethil thought she might crave even more than food. She lifted her bloody face from between Lúthien’s legs to observe the princess’ twitching body and fluttering eyelids, the shapes her mouth made as pleasure beyond her control swept over her.

“No more?” she asked. Sometimes, Lúthien allowed her to keep going, even if she had managed to get one finish from her—which she did not always do.

“Not now,” Lúthien panted, her breasts shivering with her breathing. “I need…” She was reaching for one of the pieces of clothing Thuringwethil had taken from her; it had a blood-stained pad of fabric in it, but Thuringwethil did not hand it to her.

“It does not bother me if you bleed here,” she said. Lúthien sighed, too languid to argue. Thuringwethil did not mention she enjoyed the smell in her crummy little cave; she was already scheming to steal the used pad.

“You look a mess,” Lúthien said. Thuringwethil passed her tongue around her lips, catching a last taste of Lúthien’s fertility and arousal.

“Can I touch?” she rasped, sliding up the bed to sit nearer to the princess. “Can I touch?”

“Not my sex,” said Lúthien, closing her eyes. Thuringwethil nodded and eased down alongside her, running her fingers over other, permitted areas of Lúthien’s bare body. She dipped her fingers into the divot of Lúthien’s sternum and felt the spaces between her ribs; she pressed her thumb into the underside of Lúthien’s breast and watched the point of her nail poke into the flesh; she stroked the arc of Lúthien’s hip bone and scraped a nail over the rippling lines around her hip (it came from the rapid growth in adolescence, Lúthien had explained).

“I could hurt you,” Thuringwethil reminded her, as she did every so often.

“I know,” Lúthien murmured. They said nothing else for a time, and then she added, with startling self-assurance: “I could hurt you too.” Thuringwethil grinned around uneven teeth.

“I know,” she said, almost gleefully. “Why don’t you?” she asked after a pause. Being hurt by Lúthien, she thought, would be an infinitely more enjoyable experience than being hurt by Mairon or Melkor.

“I have no wish to,” said Lúthien quietly, eyes still shut.

“Why not?”

“It is not my pleasure to hurt others, even wicked ones.”

“Think you I am still wicked?”

“What do you think?” Lúthien then opened her eyes, searing Thuringwethil with her clear gray gaze, and the vampire’s bravado dimmed. If she was honest, Thuringwethil did not expect Lúthien to trust her—she would not have trusted herself. She looked away until Lúthien relaxed again.

After a long, quiet pause, the princess turned her head to look at Thuringwethil long in silence. When Lúthien looked at her this way, Thuringwethil wished powerfully that she had a mind like Sauron’s, which could penetrate through all but the most robust mental defenses, that she might know what Lúthien was thinking.

Of course, even if she could break the princess’ defenses, she doubted Lúthien would ever forgive her such a violation. The Children did not respond well to such things. Her curiosity would likely have to go unsated regardless.

As she was pondering this, Lúthien reached out with one fair hand and touched Thuringwethil’s gaunt cheek. Her fingertips burned against Thuringwethil’s flesh, but she held as still as stone, unblinking, as Lúthien brushed over her cheek and her broad ear.

“Do you wish me to hurt you?” It was the kind of blunt question which Lúthien was rarely afraid to ask.

“Yes,” Thuringwethil answered.

“Why?”

“I think it would feel different.”

“Different?”

“Than being hurt by others. Than hurting others.”

“Do you wish to hurt me?” Lúthien asked.

Now Thuringwethil hesitated. She reflected. She looked at the cave wall beyond where they lay.

“I do not know,” she said at last. She had done it before, but she was no longer certain what she felt about that. Lúthien accepted this with a weighty, solemn gaze. “Have you never wished to hurt another?”

It was Lúthien’s turn to pause and answer carefully.

“I have,” she admitted. “Fleetingly. It is not a feeling I enjoy. But you find power in it, yes?” This was a point they had discussed before. Thuringwethil flashed her teeth, but did not smile.

“Why? Why did you wish to hurt them?”

“Childish pique, mostly,” said Lúthien. “Sometimes one wishes to hurt another so they might share in one’s own unhappiness. But ‘tis a cruel thing to do, to wield one’s own hurt that way, as a weapon.”

“Did you do it?”

“A few times,” Lúthien admitted with some seemingly reluctance.

“But you did not enjoy it?”

“No. I felt…lesser. Weaker. As though I had allowed myself to briefly become someone baser and more thoughtless.”

This was a sentiment Thuringwethil had never considered before. It was not how things were spoken of among the followers of Melkor; the ability to hurt another was a power; who was most right most often came down to who was strongest. There was a reason why the most cunning rose to the top—Melkor, Sauron, herself—but that was a kind of might as well, wasn’t it? And they could all back it up with physical and magical power. Was there not exhilaration in exercising one’s own anger and displeasure on another? But Thuringwethil knew already Lúthien disagreed with this.

“What did you do afterwards?” Thuringwethil found herself asking.

“I apologized,” said Lúthien, an answer that both shocked and did not surprise Thuringwethil.

“What benefit did this win you?”

Lúthien looked long at Thuringwethil, her deep gray eyes boring into Thuringwethil’s, until the vampire’s eyes watered and there seemed a halo of piercing light around Lúthien’s curving, naked form which blurred the world around her.

“Forgiveness,” she said.

Thuringwethil said nothing, and Lúthien propped herself up on an elbow and leaned forward, pressing a stinging kiss against Thuringwethil’s forehead that seared down her body like a benediction.

“I will rest a while,” said the princess. Thuringwethil felt as though Lúthien had stolen speech from her; no words would come to her tongue. So instead of pressing further, she just sat up and looked down at the princess, and watched her rest. She would stay there until Lúthien felt like getting up.

#luthien #thuringwethil #luthuri #Luthien x Thuringwethil #The Silmarillion #tolkien tag #fanfiction #tolkien fanfiction #silmsmutweek #rocky writes

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yletylyf · 7 months

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Silvergifting (Celebrimbor/Sauron) for @silmsmutweek Day 7: Alternate Universe (no war between Sauron and the elves)

Celebrimbor offers himself to Sauron in exchange for the safety of his city and his people. He is resigned to any number of fates, but what Sauron actually wants from him is a mystery.

Warnings: Sexually Explicit Content, Dubious Consent Due To Circumstances (but Celebrimbor is into it anyway)

#silvergifting #my fic #silmsmutweek #the silmarillion

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polutrope · 7 months

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Snakes and Ladders

for @silmsmutweek Day 1, Prompts: Solo, Rarepairs, Voyeurism.

It is the night of Tirion's masked ball. Fëanáro is after Artanis' hair, Artanis is after a distraction, Macalaurë is deploying all his wiles, and Findaráto is just trying to have a nice time.

Rating: E | No warnings Words: 4.6k Relationships: Galadriel/Maglor, Finrod/Maglor, Undisclosed Characters: Galadriel, Maglor, Finrod, Feanor, Aredhel, Aegnor, Angrod, Caranthir Genre: Humour and Smut.

On AO3

“No, Írissë, it isn’t about the hair,” Artanis said, her voice strained with frustration. “Not entirely, anyway. It is the principle of his request.”

“What do you mean?” asked Írissë.

Artanis sighed. Her cousin was terribly dense sometimes. “Has he asked my father? No, of course not! My brothers? No. He only asks me because I am a woman, and because I am young and insignificant to him.”

“Hm.” Írisse puckered her lips and shifted her mouth to one side. “But none of them has hair as beautiful as yours.”

Artanis fixed her mouth into a frown, resisting the urge to preen. Írissë noticed, though, and giggled into her cup of wine.

“I am sorry, cousin,” she said, “but I fear this is not the last you will hear from our dear half-uncle. Fëanáro is quite obsessive. You will either have to steel yourself against him or relent. But come!” Írissë set her cup down and leapt up, offering Artanis a hand. “We will not be drawn into the fixations and feuds of all these foolish men. A dance, sweet Nerwendë?”

“Very well,” Artanis accepted her hand and stood, “but I’m not returning to that hall without first replacing my mask.”

The disguise that Artanis had chosen for this year’s appearance at Tirion’s masked ball included a tall and unwieldy headdress, its menacing face with beady eyes and forked tongue sitting heavily on her brow. The wide scaly hood, however, had the benefit of concealing her hair.

In the time Írissë and Artanis had been gone, the number of bodies in the hall had doubled. The musicians were whipping the crowd into a frenzy. Artanis scanned the room. Good: Nerdanel had arrived. That should keep Fëanáro in check. She tucked the hem of her skirt into her belt and joined Írissë in the whirling circle. Artanis gave herself over to the dance. She was swept into the swirl of bodies, her heart pounding and her blood coursing hotly. This was when she was most alive, her spirit ignited by the exertion of her body.

The first chords of the next song signalled a partners dance. Artanis spun, grasping for Írissë — but her cousin had already darted off and slipped into the arms of an elf wearing the face and comically large antlers of a great stag, loose silver hair tumbling over his broad shoulders. How obvious. Typical Fëanárion.

Artanis scoffed and jerked her chin away from her only female cousin. A traitor not only to the line of Indis but to women everywhere!

Then a hand brushed her forearm. She tore herself from its groping fingers, prepared to confront the impertinent, presumptuous—

“Seahorse?” Artanis blurted. Now that was original, at least.

The elf laughed, and the lilting sound slithered straight down Artanis’ spine, a pleasant frisson. The slice of skin exposed by the plunging neckline of his robe intensified the sensation.

A smile broadening beneath the long elegant snout of his mask drew her eyes back up. “Cobra?” he said.

“Mm,” Artanis hummed in agreement.

“Excellent. I have somewhat of a natural ability as a snake charmer.”

Ridiculous, Artanis thought, but deepened her voice seductively and said, “We shall see about that,” and found herself in the arms of the handsome — albeit rather short — seahorse, his frilly orange train sweeping behind as he led her to an empty space on the dance floor.

Looking back on the events of that night, Artanis felt that she would have been able to resist the allure of both his voice and attire, but the beguiling smell of him had robbed her of her wits. The longer they danced, the more it filled the air around them: bright but heady, like honeysuckle and cinnamon. No doubt, she later realised, he had perfumed himself thus with the precise aim of seduction but, by the dew of Laurelin, it worked. Artanis was intoxicated.

So it was that when he abruptly flitted off, pressing his lips to her knuckles and murmuring an excuse about a promised rendezvous (“But I will return, my lissome snake!”), she discreetly followed after him.

Despite his vibrant orange costume and her longer stride, this was surprisingly difficult to do. Whatever rendezvous he had planned, it was taking place in some far recess of the Palace. That ought to have put Artanis off her pursuit. But with her heart aflutter and her flesh alight (for the brush of his lips against her hand had spread like wildfire over her skin), the possibility of observing a secret tryst only hardened her resolve.

She followed him through narrow corridors and up winding staircases she did not even know existed in the Palace — indeed, why did they exist? Last, she clambered up a ladder through a hatch in the ceiling. It opened onto a small round balcony set atop a turret.

She peered over the lip of the opening, took note of the two sets of feet facing each other near the railing, and quickly ducked out of sight. She perched near the top of the ladder.

“Where have you been?” someone whispered shortly. (Artanis would surely have recognised the voice, she assured herself later, had her normally keen perception not been blunted by wine and lust.)

“Never mind,” replied the deeper voice of her dance partner. “I am here now, am I not? Come here: I have something I think you will find hard to resist.”

A whine of protest turned to a groan of pleasure. “Mmm,” said the first voice. “So you have made up for lost time. I am afraid I will need some assistance rising to the occasion.”

Artanis’ chest heaved along to the smack of lips joining, a low moan. Jealousy had no place in her thoughts, which were filled with vivid imagery of what might be happening just out of sight.

“Worry not, my golden flower bud. You know I will tend you as diligently as I must, until your petals are all unfurled and glistening with dew.” These words were punctuated by more wet sounds and rustling silk.

Artanis’ hand slid down the neckline of her gown, fingertip teasing at her hardened nipple. Though the gown draped loosely over her chest, her swollen breasts now felt constrained; she hurriedly unclasped the gown down to her sternum, sinking her fingers into her firm but forgiving flesh.

A groan, both irritation and pleasure. “Longer, no doubt,” said the mysterious lover. “You will wait until I am a fruit nearly rotting on the vine.”

The flick of a fingertip over her nipple caused Artanis to gasp audibly. She pinched her lips shut and froze in alarm, but a timely clatter of metal on the tiles saved her from being discovered. Artanis peeked: a belt of linked gold discs set with emeralds had fallen to the ground.

“Not rotting, no. Only until you are swollen with nectar, so that I might lave sweet juices from you with the barest stroke of my tongue.”

This was followed by the unmistakable exhale of one who had just found relief for some pent up ache.

Artanis hooked her feet around the ladder to steady herself. With one hand she resumed kneading her breasts, and the other she placed over the throbbing mound between her thighs.

The hitched breathing of the elf above took on greater urgency and volume, until he was keening with pleasure. Artanis’ fingers pulsed in time with his cries.

“Oh, oh yes, please, like that,” he babbled.

Artanis inhaled the scent of her own desire, her tongue thickened, and her mouth fell open. Her head lolled back against the top rung of the ladder, her hips lifted and she rutted against her palm. A thin wail escaped her throat, and then another, and she could not keep herself from whimpering as the hardness and heat of her arousal uncoiled deep inside her. The ladder dug into the tops of her feet, her toes curled tight. She squeezed her trembling thighs together, crushing her fingers between them.

“Oh, oh. Oh, fuck,” cried the elf above, “I’m going to spill. Oh stars, take your mouth off or I’ll fill your throat. Oooh, eergghhh!”

With the slightest pulsing of her fingers and the lightest circling of her nipple Artanis too was coming, heart thundering, holding her breath to keep from crying out. As she shuddered through the aftershocks of her climax, Artanis heard laboured breathing, a wet pop, and soft laughter.

Then she fell.

Despite the loud thud of her body hitting the floor, and, in the next second, the clattering of the ladder coming down on top of her, Artanis managed to scramble out of sight before the two lovers saw her. Holding her headdress up with one hand and her gown closed with another, she hurried back down the way she came — but took a sharp turn before coming too near the hall, eyes seeking some room or nook where she could put herself in order.

A voice from behind halted her.

“Nerwen! There you are!”

Artanis turned to face the tall, lean figure of an elf wearing a mask with a black beak and golden hawk’s eyes. Long, mottled plumes fanned out to either side of his face.

“Aikanáro!” she greeted her brother. “When did you arrive?”

“Not long ago. Have you seen Ingo? Grandmother is looking for him. Apparently he promised to perform some poetry with her.”

“Oh,” said Artanis. She could not recall seeing Findaráto at all that evening. “Are you sure he’s come already?”

Aikanáro snickered.

Artanis narrowed her eyes. “Do grow up. No, I haven’t seen him.”

“Fine. Well, I’m going back to the party. He can make his own apologies to Indis. Why are you here, by the way?” He strode closer to her and reached for the top of her headdress. “And what happened to your hat? Oh — oops. One of your eyeballs fell out.” He held the large black bead out for her to see.

“I tripped,” Artanis said in a hurry, and grabbed the eyeball from her brother. “On my gown. Too much of it.”

Aikanáro laughed. “Ah little Nerwen, you never could manage in a dress. You ought to have worn trousers. Come on, let’s get you straightened out.”

Findaráto still had not appeared when Artanis returned to the dance hall, and Indis had started the performance without him. But at the climactic moment of the first canto, describing the raising of the Lamps Illuin and Ormal, suddenly he stood in one of the high arched openings behind the stage. His golden raiment shimmered in the light of Telperion.

The crowd roared their approval of these theatrics, but Artanis caught the look of surprise on Indis’ face. This entrance had not been by design. Artanis tutted and turned to the spread behind her: her brother would get no approval of his antics from her. She plucked a few plump grapes and stuffed olives from the table and added them to her plate.

Then she caught a heady whiff of that cinnamon-honeysuckle scent. Like a spiced wine it sank straight down into her belly and pooled there, pleasantly warm.

“Psst.”

Artanis looked up. With fluid grace, the seahorse-costumed elf slunk over the sill of an open window.

“Don’t tell me you are part of this ridiculous act,” said Artanis.

“What?” He glanced at the stage where Findaráto had begun to dance in time with his recitation. “Oh, no. No, I just got a little lost on my way back and came round the outside. Easier to get my bearings. I hope you will forgive the delay.”

Artanis cleared her throat and tilted her chin towards the ceiling. If only he were taller, she thought, and in her thought she heard the voice of Írissë rejoinder, “Why? You know it makes no difference lying down.”

“Forgive you?” said Artanis. “That will depend on how you intend to make up for it.” Artanis sliced her front teeth through a fat grape and licked a circle around the rim of her parted lips to gather its juices.

Through the openings in the other elf’s mask, she could see his eyes darken.

“Well,” he said, his red lips dancing around the syllable, “the dew is gathering on the primroses about this hour and they are most fragrant—”

“Yes,” said Artanis, who was going to go mad (from both lust and vexation) if she heard one more word about flowers spoken in that dulcet tone. “Let’s go.”

It was not well known among Tirion’s elite that the staid and formidable Nerwen Artanis Arafinwiel was as ambitious about the acquisition of lovers as she was about the acquisition of athletic and intellectual accolades. Because Artanis was decisive and efficient, eschewing the coquetry that normally preceded an act of pleasure, it was believed, by those she did not bed, that she was uninterested in such matters. As for those she did bed, the reverence and fear she inspired kept them from making any boasts about having breached the steely exterior of Arafinwë’s daughter — at which each believed him or herself to have been uniquely successful.

This included Canafinwë Macalaurë Fëanorion, who, when he had looked about the dance floor and spotted, on her own, an unusually tall woman with spools of silver-gold hair escaping her headdress, had rearranged the evening’s agenda to include concourse with not one but two children of the House of Arafinwë.

“Won’t you take off that ridiculous mask?” Artanis protested, as the tip of Macalaurë’s seahorse snout brushed the space between her bared breasts.

“Ah, but that would spoil the fun, now, wouldn’t it?” Macalaurë took one swollen breast in each hand, shaping her chocolate-brown nipples into hard peaks with his thumbs. He looked up at her. “I tell you what. I will remove my snout if you will remove but the hood of your headdress. I long to run my fingers through the beautiful hair you are hiding beneath there.”

Artanis shoved him off, hard enough that Macalaurë stumbled backwards over the wet grass. “No. We shall have to make do.” Then she tugged him back, navigating her way around the awkward protuberance of his mask to stick her tongue down his throat.

They were both gasping when she pulled back. “There is one way this could be made significantly easier,” she said. “And fortunately for you, I am in the mood to be fucked like a bitch in heat.”

Then she threw off the rest of her gown, spun around, and bent down nearly in half. She planted her hands on the low garden wall.

Face appearing upside-down between her calves, she commanded: “Come now, get on with it. I have little patience for a drooping stem.”

Macalaurë, all the blood in his brain currently allocated to maintaining the rigidity of said stem, failed to note the reference to his earlier florid blandishments. With all the enthusiasm and cocksure confidence he brought to celebrating victory in the theatrical arena, he thrust into the glistening blossom of Arafinwë’s daughter.

What a splendid evening! Findaráto leapt off the stage, landing with another sweeping bow. The applause vibrated in his bones. The success of the recitation (and extempore dance) with Grandmother Indis had been a triumph, and all the more so for how perilously close it had come to disaster. Findaráto should have known better than to trust Macalaurë to be punctual for a warm-up on such an important occasion, but truly there were no other lips or fingers so skilled in all of Eldamar. And then the ladder toppling over! Scaling down the palace walls!

Findaráto laughed and threw his head back. He let it rest there, inhaling deeply. The chandeliers cast a myriad of colours over the domed and tiled ceiling. Marvellous!

A resonant, vaguely threatening voice drew his chin abruptly down.

“Have you seen your sister?”

Findaráto worked to keep the smile plastered across his face. No ‘Well done, nephew!’ Not even a ‘Good evening, Findaráto, how are you?’ Just ‘Where is your sister?’ Fëanáro’s interest in Artanis’ hair, amusing at first, was becoming a worrying fixation.

“Uncle,” Findaráto replied to the elegantly but plainly attired Fëanáro. He wore no costume or mask save a tall plumed headpiece — likely at his wife’s insistence. Fëanáro was vocal in his disdain for wearing disguises, even in fun (and yet his hand in crafting the bedazzled costumes of his sons was unmistakable). “Good evening. No, I have not seen Artanis.”

Fëanáro frowned. “Hm.” He threw back the last of his drink and shoved the glass into Findaráto’s hand. “Would you tell my wife I’ve gone for a walk?”

Without waiting for an answer, Fëanáro spun, heels clicking on the stone floor as he marched towards the hall’s exit.

Findaráto stared at his retreating figure. His mouth flapped uselessly. 'Leave my sister alone!' he wanted to cry. Especially now. Artanis’ proclivities were no secret to her eldest brother and primary confidant (or so Findaráto flattered himself into believing). If Artanis was nowhere to be found at this hour there was almost certainly a salacious reason for it. So far the evening had gone so well! Not even a word of aggression exchanged between the bifurcated lines of Finwë. But if Fëanáro were to catch Artanis in an act of passion—! Findaráto rather doubted the proud son of Míriel would come away unscathed.

By now, Fëanáro was nothing but a black plume rising above the crowd. Findaráto trotted after him.

Fëanáro stalked through the garden paths silent and perilous as a panther. Findaráto tracked him. It was due only to his greater familiarity with these gardens, which his uncle shunned whenever possible, that he managed to escape notice.

While keeping an eye on Fëanáro, Findaráto quirked his ears in the direction of various locations he knew from personal experience to be ideal for holding tryst.

His left ear caught on a staccato series of sharp cries. They were coming from the primrose garden. A low moan and murmur soothed the cries into silence. Momentarily — for they started up again almost at once, louder than before, and then broke into speech.

“Aahh, yes, yes! Fuck me, you wanton rogue!”

A knowing grimace tugged Findaráto's mouth down. He was by now mostly inured to the shock of hearing such cries from Artanis' mouth, but no big brother would ever wholly be free of the impulse to drag his little sister away from her ravisher, no matter how willing she might be.

Then he panicked: the path Fëanáro followed was leading him directly to her location. Findaráto broke into a run, thoughts grasping for a clever distraction while his feet raced to stop his uncle.

When he came to a breathless halt and Fëanáro spun on him, he still had no plan.

“Then I just blurted: ‘Uncle!’ — he grimaced at that — ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you about a point in your recent lecture on the tehtar.’ ‘Yes?’ he said. ‘Er yes,’ I said, frantically trying to remember something from the talk. ‘Ah! Yes, well, as you know, I am fluent in Telerin,’ — he huffed and rolled his eyes at that — ‘and I was interested in your point about the roots of Quenya méla as it relates to Telerin māla.’ He raised his brows impatiently, but his eyes lit up. I think my youthful enthusiasm must have saved me from humiliation. ‘Well, my Telerin prince,’ he said, ‘it doesn’t,’ then he took me by the arm and indulged me with an hour lecture on the coalescing of vowels, which might have gone on until Laurelin’s flowering had not your mother tracked us down and dragged him away. But it was a small price to pay to keep him from coming upon my sister and her lover. Can you imagine!”

Findaráto burst into a fit of laughter.

“Mm, clever Ingo.” Macalaurë nipped Findaráto’s collarbone. His hands tightened around his ribs.

“Ah, that tickles!” Findaráto shrieked.

Macalaurë settled himself on top. Findaráto was still chuckling as he stooped to kiss him. When he pulled away, his lips curled in that way that meant he was about to say something he thought witty: “Lucky you didn’t walk yourself into a bed of thorns.”

“Oh, please.” Findaráto smacked his shoulder.

Macalaurë’s smirk split into a grin. His thumbs followed the curve of Findaráto’s pectorals and toyed with the pearl rings piercing his nipples. When Findaráto responded with a shiver, he slipped his tongue through one of the rings.

Findaráto’s sigh of pleasure ended in another fit of giggles. He could not keep his thoughts from straying to the narrowly-avoided crisis in the gardens.

“Who do you think she was with?” he mused.

Macalaurë groaned and thumped his forehead against Findaráto’s breastbone. “I do not care!” he grumbled, then bracing himself on his elbows and adjusting his hips so that the hard length of his arousal met Findaráto’s abdomen, he said more seductively: “You are with me now, and there is something we need to finish.”

Findaráto’s own arousal jumped in answer, and he allowed himself to be rolled over and hoisted on top of Macalaurë, where their mouths joined hungrily.

It was not long before Findaráto’s neck was thrown back, breath coming in short gasps and hands clenching and unclenching around the sheets, while two slick fingers worked to ease him open. A tongue swirled around the head of his shaft. A shock of pleasure rushed from each point of contact and Findaráto cried out when they met mingled inside him.

Then suddenly he was bereft of both tongue and fingers. “Wha— What, no! Please, don’t stop, I’m— wha—”

A hand clamped over his mouth. “Did you hear that?”

“Herwut?” Findaráto mumbled against Macalaurë’s palm.

A shout and the patter of feet on the stairs answered for him.

“Ingo!” the woman’s voice called.

Ai! Findaráto cursed himself for not speaking to Artanis after the last incident with the wax ‘body painting’. “You have to draw a boundary, Ingo,” echoed Turukáno’s wisdom from the recesses of his memory. Too late now.

“Quick!” he squirmed out from under Macalaurë’s embrace. “It’s Artanis! Under the cover!”

Findaráto sprung up to tug at the blanket bunched at the foot of the bed, but with a flash of skin Macalaurë was out of the bed and—

“NO!” cried Findaráto.

—out the window.

In the same moment he disappeared from sight, the door swung open. “Ingo! You will not believe the evening I have had!” Artanis swept into the room, and her oblivious enthusiasm granted Findaráto precious seconds with which to cover himself.

She perched on the edge of the bed, flinging her cobra headdress onto the mattress beside her.

“Hello sister,” said Findaráto, and smiled.

Artanis laughed. “Ingo, did you know there are hatches in the ceiling of the Palace that lead to little balconies atop the turrets?”

“Mmhmm.” Under the cover, Findaráto’s fingers gripped his knees. His teeth clenched behind his smile.

“Well, there was this elf behaving very oddly — the one dressed as a seahorse, did you see him? — and he slipped off for a ‘rendezvous’, so I followed him.” A pained squeak rose in Findaráto’s throat. “Oh, don’t be a prude, I know you would have done the same. In any case—”

Abruptly, she stopped, her darting eyes landing on the nightstand on the opposite side of the bed. On top of it lay Macalaurë’s forgotten, and rather mussed-up, seahorse mask.

Her face fell. “Why do you have that,” she said darkly, a pallor of revulsion bleaching the rosy tint from her cheeks.

Angaráto was seated on the low portico wall when the nude elf landed in the flowerbed directly in front of him, arms extended like wings and mouth agape, as if shocked he’d stuck the landing.

Grinning smoothly, Angaráto shoved the dark head between his thighs down and draped his other hand casually across his hips.

“Hello Macalaurë,” he said. The body lying prostrate against the wall at his feet grunted. Angaráto kicked it.

Macalaurë blinked, mouth still hanging open.

“Are you lost?” Angaráto asked.

“I…” Macalaurë stammered. While he waited for his cousin to verbalise his thoughts, Angaráto’s eyes darted down the exposed plane of his chest to find him — as expected of one who had fallen naked from his older brother’s window — still half-hard. Macalaurë evidently took this as a sign of interest (which it was, on some level): when Angaráto’s gaze again found his, he was smiling smugly.

Macalaurë dragged his teeth over his bottom lip. “Lost? Not at all! I was just going for a swim — would you like to come?” His brows waggled suggestively.

This could be fun, Angaráto thought, stamping down on the body beneath him and leaning forward to come closer to Macalaurë. “A swim, eh?” he said.

Then several things happened at once:

The body on the ground sprung up between them, knocking Angaráto’s chin with one shoulder as he swung to shove Macalaurë into the greenery.

“Can you not leave anyone for the rest of us?” growled Macalaurë’s assailant.

“Carnistir?!” Macalaurë cried. “But I thought you hated—”

From upstairs, a shriek louder than both Macalaurë’s disbelieving protests and Angaráto’s roll of laughter: “I cannot believe you let a Fëanárion put his teeth near your—! Ugh!”

“I can’t believe you were listening! How could you not have known it was me?”

This was followed by a cry of dismay and several incomprehensible noises of disgust. “I don’t know! He was very— oh Varda save me! I can’t believe I let a Fëanárion fuck me!”

“You WHAT!?”

“I let him fuck me! After I heard him with you, I went to the gardens and he fucked me. And then he came back here, to you, the insatiable boar!”

But when Artanis and Findaráto appeared side-by-side, torsos thrust out of the upstairs window, shouting “Cáno!” and “You Fëanárian philanderer!”, it was only Angaráto they saw grinning up at them.

Concealed by a high retaining wall, Carnistir and Macalaurë made a slow retreat, mouthing curses, flicking, shoving, and tugging at the other’s hair.

The dining room in the seldom-occupied quarters set aside for Fëanáro and his household slowly filled with bodies. Fëanáro beamed as brightly as the rays of Laurelin streaming through the windows as each of his sons took their seats around the table.

When at last they were all assembled, Fëanáro addressed them. “My sons, I am most proud of your appearances last night. Seeing each of you like a jewel amid the crowd—” he ignored several groans “—swells my heart with—” a glimmer stopped him short. Laurelin’s light had caught on a long thread of gold on the tablecloth between Macalaurë and Carnistir.

“What is that?” Fëanáro asked.

His sons mistook the intensity of his tone for displeasure. “Oh, sorry,” they both said at once, reaching for the glorious strand of hair.

“No, let me see that,” said Fëanáro, extending his hand greedily. Macalaurë scowled (poor child, thought Fëanáro, he had clearly had too much drink), then plucked the hair from the table and held it out for his father.

Fëanáro snatched it from him and twisted it around one finger reverentially. He slipped it into a pocket. He looked from Macalaurë to Carnistir, briefly considering which of them— no matter. He had it now, that precious filament of mingled light he had so long sought.

“You did well,” he said to them both.

Sticking his fork into his eggs with satisfaction, he missed Macalaurë whispering to his brother: “Should we tell him?”

“No,” Carnistir replied, and shrugged. “Anyway, who's to say it isn’t hers?

#silmsmutweek #galadriel #maglor #finrod #galadriel x maglor #finrod x maglor #makarato #my fic

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searchingforserendipity25 · 7 months

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Experimental Exchanges of Oral Traditions Among the Eldar | On Ao3.

Maglor/Daeron. Explicit fic. For Silm Smut Week @silmsmutweek, prompts from Day 3 and 4 (self & craft/lore, magical and supernatural elements, dom/sub, toys & props, shades of teacher/student).

Their first conversation- discussion, truly - happened very swiftly after meeting, when Daeron asked with his best sly courtesies if there were any texts written on the feats of the Noldor in Beleriand already, and Maglor had barely looked up from filling his brother's wine goblet with an absent-minded, "O, I am sure we will get to it in time; but I am not sure there is much use holding with written memory anymore."

Daeron had set down his own goblet a little more harshly than was polite. Matters had devolved considerably afterwards.

After their Flight - their Siege, their Exile - the Noldor had taken to reconsidering their relationship with material crafts and immaterial memory-keeping. This, Daeron gathered afterwards, varied greatly between those that had crossed the Helcaraxë and those that had taken to the sea on stolen ships.

Whether it was a deep commitment to vanguardist theory, the wary wisdom of a cavalry chieftain, or pure idleness, Maglor rarely cared to jot down anything of his works to paper. In his father’s Tengwar or Daeron’s Cirth, or the notation systems of his invention he found much to admire unstintingly; but he did not keep diligently to the rituals and methods of writing down his work, either.

He was all for living memory instead, a passionate teacher far more than a careful scribe. Teeth and tongue, memory and enchantment, these Maglor valued far above ink and parchment in his own art.

The smiling, arrogant warrior that had argued with Daeron on the merits of communal chants over carved walls had been ruined altogether. All the same, he was proven correct in one thing only. Maglor's bone-deep and infuriating certainty that he would live on to remember and keep remembered all the songs and lore of his people proved true at the last, and past the end of all tales he could claim a right to tell.

It was because of his dues owed to minstrelsy that he had not dashed himself against the shore, all the long years of Beleriand’s catastrophic sinking. He had clambered over many a sinking cliff instead - sang the salt-spray away from his path, raised himself up through the torment of the Starkindler's judgment whenever he started to sink into drowning.

Deliberate, he went up and onward, survived the end of his own lament, and in so doing made certain it would be kept alive always.

Daeron, however, had spent that time rather busier preserving the ancient waters and forests of the Eldar with enchantments of hiding and protection, and setting down the history and poetry and lore of the Sindar instead. Songs ought to be recorded, deeds fell and great, the voice of the sea put to carved bark before it faded. It was enough that the record existed, he felt; though at times he liked to bring them out and read them to the birds that came to sit as an attentive audience to the recitation, and sang the melodies entangled in the verses backs at him in their own chirping trills.

Daeron was not much impressed with tales kept ever-changing by painful fits of divine madness and punishment , nor the regret that kept Maglor from setting down the last edited version of his laments. Any aimless wandering could be a pilgrimage, if the walking-song was worth singing; but this windswept, sea-bound dedication to mourning rituals was wildly irregular, too.

Daeron, too, was fearful, of the finality of the finished epilogue, the lingering silence and written word. There was great terror to be faced once the ink with all its dear lost names was dried, and not a letter more could be changed nor altered.

That had been no reason not to invent the letters, and was now no reason not to write in it. To sing at all was a fearful vocation; that was why it had to be sang, that was what they were for.

And that was all the more cause for Maglor to follow his exalted example. Him alone was rightly named Daeron's match in the craft; and the evil of his deeds did not unmake his obligation or absolve him from his duties. To write did not make ancient lore less or more foolish, nor the past kinder; but he wrote so it might be hoarded. If that was greed, then Daeron was covetous indeed, but wise about it.

That was Daeron's covetous demand, when their paths crossed, and their conversation turned once more to familiar lines turned bitter with the alteration of the years.

He could speak with him of the futility of alphabets and records in isolation, the grief that absented itself from any audience and yet demanded to be retold. He could concede to sharing wine and gathered berries with Maglor, to walking in shared purpose for a time. If not, he would not have call him from the through the wrecked shores to the deep forests, and bedded him in the grass.

But he would not, Daeron told him very clearly, keep company to those terms of service to song as Maglor employed. He could not have him truly, and would not, until there was a thing finished and complete in itself to be had.

He had no patience left for anything less than a dedication to perfect records. Differences in stylistic approach and cultural memory be damned - he, too, was a high master of the craft, as high and higher, and remained so as much due to his song being sung and by the fact of his wisdom replicated and captured on wax and parchment, etched his own Cirth upon hollow trees and painting on the walls of dry caves. The alphabet he had designed was a matter of pride, still, and never more necessary, kept alive into perpetuity.

It was all very well for Maglor to argue, high-minded and eerie-eyed, that every living thing was a vessel to the memory of its wounds and loves, and the singer in exile the living vault of the dead - but he could not be permitted to think to live like this was to do true service to either the dead or the craft.

There were standards, even in exile. Lore and art were their own craft, with their own principles - what were minstrels for, if not to outlast the past and keep it alive in proper and decent fashion? Changing the length of mourning cantos and solemn ballads with every day's new and renewed grief was not tolerable minstrelsy.

That there was nothing decent at all in Maglor was not Daeron's concern, as long as he could still sing.

To sing alone was not enough. Maglor had forgotten it, set aside that vocation in preference of foul, foul works, but that did not mean that it had forgotten him in turn.

To be the best of singers one had to give one's over to be heard, written, read back to him, the principles applied to him still. The thankless sea did not count; and a song had to be heard, even if only by the birds, for it to be made true and final all the way through. Daeron meant to uphold these principles and see them upheld, even if discipline must be called for.

It was not justice, but justice was not his craft. Punishment, absolution, the fate of the many - these things he had only trusted to his ling and the stars. The stars had pronounced their sentence, and Maglor kept himself alive to suffer it; Daeron did not think to contest the matter.

Maglor thought him strange and wonderful for this hierarchy of concerns; but Daeron had never been prince nor warrior chieftain. He, at least, was under no false impression that his worth to the Music rested anywhere else than in preserving it.

Maglor raised up his scorched hands in wry defense and self-accusation: Daeron was not moved. Heavenly punishment was not an excuse to be considered, and if anything only a greater encouragement to perfect his dedication to the art.

"If you cannot decide upon it, nor write it yourself, I can do both with my own hands, " he said dismissively. The offer alone blanched Maglor's cheeks of all colour with shame; but Daeron had not much patience for that, either. "Though you will have to decide upon the final form of your works, and dictate them."

"Dictation alone will not suffice, for such a task," Maglor said, the deep, soft-edged timber of his voice turning softer and rougher. Sea-voiced, he could not hide the tide swell of his desire when he looked upon Daeron's righteous visage, the deep-rooted steadiness of his devotion to lore-craft. "Your demand is just and sensible. I am certain I can find a means to apply myself to the challenge of it at last - under the guidance of Daeron, among all singers the most masterful."

Daeron did agree. It was a sound notion: the means, he felt strongly, were justified altogether by the righteousness of the ends. His lady Lúthien, of whom he sang still with terrible fondness and terrible grief, would be well-pleased. She had always encouraged him to advance beyond the set order of things, to be ever inventive with his minstrel's art.

This work would be burned, afterwards. They had found an uneasy middle ground in that - a final version of Maglor's laments, set down in Daeron's script by Daeron's brush. And then it would be burned: for it had been the way among the the cavalry warriors of the Gap to burn their dead.

But first, the ink had to be crafted, and then ground down. The fur of the brushes hunted, treated, oiled and carefully sewn. The paper was thick, made to last, spread out in a scroll. Daeron had for an archive many dry and enchanted places; this would be but another bound manuscript, kept through the Ages undamaged.

At times he rested, and with the hand that did not hold the brush laid a grounding touch upon Maglor's head. He ran it through his loose curls, touched his cheeks to feel him working to keep Daeron's cock warm and full and well-tended.

Maglor looked at him desperately, flushed and stuffed. His fingers, clasped tame and terrible behind his back back, clenched convulsively at times; otherwise he was very careful to be still as Daeron worked, and eager to please him as he rested.

Silenced for once, he swallowed hungrily, drank deep of his taste, was eager to have his stifled sounds fucked quiet when Daeron found a moment to ease his eyes and indulge himself in grasping the hair at the back of his neck and forcing himself in deeper into the tight throat that held him.

"Enough," Daeron said gently, drawing away and stroking his taunt neck until the shuddering passed. He was not without pity; the lantern flickered wearily, and the joints of his fingers ached with a steady scrivener's pain. "Not long now to finish for tonight once this lay in complete."

Daeron brought the tip of the brush to Maglor's mouth, stroked his mouth idly as he wetted the tip in him. Ink-stained, he panted against Daeron's knee, chased after the touch when the brush passed, tender and slick as a kiss, over his lips.

"Daeron," he rasped, entreating. "It is not well done. I have forgotten, I am certain I did it better once. The meter is all wrong: and the version is not that which is ought to be-"

"It is as I set it down to be," Daeron said, and made it a final thing.

Maglor's protesting mouth swallowed in a gasp when Daeron pressed his fingers into its wet heat, smearing the ink on his tongue, easy and possessing where his cockhead had been.

He held himself uncaring of words spoken while at work, uninterested in red-rimmed glances and shaking whimpers; Maglor knew it well by now.

It inflamed him all the more, fed the rushing dizziness of his mind's work and his body's submission. A fine balance must be kept, to keep him grounded and attentive - the vast scope of his thoughts pliant to Daeron's grasping mind, all the disharmony and force of the voice of the sea studied at length, learned slowly, with science and care.

It inflamed Daeron no less, in truth. He grasped firmly at his hair, pressed back inside his yielding mind, rocked into his mouth, and Maglor sank into his thrust, took him with a moan, rocking on his knees to take him deeper before Daeron grounded him down with a stern hand.

Daeron waited a moment longer before looking into his eyes and heart. His blue-black mouth stretched obscenely around Daeron; but more obscene by far was the bright glint of his eyes, and the gratitude of his savage, aching spirit at being made bare and made tame.

Kneeling before him and under Daeron's high desk, Maglor gave himself over to translation in surrender. Laid out clear and plain as the paper and the ink, the wide expanse of his mind was singularly open and singularly focused on the words, the tempo, the transcribing of his compositions through hands not his own.

He waited until the slow, easy rhythm of thoughts and mouth had been found again. When Daeron picked up the brush again, Maglor applied himself likewise, tongue and memory and throat, all joined in purpose. They went at a good pace, all things considered; but Daeron made certain to be thorough with every letter, careful with the lines of his Cirth, for the due honor and dignity of the thing.

#daeron #maglor #silmsmutweek #silm smut #silm fic #maglor x daeron #my fics

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