furious-haste-of-malice

[furious-haste-of-malice]

The Swanmaiden and the Lord of Iron Hall

Day 6 Prompts: The decree | No force

For: @feast-of-horns

Rating: E

Pairing: Makar/Eärwen

Themes: Dead dove | NSFW / NSFT

Warnings: Minor violence | Extremely dubious consent | Threats of Non-Con

Wordcount: 1.5K words

Summary: After waiting half a year, Makar finally gets to have the Swanmaiden of Alqualondë for himself

Minors DNI | 18+

This is also available on AO3

Ever the consummate hunter, Makar took great care to keep to the shadows while he stalked his prey. He heard someone's laughter—infectious and good-humored—echo through the forest. He halted for a moment to see who it was. It was his twin. She was gleefully laughing while chasing another.

“Come now, dancer!” Meássë cried, amused rather than wroth. “Have you grown weary of me already?”

“No, and never!” Lady Nessa laughed. Makar caught a glimpse of the Valië when she darted past him, her hair and silks a swirl of auburn and gold. Even he could not help but stop and admire her effortless, fleet-footed grace and otherworldly beauty. “But you must capture me if you desire to taste more!” 

Better her than that Tulkas, Makar thought to himself. Nessa paid no mind to him as she ran, swifter than any arrow. She turned down a winding path and disappeared into a thicket of pine. His sister was not far behind her, and he barely caught a glimpse of her as she ran in search of her companion. Makar closed his eyes for a moment. He listened to the sounds rippling through the forest. He breathed in the scents that lingered in the air. Triumph surged through him when a brisk gust of wind carried with it the subtle scents of salt and sea.

She is here, he thought, and she is coming toward me.  

He set off on his search again. It did not take long for him to find her, although the princess of Alqualondë also took great care to keep herself concealed, flitting from tree to tree and evading the clutches and nets and invitations of others. Her efforts were futile, for while she eluded the hands of her fellow revelers, she could not escape the sharp eyes of the one who followed her without giving himself away. Makar crouched low to the forest floor, waiting for her like a lion would lie in wait for a fawn. His patience was soon rewarded. The princess—unaware of the Vala lurking in the darkness—came closer, picking her way around trees and bushes and creeping vines without making a sound. She heard nothing. Saw nothing. The air grew eerily still, and a deep, unsettling hush settled all around her. A twig snapped in the distance. It startled her, distracting her from the danger looming behind her. 

“There you are, princess.” Makar rose and wasted little time throwing his arms around her. He grappled her to the soft leaves beneath her, pinning her down and caging her to the earth with his weight while she pounded her fists against his chest in her efforts to escape his grasp. 

“Unhand me, my lord,” she commanded, terrified. The Vala laughed. The sound was like great boulders crashing against each other. It frightened her even more.

“You are in no position to give commands to one such as myself, princess.” He reached for her wrists and held them firmly above her head with one hand. His other hand wandered over her body. “Heed me, however, and you will find me to be a most generous companion.”

“Prince Arafinwë will hear of this!” Eärwen felt his fingers brush lightly over her breast. She mustered the courage that threatened to desert her. “He will not take kindly to me being treated thus!” 

“Oho!” Makar—amused by the princess’s defiance— sat astride her. “Is the prince your intended then? Is that why you are partaking in the chase?” 

The princess flushed. Makar had part of the truth uncovered, but not all of it. She did indeed partake in the hopes of Prince Arafinwë claiming her for himself, but he was not her intended. He had not even asked if he could court her. This was not something she would admit it to the Vala, however. It would only encourage him to take further liberties with her.

“He is!” She writhed in yet another attempt to free herself. It only served to inflame her captor's passions even more. "He is my intended, my lord, and I must insist that you release me this instant.”

The Vala scoffed. Heralds would have ridden all over Valinor announcing the betrothal of two high-born nobles, and there were none concerning the impending nuptials of the youngest son of King Finwë and the only daughter of King Olwë. The princess was lying to save herself; he was certain of it.

“Do not attempt to deceive me with falsehoods about the prince’s betrothal to you, princess.” Makar admired the necklace she had adorned herself with. Golden pearls that had been fashioned to look like horns looped around her shoulders and fell past her waist. Then he caressed her hair, her cheeks. The princess felt soft to the touch. Enticingly so. He thought of all the ways she could please him until he grew tired of her. "Prince Arafinwë has not pledged himself to you. All of Valinor would know if a child of Finwë had indeed promised themselves to another. Yield to me now, and you will find as much pleasure from what happens next as I will.”

“I will not yield!” Eärwen returned. Makar paid no heed to her refusal. His thumb glided over her mouth, steady and insistent. Eärwen pursed her lips and turned her head to the side, thinking it would dissuade him. It was to no avail. He gripped her chin firmly and tilted it back toward him. She lowered her gaze.

“Yield, princess,” he ordered with icy authority. “Yield to me now, or you may not like what I do next.”

“I will scream.”

“The others will not hear your scream. They are too lost in their own diversions to even care. Yield to me. Now.”

“But the decree... the Elder King’s edict... you cannot force yourself onto me.”

“Manwë’s edicts are of little concern to me, princess. I will have what I desire from you, whether you consent to my embraces or not. Pray what is your answer?”

The hand around her wrists tightened, as did the hand gripping her chin. Eärwen gasped and forced herself to look at her capturer when a sharp flare of pain tore through her. She found no softening in his countenance, no sign of guilt or remorse or shame in his fiery red eyes. Makar intended to do whatever he wished to her, whether she welcomed it or not. He was not going to release her until he had taken his pleasure. 

I will have to consent to this brute, she lamented to herself. She had heard the tales from those who served the grim halls he ruled, and they were all the same. The Lord of Iron Hall was far from gentle. He found pleasure in inflicting pain, and his touch left bruises on all those he took to his bed. I will have to yield to him and spare myself greater agony. 

“Very well, my lord,” she whispered meekly. “Have your way and be done with it.”

The Vala smiled triumphantly. He had lusted after the princess for nearly half a year, and he had to bide his time until she joined in the chase. It was not because he dreaded approaching Olwë for her hand; the Vala feared no elf, and he had no desire to take the princess for a wife. He merely craved to have one as beautiful as her share his bed for a few glorious hours.

“A wise decision, princess,” he cooed. Then he leaned down and kissed her. It was savage, hungry, and bruising. Eärwen had little choice but to yield to his kiss, her tears coursing down her cheeks when his tongue forced its way past her lips, and she tasted the ale still clinging to it. Her captor did not mind her tears. In fact, when he opened his eyes and drew back, he found great pleasure in seeing them.  

“They say the Teleri have the fairest voices among the Eldar.” Makar dipped his head and brushed his nose against her fair hair. He sighed almost wistfully when he found the subtle fragrance of the sea still clinging to it. “I wonder if their Swanmaiden would care to sing for me.” 

“Such will not be the case, my lord,” Eärwen whimpered. She felt the heaviness of his arousal pressing against her belly and grew despondent. For many a year, she held onto the hope of a lord like Prince Arafinwë claiming her maidenhead. Now, thanks to her desire to indulge in the chase, the most violent and bloodthirsty of the Exalted Ones would claim it instead. “You will hear no singing from me.”  

“You will sing.” Makar rose, lifting her with him. He threw her over his shoulder and looked around him. He discovered a copse of oak trees, their branches heavy and weighed down due to their great age. He decided it was well suited for all that he had in mind. “And you will obey my commands. You will also guard your tongue after I am done with you. I will not take kindly to you spreading your tales to anyone who would hear.”  

"Yes, my lord," Eärwen agreed reluctantly. Makar's rage was said to be a fearsome thing to behold, and she had no desire to witness it for herself. She surrendered to her fate, even as the one who carried her strode deeper into the forest. 

tags: @cilil @asianbutnotjapanese

#fic rec <3

[furious-haste-of-malice]

“omg you’re so creative. how do you get your ideas” i hallucinate a single scene in the taco bell drive thru and then spend 13 months trying to write it

#accurate

[furious-haste-of-malice]

Abominations of the flesh

Day 5 Prompt: New companions

For: @feast-of-horns | Requested by MoonLord

Rating: E

Pairing: Celegorm/Curufin/Turgon/Finrod

Themes: NSFW | NSFT

Warnings: Kissing | Incest | Celegorm and Curufin are up to no good

Wordcount: 3.2k words

Summary: Celegorm and Curufin are convinced there is something more than friendship between Turgon and Finrod. Turgon and Finrod think otherwise. Their cousins are determined to show them there is more to their bond than they think.

Minors DNI | 18+

A/n: A big thank you to @cilil and @urwendii for their help with Turgon's pre-Alqualondë personality and the idea that inspired this fic.

This is also available on AO3

The feast was a riotous affair. Many ate and drank their fill. A few ate and drank more than they ought to. Some sang bawdy airs. Others laughed. Many and more prepared themselves for the chase that was to follow. Turukáno was scandalized as he observed everything taking place around him. 

“Do all of the Valar conduct themselves in such a debauched manner during these feasts?” He whispered to his cousin in disbelief. 

“Not just the Valar, cousin.” Findaráto was as taken aback as he was, but his curiosity remained undiminished. “The Maiar and their attendants, and even our fellow elves.” 

Turukáno, his cheeks aflame, touched the crown sitting amidst his hair. Gold horns inlaid with brilliant white enamel gleamed as they rose from a thin gold band full of diamonds. A hunter’s crown, it was, and it was only proper, the others had said, for a high prince of the Noldor to take on the role of a hunter. 

I should not have agreed to this, he thought when he found himself yearning for the comfort of Tirion’s great library and the fragrance from its many tomes and stone tablets. I do not belong here. I should have remained in Tirion.  

He glanced at the others. His sister, Írissë, stayed close to the Great Huntsman and his lady, whispering. Oromë was in a high mood, as was Lady Vána. The Ever-Young was particularly taken with his sister, and on more than one occasion, she uttered something that made Írissë laugh.

“My sister is by herself,” he said, and he drained the last of his wine. “I must see to her.” 

When he tried to rise, Findaráto grabbed his arm by the wrist. “Leave your sister be.” 

“I must tend to her.” 

“Chicks and elflings need tending, cousin. Your sister, on the other hand, does not. Leave Írri be. You will only draw unwelcome attention to yourself and to me if you do not.” 

Turukáno scoffed softly, but he heeded his cousin all the same. He made himself comfortable in his seat and called for more wine. Someone laughed. It was thunderous and carefree at the same time. That laugh came from none other than Tyelkormo. Turukáno dared to look his way. His uncle Fëanáro’s sons were seated at the same table, though not all of them lingered after their plates and goblets were taken away. Nelyafinwë rose to speak with Findekáno, and Makalaurë took his leave of his brothers when Laurefindelë invited him to join him and his companions. Morifinwë kept to himself, brooding as always, and the twins teased each other over their choice of adornments. Then his gaze cut back to Tyelkormo. His cousin had been studying him with a shrewd leer while his brother, Curufinwë, whispered something in his ear.    

“Pray what happens now?” Turukáno—flustered—asked when Tyelkormo winked at him and looked away. 

“Now we must make our way to the gathering field,” Findaráto replied, rising with the others. Lady Vána arose from her place on the dais, to fetch the Valaróma for her lord husband. “It is time for the chase.” 

The chase was as rowdy as the feast, if not more so. Turukáno and Findaráto were hunters; the latter’s circlet of silver horns glinted amidst his golden hair. Findaráto took part because his curiosity would not let him be at peace. Turukáno took part because his kinsman and dear friend convinced him to, and he was not one to go back on his word after he had given it to someone he treasured. Oromë sounded the Valaróma once, and hunters silently chose their prey even as they raced into the forest. Moments passed, and the air around them thickened, feeding the anticipation that had been building since the feast began. 

“Hunters!” Oromë's cry boomed across the field, startling the nearby horses and compelling the great hounds he bred to stand to attention. “Are you ready? 

The roar that followed echoed through the gathering field. Then the Valaróma sounded a second time, and the hunters gave chase. Turukáno caught brief glimpses of many of those who ran alongside him. A few others he saw quite clearly. Varda’s handmaiden ran down a twisting path away from them, her robes a swirl of indigo wisps, her starlit skin and pink and molten silver hair shimmering in the starlight. He heard a sharp gasp, then a lusty laugh. He stopped for a moment to look. Ilmarë was ensnared by none other than the Elder King himself. She squirmed and giggled in his arms while he cooed barely heard words of endearment to her. His queen emerged from a thicket of trees, her dark hair falling around her like a waterfall full of little stars. They embraced each other. Turukáno turned to his cousin, dumbfounded.

“As long as there is no cleaving of the spirit, no ill-will ensues.” Findaráto grasped his hand and led him away. “Come. There is a clearing not far ahead.”

The clearing was full of flowers and new grass and large rocks thick with moss, and little else. No one could be seen. The others preferred the trees and forest floors covered with soft leaves over the open field. Turukáno made himself comfortable on a moss-covered stone and looked at the stars. His cousin sat by his side on the grass.

Turukáno said, “Do you remember the times we made our way to the highest balcony in grandfather’s palace?” 

Findaráto looked at him, smiling. “We would sneak into the kitchens first and fill a basket with little cakes and sweets. Then we made our way to that balcony and tried to name all the stars. The one who could name the most stars ate won the right to eat most of the cakes.” 

His cousin’s reply was interrupted by another who found them. “Well, well. What do I see before me?” 

The voice that called to them was thunderous and carefree at the same time. They rose to face their intruder, an elf that was well known to them. Tyelkormo stood by the edge of the clearing, garbed only in hunting leathers, with horns of bone and ivory adorning his silver-gold hair and ears and waist and wrists. He held a length of silvery rope weighed down at both ends with smooth, stone balls in his hand. He had another length of rope and a sheathed dagger at his belt. Findaráto swore his cousin looked very much like one of the Valar on the hunt—glorious, savage, and otherworldly at the same time. Then he chided himself for even thinking such a blasphemous thought. His cousin was but an elf, and nothing more than that.  

“So this is where the two of you fled to.” The third son of Fëanáro regarded them with a sly smile spreading its way across his countenance. “And to talk of stars on a festival day such as this, when so many delights await you beyond these trees! I confess, dear cousins, that I am quite disappointed.” 

“Tis not only you who is disappointed, brother mine.” Curufinwë emerged next, dragging a delicate silver net in his right hand. He too had a length of rope and a sheathed dagger at his belt. “We are here at a festival that frees us to be with whomever we desire, and these two prefer to gaze at the sky.” 

“Or perhaps, stargazing is not the reason why they are truly here.” Tyelkormo’s smile was a vicious thing. His shrewd, hunter’s gaze pinned his kinsmen to where they stood like they were nothing more than moths pinned to a board. “Perhaps they came to this place because they wished to do more than just admire the heavens.”

Findaráto understood his cousin’s insinuation well enough. “You assume incorrectly, Tyelko,” he sputtered, mortified. “There is nothing untoward between Turco and myself. We are friends and kinsmen, no more, no less.” 

“Nothing untoward, you say.” Curufinwë’s smile was as calculating and vicious as his brother’s, perhaps even more so. And yet, it did little to mar the finely-formed beauty he inherited from his father. “But, my dear Ingoldo, what else are we supposed to think when the two of you seek only each other for company and when one of you is always coming to the aid of the other, even when there are others more skilled at the task at hand?” 

Turukáno finally understood what his cousins were implying. “Ingoldo and I have never committed abominations of the flesh!” 

Tyelkormo turned to face him. “Truly?” He said. “Why do I struggle to believe it?”

“Peace, brother. Perhaps they speak the truth. Perhaps they have not violated taboos between kinsmen, and what we have observed thus far is wrong,” Curufinwë told him, his crafty eyes shining wickedly in the starlight. “Or perhaps, they do not see what we see.” 

“Perhaps we should help remove the scales from their eyes.” 

“Indeed, brother. Indeed.” 

Their cousins each took a step back, startled. “We have taken on the roles of hunters!” Findaráto cried protest. 

“There is no prohibition against a hunter chasing after another hunter,” Tyelkormo remarked with a casual air. 

“And we are bound by blood!” Cried Turukáno as he prepared himself to flee. His cousin could be as determined as a wolf chasing a hare when the urge to hunt was upon him. He had to be ready to turn on his heels and run as soon as Tyelkormo made a move to come near him.  

“That is of little consequence,” said Curufinwë, his knuckles white against his net. “And no one will ever know, so long as we do not talk to the others. Come, now, Turco. There is no need to be frightened. We merely wish to help; that is all.” 

“We will not consent!” Turukáno snapped at him. 

“Ah!” Cunning gray eyes shone again. “That is where you are mistaken, cousin,” he countered serenely. “You will consent.” 

Tyelkormo loosened his hold on the rope, preparing to throw it as soon as the opportunity to do so presented itself. “Remember what I taught you, brother.”

“I will, brother.” Curufinwë had eagerly listened to all that his brother had to say, for the chase was a first for him, as was the feast. “I will remember all that you told me.”

“Good.” His brother’s voice was as stern and commanding as the Vala he served when he said, “Run.” 

Turukáno took hold of Findaráto’s hand and pulled him along as they ran around the thick trunks of trees that crowded too close together, barely evading twisting, low-hanging branches and gnarled roots that protruded out of the earth. He dared to stop for a moment to look over his shoulder. Tyelkormo and Curufinwë had melted into the surrounding darkness, and nothing but darkened trees and a thin, swirling mist remained in their wake. 

“We must not tarry.” Findaráto tugged gently on his cousin’s arm, urging him forward. “We cannot linger here for too long. They will find us!” 

They ran again, and for how long, neither could say. They ran, and they ran, and they did not halt until they reached another clearing. There was no being to be seen. There was no being to be heard. They had gone further than they had ever gone in the forests of Oromë, and they had to stop. To keep running meant to lose their way, and that was something they could not do, not while rumors of a dark creature dwelling beyond the southern borders of the forests flourished. 

“Have we lost them?” Findaráto asked and stopped near the periphery of the clearing with his back to the trees. All around them stood graceful pines, mighty oaks, and giant sentinels, their leaves and branches rustling in the wind. 

“I do not know,” Turukáno said. He turned and studied the trees behind his cousin, and he saw nothing but dappled starlight flowing through the thick canopy. “There is no sight of them, at least. No sound. Perhaps we did lose—”  

He was interrupted when a whirl of silver flew toward him with such force that it knocked him to the ground. Turukáno could not move his arms. The rope had entangled itself around his torso He turned to his cousin for aid, but his cousin was also writhing against the forest floor in a vain attempt to free himself from the strange silver net that had enveloped him.

“Tyelko!” He called out in anger. “What is the meaning of this?”

Tyelkormo was the first to step out from among the trees; his brother followed him. Their boots fell against the forest floor with barely a sound made. 

“What do you think, cousin?” He helped Turukáno up to a seated position before going down to his haunches to bind his cousin’s legs at the ankles with the other length of rope that he had. “We are going to remove the scales from your eyes.”

Turukáno did not even deign to reply. He knew he could not fight his cousin and win. Tyelkormo may not have had his great stature, but he was as strong as him, and he was the better hunter by many a league. He stole a glimpse of his other cousin. Curufinwë bound Findaráto's hands and legs, and he brought him to where Turukáno sat, his back to an old pine tree. Turukáno could only watch while Tyelkormo rose, satisfied that they could not free themselves. His cousin moved to sit apart after that, regarding them the way he would a fine meal that was ready to be devoured. 

“They make such a pretty picture together.” Curufinwë dusted his hands and moved to sit cross-legged next to his brother, to better admire the sight of their captive kinsmen. 

“They do.” Tyelkormo rested his hand on the small of his brother’s back. Findaráto believed it was merely a protective gesture, and nothing more. “And they believe that there is nothing besides friendship between them. How shall we help them see, brother mine?” 

“With this,” said Curufinwë, before framing his brother’s face firmly in his hands, and pulling him in for a kiss. 

This is not the first time they have indulged in such acts. Turukáno watched, horrified, while Curufinwë and Tyelkormo embraced each other like experienced lovers, when Curufinwë allowed his brother to take liberties with him, when one let the other tangle his hands in his hair, and when one let the other move their hands to the clasp of a belt. He looked away—ashamed at not being able to dampen the arousal he felt growing between his thighs—then turned his attention to them once again when he heard a low moan.   

They look so beautiful together. Findaráto was as stunned as Turukáno by the deviancy of their cousins. Much like Turukáno, he could not look away for long. Tyelkormo and Curufinwë painted a striking image together, all silver and jet and slender, tapered hands moving in perfect rhythm with large, sculpted ones. Tyelkormo was all heat and wildness. Curufinwë was all cool restraint. He closed his eyes and tucked his head against Tyelkormo’s shoulder when he loosened the lacings of his breeches and took his erection to hand.  

“Yes. Like that,” he whispered, his hands clutching desperately at his brother’s broad back. “Ah, brother.” 

They kissed each other savagely, and then Curufinwë opened his eyes. They were dark and wanton, and they settled on his cousins. Turukáno had shame and lust warring with each other in his gaze. As for Findaráto, he had something akin to thirst in his. The firstborn son of Arafinwë turned to look at his cousin, his heart fluttering at the sight of his wide, beautiful eyes, his thick, dark hair, and his fine lips.  

Are Tyelko and Curvo correct? Findaráto pondered to himself. Is there something more than friendship between Turco and myself? Something neither of us has seen before?

At that moment, Turukáno turned to face him. Findaráto smiled bashfully. It made him look achingly beautiful. Turukáno flushed and looked away.  

No. He told himself. It cannot be true. They are wrong. There is nothing beyond friendship between us.  

He regarded his cousin again. Yearning stirred in his belly when he drank in the blue of Findaráto's eyes, the soft curve of his mouth, and the way his chest rose and fell with each breath he took. His head spun. Thoughts of rich, fair hair caught in a spill of bright starlight and a golden voice ringing out while caught in the throes of rapture took the place of all else. Turukáno was amazed; it was as if he was seeing his cousin in another light for the first time.  

Curufinwë smiled. We were right all along, he thought triumphantly. These two truly do share a bond that goes deeper than the bond shared by friends and kinsmen.    

They suspected it for many days now. Findaráto would always seek the opinion of his cousin, Turukáno. Turukáno would do the same in return. If one needed aid, the other would come to them. Hours would be lost when they wove their worlds of dreams together. Lovers in all but name and deed, Tyelkormo had once said, and Curufinwë remarked that perhaps such may indeed be the case. Their plan to expose their cousins' true feelings for each other was born after this, just in time for the Feast. 

“Brother,”Curufinwë groaned. Tyelkormo did something wicked to the tip of his shaft with his thumb. “Brother, I believe our kinsmen can be freed now.” 

Tyelkormo turned to look, albeit reluctantly. His treelit eyes lit up when his brother said something just loud enough for him to hear. 

“I believe you are right, brother,” he said, rising. His cousins braced themselves when he came to them, not knowing what he planned to do with them. Their fears were put to rest when he unsheathed his blade and cut the rope around Findaráto's wrists and ankles. Turukáno was next. Then he sat astride his lap and kissed him. 

Turukáno longed for nothing more than to resist him, to bite back and bloody Tyelkormo’s lips. It was no less than what he deserved, he thought. Then Tyelkormo sighed and kissed him harder. It threw the floodgates wide open, and drowned what little resistance Turukáno had.  He yielded to the wild and insistent demands of his body and returned his cousin’s kiss with equal fire, hoisting himself to his knees and taking his cousin into his arms when the warmth of his mouth continued to flow into his own. 

“Perfect,” Tyelkormo all but purred when he pulled away. He still kept himself firmly seated on his cousin’s lap, his arms draped around his shoulders. Then, he turned to Findaráto. “Join us, Ingoldo,” he said, and he gestured for his brother to join them. Curufinwë took the place he always did: by his brother’s side. “No one besides the four of us needs to know what took place this hour.” 

“Do I have your word on this?” Findaráto was tempted to say yes, but he had to consider the risk of discovery. If the others found out, the shame and disgrace that would surely follow should word of his sharing pleasures with his cousin spread—he and Turukáno would never be able to show their faces in Tirion again.

“You have my word as a son of Fëanáro, and a grandson of our king, Finwë.” Tyelkormo shuddered when his brother’s lips pressed against his shoulder and when his cousin tightened his hold around his waist. “Pray what is your answer?” 

Findaráto took a deep, steadying breath and gripped Turukáno’s chin, tilting it to the side so their lips could meet. 

#fic rec <3 #very hot #might try my hand at this dynamic as well

[furious-haste-of-malice]

We’ve already discussed this in the DMs but here’s an official prompt/request: Manwe forcibly feminizing Melkor and messing with his fana to give him a “purer form”

Go wild.

𝑳𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝑳𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝑫𝒆𝒏𝒊𝒆𝒅

"So you even admit that you would deceive me!" Manwë exclaimed, yanking the comb out of his brother's matted hair. "Not only have you denied me your love for ages out of cruelty and misplaced revenge, but you also insist on attempting to poison our memories! Why, brother? Have I not loved you enough?" 

"Not enough, yet at the same time too much," Melkor sighed. At least if he meant all the things he said to me and wasn't just pretending to please Father.

⊱ Characters: Melkor, Manwë ⊱ Pairing(s): Melkor x Manwë ⊱ Synopsis: Even after ages of Melkor rejecting their bond, Manwë is determined to love him and create the relationship he always dreamed of - by force, if necessary. ⊱ Featuring: Hair brushing, "bonding", sibling "love", ⊱ Warnings: Smut, non-con, sibling incest, forcibly feminized fána/non-consensual body modification, obsession Oneshot (~4.1k) Also available on AO3

𝑨𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓'𝒔 𝑵𝒐𝒕𝒆: Apologies for taking so long, but I went all out to make up for it. Let's go.

"Do you see how beautiful you are?" Manwë's voice vibrated with excitement and his hands rested on his brother's shoulders as if to embrace him from behind. 

Melkor stared at his reflection in the mirror, frozen in disbelief. What he saw resembled the form he had assumed so long ago, but it was not quite how he remembered it. His skin, formerly icy and ashen like the lands he used to dwell in, was smoother now, with a warmer, creamy complexion; his hair had grown throughout his captivity, its tips now reaching down to his heels; his shoulders were smaller and his limbs daintier, a good amount of muscle mass seemingly lost to time; yet what caused him the most discomfort was the soft roundness of his chest and thighs, reshaping his silhouette into one distinctly feminine. 

It was, admittedly, not the first time Melkor had seen himself thus. In his youth he had changed fánar as easy as breathing, experimenting with great delight and curiosity until any given form had reflected his current mood and need, yet this one he didn't recall choosing for himself, neither in the past nor through any recent efforts. 

The only thing he remembered was sleeping in his brother's bed while Manwë sang to him and stroked his hair, healing him as he had claimed. Neither did he have any memory of putting on the frilly blue nightgown he was currently wearing, its thin, sheer fabric leaving little to the imagination. 

Melkor frowned. "Did you change me?" 

"Changed you?" Manwë, seemingly oblivious to his brother's discomfort, was smiling. "I fixed and improved you, so you may be beautiful again like you were in the beginning, when we were one." 

"This is not the form I chose for myself," Melkor insisted. "What have you done to me?!" 

"Now that is no way to thank me," Manwë chastised gently. "You are now whole in body and soon you will be whole in spirit as well." 

It was only when Melkor pressed his lips together that he noticed how soft and plump they had become. 

"What. Have. You. Done. To. Me?" he repeated, hissing through gritted teeth. "Why wasn't it enough to heal me? Why do you need me to be "beautiful"? I am your brother, not your wife!" 

Manwë's talons gripped his shoulders harder, leaving red marks on his skin. 

"You were my beautiful, wonderful, flawless, perfect brother," he whispered with such fervent insistence that Melkor flinched away from the sound of his voice. "Do you not know how much I missed you? How much my heart was aching for you? I need you to be like that again. I need my brother."

"I don't know what you remember, but I was never like this," Melkor said coldly. 

"You lie to me just as you lied to yourself, twisting your own memories to convince yourself that you hate Father and I – but no more." 

Manwë finally let go of his shoulders, one hand trailing down his arm almost tenderly to take his hand.

"Come. Let me take care of you." 

"What if I don't want you to take care of me? I don't remember asking." 

"Of course you want to." All stubbornness and urgency had vanished from Manwë's expression and he smiled at his brother with his usual serene, wide-eyed innocence. "I know you were lonely out there and missed having someone to care for you."

"I had others." 

Melkor's instincts were screaming at him that arguing about this might once again bring out whatever strange behaviour he sibling had exhibited earlier, yet he couldn't help himself; his pride and curiosity alike had always been too strong for his own good. 

And indeed, his statement caused Manwë's soft, cloud-like brows to furrow like a storm forming on the horizon and blue fire lit up within his gaze. "You didn't have me." 

With that, he pulled his brother over to the bed and made him sit down, positioning himself behind him again so he could see the mirror. A lazy wave of his hand summoned a small gust of wind to fling a hairbrush and a comb directly into his grasp, and Melkor groaned in annoyance as he realised what Manwë intended to do. 

"Leave my hair alone." 

"No, brother. I need to take care of it." 

Thrice defied, perhaps even more. Melkor couldn't remember any other instance of his brother being this stubborn; in the past he had usually folded rather quickly, acquiesced just to appease and placate him, or had required the intervention of other Valar to argue on his behalf. Yet whatever this charade was, Manwë was determined to see it through, and the thought was more unsettling than he wanted to admit. 

Had he underestimated him after all? 

Melkor watched in the mirror as Manwë began to untangle the knots in his hair with the comb, starting at the tips and slowly but steadily working his way to the roots. His hair was, and had always been difficult, like it had a will of its own. Not even Mairon had managed to constrain it enough for even a simple braid, and many brushes, combs and hair ties had been destroyed over the ages. 

Now, however, Melkor's hair had lost its life and lustre, limply hanging in Manwë's grasp and enduring the vigorous combing in silent defeat. Whether it would recover or not he couldn't tell, and he wondered if he should attempt to cut it once he had the chance; though the chances of him getting his hands on any sort of blade or other sharp object appeared rather slim. 

Maybe if I break the mirror – 

"You always had such beautiful hair," Manwë's voice interrupted his thoughts. "Pitch black as if to trap all light, but when it shone upon its strands, it shimmered in many colours. I loved looking at it and playing with it." 

Melkor squinted at their mirror image, contemplating his words for a moment. Despite his earlier insistence on the accuracy of his recollection, he now searched his memories for anything close to what Manwë was describing. 

"You never played with my hair," he said finally. "I never played with you at all after Father made you. You wanted to, but I didn't." 

Manwë shook his head vigorously. "You always act like we were never close or had any relationship at all, but it is not true. We were brothers in Father's mind, and he made us as such." 

"Father can think so all he wants, yet it doesn't change that I didn't want any of it and remember full well what I did and didn't allow you to do," Melkor countered. 

In his ire, he flashed his brother's mirror image a cruel smirk and added, "Maybe you confuse me with Varda, Ulmo and the others that Father made just so someone would keep you company. Maybe you wanted to play with my hair, but I didn't let you and you got upset. If you're trying your hand at deception, Manwë, maybe don't try your luck with one who mastered it long before you." 

"So you even admit that you would deceive me!" Manwë exclaimed, yanking the comb out of his brother's matted hair. "Not only have you denied me your love for ages out of cruelty and misplaced revenge, but you also insist on attempting to poison our memories! Why, brother? Have I not loved you enough?" 

"Not enough, yet at the same time too much," Melkor sighed. At least if he meant all the things he said to me and wasn't just pretending to please Father. 

He had always assumed that it was all a lie and performance. Perhaps it made things easier for him to push his brother away and sever the bond before it could be fully formed; most certainly it made them simpler. Disown the impostor, despise the false king. Yet now it occurred to Melkor that there was one factor he had miscalculated, one aspect he had underestimated: Manwë's determination to reform their bond and receive the love from him that he had always wanted. 

No. Saved from the Void or not, Melkor still felt betrayed. He was not going to give it to him, he was going to deny him until the bitter end. 

Warm breath tickled his neck, and he felt Manwë's forehead resting against the back of his head. The comb lay discarded on the floor. 

"I will make it up to you. I will love you enough," his voice whispered in his ear. 

Melkor remained silent, waiting for the moment to pass. 

The very air inside the room seemed to stand still until Manwë sighed and picked up the brush to continue his work. Even as his hair was thoroughly groomed, it didn't regain its usual shine, instead remaining a dull, charcoal black as if it had been burned. Again, Melkor contemplated telling his brother not to bother and let him cut it, yet he knew he wasn't going to listen; not today, not anymore.

"Would you like something in your hair? I heard you like diamonds," Manwë asked with a sweet smile, putting down the brush to admire his work. 

He did indeed, though it seemed too good to be true. Wordlessly, Melkor shook his head. 

"Do you want me to braid it then?" 

"I never wear braids. Leave it." 

"Very well." Manwë nodded, his mien betraying nothing even as Melkor eyed him closely in the mirror. Yet another thing his so-called brother didn't know about him. 

You will never know me like Mairon does, he wanted to say, to hurl the cruellest insult he could think of at the Vala whose affection he had refused and despised his entire life. 

But he was no fool. If Melkor hadn't managed to break their sibling bond after ages of trying, what could he do or say now that he hadn't done or said already? 

The sickeningly sweet scent of roses assaulted his nostrils when Manwë pulled a flask out of his robes, poured a small amount of watery liquid on his hand and began to rub it into every inch of bare skin he could reach, most notably his neck and chest area.

Melkor let out a warning snarl. "Stop that!" 

"Don't you want to smell nice?" 

"I smell like myself, and that will have to be enough." 

"No." Manwë began to draw tender circles on his cheeks. "You smell like... evil. Like all the dark things you have seen out there. I cannot bear it."

"My hröa is not yours to mess with! I have to live in it, not you!" 

Once again Melkor's protest was ignored. 

"You used to smell like home," Manwë sighed, resting his head on his brother's shoulder and inhaling the offending flowery scent. 

"I... cannot fathom where you even got this idea." 

Melkor was upset. Bit by bit his chosen shape and attributes were altered and stripped from him against his will, just to fit some twisted vision born from Manwë's desire to be close to him. The way his brother described it was also strangely intimate, as if he had created an elaborate fantasy of their relationship and interactions in his mind. 

Worry crept up on him. Perhaps the damage done to his sanity was greater than he had ever known. 

Manwë wrapped his arms around him from behind and smiled at him in the mirror. "Do you like it? Are you happy that you are beautiful again?" 

"You know we always had a different understanding of beauty," Melkor said coldly. "You made me ugly." 

"You simply need to get used to it, then you will see. Though, maybe you need me to show you just how pretty you are?" 

The grip around his waist tightened, and Melkor's eyes widened in disbelief when he saw Manwë's reflection turning his head to kiss his cheek. His hröa began to feel numb from shock, so much so that he barely registered the sensation of lips upon skin. 

"Never kiss me again," he warned.

"But why? You are my brother, and I love you." 

"Do not. I mean it."

"No... you don't." 

Before Melkor could squirm out of his brother's grasp, his head was suddenly tilted backwards, and Manwë kissed him on the lips. It was, to his horror, neither a symbolic gesture nor a cheeky little peck, it was a long, passionate and deep kiss, brimming with enthusiasm and, worse yet, desire. He pressed his lips together to deny entry to his mouth and attempted to push the younger Vala away, but his current form lacked the strength to do so. 

With surprising dexterity, Manwë manoeuvred him into a lying position and climbed on top of him, shamelessly pressing their bodies together. 

"What in Eru's name are you doing?" Melkor hissed between kisses. 

"Loving you." 

"Manwë, I am your brother! Go find your wife –" 

He was silenced with another kiss. 

Good for nothing as usual, both of them, Melkor raged inwardly, the only thing he could do to process his shock and disgust. 

When Manwë withdrew from him, a small string of saliva hung in the air between them, binding them like a thread of fate. 

"Don't even try to pretend that you weren't thinking of me when you brought Túrin and Niënor together," he breathed, his eyes glowing with a fey light. 

"You do realise that didn't exactly end well for them?" Melkor countered. 

"Yes, but we are not mortal. The love between Ainur has always been free from such burdens." 

"You are sick." 

But Manwë wasn't listening. He appeared to be mesmerised by Melkor's angrily heaving chest and began rubbing his swollen pectorals, causing his nipples to harden. 

"Stop that!" 

"Are you afraid of enjoying this?" Manwë's expression was entirely too calm, too serene, too loving. "Do you want to keep lying to yourself?" 

"I don't –" Melkor was interrupted by a sharp gasp as his nipples were cruelly pinched by merciless talons, nearly puncturing the thin fabric of his nightgown – reminding him how easily it could be torn to shreds and leave him defenceless. He shivered. 

"Ssshhht. Let me love you." 

Manwë was almost pleading upon seeing the Dark Vala struggle against him; unfortunately it was but a farce, another attempt at acting like the sweet and lovable little brother he had always wanted to be. He continued toying with the newly discovered delights of Melkor's altered shape, rubbing, tugging, pinching and rolling his swollen nipples between his thumb and index finger. 

"You know, I did always wonder how it would feel to touch you," he breathed, utterly engrossed in the illicit touches he was bestowing upon his squirming and struggling sibling. 

"So at least you admit I never let you do this," Melkor snapped, trying to slap his hands away. 

Manwë managed to seize both of his wrists in one hand, courtesy of his long, curved talons, and held him down while his other hand began to pull up the skirt of his nightgown. 

"I wondered if you would like it," he continued, ignoring Melkor's attempts to argue. "Whenever I imagined myself touching you, it was just like this... you would try to brush me off, ridicule me, lie to me, curse me, fight me... yet in the end you would enjoy it because you yearn to be loved."

Determined, Manwë pulled the nightgown over his head, leaving his brother naked in front of him. Melkor glanced down at his body, dread filling him as he beheld those softly rounded curves, reddened, hardened nipples and his cock stirring between his legs. 

"You want this," Manwë whispered, eyes darkening with desire, "you want me too." 

"No. No. Give me my clothes back." Melkor tried to press his legs together, turn to the side to hide as much of himself as he could, free his hands to grab the blanket. Anything to escape the hungry gaze of blue eyes so much like his own. 

"Don't make me bind you with Angainor again," Manwë pleaded. "Let us enjoy this together!" 

"Never!" 

The feeling of metal encasing his wrists was familiar at this point, and Melkor contented himself with vicious warning snarls and fruitless kicking and struggling while he was restrained and his hands bound to the headboard. Manwë made sure his head was comfortably resting on a pillow, skillfully evading his attempts to bite him, and made gentle cooing noises to calm him. 

"Are you going to scream?" he asked, calm as if it was a normal and trivial question. 

"If you keep touching me? Yes. And I hope your wife hears me," Melkor said venomously. 

Manwë sighed. "I truly wish you didn't make me do this, but at least you are being honest about your intentions. I shall take it as a sign of improvement." 

Melkor's eyes widened when he felt all air leave his lungs. He tried in vain to inhale, gasping soundlessly as breath continued to elude him, and Manwë leaned down to kiss his quivering lips. 

"Worry not. Your current form does not depend on my element, it is but a reflex. I will let you breathe again as soon as you stop using your words to hurt me." 

With cruelty once thought impossible for him to conceive, he left Melkor silenced, breathless and helplessly twitching in his bonds and forcibly spread his legs to devote his attention to the most intimate part of his anatomy, intrigued by the mystery he had uncovered after ages of innocent curiosity turned depraved desire. He took his brother's cock in hand like he would take up his sapphire sceptre, examining and admiring it before beginning to stroke. His fingers were more than long enough to wrap around it completely, yet his hand – white like clouds and too dainty for war, having held quills rather than swords – seemed out of place, ill-fit for such an act of dominance and lust. 

Melkor tried not to feel, to ignore the sensation of being touched and pleasured by his brother. Yet no matter how desperately his mind sought to force his body into unfeeling, uncaring submission, his flesh at last betrayed him. Delight and fascination lit up Manwë's usually serene mien upon seeing his arousal, and he closed his eyes, unable to witness the continuous violation of the form he was trapped in. Perhaps his spirit at least could escape to a better place, pretending that it was but a bad dream or imagining someone else in his brother's place. 

A finger began prodding his hole with unabashed curiosity, and Melkor tensed. Talons retreated back into flesh to avoid drawing blood, but it made the touch no less unwelcome. 

"I assume your virtue has long since been lost," Manwë lamented, "and I must say that it pains me to imagine you giving yourself to another so readily while refusing me even the smallest gestures of affection." 

He was right, but Melkor wouldn't have told him so even if he'd been able to speak. Countless nights had he spent in the arms of others, most often his beloved little flame, and to Mairon alone he had granted the privilege of taking him when he was in the mood to receive the love of another. These moments had been profoundly intimate and intense, requiring ages of trust, patience and many soothing words from his partner; for he was a being of power and control, and to relinquish it was no easy feat. 

Melkor was afraid of what would be done to him, and his worst fear came true when Manwë pushed his finger inside of him – and his body wasn't resisting like it should. Neither spit nor oil had been used to ease the way, yet it entered him smoothly and with little to no pain. 

He noticed then how strangely wet his insides were, responding to the unwelcome intrusion by leaking all over his brother's hand. 

"W-what have you done to me?" he asked through ósanwë, almost pulling away instantly when he was met with exuberant joy. 

"I made you more receptive to my love," Manwë informed him. "After all, I wouldn't want you to be in pain."

Melkor bit his bottom lip. As much as he feared and hated being in pain, it might be preferable over yet another act of humiliating acquiescence perpetrated by his own body. 

He didn't see Manwë leaning down to lavish his hard, leaking cock with even more attention, only realising what was about to happen when warm breath tickled his skin and wet lips closed around his flesh. 

I'm not taking pleasure from my brother... I'm not taking pleasure from my brother... I'm not...

Yet no matter how often and desperately Melkor repeated the mantra in his head, the truth was that he was experiencing pleasure. Manwë appeared to not possess any gag reflex whatsoever, taking in his whole length like a seagull devouring its food and sucking him off with great enthusiasm; and his finger, now joined by another, had discovered a hidden pleasure spot inside of him, stimulating it with unending delight. 

"I wish I could hear you moan for me, brother." 

It was too much. It was wrong and forced and sickening, but it felt too good. Melkor attempted to suppress and delay his climax as long as he could, but was soon forced over the edge with a soundless sob. Manwë moaned around his cock while drinking his essence, not letting a single droplet escape. 

"You taste so lovely, just like I thought you would."

The sound of rustling robes caused Melkor to open his eyes in alarm, panicking when he saw Manwë hastily undressing himself. 

"I need you," he breathed. "Eru, I cannot bear to be parted from you any longer..."

"Father wouldn't approve of this," Melkor tried to protest, desperate to avoid what was about to happen, but he was ignored. 

"Don't be silly, brother," Manwë admonished, throwing his discarded robes on the floor. "Father made us to love each other and bonded us himself." 

He grasped Melkor's thighs and pushed his legs towards his chest to admire his helplessly twitching hole, then forced his cock inside. It was hard without needing to be touched, unrelenting in its pursuit of unifying their bodies, and despite the earlier preparation, it hurt. 

Had he been able to use his voice, Melkor would have screamed. This couldn't be happening. It was simply not possible. He had truly fallen so low that another Vala could force his will upon him, and worse yet, his own brother - smiling, innocent Manwë, always gentle, always agreeable, always forgiving him. Out of all his enemies, he had thoroughly deceived him, making him underestimate what he was capable of. 

And now, he was being mercilessly speared by his cock, used to fulfil a fanatic fantasy of brotherly love. 

In his despair, Melkor tore down the mental walls he had so carefully raised to protect his spirit and flooded their bond with his anguish, but Manwë didn't relent. He lay down on top of him and embraced him, whispering endearments in the ancient language of their kind to soothe his pain even as he continued his assault. 

The only grace Melkor was granted, whether by his indifferent father or not, was that it didn't take long. Manwë came inside him as soon as he forced him into another kiss, this time successfully pushing his tongue down his throat. Feverish praise and words of affection drowned out every other thought they might have shared in that moment. 

Exhaustion took hold of Melkor then, and he only realised that he was breathing again when he heard the sound of his own cries and sobs. 

"I know," Manwë cooed, kissing him again. "It was a lot. You are not used to being loved anymore. 

"N-no... you..." 

But he was out of words. What could he even say? That he had been physically altered, assaulted and raped by his brother under the guise of love? That he, despite the lack of connection and affection, still felt betrayed? That he was hurt and wounded in hröa and ëala in ways Ainur were never meant to endure? 

Manwë remained on top of him, tucking his head underneath his chin as if they were merely cuddling – as if nothing had happened. 

"I love you, brother." 

Melkor was silent. 

"I missed you so much. I am glad we are together again now." 

The walls around his spirit rose like thorny vines, shielding him from the twisted love Manwë was projecting through their bond. Evil or not, Melkor had known love throughout his existence, and this was something else entirely. 

Had pity and tears alike not escaped him, he would have wept for what his brother had become.

#⊰❦⊱ incest #⊰✦⊱ non con #melkor #morgoth #manwe #manwë #manwe sulimo #melkor x manwe #silm smut #silmarillion #silmarillion fanfiction #cw incest #tw incest #cw noncon #tw noncon #cílil writes #my writing #minors dni

[furious-haste-of-malice]

AN: I promised to write a little something for @sortumavaara a while ago, so here it is! Based on and inspired by this artwork.

dark romance prompts

♡ prompt: taboo & overstimulation (rare pair bingo) | Glorfindel x Erestor ♡ synopsis: Glorfindel wants - needs - Erestor and hatches a new plan to make it happen, even if it means breaking a few teeny tiny rules and taboos ♡ warnings: highly dub-con/non-con, aphrodisiacs, obsession, unhinged horny & delusional Glorfy ♡ short oneshot (~800 words)

The thought that he shouldn't do this had crossed Glorfindel's mind. 

But the voice of reason had, in time, been drowned out by his desire, no, need to bed Erestor again, a feeling that had taken over his very mind and every waking thought. 

It was perhaps, as Glorfindel had also considered, not entirely right to feel this way, yet such a notion again did little to dissuade him; in fact, he had always found it rather arousing to break rules and taboos. 

And his favourite lover would enjoy it, he was certain. 

Erestor's cheeks were flushed bright red and his breathing was heavy. An empty tea cup sat in front of him, nearly getting knocked over as he sluggishly attempted to prop himself up and rise from his chair. 

"Glorfindel... not this again..."

He was slurring his words and sounded almost petulant, causing Glorfindel to smile, endeared by the display. 

"Yes, beloved. I promised we would try again, didn't I?"

Instead of waiting for a response, he picked up the smaller ellon and carried him over to the bed to begin undoing his robes. Erestor mumbled a few words of weak protest, but Glorfindel opted to stroke the growing bulge between his legs to soothe him. 

"I know it's not easy," he said softly. "After you were so tense last time, I prepared this tea for you. It should make it easier for you to take me. And I'll be careful, I promise." 

All Erestor managed was a groan while his remaining clothes were removed, and Glorfindel quickly discarded his own as well. Despite not having consumed the stimulating beverage himself, his cock was already hard as well, standing between his legs with the pride and poise expected from an accomplished warrior like himself. 

Erestor gulped and tried to rise, but Glorfindel swiftly moved to sit behind him and gathered him in his arms. 

"Let me show you how good it can feel when you're relaxed and ready," he cooed, grasping his lover's thighs to spread his legs wide open. 

Two fingers made their way in-between before Erestor could attempt to close them and gently prodded his entrance. Glorfindel found that he was indeed wet, as was the intended effect of the concoction he had slipped into his tea, yet not quite leaking. The amount of lubrication might still be insufficient to fit his entire length inside that tight little hole, but he was certainly willing to try. 

Placing his hands on the underside of his thighs, he lifted the smaller ellon up to place him on his lap and align his cock with his entrance, and Erestor squirmed in his grasp. 

"No, please," he protested weakly. "Please, my lord. I-I can't. And I promise I won't tell anyone – ah-!" 

Glorfindel attempted to shush him with a kiss, but his lips brushed against his cheek instead as Erestor turned his head to the side. His breath came in heavy gasps upon being breached, taking the warrior's large cock inch by inch. 

"Ssshhhh. You're doing so much better already," Glorfindel praised, holding him in place when he felt resistance. "Look, you managed to take half of me this time!"

"Stop – ngh – please... ah..." Erestor tried once more, but his pleas were soon reduced to small moans and gasps as Glorfindel began to move inside him. 

"We'll up the dosage next time," he reassured him, whispering in his ear. "Then it'll feel even better and you'll be able to take all of me. Doesn't that sound good?" 

He received no reply, but that suited him just fine. With every thrust, his world shrank more and more until it was reduced to the wonderful feeling of hot, wet tightness around his cock, exactly like he had imagined it. Glorfindel barely noticed that Erestor came soon after, and it didn't deter him either; he was simply too sweet when he tried and failed to beg for reprieve and could do nothing except take his cock over and over and over again. 

He loves it, he reminded himself, and one day he'll admit it too. 

Letting out the occasional indulgent moan to inform his lover of his boundless enjoyment, Glorfindel continued to bounce him on his lap and fuck him open until he'd had his fill. 

"You always feel so wonderful, Erestor," he breathed when he released inside him, accentuating his words with a gentle, almost chaste kiss on his cheek. 

Erestor was silent, and his chest was heaving as he attempted to catch his breath. Glorfindel placed him on the bed and lay down as well, admiring him. 

"Do you even know how beautiful you are? How cute and precious and delicious?" he continued and leaned down to pepper his face with more kisses. "I can never resist you, beloved..." 

Thanks for reading!

#glorfindel #laurefindele #erestor #glorfindel x erestor #glorestor #lotr #lord of the rings #lotr fanfic #silmarillion #silm fanfic #silmarillion fanfiction #cílil writes #my writing #smut #dark romance prompts #tw noncon #cw noncon #dead dove do not eat

[furious-haste-of-malice]

❝ "You may have me," Melyanna promised him then, "but you will be mine in return." ❞

⊱ Prompt: Mind control, aphrodisiacs ⊱ Pairing: Melian x Thingol ⊱ Synopsis: Elwë chances upon an Aini in the forest and soon finds himself under her spell. Or: Melyanna's more-or-less accidental acquisition of a pet/lover/husband ⊱ Featuring: Eldritch Ainur, the effects of magic songs on the minds of incarnates, slight femdom, lady topping, light biting ⊱ Warnings: Creative liberties taken with canon, dub-con (he very much wants her, but he's also under a spell), the prompts

𝑨𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓'𝒔 𝑵𝒐𝒕𝒆: The (technically) last one for @tolkienpinupcalendar's Dead Dove December. I messed up the posting order a bit at the end, but hey, it's all here now. Well almost; I am planning to write an "extra episode", so stay tuned for that!

I'm using the Quenyan names in this because Thingol was known and referred to as Elwë at this point in time and I thought that Melian, given how Ainur are omnilingual, would "match his language settings" by introducing herself with her Quenyan name as well.

He was frozen in place, not knowing if it was him who stood still or time itself. The very air seemed to thrum with a strange, ancient spell that neither he nor the forest could escape from, woven into the very fabric of reality. 

Elwë had thought nothing of it when he had followed her song, assuming that perhaps a kinswoman had been lost and required his aid; enchanting though this voice was and unlike anything he had ever heard. 

The being that turned to face him appeared to be a woman indeed, but most certainly no Elf. Her body was covered by a thin dress, resembling a nightgown more than actual garment, her feet were bare and her skin a mottled, greyish-brown with patches of light cream. Stray brown feathers were in her hair and adorned her shoulders and limbs. Most striking though were her lips, full, plump and golden as if covered in honey, and her eyes, unfathomable pools of dark midnight blue. 

Elwë could not speak, and neither did she. Her head was tilted slightly to the side as she beheld him with unabashed curiosity. Whether this moment lasted mere seconds or a century, he could not tell; and at last, the mysterious being approached. 

Her feet, Elwë noticed, made no sound on the forest ground when she moved. 

The depths of her eyes were aglow with a fey light that reminded him of the strange beings he had encountered across the sea; and it dawned on him then that he had encountered an Aini. She was of lesser stature than Oromë and his peers, but in his eyes no less magnificent – nay, even as her wild, otherworldly appearance sent shivers of dread and excitement alike down his spine, he found her beautiful. 

Her lips no longer moved. She was silent like him, yet somehow Elwë could still hear her song within his mind. 

The Aini reached for him, placing her palm on his cheek. Her skin making contact with his felt like rain and lightning at the same time, gentle coolness spreading within him just as a searing shock surged through his muscles. 

Melyanna. Elwë knew her name then, her very being, felt it touch his own. Whether she had spoken to him through ósanwë or planted a seed of recognition inside his willing, curious mind, he could not tell.

Melyanna. He wanted to say her name, but his tongue would not obey him. He wanted to call out to her, but knew not why or what he would ask of her. 

"Beautiful," a voice – her voice – spoke to him then, mirroring his own thoughts, and Elwë realised that Melyanna had her own designs, knowing exactly what she wanted from him. 

Her hands began to roam his body, and she hummed softly, filling his ears and his very being with a playful, lilting melody until she became the focus of his world, the only thing he could perceive. The trees, the forest, the sky above, all seemed to blur and fade away, leaving only her. 

"You may have me," Melyanna promised him then, "but you will be mine in return." 

Yes, Elwë thought in response, forcing himself to nod even as his body began to feel heavier and heavier. How could he say no to her after all, the most wondrous and enchanting creature he had ever met? Such thoughts no longer crossed his mind, as did any sense of danger or duty. Only desire remained. 

Delighted, Melyanna played with his hair, carding her fingers through it until her talon-like nails nearly drew blood, then kissed him at last. She didn't taste like honey, as Elwë had expected, yet no less sweet; her lips tasted like nectar, dew and freshly fallen rain. 

The song weaving itself into his very being grew and swelled, as did the need to become hers. 

When Melyanna let go so he could breathe, sensing that her Elven companion had begun to faint in her grasp, Elwë fell to his knees. 

Please. 

After a moment of deliberation, she pushed him down with surprising assertiveness and strength, reminding him how easily his body could be broken beyond repair if she so chose; and still, he felt no fear. She was on top of him faster than his eyes could follow and kissed him again, hungry for more. 

Elwë wanted nothing more than to please her. In his mind, he saw his hands exploring her as she did to him, though he was too befuddled to tell if it was just a fantasy or if his body obeyed. All he knew was that each kiss felt like Melyanna was devouring him alive, and that his excitement grew with each shaking breath he took, inhaling her very essence. 

His clothes had disappeared at some point, either through some sort of spell or torn to shreds by the now-feral Aini on top of him, yet he remained blissfully ignorant of their fate. Arousal coursed through him with such potency that his erection pressed against her lower body with every movement, eliciting a pleased purr from Melyanna. She revealed herself fully to him then, proudly straddling his hips like he was a most prestigious conquest of hers, and allowed him to gaze upon her nudity with shameless lust and greed. 

Elwë reached out to touch her. Before his hand made contact with her alluring flesh, however, Melyanna grabbed his wrist and pushed it back down, letting out a warning growl. 

I yield, I yield, he thought. 

"Mine," was all she said in response, and he understood. 

He was not the one in control. 

Thus appeased, Melyanna lifted her hips and guided his leaking cock between her legs. Elwë could feel her, warm, wet and soft like soil after rainfall in summer, yet before he had time to enjoy the sensation or ponder whether an Aini's anatomy would even resemble that of an Elven woman, she sat down in one swift movement. 

For the first time since he had fallen under her spell, his voice rang out, a loud, desperate moan, and Melyanna joined him in kind. The mere idea of being inside her, of becoming one with her was incomprehensible and utterly maddening, let alone the sensation of her divine flesh clenching around his eagerly twitching length, gripping him like she intended to never let him go again. 

And still, it was not enough. Elwë wanted more. It felt as though her essence was seeping through his skin and into his blood, making him truly and wholly hers and driving him insane with desire. Never again was he going to touch another, never again was he going to long for another, even if he never saw her again. Melyanna had taken root within his heart, too deep to be torn out again. 

He was hers now. 

Sensing the intensity of his emotions, she began to nibble on his neck. Perhaps it had been intended as a calming or affectionate gesture, yet Elwë found himself moaning and writhing underneath her when her teeth broke skin and she quickly soothed his wounds with her tongue. 

It was too much. 

His climax shook him to the core, and he saw a bright, blinding light as if his fëa had gone to the Timeless Halls, whence his lover had come ages ago. 

Melyanna let out a low, guttural noise of triumph, but didn't stop riding him as he went limp underneath her. Elwë realised then that even as exhaustion gripped him in body and spirit, the fire of their passion still burned him alive, and that she would continue to have her way with him until she too was fully satisfied. 

And he wanted nothing more than to give himself to her. 

Thanks for reading! ♡

#⊰⟡⊱ dub-con #elwe #elwe singollo #thingol #melian #silm smut #minors dni #silm fanfic #silmarillion fanfiction #silmarillion #cílil writes #my writing #TPCdeaddovedecember #tw dubcon #cw dubcon

[furious-haste-of-malice]

AN: Received this as a request on main, decided to post it here to be safe. Please heed the warnings!

dark romance prompts

♡ prompt: disobedience & impact play (spicy bingo) | Melkor x Mairon x Maedhros ♡ synopsis: Melkor and Mairon teach their new favourite prisoner a lesson in obedience ♡ warnings: non-consensual oral sex, non-consensual impact play (whip) ♡ short oneshot (~800 words)

Due to this being Maedhros' POV, the two dark lords will be referred to by their alternate names.

When he had been captured, Maitimo had braced himself to face the horrors of Angband; yet nothing could have ever prepared him for the scene he witnessed now.

And would soon be made to participate in. 

He had found out two things about the dark lord: That he was rather fond of red hair and that his lieutenant – whose chosen fána happened to share that trait – was also his lover. 

Maitimo had been mildly disgusted upon being forced to witness noisy, messy kissing and lewd touching on the throne, as if they were inside a brothel and not a fortress, but it had swiftly escalated to outright horror when Morgoth suggested that he should join them. 

"What do you mean?" Maitimo asked as calmly and slowly as he could. 

"What do you think it could possibly mean?" Sauron snapped and yanked on his chain to force him to come closer. 

It was obvious that his lord's interest in their latest prisoner irritated him, though Maitimo could take no pleasure in it, faced with a wolfish grin on the Enemy's face that sent all primal instincts into overdrive, screaming at him to run.

If only he could. 

"Show him," Morgoth ordered, addressing Sauron. "He can service me after you are done, and if he pleases me we can consider being more lenient with him." 

"As you wish." 

Leaving his lord's side to kneel between his legs, the Maia got to work. Maitimo could only watch with growing trepidation as garments were undone and pushed aside to reveal a swiftly hardening cock. Even as it vanished between dutifully parted lips, the sheer size and girth were obvious to any unlucky spectator – not too surprising, considering that he was looking at a Vala, yet the implications of what had been suggested by the very same creature were all too clear. 

Maitimo would be expected to perform such an act himself; and as if that in itself wasn't revolting already, he also doubted his physical capabilities. He had done such a thing before, admittedly, but it had been with his beloved Findekáno – no, he didn't even want to think about him now. 

They shan't sully the memory. 

"Enough." Morgoth's command brought both him and Sauron back to reality. "It seems our new toy is bored and wants to try it for himself." 

The Maia withdrew, making a show out of his reluctance. 

"I shall make sure he does his best," he said and summoned a fiery whip while rising to his feet and positioning himself behind their prisoner. 

Maitimo trembled in disgust when he was inexorably pulled closer until he too knelt between Morgoth's legs and found himself face to face with a large, hard and glistening wet cock. 

"Go on, Maitimo. Be good for me," the Vala purred.

"And if you are not, there will be dire consequences," Sauron hissed from outside his field of vision. 

His words were accentuated by a well-aimed strike hitting Maitimo's back, eliciting a gasp before he could stop himself, and Morgoth took the opportunity to thrust inside his mouth and force his head down with one hand. 

"Do not play coy with me. I know what you and your cousin did." 

No, no, no. 

How could fate be so cruel? How could he have fallen into the hands of the Enemy to be used like a common whore and have his deepest secret so nonchalantly revealed? 

Maitimo's inaction prompted more whiplashes, yet he was much preoccupied with the struggle of not throwing up all over Morgoth's lap – a tempting prospect not just due to the unwelcome intrusion of his throat, but also a transgression he didn't want to face the consequences for. Struggling, he forced himself to focus on relaxing and breathing through his nose. His jaw was already beginning to hurt from the rough handling he received, and it only got worse when the Vala resumed moving, fucking his throat without any tenderness or affection. 

Again, he refused to think of Findekáno. 

Being used this way absolved Maitimo of the humiliating task of actively pleasuring the Enemy, yet enduring such violation was made harder by the fiery whip biting into his skin time and time again. He was no longer even sure what he was being punished for; maybe Sauron simply felt like he deserved to suffer for taking his place. 

Had anyone asked him, he would have loved to swap. 

Maitimo wanted nothing more than to vomit when hot, viscous liquid at last flooded his mouth and throat, making him gag around the huge cock in his mouth even more. 

"Swallow." 

Another whiplash. Morgoth held him down until he had done so, then gave a long, self-satisfied sigh. 

"What do you think, precious? Does he deserve our leniency?" 

"He remains defiant and disobedient, as is ingrained within his family. I think he requires more training before he may be granted any sort of mercy..." 

Thanks for reading!

#maedhros #maitimo #melkor #morgoth #sauron #mairon #silmarillion #silm smut #silm fanfic #silmarillion fanfiction #cw noncon #tw noncon #minors dni #cílil writes #my writing #dark romance prompts #request

[furious-haste-of-malice]

❝ Tulkas' forehead creased as if deep in thought. "Though maybe you need a... different kind of reminder where you belong." ❞

⊱ Prompt: Piss kink ⊱ Pairing: Tulkas x Melkor ⊱ Synopsis: [Posted as chapter 2 of Handmaiden's Tale] After his captivity in Mandos ends, Melkor is sentenced to serve as Tulkas' handmaiden to atone for his crimes. Unfortunately for him, Tulkas has more in mind than just making him clean his mansion. ⊱ Featuring: Melkor in a maid outfit ⊱ Warnings: The prompt, sexual slavery, non-con (in chapter 1 and referenced), non-consensual kink, humiliation & degradation, punishment

𝑨𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓'𝒔 𝑵𝒐𝒕𝒆: Yet another one for @tolkienpinupcalendar's Dead Dove December; we're almost done. Please heed tags and warnings: This one, as well as the fic in its entirety, is nasty.

#⊰✦⊱ non-con #⊰✧⊱ abusive relationship #melkor #morgoth #tulkas #tulkas x melkor #valar #ainur #silm smut #minors dni #silm fanfic #silmarillion fanfiction #silmarillion #cílil writes #my writing #cw piss #tw piss #tw noncon #cw noncon #dead dove do not eat #TPCdeaddovedecember

[furious-haste-of-malice]

The Valar decree that, as the sole omega child of Fëanaro, Maglor cannot be held to the same blame as his brothers for his deeds. Obviously he was led by those stronger than him.

They offer him a deal, sent with his uncle: place himself into the care of an alpha of their choosing, to better guide him, and they will let his last brother find healing in Lorien.

It is no choice at all.

#interesting #to read

[furious-haste-of-malice]

I forgot to post the Melian x Thingol DDD fic. Whoops my bad! Something got lost in brain jungle there between 5 different events... I'll post it plus the other remaining one over the coming week!

#and the bonus chapter sometime after #⋅☽⋅ blog update

[furious-haste-of-malice]

❝ "Come, Mulkhêrînim, and do not be shy. The Elf-prince is yours to use tonight, for this is how the Lord rewards his loyal subjects." ❞

⊱ Prompt: Pillory/stocks, free use ⊱ Pairing: Númenórean cultists x Maglor, Mairon ⊱ Synopsis: Mairon captures Maglor and brings him to the Temple of Melkor as a gift to his loyal followers. ⊱ Featuring: The Cult of Melkor is also a deranged sex cult now because Mairon said so, references to past Angbang ⊱ Warnings: Non-con, ritualistic gang rape, sadism & voyeurism (on Mairon's part in particular), the prompts by themselves

𝑨𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓'𝒔 𝑵𝒐𝒕𝒆: Another one for @tolkienpinupcalendar's Dead Dove December; we're nearing the end (one more regular chapter that I have already written plus a bonus fic I'm currently working on).

Mulkhêrînim - (Adûnaic) - Children of Melkor. Thought it would be a lovely way for Mairon to address them like that as an ultimate affront against Eru. Translation by me with the help of this dictionary (because in the Tolkien fandom even the nasty porn needs linguistics!)

"I have a special gift for you today, oh faithful Mulkhêrînim." 

His loyal cultists mumbled among themselves when Mairon presented them with the exquisite treat he had captured. 

At first glance, it appeared to be yet another captive, like the innumerable amount he had caught in the service of his lord – a dark-haired man, albeit handsome by incarnate standards, was kneeling on the dais in front of the altar, his head and hands secured by a hastily erected pillory, naked save for a flimsy loin cloth. 

The more perceptive among Mairon's followers, however, had already noticed what made this one special: The pair of pointed ears sticking out from the mess that was his hair, almost defiantly announcing his identity as one of Ilúvatar's immortal children. 

"Is that an Elf?" one of the cultists gasped, pointing at the helpless prisoner. 

"Indeed it is, very good," Mairon purred and stood next to the Elf in question to almost tenderly pull his hair out of the way to show them off. "But not any Elf; I have captured one of royal blood." 

The whispering among his followers intensified, and he savoured the tension before the anxiously awaited revelation. 

"Meet Prince Makalaurë, also known as Maglor, the last living son of Fëanor!"

Laughing and jeering erupted from the crowd, their faces changing from curious to ravenous within seconds. Maglor, however, remained quiet, merely pressing his lips together and hardening his gaze. 

I suppose his dear brother told him what happens to those who talk back, Mairon thought with a pleased smirk. 

"Our minstrel's lonely wanderings have finally come to an end, so that he may grace us with his presence instead," he declared with a grand gesture, smugness bleeding into his tone like black ink dripping into water. 

"Will he be a sacrifice to the Lord?" a younger cultist asked. 

Mairon laughed. Oh, Melkor would be delighted to witness this scene; he could practically hear his gleeful laughter echoing through the temple from beyond the circles of the world, could see his eyes gleaming with dark amusement, could feel his joy – but he swiftly tore himself away from his memories and imagination, lest he be distracted for too long. 

"Perhaps he will be in time," he drawled, "though for now he shall serve you." 

His mortal followers, while loyal and so very eager to attain the immortality he had promised, didn't seem to grasp the meaning of his words, looking up at him expectantly. None had the courage to ask. Mairon suppressed a sigh of exasperation and the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose and stepped aside so they could properly admire Maglor's scantily clad form.

"Have you never dreamed of getting a taste of what we will conquer? Of enjoying the pleasures of immortal flesh?" He chuckled. "Such rare blood is too precious to spill with haste, would you not agree? After all..." 

In one swift movement, Mairon raked his claw-like golden nails down Maglor's back, drawing blood and eliciting a piercing scream. 

"He has such a beautiful voice, for which he is renowned to this day. What a waste it would be to not enjoy his illustrious company..." 

Murmurs of agreement rose within the crowd, and a few cultists came closer, looking up at their high priest as they waited for permission. Mairon stepped back to make space for his followers and beckoned them with an elegant wave of his hands, causing the golden bangles on his arm to clink and tinkle. 

"Come, Mulkhêrînim, and do not be shy. The Elf-prince is yours to use tonight, for this is how the Lord rewards his loyal subjects." 

A heady mix of lust and greed filled the room, and he inhaled it eagerly, a warm shudder going through him. He was going to enjoy this spectacle greatly. 

Had he caught any other Elf, he would have to be worried that their fëa would all too soon flee to Mandos, unable to endure such violation, but the Fëanorion's ill-fated oath would keep him chained to his hröa. 

Robes billowing behind him as if moved by an unseen tempest of malice, Mairon strutted around the altar and leapt onto the lap of Melkor's statue with feline grace, taking a seat like a king would sit on a throne. 

"Do you see that, precious? Almost like home," he whispered to the statue and pressed a reverent kiss onto the cold marble hand, exactly where his ring would have been. 

Maglor didn't scream when his loin cloth was torn off him, nor when greedy hands explored his body and fondled him like a common whore. He didn't grace his captors with any pleas or protests. Only when one cultist knelt behind him and forced his cock inside, he finally cried out. 

Mairon smiled. Awaken their lust, and they are reduced to mere animals, as you taught me yourself. 

The scene unfolding in front of him was chaotic, erratic and filthy, just like Melkor would have loved it. The Man's coupling with their Elven captive was frenzied and hasty, gripping his hips with his knuckles white, chasing his pleasure. Maglor himself was soon silenced – in spite of his wonderful voice and the lovely sound of his screams – by another cultist forcing his mouth open to shove his cock down his throat.

"Let's see what else he can do with that talented tongue of his," another commented on the act, followed by raucous laughter. 

Mairon considered chastising them for not appreciating the beauty of a voice trembling with pain and despair, but instead kept a serene expression as if it had been an amusing statement. He couldn't quite fault them for it; after all, mortals were ever so impatient, and their new toy had many of them to satisfy. 

Whenever one finished inside of him, another would take their place. A young initiate was sent to retrieve some oil for additional lubrication and returned with a pitcher containing the very same sacred oil that was used in their ritual sacrifices – another thing too entertaining to be irked by, and thus Mairon remained silent, smiling and nodding along whenever one of his followers looked up at him for encouragement. 

"Let us see if they can break him, precious," he whispered to the statue. 

Maglor's head hung low whenever no one held it in place, though he had little room to move. The pillory kept him upright even as knees gave in, and seed had begun leaking out of him and down his thighs. Mairon was delighted to see droplets of red marring creamy white and caught the distinct scent of blood. Still, it didn't stop his followers from using their new toy like wild beasts mounting one another during mating season. Some also opted to help themselves before or after their turn, spilling onto whichever part of Maglor they could reach. 

Mairon hadn't paid attention to the passage of time, but he estimated a few hours had passed when they were finally done with the Noldorin prince, readjusting their robes and withdrawing from him while glancing up at their master. Abandoning his comfortable seat on the statue – though most unwillingly – he stepped closer to survey the results. 

Despite no longer being gagged, Maglor was eerily silent. His entire form was stained with viscous white, his face in particular, his lips were swollen, his legs trembling, his hole loose and leaking. 

Mairon graced his followers with a bright, pleased smile as if they had done him a great kindness and placed his fingertips together. 

"Well done, Mulkhêrînim. Our Lord shall look down upon you with benevolence and grant his favour to those who stand against his enemies." 

Maglor let out a small snort, yet the spark of rebellion was short-lived when Mairon backhanded him across the face with graceful elegance that belied the force of his blow. 

"Now take our guest to the King's dungeons and make accommodations worthy of a prince." 

The sweet smile on his face then twisted, showing sharp teeth, and his voice darkened as he added, "And make sure he cannot escape, lest you wish to invoke our Lord's wrath." 

Thanks for reading! ♡

#⊰✦⊱ non-con #mairon #sauron #maglor #makalaure #numenoreans #cult of melkor #silm smut #minors dni #silm fanfic #silmarillion fanfiction #silmarillion #cílil writes #my writing #tw noncon #cw noncon #dead dove do not eat #TPCdeaddovedecember

[furious-haste-of-malice]

❝ "I could earn it, my lady," Tulkas said eagerly, trying his best to win her favour. "Whatever you want, I will do it for you. Your wish is my command." ❞

⊱ Prompt: Degradation, boot humping ⊱ Pairing: Nessa x Tulkas ⊱ Synopsis: In which Nessa ties up her husband and uses him as a dance floor and Tulkas is very excited about it. ⊱ Featuring: Tulkas has a thing for feet, femdom, misuse of Angainor, orgasm delay/denial ⊱ Warnings: Some humiliation/degradation (but consensual)

𝑨𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓'𝒔 𝑵𝒐𝒕𝒆: Another one for @tolkienpinupcalendar's Dead Dove December; we're making progress. Tbh this one is just kink and not really dead dove, but since the rest of the series is here too, I'll keep it in one place. Hope you enjoy!

Tulkas could watch his wife dance for ages. 

Nessa was the epitome of graceful elegance and blinding speed alike, twisting, turning and twirling to her heart's content, faster than even his eyes could follow. Her feet, usually naked, were dainty like a fawn's limbs and artfully arched, a miracle on their own, and yet so deceptively durable and strong, carrying her through the fields of Valinor and enduring even the most strenuous and ferocious dances. 

This hidden strength and lethal accuracy Tulkas had experienced himself many times – whenever Nessa challenged him to catch her, outran and evaded him with ease, laughed at his misfortune every time she let him come close only to slip away at the last second or asked him to dance, making him follow her lead until even the mighty Champion of the Valar collapsed in exhaustion. 

And still, he didn't mind. Tulkas was endlessly fascinated by the wild and wily creature he had been granted the honour of taking as his wife and had soon learned that he would even endure ridicule and humiliation to be in her presence – and gladly so. Perhaps, he sometimes had to admit to himself, there was a part of him that quite liked it and was more than happy to serve as her plaything and playground alike. 

The position he currently found himself in was degrading to say the least, lying flat on his back with his muscular limbs stretched out, restrained by the chain Angainor that Nessa had elegantly convinced him to give to her instead – for a more pleasurable use, as she had whispered in his ear. And pleasure Tulkas felt indeed as he could do nothing but watch her, even though his ëala and fána alike ached for her, wanted nothing more than to break free and chase her like he knew she loved and maybe, maybe be rewarded in the end if he did well. 

Nessa had long since taken to stepping on him as part of her performance. Her feet, soft and so very dainty, looked tiny compared to his large, bulky frame, dancing on him like birds would hop and patter on a sleeping moose. Neither her weight nor her movements bothered Tulkas, his fána too sturdy to be hurt or damaged easily; it was more akin to a massage, rough and at times uncomfortable, but ultimately pleasant and stimulating. 

"Do you like this?" Nessa asked, tiptoeing on his chest before raising one leg up and overhead alongside both arms, her entire form curving like a beautiful bow. 

Tulkas' mouth suddenly felt dry, and he stared up at her with unconcealed hunger. His wife, so lovely and alluring, so close, yet as always just barely out of reach. If he was a man of a weaker heart he would weep, but to push him this far she would have to be even more cruel. 

The thought was frightening and exciting at the same time. 

"Aye," was all Tulkas managed to say, swallowing hard. "I... you are..." 

"Hm?" Nessa performed a cheeky little pirouette, then hopped from one foot to the other to switch up her pose. "Yes, husband? What do you have to say? I am all ears." 

"I want you."

Tulkas had never been a particularly eloquent Ainu, nor did he know how to weave charming tales of flattery. His heart was on his sleeve and his desire written plainly across his face, flushed from excitement. 

"Of course you do." 

The arrogant certainty and mocking tone with which Nessa spoke to him would have prompted him to challenge any other in her place to a duel, but her saying it sent a heady rush of arousal directly to his groin. 

Not knowing what else to say, Tulkas added in a small, breathless voice, "Please."

Nessa took a moment to assess the state he was in, and her eyes quickly settled on the growing bulge between his legs. Her lips curled into a mischievous smile, and she returned to a normal stance before stretching out one of her sinewy, wonderfully shaped legs to place one foot directly on his crotch, letting his erection nestle into its arch. 

"Indeed you do enjoy this," Nessa mused, "but I don't think I am in the mood to just give myself to you." 

"I could earn it, my lady," Tulkas said eagerly, trying his best to win her favour. "Whatever you want, I will do it for you. Your wish is my command." 

Nessa laughed. "My wish is for you to stay as you are, for I find this sight quite entertaining."

Her words cut deep, and Tulkas gave her a wounded look. She was right of course, he was enjoying this greatly, but the thought of lying beneath her while his yearning grew and grew, only for his desire to remain unfulfilled in the end, threatened to break his heart into pieces. 

It seemed as though Nessa sensed his neediness and distress and took pity on him then, pushing down with her foot so he could feel it firmly resting against his clothed cock. Tulkas groaned, and she smiled impishly. 

"But it's rather endearing as well," she lilted. "So I feel like I should grant you a little reward. How does that sound?" 

"W-wonderful. Please, my lady..." 

"Go on. Work for it." 

Tulkas didn't need to be told twice. As soon as he had permission to do so, he began rutting against her in a maddened frenzy, as much as the chains holding him in place would allow. Oh, how he wished there was no barrier of clothing between his cock and the sole of her foot so he could feel just how warm and soft her skin was and how firm her muscles; how he wished he could run his hands up and down her legs and kiss her in reverence – but such honour would not be granted today, and he had learned to accept whatever his lady wife saw fit to give. 

The speed and vigour with which Tulkas chased his peak would have daunted many others, but not fierce and proud Nessa who kept her foot pressing down, even stepping on his most vulnerable parts with queenly grace; yet whatever pain he felt only heightened his pleasure. He would have spent just as fast as he moved, had she not decided to prolong the pleasurable torment by occasionally lifting her foot, stretching it languidly as she watched him silently plead to continue. 

The relief Tulkas felt when he was finally allowed to climax shattered his mind, and he was left babbling and muttering fragments of praise and gratitude. His garments were now thoroughly stained, a testament to his desperate depravity and terrific triumph alike – Nessa had accepted his devotion and admiration and seen it fit to reward him accordingly, and he couldn't be happier.

She continued her performance then, using his heaving, exhausted fána as her personal stage once more, and despite the humiliating state and position he was forced to remain in, Tulkas smiled and felt no shame.

Thanks for reading! ♡

#tulkas #nessa #tulkas x nessa #valar #ainur #silm smut #minors dni #silm fanfic #silmarillion fanfiction #silmarillion #cílil writes #my writing #TPCdeaddovedecember

[furious-haste-of-malice]

❝ "Does my brother – your husband – know that you still desire me?" 

"Unlike you, he is pure and good and so very agreeable. Unlike you, he knows when to obey." ❞

⊱ Prompt: BDSM, painal ⊱ Pairing: Varda x Melkor ⊱ Synopsis: After Melkor has been captured, Varda decides to try her hand at making him submit to his rightful queen - and doing it her own way. ⊱ Featuring: Eldritch Ainur, tentacles made of holy light, sadistic domme Varda, double/triple penetration (spicy bingo) ⊱ Warnings: Non-con, non-consensual BDSM, infidelity*, Varda's holy light hurts Melkor, the painal prompt in itself *I personally hc that Ainur couples tend to be quite liberal with physical love (as their bodies are just raiment to them), however Varda is doing this behind Manwë's back and he might not be ok with his wife assaulting his brother, so... make of it what you will, warning just to be safe.

𝑨𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓'𝒔 𝑵𝒐𝒕𝒆: Another one for @tolkienpinupcalendar's Dead Dove December that I'm still writing in February because yes. Enjoy~

It had pleased her to see him in chains. 

And it pleased her even more to have him kneel in front of her. 

Varda had ordered Melkor to be brought to her observatory within the highest tower of Ilmarin. Whether it was to settle an ancient dispute or it was merely pleasure she sought she herself couldn't tell, but what she knew for certain was that she finally had the arrogant Vala all to herself, away from the gaze of her sweet, all too kind husband. 

Though, of course, said Vala wouldn't make it easy to teach him a lesson in humility. 

Melkor looked up at her, a dark, triumphant grin twisting his fair features, and Varda swore to herself that she would wipe it off his face.

"So you wanted me all along, hm?" 

"The only thing I could ever want of you is your complete and utter surrender and submission to my rule," she said coldly and gripped his jaw. 

The searing heat of her hallowed hand elicited a sharp hiss of pain from the Dark Vala, and it was Varda's turn to smile. 

Even so, Melkor remained defiant. "Does my brother – your husband – know that you still desire me?" 

"Unlike you, he is pure and good and so very agreeable. Unlike you, he knows when to obey." 

"True." His attempt at regaining his haughty smile was more akin to a beast baring its teeth, but Varda was undaunted; rather, she felt a surge of excitement. 

One brother, already tame within her capable hands, and the other to be tamed by her, so that he might never challenge her or her subjects again. 

Melkor took advantage of her pensive silence. "But you are wrong if you believe I will be your little pet like he is – as amusing as it would be to see you admitting how much you have wanted me this whole time. Really, Varda, the true Elder King and Eru's impostor? How greedy of you." 

Without warning, Varda slapped him. 

"You shall not insult me or my husband in my presence. And whether you will learn to submit or not, we shall see." 

She could sense that it was slowly dawning on him how serious she was, and she wondered how Melkor would look if he was terrified, how he would sound if his mighty voice was reduced to a pleading whimper – something she quite enjoyed doing to Manwë. 

Fascinated, Varda looked at the handprint she had left on the Dark Vala's cheek, then her own hand, still faintly glowing with furious starlight, and finally at his bound form. He was trapped in his flesh in more ways than one thanks to Angainor, and the sensation of pain seemed more acute and intimate than what she had observed with other Ainur. 

Light, too, had served Melkor once, yet now its holy purity hurt him – retribution for his crimes – and it obeyed her command rather than his; and it was then that she knew exactly how she would teach him a lesson. 

With an elegant flick of her wrist, Varda sent forth a wave of starfire that incinerated the tattered remains of his clothes, leaving him bare under her merciless gaze. 

Fallen or not, he was still a sight to behold. Where Manwë's form spoke of lithe grace, Melkor's contained raw strength; where Manwë's hands were made for shaping clouds, holding quills to write his poetry and gentle touch, Melkor's carved valleys, broke mountains and accomplished many other evil deeds and feats of destruction. 

Varda allowed herself to behold his naked fána a while longer, until she found her eyes once again lingering on the mark she had left, marring skin that was cool, smooth and pale like snow. 

The temptation to touch him was great, but he was unworthy of such pleasure. 

Instead she gripped the collar Tulkas had so kindly put around his neck and forced him down on all fours with his head bowed in supplication. Melkor attempted to fight back, but Angainor sapped his strength and her light threatened to blind and burn him once more, so he acquiesced, though most unwillingly; his pride, as always, remained strong. 

Not for long, Varda promised herself, then asked aloud, "Will you be good for me?" 

"You should know better than to ask," Melkor snapped. 

"Very well." As far as she was concerned, his fate was sealed. 

Light erupted from her chest, back and shoulders, swiftly coalescing into long, tendril-like limbs – reminiscent of Yavanna's vines or even the tentacles of Ulmo's sea creatures, Varda thought with idle amusement. One wrapped around Melkor's neck, others pressed down on the back of his head and his shoulder blades to keep him down, more reached for his legs, while she calmly walked out of his sight and stood behind him, eager to witness the punishment she would bestow on him for his wicked ways. 

"You wouldn't," was all Melkor managed to say, though his voice shook just enough for Varda to know he was uncertain. 

"It doesn't have to happen," she said. "Renounce your false claim to kingship, call me your queen and abjure your evil deeds. Otherwise... yes, I would, and I will."

"Never!" 

Knowing that he couldn't see the delighted smile on her face, Varda allowed herself to indulge in her darkest impulses. 

"I knew you would say that." 

Hidden within the folds of her luxurious dress was, as always, a phial with water from her beloved wells that she now gleefully poured over his exposed backside, revelling in his vulnerability. The hallowed liquid was enough to make Melkor shiver in discomfort, and Varda knew full well it wouldn't provide sufficient lubrication either, but such was also not her intention. 

She wanted to purify and cause pain. 

And when she felt hot, tight flesh desperately clenching around one of her additional appendages and heard Melkor's scream within his ëala even before the sound tore through the air, she knew she had succeeded. Varda took her time pushing deeper and deeper, both curious to find the limits of his fána and aroused by the sight and sensation of penetrating the rebellious Vala that had caused her endless frustration. There was a certain pleasure to be found in breaking resistance, she noted, one that she couldn't derive from her sweet and docile husband. 

To her own surprise, Varda felt laughter bubbling up inside her chest. 

"You have your uses after all. Perhaps I was wrong to dismiss you as a lover," she taunted. "Though..." 

Willing a smaller tendril to wrap around the base of Melkor's cock, she drank in the panicked cry that followed with haughty indifference. 

"... make no mistake, this is not for pleasure." 

Yet Varda was lying to him, and she knew it as soon as she said those words. While she wouldn't allow Melkor to enjoy any of this, she would very much take pleasure in it herself. His screams and sobs whenever her light came in contact with his unholy flesh and moved inside him were bliss to her ears, even with the discord tainting his once-beautiful voice, and the desire to touch herself became unbearable when a second appendage joined the first, painfully penetrating her now-subdued nemesis. 

Varda slipped one hand under her dress to take care of herself – even serving her pleasure would be too high of an honour for Melkor – and waited. If necessary she would burn every inch of his skin and tear his hole open with more and more limbs of all shapes and sizes, but in the end she would have him begging for mercy.

No sooner than that would she grant it. 

She commanded a third appendage to enter her helpless prisoner, stretching the delicate ring of muscle to its limit, and soon felt something wet staining her luminous limbs, droplets of black blood. The sharp scent of iron assaulted her senses, and Varda knew not whether to be disgusted or excited. 

And for all his strength, Melkor was both captive and slave to his own flesh, and his will was swiftly eroded by blinding hot pain, causing him to break. 

"Stop it, please – please! I..." 

"Yes?" Varda stilled inside him, yet her fána was shuddering with pleasure. Her hand moved faster now, almost erratically. 

She was close and so was he in a way, though they arrived at wholly different limits. 

"Please... my queen..." 

Melkor was in a pitiful state, Varda noticed even as lust clouded her mind. Crying, sobbing, nearly collapsing on the floor from the pain he was in; a prideful being reduced to beautiful submission. It was this thought, this raw feeling of triumph and dominance that pushed her over the edge, and she took her time basking in the warm glow of her orgasm before pulling out and letting go of his neck. 

Black marks remained where her tendrils of light had restrained Melkor's fána and his hole was loose and raw as if he had been taken by the entire Valarin council. The mental image elicited a small chuckle from Varda; if he misbehaved again, she might consider doing exactly that and sharing him with the others. 

Nienna, of course, would tell her to pity him and Manwë would ask for mercy on behalf of his brother, but she found that she quite enjoyed the view and felt no regret. 

"You wanted me once and now you are whimpering and crying at my feet. Isn't this what you wanted? Does the light no longer please you, dear?”

Thanks for reading! ♡

#⊰✦⊱ non-con #melkor #morgoth #varda #varda elentari #elbereth #valar #ainur #silm smut #minors dni #silm fanfic #silmarillion fanfiction #silmarillion #cílil writes #my writing #tw noncon #cw noncon #dead dove do not eat #TPCdeaddovedecember

[furious-haste-of-malice]

critically jacking off to this problematic fic in a scholarly manner

[furious-haste-of-malice]

Captivity/Prisoner

Written for @jaz-the-bard, here goes the psychological torture of Maeglin before Gondolin falls.

@cilil you might like the part about Mairon's attitude and abilities. After all, our conversations have inspired most of my ideas on that subject.

Prompt: Captivity/Prisoner

Characters: Mairon/Maeglin, Idril

Words: 1 950

Warnings: psychological torture, malevolent seduction, impersonation, mental and emotional cruelty, vaginal sex, the certain Doom of Gondolin

“Should we let him go?” Melkor smiled sharply at his lieutenant—Mairon had ever been better at understanding those pesky incarnates, so the mighty Vala humbly deferred to his beloved’s wisdom when it came to these things.

“No,” Mairon grinned. “No, I need the little mole for a little longer. He…”

Shuddering ever so slightly, Melkor nodded slowly. “His skin, his flesh, his very blood…I know, little flame, I now can discern your wicked purpose, and I shall not be in your way any longer. Let me know when you are done with him.”

Striding over to the door, he gave a sharp smile. “I’d prefer it if he could return to his hidden city without visible testaments to his stay within our realm—I foresee that he will be very useful yet.”

“Understood,” Mairon replied suavely. “I shall leave him unmarked—for the most part—so he may play the role of the good nephew and loyal cousin a little longer—forthwith in our service, of course.”

Sweeping past his Master with lithe, almost dancing steps, Mairon made his way to the dank, narrow cell in which they kept Lómion, son of that half-mad creature from Nan Elmoth and the White Lady of the Ñoldor.

“Good evening, little one,” Mairon purred, tilting his stunningly beautiful face downwards to let the full power of his alluring smile hit their involuntary guest’s pale, fearful face. “Do you miss the impenetrable walls of your uncle’s city already?”

Unable to withstand the opportunity to reassert some dominance and make the shifty Maia understand that he was indeed not a cowering child, Maeglin let his lip curl up in disdainful mockery. “Impenetrable to you, maybe.”

Unfortunately, the young Elf misinterpreted the flash of molten gold in the other’s eyes as vexation, and—drunk on this negligible triumph—he let himself be tempted into saying more than he otherwise would have.

Mairon, of course, had hosted dinner parties with Nelyafinwë the terrible kinslayer—during which the imperious Maia alone had eaten—and was thus utterly unfazed by Lómion’s snide comment. Indeed, he relished the laughably cute burst of ire that made his skin tingle with sly amusement—no, what had really gotten his attention was the callous reference to the exact location of Gondolin.

Therefore, he feigned humility, averting his gaze and only ever throwing skittish glances at the boy through dense, coppery lashes.

Seduction—be it forceful and determined or understated and conniving—was his trade and delight, and he soon had wormed precious information from his captive who, tired of being scared, had fallen prey to blustering bravado with all the reckless idiocy for which his bloodline was known and dreaded.

With an audible clack, the self-same uncharacteristically wordy creature suddenly snapped his mouth shut, though, and Mairon knew instinctively that he would have to change his strategy if he didn’t want to lose the advantage he had carved out so painstakingly.

Letting his face mellow into a mask of sweet innocence, he slid closer to where his captive sat huddled against the jagged wall. “You’ve been so very brave,” he purred in his warmest voice. “Why don’t you come with me and have a nice, restorative dinner?”

Food, he thought contemptuously, was something with which one could sway most incarnates, but the svelte frame and hollow cheeks of this particular Elf made him doubt his strategy for a single second, nevertheless.

“Why do I have to follow you into whatever terrible trap you must have laid for that?” Lómion asked in a terse voice. “Does this mean you’ll stay there and watch me?”

There was a treacherous tremor in his voice, and he cleared his throat in a vain attempt to recover from this dangerous slip-up.

Senses tingling with alertness, Mairon bent down to gently help him up, dissimulating a triumphant smile. It was not the sustenance itself that tempted his intrepid foe; in an unexpected twist of fate, Lómion had revealed that he yearned for company.

He was lonely.

“You must surely miss Gondolin’s halls and banquets,” the malicious Maia went on in a perfectly smooth, ingratiating tone. He hoped that he’d be able to catch some stray tendril of thought, pushed beyond the confines of the protection of iron willpower and petulant reluctance if he managed to make the Elf think of home.

Once more, his expectations and hopes were disappointed, though, for all he could glimpse were images of a woman—golden-haired and proud—as she glimmered like a burnished effigy of long-forgotten Powers in the flickering light of countless candles.

“Or her.”

As Lómion’s face darkened ominously and his lips clenched around words he had not spoken yet, Mairon knew that he had finally found a way to wear down the defences that, one they fell, would deliver the exact location of the accursed city to him on a platter as silver as the lady’s feet.

“That can be arranged,” he whispered seductively, willing his malleable flesh to melt into the dainty form of that charming vision of a body so unlike his own.

There was a strange, elusive power in these alluring curves and soft stretches of silken skin, and he already revelled in the devastatingly corrupting effect he knew his disguise would surely have.

Lómion gasped in shock and dismay, but his hands were now clenched into fists as if he was afraid to reach out to one he still remembered to be his insidious, mendacious enemy. Soon, though, his mind—weakened by fatigue and cruel sensory deprivation—would allow those vital lines between reality and pretence to blur until they became a lethal maelstrom in which his whole life was washed away.

The worst part about this, he realised with a jolt, was that his heart misgave him, and he could foresee his fatal error before it even had happened. And yet, he was also woefully aware that there was nothing he could do to prevent it.

It was his curse to love Itarillë with all the possessive, ruthless madness of his father and all his mother’s savage taste for life, and he had yearned for this subtle, dreamlike creature—bound to him by blood and yet wrought of an entirely different source material—for too long to refuse the embrace now extended to him.

“Deceiver,” he hissed even as his face, pale and drawn with misery, tilted up to receive a kiss so burning with passion that every fibre of his being rebelled and recoiled with visceral disgust.

He had seen his cousin kiss her intended—handsome, honourable, hauntingly hypnotizing Tuor with his gleaming eyes and invitingly strong arms—too many times, and so he knew only too well that she would never have thrown herself thus into the swirling insanity of his desire.

No, the King’s daughter was undoubtedly too haughty and well-bred for such a wanton display of weakness where others could potentially witness her shameless behaviour—she would never have disgraced her father so.

And yet…

The mere thought that it was he—dainty and sly instead of blazingly brave—who could coax these small gasps of forbidden pleasure from her slender, white throat was inexorably poisoning his mind and wearing down the walls of his supremely rational, objective mind.

This Not-Itarillë, with her swirling hair and her wandering hands, was too alluring by far when she pressed against him, whispering debauched promises and pleas into his reddening ear.

Again and again, Lómion tried to remind himself of the cold, statuesque Maia who had led him to this richly furnished room, but his every thought seemed to melt and drain away under the insistent, hungry tenderness lavished upon his shivering flesh.

How long had it been? How long had he abided here, enmeshed in an insidious spell that stripped him bare of all subterfuge?

Proud to a fault, he viciously resented the certitude that his every wish, dream, and desire were unmasked—the very strings of his soul were stretched taut between the nimble fingers of an unspeakably evil power who played upon them as others caressed a harp leisurely.

He wanted to say “no”—he ended up falling into her as into an abyss without so much as a single word of protest. Flashes of his father’s last moments—toppling, falling endlessly, screaming in helpless rage—drifted to the murky, rippling surface of his consciousness, only to sink back into the silts of his heart unheeded.

“Come to me, my sweet love,” Not-Itarillë purred, pushing off the light robe that barely concealed the nubile flesh he had only ever seen in his guiltiest fantasies.

She was his cousin; she was another’s wife; she hated him. Things of which he had always been painfully aware dissolved in the damp heat of her body blossoming into lush shades of carmine and cream as she sat down on the edge of a settee and spread her long, shapely legs for him.

A strangled sound—akin to the gurgling agony of a beast whose throat had been slashed in preparation for a magnificent feast—escaped Lómion and he took a wavering step backwards.

“Come here!” Her tone had grown sharper—gone was the gentle seduction, and in its stead impelling impatience and overwhelming authority bit into his shivering soul with a thousand blade-like fangs.

Submitting to the imperative of his unmet, disavowed needs and the superior power of the shapeshifting abomination before him, Lómion tumbled towards the mirage of a princess he had never been able to woo.

Her arms tightened like vines—flexible, warm, and inescapable—around his quaking frame, and her warm flesh closed around him as if to swallow him whole.

Helplessly entrapped in the shifting quicksand of that illicit embrace, Lómion screamed in unbridled relief when cool, nimble fingers freed his pulsating member from his breeches and guided it to the rhythmically pulsating core of her own want.

It was wrong—he knew that everything about this was a cruel lie, meant to cement his position as a prisoner—but even the dim realisation that he had willingly entered a captivity of the mind and soul could not save him now.

Like a drowning wretch, struggling to the churning surface of a wrathful ocean, he threw himself against the merciless waves of the solid heat beneath him, gasping for air and panting pitifully.

“That’s it,” she purred into his ear, her tongue flicking against his burning skin, and—with a tremendous roar of despair and relief—he came undone in the throes of a sordid passion and the arms of a pitiless foe.

As soon as the paralysing tremors had begun subsiding, he felt filthy and foul to the core of his being, but he denied himself the humiliating relief of weeping.

His crimes were so grievous that he hardly deserved to be bemoaned, even by himself, and he was loath to grant his enemy this supplementary, ignoble triumph.

“Eat now,” Not-Itarillë said, kissing his cheek almost amicably. “As soon as you feel fit to travel, you may go and return to your golden cage with our best wishes.”

“So?” Melkor was lounging on an exorbitantly extravagant sofa. “Did you learn anything?”

Having discarded the loathsome disguise of a distasteful incarnate, Mairon grinned sharply. “I have seen where the city lies—and much beyond that.”

“Do I even want to know how you’ve managed such a feat?

“We all make sacrifices when the necessity arises,” Mairon replied archly, brushing off a speck of dust from his pristine robes that were rippling like multi-coloured water around his naked feet. “So no, you don’t.”

“I nevertheless applaud you,” Melkor smiled, pride emanating from his massive frame in tangible waves. “Ready the forces!”

-> Masterlist (by @tolkienpinupcalendar)

Lots of love from me, please take care of yourselves!

#fic rec <3

[furious-haste-of-malice]

early bird and night…dragon

#🖤🤍

[furious-haste-of-malice]

Obsession

First part of the Stripclub AU. This is not very dead dove-y. It's potentially morally questionable, but other than a bit of psychological discomfort, there is very little that could be seen as "dark".

Oh, but it's still my beloved ships that might or might not displease people. Please heed the tags...

Prompt: Obsession

Characters: Melkor x Mairon, Maedhros x Fingon

Words: 2.2 k

Warnings: NSFW, sexual content, trauma, coerced dancing, nudity, masturbation, sale of person, reference to sexual slavery, blackmail...Ok, it sounds worse than it probably is...

Hips swaying sensually, Mairon entered the main room of Obsession with the determination of a man about to serve out justice—or revenge.

“Hello, my little flame,” the official owner of the elite club purred from his perch on top of the glass bar and leaned forward to demand a kiss by his demeanour alone.

“Good evening, precious. Is everything ready?” Mairon asked. His long, flaming hair was unbound and billowed beautifully in the stream of cold air that poured from the top-notch aeration system of their little refuge.

Melkor, trust fund baby and chaos personified, grinned. “He is being a little difficult tonight again.”

“Gotty couldn’t cow him?” Annoyance made the charmingly, deceivingly gorgeous face of the manager and de facto boss of the establishment harden into an impatient frown.

“Gotty is off tonight,” Melkor reminded him with a shrug. “His lover has a concert or something.”

Shuddering with distaste, Mairon rolled his shoulders and shifted his feet—fleet and nimble even in the dizzyingly dainty high heels—towards the dressing rooms that were smartly hidden behind a complicated system of mirrors and screens.

“I’ll get him ready,” he hissed—it was a promise to his love as much as a threat to their star performer. “He knows what’s on the line.”

As the deadly stilettos clicked against the polished, dangerously slippery floor, he smiled, nevertheless, as he soaked in the elegant, expensive décor of their shared dream—they had worked so hard for this, and they deserved nothing less than the roaring success they were finally having.

When he had first met Melkor, Mairon had instantly and irrevocably fallen into madness. The love—unyielding and ferocious—had come much later, but, from the very start, he had been mesmerised and entranced by the swirling, oddly sensical madness of that ball of ruthless energy and overflowing beauty.

Melkor, so unlike his meticulous, detail-oriented self, dreamed big and did not care about the “ifs” and “whens” of his plans, and Mairon—almost pathologically detached—had fallen prey to a singular obsession that had been commemorated in the very name of the small, discreet, exclusive club he had built from the ground up, together with that elusive, bewitching creature.

For days and weeks, he had made sure to turn up wherever Melkor was expected to show—with more or less success—until he had finally managed to corner the bulky phenomenon in the bathroom of a terribly kitschy mansion of some high dignitary or other.

“Be mine,” Mairon had growled, his fingers digging into the silken strands of pitch-black hair, and when Melkor had merely chuckled his acquiescence, the usually so self-possessed demon of diligence had lost control for the first time since his earliest childhood.

Ripping, tearing, plundering, he had not paid any heed to good manners or the favourable opinion of his hosts—all he had been able to focus on was the sweet triumph of having finally ensnared a prey that had driven him to the edges of insanity and beyond.

“You could simply have asked,” Melkor had laughed breathily even as he was ravaged in a swirl of raw greed and urgent need on the overpriced washing machine in someone else’s painfully, clinically clean guest washroom.

Mairon, of course, was as insatiably hungry as he was careful, so “simply asking” had never been a viable move, but—in time—he had indeed learned that Melkor lived his life by giving in to his impulses indiscriminately.

It should all have ended in a proper fiasco, but—thanks to a benevolent fate, sheer luck, or hidden competencies neither one of them was aware of—they had managed to carve out a little corner of heaven smackdab in the middle of a depressingly grey, impersonal industrial block.

Obsession was their baby, and they were proud of the sanctuary they had created—everyone, from the noblest, most respected leaders of the land to the most decrepit outcasts came here to watch beautiful bodies dance—and more.

There were no false morals here—the strict interdiction of hypocrisy was one of the leading principles of their ethos if the pit of depraved pleasure could boast any such thing in earnest.

Stripped to the bare core values of the world, Obsession boldly claimed that everything was obtainable—for the right price.

Every room and piece of furniture was strategically positioned to allow for any and all spontaneous changes of plan, and their bouncers knew exactly that—as long as nobody got earnestly and grievously hurt mentally or physically—there were no taboos when it came to their clients’ reactions to the show.

Letting a long, perfectly manicured finger swipe quickly across the gleaming surface of a nearby table, Mairon nodded. Everything was ready—the only thing missing was their main attraction.

Maedhros squirmed as he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror.

He hated the fact that he was still doing this, even though it was no longer strictly necessary, but he also could not deny that the money was good, and that some dark, despicable part of his soul relished the thrill of that many invisible eyes being glued to his slowly undulating limbs.

As a matter of fact, he had never considered himself to be an especially good dancer, and—despite what his family and lover said—he was not even convinced that he was particularly good-looking, but the thick bundles of worn banknotes in the plain, scratched-up wooden box under his bed proved him wrong.

In a misguided attempt to protect and defend his brothers—reckless savages that they were—he had originally found himself enmeshed in the criminal schemes of an amoral pair of sharks in anthropomorphic disguises. At that time, he had done their bidding against his will, but nowadays, even those lines of thraldom and voluntary prostitution had been blurred beyond recognition.

“Are we ready?” the cold, cutting voice of the manager tore him out of his nervous revelry and Maedhros spun around awkwardly on the, all things considered, rather modest platforms. “You look lovely.”

He grimaced; it was evident from Mairon’s tone and deportment that his devastating assessment of Maedhros’s charms had not changed since they had first met.

“Tie your hair up; they want to see that goose, I mean swan-neck of yours!”

Struggling against the instinct to roll his eyes, Maedhros did as he was told and yelped when his boss yanked the worn brush out of his hand to help him subdue the cascading locks of burnished fire into a high ponytail.

“Remember that you are here because you want to be,” Mairon purred. “After all, your brothers’ tuition and your lover’s expensive hobbies do not pay for themselves.”

Maedhros groaned—he was nought more than a common prostitute, he knew, but he preferred not to dwell on that fact overmuch. It was his own fault that he had been spoiling those around him to the point where they had developed the most extravagant, costly tastes.

He nodded obediently. Finno was dreaming of a new console, and if swaying around clumsily in a tiny skirt would make that possible, who was he to put his pride above his love’s happiness?

“No touching,” he whispered petulantly.

“Of course not,” Mairon hummed, slamming the powder puff, saturated with golden glitter, onto the smooth, pale skin of the other with a little more vehemence than strictly necessary. “Except if you want it.”

“I’d never…”

“Remember—touching costs extra!” Mairon gave him a humourless, sharp grin and nodded at the lacey underwear in a deep, lush forest green that was hanging on a battered plastic hanger. “Make haste; we open in an hour.”

Fingon knew that he should not have heeded the invitation, but the expensive paper and the bold letters, embossed in glittering gold, had intrigued and seduced him.

His father would be aghast, he thought as the heavy crystal door to the most exclusive and defamed establishment—was it a strip club or a brothel? Or both?—was opened by invisible hands. His mother would have a heart attack.

“Good evening,” a suave, melting voice purred. “I would not have thought that you’d come, but you’re just in time for the main act.”

Melkor winked at the young man—he could see that Mairon’s intended victim, the oldest son of an influential man, was sweating with nerves, and yet his grin was blinding and winning as he followed the undoubtedly strange and concerning bar owner to a table that had been reserved just for him.

“So…” Fingon licked his lips nervously. “Are you going to charge me an exorbitant amount of money for a single glass of beer?”

“Evidently,” Melkor chirped cheerily. “You’ll need it, though. In a moment, your throat will be parched, this I tell you.”

“Very well,” the patron replied with a jerky shrug and rubbed his palms against the thick fabric of his worn jeans in an endearingly self-soothing gesture. “I’ll have that beer then.”

With a nod, Melkor flicked his long, inky hair over his shoulder and all but floated over to the bar—Mairon had returned from backstage and regarded him with brightly burning eyes of churning lava, about to lay devastation to everything standing in the way of his boundless ambition.

“Nice outfit,” he praised as he drank in Melkor’s generous curves in the tight, black lace dress. “I am looking forward to peeling you out of these thigh-high monstrosities.”

When Melkor pouted at the reminder that getting him out of his alluring outfit would be much harder than getting dressed had been, Mairon surged across the cold, smooth expanse of the bar top to capture those full lips in a searing kiss.

“It is all going according to plan,” he hummed smugly. “Let’s cue the music. The less time we give the ginger menace to change his mind, the better it is. Do you think lover-boy brought daddy’s card?”

“He sure did,” Melkor cackled and nodded at a concealed associate to dim the lights and let the show begin.

They watched—hungry predators lying in wait—as the single spotlight falling onto their main attraction’s tall, slender figure made their affluent client twitch and sit upright with a jolt.

“So it is true,” Melkor murmured, cocking his head to the side in almost childlike interest when Fingon’s broad hands disappeared under the purposefully long, obscuring tablecloth to paw at his doubtlessly quickly swelling groin. “He looks very nice—did you do his hair?”

Mairon’s cold eyes shifted slowly from the evident shock and arousal of his quarry to the long-legged siren, dusted in gold of both the natural and artificial kind, who was now swaying timidly to the brandishing chords of a violin solo.

Maybe, it had been cruel to choose the piece Maedhros’s younger brother had submitted for his audition at the most prodigious music college of the region, but he was nothing if not a master of subtle manipulation.

“Dance, my pet, dance,” he murmured under his breath as bright, grey eyes—hitherto demurely downturned—were opened wide and the intricately embroidered bralette’s straps were pushed down lean, discreetly muscled arms in a show of coy seduction.

“You’ve reminded him?” Melkor asked, his speech blurred and interrupted by the tremulous notes blaring out of the speakers overhead.

“Yes,” Mairon smirked. “If he wants to talk to his precious lover—he really thought he could keep his identity a secret—dear Fingon needs to shell out a pretty penny.”

“Good,” Melkor hummed and tapped the name of their beloved cesspool of iniquity, stamped on the black cocktail napkins, with undeniable tenderness. “It is the name of the game. Let’s see what their obsession is worth.”

By the way Fingon squirmed and shuffled on the deliberately uncomfortable chair, they could already foretell that it would be laughably easy to extort money from him.

“Do you think he’ll buy that skinny ass?” Melkor wondered aloud. “It’s different when it’s bought—dirty, illicit, exciting!”

Mairon’s eyes lit up with wicked delight, and he snatched up a slim, elegant microphone from behind the bar that was usually used for private games.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” he purred into the device, making the dancer on stage falter in his mellow, steady rhythm. “We have a special surprise for you tonight. We’ll auction off this alluring little sweetheart for the night. He’ll be all yours.”

Betrayal—hot and destructive—flared in Maedhros’s gaze, his long legs quivering with suppressed ire as he turned on his heels to stride out of the bright beam of merciless light; he had not asked for anything other than not to be whored out.

Grinning boyishly, Mairon shrugged. The nitwit should have known better than to naïvely believe him.

“I’m in,” a voice resounded, and it seemed that time itself slowed to a crawl as Maedhros whirled around to face that familiar sound, and Melkor’s fingers dug into Mairon’s shoulder almost painfully. “I want that night.”

“Good boy,” Melkor laughed.

In the face of Fingon’s murderous expression, nobody else even dared bid against him, and so Mairon made an artful pause before declaring Fingon the lucky winner of that impromptu sale of both innocence and sinfulness.

-> Masterlist (by @tolkienpinupcalendar)

Lots of love from me, please take care of yourselves!

#fic rec <3