It's that time of year again! Time to cozy up with blankets and hot cocoa, and read some beautifully crafted non-con smut . . . Everyone does that, right?
We are bringing Dead Dove December back with all new prompts!
As always, any fic, moodboard, fanart, edit, etc is allowed to be submitted!
To Submit:
Tag us @tolkienpinupcalendar
Use the tag #tpcdeaddoveedevember
Use the smutmissions form here
We look forward to seeing what you create!
Mods @bellejolras, @the-girl-with-the-algebra-book and @frosticenow
❝ "Come, Mulkhêrînim, and do not be shy. The Elf-prince is yours to use tonight, for this is how the Lord rewards his loyal subjects." ❞
⊱ Prompt: Pillory/stocks, free use
⊱ Pairing: Númenórean cultists x Maglor, Mairon
⊱ Synopsis: Mairon captures Maglor and brings him to the Temple of Melkor as a gift to his loyal followers.
⊱ Featuring: The Cult of Melkor is also a deranged sex cult now because Mairon said so, references to past Angbang
⊱ Warnings: Non-con, ritualistic gang rape, sadism & voyeurism (on Mairon's part in particular), the prompts by themselves
𝑨𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓'𝒔 𝑵𝒐𝒕𝒆: Another one for @tolkienpinupcalendar's Dead Dove December; we're nearing the end (one more regular chapter that I have already written plus a bonus fic I'm currently working on).
Mulkhêrînim - (Adûnaic) - Children of Melkor.
Thought it would be a lovely way for Mairon to address them like that as an ultimate affront against Eru. Translation by me with the help of this dictionary (because in the Tolkien fandom even the nasty porn needs linguistics!)
"I have a special gift for you today, oh faithful Mulkhêrînim."
His loyal cultists mumbled among themselves when Mairon presented them with the exquisite treat he had captured.
At first glance, it appeared to be yet another captive, like the innumerable amount he had caught in the service of his lord – a dark-haired man, albeit handsome by incarnate standards, was kneeling on the dais in front of the altar, his head and hands secured by a hastily erected pillory, naked save for a flimsy loin cloth.
The more perceptive among Mairon's followers, however, had already noticed what made this one special: The pair of pointed ears sticking out from the mess that was his hair, almost defiantly announcing his identity as one of Ilúvatar's immortal children.
"Is that an Elf?" one of the cultists gasped, pointing at the helpless prisoner.
"Indeed it is, very good," Mairon purred and stood next to the Elf in question to almost tenderly pull his hair out of the way to show them off. "But not any Elf; I have captured one of royal blood."
The whispering among his followers intensified, and he savoured the tension before the anxiously awaited revelation.
"Meet Prince Makalaurë, also known as Maglor, the last living son of Fëanor!"
Laughing and jeering erupted from the crowd, their faces changing from curious to ravenous within seconds. Maglor, however, remained quiet, merely pressing his lips together and hardening his gaze.
I suppose his dear brother told him what happens to those who talk back, Mairon thought with a pleased smirk.
"Our minstrel's lonely wanderings have finally come to an end, so that he may grace us with his presence instead," he declared with a grand gesture, smugness bleeding into his tone like black ink dripping into water.
"Will he be a sacrifice to the Lord?" a younger cultist asked.
Mairon laughed. Oh, Melkor would be delighted to witness this scene; he could practically hear his gleeful laughter echoing through the temple from beyond the circles of the world, could see his eyes gleaming with dark amusement, could feel his joy – but he swiftly tore himself away from his memories and imagination, lest he be distracted for too long.
"Perhaps he will be in time," he drawled, "though for now he shall serve you."
His mortal followers, while loyal and so very eager to attain the immortality he had promised, didn't seem to grasp the meaning of his words, looking up at him expectantly. None had the courage to ask. Mairon suppressed a sigh of exasperation and the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose and stepped aside so they could properly admire Maglor's scantily clad form.
"Have you never dreamed of getting a taste of what we will conquer? Of enjoying the pleasures of immortal flesh?" He chuckled. "Such rare blood is too precious to spill with haste, would you not agree? After all..."
In one swift movement, Mairon raked his claw-like golden nails down Maglor's back, drawing blood and eliciting a piercing scream.
"He has such a beautiful voice, for which he is renowned to this day. What a waste it would be to not enjoy his illustrious company..."
Murmurs of agreement rose within the crowd, and a few cultists came closer, looking up at their high priest as they waited for permission. Mairon stepped back to make space for his followers and beckoned them with an elegant wave of his hands, causing the golden bangles on his arm to clink and tinkle.
"Come, Mulkhêrînim, and do not be shy. The Elf-prince is yours to use tonight, for this is how the Lord rewards his loyal subjects."
A heady mix of lust and greed filled the room, and he inhaled it eagerly, a warm shudder going through him. He was going to enjoy this spectacle greatly.
Had he caught any other Elf, he would have to be worried that their fëa would all too soon flee to Mandos, unable to endure such violation, but the Fëanorion's ill-fated oath would keep him chained to his hröa.
Robes billowing behind him as if moved by an unseen tempest of malice, Mairon strutted around the altar and leapt onto the lap of Melkor's statue with feline grace, taking a seat like a king would sit on a throne.
"Do you see that, precious? Almost like home," he whispered to the statue and pressed a reverent kiss onto the cold marble hand, exactly where his ring would have been.
Maglor didn't scream when his loin cloth was torn off him, nor when greedy hands explored his body and fondled him like a common whore. He didn't grace his captors with any pleas or protests. Only when one cultist knelt behind him and forced his cock inside, he finally cried out.
Mairon smiled. Awaken their lust, and they are reduced to mere animals, as you taught me yourself.
The scene unfolding in front of him was chaotic, erratic and filthy, just like Melkor would have loved it. The Man's coupling with their Elven captive was frenzied and hasty, gripping his hips with his knuckles white, chasing his pleasure. Maglor himself was soon silenced – in spite of his wonderful voice and the lovely sound of his screams – by another cultist forcing his mouth open to shove his cock down his throat.
"Let's see what else he can do with that talented tongue of his," another commented on the act, followed by raucous laughter.
Mairon considered chastising them for not appreciating the beauty of a voice trembling with pain and despair, but instead kept a serene expression as if it had been an amusing statement. He couldn't quite fault them for it; after all, mortals were ever so impatient, and their new toy had many of them to satisfy.
Whenever one finished inside of him, another would take their place. A young initiate was sent to retrieve some oil for additional lubrication and returned with a pitcher containing the very same sacred oil that was used in their ritual sacrifices – another thing too entertaining to be irked by, and thus Mairon remained silent, smiling and nodding along whenever one of his followers looked up at him for encouragement.
"Let us see if they can break him, precious," he whispered to the statue.
Maglor's head hung low whenever no one held it in place, though he had little room to move. The pillory kept him upright even as knees gave in, and seed had begun leaking out of him and down his thighs. Mairon was delighted to see droplets of red marring creamy white and caught the distinct scent of blood. Still, it didn't stop his followers from using their new toy like wild beasts mounting one another during mating season. Some also opted to help themselves before or after their turn, spilling onto whichever part of Maglor they could reach.
Mairon hadn't paid attention to the passage of time, but he estimated a few hours had passed when they were finally done with the Noldorin prince, readjusting their robes and withdrawing from him while glancing up at their master. Abandoning his comfortable seat on the statue – though most unwillingly – he stepped closer to survey the results.
Despite no longer being gagged, Maglor was eerily silent. His entire form was stained with viscous white, his face in particular, his lips were swollen, his legs trembling, his hole loose and leaking.
Mairon graced his followers with a bright, pleased smile as if they had done him a great kindness and placed his fingertips together.
"Well done, Mulkhêrînim. Our Lord shall look down upon you with benevolence and grant his favour to those who stand against his enemies."
Maglor let out a small snort, yet the spark of rebellion was short-lived when Mairon backhanded him across the face with graceful elegance that belied the force of his blow.
"Now take our guest to the King's dungeons and make accommodations worthy of a prince."
The sweet smile on his face then twisted, showing sharp teeth, and his voice darkened as he added, "And make sure he cannot escape, lest you wish to invoke our Lord's wrath."
It's that time of year again! Time to cozy up with blankets and hot cocoa, and read some beautifully crafted Dead Dove Smut . . . Everyone does that, right?
We are bringing Dead Dove December back with all new prompts!
This year we are switching it up with some song prompts and some quotes. Let us know if you like these, we will try and include more!
As always, any fic, moodboard, fanart, edit, etc is allowed to be submitted!
To submit:
1) Tag us @tolkienpinupcalendar
2) use the tag #tpcdeaddovedecember
3) use the smutmissions form here
Mods @the-girl-with-the-algebra-book and @frosticenow are back with a a new prompt event for December. This month the theme is "dead dove." Interested in exploring some more extreme prompts this list is for you!
❝ "You may have me," Melyanna promised him then, "but you will be mine in return." ❞
⊱ Prompt: Mind control, aphrodisiacs
⊱ Pairing: Melian x Thingol
⊱ Synopsis: Elwë chances upon an Aini in the forest and soon finds himself under her spell.
Or: Melyanna's more-or-less accidental acquisition of a pet/lover/husband
⊱ Featuring: Eldritch Ainur, the effects of magic songs on the minds of incarnates, slight femdom, lady topping, light biting
⊱ Warnings: Creative liberties taken with canon, dub-con (he very much wants her, but he's also under a spell), the prompts
𝑨𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓'𝒔 𝑵𝒐𝒕𝒆: The (technically) last one for @tolkienpinupcalendar's Dead Dove December. I messed up the posting order a bit at the end, but hey, it's all here now. Well almost; I am planning to write an "extra episode", so stay tuned for that!
I'm using the Quenyan names in this because Thingol was known and referred to as Elwë at this point in time and I thought that Melian, given how Ainur are omnilingual, would "match his language settings" by introducing herself with her Quenyan name as well.
He was frozen in place, not knowing if it was him who stood still or time itself. The very air seemed to thrum with a strange, ancient spell that neither he nor the forest could escape from, woven into the very fabric of reality.
Elwë had thought nothing of it when he had followed her song, assuming that perhaps a kinswoman had been lost and required his aid; enchanting though this voice was and unlike anything he had ever heard.
The being that turned to face him appeared to be a woman indeed, but most certainly no Elf. Her body was covered by a thin dress, resembling a nightgown more than actual garment, her feet were bare and her skin a mottled, greyish-brown with patches of light cream. Stray brown feathers were in her hair and adorned her shoulders and limbs. Most striking though were her lips, full, plump and golden as if covered in honey, and her eyes, unfathomable pools of dark midnight blue.
Elwë could not speak, and neither did she. Her head was tilted slightly to the side as she beheld him with unabashed curiosity. Whether this moment lasted mere seconds or a century, he could not tell; and at last, the mysterious being approached.
Her feet, Elwë noticed, made no sound on the forest ground when she moved.
The depths of her eyes were aglow with a fey light that reminded him of the strange beings he had encountered across the sea; and it dawned on him then that he had encountered an Aini. She was of lesser stature than Oromë and his peers, but in his eyes no less magnificent – nay, even as her wild, otherworldly appearance sent shivers of dread and excitement alike down his spine, he found her beautiful.
Her lips no longer moved. She was silent like him, yet somehow Elwë could still hear her song within his mind.
The Aini reached for him, placing her palm on his cheek. Her skin making contact with his felt like rain and lightning at the same time, gentle coolness spreading within him just as a searing shock surged through his muscles.
Melyanna. Elwë knew her name then, her very being, felt it touch his own. Whether she had spoken to him through ósanwë or planted a seed of recognition inside his willing, curious mind, he could not tell.
Melyanna. He wanted to say her name, but his tongue would not obey him. He wanted to call out to her, but knew not why or what he would ask of her.
"Beautiful," a voice – her voice – spoke to him then, mirroring his own thoughts, and Elwë realised that Melyanna had her own designs, knowing exactly what she wanted from him.
Her hands began to roam his body, and she hummed softly, filling his ears and his very being with a playful, lilting melody until she became the focus of his world, the only thing he could perceive. The trees, the forest, the sky above, all seemed to blur and fade away, leaving only her.
"You may have me," Melyanna promised him then, "but you will be mine in return."
Yes, Elwë thought in response, forcing himself to nod even as his body began to feel heavier and heavier. How could he say no to her after all, the most wondrous and enchanting creature he had ever met? Such thoughts no longer crossed his mind, as did any sense of danger or duty. Only desire remained.
Delighted, Melyanna played with his hair, carding her fingers through it until her talon-like nails nearly drew blood, then kissed him at last. She didn't taste like honey, as Elwë had expected, yet no less sweet; her lips tasted like nectar, dew and freshly fallen rain.
The song weaving itself into his very being grew and swelled, as did the need to become hers.
When Melyanna let go so he could breathe, sensing that her Elven companion had begun to faint in her grasp, Elwë fell to his knees.
Please.
After a moment of deliberation, she pushed him down with surprising assertiveness and strength, reminding him how easily his body could be broken beyond repair if she so chose; and still, he felt no fear. She was on top of him faster than his eyes could follow and kissed him again, hungry for more.
Elwë wanted nothing more than to please her. In his mind, he saw his hands exploring her as she did to him, though he was too befuddled to tell if it was just a fantasy or if his body obeyed. All he knew was that each kiss felt like Melyanna was devouring him alive, and that his excitement grew with each shaking breath he took, inhaling her very essence.
His clothes had disappeared at some point, either through some sort of spell or torn to shreds by the now-feral Aini on top of him, yet he remained blissfully ignorant of their fate. Arousal coursed through him with such potency that his erection pressed against her lower body with every movement, eliciting a pleased purr from Melyanna. She revealed herself fully to him then, proudly straddling his hips like he was a most prestigious conquest of hers, and allowed him to gaze upon her nudity with shameless lust and greed.
Elwë reached out to touch her. Before his hand made contact with her alluring flesh, however, Melyanna grabbed his wrist and pushed it back down, letting out a warning growl.
I yield, I yield, he thought.
"Mine," was all she said in response, and he understood.
He was not the one in control.
Thus appeased, Melyanna lifted her hips and guided his leaking cock between her legs. Elwë could feel her, warm, wet and soft like soil after rainfall in summer, yet before he had time to enjoy the sensation or ponder whether an Aini's anatomy would even resemble that of an Elven woman, she sat down in one swift movement.
For the first time since he had fallen under her spell, his voice rang out, a loud, desperate moan, and Melyanna joined him in kind. The mere idea of being inside her, of becoming one with her was incomprehensible and utterly maddening, let alone the sensation of her divine flesh clenching around his eagerly twitching length, gripping him like she intended to never let him go again.
And still, it was not enough. Elwë wanted more. It felt as though her essence was seeping through his skin and into his blood, making him truly and wholly hers and driving him insane with desire. Never again was he going to touch another, never again was he going to long for another, even if he never saw her again. Melyanna had taken root within his heart, too deep to be torn out again.
He was hers now.
Sensing the intensity of his emotions, she began to nibble on his neck. Perhaps it had been intended as a calming or affectionate gesture, yet Elwë found himself moaning and writhing underneath her when her teeth broke skin and she quickly soothed his wounds with her tongue.
It was too much.
His climax shook him to the core, and he saw a bright, blinding light as if his fëa had gone to the Timeless Halls, whence his lover had come ages ago.
Melyanna let out a low, guttural noise of triumph, but didn't stop riding him as he went limp underneath her. Elwë realised then that even as exhaustion gripped him in body and spirit, the fire of their passion still burned him alive, and that she would continue to have her way with him until she too was fully satisfied.
And he wanted nothing more than to give himself to her.
Instead of just sex, why not have a whole adventure while you're at it?
This is for prompt 14 (Inebriated Sex) from the Dead Dove December Event over on @tolkienpinupcalendar !
Does TROP count? It certainly does in my brain. This was for Prompt 8: Degradation/Humiliation for the Dead Dove December Event hosted by @tolkienpinupcalendar !
