#FOTFICS March 2024 | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

i-did-not-mean-to · 1 month

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Silvergifting - March

Written for my dear reader MoonLord :D (again)

Oh, this one is violent and dark. Please be advised!

Prompts: “Look at me! - Sacrifice - Sworn Enemy

Pairing: Annatar x Celebrimbor

Words: 1015

Warnings: blood, torture, sadness, fear, flaying, mutilation, manipulation, cruelty

“Tell me where they are!” Annatar enunciated, a frown forming on his luminous brow.

Something about Tyelpë’s face irked him, and it took a moment for him to understand that his former lover looked positively ugly.

Tired, injured, and visibly terrified, Celebrimbor was far from the suave smith and comely cub that had almost managed to capture Annatar’s petrified heart.

His skin was blotchy, and his eyes were bloodshot as he writhed, naked and sweating profusely, against the cold steel that held him.

In many shockingly dispassionate ways, he reminded his finally revealed enemy of the horses the Children rode into battle, and which ran themselves ragged before being “delivered” by a merciful blade.

For darling Tyelpë, there would, of course, be no such mercy before he’d not given up the secret he so stubbornly tried to withhold from one immeasurably more powerful and terrible than he could even imagine.

By nature and design, Annatar himself had no notion of ugliness—even his unchained anger and boundless hatred only gilded him and, if anything, made him even more unbearably, uncannily beautiful.

Indeed, the flush of ire in his cheeks and the flash of calculating disdain in his eyes only heightened his bewitching pulchritude, and this alone seemed to further distress his headstrong captive if his frantic squirming against unbreakable bonds was any indication.

No, the hideousness of rage and fear was something Annatar had learned and studied throughout the ages.

“Hey, look at me,” he purred, lifting Celebrimbor’s head—lolling feebly to and fro—by the deceivingly tender touch of a single finger. “Tell me where those silly, inconsequential rings you made, according to my design and thanks to my help, are, and I’ll let you go. We could even try to rekindle…”

His lips curled into a petulant moue of displeasure when Celebrimbor gave a raucous, brittle, distinctly derisive chuckle.

“Or not,” Annatar continued smoothly. “It doesn’t matter. Just tell me where you’ve taken them!”

The light—once so compellingly bright and pure—within the young Elf was failing fast now; already it seemed reduced to a single flickering point of defiance within his otherwise dull gaze, and Annatar gave a long, regretful sigh.

“I’ve known your great-grandfather,” he said with an impish smirk. “And your grandfather…and Fëanáro, of course.”

As he spoke, Annatar let his long, slender fingers touch the steel construction onto which he had affixed Celebrimbor’s painfully stretched-out limbs. In honour and mockery of his heritage, Annatar—who had once been Mairon, The Admirable—had returned to his own roots and had handcrafted a beautiful eight-pointed star such as the boy’s grandfather had elected as his sigil.

A muted grunt that Annatar could not quite interpret escaped his captive at that.

“Let it sink in,” Annatar purred. “Understand who and what I am—what I’ve seen, what I’ve done, what terrible and wonderful power I wield!”

Even if the incarnates, quick to forget the lessons their ancestors had carved out of history by blood and suffering, seemingly invariably swallowed his disguise line, hook, and sinker, Annatar remembered everything.

“There is fire in your blood,” he whispered fervently. “It has been kindled within your line long before you were even a distant dream.”

Pressing his lips against Celebrimbor’s sweat-sheened temple, Annatar let some of that life-giving heat he’d carried within himself since before Arda had been created flow into the other’s fading being.

“I can keep you alive.” It was a promise. It was a threat. “I know what you need, and I shall give it to you while stripping you of everything else.”

Again, Celebrimbor merely moaned before clamping his pale, bloodless lips shut.

“As you wish…”

With deliberate, teasing precision, Annatar chose a sharp blade from his collection and made the first cut.

“I’ve perfected this technique on your uncle,” he explained cheerily as he splayed a warm, soothing hand against the concave, trembling stomach of his doomed paramour. “He was also such a sacrificial fool.”

As he meticulously severed ligaments and detached muscles, Annatar let his supreme energy flow in a steady, sustaining stream into Celebrimbor’s agonised body.

“He wouldn’t give up his secrets either,” he muttered, still peeved at the recollection of Maedhros’s laughable obstinacy. “Much good it did him.”

“He lived.”

“Not for long.”

Celebrimbor, even as he was divested of his pristine skin piece by piece, had the nerve to utter another guffaw that echoed like a scream through the empty chamber.

“You know nothing about time,” he ground out. “And you shall never learn where the rings are.”

“You’ll die a terrible death,” Annatar prophesied darkly.

The almost pitying gaze the moribund Elf gave him made the unveiled Maia bare his teeth in frustration.

“And I thought you knew my family,” Celebrimbor hissed. “As ever, you overestimate yourself. I am undaunted.”

For a while, Annatar continued his gruesome work in sullen silence. He kept that flayed grotesquery of his own making suspended on the very edge of death as he peeled back the layers of his beloved Tyelpë to reveal his sworn enemy.

That last insult had hit him harder and wounded his pride deeper than he’d anticipated, especially seeing the unequivocal power dynamic in which they presently found themselves.

Despite his instinctive reluctance, Annatar searched his near-perfect memory for hints and clues.

There were many things for which these pesky incarnates would die gladly, and he couldn’t decide which one was at stake presently.

Could it be a home Celebrimbor had never really had since leaving the Blessed Realm?

The idea of another lover was so outrageous that Annatar discarded it instantly—it was inconceivable to him that any other being, no matter how handsome or kind, might have eclipsed him in Tyelpë’s affections.

Family. The certainty hit the malicious Maia like his former Master’s icy breath—if there was one thing that turned even the most loquacious of Elves into unmoving stone, it surely was the safety and happiness of their kin.

“They’re all dead,” he spat distractedly.

“Well,” Celebrimbor breathed faintly. “Then the rings are lost, and you shall never retrieve them!”

-> Masterlist

Lots of love from me!

@fellowshipofthefics Here's a really dark one one!

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cilil · 1 month

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✧࿐⭑ past events masterlist .*

⭑ collaborations/community events .*

✧.* dappled dapper drabbled pony races

✧.* my slashy valentine 2024

✧.* ainur secret santa (Námo & Irmo, Nienna)

✧.* tolkien pinup calendar (fic & art) (Melkor x Mairon x Gothmog, Manwë, Eönwë)

✧.* lotr secret santa (Eönwë x Gothmog | Melkor x Mairon x Gothmog)

✧.* white oliphaunt (Eönwë x Gothmog, Ori, Maedhros, Fingon, Caranthir)

✧.* scribbles & drabbles (overview here)

✧.* tolkien reverse summer bang 2023: to fan the fire (Orc OCs, gen) the rogue royal wedding (Melkor x Mairon, omegaverse) a reward for loyal service (Gothmog x Melkor x Mairon)

✧.* my slashy valentine 2023 (angbang, 5+1)

✧.* tolkien secret santa 2022

⭑ fandom weeks .*

✧.* silmarillion epistolary week

✧.* fëanorian week (event blog here)

✧.* manwë week (event blog here)

✧.* lotr week

✧.* tolkien family week (event blog here)

✧.* deadly sins

✧.* silm smut week

✧.* summer stories

✧.* ainur week

✧.* silvergifting week

✧.* angbang week

⭑ prompt events/challenges .*

✧.* femslash february

✧.* winter drabbles

✧.* dead dove december

✧.* november prompts

✧.* fotfictember

✧.* athelas 20 day drabble challenge

✧.* fotfics april alphabet challenge

⭑ swg challenges .*

✧.* swg it comes in threes

✧.* swg meet & greet

⭑ bingo cards .*

✧.* sweet & spicy bingo card

✧.* fotfics spicy bingo

⭑ holiday gifts for you! .*

✧.* cílil's fantastic ficmas

✧.* silmarillion gift giving

✧.* halloween special!

✧.* march 25th - one ring destruction anniversary 2023

#masterlist #fandom events #yeah i made a new one because it was getting long xd

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i-did-not-mean-to · 1 month

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FireBird - March

Ah, my dear friend @cilil was so good to send in a couple of requests!

It's my joy and honour to present the first fic to you tonight :D

Prompts: “The worst part is you didn’t even notice�� – “I don’t need a gentleman right now.” – Responsibility – Knight in shining armour

Pairing: Eönwë x Gothmog

Words: 1030

Warnings: Injury, blood, sadness, bad elves, good Eönwë

“Let him be, I’ll take care of it,” Eönwë called, feeling the back of his neck heat up as the despicable half-truth crossed his dry lips.

Nobody had expected the co-habitation of once inveterate foes to be easy, and Eönwë even secretly believed that Manwë could and should have been more discouraging when it came to the outright hostile behaviour towards the reformed former denizens of Angband.

Unfortunately, the reality turned out to be much worse than anything the kind-hearted herald had ever imagined.

“Milord,” the group of reembodied Elves muttered and withdrew reluctantly.

It was forbidden for the Balrogs to travel in groups, and much too often resentful, unforgiving members of the High Houses liked to corner Melkor’s fallen servants and harass them cruelly.

“Away with you,” Eönwë called sternly. “Leave it to me!”

Of course, Eönwë did not doubt that any of the fearsome Maiar could have defended themselves against a few puny incarnates, but he took his role as a keeper of the peace very seriously.

Moreover, he was eager for this one Balrog in particular to understand that he was on his side, as much as that was even possible anymore.

“Bird,” Gothmog purred, leaning heavily against a boulder, and trying to angle his body so as to dissimulate the minor wounds the group of pesky troublemakers had inflicted upon him. “Have you come to chide me? I swear upon my honour that I’ve not laid a single claw upon your precious Children.”

At that ludicrous declaration, Eönwë let his frown deepen disapprovingly.

He knew Manwë’s stipulations only too well—after all, he had been the one tasked to convey them to the unfortunate souls they concerned—but, in his heart of hearts, he nevertheless much regretted to see his friend and lover hurt because of a set of cold, unfeeling rules.

“You’re allowed to defend yourself against those who’d seek to harm you,” he murmured insistently.

“And risk your displeasure, beloved? From your sweet lips came the ordinance to renounce my evil ways, and I shall do so, no matter the cost to my health and heart,” Gothmog replied calmly.

Unfortunately, his efforts at clumsy gallantry were considerably hampered by the fact that he was by now slowly slumping under the strain of desperately pretending that he was perfectly hale and happy.

“You look particularly appetising today, bird,” Gothmog tried to assuage the worry in the bright, sky-blue eyes of his most cherished enemy. “I mean, you look handsome.”

Eru’s long-haired pet meat bags might never have understood it, but there were truths and affinities sung into creation that far transcended their very limited interpretation of beauty and affection.

Thus, it had come to pass that these fierce warriors—having fought ferociously on opposite fronts in a seemingly eternal war—had ultimately found well-deserved peace in one another.

As all star-crossed lovers were wont to asseverate, they naturally were willing to selflessly die for the other.

Living, they’d soon found out, was a much more arduous and treacherous challenge.

Ever diligent to the point of undeniable stubbornness, Gothmog had decided that he’d use his new-found freedom to give Eönwë what he clearly yearned for so desperately: a proper romantic courtship.

“Could I interest you in a leisurely stroll by the river then?” the Balrog asked in a forcibly level voice.

“Don’t be silly,” Eönwë exclaimed. “You are injured! This is hardly the moment for pleasant walks by the water. Let me see!”

Indeed, the herald’s heart ached as he glimpsed the superficial but undoubtedly painful gashes marring Gothmog’s precious, gleaming hide.

“I shall have words with them,” he grumbled, gnashing his flawless teeth.

“Do not trouble yourself on my account, my sweetling,” Gothmog assured him quickly as he tried to squirm away from the inquisitive fingers ghosting across his skin and threatening to undo his carefully constructed façade of good manners and gentle words.

“They are my responsibility,” Eönwë opined. “And so are you, you foolhardy creature! If you will not defend yourself, will you at least promise to call for me if this ever happens again?”

His stern gaze softened, and his pursed lips relaxed into a charming smile. “I quite like being your knight in shining armour.”

As if embarrassed by his own confession, he drew his wings up defensively.

“Keep talking,” Gothmog drawled. The cocky, teasing grin he flashed Eönwë now was genuine, despite his tangible discomfort.

“You’re not the only one who’s trying to impress by putting his best foot forward, and the worst thing is, you didn’t even notice…” Eönwë complained softly, rubbing a blood-stained hand along his chiselled jaw shamefacedly.

“What do you believe has escaped my notice? How competently you’ve handled this situation, getting rid of these unwelcome intruders with aplomb and grace? Or your indescribable beauty as you arrived on the scene like an avenging entity made of summer bliss and autumn storms? You underestimate me, my winged wonder, for I am humbled by every awe-inspiring detail of your appearance and demeanour!”

“Humbug,” Eönwë mumbled, flattered despite suspecting that he was being lovingly mocked. “I don’t need a gentleman right now, Gothmog. Tell me how bad it is…Should I bring you to Estë?”

“Pah! Estë!” Gothmog guffawed. “What for? To be fussed over endlessly? ‘tis but a scratch, I tell you.”

Lifting his arm slowly, he cupped Eönwë’s cheek tenderly. “Please, believe me when I say that neither your entirely unnecessary preoccupation nor your gentle care has gone unnoticed.”

Beneath the soothing, healing caress of the one he loved against all odds and despite the bitter feud engraved into their very souls, Gothmog finally relaxed.

“When you arrived, I couldn’t help thinking how marvellous it is to see you appear like a ray of sun cutting through the blinding, burning mist of battle and to know that you’ve not come to smite me.”

“I am on your side, you know?” Eönwë whispered, curling up against the living heat of the terrible fire demon.

“There are no sides anymore,” Gothmog reminded him, quoting the announcement that had allowed them to meet and reconnect once more.

“Nevertheless…”

“Yes,” Gothmog yawned, slinging his arm around his beloved hero. “Thank you!”

-> Masterlist

Lots of love from me! (I shall be busy this weekend, but I theoretically am still willing to write something for this <3)

@fellowshipofthefics You didn't think that I'd skip this one, did you? LOL

#og post #Fanfiction #writing #IDNMT writes #jrrt #Tolkien fanfiction #Luck of the Draw #March event #FOTFICS March 2024 #FireBird #Eönwë x Gothmog #Eönwë #Gothmog #text prompt #Responsibility #Knight in shining armour #for Cílil

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i-did-not-mean-to · 1 month

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Russingon - March

Written for my dear reader MoonLord :D

I am not entirely sure about this one...but here it is <3

Prompts: “are you okay" - Rough - Overprotective

Pairing: Maedhros x Fingon

Words: 1035

Warnings: Fighting, blood, doom, sadness, fear, naïve rewriting of the Nirnaeth, I am not feeling well, don't shoot me!

Even though he was standing in an ephemeral pool of gleaming light, Maedhros felt a terrible shadow fall across his soul. He shivered violently.

At once, he recognised this sickening sensation only—the paralysing, clammy cold irrepressibly took him back to flashes of burning ships on dark waters and rough, cruel hands dragging him away from his screaming brothers on a field of fire.

He knew this sickening sense of foreboding only too well. They were about to be betrayed.

“Finno,” he gasped instinctively, his shapely head whipping around in search of his beloved.

Of course, per their agreed-upon battleplan, his lover was on the opposite side of the vast expanse of raw ruin, and he would have to cross literal hell to get to him in time.

The crownless, dishonoured prince had dreamed this so many times—losing Fingon because he was just not fast or skilful enough—and he was grimly determined not to let the nightmares haunting him eat up what little was left of his life.

Thus, he pushed through the throng of combatants blindly; every step was akin to wading through an ocean of sticky blood and stray limbs, and the mad screaming was deafening, but he couldn’t allow himself to be distracted or held up by the rivers of misery trying to ensnare his body and mind.

In passing, he caught a glimpse of Caranthir’s face—deadly pale under the splatter of black blood—and he swore to himself that he’d find and console his brother in due time.

“You are not the first to have trusted foolishly and to find yourself wickedly backstabbed,” he wanted to scream at that motionless mien that gave away how deep his sibling’s mental hurt truly was. “Rally, Moryo! There shall be time for remonstrances and remorse when the day is won. Now, stand and fight!”

All this and more, he yearned to say. He longed to hear his voice rising above the terrible storm of chaos and destruction, but his lungs were burning, and his tongue wouldn’t move.

Once more, he had no choice but to forge ahead alone—mute and miserable.

After his capture and long, torturous abiding in the enemy’s fortress of pain, Maedhros had solemnly promised never to desert his family again, but could that reproach really be laid at his feet now?

Fingon was more than his cousin, more than one to whom he owed a life debt—he was the only sliver of purity and faith left intact within Maedhros’s crumbling heart, and losing him, he who had been brave and loyal from the very beginning to the bitter end, would have been too much of an injustice to bear.

“You cannot mean this,” Maedhros whispered, unsure whether it was Manwë or Námo with whom he was pleading within his mind. “We remember our Doom, worry not, but he cannot be part of the sacrifices and losses I am bound to bear.”

In the distance, a flash of gold danced like fireflies above a murky pool, and—clenching his jaw as fatigue and injury tried to tear him down—the Lord of Himring threw himself into a solid wall of armoured bodies like a crazed beast fighting for its survival.

“If you take him,” he mouthed as he hacked through limbs and fetid air with frenzied violence, “then you prove my father’s darkest accusations right. If this is the end of Findekáno, you are no better than Morgoth and his monstrosities.”

Every step was agony, but he pushed on, reciting the poems and empty phrases of puerile devotion that sprang from his muddled memory incessantly.

Once upon a time, he had believed the Valar to be invincible, and—one last time—Maedhros needed that blind faith to make it to the one he loved.

Praying fervently to Aulë and Ulmo to strengthen the hearts and arms of their favoured creations, he—who had been disappointed and abandoned more often than he could count—trusted that his allies would prevail.

As if the Powers that had turned away from his line had heard and heeded his desperate pleading, the host of savage fighters seemed to part like a roiling sea before Maedhros’s bleary eyes, and he could, at long last, make out Fingon’s glorious, unbowed silhouette, outlined starkly against the irreverently blue sky.

Soon, he knew, Morgoth would be forced to release his ultimate weapon: mindless, unbridled chaos.

Thus, it was vital to retreat and regroup before their carefully laid-out plans were turned against them.

Loyalty, he thought despairingly even as he reached his lover, should certainly vanquish base betrayal.

Throwing himself bodily between Fingon and the swelling tide of flame-wreathed foes, Maedhros pushed his half-cousin out of the way roughly.

“Love, are you okay?” the other exclaimed, surprised and alarmed by the unexpected arrival. If Maedhros was here, he immediately understood, it meant that all their strategies had gone awry.

“The Valiant” he was named, and he proved once more that he deserved that epitaph as he took a quick sidestep that allowed him to cleave a hitherto unnoticed enemy about to strike down Maedhros.

“We must away,” the exhausted redhead grunted. “Stay behind me!”

Despite the lethal danger caressing his skin with cold fingers, Fingon laughed throatily at that heart-warming but utterly ridiculous exhortation.

“You’ve ever been overprotective,” he guffawed good-humouredly. “As one I still cherish told your father once—lead and I shall follow! I have your back, my darling. And we have brothers to save!”

Whispering words of gratitude and relief under his breath, Maedhros chose life—Fingon’s and his own—over the horrible, seductive allure of the sweet, mendacious promise of a victory he knew to be incontrovertibly out of reach.

How easy it would have been to give in to the despair gnawing at his soul unrelentingly and follow the perfidious siren call into death!

Consciously renouncing the fateful flaw of his blood that ever pushed them to retaliate against treachery by unleashing the full extent of the reckless, self-forgotten fury of which they were undeniably capable, Maedhros—becoming the king he’d never wanted to be, garlanded by golden light and cold air—wisely declared the day lost and his union doomed.

-> Masterlist

Lots of love from me!

@fellowshipofthefics Here's another one!

#og post #Fanfiction #writing #IDNMT writes #jrrt #Tolkien fanfiction #Luck of the Draw #March event #FOTFICS March 2024 #Russingon #Maedhros #Fingon #Maedhros Fingon #Are you okay #rough #overprotective #For MoonLord

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i-did-not-mean-to · 1 month

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Oromë x Tulkas - March

@cilil You wanted this to happen. You are to blame. I deny all responsibility for this!

Prompts: “wow you weren't kidding" - Drunk - Soulmates

Pairing: Oromë x Tulkas (my bad)

Words: 1030

Warnings: Infidelity, Wedding night, Oromëgina, Oromë grows a vagina, reference to rough sex, reference to sexual violence (consensual), Tulkas is a creep, Oromë likes it

“You better treat her well,” Oromë grunted even as he increased the pressure on Tulkas’s formidably thick neck.

“Did Yavanna put you through this before you married her sister?” the feisty Vala chuckled good-humouredly.

Maybe, rolling around naked on the damp forest floor with one’s newly minted brother-in-law was not the most thoughtful or even wise course of action on one’s wedding day, but—pinned to the ground by Oromë’s intransigent arms—Tulkas felt the torturous tension plaguing him drain from his bulging muscles and flighty soul.

The Champion of the Valar he might have been, but he still felt oddly vulnerable under the dispassionate scrutiny of his peers, and so he had fairly jumped at his friend’s offer to briefly retreat from the festivities to blow off some steam.

Of all his colleagues, Tulkas had ever loved Oromë best, for the Great Hunter understood the precious fragility of solitude, and they’d spent many a blissful moment entangled in each other’s mighty limbs.

On the surface, one might have claimed that they were merely honing their skills in preparation for the inevitable battle that loomed, dark and desolate, just beyond their understanding at any given moment.

Tulkas knew better, though.

He would never have readily called the others “judgemental”—he was rash but seldom unfair—but it was true that only Oromë made him feel truly understood and appreciated in his rawest, most undisguised form.

Thus, they had slipped away unheeded, carrying off flasks of sharp-tasting, mind-altering beverages in which they had imbibed freely.

Following their instinct as much as the force of habit, they’d then discarded their raiment piece by piece before initiating the elegant and primal dance of hand-to-hand combat.

Nothing compared to the sound of their impervious flesh colliding or the sensation of feeling impenetrable, smooth skin sliding along one’s own wholeheartedly.

“I shall show you how to take care of my darling sister,” Oromë purred as he let his full weight settle onto Tulkas’s outstretched frame emphatically. “If you ever catch her, that is.”

Piqued by that comment, Tulkas wanted to asseverate that he’d respect and honour Nessa dutifully.

Instead, he twisted his head and sank his gleaming teeth—bared in a feral grin—into Oromë’s sturdy wrist. “I can’t…Purge me!”

It was so pathetic a plea, but Tulkas knew that there was a darkness within him that, at times, frightened him. The unquenchable thirst for violence and blood that thrummed within his veins had no place in his conjugal bed, and he was terrified of going stark mad within the confines of matrimony.

As he could not allow himself to simply wrestle his wife to the ground and tear into her with frenzied greed, he knew not where to go with all that ruthless energy coursing through his powerful body.

Oromë, though, was familiar with the gruesome, macabre reality of hunting and killing, and he was no stranger to the maddening bloodlust that could drive even the Valar to distraction if not managed appropriately.

“As you wish,” came the growling reply from above, and Tulkas felt Oromë’s flesh shift and soften. “I shall be the bride of which you secretly dream. Lay those dreadful hands upon me and know that I am unafraid.”

Tulkas’s gaze swept over the empty bottles, glistening accusingly in the silver light of their intimacy, and—for a single fleeting moment—he wondered whether they were committing a terrible mistake, their minds addled and corrupted by Yavanna’s mysterious brew to which Irmo undoubtedly had added his own secret contribution.

Maybe, they were being cruelly led astray by drink and merriment, and they’d bitterly regret having given in to their basest instincts and impulses soon enough.

Then again, he mused, it was just as probable that they’d glimpse a deeper truth they’d hitherto been too craven to even consider—mayhap, he had chosen Nessa because he’d missed his chance to claim the one who truly made his whole essence vibrate with vitality and desire.

As far as they knew, disappointment had not been foreseen in the grand scheme of things, and yet, it was as inevitable as change in any world that had broken out of its static shell of infancy.

They completed each other in terrible and marvellous ways, and it might have been for the better that their spouses were tempering, assuaging influences rather than fuel to the fire of their barely contained recklessness.

“Come to me then,” Oromë invited in a soft, lisping voice.

When Tulkas slowly rolled around, he gasped.

The bewitching creature hovering above him like the bewildering incarnation of the savage, dangerous beauty of the forest barely resembled the Great Hunter anymore.

As his hands—weapons and tools—were lifted to that silken skin as in silent prayer, Tulkas found soft curves and warm, wet flesh where he had expected hard angles and taut muscle.

“Wow,” he sighed breathlessly. “You weren’t kidding!”

He had never doubted the magnificence of one he called “friend” for lack of a better, braver word, but he was, nonetheless, taken aback by the transformation he now witnessed.

Had Oromë’s hair always been that shiny? As Tulkas’s suddenly unpardonably unwieldy fingers slid through the gleaming strands, it flowed like liquid starlight against his palms, and he gasped audibly.

“You’re absolutely stunning,” he exclaimed, rolling around to pin this alluringly soft, yielding silhouette to the loamy ground and to let his greedy hands explore every captivating dip and slope.

“I am yours,” Oromë asseverated in a deep, vibrating voice. “Do to me what you’d never inflict upon my honourable sister!”

And so, Tulkas did—laughing as one fey as he lifted himself above a body that was both eerily familiar and yet totally foreign to his hands and lips.

The sharp scent of pine and darkness usually emanating from Oromë had mellowed into something sweeter and much more seductive, but the arc of his strong back, as he welcomed Tulkas within the evergreen glade of his lust, was the same as it had always been.

Ensnaring as much as he was conquered and vanquished by this ultimate sacrifice, Tulkas roared loudly before losing himself in the crazed passion only wedding nights could bring.

-> Masterlist

Lots of love from me!

@fellowshipofthefics Here's a rather nasty one!

#og post #Fanfiction #writing #IDNMT writes #jrrt #Tolkien fanfiction #Luck of the Draw #March event #FOTFICS March 2024 #Tulkas x Oromë #Tulkas #Oromë #Wedding night #wow you weren't kidding #drunk #soulmates #for Cílil

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