#maglor smut

[doodle-pops]

Modern AU: Sugar Daddy | My Sugar Daddy Loves Me

Headcanon: Maglor, Finrod, Ecthelion, Thingol, Elrond

Request: Hi Mina I hope you doing well could you please write a part 2 of your sugar daddy au? With Ecthelion, Maglor, Finrod, Elrond and Maeglin - Anon

A/N: Not gonna lie, I had a hard time envisioning Finrod as a sugar daddy since I link those who are Daddy/DILF material as a sugar daddy. He seemed so aloof as a sugar daddy and more like Friends with Benefits lol.

Warnings: a female-focused reader, smut, breeding/creampies

➽ Part 1 | Part 2

➽ Modern AU Series

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ. Maglor

➽ He’s a world-renowned pop star who is beloved by everyone, and you are his lovely darling he met during a backstage meet and greet when he slipped his number into your back pocket and whispered, ‘Call me.’

➽ Of course you called him because that’s how you receive gifts on your doorstep after every performance he has, world tours, or when his albums go platinum. You are the mysterious lover that his fans talk about because of paparazzi.

➽ For the most of your dynamic shared with him, you are kept a secret because, to him, it makes everything more thrilling. All those posts of him on vacation or tours with snips of your hands, legs or back, or the albums being written about you, make everything invigorating.

➽ On the days when he does return from touring, you are showered in affection abundantly. Necklaces and anklets with your name or his name, dozens of roses, lingerie, the latest fashion wear, a lump sum of money floating into your account and some days between the sheets.

➽ Plus, that pretty black credit card in your back pocket feels incredibly heavy with all the financial opportunities it’s allowing you to make. It doesn’t bother him with you swipe his card to make your purchases because he has lots of trust in you (please don’t rob him).

➽ The dynamic between you both differs from the others who would reward you for excelling at your job or studies. With Maglor, he’ll reward you for being silent as he takes you in the recording booth during breaks, support him during his concerts, and when he wins awards.

➽ Apart from dropping all the materialistic gifts on you, Maglor takes him time to worship you from head to toe. You are, after all, the inspiration behind his best-selling albums, and he has inserted your moans as background vocals on some of his songs.

➽ A passion lover you got as a sugar daddy with an oral fixation (best his mouth). He has to show you how talented those lips are; singing isn’t all that he can do with his tongue. Plus, he’s also a guitarist, so let the realisation sink in with those fingers.

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ. Finrod

➽ Right off the bat, his type of sugar daddy isn’t for pleasure purposes and it’s the last reason why he was willing to care for you. He just wants someone to spoil and spend lots of time with because he’s rich and lonely in his mansion.

➽ Being spoilt is something you never have to question because he’s eager to be your sugar daddy even though he doesn’t consider himself as one. He’ll just tell you that he’s a good friend helping another friend out while handing you his unlimited credit card and a bunch of gifts.

➽ The adventurous type to call you up in the middle of the night and TELL you that he already booked you all a flight a trip to a tropical island for two weeks filled with various fun activities. The idea that you have classes or work tomorrow doesn’t sink in until you’re reminding him.

➽ It’s a frequent occurrence with him visiting/calling at early hours to check out new places in the city or for you to come over because his giant house is lonely. At some point, you are living in with him and all the maids have become familiar with you.

➽ If you’re a college student, you are funded, and yes, he does have an interest in your academics. However, he’s a lot more understanding if you fail a course because he’s the reason (making you miss classes with those trips); he might suggest dropping out and letting him permanently care for you because he can also get you a decent job without a degree.

➽ As I mentioned, pleasure isn’t something Finrod is interested in during the agreement. That’s something you would have to initiate one night as you’re relaxing in bed or returning from dinner. Take the lead and make him rethink his agreement to incorporate it often and scrap the ‘friends’ talk.

➽ He isn’t someone who becomes stressed, so if anything, you’re the one who’s getting the rough sex when you’re stressed. He is happy to help because if you’re keeping him company, he has to return the favour with an open mind. And trust me when I say, he’s good at what he does but acts casual as if he didn’t strip away your ability to walk.

➽ At least your time being his sugar baby will be fun and filled with excitement, something that outshines the finances and pleasure he blesses you with. His desire for companionship helps to make the dynamic between you two worthwhile.

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ. Ecthelion

➽ Responsible for marketing some of the most valuable gemstones around the world; mostly invested in the diamond stock market. The first time you met him and stepped into his house, you noticed how much he was obsessed with the gemstone. You don’t complain because it’s what he gifts you whenever you perform well for him.

➽ He covers all your tuition expenses and living commodities and gives you one of his unlimited credit cards to shop for your heart's desires. In return, you must bring home good grades (he’ll tell you what’s good) and keep up your good reputation. He doesn’t want you to ever tarnish your reputation.

➽ Ecthelion is wealthy and educated, so he doesn’t mind getting involved and invested in your field of work or degree program. Depending on what it is, he’ll extend his knowledge, but if he doesn’t know, he’ll make attempts to get you good connections to boost your career.

➽ So long as you maintain your good grades and reputation, you’re in it for life. He’s taking you vacations to tropical islands, opera shows, shopping sprees, buying you the most expensive jewellery sets and clothes. You will be rocking the best designer clothes, Ecthelion isn’t standing for you wearing simple clothes.

➽ Of course, when you perform excellently for him, he will return the favour with more than just trips and money. He established in the beginning that he was seeking companionship during your deal, and as much as he wanted to keep things professional, something about the red lipstick you adore wearing sucked him in.

➽ Perhaps allowing you to give him a blowjob under the table in his office during a quick visit and leaving lipstick smeared all over his cock made him change his mind about keeping things professional. He was pleased when you agreed to make the relationship more intimate than hugs and kisses.

➽ He wastes no time whenever he’s stressed to relieve himself through you (with your consent). You’re his little stress reliever, and in return, Ecthelion doesn’t mind letting you use him to beat your stress. Sex is rough and steamy between you both. You are getting bent over countertops, work desk, pressed against the wall, he’s hungry beneath his professional demeanour.

➽ While he is a formal and sophisticated gentleman, and he would not touch you inappropriately in public, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t purchase you vibrator panties and plugs. You’re sitting beside him during a conference meeting and he’s causally playing with the speed on his phone, making you cum.

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ. Thingol

➽ This sugar daddy is drifting over to the DILF side of things and do not be fooled by his silver hair, he isn’t old, he’s simply trendy and into the latest fashion styles. Giovani, Armani, Dior, Marco Polo, Ralph Lauren and the list goes on. Thingol is an old-money type of sugar daddy, and he adores showing off his wealth to you.

➽ To be honest, Thingol really want to be your sugar daddy because he saw you and liked you. At the time, you were a broke college student or young worker struggling in the business world who used the opportunity he was providing to build your career and status.

➽ Thingol doesn’t care about all that (at first), but he does ensure all your needs and desires are met. Tuitions paid, loans cleared, no negative credit score or empty bank account. You’re the rich student on campus or your job that everyone is jealous of because he makes sure the world knows you’re spoilt by rolling up in some custom Rolls Royce or Bently.

➽ Your unlimited credit cards weigh a ton in your pocket, but who cares because you’re rich and being pampered as you deserve? Of course, nothing in life comes for free and without payment. Thingol might carry some age because he has a fully grown child, but he isn’t old.

➽ He makes it clear that he would enjoy being intimate and seeking companionship in return for the wealth spent on you. Do you decline, of course not (you can’t, or you’ll end up poor again).

➽ Thingol is the definition of old is the new young. This man has the stamina to last for a lifetime and makes sure you’re always satisfied. He can be stingy and demand that you give him more attention (he’s a receiver more than a giver). You’ll have to catch him in the right mood for him to be on the giving end.

➽ But still, you can’t complain because you’re getting good dic—. Anyway speaking of spoiling you, he adores whenever you’re completely decked out in lingerie for him, i.e. just all the jewellery he bought for you and nothing else.

➽ He does have a slight breeding kink, but it isn’t intending to want children, so you have nothing to worry about. Thingol just enjoys the sight of prettying his sugar baby.

➽ Know that he’ll gift you some necklace or ring that informs everyone that you’re his and no one else’s. If you ask him if it means he’s proposing, he’ll reply with something along the lines of, “You’re already mine princess, wedding ring or not.”

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ. Elrond

➽ DILF number three and it makes perfect sense since he’s a descendant of many DILFs (Fingolfin, Turgon, Thingol). But Elrond doesn’t mind being someone’s sugar daddy, though his intentions are more for genuine purposes. If you want more, you’re gonna have to do all the work to show him that it’s more than paying your tuition and giving you money.

➽ Nevertheless, he covers all your expenses and demands that you perform excellently in your field of study or job. Elrond would even go out of his way to personally teach you (and no, I don’t mean bending you over the desk type of teaching) to ensure success is at your fingertips.

➽ This man is the most passionate and dedicated sugar daddy who cares about your well-being to a great extent. He’s well-rounded, so he’s fulfilling all your needs and wants, health, education, finances, basic commodities and living expenses. Please don’t disappoint him by failing your classes, he’s pulling all his money into the best tutors.

➽ In return for your devotion and passion for excellence, you are getting spoiled but not like the others. Elrond doesn’t mind giving you money or taking you on shopping sprees or trips around the world, he simply doesn’t want you dependent dependent on him to always provide since he’s building you up to become your own boss and financially secure.

➽ He’ll spoil, but not to that extent. Such a philosophical man, teaching all about life and how to be independent and headstrong.

➽ Now, as I’ve previously mentioned, if you want him to take you to bed, impressions are everything. Elrond’s the type to get impressed by your sense of elegance, sophistication and linguistics. Show him how skilled your tongue is, and he’ll be wanting more. No doubt he’s rewriting the contract in his mind.

➽ He has kids and knows how to ramp in between the sheets. In his state, he probably isn’t interested in more given his desire for companionship, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t going to be giving out creampies. The sight of it is his catalyst for wanting to give you more and keep you up all night.

➽ He’s a gentleman in the streets and will incapacitate you in the sheets. Tricks up his sleeves despite having an old fashion appeal about him. Give him a dance dressed in some pretty lingerie—nothing overly fancy, he likes elegance and simplicity—while he sips on whisky or brandy in a button-down shirt and his tie lazily discarded around his neck.

➽ Treat him well because running multiple companies is tiring, so relieve his stress while he relieves yours and you’ll be the happiest sugar baby ever.

Masterlist

Taglist: @lilmelily @ranhanabi777 @mysticmoomin @rain-on-my-umbrella @asianbutnotjapanese @batsyforyou @ladyenchanted @mcwentfandomtraveling @involuntaryspasms @aconstructofamind @addaigio

If you would like to be tagged, click the taglist link.

[autumnshighlady]

Tolkien Masterlist

Feanor

Wildest Dreams (ft. Fingolfin)

A Lesson in Language

Maedhros

coming soon

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

SERIES

The Professor series [WIP]

completed: Nesta, Gavriel, Feanor

coming soon: Rowan, Eris, Dorian, Maedhros, Helion

All I Gave You Is Gone (Tolkien x ACOTAR crossover) [WIP]

part 1 / part 2 /

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Day 19 | Prompt: Golden fruit

Pairing: Salmar x Maglor

Themes: NSFW | Smut-ish | Public fondling

Warnings: Heavy petting | Handjob as a reward.

Word count: 400+ words

Summary: Lessons take an interesting turn when Salmar gives Maglor instructions on playing the harp.

Also available on AO3

Rating:🔥 | Minors DNI | 🔞 | You are responsible for the media you consume

"No, no, Káno. That is not how you strum the harp." Salmar retrieved the gilded instrument and laughed despite his growing frustration. "This is how you do it."

He made himself more comfortable on the grass and played a haunting air about a deep and abiding love that was found, and then carelessly lost. It was a theme of such indescribable beauty that it soon reduced Maglor to tears. When he stopped, nothing could be heard save for water bubbling in amber fountains and golden fruit swaying gently in a cooling wind.

"That was most wondrous, my lord." Maglor came closer, and held out his hand. Salmar returned the harp, but only after forming a most wicked idea. His student and companion had struggled to play for many a day now. Perhaps an incentive to do better was needed. "May I try again?"

Salmar agreed. Then he bided his time till the right moment presented itself. Maglor plucked at silver strings, unaware at first of the hand gliding up his thigh. Then warmth radiated through the silks of his robes. He opened his eyes, and shivered.

"My lord?"

"Do you want me to stop?"

Maglor licked his lips, his passions slowly rising when Salmar gave his thigh a gentle squeeze. Certain he was flushing, he said, "No. Never."

"Good." Salmar was pleased. His hand now slipped beneath the hem of Maglor's tunic, gentle but determined. "And so long as you play well, I will keep rewarding you. Carry on."

The elf continued even when a practiced hand moved between his thighs. Salmar gave another playful squeeze and smiled when the music eventually faltered, and he was rewarded with a moan that was as bewitching as his student’s singing.

"Start again," he commanded, and he drew back his hand.

Maglor gazed at his mentor, his startling azure eyes now dark with wild need. Salmar saw it, and thought no sight in all of Arda was more alluring.

"I will touch you," Salmar urged. "But as an enticement, nothing less than that. So if you want me to keep pleasuring you while you play...."

“I will play. I will play.” Maglor took to his instrument and sang again, greedy for more. Salmar waited and listened, then continued to indulge in his own way. His hand found its way back to that place between Maglor's thighs, and he groaned under his breath when he found the elf already stiff to his touch.

"You have been blessed in more ways than one," he admitted without shame. "And nothing pleases me more than knowing you are mine."

Maglor eagerly lapped up the praise. He did not waver either, no matter what his body demanded. Salmar took note of his composure and set himself to the task of loosening drawstrings and clasps. Maglor's breath did not hitch until Salmar took him into his hand.

"Continue playing," he insisted.

tags: @asianbutnotjapanese @cilil

[searchingforserendipity25]

fern and moss and root and blossom

daeron/maglor / ao3. for @silmsmutweek.

many thanks to @welcomingdisaster for sharing her enthusiasm and betaing expertise <3

Daeron’s long exile had turned him into a strange creature. So closely aligned to the Music that he could quiet down the voice of the wind in the trees with a sweet phrase and the turn of his wrist, quiet the sound of the surf with the might of his minstrelsy. Maglor, it had become swiftly apparent when they met once more, found it entirely disarming to be disarmed.

“Ai,” Maglor said, mighty voice trembling with a sharp thrill of fear, pulling with his blackened hands at the ivy and vines that were Daeron’s grip, Daeron’s conquering claim. “Have pity, minstrel. Not all of us bear our horrors so conveniently arrayed.” 

His nostrils flared - there was nothing feigned about the shuddering of his voice.

“That is not a very charming entreaty at all, with no poetry to be gleaned in it. Do you know, I do not think I shall,” Daeron said mildly, and felt the taste of blood in the air a moment before Maglor bit his cheek not to laugh. 

Bound with his back to a great elm, Maglor tugged at the chains of ivy that curled around him and held him down. Daeron felt the swift galloping of his heart as closely as if he had pressed a palm against his back.

It was only half for the spectacle of it that he struggled, and the pleasure Daeron took in feeling his body move against his will and bound to it. There was always a true edge of terror in it for him, a fierce flare of defiant shame.

His face gleamed in the moonless dark, gray and thin and terrible; his eyes shone silver, covetous and fey amidst the shadowed wilderness that trapped him in Daeron’s hold. 

Daeron tightened the hold around his throat warningly for a moment. Maglor’s breathing grew stilted for a moment, strained, before he eased his shoulders, forced himself to yield. 

Bound mercilessly, legs spread open by ropes of hibiscus and honeysuckle, Maglor could not reach him.

But he was not careless - violence would not serve him here, and so he made himself gentle. Turned his hand carefully around Daeron’s ivies, tugged lightly only, stroked the edge of a leaf, hummed a soothing note when Daeron's wilderness quivered, curling around him tenderly. 

“It is not poetry I wish from you tonight,” Daeron said, sounding severe to his own ears. He was not inclined to making it an easy victory for himself, nor an easy surrender for Maglor: but he felt half-impish, scattering trickling thirstles around his ribs and forced him still. "Nor any song at all of your own words at all."

His bare feet on the grass sank down, and grew cold. The mist was gathering, growing restless around them - Maglor's dark curls turning shadow-dark, his panted breaths deep and deeper with a voice nothing like the voice of one of the Eldar. 

It had taken a long tutelage, but under Daeron’s instruction Maglor had learned at last to surrender to be free. His sighed against Daeron’s mouth, let himself sink into his grip. 

The first true attempt to free himself shackled him more firmly; the second earned him a raking scratch of fingertips wrapped in briars, the third came shattered, half-pleading.

And then Maglor went very still. A row of brambles wound itself around Maglor's wrists, dangerously near the burned ruin of his hands. 

"Monstrous," Daeron said disdainfully, pressing a long sliding touch of his hand to the place where elvish steel had left scars on his chest. Maglor's own, warped fingertips curled in reflex, and the pain of it stole his voice for a moment. 

Maglor shivered with unfeigned want. The shadows clustered around him shivered with him. Already a damp fog rose in the air, to smudge the edges of the world, leech its colours and deepen its echoes. 

Daeron stepped back, ignoring Maglor's cry. 

Soothing, Daeron’s tendrils stroked his arms, rustled over Maglor’s bare shoulders. Caught as he was, it was a sweet temptation to kiss him to silence; and there was little reason for Daeron not to indulge himself tonight. 

Daeron’s long exile had turned him into a strange creature, so closely aligned to the Music that he could quiet down the voice of the wind in the trees with a sweet phrase and the turn of his wrist, tame the wild calls of the gull and quiet the sound of the surf with the might his minstrelsy.

His wanderings through the ancient forests, and the dangerous studies in song he indulged in with no teacher or king or dear lady to bind him had changed him greatly, more than was quite righteous and good. 

Maglor, it had become swiftly apparent when they met once more, found it entirely disarming to be disarmed. 

A game of nearness and glancing touches, control and grace. Maglor's voice rose and fell under Daeron's caresses. 

On moonless nights, when the stars were brighter in the sky, Elbereth's light clearer and purer, and Maglor was flushed and feverish, skin prickling with a faint burning - when Daeron's hold over the rhythm and melodies of the desolate wild places was most potent, then they met, only then. 

Daeron had missed the salt of Maglor's blood, had grown hungry for the delicate feeling of his pulse fluttering under his power. 

It did not happen every new moon, not even every year; the course of their exiles did not always intersect on those days, for they each held to their own domains, the duty they owed their grief and their lore. 

The vines he bore as part of himself only retracted back to their winding ways around his arms almost reluctantly. More and more often, Daeron stretched the moments to a sweet interlude, reveling in the heady feeling of his lover's pulse resonating from vine to skin to his own cock, before he willed himself to unshackle him.

 They were fond of Maglor's skin, ever-hungry, and willful, whimsically led by Daeron's stray, misplaced instincts. 

 To want to release - not to watch mesmerized his possessing strength, where the living instruments of his song curled, tight and tender and terrible, around Maglor’s yielding. 

They had agreed on it - moonless nights were for wildness, the darkest night of each year given over to the strangeness, pain and regret, grief and sorrow had made of them. 

Maglor gasped. Daeron’s fingers wound about his hair, tight and punishing; but he did not need them to stroke him. He pressed close against his buttocks, already slick with sweet nectar. 

Now, he did permit himself to smile. Maglor's charred hands were shadow and flesh at once, struggling against his might one last time, before he grew weary and wary and wise enough to pause, breathless under Daeron’s attention.

"I shall do better," Maglor protested,  a little desperate. "Will not any poetry at all serve? Let me please you, lord; I shall show you such images of glory you have not known before, and such a sweet ache of grief you will weep and be glad for it."

"I have no ears for your tales and lays, your bespelling treachery that traps the unwise in its riptide."

"Not even a joyful hymn? I would give you such a thing, as it is in my power."

"Nay," said Daeron dryly "not even that."

Maglor tilted his head back against the tree, rubbed his cheek against a heavy front of thick leafs. Looked at him under the startling darkness of his lashes, a rousing sight on any occasion, and rarely more than when Daeron could feel his shuddering veins, the rasping of air on his throat.

"You have not heard this one before, master: it speaks of lovers that meet only in the dark, and part in sorrow to meet again and torment each other before falling into an embrace."

"Nay," Daeron said, amused despite himself and striving to be dire, "not even that! Treacherous thing that you are, changeful and terrible, I would court foolishness to permit you the power of any narrative." 

Tendrils of mist curled around his legs, fluttered adoringly about his wreath of living ferns - a smell of the sea was in them, the ceaseless lust of the sea, dreadful and unnatural and dear to him. Daeron had grown strange and powerful in his exile, but so had Maglor, on most nights but for this one.

His hands of bark and amber ached to stroke the curve of Maglor’s cheek, the thin skin of his neck.

Half of his was his own want: half of it was Maglor's compelling will, tugging light and teasing. A reminder of his mighty power, diminished for tonight; and a slyer reminder, too, of other encounters, when it was Daeron that walked on moonlit hours by the shore, allowing himself to be enthralled by a spell sung over and with the whispers of the surf.

Daeron, too, had missed him; but tonight, Daeron did not soften, kept his rose-briars sharp as knives, his shielding walls of growth high as a siege around Maglor. He stepped back, and all the leaves of his dark forest rustled a song of longing in echo or his refusal. 

The rising shadows of Maglor's haunting draped themselves heavy and sweet about his shoulders, sunk gladly into the earth he claimed, tangled around his thistles - that much he did welcome. Always the darkness in him was easier to tame; all the rest was words and wind, proud grief to be pared down and horror to be matched by horror. 

"A touch, at least," Maglor said, voice rumbling, control fraying - the sea's waves and surf, the sea's own hunger speaking in and through and with his voice. "Have pity! I have missed you so, singer."

Daeron folded his hands, very nearly like the hands of the Eldar, and mightier by far, to watch Maglor's eyes on them lose their false Treelight, grow dark and dark through and through.

Nothing of Elvenkind remained in him, but for the memory of grief he clung to; if his strangeness was less visible at first than Daeron's, it was not because it was less absolute, and certainly it was far more hideous. 

Daeron was the forest, the trees, the grass and the soil. His power rose in him, unrestrained - all his flowers blooming, the leaves speaking in leaf-tongues, the torn sinking deep and drawing blood. 

He felt the rushing force of Maglor's fear in the air as the sea-chill, heady as a kiss. Satisfaction settled tight and warm in his spine already; but he meant to be patient.

There was no space for pretense between them. That was a lesson to be relearned every time, and Daeron meant to enjoy upholding it as well as ever he had. 

“Sing to me sweetly enough, perhaps, and I might consider releasing you after I have had my fill,” Daeron said, and reached out through the mist to gather the shadows close and tender about his chin. "But make it beautiful. I am of a mind for beautiful things, tonight."

[furious-haste-of-malice]

rare pair bingo

⸙ Prompt: Fuck or die | Fingolfin x Maglor ⸙ Synopsis: After Maglor's misadventure on the forbidden meadows of Vána leads to him inhaling too much spring pollen, he goes to Fingolfin for help. ⸙ Warnings: Smut, incest (uncle/nephew), strong sex pollen ⸙ Quintuple drabble | AO3

"Uncle..." 

The voice that calls out to him from the undergrowth is weak and trembling, but Nolofinwë recognises it almost immediately. 

"Makalaurë!" he exclaims and steps closer. His nephew has been missing for hours, and of course he didn't hesitate to join the search when he learned of his disappearance. 

"Uncle Nolo, please..." 

Nolofinwë finds Makalaurë curled up on the ground, half-hidden in a bush, and looking up at him with a dazed expression. Before he can ask what happened, he sees the redness of his cheeks, the sweat making his entire body shimmer, the faint traces of golden dust on his cheeks, neck and chest, and realisation strikes. 

"You didn't go to Lady Vána's forbidden meadows, did you?" Nolofinwë asks, alarmed, and kneels next to his nephew. 

"I-I..." 

His worst suspicions are confirmed when he hears Makalaurë's heavy breathing and watches his legs fall apart to reveal an incriminating bulge and growing wet spots between his legs. 

"Help me, please..." 

Nolofinwë closes his eyes for a brief moment. He knows what happened and he knows what it means. Makalaurë must have snuck in and come across Vána's famously dangerous spring pollen, an aphrodisiac powerful enough to incapacitate even the mighty lords of the Valar — too powerful for an Elf. 

His nephew needs help, and unfortunately a cup of tea and blanket won't do. No, this condition requires a more hands-on approach, for it won't release him from its clutches until its purpose has been fulfilled.

"I didn't know... where else to go..." Makalaurë confesses timidly and spreads his legs more. "Please..." 

"You want me to do it?" Nolofinwë asks and strokes his hair. Guilt has already taken hold of him, but he can't deny that the young prince is completely and utterly beautiful like this. 

Makalaurë nods. 

Nolofinwë sends a swift prayer to whichever higher power will hear him, begging to be forgiven for what he's about to do, and leans in to kiss his forehead. "Then I will." 

Gentle but determined, he unlaces Makalaurë's breeches and pulls them down all the way to his boots, then lifts his legs and pushes them back against his chest. He has to have inhaled a good amount of pollen, Nolofinwë thinks as he finds his entrance swollen, wet and dripping, desperately begging for his attention. 

"Relax. It will all be over soon," he promises while freeing his own cock. 

He, too, is already hard. It's wrong and embarrassing and Nolofinwë hates himself for it, but his body seems to have made its decision before his mind. 

Thankfully, Makalaurë doesn't seem to mind. He glances at his erection, visibly eager, and shifts his hips to entice him. "Please..." 

"Ssshhht..." 

Nolofinwë kisses him again, on the lips this time, then covers his mouth with one hand as he slowly pushes inside the prince. Nobody can witness this, nobody can ever know. 

Makalaurë moans into his hand, his tight flesh feels amazing around him, and Nolofinwë hates that it makes his cock twitch excitedly. 

Thanks for reading! ♡

[whovianofmidgard]

Summary:

After Ages of courtship and regifting the Silmaril to each other every year, Maglor and Ulmo finally tie the knot.

Part of my Light Touched AU

Ch.1.: Discussions of a wedding Ch.2.: Smut (if those who want to keep this series at a Gen/Teen and Up rating they can skip it) Ch.3.: Reactions to Maglor getting hitched

For @silmsmutweek Day 1: Ocean, using the prompts: Tentacles, Asexual identities

Snippet:

Middle-earth, Third Age

Maglor let his body float atop the surface of the sea, enjoying the Sun's warmth as the cold water gently caressed his skin. He had no care for where the tides would take him, for here, surrounded by his Lord Ulmo's realm, he was safe.

It also helped that by the gift of his Silmaril, he was no longer in any danger of drowning.

He thought of the courtship, this dance the Lord of Waters had initiated and Maglor had at first clumsily followed, but now performed with sure steps. They had danced around each other for an Age, with the radiant Silmaril at the centre of it all.

Maglor enjoyed each step he took in time with the Music, and he wouldn't know what he'd do with himself if the dance abruptly stopped one day. Yet he knew a courtship was not meant to be stretched to eternity, and it would need to come to an end one way or another.

He knew which outcome he preferred, but the Valar were not so easily understood. They looked at the world, at the Music much differently than elves, and what Maglor wanted may not be the same as what Ulmo intended.

However, it never hurt to ask.

"My dearest Lord," Maglor spoke into the peaceful air, only the sound of the shushing waves around him. "As much as I look forward to our anniversary each year I have to wonder; for what end do we persist in our courtship?"

The usual silence greeted him, but the second son of Fëanor was used to Ulmo's ways by now. He felt the air still around him, and the water tenderly rocking his body in the cradle of its waves slowed to a sluggish pace, and he knew his words were being listened to.

"It may be presumptuous of me to hope for a marriage, but if it were my Lord's wish, I would gladly be your husband."

The water rippled around him and suddenly something wrapped around his leg and dragged him under.

Maglor laughed, not even slightly alarmed that he was caught in an undertow, the last of his lung's air bubbling around him.

Read the rest on Ao3

[imakemywings]

            Maglor was not unaccustomed to such exits at such early hours of the morn. He may not have done so well on the open forest floor, but in the solid wood and stone of the halls of Menegroth, he was able to noiselessly pick his way out of the bedroom, collecting bits of clothing and jewelry as he went, until he could let himself into the hall. With a soft, smug exhale of relief, he hurried barefoot towards the entrance of the royal apartments, content with his easy escape.

            That was, until he saw another hurrying towards that main entrance from the other side of the hall.

            That figure froze at the same time Maglor did, and for an uncomfortable length of time, they gaped in silence. For a moment, Maglor tensed to run, for Maedhros’ expression was of a man contemplating a quick murder to silence a witness.

            “Nelyo?” Maglor gasped.

            “Shh!”

            “What are you doing here?” Maglor whispered, slipping back into Quenya in his shock. Maedhros hesitated far too long for his usual responses.

            “I was seeing the king’s loremaster about something,” he said, which made Maglor’s jaw drop even further.

            “No you weren’t!” he exclaimed, stunned to have caught his adroit brother in a lie.

            “And how would you know?” Maedhros demanded.

            “Because I’ve just come from Daeron’s chambers!”

   ��        “I told you not to sleep with him! We are here for diplomatic—” Maglor was already shrugging.

            “Forgive me, brother, but Daeron’s argument was far more convincing.” He flashed a toothy smile. “But what were you doing here? The princess is off visiting friends still.” Maedhros did not answer. Maglor’s eyes were growing wider still. He added: “You wore that same robe at dinner last night.” His hair was down, too.  

            “I do not have time for this conversation with you,” Maedhros said then, sweeping past him towards the door.

            Maglor was a fool, but he was no idiot: he recognized a tactical retreat.

            “Nelyo! Where were you!” he cried, spinning then at the sound of footsteps behind him and preparing to be chided for making a childish ruckus before the sun was fully above the horizon when he saw King Thingol coming down the hall towards him.

            “Hm.” Thingol paused in time to observe the door swinging shut on Maedhros’ heel. Then, pressing something into the pile of clothes and jewels in Maglor’s stupefied arms, he said: “He left his cloak clasp.”

On AO3

[cilil]

rare pair bingo

⸙ Prompt: Phallic gags | Maglor x Imladris crew ⸙ Synopsis: Maglor has been captured and taken to Imladris. Unfortunately for him, Elrond and the others aren't as merciful as he hoped. ⸙ Warnings: The prompt, suggestive, Mags is there against his will ⸙ Double drabble | AO3

"He looks lovely like this, would you not agree, Lord Elrond?" 

Maglor tries his best not to choke on the phallus-shaped gag that has just been forced inside his mouth when Glorfindel pulls his head back by his hair none too gently. Tears gather at the corners of his eyes as he looks up at Elrond who watches this display with idle serenity. 

"Yes, very good," the Lord of Imladris concedes. "Though I think Erestor has more suggestions for us." 

"If I may be so direct, my lord," the Elf named Erestor begins, "while I think a minstrel without his voice is a fascinating display indeed, I do believe a kinslayer should not be allowed to keep his clothes." 

Maglor whines and tries to shake his head, but Elrond merely lifts a hand as if to silence him. "Then it shall be done. Glorfindel, if you would?"

"Of course, my lord." 

Mercilessly, a blade cuts through fabric and ruined clothes fall to the floor until Maglor is left bare and exposed. 

"Thank you. Better now, Erestor?" 

"Yes, my lord." 

"Very well." Elrond nods slowly. "Then let the council use him as they please. A silent songbird shall suffice as entertainment." 

Thanks for reading! ♡

taglist: @blauerregen @i-did-not-mean-to @saintstars

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Kinktober 2024 - Dirty Talk (Humiliation/degradation & bondage/shibari/suspension)

Maglor is forcefully rid of a few illusions by Daeron of Doriath.

Prompts: Dirty Talk (Humiliation/degradation & bondage/shibari/suspension)

Pairing: Daeron x Maglor

Words: 560

Warnings:Vulgar talk, reference to genitals, humiliation, bondage

Gritting his teeth in defiance, Maglor willed his muscles to relax.

He knew not with what dark spell Daeron had imbued the slender lianas that constrained his limbs, but he was too proud by far to struggle vainly against their hold any longer.

Dangling a mere foot above the mossy ground, he was unable to so much as shift his weight into a more comfortable distribution, much to the visible enjoyment of his ungracious host.

“What happened, Mighty Singer?” Daeron purred provocatively. “You’re not gagged, are you?”

The power of the wood dweller’s voice buffeted the bound Elf like a strong, fragrant wind, but Maglor merely glared wordlessly. He’d not give Daeron the satisfaction of getting him to beg.

“Not so mighty now, are we?” Daeron went on as he let his long, slightly rough fingertips drag along the beautifully chafed skin of his guest. “As ever, you Ñoldor bite off more than you can swallow. Was this not your idea?”

Breathing in slowly through his flaring nostrils, Maglor puckered his lips to keep from bursting into impassionate speech despite his firm resolutions not to engage in this absurd game.

“What did you expect?” Daeron whispered into his ear in a dangerously warm, sensual tone. “Did you imagine I’d take you out into the forest and bed you on a blanket of soft moss?”

Maglor narrowed his eyes suspiciously—he was appropriately wary of the insidious might of seduction and devastation Daeron’s singsong words held, but he couldn’t close his ears and mind to them even if he wanted to.

“Is your megalomania so out of control that you envisioned a scenario where I feed you sweet berries while I feast on your body, licking my way from your shapely ankles to your cock? Did you foresee that I’d let you take me against an old tree, our breathless voices startling the night birds out of their lofty perch?”

“Vulgar,” Maglor hissed, feeling the organic, verdant ropes holding his legs open cut into his swelling flesh as the corrupting magic of the fantasy his captor had conjured up seeped inexorably into his bloodstream.

“Ah, you’re still with me then. Good,” Daeron crooned, combing his fingers through Maglor’s unbound hair so skilfully that he drew a needy whine from the one who’d hitherto given him nought but sullen silence.

“My prince,” he added in a mocking tone that made Maglor gnash his teeth with fury—it was humiliating to be kept thus, immobilised and helpless, while that wicked wood siren purled like a poisoned stream, filling his mind with lurid, lewd visions of mindless abandon.

At that moment, he hated Daeron almost as much as he wanted him.

“You truly thought you’d have me on my knees, begging for your cock?” Daeron laughed as he saw the fiery glint in Maglor’s luminous eyes. “You’re on my home turf now, beautiful, and I will do to you whatever I see fit. How does that taste?”

Maglor was about to bare his teeth when Daeron’s lips pressed against his ferocious snarl in a kiss devoid of seduction or artifice.

“Like hunger and hatred,” Maglor replied in a hiss, craning his neck to pursue that ill-mannered mouth as it pulled away.

“Quite so,” Daeron cackled and sang the bonds tighter yet. “You’re mine—better get used to it! It shall be a long night!”

@tolkienpinupcalendar <3

Thank you so much for reading!

☞ Masterlist

[unendingwanderlust]

KINKTOBER DAY 5: PIERCINGS || KINKTOBER MASTERLIST

TITLE: All The Way From The Start RATING: E WARNINGS: None RELATIONSHIPS: Thranduil/Maglor WORD COUNT: 2,234

SUMMARY: One day, Thranduil will tell Maglor to lay off the sweet talk because he clearly doesn't mean it… and it even sounds romantic sometimes.

Not today. Thranduil can pretend it’s genuine for a little longer…

Written for day 6 of @silmsmutweek.

READ ON AO3

[doodle-pops]

Modern AU: DILF! Maglor

SFW and NSFW Headcanons

A/N: Once again, I have returned with my modern AU headcanons after so long. I’ve promised you all DILF headcanons for Maglor after it won the poll from last year. Sorry for the long wait. Do enjoy!

Warnings: female reader, pregnancy, breeding, lactation kink

➽ Modern AU Series

SFW

⊰ DILF! Maglor who…has adopted two children, Elrond and Elros and lives in a small-town neighbourhood. Despite his age, he has the most youthful-looking appearance that has all the mothers fawning over him every time he drops his sons off at school. He has a few grey streaks in his hair, but people tend to brush it off as his natural hair colour and not a sign of his ageing.

⊰ DILF! Maglor who…catches your eye one day at the supermarket while he’s out buying groceries for his kids. It was Elros who ran off in the middle of shopping and allowed Maglor to bump into you. He was kind enough to pay for your few items.

⊰ DILF! Maglor who…finds you cute and when he discovers that you live within the neighbourhood, uses his sons as a means to get you to talk to him since he was nervous in the beginning. When he gains the confidence, he’ll make regular trips to your home and spend the evening cooking and teaching you tips.

⊰ DILF! Maglor who… invites you over for Sunday lunches so you and the twins can bond in the kitchen as you assist them with cooking. He’ll stand in the doorway and observe how perfect you look interacting with his sons, and can’t help himself from thinking how lovely you were for him.

⊰ DILF! Maglor who…loves to bring you with him in the mornings whenever he’s dropping off the twins just to make all the other parents jealous. He’ll pull you in for a side hug and swoop in for a peck to make everyone get the hint that he’s taken and you all are a family.

⊰ DILF! Maglor who…spends his time off taking all four of you on family-oriented holidays and shows everyone who’s ogling him that he’s taken by the most beautiful partner in the world. He loves to give you tons of kisses and then laugh whenever Elrond and Elros scream ‘ew’ or ‘yuck’.

DILF! Maglor who…smiles brilliantly the first time he hears Elrond and Elros address you as mother/mummy. It was a dream come through and all that he needed to commence the final act…put a ring on your finger and make you his wifey.

NSFW

⊰ DILF! Maglor who…pulls you into the backseat of the car after he dropped his sons off at school for a quick fuck because you two were interrupted this morning by the twins. Everything is sweaty and hot as he folds you into some challenging position to suit the cramped spacing. It becomes a ritual whenever you both have to drop them off at school or pick them up.

⊰ DILF! Maglor who…finds the most obscure places to have quickies because the twins are so attached to you, they never wish to give you a break and leave you alone for a second. Sometimes early in the morning as you’re making breakfast, in the shower or in the cabinet when the twins are out of sight…for five minutes.

⊰ DILF! Maglor who…takes you to neighbourhood parties the other mothers are hosting to rub it in their faces that there’s no way they can fit themselves in between you two by sneaking away for a quick session in the washroom and hoping that the others hear.

⊰ DILF! Maglor who…reads up on lots of medical books for pregnancies because he’s been wanting another child to care for and who else could be more perfect than you to bare his next baby. He ensures that you’re eating right and he’s fucking you enough times a week to increase the chances of impregnation.

⊰ DILF! Maglor who…loves to rub your stomach every session and whisper about how you’ll look lovely with a round belly and carrying his child. He praises you all the time to reassure you of any doubt you’re having as he folds you into a deeper mating press before releasing himself into you. Makes you keep his cum in you longer than usual for certainty.

⊰ DILF! Maglor who… is thrilled to learn that you’re pregnant and shares the news with his sons before having a little family celebration. He’ll take you all out for ice cream and let the twins eat as much as they want because he knows it’ll put them to sleep so you and he can celebrate in private back home.

⊰ DILF! Maglor who…keeps you active throughout your pregnancy because he’s gravitated towards your belly and how you’re glowing. It’s worse when he observes how the twins constantly surround you, rubbing your growing belly, and talking to their sibling.

⊰ DILF! Maglor who…has grown an affinity for your breasts now that they’re all swollen with milk and will massage and squeeze them for you anytime they’re hurting. However, once the baby is born, he finds a way to become useful anytime your breasts leak. Lactation kink unlocked. He adores how plump your breasts have become.

⊰ DILF! Maglor who…is blessed for the new addition to his little family and is grateful for having you in his children and his life.

Masterlist

Taglist: @lilmelily @ranhanabi777 @mysticmoomin @rain-on-my-umbrella @asianbutnotjapanese @batsyforyou @ladyenchanted @involuntaryspasms @aconstructofamind @addaigio

If you would like to be tagged, click the taglist link to join.

[lovefairymina]

Maglor, what would you say if I just... surprise you, arriving in your study and sit on your thighs?

Deciding to tease you more and indulge in your fantasy, he manspread in his seat and rubbed his thigh tantalizingly. The smirk smeared across his face accompanied by his lip biting was a the draw you in. “Hmm, if you did so, I'll have no choice but to surprise you with something more. I believe you would enjoy being bent over my desk?”

[polutrope]

Made For Her

f!Maedhros/f!Maglor pwp for @maedhrosmaglorweek, Day 1: Treelight 1.5k, Rated E

Maitimë’s body is the model of womanly beauty: she is all long curving lines, each joint blending seamlessly into the next; and where the lines break continuity — as at her fine collarbones, her proud cheekbones, the sharp line of her nose — these are as artfully placed cuts upon a gemstone.

Elsewhere her body swells — her breasts, her calves, her ass — and it is upon these features most eyes, following the cascade of her shining copper hair, linger.

Few venture to meet Maitimë’s bright grey eyes. She is told (and knows) she has the eyes of her father, twin white flames, and laughs when rumour comes to her that even the princes of Valmar who dwell at Varda’s feet are too afeard to look upon them long.

Maitimë does not mind. It tickles her, such admiration and awe, for no prince or lord will ever have her. “To none will the lofty heir of Curufinwë grant her love,” they murmur, and she plays the part they have given her.

There is only one, too close to be suspected, to whom she grants the enjoyment of her body. 

Read the rest on AO3.

[searchingforserendipity25]

Experimental Exchanges of Oral Traditions Among the Eldar | On Ao3.

Maglor/Daeron. Explicit fic. For Silm Smut Week @silmsmutweek, prompts from Day 3 and 4 (self & craft/lore, magical and supernatural elements, dom/sub, toys & props, shades of teacher/student).

Their first conversation- discussion, truly - happened very swiftly after meeting, when Daeron asked with his best sly courtesies if there were any texts written on the feats of the Noldor in Beleriand already, and Maglor had barely looked up from filling his brother's wine goblet with an absent-minded, "O, I am sure we will get to it in time; but I am not sure there is much use holding with written memory anymore."

Daeron had set down his own goblet a little more harshly than was polite. Matters had devolved considerably afterwards.

After their Flight - their Siege, their Exile - the Noldor had taken to reconsidering their relationship with material crafts and immaterial memory-keeping. This, Daeron gathered afterwards, varied greatly between those that had crossed the Helcaraxë and those that had taken to the sea on stolen ships. 

Whether it was a deep commitment to vanguardist theory, the wary wisdom of a cavalry chieftain, or pure idleness, Maglor rarely cared to jot down anything of his works to paper. In his father’s Tengwar or Daeron’s Cirth, or the notation systems of his invention he found much to admire unstintingly; but he did not keep diligently to the rituals and methods of writing down his work, either.

He was all for living memory instead, a passionate teacher far more than a careful scribe. Teeth and tongue, memory and enchantment, these Maglor valued far above ink and parchment in his own art. 

The smiling, arrogant warrior that had argued with Daeron on the merits of communal chants over carved walls had been ruined altogether. All the same, he was proven correct in one thing only. Maglor's bone-deep and infuriating certainty that he would live on to remember and keep remembered all the songs and lore of his people proved true at the last, and past the end of all tales he could claim a right to tell.

It was because of his dues owed to minstrelsy that he had not dashed himself against the shore, all the long years of Beleriand’s catastrophic sinking. He had clambered over many a sinking cliff instead - sang the salt-spray away from his path, raised himself up through the torment of the Starkindler's judgment whenever he started to sink into drowning.

 Deliberate, he went up and onward, survived the end of his own lament, and in so doing made certain it would be kept alive always.

 Daeron, however, had spent that time rather busier preserving the ancient waters and forests of the Eldar with enchantments of hiding and protection, and setting down the history and poetry and lore of the Sindar instead. Songs ought to be recorded, deeds fell and great, the voice of the sea put to carved bark before it faded. It was enough that the record existed, he felt; though at times he liked to bring them out and read them to the birds that came to sit as an attentive audience to the recitation, and sang the melodies entangled in the verses backs at him in their own chirping trills.

Daeron was not much impressed with tales kept ever-changing by painful fits of divine madness and punishment , nor the regret that kept Maglor from setting down the last edited version of his laments. Any aimless wandering could be a pilgrimage, if the walking-song was worth singing; but this windswept, sea-bound dedication to mourning rituals was wildly irregular, too.

Daeron, too, was fearful, of the finality of the finished epilogue, the lingering silence and written word. There was great terror to be faced once the ink with all its dear lost names was dried, and not a letter more could be changed nor altered.

That had been no reason not to invent the letters, and was now no reason not to write in it. To sing at all was a fearful vocation; that was why it had to be sang, that was what they were for.

 And that was all the more cause for Maglor to follow his exalted example. Him alone was rightly named Daeron's match in the craft; and the evil of his deeds did not unmake his obligation or absolve him from his duties. To write did not make ancient lore less or more foolish, nor the past kinder; but he wrote so it might be hoarded. If that was greed, then Daeron was covetous indeed, but wise about it.

That was Daeron's covetous demand, when their paths crossed, and their conversation turned once more to familiar lines turned bitter with the alteration of the years.

He could speak with him of the futility of alphabets and records in isolation, the grief that absented itself from any audience and yet demanded to be retold. He could concede to sharing wine and gathered berries with Maglor, to walking in shared purpose for a time. If not, he would not have call him from the through the wrecked shores to the deep forests, and bedded him in the grass.

But he would not, Daeron told him very clearly, keep company to those terms of service to song as Maglor employed. He could not have him truly, and would not, until there was a thing finished and complete in itself to be had.

He had no patience left for anything less than a dedication to perfect records. Differences in stylistic approach and cultural memory be damned - he, too, was a high master of the craft, as high and higher, and remained so as much due to his song being sung and by the fact of his wisdom replicated and captured on wax and parchment, etched his own Cirth upon hollow trees and painting on the walls of dry caves. The alphabet he had designed was a matter of pride, still, and never more necessary, kept alive into perpetuity.

It was all very well for Maglor to argue, high-minded and eerie-eyed, that every living thing was a vessel to the memory of its wounds and loves, and the singer  in exile the living vault of the dead - but he could not be permitted to think to live like this was to do true service to either the dead or the craft.

There were standards, even in exile. Lore and art were their own craft, with their own principles - what were minstrels for, if not to outlast the past and keep it alive in proper and decent fashion? Changing the length of mourning cantos and solemn ballads with every day's new and renewed grief was not tolerable minstrelsy.

That there was nothing decent at all in Maglor was not Daeron's concern, as long as he could still sing.

To sing alone was not enough. Maglor had forgotten it, set aside that vocation in preference of foul, foul works, but that did not mean that it had forgotten him in turn.

To be the best of singers one had to give one's over to be heard, written, read back to him, the principles applied to him still. The thankless sea did not count; and a song had to be heard, even if only by the birds, for it to be made true and final all the way through. Daeron meant to uphold these principles and see them upheld, even if discipline must be called for.

It was not justice, but justice was not his craft. Punishment, absolution, the fate of the many - these things he had only trusted to his ling and the stars. The stars had pronounced their sentence, and Maglor kept himself alive to suffer it; Daeron did not think to contest the matter.

Maglor thought him strange and wonderful for this hierarchy of concerns; but Daeron had never been prince nor warrior chieftain. He, at least, was under no false impression that his worth to the Music rested anywhere else than in preserving it.

Maglor raised up his scorched hands in wry defense and self-accusation: Daeron was not moved. Heavenly punishment was not an excuse to be considered, and if anything only a greater encouragement to perfect his dedication to the art.

"If you cannot decide upon it, nor write it yourself, I can do both with my own hands, " he said dismissively. The offer alone blanched Maglor's cheeks of all colour with shame; but Daeron had not much patience for that, either. "Though you will have to decide upon the final form of your works, and dictate them."

"Dictation alone will not suffice, for such a task," Maglor said, the deep, soft-edged timber of his voice turning softer and rougher. Sea-voiced, he could not hide the tide swell of his desire when he looked upon Daeron's righteous visage, the deep-rooted steadiness of his devotion to lore-craft. "Your demand is just and sensible. I am certain I can find a means to apply myself to the challenge of it at last - under the guidance of Daeron, among all singers the most masterful."

Daeron did agree. It was a sound notion: the means, he felt strongly, were justified altogether by the righteousness of the ends. His lady Lúthien, of whom he sang still with terrible fondness and terrible grief, would be well-pleased. She had always encouraged him to advance beyond the set order of things, to be ever inventive with his minstrel's art.

This work would be burned, afterwards. They had found an uneasy middle ground in that - a final version of Maglor's laments, set down in Daeron's script by Daeron's brush. And then it would be burned: for it had been the way among the the cavalry warriors of the Gap to burn their dead.

But first, the ink had to be crafted, and then ground down. The fur of the brushes hunted, treated, oiled and carefully sewn. The paper was thick, made to last, spread out in a scroll. Daeron had for an archive many dry and enchanted places; this would be but another bound manuscript, kept through the Ages undamaged.

At times he rested, and with the hand that did not hold the brush laid a grounding touch upon Maglor's head. He ran it through his loose curls, touched his cheeks to feel him working to keep Daeron's cock warm and full and well-tended. 

Maglor looked at him desperately, flushed and stuffed. His fingers, clasped tame and terrible behind his back back, clenched convulsively at times; otherwise he was very careful to be still as Daeron worked, and eager to please him as he rested.

Silenced for once, he swallowed hungrily, drank deep of his taste, was eager to have his stifled sounds fucked quiet when Daeron found a moment to ease his eyes and indulge himself in grasping the hair at the back of his neck and forcing himself in deeper into the tight throat that held him.

"Enough," Daeron said gently, drawing away and stroking his taunt neck until the shuddering passed. He was not without pity; the lantern flickered wearily, and the joints of his fingers ached with a steady scrivener's pain. "Not long now to finish for tonight once this lay in complete." 

Daeron brought the tip of the brush to Maglor's mouth, stroked his mouth idly as he wetted the tip in him. Ink-stained, he panted against Daeron's knee, chased after the touch when the brush passed, tender and slick as a kiss, over his lips.

"Daeron," he rasped, entreating. "It is not well done. I have forgotten, I am certain I did it better once. The meter is all wrong: and the version is not that which is ought to be-"

"It is as I set it down to be," Daeron said, and made it a final thing. 

Maglor's protesting mouth swallowed in a gasp when Daeron pressed his fingers into its wet heat, smearing the ink on his tongue, easy and possessing where his cockhead had been.

He held himself uncaring of words spoken while at work, uninterested in red-rimmed glances and shaking whimpers; Maglor knew it well by now.

It inflamed him all the more, fed the rushing dizziness of his mind's work and his body's submission. A fine balance must be kept, to keep him grounded and attentive - the vast scope of his thoughts pliant to Daeron's grasping mind, all the disharmony and force of the voice of the sea studied at length, learned slowly, with science and care.

It inflamed Daeron no less, in truth. He grasped firmly at his hair, pressed back inside his yielding mind, rocked into his mouth, and Maglor sank into his thrust, took him with a moan, rocking on his knees to take him deeper before Daeron grounded him down with a stern hand.

Daeron waited a moment longer before looking into his eyes and heart. His blue-black mouth stretched obscenely around Daeron; but more obscene by far was the bright glint of his eyes, and the gratitude of his savage, aching spirit at being made bare and made tame.

 Kneeling before him and under Daeron's high desk, Maglor gave himself over to translation in surrender. Laid out clear and plain as the paper and the ink, the wide expanse of his mind was singularly open and singularly focused on the words, the tempo, the transcribing of his compositions through hands not his own. 

He waited until the slow, easy rhythm of thoughts and mouth had been found again. When Daeron picked up the brush again, Maglor applied himself likewise, tongue and memory and throat, all joined in purpose. They went at a good pace, all things considered; but Daeron made certain to be thorough with every letter, careful with the lines of his Cirth, for the due honor and dignity of the thing. 

[furious-haste-of-malice]

❝ "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." 

Thanks for reading! ♡

[unendingwanderlust]

KINKTOBER DAY 0: TENTACLES || KINKTOBER MASTERLIST

TITLE: Gone Spelunking RATING: E WARNINGS: Infidelity, mentions of past sexual coercion by another partner RELATIONSHIPS: Maglor/OFC (Eärmírië) WORD COUNT: 1,502

SUMMARY: Turns out, there’s more to the terrifying tentacle monster that haunts the caves near Mithlond than meets the eye…

Written for day 1 of @silmsmutweek.

READ ON AO3