Elf-Absorbed by annarobots  

| | |

Elf-Absorbed

1.

All the other orcs were dead or dying, and the warg, too.  Maglor held his sword to the throat of the last survivor. 

Himring was a day’s ride away—or, what would have been a day’s ride, before the orc-band accosted and unhorsed him.  Of course, a small orc-band was no match for Maglor, but they hadn’t realized what they had done.  Not until it was too late.

Maglor was pissed about the horse, though.  Now he’d have to walk. 

After he took care of this last orc.  Maglor raised his sword.

“Mercy, lord, have mercy! You wouldn’t kill a fool just because he’s found himself poor company, would you?”

Maglor paused mid-swing. Rare was it to come across an orc who spoke the tongue of the Grey-elves at all, let alone with such impeccable pronunciation.  Nearly as good as Maglor’s own.

“I would grant you the same mercy that the Dark Lord has granted my people,” said Maglor.

“I’m just a simple warg-rider, my lord!  These brutes—” the orc gestured at his fallen comrades— “they were the fell warriors. I can’t even wield a blade, would you believe?”

Maglor could believe. It had taken no time at all to disarm the fellow.

The orc sensed his hesitation.  “Oh, begging your pity, my lord!” said the orc.  His amber eyes were wet.  “I have a wife, I have two little orclings at home, sir.  Twins!  You wouldn’t part two children from their parent, would you?”

Maglor rolled his eyes. What did he care for the fates of two supposed little orc-twins? 

“Your kind has sundered many such families,” said Maglor, and raised his blade once more.

“Information!  I have information!” cried the orc. 

“What could one such as you possibly know?”

“Warg-tricks, warg-signals! That’s my job, you see!  I train the wargs.  I can teach you!  In a battle, could be mighty useful—tell them to charge when they should circle, to heel when they should charge, or send them away from the battlefield altogether!”

Damn.  That did sound like useful information. 

Maglor lowered his sword. 

“Fine,” he said, “I’ll take you to my lord and brother.  He’ll know what to do.”

Upon the morrow, disaster struck.

The orc, to his credit, tried to warn him.  “I don’t like the looks of those,” he cautioned.

Maglor, sick of the orc’s dawdling, ignored him.  He walked them straight through the patch of odd, plumed flowers, boots crushing the flowers’ feathery seedheads into the dirt path.

A cloud of pollen floated all round. 

Maglor sneezed.

“I don’t like this at all,” repeated the orc, wiping pollen from his brow. 

“Hush,” said Maglor, and fell over.

In his wisdom, he had bound the orc’s tethers to his own belt, so he fell, too, right on top of Maglor. 

“Oh, no,” said the orc, after Maglor threw him off. 

Maglor felt—strange.  Tingly.  “What is this,” he said, the words tasting odd in his mouth. 

“Oh, no,” repeated the orc. He moaned as though pained, rocking his body.  Each movement tugged on Maglor’s belt.  It felt interesting.  It felt—

What was this? His skin was so sensitive.  Every nerve felt aflame, the very breeze sending sparks of lightning all up and down his body.  He felt his cock fill and could not resist palming himself.

The orc, it seemed, was in a similar state, though with bound hands, could no more touch himself than escape altogether.  Instead, he had managed to roll over and hump the ground. 

Maglor looked away. He had more urgent concerns.  He withdrew himself, wrapping his hand around his cock. He felt relief, but—he was so hot. Why was he so very hot? 

Within seconds, Maglor spilled.  But he remained hard, and felt no ease; rather, his arousal only sharpened. 

Next to him, the orc gasped, jerked.

“Something—strange,” said Maglor, cock in hand.  “You gave warning, you must know.”

The orc shook his head miserably.  “I have not seen it,” he admitted, “only heard tale.  They say it only grows worse until sated.”

“What sates it?” groaned Maglor, spilling once more. 

“I am not certain,” said the orc, who rolled to his side, facing Maglor.  His hard cock was visible in outline, dampness spreading across the front of his leggings. 

“Oh, gross,” said Maglor.

“Me?  Look at you!” 

Maglor did look at himself. He looked spectacular, he thought. Shirt open to his navel, his heaving breast exposed.  His own cock, elegant, proud, at full mast, shining with seed.  He wished he could just have sex with himself.  That would solve things, surely.

“They say,” panted the orc, who had gotten his hands round front to rub himself off, “that one alone cannot satisfy the demon within the plant.  Only a partner.”

“I do not believe you,” gasped Maglor.  An image of the orc’s naked flesh beneath his own flashed across his mind’s eye, and he felt himself spill yet again.  His heart beat so fast, he feared it might burst.  “But all right, I’ll try anything once.”

“Do you feel better?” asked the orc, looking at his hand, now unbound, covered in Maglor’s seed. 

Maglor closed his eyes. The fever yet burned.  “No,” said he.  He wiped his own hand on the grass.  Strange, he thought, that orc’s seed would look no different from an Elf’s. “Not black, like orc-blood,” he mused aloud.

“Well, are your seed and blood the same color?” asked the orc.

Fair point.

The orc’s member, too, was unremarkable.  Smaller than Maglor’s, but then, so were most; the grey skin of his orc-hood was flushed dark purple, but look!  Neither spikes nor scales.  If not for the color, Maglor might not have marked it any different from the hundreds of cocks he had encountered. 

“Perhaps a different act, my lord?” suggested the orc.  “If manual release could not—there are—other—hnnngh—”

“Other what?” asked Maglor. His mind was hazy with fever.

“Oh, well, there’s always frottage, intercrural, soaking, blowjobs—”

Maglor’s head swam. His father had taken extensive notes on the grammar of the northern Grey-elves, but Fëanáro’s interest in sexual vocabulary was, regrettably, limited.  Maglor had studied as much as he could with the locals, but there were clearly gaps in his education.

“Blowjobs?” he managed to ask.

The orc explained.

 “Honestly,” Maglor said, “I’d rather you just fuck me in the ass.”

They flipped a coin, which was how Maglor ended up on his back, ankles at his ears, the orc atop him. 

“Ow,” said Maglor, “be careful.”  He tried to ignore the sound of the orc clearing his throat wetly and spitting on his asshole. 

The second the orc slid his cockhead into him, Maglor felt better.  His heart slowed, he caught his breath, and the evil fever began to break. He was still aroused, nearly painfully so, but death no longer felt imminent. 

He closed his eyes in hopes of ignoring the creature.  But in truth, he was not so vile, as orcs went.  He smelt of warg, animal, oily, but not so different than anyone else after several days’ ride.  He grunted softly with effort, sounding much like an Elf in passion. 

 When Maglor came, the heat broke, and with it, the plant’s evil seemed to flee. 

“My turn,” groaned the orc. He withdrew himself and was desperately pawing at his purple cock.

Maglor assessed the situation.  The urgency of his arousal was fading fast.  Yet the orc was, from the looks of him, not yet relieved, and certainly in no state to continue the journey to Himring.  He regretted, now, letting the orc live.  He had already proven more trouble than he was worth. 

But then, another thought. His predicament might have been worse: had he galloped right through the flower patch on horseback, why, he might have ended up permanently injured, receiving the amorous attentions of a Valinor-sired stallion.

So perhaps the orc was the preferable companion, after all.

And, well, a deal was a deal.  Maglor kept his oaths.

“Stop crying, lie down, and let me fuck you,” said Maglor.

It was an effort to stay erect, but Maglor managed.  As he slid inside, he pressed a palm flat on the orc’s back.  “Don’t talk,” Maglor ordered.

The orc complied as best he could, but with every thrust, he whimpered.  As the haze cleared further from Maglor’s mind, his disgust began to overshadow even his great will.  He shut his eyes tight and began to sing out loud, to drown out the guttural orc-cries. And he flipped through his mental catalog of all-time most powerful erotic memories: the married Vanya who let him in her back garden when her husband was away; the first time he’d struck a man on the face and he’d fallen straight to his knees; the sooty, big hands of his father’s favorite apprentice; the peephole outside the adults-only baths at Alqualondë; the many and unexpected uses of spare harp-strings; being bent roughly at just the right angle over the marble kitchen counter at his grandfather’s house; fumbling in the dark with who-even-knew after the creature ate the Trees; the clenching of thighs in the cabin of a rolling swan-ship; a hot fast fuck after the Dagor-nuin-Giliath, slicked by blood and not his own; a certain malnourished and frostbitten cousin’s hair sticking out every which way with the rising Moon behind him; that damned flautist from Menegroth, whose name he couldn’t recall at the moment, but his cock, now, that was a cock to immortalize in Song.

Suddenly, in his mind’s eye, without warning, Maglor saw broad, well-sculpted, scarred shoulders, newly regrown copper locks rippling in the light of a fire, and one strong hand wrapped around his aching cock. 

The picture—drawn not from memory, but pure imagination—shot through him, a bright flash of pure lust, striking him with desperate, trembling arousal like the lash of a whip. He arched his back, his mind’s image replacing the body before him, a shocking, forbidden revelation, then groaned, thrust one last time, and spilled inside the orc with his brother’s fair name on his lips.

A nearby stream allowed them to wash.  The orc began to heave.  “Not in the water!” Maglor yelled, shoving the orc downstream. 

“Have you no draught?” asked the orc, wiping his mouth.  “I can’t bear it.”

“Not for you,” snapped Maglor.  Why was the orc behaving like the disgusted party?

Maglor’s body had recovered, but a pounding headache had seized him.  He splashed his brow with cool water.

“Oh, what have I done,” moaned the orc.  “My darling, how could I?  I betrayed you, how can I ever face you again?”

“Who the hell are you talking to?”

“My wife!  I told you, I have a wife and twin boys!  I shamed myself, I shamed my vows, I’m foul, I’m repulsive—”

“You mean the wife and orclings are real?”   

“Of course they’re fucking real, you Elf asshole!  I’ve known my beloved since we were mere babes.  The day I proposed was the happiest day of my life.  Before the evil Sun ruined everything.  Now—”  The orc’s speech became unintelligible, interrupted by wracking sobs.

Maglor had borne a great many humiliations in his life, and he expected he would bear a great many more before the end.  And so, he could, and would, bear the indignity of this ordeal.  He could, and would, bear the disgust at touching the orc’s most intimate places.  He could even bear the languid feeling that no measure of washing could remove, that he had indeed been well-fucked and wrung out, that by any right, he should be sprawled in torpor in a Tree-lit room with billowing curtains, on a great bed piled with pillows, his lover hand-feeding him grapes from the Vanyarin vineyards, but instead, he was here, in a land that surely wished him dead, as every ravine and rushing river and even the very flowers had proven, a Kinslayer once and forever Doomed, and his companion, a creature of darkness, which, he supposed, was, after all, fitting enough for one such as himself.

What Maglor could not bear was the sound of the orc’s weeping.  Every sob felt like a stab in the temple. 

“You’ll be quiet, or you’ll regret it,” Maglor said.

The orc ignored him.  “Oh, the shame, oh, what would my poor father say? Curse the day I was made!  Curse me, curse my hands, there’s no crawling back, no mercy for monsters, the dark take us all.  Can’t wash it off, oh, what have I done?  What have I done?”

Maglor sighed.  It would have been nice to learn about warg-training.  But, well. A man could only take so much.

The orc’s head, when it landed by the banks of the stream, made no sound at all.

2. 

Five hundred and fifty-something years later

“You’re heavier than you look,” said Maglor.

His brother was still inside him.  He hadn’t moved, not since he had driven his hips one last, desperate time, bit his lip bloody, and stilled.  His grey eyes did not meet Maglor’s.

Maedhros had not truly seen Maglor at all, not when the evening began with Maglor striking Maedhros in rage at some invented slight, just for the excuse to touch him, his sorrow and despair and loneliness and love all tied up in a desperate knot he could never expect to untangle.  Nor had he truly seen Maglor, when that terrible love took an abrupt, yet inevitable, turn, Maedhros shoving him into the dirt and pulling his leggings down his thighs.

Maglor could have stopped him.  Had he really wished to, he would have.  He could have fought dirty or sung a note of power or touched Maedhros’s mind.  But of course, he didn’t wish to.  That was the whole point.  He had put up enough of a fight to keep Maedhros’s blood boiling, but when Maedhros pressed his great fingers to Maglor’s hole, he had moaned and given up his true desire.  And for a few moments, Maedhros’s great weight atop him, his cock splitting him open, Maglor was able to forget all else and simply take comfort in sensation.

Now, though. 

“Seriously, I can’t breathe. Can you shove off?”

Maedhros shook himself, his senses returning.  When he realized where he was—what he was doing—he scrambled back, refastening his trousers in haste. 

Maglor felt empty.

“Oh, no,” moaned Maedhros. 

Maglor wiped his belly with a fallen leaf.  They had so little water, there was no sparing any to wash.  He was already filthy.

“I’m sorry,” said Maedhros. “What have I done?”

“I’m quite all right,” said Maglor.  “No need to weep.”

“My darling, my love,” continued Maedhros. 

Oh.  He wasn’t talking to Maglor at all.

“I betrayed you,” said Maedhros, “shamed myself, shamed my vows, my husband, oh, curse the day you recovered me from that mountain, curse the day I was born.”

“That’s quite enough,” said Maglor, whose head had begun to pound.

Maedhros did not stop. “What would Father say?  How evil we have fallen, to have come to this.”

“This is far from the worst deed we’ve ever done,” said Maglor.

“My own brother!  My flesh and blood!  And—”

“You’re hardly the worst person I’ve ever fucked,” said Maglor.

Still, Maedhros did not hear.  He sobbed and sobbed, his cries echoing for any to hear and find them.

“Shh,” said Maglor. “You’ll awaken something evil.”

“No mercy for monsters, nor Kinslayers, the dark shall take us all to our Doom.  Would that it had taken me before this.  Aieeeeeeeee!”

Maglor sighed.

Well.  There was only so much wailing a man could take, after all.

Maglor’s sword, forged in the fires of Formenos, by the greatest Elf-smith the world had ever seen, had carried him through many battles, and was yet sharp.

Maedhros’s head, when it landed on the forest floor, made no sound at all.

Table of Contents | Leave a Comment