a-world-of-whimsy-5

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Not Enough

faint, light, voice, calm

Námo’s  presence was quiet in the Halls. He stepped lightly, slippers whispering over stone and carpet. He kept a calm voice, an attentive mein, a faint smile, throughout the centuries, even as the inhabitants of his realm – hurting, grieving, sick – raged and wept. The light of stars wheeled overhead as he traversed the Halls, searching for one particular fëa. He found it alone in a long hallway, staring at a tapestry. “Come, young one. You have waited long enough. He who has done evil to you has returned to Eru, and you will be safe in Aman. Come.” “And if I refuse?” the fëa of Celebrimbor whispered. “Such a thing is your choice. But this is not a place for you. You yearn for the wind and the trees and the stars, do you not?” “I do. I yearn for family and craft. But it is not enough to yearn.”

You can find this and other drabbles here on Ao3

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

For @feast-of-horns

Pairing: Nessa/Meássë

Prompts:  Lust unrestrained

Themes: Smut | WLW | Femslash

Warnings: Public sex | Sex in an unusual location | Nipple play | Kissing | Vaginal Fingering | Oral sex Wordcount: 1.4K words

Summary: Nessa and Meássë celebrate the chase with a physically intimate interlude beneath the stars.

Minors DNI | 18+

This can be read on AO3

The forest floor was cool against Nessa’s back. It was soft also, from the many leaves that had fallen to form a thick and sweetly fragrant carpet that seemed to stretch without end in every direction. Starlight spilt through the gaps between trees, and some of it fell upon Nessa’s hair, making it sparkle with a bewitching crimson light all of its own.

Meássë looked down on her, her own auburn hair tousled in tufts that stuck out of her braid. She could hear the others in the distance, their calls and their laughter and their cries, and the sounds of their shared pleasure. The grove she chose was a little thing, sure to escape the attention of those who hunted and chased. Not that she and her companion would have refused the attentions of another; they would have welcomed it, for more companions meant even more heady delights. Still, there was something magical to be found in lying beneath the twilight sky, just the two of them, without a care in the world. She wanted to savour that for as long as she possibly could before another thought to join them.

“You look lovely like this,” Meássë remarked, her voice thick with longing, “with your hair a tumble and your flesh exposed to me.” She dipped her head and sought a quick kiss. “I am glad that it was I who found you. And now that I have claimed you, I will not release you until I have been satisfied.”

Nessa laughed. The sound was so sweet it made the other Valië’s limbs prickle all over.

“You will be well satisfied, I assure you,” she promised. “Now kiss me again,” she demanded, “and let us see how much satisfaction there is to be had.”

Meássë grinned and lowered her head. Her kiss started sweet and tender. Then it turned passionate and nigh-on violent, a physical manifestation of her fierce and forceful and restless spirit. Nessa was not frightened by this or even startled, for fire and passion were what she had desired, and fire and passion were what she poured forth. She returned Meássë’s kisses in the same fury that she received them, all while her deft fingers busied themselves with the sashes and clasps of the other Valië’s robe. They were easy to undo, and when silk finally parted, it left her earthly form exposed to another’s touch.

Nessa saw no need for caution. Why would caution be needed during a festival such as this, when revellers were allowed to indulge in whatever they wished, so long as what they sought was given freely? She willingly yielded to lust unrestrained, and when her companion renewed her kisses, she rewarded her in more ways than she could have imagined.

It was blissful within that grove, even with the riotous noise flowing through and around it. The wind was filled with the scents of night-blooming flowers and tender shoots, and the sound of water rippling in a pool nearby provided all the music that was ever going to be needed. Nessa took no notice of these things despite the pleasing mood they created. She set her thoughts on her companion instead, parting her legs and sighing softly when Meássë brushed her thumb over her nipple until it stiffened.

“Does it feel good?” Meássë husked.

“It does,” Nessa returned, her fingers digging into the meat of Meássë’s hips. “That feels good also,” she exclaimed, when Meássë dragged her nail back and forth, sending welcome shivers surging up her body. “Better than much of what I experienced.”

“Has no one pleased you to such a degree?” Meássë asked, curious.

“None save for Tulkas, perhaps,” Nessa replied. When she glanced up, she discovered the other Valië making a face. “You do not approve?” she questioned, amused rather than wroth.

“He is an oaf,” Meássë groused, “and unworthy of the likes of you.” She turned her attention to Nessa’s other nipple, her very spirit coming alive when her companion gasped and called out her name. “No matter,” she added when she took a moment to speak. “Fix your thoughts on me, my sweet, and no other. I will tend to the rest.”

Nessa did as she was bid, and soon, all thoughts of others, even those of Tulkas, poured out of her mind, and none but those concerning Meássë remained. And it truly was better than what she could have ever expected. Meássë proved to be a considerate lover, a contrast from the quarrelsome spirit that she presented herself to be. It surprised Nessa to no end, and it made her wonder if there were other aspects the Valië kept hidden from others. Perhaps one day she would learn of them all. Until then, she would make the most of the discovery she had made and relish all that was revealed as a result of it.

Meássë propped herself on her elbow to steady herself. She cupped the other Valië’s breast with her free hand and dipped her head, her moan muffled against supple skin when fingernails raked through her hair, glided down the nape of her neck, then went back up again, creating a delicious friction that set her alight. She, too, threw all caution to the wind and drew the rigid tip into her mouth, her teeth gently grazing at tender flesh each time she heard a plea or a ragged breath. Yet it was not enough. Meássë yearned to do more than just taste; she wanted to feel. So she withdrew and let her hand wander until it slipped down below her belly to find the apex of Nessa’s thighs. Nessa was already slick and warm and wet, something that pleased Meássë immensely. She slid a finger into that welcomed heat, then another, and another, thrusting the way a lord would until Nessa arched her back and all but screamed.

I am so glad I chose her, Meássë thought. She had espied Nessa at the feast and, after having been taken in by her beauty, decided to seek her out during the carousing that followed. During the chase, she dogged her every step through the great forest until she finally cornered her not far from where they were, and Nessa eagerly surrendered to her embrace. It was a good thing that she had done so—Nessa was fleet of foot, and Meássë could have never captured her with speed alone.

And she was far from done. When Nessa shuddered, Meássë urged her to unravel. When she did so, she thrust harder and faster until Nessa violently shook and came onto her hand. Meássë groaned from the warmth she felt around her fingers, but she was not given a single moment to enjoy what she had just experienced. Nessa grabbed onto her arms and flipped her onto her back, startling her with her daring. She settled comfortably on her knees between Meássë’s spread legs and looked on expectantly. When Meássë nodded her assent after having become fully aware of her intent, she lowered her head and ran the flat of her tongue over her folds. Meássë whimpered, unable to help herself. She writhed shamelessly as Nessa continued to lick her clit, then she began to play with herself as she neared her release. She caressed her own breasts, stroking them gently until she took each nipple between thumb and finger to squeeze them insistently until fresh arousal surged like a flood just beneath her skin. Nessa saw this when she opened her eyes. She drank in the sight of Meássë pleasuring herself while she fucked her with her tongue, but she said not a word in encouragement. She could not bring herself to do so, for she could not bring herself to stop. So continue she did, looping her arms around Meássë’s thighs to better steady herself, until the latter quivered, let out a glorious and lusty whine, and came over her mouth.

Nessa lapped up what spilt onto her tongue, and when she finished, she moved up into Meássë’s arms. Meássë sighed, her restless spirit now satisfied and replete. She settled on her side and drew Nessa to her when she sought more of her presence. 

“What should we do now?” Nessa enquired, exhilarated from her exertions. She reached for the nearest article of clothing she could see, a cloak made of fine fur. She threw it over Meássë and her, for the former had only her robe, she had none, and the air had grown chill.

“We rest, my sweet,” Meássë mumbled happily. “Then we will dress and make our way back to the halls of Oromë. There will be plenty of food left for those who return, and I would very much like to share a meal with you.”

“A meal with you would be delightful,” Nessa said, before she closed her eyes and gave in to true sleep.

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Ungoliant's hunger

Thence she had crept towards the light of the Blessed Realm; for she hungered for light and hated it. In a ravine she lived, and took shape as a spider of monstrous form, weavingher black webs in a cleft of the mountains. There she sucked up all light that she could find, and spun it forth again in dark nets of strangling gloom, until no light more could come to her abode; and she was famished.

- The Silmarillion, Chapter 8, The Darkening of Valinor

I deviated from canon and depicted Ungoliant with a near translucent belly that glows brightly after she has fed. Here, she is still in the cosmos, feeding on the light of nearby stars as she descends into Arda. Her existence seems to be a most wretched one: hating light but needing it to live, always hungry and never satisfied no matter how much she eats, powerful yet having to live in fear of other beings.

Do not use/repost without permission.

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Tulkas

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

When Arien took up the mantle of the sun, her younger sister, filled with jealousy and resentment, attempted to create her own sun to carry across the sky. She failed, however, her already crumbling corruption caused her to become something far darker, all consuming, and empty.

Or, Gothmog, as I imagine her, as a Black Hole, Supernova, Void.

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

For @feast-of-horns

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.”

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Not to hate on anyone or side of the fandom or whatever but I find it wild that the leading angbang headcanon is Mairon getting in trouble for the Lùthien kerfuffle when Melkor essentially was caught naked tied to the bed posts and gagged.

Like, my first reaction reading that was HE’S going to be in deep shit with Mairon, no?

Mairon actually had a whole fight with her and Huan.

Whereas Melkor just went oh hey welcome in can I take your coat and then fell asleep and let her feed his dog a Silmaril.

If I was Mairon coming home to that, I’d be PISSED and Melkor would be getting such a spanking

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

For @feast-of-horns

Pairing: Mairon/Thuringwethil

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.”

Thuringwethil grinned and held out her hand.

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

For @feast-of-horns

Pairing: Finrod (Findaráto in the story) & Aulë

Prompt:  Crowns and collars and chains

Themes: Soft/Fluff

Warnings: None

Wordcount: 1.9K words

Summary: Finrod calls on Aule seeking adornments he and his intended could wear for the Feast.

This can be read on AO3

The Great Forge of Master Aulë was not a small thing when one stood within its high walls. It was vast; it was so vast, in fact, that the city of Tirion could have been placed beneath its golden roof with enough room left for so much more.

Findaráto flittered silently and reverently from workbench to workbench, keeping to the shadows as often as he possibly could and keeping out of everyone’s way. The Great Forge was an immense hive of activity, as it always was, and every soul found there toiled at their tasks. Hammers rang out against red-hot metal, sending golden sparks that flew in every direction and illuminated the dim spaces they fell into before they vanished altogether, as if they had never existed in the first instance. A hundred fires roared in a hundred immense furnaces, and each of them was surrounded by a master smith and a troop of bright-eyed and eager students who watched and listened as steel and gold, bronze and silver and even fine sand, were heated and twisted and moulded into practical implements and fantastical forms never before seen by elven eyes.

The youngest son of King Finwë watched all that unfolded before him with something that was more than just wonder or awe, for the forge he was in was more than just an ordinary forge. This was the very place where imagination poured out of thought and was made real. This was where the most gifted of Valinor’s artisans came to hone their skills. This was where Fëanáro, his half-brother, first learnt his craft, and where he first set his eyes on the elleth who would go on to become his wife. Findaráto observed it all and pondered if he too should take a turn at the furnace and the anvil and craft something rare and precious of his own devising. It would please his father and king to no end to have another master craftsman within his own family. 

He reached for a hammer from a rack mounted on the stone wall behind him, after having considered indulging this very idea. It was small, perhaps made for the shaping of little trinkets, and it bore the mark of its maker—a stricken black anvil and hammer on a crimson shield—on its smooth wooden handle. Findaráto tossed it gently from hand to hand to gain a feel of its weight. Then he admired it, considered the many possibilities with it, and finally returned it to its place among the other tools with an audible sigh of defeat. Crafting was his half-brother’s province, never his. And he had no desire to fumble about and make a spectacle of himself while in the presence of others. He would not be able to face his family and his friends if he did.

He eventually stepped out of the shadows and threaded his way around elves occupied with their labours after he heard Aulë’s soothing voice carry over the din. The Vala was at the far end of the Great Forge, his massive form throwing shadows of its own against an oak door half again as tall as him. He was speaking with a lesser spirit, an attendant of the Maiar who served him, no doubt. The spirit held up an object for him to see. He took it into his hand and turned it this way and that, thoroughly inspecting it and pointing out certain aspects to the maker. Then he turned and saw Findaráto slowly advancing toward them.

“Prince Findaráto Finwion!” He called, his eyes sparkling with pleasure. “To what do we owe this honour?”

Findaráto bowed. “It is I who am honoured, my lord,” he said, turning to gesture at the activity taking place all around him with a graceful sweep of the arm. “It is not every day that one gets to see the forge of the Great Smith.”

Aulë beamed. “The doors of this forge are always open to those who wish to see and to learn.” He gave the object he held, a jewel of rare size and colour, back to the one who made it. They bowed and drifted away from their lord and his caller. “Pray tell me why you have come.”

Findaráto flushed. “I am here on a matter of some… delicacy.”

“Delicacy, my prince?”

“Yes, my lord. It concerns a certain feast and a very particular chase.” 

“Oho!” Aulë cried in understanding. He leaned in, his eyes bright with mirth. “There is no need for such secrecy, my prince,” he swore. “Many, if not all, who put their skills to the test beneath this roof know of the feast and the chase you speak of. And I give you my word, none will speak either good or ill of those who come seeking aid in the creation of the crowns and collars and chains that are most sought after during this special time of the year. What is it that you seek?”

“A crown, my lord,” Findaráto said, glancing back at the others. None had even deigned to look up at him. It gave him some relief; that and the revelation that they would not utter a word of his visit to others. He preferred his family to learn of his desire to partake from himself and not from the wagging tongue of another. “And a necklace that I wish to present as a gift to my intended. She desires to partake in the chase also.”

Aulë rewarded him with a knowing but kindly smile. “Then you have come to the correct place,” he said. “Come,” he added. “There are many adornments already made, and many of these will be given freely to anyone who desires them. Perhaps you may take a liking to one of them.”

“But what if I want something new to be made?” Findaráto asked. “Can this be done, my lord?”

“Most certainly.” Aulë threw open the door behind him and moved out of the way so that Findaráto could enter first. “But I would urge you to see what we have already created first, before you make such a decision. Perhaps one of them may capture your attention, and you will have no need for something new. Take as much time as you require, my prince,” he counselled, “for there is much to be seen here.”

Aulë was no liar on that score. There was indeed much to be seen. And when Findaráto stepped over the lip into the large and airy room, he found himself unable to speak; such was the splendour that greeted him.

There were so many crowns, so many collars and chains, that Findaráto did not know where to even begin his search. Each of them had been carefully arrayed on thick little pedestals of creamy white marble that glowed in the lamplight, and each piece was as breathtaking and unique as the one before it. Some of them had been wrought of gold and bronze, copper and silver and steel. Others had been forged out of metals known only to the Valar, or teased out of rare and costly wood, or shaped out of stone and bone. Some of them were so slender, Findaráto believed they would easily break in careless hands. Others were heavy and uncommonly ornate, creations that were festooned with jewels that gleamed or burnt as if they held flames of vibrant hues within. And there were others still that were violent and tangled, twists of metal that had been shaped, no doubt, by the raw and passionate imaginings of the artisans who created them. One of them stood out in particular. It was a golden crown that was a veritable web of rearing steeds, flying arrows, and curving horns. Shaped and polished bone gleamed in the place of glittering jewels. Findaráto halted by it, bedazzled by its strange yet bewitching beauty.

“That is for Lord Oromë,” Aulë explained. “He had a hand in the making of it. But a crown the likes of this would not appeal to your tastes, I think.” He turned away and guided Findaráto to a pedestal in the centre. It held a crown of another sort, resting atop a cushion of crushed lavender velvet. The crown was a delicate confection made entirely out of clear golden glass. Antlers rose from its base like vines reaching for the air. Light poured through them and then out of them, bathing all that it fell upon in a rainbow of colour. “This will suit you better,” Aulë declared. He lifted the crown and turned to place it amidst Findaráto’s hair. “Yes. This is better for you, my prince.”

Findaráto dipped his head, his breath catching in his throat, when the crown was placed on his head. It was so light, he could have sworn it had been crafted out of nothing but air. When Aulë bid him to follow, he did so, until he reached a silvered-looking glass affixed to the corner wall. When he caught his reflection in the glass and saw how the crown brought out the gold of his locks, he gasped.

“This is perfection, my lord,” he breathed. “Yes. I will take this.”

Aulë nodded and took the crown back into his large and meaty hands. Findaráto marvelled at how it did not shatter between his fingers. “And for the Lady Amarië, my prince?” Aulë enquired. “What do you seek for her?”

Findaráto stalked about the room like a hunter patiently seeking their wished-for prey. He considered all that was already on offer, compared them with the tastes of his intended, and then decided that none of them, no matter how lovely they were, would do. At length, he turned to face Aulë and said, “I desire something wholly new for the Lady Amarië, my lord. A necklace of feathers wrought of yellow gold, with their ends twisted and shaped to look like curved horns. I would like these feathers to be crusted with garnets. Can it be done?”

“It can be done, my prince. But with rubies instead of garnets. Garnets lack the fire and the heat rubies possess. And, if I am not mistaken, fire and heat are what you hope to seek with your lady.”

Findaráto blushed furiously upon hearing the innuendo. Yet he considered Aulë’s recommendation. Garnets, in his opinion, held a lovelier shade of red, but rubies glittered like red fire against a darkened night. “Yes,” he decided. “I think rubies are a much finer choice.”

“They most certainly are, my prince,” Aulë agreed. He set the crown down on a pedestal with only a cushion for a decoration and left it there. “Would you prefer to have this necklace placed in a chest carved to look like eagles in flight? The Lady Amarië is quite fond of them, I hear, and the sight of the chest itself will please her.”

“Indeed,” Findaráto heartily assented. “Indeed. It is an excellent proposal, my lord. When may I collect them both?”

“When Telperion begins to bloom next, my prince.”

“So soon?” Findaráto blurted, astounded. Laurelin had already begun to bloom, and Telperion would follow a few short hours later. He would not even have to leave the forge and return. He could remain while the necklace and its chest were being crafted. Perhaps he would even be allowed to partake in the making of it.

“It is but the work of a moment,” Aulë promised. “You are free to remain here until I am finished. Perhaps you could aid me in my tasks. That would please Lady Amarië even more, to learn you had a hand in the making of her gift.”

“I would like all of that very much, my lord,” Findaráto said. When Aulë turned to leave, he followed him out. 

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Underrated characters headcanon are done. And not a single NSFT element in sight.

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

I forgot to share this yesterday:

Bad news; it is not as easy as I thought to find rectangular cardboard boxes, nor get a view over the different shipping possibilities, so I will have to postpone the posters for September or October.

Better news; I am finally getting a small break in my schedule, so commissions are open!

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Nerdanel must have painted, too

Something I don't think I've ever seen discussed in the Silm fandom is that Nerdanel must have had skills in painting as well as sculpting. I mean, the History of Middle-Earth says people often mistook her sculptures as real people, and, well... I don't think I'd ever mistake an unpainted white marble statue for a real person, no matter how realistically it was carved. Realistically, they would have most likely been painted. Statues in real life were often painted in antiquity anyway, and the paint was worn off or forcibly removed over time.

And yet, I don't believe I've ever seen fanart or anything of Nerdanel painting her statues, and her works are typically in plain white marble. But I think it would be really cool to show how she has a masterful understanding of color as well as 3D space.

Something to think about! I'd love to see more fanart of Nerdanel with statues she painted. Maybe at some point I'll make some myself.

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Nerdanel is not just a sculptor; she is also a painter. She even mixes and creates her own shades of paints, some of which mimic, with startling accuracy, the many shades of human skin. This is why her statues are so lifelike and why other elves are fooled at first when they come upon her sculptures; her paints add a level of realism no other craftsman (save for Aulë) could successfully recreate.

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

If ANY of yall EVER do this shit to me, im deleting every single fic out of spite.

If I ever catch one of yall doing this to another author and I know youre a follower of my work I will block you personally on every platform

None of yall are the fic police. I DESPISE genai. I think its an insult to art, humanity, and the planet itself. But aint not a single fucking person here qualified to pick apart a strangers fic looking for a gotcha moment to make yourselves feel superior. If you think something is ai you can ask the author (most are proud of the ai use and will just tell you straight up) if they say yes you have your answer and can warn people. If they say no and you dont believe them you block and quietly keep it between you and maybe a close group of friends. Spreading misinformation is DANGEROUS. And NONE of you doing this shit are anywhere near qualified to do it.

THIS GOES DOUBLY FOR ARTISTS.

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

neither melkor nor i could resist, follow up to this distracting comic

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Since I compiled the list for this year already, I thought I might as well share it early ;)

You know the drill:

Feel free to use this list for your own Kinktober shenanigans, pick and choose as many prompts as you like (doing all is never mandatory) and combine them as you see fit - there's no need to do both daily prompts together, but you can try that too if you like :)

Text version is under the cut below.

Happy creating and have fun!

Credit/shout-out if you use the graphic are appreciated. Thank you!

Handcuffs | remote control

Choking | humiliation/degradation

Service kink | orgy

Massaging | tender sex

Blindfolds | object insertion

Bondage/shibari | fingering

Cages | voyeurism

Marking/branding | medical play

Impact play | lingerie

Cam | toys

Authority kink | pegging

Electrostimulation | gags

Getting caught | masturbation

Kidnapping | non-con

Crossdressing | clothed sex

Cock warming | pet play

Sex in water | friends/enemies with benefits

Dirty talk | breeding kink

Oral | (pseudo) incest

Somnophilia | virginity kink

Uniform kink | free use

Possessive sex | corruption

Coming untouched | punishment

Blackmail | kneeling

Sex pollen | dub-con

Size difference | praise kink

Chastity | telepathy

CNC | rimming

Intoxication | outdoor sex

Pain play | orgasm control

Extras: Oviposition, sounding, blood play, omegaverse, fucking machine, hypnosis, hate fucking & writer's choice

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

The Lord Commander's Pleasure

Pairing: Gothmog (knight) /Eönwë (Lord Commander of King Eru’s army)

Other characters: Ingwion & Ingil

AU: Medieval AU

Themes: Smut | Soft

Warnings: Kissing | Handjobs

Wordcount: 2.4K words

Summary: Gothmog pays a visit to the Lord Commander's chambers to spend the night, and the finds the Lord Commander awake and expecting him.

Minors DNI | 18+

This can be read on AO3

A/n 1: For many of my Silm stories, I write Ingwion as the first son, and Ingil as the second son | A/n 2: Endorë – Middle Earth

Gothmog opened the door to the tower of the Lord Commander, not in the least bit surprised to find Ingwion and Ingil, the first and second-born sons of the gold merchant Lord Ingwë, within the receiving hall. They were seated on the floor by the banked fires of the hearth, rubbing their hands and talking in hushed tones over a chessboard that was only illuminated by the light of the lantern they kept beside them. The game was first invented by a group of Easterlings in Endorë, and it had spread like a raging forest fire among the kingdoms of that great land. Now it was all the rage in the court of King Eru the First, and anyone with an interest in the game took it up as a way to amuse themselves and test what skills they possessed when it came to strategy.

“Has your brother finally cheated you, Master Ingwion?” He asked as he closed the door behind him.

Ingwion looked at him, his pale blue eyes glittering like water in the lantern light. “He has not, sir,” he said cheerfully. “But he has good news. He will be turning three and ten at the end of the month, and the Lord Commander will make him a full squire then. He told us much the same during supper.”

“Oho!” Gothmog grinned and untied the rough-spun bag he had secured to his belt. It made soft clacking noises whenever it jolted, as if it held wooden pieces within. “My felicitations, Master Ingil. Three and ten is the perfect age to begin as a squire. You will advance far and make a name for yourself, just like your brother is already doing.”

“Thank you, sir,” Ingil, the boldest of Lord Ingwë’s sons, replied with a flash of pride. He eyed the bag Gothmog held in his hands with barely disguised curiosity. “What do you have there, pray?”

Gothmog sat down cross-legged before them. He loosened the drawstring of the bag and upended it, spilling its contents onto the woven carpet that had been a gift from the king. “Chess pieces of my own making,” he explained. “This,” he began, holding up a rearing dragon for the lads to see, “represents the knight. And this,” he went on, holding up the carved image of a crowned and armoured woman seated atop a splendid steed, “represents the queen. See the sword she wields unsheathed? This is to strike those in her way. There are others. So many others. And each of them is different from the pieces you use now. Perhaps you would like a turn with them?”

Ingwion took the knight and held it up to the light. Its shape had been carved bearing armour the way a warhorse did. He set it down carefully upon the board while his brother collected and arranged the rest on the squares their other pieces had once occupied. At length, he said, “Did you carve these yourself, sir, truly?”

“I did,” Gothmog promised. “And I carved them with the intention of gifting them to both of you. Now tell me. Is the Lord Commander abed?”

“He is, sir,” Ingil said, “and he is expecting you.”

“My thanks,” Gothmog said, rising. He decided to dismiss them for the night, for they could not leave so long as he was there. No squire or cupbearer could do so if their lord or lady was having a caller. They had to remain and serve no matter what the hour. “Go to your own room and make use of those warm beds the Lord Commander thought fit to give you. It is cold, and you have done enough for the day. I will see to the Lord Commander if he has a need for anything.”

“Good night, sir,” the sons of Lord Ingwë said in unison before they packed up their chessboard, picked up their lantern, and left the tower. Gothmog was certain they would begin a new game in their shared chamber instead of sleeping like they ought to.

He crossed to the foot of the stairs and began his ascent. There was not much light to be found along the steps; many of the candles had been snuffed out for the night, and only a lantern or two remained lit, to light the way during the darkest of hours. So he managed the best he could, and when he reached the upper floor, he turned left to the little passageway that led to the Lord Commander’s private rooms and the Lord Commander himself, a man many claimed to be a warrior without peer: Eönwë.

Eönwë was indeed abed, just like his squires said. And he was indeed awake, and in a seated position. He looked on without surprise when Gothmog entered his bedchamber and shut the door. But then he smiled, and said, “Beloved. Have you come to see me to off my sleep?”

“I have come to do more than to just see you off to your sleep, my love,” Gothmog told him. He crouched to pull off his boots. “But if it is only sleep you seek, I will put aside all notions of love for another night and content myself with lying beside you until dawn.”

“I could never deny myself your embraces,” Eönwë confessed, as he drank in the sight of Gothmog undressing himself. “You are my one true temptation. You are my one source of salvation. You are the fount from which all my joy flows. I could never deprive myself of you, even for a single night. I would deny myself every other luxury and comfort in life before I ever denied myself you.”

Gothmog beamed, overwhelmed by Eönwë’s confession and overwhelmed by anticipation, as he occupied himself with the laces and belts and copper clasps of his raiment. His nimble fingers made quick work of loosening his sword belt and his doublet and his shirt, and soon, they each joined his boots to form a pile of raiment by the foot of the bed. When he slipped out of his breeches and his small clothes, he kicked them away from him, not caring where they went. Goosebumps prickled all over his flesh when he straightened and stood where he was, naked and unashamed of it. The air was still cool despite the bright fire that had been laid for the night. And Eönwë was watching him with eyes ablaze with lust.

“And I would do much the same before I ever denied myself of you,” he declared, as he joined Eönwë in his bed. “What we have is true, beloved. I doubt if even God himself has the power to tear us asunder." 

“Take care, my love, for what you have uttered is blasphemy.”

“Then, my love, I gladly blaspheme every day, for the one above has no claim to me. I have already placed all that I am in your safekeeping.”

“You speak as a poet does. And poets are known to be as free with their hearts as they are with their words. Are you a poet also, beloved? Should I be concerned over you giving your heart to another?”

"Tis you who speaks like a poet. But do not fear. There will never be another." Gothmog pulled away the pelts and tossed them aside. They were in his way. “Now come to me. The night is passing us by and we are wasting the hours that should be spent in losing ourselves to each other with talk that could be saved for the morning.”

Eönwë nodded his assent and lay back against the pillows. He sighed in gratitude when the weight and heat of his companion bore down on him, pinning him to the featherbed beneath. He was unclad, as he now oft was after he retired for the night, and he was glad that he was unclad tonight. Gothmog was patient and tender in many ways, but there were times when he grew impatient and greedy and left Eönwë with tattered remnants that once passed for clothes. Not that he found cause for complaint. He rather liked it when Gothmog grew greedy and impatient. It made him feel all the more desired.

“We must be quiet,” he warned. “The others already know of your visits. They make jests of it. They say the entire palace speaks of how you make me sing.”

“They make the same jests to me also,” Gothmog admitted. He braced his hands by Eönwë’s shoulders and marvelled at the pale gold of his hair. How often he buried his face in it and breathed in its faint, soothing fragrance, he could not say. “I pay no mind to such talk, and I urge you to pay no mind to it either. Those who spread it could never fathom what you and I share. Their small minds are incapable of it.”

Eönwë flushed with pleasure. “They cannot,” he agreed. “But we must keep quiet as much as we can. I would rather not have the others hearing.”

“Let them hear,” Gothmog growled. “Let them know how well I please you.” He dipped his head and latched onto the crook of Eönwë’s throat. The whimper that followed his teeth marring flawless flesh inflamed him to no end. “Now loosen that sweet tongue of yours and sing for me. You know how much it pleases me to hear you do so.”

Whatever reservations Eönwë had about the sounds they made swiftly disappeared when Gothmog sought his lips for a kiss. It was passionate and fiery, a sign of what was to possibly come. It also robbed Eönwë of breath, and left him dizzy and weak. Yet it had not been enough, and when Gothmog drifted lower in his search for other places to kiss, he voiced his approval.

“I have hurt you,” Gothmog observed. He had trained with Eönwë in the evening, and the bruises that had bloomed because of his blows were now visible for him to see. “I should have restrained myself and not gone so far.”

“But I expect you to go too far,” Eönwë countered. He moaned when Gothmog ran his fingernail back and forth over his nipple until it stiffened. “We are warriors, and the battlefield is a cruel and unforgiving mistress. We cannot afford to be too soft in our skills. It could lead to our demise. You know this as well as I do.”

“Do not speak to me of death, and do not speak to me of yours. Such a notion is too painful to even consider.”

“What should I speak of then?”

“How I may please you.” Gothmog took the rigid peak into his mouth and sucked, his body utterly aroused from the sensations that followed Eönwë brushing trembling fingers through his hair. When he pulled away long enough to speak, he added. “And how I may best serve you. Or are you content with what I am already doing to you?”

“More than,” Eönwë returned. He moaned once again, and louder this time, when Gothmog turned his attention to his other nipple. “Yes,” he breathed, his skin tingling, “there. Right there. Harder.”

For Gothmog, such encouragement was all that was needed. He sucked, kissed, and laved, all while delighting in the cries of pleasure his ministrations unleashed. The sounds no doubt carried, for the tower was a part of the palace proper, and the corridors beyond it always had sentries on duty and servants rushing to and fro. Still, he did not care a whit about them or what they could have heard; all that concerned him was the one beneath him and the satisfaction of his needs.

The devil take the others, Gothmog thought. Who are they compared to him?

He moved back up into his lover’s welcoming embrace, propped himself on his elbow, and renewed his kisses even as his other hand wandered the way it was wont to do. Eönwë lay still, his fingers digging desperately into Gothmog’s shoulders, as the latter explored every possible part he could find of him. It was something Eönwë had grown accustomed to doing, placing power over him in the calloused but sure hands of the one who held him. Many would have considered it strange, him giving such power to a fatherless knight with neither high birth nor grand inheritance to his name, but for Eönwë it was nothing to even think of. He trusted Gothmog explicitly, and he found a heady sense of liberation in letting another take command of him and his body.

“I yearned for you,” Gothmog whispered. “Throughout the night’s meal all I could think of was making my way to your side.” He parted Eönwë’s thighs, settled between them, and wrapped his hand around his cock. “All I could think of was the warmth of your bed and the warmth of your flesh.” Here he began to stroke, and triumph surged thick through his veins when Eönwë arched his back and called out his name. “Is it the same for you?”

“It is very much the same for me,” Eönwë murmured. He thrust up his hips as he neared his release. “I think of you… every moment… of every day. Keeping myself away from you whenever duty calls is more painful than I can bear.”

“All the more reason for us to seek each other whenever opportunity presents itself,” Gothmog husked. He felt Eönwë shudder beneath him and picked up his pace. In no time at all. he was rewarded with a strangled cry and with warmth spurting against his belly. But by then, Eönwë could no longer remain still. When he stopped shaking, he took Gothmog’s erection to hand and reciprocated the act he was made a recipient of moments ago.

Gothmog could not restrain himself after all that he had done; his body had been like a coil that had tightened and tightened the entire time. When it unravelled on the fifth stroke, he groaned long and hard and deep, his orgasm overcoming him without warning. But it was so good. Being with Eönwë was enough to make it so good. And so he emptied himself of his seed, and with a final grunt, he collapsed, shivering. Eönwë gasped when Gothmog fell against him. Nevertheless, he gathered him into his arms, cooing words of love softly into his ear. Gothmog had no desire to stir, but stir he did, when he remembered the bruises he left on Eönwë’s body. Eönwë made a sound of protest, and Gothmog, laughing softly, pulled Eönwë with him as he settled on his back.  

“Do not ask me to hurt you more than I already have,” he said. “Come closer, beloved. A long night of sleep awaits us.”