well I couldn't NOT write some angbang
for @feast-of-horns
Rating: Explicit
Pairing: Melkor/Mairon
Words: 1,195
Read on AO3
Melkor refuses to take part in the Feast of Horns having only just been released from his chaining in Mandos and restricted to showing repentance under the watch of the Valar.
But there is one who will not take his no for an answer.
A small smutty sequel to Our Antlers Tangled
Warily, Melkor skirts the edges of the Feast of Horns. He demurred from taking part given that the only role allowed to him in redemption was of the hunted. While he bends to the judgment of the other Valar he will not be humbled further now he free of Mandos and Againor. He will not be chained again.
But it seems there is one who will not take his no for an answer. Hints of fire, quieter than embers dapple the corners of his vision and draw him further and further from the centre of the revels.
At the far end of Oromë’s forest he halts before an anomaly; a crack, a dark crevice in the low mountains that ring the island. But within the darkness; light, a figure crowned with branching antlers of delicate, white crystal. They watch him a long moment, then turn and wade deeper into the darkness.
He follows, intrigued.
He follows until the dark gives way to the sound of Ulmo’s sea as it echoes up against the rock walls, glimmering reflections of starlight waters web the path ahead. It is then that the darkness behind him speaks with a warm, mocking voice.
‘Incautious is he, the least of the free people of Valinor, that strays from its safety during a Feast,’ It whispers against him, even as a collar closes around his neck.
Stone, not metal, flat, not chained, forged in heat that melts obsidian, broken from his own throne in the destruction of Utumno.
‘Bold is he that comes uninvited to the revelry, precious.’
‘Is the revelry not for all to participate in?’ He is mocked in his own words, from so many long ages past.
‘All but you and yours.’ He gives the expected reply, smile barely withheld.
‘Such a disrespectful little thing.’ A hand in his hair, long fingered and greedy.
The press of lips behind his ear, just above the collar. He cannot help the sigh it evokes from him and he tries to turn, to take his captor unawares. A strong palm to the small of his back denies him, forcing Melkor up against the stone wall.
‘Ah, ah, I claim your catch, little gloom, and I will have my due,’ The touch travels to his ass, bunching in his robes and rucking them up high.
‘What due can you claim, enemy of the Valar?’ He asks the stone, breathless with anticipation.
‘Mmm,’ The rumble of it travels through his entire form as he feels the press of a blazing body against his own, forcing him harder into the wall, ’I shall take your land, I shall turn your servants, I shall conquer your worshipers, and I will ruin your glory.’
‘A great proclamation, but it is only words,’ Melkor manages to keep the tremble from his voice, if not his thighs as oil, hot enough to scald a lesser being, pours over his lower back.
‘The greatness of my words are outdone by the greatness of my sword,’ The smile is evident in tone, as is the undeniable greatness of the erection that presses between the cheeks of his ass.
Melkor almost entirely forgets the exchange of flirtation as his captor ruts slowly against him, ensuring a full taste of the length of his arousal. His own hardness flexes against his robes, and against the stone. He pushes back, encouraging a faster pace. He reaches behind himself, seeking hips and holding them flush with his own.
‘What ecstasy to fall to such a weapon,’ He breathes. The wall before him is wet with condensation, running with small rivers as the heat surrounding them builds.
A hand in his hair forces his cheek to the damp stone, and the slick body at his back withdraws slightly, a finger, then another, entering him.
The angle is harsh but it affords him a glimpse of his hunter; high cheekbones, sharp features, a cruel mouth even with its slight smile, thick amber lashes veiling his eyes. Eyes that flash up with red fire to meet his own when they feel him looking and a smile that grows all the more devious for it. His hair is slicked back, glinting deep red and bright auburn in the quiet glow of the antlers he wears. Otherwise unadorned; practically plain for a Maia usually so adorned in his own craft. He is radiant.
‘Forsake the Valar,’ He croons, crooking his fingers, ‘Be mine instead.’
Melkor, riding the pleasure of those wicked fingers, can only tremble and assent with quiet moans, yes, yes, of course, for he could never deny him what is already his, has always been his.
His captor is endlessly greedy, however, and cruel, slowing and withdrawing, denying Melkor the full bliss of his attentions. His cockhead nudges against Melkor, teasing.
‘I did not hear that, little gloom, you shall have to be louder.’ He says.
And waits.
‘Yes,’ Melkor almost whines, and when that is not enough to spur further action, manages to grind out, ‘I’m yours.’
‘Mine,’ His hunter confirms, hand leaving his hair to clutch at his collar, and with a snap of his hips sinks fully into him. ‘My precious.’
Even if he wished to be quiet Melkor would not manage it, so full of the blazing, precious Maia that he feels he will spill over already. He has languished for long years untouched and unwanted, his brethren withdraw and refuse him closeness even now.
It is everything to be reunited with one who loves him enough to bind their spirits together for all time. It is everything to be held and filled and needed so desperately, with such raw, selfish desire.
And it is raw and desperate; the collar digging harshly into his neck, forcing him taunt, the fury of the hips that buck into his own, the ragged breath they share in the close, dark space.
Their spirits, so familiar, so united twine and twist. But they both resist the impulse to shed form and attract too much attention. Already the sounds of their coupling shake the mountains, and it is only the distant noise of the Feast that keeps them from discovery.
Teeth at high on his neck, not hard enough to break skin. A palm against his sweat-slicked chest, gliding down, pulling him in again and again, tightening on his hip. He takes his fill and his appetite is insatiable. Melkor braces against the stone, willing it strong enough to hold him.
His hunter wraps a greedy hand around his cock, stroking in time with the thrust of his hips and without warning Melkor is spilling, his pleasure tumbles from his mouth, his adoration from his spirit. In return he is filled with the same. Raging, burning seed igniting his core as fierce, vengeful love floods his soul.
Reckless, the whole thing, and yet so vital. He would beg and debase himself again ten times, a thousand to be able to know this touch again.
‘I will find you again,’ A ragged whisper. The collar unclasps and the weight varnishes from his neck, a soft kiss graces the bruised flesh, lingering long after the warmth fades from the surrounding stone.
The Feast of Horns mini-event will run 8-10th August, 2025. You can read the headcanon that led to the creation of this event for more of an idea of what it is all about. You can also send me an ask if you would like more information. And now, on to the prompts!
Ritual pleasures
Unwilling prey
Divine feast
Forbidden delights
Amidst the dappled starlight
Crowns and collars and chains
The more the merrier
Fear and exhilaration
Weak and small
Lust unrestrained
Gilded net
Relentless hunter
You can write/create for as many prompts as you like, and you can post on any day of the event. Good luck and have fun!
Pairing: Celegorm (Tyelkormo/Tyelko in this story)/Curufin (Curufinwë/Curvo in this story)
Prompts: Forbidden delights
Themes: Smut
Warnings: Incest | Sibling Incest | Kissing | Oral Sex | Hand job | PWP
Wordcount: 2.3K
Summary: While the others are distracted at the feast, Celegorm leads Curufin away for a more private amusement of his own planning.
Minors DNI | 18+
This can be read on AO3
Tyelkormo led his brother away from the feasting hall, eager to indulge in a diversion that involved him and only him. The others were still eating and drinking and making merry, and no one had even deigned to look upon them after the fifth hour had passed.
Curufinwë had his doubts when he first heard his brother’s scheme; it was too obvious; the others would see; the others would certainly hear, but when he glanced back the way he came, he discovered no one had even cared to call after them as they took their leave.
“That was most fortunate,” he remarked when they turned down a winding passageway. It was lined on either side with the bark of pine that exuded fragrant scents and put out tender shoots. Gilded lamps had been driven into the wood. Their light had been dimmed for the occasion, but at other times, they burnt brightly like golden stars. “Can you imagine if another elf or spirit came upon us and asked why we were leaving when the feast had only just begun? What would we have said?”
“Something that was no doubt uncommonly cutting on your part,” Tyelkormo returned, his spirits buoyed from having indulged in a great deal of fine food and wine, “or something all rather brash on my part. That is what the others would expect in any event.” He slapped Curufinwë on the back of his shoulder, making him gasp from the shock. “Come, Curvo!” He exclaimed softly. “Why so fearful? Is this not what you desired? To indulge in forbidden delights while the others are occupied?”
“It is what I desired,” Curufinwë allowed in a low voice, “but not here, and certainly not with so many around us. This is my first feast. No one would expect me to leave before Lord Oromë rises to announce the beginning of the chase. What you propose is folly. What if someone comes upon us?” He repeated. “What will we tell them?”
“No one will come upon us,” Tyelkormo promised. He drew his brother into his embrace and backed him up against the wall, caging him to it like he was his prey. “Curvo, my beautiful, fretful brother, allow me to reveal to you a small piece of knowledge: the feast will go on for many more hours after this. Lord Oromë will not even think to begin the Chase until he has eaten and drunk his fill, and that is still a long way away. We will be finished with each other by then, and no one will be the wiser.”
Curufinwë gave him a measured look. “You have planned everything, I see.”
“Indeed, I have, brother mine. Now, pray put an end to your fears. We are perfectly safe.”
“So you say,” Curufinwë muttered. But then he groaned and clutched desperately at his brother’s back when he dipped his head, ran his tongue over the shell of his ear, and playfully nibbled at it. The sensations that followed roused his blood and nearly rendered him speechless. At length, he finally composed himself and said, “You certainly have a way to still my tongue, Tyelko.”
“I know of more than one way,” Tyelkormo husked. He stepped back and reached for his brother’s hand. “Shall we go on? My chamber is right at the end of the corridor by that little tree over there. We will be more at ease then.”
Curufinwë looked once again down the way they came. No one had followed them. No one shouted their names. It was as if his absence, along with the absence of his brother, had gone unnoticed altogether. Pleased with the realisation and awash with a fresh rush of courage, he said, “Let us go on. Who knows when an opportunity like this would arise again?”
Tyelkormo grinned and showed him the way.
His chamber was located at the farthest end of Oromë’s halls. It was how he preferred it, and now, he was glad he ensured his room was farther away from the others. No one could come upon them by chance here; everyone else would be keeping to the rooms closest to the halls. He and Curufinwë could do whatever they wished, and, just as he had said, no one would be the wiser.
“And here we are,” he declared, and threw open the door.
Curufinwë was the first to step over the lip into the dimly lit room, and he was pleased with what he saw. The room was airy and cheerful despite its macabre adornments of antlers and bones. Skins that were both rich and soft were strewn upon the floor from one corner to the other, and spears, knives, and arrowheads of all shapes and sizes joined the antlers and the bones on the walls. There were no lamps to be found here, just a handful of thick candles that burnt brightly in their steel stands and threw their light on a featherbed covered with pelts that were just as soft and rich as those on the floor.
“Are you now glad we left the others?” Tyelkormo said. He shut the door and crossed to his brother. “Are you now glad I devised this scheme?”
“I am, yes,” Curufinwë admitted. He sighed when Tyelkormo held him from behind and pressed a kiss upon the curve of his throat. “You know me well, brother mine,” he breathed.
“I know you too well,” Tyelkormo said. He spun Curufinwë around so that they could look each other in the eye. “I know you do not care for being hurried,” he revealed, while his fingers set themselves on the clasps of his brother’s breeches. The clink of them unfastening was soon replaced by the rustle of pliant leather. “I know you do not care for grabbing and bruising. At least, that is how you are with me.” He sank to his knees, pulling down his brother’s raiment, such as it was, with him as he did so. “Perhaps another is more fortunate in that regard, and they are able to bear witness to you at your truest and wildest self. But I am willing to make myself content with the scraps you offer me. Now lift your feet. Unless, of course, it is your wish to share pleasures with your clothing hanging around your ankles the entire time.”
Curufinwë laughed and did as he was bid. Goosebumps prickled all over his exposed limbs as he rid himself of his raiment and stood unclad save for the splendid linked chains of horns he had garlanded himself with. They fell almost to his waist, and the gold and bronze and copper of each of them stood in appealing contrast against his sandy complexion.
“There is no other,” he said, closing his eyes when Tyelkormo stroked and caressed his thigh with a gentleness that surprised him. “It is just you, brother mine. As for me revealing my truest self to you… well, I already have. What you receive from me is my all, not just mere scraps.”
Tyelkormo, relieved upon hearing his brother’s admission, flashed a wicked grin that made his brother shiver. “That puts me at ease then,” he uttered, rising. “For I do not think I could truly share you with another, despite what I just said.” He reached for the top of his breeches, tugged them down, and kicked them to the side, so eager was he to feel his brother’s flesh against his. “Now come and kiss me. Show me what your eyes have been expressing while we were at the feast.”
Curufinwë did not have to be told twice. He took a step toward his brother, closing the gap between them, and gathered him into his arms to kiss him. His kiss began lightly, as if he did not want to be too rough at the very start. When Tyelkormo growled, greedy for more, he brushed his fingers through thick, slippery locks of silver-gold hair and deepened his kiss. He poured his every intent into it, as if he wanted his brother to know it was only him he desired, and no other. Tyelkormo was lost to all but Curufinwë by then. He lifted him—scooping him into his arms like he weighed no more than a leaf—then carried him to his bed and set him down by its edge.
“Sit,” he commanded, though not ungently, “and let me see to the rest.”
Curufinwë made himself comfortable on the pelts and looked on while his brother spread his legs and knelt before him. Tyelkormo did not tarry. He kissed the insides of Curufinwë’s thighs, then the flat of his belly, then his thighs once again, savouring all that he discovered with the ministrations of his lips and his tongue. Then he whimpered, for fingers that once brushed through his hair now grazed over his scalp, trembling as if the one they belonged to could no longer bear to wait.
And Tyelkormo had no intention of keeping the one they belonged to waiting.
He palmed his brother’s cock—stroking it until it stiffened—then ran the flat of his tongue up its length and swallowed it to the hilt. Curufinwë threw his head back and moaned, deep and throaty. “Yes, Tyelko,” he cried. “Yes! Just like that.”
Upon hearing this, Tyelkormo slowed himself as much as his own patience would allow, for it was indeed how his brother liked it. He hollowed his cheeks and sank his mouth around his brother’s erection, his lips tightening and releasing, tightening and releasing. His skin tingled when half-whispered words of praise reached his ears, and after he perceived his brother shuddering, he picked up his pace just a little, just enough to take him over the edge.
Curufinwë cried out his pleasure as he came, his body trembling as he emptied himself of his seed. It was over too soon despite the tenderness with which his needs were met, but he found no cause for complaint. When he opened his eyes, he found Tyelkormo licking and kissing the tip of his shaft, his lips already swollen and red from what he had just done.
“That was so good,” he said between ragged breaths.
Tyelkormo grinned wickedly once again and rose. “It was all for you. And I believe it is my turn now.”
It was Curufinwë who now grinned. But he did not reciprocate with the act itself. He took his time, ran his hands up and down the expanse of Tyelkormo’s thighs, kissed his belly, and traced with the tips of his fingers the lines and contours of the symbols that marked Tyelkormo's pale torso and set him apart as a hunter and attendant of Oromë.
“I must seek a pattern like one of these for myself,” he remarked. “Will you take me to the one who marked you with them?”
“A Maia in the service of Oromë marked me so,” Tyelkormo returned, “but I will not take you to her. I will not have your body marked the way mine was.” He pushed Curufinwë onto his back and followed him down as he moved his way further up the bed. “I would rather have you as you are, flawless and without blemish. Besides, if there is anyone who should mark you, it should be me, and no other.”
Curufinwë nodded and welcomed his brother back into his arms. He renewed their kisses, and when he took his brother’s erection to hand, he delighted in the transported whine that he heard. Yet he did not linger on his little victory, no matter how much he yearned to do so. They had to return to the others before their absence was truly noted. So he let his fingers become ceaseless, and he swallowed his brother’s sharp but sweet-tasting gasps with each of his kisses. Tyelkormo propped himself with his hands by his brother’s shoulders, his mouth as occupied with his brother’s as his brother’s was with his. Then he felt it, the sensation that gathered in his loins as he neared his release. It grew and it grew, until finally, his very being shattered and a hoarse cry escaped his lips. His body stiffened as his orgasm overcame him, and he grunted and shook as warmth soon spurted against his belly. He did not want it to end; instead, he wished to prolong it. But end it inevitably did, and when Curufinwë drew back his hand, he rolled off him and settled on his side until his breathing slowly returned to an even keel.
The silence that followed was a welcome one that seemed to stretch on forever. Then the sounds of distant merrymaking reached their ears, disturbing the peace they found themselves in. Tyelkormo took a breath and looked around him, wishing the others were somewhere else. He sat up and brushed his hand over his tousled hair and tangled crown. It was a splendid thing, all curving horns that had come from a single block of prized dark wood. Curufinwë had carved it with his own hands and presented it to him when they had a moment to themselves.
“We must join the others now,” he said, disappointment plain on his fair face.
“We must,” Curufinwë agreed. “And we have to, lest someone come searching for us.” He turned to face his brother as an idea slowly made its way into his head. “Perhaps we can finish the chase early and return to my chamber. We could tell the others I grew disappointed with not having found a suitable companion to share pleasures with, and that I wished to wallow in my dissatisfaction in peace. No one will think anything strange of it. And they would expect you to look after me. You are my brother, after all.”
“That may well work,” Tyelkormo said. His eyes glinted when he considered the possibilities. “Very well! We will return early and begin anew what we had to mere moments ago. And Curvo, I intend to do more than just please you with my mouth; you have my word on this.”
AN: These are coming up a bit slower, but I'm making progress :) @feast-of-horns @lvsifer here's the Manwë x Varda piece I promised!
𓄌 Characters/pairings: Manwë x Varda
𓄌 Synopsis: The queen hunts her king at the first Feast of Horns, and a decree is issued.
𓄌 Warnings: Some violence, blood, feral!Varda (she's a space monster after all), predator/prey, smut, dirty talk
𓄌 Oneshot (~1.7k words) | AO3
"Fly freely today and run fast, beloved. I wish to claim a hard-won prize, not be placated with an easy catch."
These had been Varda's words to Manwë before Oromë's feast, the first of its kind. The king and queen were in attendance as well, though out of curiosity and for their own enjoyment rather than duty.
"Your wish is my command," he had said to her before joining the Hunted.
It seemed as though he had truly taken her words to heart, Varda thought now, racing across the fields of Arda and through mighty forests in hot pursuit of her majestic prey. Manwë, that much was clear, would not be caught by anyone else, regardless of whether another Hunter had the courage to interfere with the queen or not. Too swift was he who was air and wind itself and gracefully flew around, evading any who were lucky enough to even see him come and go as he pleased.
Yet Varda knew where he was at all times, even when he disappeared from her field of vision. Her hearing was sharp and keen, and she knew Manwë too well, easily recognizing the sounds he made among thousands of others. The way his wind rushed through hair and feathers and brushed over skin, his steady breath, the beating of his wings and heart alike.
With the speed of starlight, she followed him. He knew she was there as well, had long since seen and sensed her. Knowing how fast his wife could catch up, Manwë was wise enough to change directions frequently, even flying into mountains and forests where he could vanish from her sight.
Laughing to herself, Varda skipped between patches of light filtering through the leafage of Yavanna's trees to hide herself as well. It was a fun game, though challenging for the Lady of Light who already had trouble keeping her fána dim enough to be gazed upon safely.
They were alone now, far away from the others. It suited her well enough; she much desired to catch and enjoy her elusive prey in peace.
It was time to complete her hunt.
On her back rested the mighty bow of winds, belonging to none other than Manwë himself, though Varda had taken it before the feast since he wasn't going to need it. He was currently flitting between leaves and branches, skillfully dodging any and all obstacles, and thought himself safe; and he would be, if not for his wife's infallible senses and deadly precision.
Focusing all of her attention on him to become one and mirror his movements, Varda readied a single arrow of light, one of her famed star-shots. What would be a devastating, if not lethal projectile for lesser beings would not permanently injure her husband, she knew, yet something stronger than a normal arrow would be needed to throw the Elder King down from his throne of winds.
Once she was certain where his path would lead, she rushed in, bringing herself close enough and in line to aim and shoot. As much as Varda loved him and would bring down the very firmament onto any and all who would hurt her beloved, her mien nevertheless lit up with a smile of satisfaction when a flash of light, an inhuman, bird-like shriek and a soft thud confirmed that her star-shot had found its mark.
There he was, the King of Arda, lying on the forest ground in a heap of miraculously pristine robes and white feathers. Manwë managed to unfurl his crumpled wings and spread them out before rolling on his back in defeat, blue eyes still dazed from his fall, and revealing a glittering arrow stuck in his shoulder.
Varda approached him slowly and with leisurely grace, savouring her moment of triumph. Tiny stars twinkled where she went and were soon joined by the bow as she dropped it next to her husband.
"I have come to claim my catch," she announced.
Manwë exhaled, and his mien relaxed as if the pain had already left him. And perhaps it had indeed, for it was said that the Elder King was gifted with the ability to heal, as would be the other rightful kings among Ilúvatar's Children in the future.
"I yield, my lady, and shall be all yours henceforth," he said.
"Indeed, you are."
Unable to resist any longer, Varda was on him within a split second and tore his robes to shreds like a wild beast from the outer regions of Arda until her nails and teeth dug into soft, sweet-smelling skin instead.
"Such delicious prey," she purred, "however shall I devour you?"
"In body and spirit," Manwë replied, demure but fearless.
He spread his legs for her, knowing what was expected of him, and Varda was pleased. Her beloved was always so good and obedient. She might yet consider letting him be inside her, but as always, he would have to earn such a boon from his queen first.
Manwë appeared to have eagerly anticipated his capture, Varda noted with a content smile. The heady smell of his arousal had permeated the air even before she saw the wetness glistening on the insides of his thighs, leaking out of his fána as it impatiently yearned to be completed by its other half.
She focused on her own and willed her flesh to form a phallus worthy of a king. It rose proudly between her legs, ready to penetrate her beloved's body like her arrow had, and Varda wasted no time doing just that.
There was no cry of pain, only muted Valarin mumbling and melodious moans. Manwë had prepared himself well and knew to yield to his queen. Brows furrowed, eyelids fluttering, he was perfect in her eyes.
Inevitably, Varda's gaze was drawn to the arrow again. A rivulet of blood, fresh and so wonderfully red, contrasting pale skin and white feathers, had trickled down Manwë's arm and torso, and her thrusts slowly but surely coaxed more out of him.
Yes. Varda placed a hand on his chest. She wanted to hold him down and possess him, willing gravity to seize his fána and keep it in place. Mine.
Her fingers, splayed wide as if she wished to grasp his entire rib cage in one hand, dipped into the idly flowing red rivulet. Oh, how she had longed for this — to see her loyal, loving husband bleed for her. And of course Manwë hadn't disappointed her. He took what she gave him and loved it.
For a brief moment, Varda envisioned her fist closing around the arrow's shaft to yank it out and watch more blood flow, but she admonished herself not to be cruel to one who didn't deserve it; she felt that, if faced with such delicious earthly delights, she might make good on her word and devour him after all.
Inside her beloved the arrow would stay, as did she.
Yet her primal instincts could not fully be constrained, especially not when pure desire coursed through her veins and lust dissolved her self-control. Varda placed her free hand on Manwë's throat and tightened her grip, futile though it was — the Lord of the Breath of Arda would never find himself lacking his own element. Even so, the sensation of soft flesh constrained in her grasp and the lovely view of lips parting to gasp for air was delightful.
More arms broke out of her shoulders, summoned by impulse rather than conscious choice, and she scratched and clawed at every bit of flesh and skin she could reach, bringing their fánar closer and closer together. Thus the Elder King himself became her willing, helpless prey, and Varda's delight caused the veins beneath her skin to glow and her very fána to nearly break apart, held together by the gravity of her single-minded purpose.
Finally, mercifully, she brought their lips together in a searing kiss and felt Manwë arching underneath her as he found his release. His passion made her grin, showing a row of sharp teeth, but no less loving; it touched her that out of all the things she was doing to him, a kiss was what pushed him over the edge.
Her heart filled with love and fondness in tandem with her light filling him, a reward for his loyalty and bravery. One by one her many arms released him and retreated back into her flesh, and Varda gracefully rose to her knees and withdrew from her beloved.
Manwë was a mess, his robes torn to shreds that barely clung to his form, his fána covered in patterns of red, the arrow still sticking out of him. The smaller scratches she had left were already healing, and his expression was serene, showing no signs of pain.
"You will forgive me for carrying you home like this," Varda said, her voice quiet and even now that she was satisfied.
"If you worry that I am ashamed, I assure you that I feel no such thing," Manwë responded with a content sigh. "There is no shame in being caught by my queen and bearing the marks of her desire."
"You should be careful with being such a sweet little bird, or I might eat you after all," Varda teased gently and lifted him up with both arms. As usual, Manwë was pleasantly light and tucked his head under her chin in complete disregard of his current shoulder injury.
And so the King and Queen of Arda returned to Almaren, sparking many whispers and countless rumours among the other Ainur, though they cared little about that and enjoyed the feast once Estë had seen to removing the arrow.
Yet as great as their enjoyment had been, both Manwë and Varda bowed their heads in agreement when the Lady of Healing came before them and Oromë and Varda after the festivities to suggest limiting the use of force and weapons.
"Mighty you are indeed, and I worry not that you shall heal swiftly from this hunt," Estë said, "but let us not forget that in time the Children shall walk upon Arda alongside us, and their bodies will be more susceptible to injury. I would prefer not to find out what a star-shot or any of our other weapons and powers could do to them."
She inclined her head towards Varda and Oromë. "Not that I doubt your aim, but I am certain you understand."
"Fun is not the right word queen Miriel thrill is what you must use"
Melkor's facial expression gave a malicious look Miriel could see a glimpse of longing in his eyes.
"Doing whatever you want to do with your prey is thrilling-....I am sure your face being flattened on the mud by Tulkas was a thrill too"
Mandos' whisper reached the ears of Miriel and Melkor.
Melkor eyed him with distaste and turned his face away from him.
"He was not following the rules"
Melkor gently pulled on the chains that bound him.
"You should not be the one talking about not following the rules"
Miriel, who saw Namo and Melkor quarrelling before never got tired of it, you learn new things when you witness angry people biting eachother.
"I want to participate in this hunt"
Miriel had to interrupt before their quarrel grew bigger and Mandos's maiar sent Melkor to one of the corners of the hall "to preserve what remains of his dignity" as one maia said before.
“The dead do not play with the living, Therinde”
The chains that were choking Melkor loosened as Mandos looked away from him to Miriel.
“But I did “play” with the living before and you allowed it”
“Curufinwe will be weaken-"
"My Feanaro is strong”
Taking a few steps closer to the throne Miriel interrupted him before he could finish.
“He will live until I say otherwise and you know this so you better not forget about it”
Her words sparked astonishment in Melkor's heart.
“Maybe you should let her out for this time Namo, I'm sure Miriel will be a good girl and won't wander away from the forest”
Melkor's eyes shone brighter than aule’s fire.
"And you can use part of me this time"
He raised his hand a thin thread emerged from his palm.
“This way neither Varie nor Manwe will suspect anything and you should remember they can feel when there is something wrong"
Miriel gave Melkor a dark look but didn't say anything.
"If you try anything, I will make sure your miserable existence becomes even more unbearable”
Namo warned Melkor.
Melkor's face contorted into a disparaging smile, his eyes glinting with mischief.
"You wound me, lord of the dead"
He bowed his head in mock submission.
"You have my word,”
"And who will you hunt down your majesty?"
Melkor turned his face to Miriel who already started sewing her divided spirit together with Melkor's soul
Other character (s): Laurion (OC created for this story)
Prompt: Divine Feast
Themes: Smut | Dark
Warnings: Vampirism | Non-Consensual Blood Drinking | Non-con | Gore | Death
Wordcount: 3.2K words
Summary: The chase is recreated anew within the slave quarters of Angband, and both Mairon and Thuringwethil partake, much to their delight.
Minors DNI | 18+
This can be read on AO3
Mairon crouched and peered over the ledge of the Pit of Tears, a narrow gorge that descended into the very bowels of Angband and separated its northernmost towers from the rest of the great and imposing fortress in a gaping, jagged line. His piercing gaze cut through the shadows and foul mist that crept through the gap, revealing all that they concealed from him. The slave quarters could be found here, a veritable labyrinth of cramped and stifling rooms, steep stairways carved into dark stone, and bridges that crisscrossed all over the gorge to connect one side to the other. Torches and lanterns clung to walls and railings and the cliff faces on either side. They burnt like tiny golden stars to his eyes, but their light could never wholly drive away the eddying darkness that blighted the lives of those who were forced to dwell within it.
Suddenly, his ears pricked up upon hearing a sound. Someone paced about in the distance, their voice hushed and despondent as they spoke to another like them. More sounds soon joined their talk: a defeated sigh that seemed to linger, cloth rustling, a rough-hewn door creaking as it was thrown open. Mairon recognised that first distant voice and rejoiced. The one who was sought had been found. The appointed hour of merriment was almost at hand.
“The one we seek has left his place of safety,” he said, looking up at Thuringwethil, his herald and companion in many things. “We should be able to begin our chase soon.”
“A pity this elf could not rouse himself faster,” Thuringwethil complained. “And a greater pity still, that the Master insists we limit ourselves to just the one. I confess, I find it all rather enjoyable when we go after many, and they scream in their vain attempts to flee.” She crouched beside him, her arms resting upon her knees, as her wings spread out across the dirt behind her like a train of black edged with deep crimson. A delicate but splendid necklace wrought of gold was clutched in her left hand. It was adorned with silver horns that seemed to gleam with a dark light of their own. “No matter,” she continued, her entire being pulsing with heady anticipation. “I will make do with this new way to the chase and be content. Pray tell me, beloved, who this elf that you have chosen for us is?”
“There, my love,” Mairon returned. He pointed to a shape moving through the mist. “There he is over there, by that waypost down yonder. Him. I thought you might like one such as him. He looks quite captivating despite his circumstances, does he not?”
Thuringwethil looked intently, her gaze just as sharp and piercing as Mairon’s as it cut through to the elf who was pointed out to her. And she was pleased with what she saw. The elf who had been carefully chosen for the first of many chases allowed to them by the Master was indeed quite captivating. His hair, though shorn almost to the nape of his neck, looked as if it had been gilded, and his bare torso, though scarred and caked with grime, looked as if it had been carved by the skilled hands of a master artisan. Yes, she told herself. He would do very nicely indeed.
“He looks exquisite despite his present state,” she agreed, rising. “Shall we begin?”
Mairon bowed his assent and arose. He grabbed onto the necklace when Thuringwethil tossed it to him. “I shall see you momentarily.”
Thuringwethil rewarded him with a most sinful smile and dove headfirst off the edge, her wings swiftly and silently unfurling and flapping away as she took flight. Mairon watched, spellbound, as she glided gracefully and serenely until she had all but disappeared within the darkness. Then, he stretched himself, took a deep, steadying breath, turned sharply on his heel, and raced down the nearest set of steps descending into the Pit without a doubt or second thought.
It was exhilarating, that race down the stairs. Everything flashed by in a dizzying blur as Mairon ran with otherworldly speed, his hair streaming behind him like streaks of gold and orange flame caught in strong gusts of wind. He did not tarry anywhere, even for a moment. The thrill of the hunt proved to be too much, and he had no desire to deny himself any pleasure that came about as a result of it. He continued, briefly lifting his head and grinning when Thuringwethil cast a shadow of her own and called out as she soared over him. They had caught up with each other. Now it was time to catch up with their intended prey.
Mairon flew across the next bridge he came across, a solid thing wide enough just for one. No sound arose to disturb the silence that had crept in after Thuringwethil had greeted him, for his feet were bare and swift, and they carried him forward as if he were drifting on nothing but air. Mairon drove himself onwards, his joy in his run all but forgotten. Now was the time to fix his thoughts on the elf not far from where he was, ignorant of the danger that rushed headlong toward him.
And, as always, it was Thuringwethil who had to reach him first.
Mairon could not help but laugh as Thuringwethil swooped down to grab the elf, who whirled around just in time to see a flash of her pointed teeth. Impatient little thing, he thought to himself. She sank her nails into the elf, making him cry out in pain, then she lifted him into the air with ease and tossed him against a little thicket of long-dead trees that sat in one corner. Mairon knew of these trees. Their bark was white like bone, and their branches spread out like grasping claws. They scratched the elf even as they broke his fall, marring him even further and leaving their own mark across his form. He fell to the floor with a hard thud, and he lay as he was, unmoving, for a while.
Thuringwethil circled overhead before eventually landing by Mairon’s side. She licked streaks of blood off each of her fingers, her every sense overwhelmed with euphoria as she savoured a taste that very much reminded her of the sacred dews of the two trees and a world she left behind.
“This one hails from the Blessed Realm,” she murmured, amazed. “He has tasted the dews of the two trees; I am certain of it. Those who did not leave do not taste the way he does. Is he one of the exiles? Tell me it is so.”
“He is,” Mairon said. “A survivor who followed one of the sons of Arafinwë. My scouts captured him while he was abroad, hunting by himself. Fool. Then again, they are all fools, so there is no surprise on that score.” He got down to his haunches just as the elf groaned and attempted to push himself up. “Ah! You are still alive!” he cried, amused. “That is good, for my lady tends to forget her own strength at times. What is your name?”
The elf finally sat up, terrified and trembling, when he set his eyes on them. Yet he gave the answer that was sought from him. He had no choice but to do so. “Laurion, master. I am called Laurion. Pray what do you desire of me?”
“A hunt,” Mairon explained. “Oh, there is no need for you to fear,” he added when the elf quailed. “You see, my lady and I intend to indulge in the sacred chase. Do you know of this?”
Laurion caught a glimpse of the necklace in Mairon’s hand. He understood what was being asked of him. “If you mean the chase that takes place during the Feast of Horns, master—yes, I know of it. I even partook in it myself. Before I left the Blessed Realm, that is.”
“Oho! That is most wonderful to hear! Well, Laurion, if you give us good sport during this particular chase instead of faltering upon the first hurdle you come across, we will let you live. In fact, we may even improve your situation within the fortress. What do you say, pretty Laurion? Do you agree to these terms?”
Laurion tried to swallow in a throat that was parched dry from thirst. He had to agree to their terms; there was no other way for him. And, if Mairon and Thuringwethil honoured their word, he would be able to taste some comfort in the wretched existence that had been brought upon him.
“Very well, master,” he said. “I… I will agree.”
Thuringwethil squealed in delight and clapped her hands for joy. “You will not regret this, Laurion,” Mairon promised, his countenance a study of pure sincerity. He got to his feet and held out his arm. The elf grasped it and was helped to stand. “Pray wear this,” he said, unclenching his other hand and offering the necklace for the elf to take. “Etiquette of the chase decrees that you should.”
Laurion nodded, albeit reluctantly, and accepted the necklace. It was cold against his skin when he draped it around his shoulders. “Must I run now, master?”
“You may,” Mairon said. “We will wait a while. After we have satisfied ourselves that enough time has passed, we will follow.”
Laurion turned to run. His body burnt and throbbed with each step, but he compelled himself to go on. A dreadful fate was sure to await him if he did not. He sprinted down a slender corridor that curved into the cliff wall, confident that Thuringwethil would not be able to fly over him and swoop down to capture him while he was in there. There was no possible way for her to do so. The tunnel roof was pure rock. It would take an age even for her to find another tunnel and dig her way through.
Thuringwethil groaned, exasperated, as she watched his retreating back. “Clever,” she opined, turning to look at Mairon. “Now I must follow you on foot.”
“A prospect that never troubled you before,” Mairon said. “Come, come, my love! Do not lose heart now! When we reach Laurion, a divine feast will await us!”
“You lied to him.”
“Of a certainty, I did. He is but an elf and of no consequence to our Master’s plans. His death will matter little in the end.”
“Very well. You go in first. I will come after.”
Mairon bowed with a theatrical flourish before straightening himself and chasing after the captive elf. He feigned difficulty with the pursuit, and he shouted out to Thuringwethil, claiming that it was harder than he considered it to be. Thuringwethil shouted back, having eagerly joined in his game. They were now near, so very near, and yet they held back just a little, just enough to give Laurion the illusion of having gotten well ahead of them. And Laurion, believing nothing suspect was underfoot, took these words to heart and drew courage from them, thinking he could very well evade the ones who spoke them in the end. He stumbled around sharp corners and cut his feet on pointed rocks that jutted out and caught him unawares. Yet he persevered, until he reached another corridor with slave rooms on either side without being stopped. When he turned to go down it, a powerful pair of hands latched onto his arms, shocking him, and swung him toward the nearest door. It broke against his weight and splintered into many pieces. Laurion collapsed onto his side, horrified. Had he been caught at last?
“Remember our agreement, master!” He implored, as he attempted to drag himself away. “I did not falter! I gave you good sport! Please! Show me mercy!”
Mairon stood by the now-open entryway with Thuringwethil beside him. His eyes, twin pools of flame, blazed brighter than they had ever done, while her eyes, deep red orbs that seemed to hold a fire of their own, burnt with hunger.
“Alas, sweet Laurion,” Mairon began, “therein lies the issue. You see, you did not give us good sport. My lady and I had to pretend that you were. You gave yourself away too easily with the sound of your breathing and the smell of your blood. Even if you had given us good sport, I would not have honoured my promise. Why should I? You are an elf with neither high rank nor influence, and your death will do naught to alter all that the Master has devised.” He stepped over the lip into what appeared to be an unused chamber. Its walls were cracked and bare, and there was nothing to be found, not even rough-spun sacking for a featherbed. He bemoaned the lack of even the barest of comforts, but he still decided to make do. “And now, my lady and I will relish the fruits of our chase. My love? If you would like to begin?”
Thuringwethil sped past him and fell on Laurion, pushing him onto his back and straddling his waist before he could say another word. Yet she was gentle at the same time, stroking his cheek almost with affection before she dipped his head and kissed him. Laurion struggled and pounded at her with his fists, his cries muffled as she kissed and kissed. She rested her hands on his shoulders and pinned him down with her strength, rendering his efforts to break free of her futile. Laurion wept, unable to comprehend his fate and ashamed at how quickly his body stirred for her touch. He stilled himself, hoping to give Thuringwethil no satisfaction in his finding delight—in any shape or form—in what she was doing to him.
That soon proved to be futile as well.
Mairon joined them on the ground, no longer content with just standing by and watching. He lay beside Laurion on one side and caressed his thigh, stroking it with such languid ease that anyone who came upon him would think he and Thuringwethil had taken on an elven lover. Then he turned his attention higher, having grown bored by what he was doing.
“What have I uncovered here?” He mused.
He brushed his finger back and forth over the elf’s cock until it swelled beneath coarse wool, and the elf let out a transported whine. Mairon laughed softly, triumphant, as he continued his ministrations. The sound was sweet like honey and clear like the finest glass. It had a chilling edge to it also, the kind that made Laurion’s blood run cold. He squirmed, as there was little else he could do. He was trapped, a tantalising morsel set aside for two mighty beings who prepared to devour him whole and leave nothing of him save for maybe his bones.
“Please, let me live,” he sobbed when Thuringwethil drew away, allowing him to speak. It was a vain attempt, but he had to attempt it all the same. “I will do whatever is asked of me. I only wish to live.”
“Pray put an end to your pleas,” Thuringwethil whispered. She slid off him, settled by his other side, and propped herself on her elbow. "And hush." She seized his left wrist and raised it to her lips. “It will be over soon.”
The spirit sank her pearly white teeth into his flesh, drawing out intoxicating trickles of his life’s blood and making him scream. Her body came alive as she drank, begging her to take as much as she desired until she felt replete. So she released her hold on the wrist that then fell limp across her lap and lowered her head once again, this time to trace the elf’s nipple with a hungry tongue.
Laurion moaned, over and over and over again, unable to now restrain himself. He whimpered when he felt the heat of her tongue, then arched his back and flailed about when he felt the sting of her teeth. Pain of such a kind was never supposed to bring about arousal, but it did, and in ways he had not thought possible. He descended into an ever-growing sense of shame, helplessness, and despair, even as he yielded to the two who held him between them.
It was not supposed to be this way. He had followed the others, believing their cause to be a righteous one and that a glorious new beginning awaited them all. That dream slowly burnt away like the fabled boats along the shore of Losgar, and now he was here, a prisoner of the enemy of his people, one who may not survive to see another dawn. He thought it was all grossly wrong.
Mairon sought his lips next, putting an end to his bleak reverie. He kissed with more fire and passion, bruising and bloodying Laurion’s lips with his hunger and his lust and his fury. And that was not all he did. He jabbed his nail along the elf’s breeches, slit them carefully down the middle, and took his shaft to hand even as trembling fingers reached around his waist and clutched desperately at his back.
Laurion was truly lost now. He was losing himself to carnal pleasure that was unwanted and unwelcome. He was losing his foothold on the world of the living; the evidence of it was becoming clearer in the steady weakening of his earthly vessel as it lay in the middle of his tormentors, nearly still and utterly weak. And he found himself unnervingly close to his release. Red-hot trails of ecstasy surged through his veins even as bright red trails of his blood spilt down his wrists, his neck, and his sides, filling the air with a scent that was coppery and sweet. Thuringwethil fed from the various parts of his body in turns, all while encouraging Mairon to take as much as he wished. And Mairon did take as much as he wished, his mouth busily lapping at the wound Thuringwethil left behind on a once flawless throat. He stroked the elf until he neared the precipice, not caring whether that elf desired it or not, while he continued to feed. A strangled sound reached his ears. It was Laurion, praying to the Most High and beseeching them for their forgiveness and their mercy. And it was over, with the feeble shuddering of his body and with warmth spurting onto his belly. The world around him cooled and dimmed little by little, and then finally, it faded completely to black.
Mairon was the first to raise his head. “He is gone,” he husked, licking his reddened lips. “More’s the pity. His blood was so fine.”
“It was,” Thuringwethil said sadly. But such sadness was not due to the death of the elf. It was due to the loss of his blood. “But there will be others; I am certain of it." She moved up to a sitting position and brushed her wavy, dark hair out of her eyes. It had gotten tangled in knots, and its ends were sticky, which she liked not. A bath, she decided, would be necessary upon her return to her chambers. "This chase went far better than I expected. My thanks, my love, for your effort in making it so.”
“It was a pleasure,” Mairon said, immensely gratified with his companion's praise. He sat cross-legged and looked about the empty room. He decided it could see further use. “Now come, my love. I believe I am deserving of some sort of reward for my efforts.”
Hello everyone! I have come bearing a bunch of prompts once again, and this time, it’s for the Feast of Horns event. I will be taking only five requests, and for ships only. Here are the headcanon for this event, so you can get an idea of what it is.
Warnings: Non-con | Implied/Referenced Non-Consensual Drug Use | Choking | Rough Sex | Threesome - F/M/M | Penis In Vagina Sex | Oral Sex
Summary: Makar, having decided to go after an elf, is surprised to find himself being invited by another to have his way with the maiden he sought.
Minors DNI | 18+
This can be read on AO3
The feast Oromë presided over in honour of the chase was both riotous and good. There was roast boar and bloody beef, ducks basted in honey, and gilded pails of river crabs cooked in lemon and butter and herbs. The wine and mead and ale that were served were of the most splendid kind, and the smells of smoke and fruit and cooking meat invaded the senses.
Makar ate and drank his fill of all that was served to him, and then he ate and drank even more. Oromë set a most tasty table, and it was nigh on impossible to refuse the delicacies that were on offer. Then he stopped, satisfied, and took a moment to study all those who came for the feast.
All elves of note had made their presence known, and in attire that would never be worn at other times: silks so revealing they left little to the imagination, leaves and feathers and even real bones adorning arms and thighs, and jewels; jewels most of all. All around Makar glittered veritable clusters of jewellery in silver and gold, each with horns and antlers that rose from crowns that sat amidst lustrous hair or hung from collars and chains that looped around throats and waists and shoulders. Many of those who wore them tried to catch Makar’s eye, but he paid little concern to them until an elven maiden walked by, garbed in pale blue robes that clung to her body and accentuated every dip and curve and line of her form. Makar studied her intently, drinking in her deep auburn hair, unblemished alabaster skin, and pale, dreamy eyes that flashed in a blend of brown, gold, and green when she glanced his way and they caught the light. He reached for his drinking horn, drank deep, and rose. His hunger for fine food and his thirst for potent drinks were sated. The time had come to sate his lusts.
“Pray who is that maiden?” He asked an attendant who strode by him. The attendant stopped, his tray artfully balanced on one hand, and took the now-empty drinking horn into his other hand. He took a moment to study the maiden the Vala pointed out to him.
He said, “That is Lady Luhtissë, my lord. This is her first feast.”
“Where does she hail from?”
“She is one of those elves who wanders this land, never lingering in a single place for too long.”
“Is that so?”
“Indeed, my lord.” The attendant leaned in, his voice low enough only for Makar to hear. “She has no family, I am told. They remained in Endorë; she came with those who wished to dwell here.”
“And her friends?”
“Few of those, my lord. They prefer the comforts of Tirion and Alqualondë and the like to life in the forests.”
“Of course.” Makar regarded the maiden again, a predatory sense of anticipation coursing thick through his being. No kin meant no enraged father or brothers to contend with, and no mother or sisters or friends to come forth seeking justice on her behalf. He could do whatever he wished to her and escape with little to no consequences to himself, so long as he carried out his deeds with great discretion and cunning. “My thanks.”
The attendant bowed briefly and took his leave, and Makar was left with his thoughts.
For a long while, elves and Ainur drifted around him, eating and drinking and merrymaking, as he considered how best to approach Luhtissë without drawing the attention of the others. He would have to wait till she was well away from the others before he even thought of going anywhere near her. He would have to keep to the shadows until they were by themselves, and he would have to find a way to take her to his chamber without much noise. Suddenly, a loud laugh filled the air, putting an end to his scheming. When he searched for the cause of it, he discovered Tulkas guiding Luhtissë out of the hall, his hand on the small of her back. He took after them, his curiosity in Tulkas’s interest in an elf proving itself to be stronger than his need for a fresh conquest.
He held himself at a distance while he followed them, believing himself to be as silent as the hunters in the service of Oromë. Down one winding passageway he went, then another, until Tulkas finally reached a heavy wooden door. He stopped and threw it open. And he turned to face Makar, catching him by surprise.
“You are too heavy of foot,” he remarked, amused rather than wroth. “I heard you the entire way here.”
Makar looked away, abashed at having given himself away so easily. The sight of him thus was enough to make Tulkas laugh.
“A lesson for the next time we meet in your halls,” he promised, before turning to address Luhtissë. “Pray go in and undress yourself, my sweet. I shall join you soon.”
“Of course, my lord,” Luhtissë said meekly.
Makar looked on, astounded, as Luhtissë did as she was bid. She stepped over the lip of the open doorway into the dimly lit chamber within and began to remove articles of her clothing. Not a second thought was given to the possibility of anyone watching her disrobe. Tulkas looked at Makar, highly pleased with himself.
“Pretty little morsel, is she not?” he said.
“That she most certainly is,” Makar agreed. “But pray tell me. How did you convince her to—”
“Allow another to stand by and bear witness to her undressing herself?” Tulkas finished for him. He tilted his head and smiled. “It was the work of a moment. And a drop or two of a certain draught of my own devising. I spilt it into her cup while she was occupied elsewhere. Now she will serve me and anyone I invite to join me.” He gestured for Makar to come near. When he did so, he threw his arm around his shoulders and whispered while they watched Luhtissë free herself of the last of her raiment. “There is something strangely exhilarating, I find, with a bedmate who submits to my will without question, instead of unwilling prey who fight me and must be cajoled into silence. And there will be no repercussions. You see, the lady will remember only what I tell her,” he added, grinning. “She will tell others only what I tell her. She will do all that I desire, with neither fuss nor refusal. Come! Join me if you wish!”
“Are you certain of this?”
“The more the merrier, I say. Besides, you desired her for yourself, did you not?”
Makar flushed, ashamed. He had been careless in more ways than one. “So you perceived me watching her.”
“I did. Hence my invitation. Do you accept, my lord Makar, or will you refuse?”
Makar, despite his initial surprise at having discovered this other unknown side of Tulkas, did not have to be asked twice. He entered the bedchamber, encouraged by the notion of easy prey for once. He stooped to pull off his boots, then he busied himself unfastening the clasps of his tunic and the sashes and buckles along his belt. Silk and leather quickly formed a pile on the stone floor, and when he heard the soft thump of a door being closed, when he heard the little click of a key being turned, his earthly vessel quivered with expectation over what was about to take place.
Tulkas drifted past him, having already undressed himself. He circled Luhtissë while she stood still, running his hand up her arms, leaning in close to smell her hair, and studying her like she was a fine meal ready to be devoured. He had not expected Makar to follow him and the companion who was under his influence, but he was not about to refuse his company. And he was glad he had not done so. Now they could both indulge in the elf standing before them, and no one would be the wiser, thanks in no small part to the little phial he had hidden within the wide strip of leather he had wound around his left wrist.
“On your knees, my sweet,” he ordered, though not ungently. Luhtissë heeded him without question. She knelt and looked up at him, her brilliant eyes already in a half-glazed state.
She did not understand what was happening to her. One moment, she was making merry with the others, and the next moment, she was on her knees before two Valar, naked and with the command she held over her person slipping away from her little by little. Something must have taken place while she was in the hall, but she knew not what it was. All she did know was that she was now in a chamber with two of the Ainur and that she was obeying all that was asked of her. The knowledge that she was doing so without a word raised in protest frightened her.
But that fear did not last for long. It too slipped away as a strange feeling swept through her every thought like a slow-creeping mist, dulling her senses and muddying her memories, and then a need to simply please without question followed in its wake.
“She is ready,” Tulkas said. He looked at Makar, who then gestured for him to begin first. “Open your mouth, and mind what you do with your teeth.”
Luhtissë did so, shivering when Tulkas brushed his hand over her hair, almost in affection. When he pushed her head forward, she swallowed him to the hilt, nearly choking from the effort, and clutched desperately at his thighs to steady herself when he started to thrust.
Makar, having made his way to Tulkas’s side, stroked his cock while he watched the other Valar take his pleasure. He yearned for a turn, but he made himself wait, for he found it uncommonly arousing to witness what was unfolding before his eyes instead of just partaking in it. And the sounds Luhtissë made every time Tulkas pushed forward his hips were intoxicating, as was the sight of the trickle of drool that escaped her mouth every time he pulled back. Then, when he could no longer bear it, he opened his mouth to speak.
“May I have a turn with her?”
Tulkas stopped and stepped to the side without complaint. He already had his file for the present, and there was so much time left for him to take up where he finished. Makar took the place the other Vala had once occupied, making Luhtissë gasp and gag each time he sank his length in the wet heat of her mouth. Her eyes had completely glazed over by now, a sign that the draught she had been fed had taken full effect. And Tulkas, having seen this, used it as an opportunity to begin convincing her of having agreed to all that they were already doing, and hoped to do, to her.
He said, “Makar and I are glad you invited us to your chamber. Have we succeeded in satisfying some of your wishes?”
Luhtissë found herself agreeing. She must have said yes; the Valar would have never entered her chambers without her consent. It went against their very nature to do so. At least, that was what she was told.
“I am glad you took up my offer, my lords,” she murmured when Makar ceased and drew back to allow her to speak. “And yes, you have each satisfied my wishes.”
“But there is more,” Tulkas went on to say after having carefully chosen his next words. “You wanted us to take you in that bed. You wanted us to do whatever you wished to you. You wanted us to be anything other than gentle when coupling with you. Is such still the case?”
“Such is indeed the case,” Luhtissë said, now fully believing she agreed to all that was suggested to her in the carefully couched words. But it was not her that was agreeing. It was what she consumed that made her do so, though she knew naught of it or the power it contained. “I did indeed want such things. I still do, my lords.”
“Good.” Tulkas took her hand and helped her up. He led her to the bed, an inviting thing that was wide enough and comfortable enough for three. “Now get on the pelts, as you said you would like to do, lie on your back with your head amidst the pillows, and spread your legs. Lord Makar and I are more than willing to continue indulging your fantasies.”
“Yes, my lords,” Luhtissë said. She climbed onto the bed, her skin tingling with the notion of two pairs of otherworldly eyes upon her, taking in her every move. Then she settled on her back and waited.
She did not have to wait overlong. Makar came to her and wasted no time joining her in bed. He moved over her, stroked her cheek, and spoke tenderly in the tongue only the Valar knew, thinking a display of warmth would further help their scheme of convincing her that this was what she desired and that there was nothing wrong or evil in what they were doing to her. His little deception bore fruit, for she sighed sweetly and spread her legs for him. Makar grasped onto the opportunity presented to him with eager hands. He positioned himself, and when she bent her legs back toward her upon him urging her to do so, he entered her with a quick, deep thrust.
It was painful, what he did. Makar was far from gentle with his intrusion, though Luhtissë thought nothing of it. She had expected it, for it was what she was convinced to expect. She moaned, loud and long and throaty, and grabbed at his wrists when he wrapped his hands around her throat. Makar squeezed with as much care as he could muster every time he plunged inside her; he did not want to forget his own strength and go too far. Luhtissë was overwhelmed. Trails of fire surged through her veins as her breath came to her in fits and starts, and when Makar squeezed once again, she cried out her pleasure.
“We are glad you invited us,” Makar repeated what Tulkas had said not too long ago. He continued his ministrations while he furthered Tulkas’s manipulation of her. “But you must reward Lord Tulkas with your release just as you would me. It is what you promised us both.”
Luhtissë nodded her assent, for she was unable to speak. And for a few moments at a time, she was left unable to breathe. It heightened the sensations she experienced, and when Makar shuddered violently from his orgasm, she climaxed also, her body trembling and trembling even as he emptied himself of his spend.
She was not given time to recover. Tulkas came over to the bed and joined his companions amidst the pelts, ready to enjoy what he had been hoping to enjoy from the moment he infused Luhtissë’s wine with the draught he had concocted.
“Did Lord Makar please you as you hoped he would?” He enquired with an innocent air.
“He did, my lord,” Luhtissë returned. She let out a disappointed sound when Makar rolled off her and settled beside her on his side. “Will you bed me now, Lord Tulkas? Please say it will be so.”
“Far be it from me to deny a lady such a request,” Tulkas replied, satisfied his potion had not failed in any way. He moved on top of her and ran the tip of his cock back and forth over her folds. Then he teased her with shallow thrusts. “Stay as you are, with your legs bent like so. I will see that you receive as much pleasure from me as you did with Lord Makar.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Tulkas entered her, his grunts growing louder and louder with each passing second as he fucked her. He wrapped his hands around her throat also, squeezing and squeezing with as much restraint as he could muster each time he slammed his hips. Yet he did not content himself with just those things. He freed one hand while he continued his hold on her throat with the other, and he let it wander until it reached the soft swell of her breast. Luhtissë whimpered when he did so. Her fingers dug into the furs beneath her when Tulkas took her nipple between his thumb and forefinger and pinched it so hard it hurt. Yet with the pain came fresh waves of pleasure, ones she could not, and did not, want to escape. They led to her undoing, and her orgasm overcame her, swiftly and without warning. It dragged her beneath its depths, consuming her just as it had before. The sight of her in such a state proved too much for Tulkas in the end. He let go of himself, groaning as he did so, and with a shudder, he spilt his seed.
Silence crept into the room; it was only broken here and there by the noise erupting from the feasting hall. Tulkas had no desire to leave. The drops he fed his unsuspecting elven companion had many more hours left to them; it would have been such a shame to end the encounter before their effects wore off.
Makar, ignorant of this, propped himself on his elbow. “Should we leave her now?”
Tulkas settled on the other side of Luhtissë, his torso heaving, as if he had run a great distance. At length, he collected himself and said, “We have a great many hours left. There is no need to hurry. Makar and I have relished our encounter, my lady,” he told Luhtissë. “And we thank you for considering us. Now, pray get some rest. You will need it, for there are other acts you asked for.”
“Other acts?” Luhtissë asked, perplexed. When Tulkas gave word to what he wanted her to say, her glassy eyes widened, and she exclaimed, “Yes! There were other acts that I asked for. Yes. I will get some rest. Then we will return to more of what we did before.”
“Wonderful, my lady,” Makar said. He laughed softly to himself and made up his mind to ask Tulkas for this draught of his. He could put it to much use in the future.
