#Witch-king of Angmar

[dagordagorath]

15 March: The Battle of the Pelennor Fields

[curtvilescomic]

Witch-King of Angmar rule 63 cosplay by RazorCandi

[haaaaaaaaaaaave-you-met-ted]

Witch-King of Angmar by Alan Marson

[epicallyepicepilogue]

[sauron-kraut]

Summary: At the break of dawn, Mairon shares some kisses with Khamûl and the Witch-King.

As always, the witch for the Witch-King of Angmar is inspired by @lvsifer's glorious fic Night Moth, and so is the scar on his throat. 🖤

If you'd like to know more about my Khamûl or in case he sparked your interest, I humbly recommend reading my other fics I have with him. ;)

Pairing: Mairon x Khamûl, Mairon x Witch-King of Angmar, Mairon x Khamûl x Witch-King of Angmar

Words: 680

Warnings: non-explicit sexual content

As always: If you like this little piece, comments on AO3 are appreciated! 🖤

Not beta read!

Find it here under the cut.

Glory

When Mairon wakes, warmth is the first thing he senses. Hot lips kiss him to life in a timidly blossoming dawn. It always comes crashing in when night is the darkest, bereaving him of serenity.

It has been long since Mairon slept, his eyes open sluggishly, reluctantly. A realisation. Mairon feels comfortable. It has been long since he felt comfortable. He lets out a sigh; teeth gently tug at his lower lip. Mairon’s mind traces his body. Warmth, he swims in it. Bare beneath the sheets, between two others. Facing the boy, and the witch behind him, his arm loosely wrapped around Mairon’s waist. Mairon listens to the man’s even breaths. His mind wanders to the hours before they slumbered, and he smiles. With half-lidded eyes, he watches candle light flicker across the lovely face before him, and languidly kisses Khamûl back. He tastes of sleep. They always do. Khamûl presses himself closer, chest to chest, hip to hip. He deepens the kiss, slides his tongue over Mairon’s, feverishly. He tastes of greed. They always do. Delightful. The boy keens softly against his lips, and Mairon pushes his thigh between Khamûl’s legs for him to grind against. He does. Like a hound.

Their short lives make them ravenous. For different things.

Heat leisurely rolls through Mairon. He breaks the kiss, leans forward; his lips graze a bite mark on Khamûl’s neck, mottled skin in black and blue. The boy shudders in his arms. A sharp inhale and more eagerness as he continues pressing himself against Mairon’s leg. Mairon brings his lips to Khamûl’s ear, and feeds him sweet obscenities. A small moan against his neck and wetness on his thigh.  Mairon moves to look him in the eyes, smiles, and Khamûl chuckles, quietly, as though not to wake the other. Softly huffing a laugh, Mairon shifts close again to briefly lick at the tip of his tongue.

The arm resting on his hip stirs slightly, elegant fingers come to life on his skin and almost cautiously move over his hip bone. The witch has woken up. Warm heaviness spreads throughout Mairon’s chest, and he rolls over, now half on his back, half on his side, to welcome his waking. Khamûl moulds his body to Mairon’s, his chest flush against his back. Mairon pulls the Witch-King into his arms, and feels Khamûl’s hardness against his buttock.  It is the witch who draws him closer now, who caresses Mairon’s cheek; his fingers painting calm worship on skin. Dark brown eyes regard Mairon, unreadable as ever, if Mairon did not know his heart. He cups the Witch-King’s chin, tilting it towards him, and clasps the boy’s hand on his waist. Their lips touch slowly, Mairon’s lower lip dragging over the Witch-King’s mouth, the witch opens it, opens wide, and takes Mairon in deep, deep, and is so quiet. Mairon half sighs, half moans into the kiss, the Witch-King’s hot wet tongue on his, and Mairon licks at his palate, wants to devour, chases faint remnants of himself on him; the tang of his own lust. They part, Mairon’s lips trace the Witch-King’s chin, then trail down to his neck. With abandon, open-mouthed, Mairon kisses the ragged scar across his throat, a reverent hunger that makes him want to part the skin and thrust his tongue inside, taste the bloodied secrets that lie entombed within the crypt that is his mind. And use them, use them, use him. Mairon smiles and buries his head in the witch’s shoulder. He receives a lingering kiss to the forehead and relaxes into the man’s embrace.

Khamûl’s arm and the Witch-King’s come to rest against each other on Mairon’s waist. Mairon smiles. Two putrid flowers he could crush under his boot, yet raises to glory. Two of nine.  The boy sighs and nuzzles Mairon’s nape. Mairon presses himself back against Khamûl’s hips. Heat between his pelvic bones. A long lost feeling rises in Mairon’s chest and sweetly spreads throughout his limbs.

Peace.  

Mairon rests his golden head on the witch’s chest, and listens to the still-beating, soon-stilling heart.

[verecunda]

‘But no living man am I! You look upon a woman. Éowyn I am, Éomund’s daughter. You stand between me and my lord and kin. Begone, if you be not deathless! For living or dark undead, I will smite you, if you touch him.’ The winged creature screamed at her, but the Ringwraith made no answer, and was silent, as if in sudden doubt.

Witch-king like

[reyturnofbensolo]

Greg Hildebrandt!

[mask131]

Tolkien trivia of the day: The Witch-King was originally supposed to be the sixth Istari.

Well... not really, I am clickbaiting a bit here - but let me explain how the Witch-King of Angmar was indeed originally supposed to be a wizard just like Gandalf.

I said it before in one of my previous Tolkien trivias, the idea that the Istari/the Wizards were Maiar, divine spirits sent into the world taking the shape of mortal beings, was not actually the starting idea of Tolkien. When he first wrote about the wizards - in the original edition of The Hobbit, and in the first drafts of The Lord of the Rings - Tolkien envisioned them as more "regular" wizards. Aka, as human beings that had somehow learned magic - thus making their order an ACTUAL order. It also explains why Gandalf and Radagast started out as actual, literal cousins, since they were supposed to be "regular" men that had obtained magical power/joined the order of wizards.

And during these early drafts, long before Tolkien even had the idea of a country named Angmar, the Witch-King was called "The Wizard-King". And contrary to the final version of the text, where Gandalf's confrontation with the Witch-King goes smoothly on Gandalf's part, in the early drafts Gandalf dreaded a lot this confrontation. Because, as he explained: the Wizard-King used to be of the same order as Gandalf, he was a wizard too, and he wasn't just a regular wizard but one from NUMENOR out of all places. However, the Wizard-King had completely fallen for the corruption of Sauron, becoming his entire slave - and this is why Gandalf fears him so much, as he represents what happens when a wizard becomes Sauron's agent.

However, as Tolkien decided that the wizards were of otherworldy origins and Maiar originally, the idea of the Witch-King was reshaped - his Numenor background was changed as Tolkien invented the kingdom of Angmar, since he couldn't be a Wizard anymore he rather became one of the Nazgûl fallen to the ring, but since he needed to stay a force of magic, he was changed from "Wizard" to "Witch" to highlight how he was a human that had gained powers, rather than an Istari with natural powers. By extension, in the final version Gandalf is very much less worried about facing the Witch-King, since there is now a clear power gap between them.

[gotham-at-nightfall]

Lord of the Nazgûl

By Bronson Coddington

[valoniaart]

Gandalf vs Balrog

[dagordagorath]

14 March: The Siege of Minas Tirith begins

[niightfiend]

Finally. Gengar dressed as the Witch-King of Angmar.

[haaaaaaaaaaaave-you-met-ted]

Eowyn Faces the Witch-King by Angus McBride

[sindar-princeling]

The knights of his house lay slain about him, or else mastered by the madness of their steeds were borne far away.

Merry crawled on all fours like a dazed beast, and such a horror was on him that he was blind and sick.

He will bear thee away to the houses of lamentation, beyond all darkness, where thy flesh shall be devoured, and thy shrivelled mind be left naked to the Lidless Eye.

all these fragments are so short yet so effective in describing the absolute horror that is happening on this battlefield. the fragment about Merry gets me especially hard, I think, because he's shown time and again how resourceful and smart he is - but now he's just utterly terrified and helpless

[mpanighetti]

Had a Mountain Dew tasting party (as one does). There were no survivors.

[sauron-kraut]

It's my beloved @lvsifer's birthday today and I wanted to start my contributions to hopefully making this special day a nice one with a little double drabble. No better occasion for smashing our two sons (Khamûl and the Witch-King) together 🖤

This is entirely based on our lovely conversations and @lvsifer's idea. Thank you so much for giving me another inspiration to work with, I hope you like this little thingy. 🖤🖤🖤

HAPPY BIRTHDAY FEINI

Summary: Mairon watches as Khamûl and the Witch-King share a moment of pleasure.

Pairing: Khamûl x Witch-King of Angmar (x Mairon ;))

Words: 200

Warnings: non-explicit sexual content

As always: If you like this little piece, comments on AO3 are appreciated! 🖤

Not beta read!

Find it here under the cut.

Into the Fire

Mairon’s entire being is thrumming with delight.

From across the room, he watches as Khamûl kneels between the Witch-King’s thighs. One of his hands finds the sorcerer’s knee. Mairon’s eyes rake over the bed, take in the scenery. A position he has seen the witch in only once, and it was Mairon kneeling there, who felt him. Stretched out upon the bed, his breaths betray desire. 

When Khamûl thrusts, Mairon’s fingers clutch the armrest of the divan he is seated on. Sit up a bit and touch him there. He likes that, Mairon tells him. The Witch-King’s hand grasps Khamûl’s hip.

Be the blaze that heats their mortal blood. Light it, stoke it, make them burn.

When the witch moans, Mairon’s fingers clutch his thigh, his nails dig into his skin. So fragile are their kingly bodies, intertwined. Khamûl looks up at Mairon to lock eyes, rolls his hips and smiles. His long locks frame them like a veil.

You’re doing well. Mairon swallows his wine with greed. Does he feel good? he asks, smiles back, and watches muscles quiver beneath skin taut over bodies ripe with lust.

When their lips meet again, Mairon slides his hand between his legs.