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a-world-of-whimsy-5 · 10 months

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Lord and Master

Pairing: Manwë x Fem. Reader (Elf |Third Person POV)

Themes: Medieval! Ainur | Angst | Dark

Wordcount : 3.4K words

Summary: Manwë finally agrees to marry, but is angry because his ability to control his life is being stripped from him. Finally, on his wedding night, the chance to take back some of that control presents itself to him.

Rating: 🔥🔥 | Minors DNI | 18+

Rules and tag form here.

A/n: This is my first foray into dark/dub-con, so I apologize if there are any mess-ups in the story.

The wedding passed like an ugly dream. Manwë did all that was required of him, biting the inside of his cheek the entire time.

When word of his trysts with Námo made its way into the light, ladies refused him one by one. Varda was the first to rescind her offer of marriage. She had declared she did not think highly of a prince who threw the one he loved to the dirt and walked away like it all meant nothing to him. And where she went, the rest followed: Vána and Yavanna agreed with their lady’s choice, as did Arien and Ilmarë. Even the dutiful ones like Uinen, Lëa, and Melian refused the prince’s proposal with a courteous chorus of "Thank you kindly, your grace," followed by "But no." Nienna would never accept a proposal, and Meássë simply laughed in the messenger’s face when he showed her the king's letter. The king had purpled and raged for days when he heard.

Manwë turned to his bride, a wave of deep-seated anger and resentment surging through his veins. Lady y/n was not his choice for a wife. After Meássë refused, Eru finally had to stoop so low as to ask a minor lordling for his daughter’s hand in marriage. That stung as well.

He glanced at his wife again. She was well-bred and well-mannered, so the others said. Y/n loved singing, sewing, and reading, but she was not what the crown prince wanted in a companion. She was too quiet and docile. She certainly was not Námo, yet he must wed her and secure the line of succession. That was his father’s order and the council's.

"Wed her, bed her, and put a child in her," the king commanded once the offer of marriage had been accepted. "You are capable of this, yes?”

Manwë had clenched his fists so hard they turned white at the knuckles. "You command I wed someone I do not desire," he spat, "Yet you heartily agree to your Lord Commander's wedding and bedding a lowly serving girl. How do you justify it, your grace?"

His father’s icy glare pinned him to the chair he sat in. It made Manwë feel so small. "Our Lord Commander is not my son. He will never wear the crown. And Eönwë commands the near-fanatical loyalty of our army. He even saved your life once. Do you not remember? How he fought your brother and bled in your name?"

Manwë flinched when reminded. "Father...”

"Keeping a warrior like our Lord Commander happy is in this realm's best interests." Eru interrupted him and picked up his quill and a piece of parchment. The sight made Manwë feel like he was in a ship already listing dangerously to one side. "And yours. That is how I justify it. But if you wish to refuse this marriage," Eru said while dipping the quill in new ink. "You need only say the word, and I will marry the lady instead.”

And if I refuse, Valinor will learn my lord father has yet another son who flees his duty, the prince thought bitterly. Oh yes, I can hear it now. Poor king Eru, plagued with selfish, disobedient sons who care for nothing but themselves.

Manwë did not want others to see him as no better than Melkor, but he wished for the days when his brother was heir and life was a carefree dream, where he was master of his destiny and lived how he pleased. Now, with every word and every stroke of his father's quill, he felt his sense of control being stripped from him, sliver by painful sliver. Each day he felt a little smaller and a little weaker. He started to feel more like a boy desperate for approval and nothing like the man he wanted to be.

Forever bowing my head to the will of someone else. Father, the council, the crown. Is that what I am? Someone who readily acquiesces? Someone helpless and weak?

Someone coughed. It was the priest. The time had come to exchange vows. The bride and groom turned to face each other, one with eyes full of hope and the other wishing to see nothing before them.

"One heart," they repeated in unison, "One soul, One flesh. Bound in word, body, and spirit, from this day until the end of all days."

Y/n looked at her new husband through her veil, thinking how comely he looked in his rich black velvet doublet, and his silver hair falling down to his shoulders in beautiful waves. She hoped to find blushing cheeks, bright eyes, and a shy smile. All she found was darkness in his deep blue eyes and anger in his clenched jaws. It was a warning, a sign of dark things that may come to pass. There was great danger here, but she shrugged the growing sense of foreboding away and still gave him her hand, shivering when he slipped a thin gold band onto her finger. There was nothing else she could do. The contract had been signed, and the vows had been said. For good or ill, she was his now, and her duty as a wife was to obey her husband. That was what she was taught.

"With this ring," Manwë declared to all present, his words clearly forced. "I pledge my love!"

His bride did the same. Y/n’s words were sweeter, and filled with tender hope. Her lord father came forward and lifted her veil. Manwë ground his teeth and did his duty, leaning in and kissing her chastely before swiftly pulling away. He accepted the necklace his father presented him in a beautifully carved box and draped it around his bride's throat. Y/n was overcome with the shivers. Her new jewels felt like a noose. She took deep breaths to compose herself and clung to the hope that the prince was as kind and courteous as the songs said he was and that love would bloom between them over time.

"What the Gods have brought together," came the priest's cry, "let no one tear asunder!"

The crowd clapped and cheered in approval when the crown prince and princess turned to face them. Manwë dutifully offered his arm, but y/n felt his stiffness as they walked down the aisle together. The chapel was aglow with the light of a thousand candles. A riot of color bled from the stained glass windows onto the floor. Those standing in the upper walkways threw rose petals onto the couple while they walked beneath them. Swirls of red and white rained down on y/n and Manwë even as the doors to the outside world opened. Crowds gathered outside Taniquetil’s great chapel cheered even louder than those inside. Y/n raised her arm and waved to them, thinking her heart would burst with joy. She turned to face her husband, her joy soon wilting like a flower under the scorching heat of the sun. When Manwë turned to her, his eyes filled with something akin to hate.

“Come, wife," he said stiffly. "It is time we took ourselves to the feast."

An hour later, they were walking into the great hall for the feast. Y/n tried to talk with her husband during the carriage ride to Ilmarin to engage his attention. Manwë would look at her with little interest before turning away. His cool indifference stung, but y/n chose to be patient. She thought he was grieving the loss of his first love. This will pass soon enough, she thought. Someday she would be rewarded. She was certain of it.

The feast was a splendid affair. Eru had spared no expense. Minstrels strolled between tables, singing and fluting and strumming lyres. Fire dancers walked on stilts, juggling flaming batons in their hands. Guests dined on thick mushroom soup and salads of beans, onions, spinach, and beets. There was roasted boar and roasted quail and squab, and pears soaked in red wine. There were flagons of mead and flagons of ale, glass pitchers of iced summer wine, and the finest hippocras money could buy. Many broke into loud applause when servants walked into the hall carrying a great swan pie between them. The dish was reserved only for royalty. On this day, it would be served to everyone. Seated at the high table on an ornate chair under a richly embroidered canopy, y/n had little appetite for her food, fine as it all was. Her stomach would tie itself into unpleasant knots whenever she glanced at her husband.

Manwë's mood had darkened even more. Irmo of House Blackgrave was seated with the other high lords and ladies, but Námo was nowhere to be seen. He had been ill since Manwë sent him away. A common illness, so the messenger said, one that would go away under the tender care of his sister. The prince knew differently. Námo was sick because of him.

It should be me tending to him, and not Nienna.

He could not tend to Námo now. The chance to do so disappeared when Manwë put his name on parchment and agreed to take y/n for a wife. With each stroke and flourish of the quill, he felt his sense of control slip away even more, making him feel helpless and angry.

Weak. Helpless. Forever bowing to the will of others. This cannot continue.

He heard gentle laughter. It was the Lord Commander's wife. She was wide-eyed while she watched a troupe of tumblers perform incredibly daring feats. Her doting husband kept her in his lap, not caring a whit for what other people thought. Eönwë was content to feed her morsels from his own plate before stealing unexpected kisses, his arm tightening around her waist in a protective gesture when she leaned in and cupped his face. He would listen indulgently whenever she said something, beaming like a man who knew his love was well returned. The sight filled Manwë with despair. He wished to hold Námo the same way, feed him the same way, and drown in his laughter. He turned to face his wife. She was playing with her food. Anger seared through his veins again.

"Does the meal not please you?" he asked in rough, clipped tones.

Y/n was startled. It was the first time the prince had asked anything of her since their first meeting half a year ago.

"It is excellent, your highness," she replied meekly. "But I fear my appetite cannot do it justice."

Your highness. The way she said it, all soft and submissive. Manwë gave her a measured look.

Small. Meek. And bound by oath to obey me. The thoughts came swiftly and unbidden. Manwë ignored such thoughts and looked away just as a herald called the guests to dance. His wife placed her hand over his.

"Shall we dance, your highness?" she asked hopefully.

Manwë’s mouth twisting into an ugly sneer was all the answer y/n needed. He did not want to dance, eat, or join in the merrymaking. He wanted this night over and done with.

There is only one thing left to do, he decided, and rose. The music slowly died when he stood to his full height. Everyone's attention turned to him.

"I confess, my lords and ladies, as much as I would love to dance," he declared with a forced smile, "I have more... pressing matters to tend to with my lady wife. Come, my lady. It is time we did our duty."

The others laughed. Y/n forced herself to smile. When her husband offered his arm, she rose and took it, turning a deaf ear to the ribald jests shouted their way. She let Manwë lead her through lofty halls and cool corridors, all while her stomach was a roil.

She had been prepared for her bedding, but the way Manwë looked at her, his eyes ablaze with cold fury, frightened her. She looked straight ahead, clinging to the hope that her fears were unfounded and the prince would surprise her with tender words and gentle embraces.

That was not to be. When the couple entered an airy bedchamber and the doors closed behind them, Manwë pulled away from her. He walked over to a side table and helped himself to a cup of wine.

Manwë studied her critically. Quiet. Dutiful. Perhaps this can work.

"You must now obey me in all things, yes?"

“I am your wife, your highness. I must obey."

Small. Meek. Bound by oath to obey me. This time, he did not push the thought away. Y/n was bound by oath to obey him. Whatever he asked of her, she had to do it without protest. The knowledge of it was too much for him to resist.

It is time I regained some control over my life. I will not bow my head to yet another.

"Undress yourself," Manwë commanded. He walked to the bed, his new boots clicking over the stone floor.

Y/n blushed furiously. She dreamed of her husband undressing her, giggling while he fumbled with the clasps and lacings in her dress. She did not expect him to order her to undress herself in front of him.

"Undress yourself," Manwë urged, his words like honey. "Come now. You are a true and obedient wife, yes?"

Y/n wrung her hands. "I... I wish to be, your highness."

Manwë lifted his cup and drank deeply, draining it to the last drop. "Then prove to me you are a true and obedient wife. Undress."

Y/n flushed. She was his wife. She pledged herself to him. Swore to obey him in all things. And obey him she did. She first undid her braids, removing the pins and clips, her fingers fumbling at her hair like they were all broken thumbs. Manwë was content to watch. Seeing her hair fall free in loose strands did something to him. Watching her comply with his command did something to him. Whatever it was, he soon grew drunk on it.

"You are still dressed, my lady," he observed. "Your gown… it is beautiful to be sure, but it is too much. Unburden yourself. But leave the necklace; I like it."

Y/n flushed again. This time in humiliation. "Your highness, I... should I be doing this?"

"Yes, sweet wife," Manwë replied, enjoying himself thoroughly. "It is only proper that you do so."

His wife managed somehow, her cheeks aflame the entire time. Her heavy gown and sash slowly slipped off her shoulders and pooled around her feet. Her stays and slip followed. When she finally stepped out of the wisps that passed for smallclothes, Manwë put his cup on the ground and stood up, surprised to find himself already hard.

There were gooseprickles all over y/n's exposed skin. Her eyes were fixed on the floor. Manwë circled her once, then twice, like a predator circling his prey. He let his hand glide up her spine and play with her hair. She shivered when he palmed the soft expanse of her breasts. Manwë felt her tremble. He liked it. It made him feel powerful, for the first time in many moons.

"Undress me," Manwë ordered, slipping out of his boots.

Y/n kept her eyes on the clasps on his tunic. She fumbled again, her fingers turning back into broken thumbs. Manwë smirked and kept still.

Her hands were soft and warm when they brushed against his flesh. She was unsure of herself and hesitant, but she did her work dutifully and quickly. Once freed of his doublet and undershirt, Manwë returned to the bed and stood by the edge.

"Come, wife," he said, holding out his hand. "Come here."

His wife took one hesitant step after another, uncertain of what he wanted. Y/n had not been taught much concerning matters of the flesh. Her mother had told her to expect certain things, like discomfort and pain, but she also said such things would go away and the rest would be nothing but magic. Y/n studied her husband. There was hunger in his eyes, and flashes of something far more sinister. She feared there would be no magic this night. Not for her at any rate.

"Closer," Manwë cooed. "Closer. Good. Now. On your knees."

Y/n looked at him, shocked. "Your highness... I... I do not understand."

Manwë grinned wolfishly. "Get on your knees and undo my belt. Go on. You would do it if you really wanted to be a dutiful wife, yes?"

Y/n licked her lips. Of course, she wanted to be a dutiful wife. From the first moment she saw Manwë all she had ever wanted was to be a good wife and earn his love. She nodded and sank to her knees, grateful for the rug beneath her. She undid the clasp of his belt, then the drawstrings on his breeches. Her cheeks heated when Manwë tugged them down just enough to free his cock.

"Open your mouth," he said, and caressed her cheek. He ran his thumb across her lips, imagining what they would look like, swollen and glistening with the remnants of his spend. "Go on."

Y/n looked up at him, thinking she had heard wrong. Manwë caressed her cheek again, almost in affection. "Open your mouth. You do not want to disappoint me, do you?"

"No," she sputtered. It was a strange feeling, having his cock slip past her parted lips and sink further and further into her mouth. She felt him, thick and salty and heavy on her tongue. Y/n glanced up at him, surprised to find his eyes closed and his head thrown back.

"Loosen your jaw," he hissed, and wrapped his hands around her hair, pulling it out of the way. "There. Like that."

Manwë's mind soon grew hazy with bliss. Gods, her mouth feels so good. His grunts grew louder and louder. There was nothing else—no whispered endearments—that would soothe his wife and inflame her passions. Manwë did not care. He simply wanted to regain some control. And it felt so good, to take back what control he had over his life.

I am in control.

Y/n did not know what else to do. She let him thrust into her mouth, her eyes stinging with confused tears. Manwë wiped the tear away with his thumb and brought it to his lips, as if to taste. He shivered when he tasted the saltiness of her tear on the tip of his tongue, and shivered when he felt the warmth of her mouth and the softness of her sinful lips. He wanted to kiss those lips while he claimed her maidenhead, but not now. He was so close that he could already feel a tightness in his belly. He brushed his hands over her hair and groaned when her lips tightened around his cock. Just a little longer. He needed to hold on for a little longer. And that was all he had. The world went still. Manwë let out a deep moan while his body splintered and shook with ecstasy. Y/n could do nothing but grip his thighs while the warmth of his spend filled her mouth.

Manwë panted and drew back, satisfied for now. "Swallow," he insisted, not moving another inch until y/n had swallowed every last drop. He stood back and admired the sight of his wife on her knees before him, her lips glistening and swollen just like he hoped they would be. That sense of feeling powerful returned, this time stronger than before.

I am in control.

Manwë grabbed that feeling with eager hands, not wanting to let go of it.

I am lord and master.

He finally walked away, setting himself to rights and picking up the rest of his clothes as he did so. "I will sleep in here," he said, opening the door to a smaller bedroom. "Good night."

Y/n rose and turned to face her own bed. Her knees were sore, and her jaws hurt. She thought there would be more to this night. "But your highness, this is our wedding night. Should we be…"

"Do not fret," Manwë yawned contentedly. An hour or two of rest was needed, and then he would consummate their marriage. "I will claim your maidenhead and consummate this marriage. But it will be at a time of my choosing. Not yours. Never yours. Am I understood?"

Y/n opened her mouth in reply. She thought she deserved to have some say on how this night went. Manwë leaned against the door, his arms crossed, and his eyes darkening again. It frightened her, made her whisper, "Yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, your highness."

"Good," Manwë muttered. "Never forget what I am, wife. Your lord and master, nothing less than that."

Y/n tried to blink back her tears when he slammed the door behind him. Her hopes slowly crumbled like brittle clay. There would be no love. No tenderness. Not with him, not after tonight. Manwë made it plain with his few words that she should not expect more from him. Suddenly more tired than ever, she crawled into bed and slipped beneath a soft pelt, waiting for him to come for her again.

The thought made her blood run cold.

tags: @cilil

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yandere-ainur-confessions · 1 year

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love the idea of a human darling that manwë takes immense interest in. like, we all know he’d be quick to pull some manipulation on you (ofc he has every power to do whatever, but others are so easy to deceive that he won’t have to resort to any means that might hurt anyone). “no one would believe you,” manwë would remind you of this 24/7. why would he, the greatest ainur take interest on a lowly human? what are you going to do, tell others that manwë has been following you? why would anyone believe you? tell everyone that manwë has been tormenting you? yeah, right. why would manwë even waste his time on a person like you? slowly and surely, at some point, human darling would def start believing they’re losing their sanity and this isn’t at all real. i think, manwë will take advantage on this vulnerability. humans might have the gift of mortality, but they are oh so easily breakable.

he finds it almost amusing, the way that you try to ramble to your loved ones about how manwë, the lord of arda, is following you around. how they find you absolutely delusional. and when you return? he awaits you back home. taking you into his arms and calling you his poor little dove, "are they ill-treating you again?" "did they call you delusional again?" "oh my darling I'm so sorry. . . I would never do that to you, I love you."

and when you try to push him away? he merely smiles. strokes some of your hair behind your ear and whispers for you to behave. after all, should he leave you here in a bloody heap, your loved ones would not chalk it up to anyone. no, they'd simply think you're at your tricks again.

he would continuously drill that fact through your head. reminding you over and over that you truly did only have him. if you lose your mind in the process, that's all the better. it means he can sweep you away and keep you to himself. his poor little mortal, so pliable and reliant on him. and only him.

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kiatheinsomniac · 2 years

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note: ok, I think we all know how open I am about loving villains on this blog so this was bound to happen eventually. Plus, I've been seeing some fanarts of Melkor with like an elongated tongue and it just made me want to write something smutty about him

pairing: Melkor | Morgoth x maia! Reader

word count: 7k

warnings: NSFW content, smut, manipulation, dub-con, knifeplay, bloodplay, body carving, dacryphilia, degradation, size kink (if you squint), power imbalance

Dragons' Blood

You choked on sobs as you held your dearest creations to your chest, vision utterly obscured by tears. It felt like you had been alone here for hours, fingers caressing over scales that once glimmered with life. Two dragons: each about three feet long, one a pristine white, the other an elegant black. Dead. The dragons had been a creation of your own design, an annex to Eru’s plan as Aulë’s dwarves had been. The twin creatures were graceful, destined to be guardians to the life of the world in the face of natural disasters. Why had your master's dwarves been spared but you had been forced to take the lives of the creatures who felt like children to you?

Their blood was smeared over your hands, over the front of your clothes, but you couldn’t bear to let them go. You couldn’t say goodbye, how could they possibly forgive you? Forgive the maia who gave them life and then took it?

“Oh, your poor, sweet thing.” A voice drawled out from behind you and your blurred vision could only just make out the way that the light seemed to dim and shadows invaded your workshop.

“Go away, Melkor.” Your voice broke with your plea. The vala had been trying to draw you over to his side for centuries. He was persistent but you were happy in the west: you had Aulë to teach you such masterful crafts, the blessing of Manwë for your dedication to the work that you learned through the valar. Or, at least, you once had these things: you were now banned from the craft that you were so passionate of and had lost Manwë’s favour for going against Eru’s plan to create your dragons.

“What has he done to your innocent children?” Another wrack of sobs and you could feel the shadow that poured heavily over you when the dark-haired vala knelt down behind you, his hands landing on your upper arms.

“He made me do it.” You only held the creatures closer to your chest, curling your upper body around them as though to protect them from Melkor’s gaze.

“He is cruel, is he not?” Melkor’s lips were near your ear and you blinked the tears from your eyes to see his blackened fingertips tenderly caress the scales of your black dragon, Lilómëon, and then the white, Elvëien. You could only nod your head and you could hear the vala behind you practically coo. “They don’t recognise your worth, they don’t see your heart…” As if to emphasise that he was unlike the valar who had made you destroy your dear creations, he pressed his large palm to your back, feeling your heartbeat. “I do… Your dragons are beautiful and will grow to be a marvel that Eru himself could not foresee.”

“Would have.” You corrected him and he reached forwards to crook a finger under your chin, making you look over your shoulder to meet his gaze and, like everything else about him, it was intense.

“This does not have to be their end…” You tried to turn your head away, knowing the scent of temptation when it was sitting right under your nose. You had stood your ground for so many centuries against him and his temptation. But that was when you had Aulë and Manwë to keep you here in the west, to keep you from Melkor’s corrupting touch. You no longer craved their approval so what was left to stop you from letting go of the west and all that you had been taught? “You can bring them back.” There was an edge to his voice and you knew that it was excitement. He had you right where he wanted you and, in your grief, you found that you cared little for how vulnerable that made you if it meant that you could have your dear dragons back. You turned back to face him.

“This is not a trick?” Your voice was hoarse from hours of sobbing.

“No, poor thing, no.” He pushed some hair away from your face and you noticed the glint of fangs in his mouth as he spoke. In all your encounters with him, he had never been so close before. “This is no trick. I see the beauty in your creation: a perfect balance of elegance and fearsomeness. Manwë himself could not create such wonderful creatures and he has forced this terrible act upon you to keep you inferior to him. Do not think that I would do the same to you, sweet maia. You may ask Mairon if I inhibit his freedom to creativity: I do not, nor do I ridicule his perfection. The Valar saw flaw in his perfectionism as they see flaw in your ambition…” He leaned closer, breath fanning across your lips before he turned his head slightly to press his lips below your eye, tasting the salt of your tears. “I see only strength.” You swallowed hard, fingers skimming over bloodied scales once more, your eyes frantically searching his.

“Bring them back to me…” You whispered and a smile pulled at the corners of his mouth, one that had to contain lest he show you the true extent of his utter satisfaction at having turned you to his side at last. He rose to his feet, standing much, much taller than you, even if you were to be standing upright beside him. He leaned down and held out his hand in an offering.

And, heartbroken maia you were, you took it.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><>

You cooed at your little dragons on their perch as you tossed another piece of raw meat to Lilómëon. They had already managed to collect some chains of precious metals to hang on the branches of their perch and you wondered where on Earth they could come from and hoped that they belonged to neither Melkor nor Mairon.

Your attention was caught by a dash of fiery red in your peripheral and you turned your head to be met with the amber eyes of the latter.

Mairon wasn’t a particularly social maia: even in the brief period of time in which you had both been students under Aulë at once, he stuck to his workshop as you stuck to yours and you only ever spoke to him when Aulë formally introduced you two. Any times after that, your only interactions had been a nod of the head in passing each other. You had been reintroduced by Melkor and found that Mairon was much more willing to talk to you now that you both had found yourselves here, working for the rogue vala in Angband.

“He’s looking for you.” He spoke.

“Right…” You spoke in a quiet voice, setting the plate of meat chunks onto the nearby table. Melkor wanted you to teach him how to create dragons so that he might have his own to serve him in his army. But you had not been here for long and you were reluctant to see the creatures that you had created to be defenders, guardians, saviours be turned into warriors, weapons, forces of destruction.

“In his chambers.” Mairon added. Your brow quirked at this and you searched your fellow student’s face for any expression that might convey his own thoughts regarding the strange location but you were met with nothing.

“I’ll go meet with him then.” Your eyes flickered between the plate and Mairon, whose own eyes were now on Lilómëon and Elvëien. “You can feed them if you’d like.” You added with a faint smile. If you were to teach Melkor how to create dragons, no doubt you would have to do the same for Mairon afterwards and you would much rather get a little friendlier with him now than to have a very awkward time in the workshop when it came to teaching him.

You made your way through halls of black obsidian and stone, footsteps clicking quietly across the polished material as you made your way to Melkor’s personal chambers. Your hand came up to the pendant at your neck, feeling the gentle hum as it dragged against its chain. It was something that you did when you were nervous, just an old habit that grounded you in moments like this, it gave your hands something to do so that your mind had to dedicate less focus to worrying.

You reached the door to his chambers and looked up at the sleek, black stone that glimmered with carven amethysts. You brought your fist down upon it a few times, hearing the sound echo in the, otherwise silent, corridor before a deep voice called for you to enter. You pushed the door open, hearing it fall shut behind you heavily and you found Melkor sitting at his desk, his chair like a throne behind it. Upon seeing you, a smile teased the corners of his mouth and he rose to meet you, beckoning you over as he stood tall in front of the desk. He had stripped off his armour, now wearing long, dark robes that hugged his torso and fell loosely around his legs which were covered in matching black trousers and tall leather boots. His pointed, talon-like, crown remained on his head of dark hair. Melkor almost seemed to be made of shadow at times: like his darkness absorbed the light of a room and hung around him like a threatening miasma.

“Mairon informed me that you summoned me.” You spoke up once you were a few paces away from him.

“Yes… I assume that you are aware of why I have called you here.” You found it hard to hold his intense gaze and you reached up for your pendant once more, casting your eyes over to the tall window behind his desk instead.

“I am.” You replied simply, hesitating for a moment as you tried to gather your words, “But I am… Uncertain whether or not I am making the wrong choice.” There was a slight sigh from him as a finger came beneath your chin, turning your head so that you had little choice other than to meet those dark and violet eyes.

“You think I would go to all the effort of bringing you here, of bringing your dearest creations back to you, just to bastardise them?” Your eyes flickered away from him once more. You had your answer and knew that he would not like it. “Speak.” You parted your lips to do just that but it appeared that he was not done as his fingertips curled into your jaw, “And do not dare lie to me.” You swallowed hard and his hand quickly ran down to splay across your throat in order to feel how your muscles contracted with the action.

“History does not favour a more positive view of you, Melkor.” You spoke cautiously, softening your voice so that you would not come across as accusatory or aggressive.

“The Valar's history.” He corrected you, “They pride themselves on suffocating order, order that kept you from reaching your potential, order that killed your innocent dragons. True creation is born in chaos.” His voice dropped to a passionate whisper and you wondered when his shadows had pulled the two of you so close together as they now spread over your skin in a cold mist. “When my chaos reigns, you will be stopped at nothing.” He now cupped your face in his hands and you had to tilt your head back to meet his eyes as he looked down at you, hands running down your shoulders and taking your smaller hands in his, placing them upon his chest, “These hands will create or destroy to your heart’s content and no one shall ever force you to do such atrocious things to your creations again.”

“What is it that you are saying?” You furrowed your brows, not yet seeing where he was going with this.

“That if you teach me how to create dragons, I shall create them to set you free, to set all free from Eru and Manwë’s tyranny. Why do they get to pick and choose what we bring into this world? Is it not ours as much as it is theirs? Aulë could keep his dwarves and yet you were made to become a killer. But you are not one, are you, my sweet little maia?” You could feel yourself being pulled to him: by his hands, by the shadows, by some unknown force, by your own will, you were unsure. Your eyes brimmed with tears at the painful memory, at the splatters of blood as you took the life that you had given, that you had poured yourself into with tenderness and affection. You could only shake your head and you felt Melkor’s lips ghosting against your temple.

“You are mine now…” He whispered, “My student… and I shall teach you to see beauty in darkness, to see beginnings in death, to see birth in chaos.” A finger under your chin made you tilt your head enough for his lips to ghost against yours, “Say it. Say that you are mine, that I am your Lord.”

“I am yours…” Your voice came out in a whisper and the grin that painted his lips was wide and dark, revealing the fanged teeth in his mouth, “and you are my Lord.” There was a hum from the back of his throat and you hardly noticed that he was backing you against the desk, his large hands curling around your hips and trapping you between the dark desk and his towering body. You reached up onto your toes to try and close the distance between the two of you but he pulled back just enough, standing taller to keep out of your reach.

“And that you will teach me how to create dragons.” You felt as though you were in a trace: he was all around you, smelling of cold mist and hot smoke, his hands were fiery hot on your body, making the rest of the room feel cold and his voice lulled into your ears like a snake charmer.

“And I will teach you how to create dragons.” That somewhat sinister grin only grew more and he leaned down, lips ghosting across your cheek before he licked a long stripe across the curve of your jaw, his tongue feeling much longer than what you would have expected.

“Do such changes of the body feel wicked to you? Or do you feel only pleasure?” His tongue dragged to just beneath your ear, pressing a lingering kiss there before nipping with sharp teeth, causing your body to shiver in delight.

“Only pleasure.” You had not meant for your voice to escape as a whisper but found yourself with no other choice as your lips trembled in desperation for his all-consuming touch.

“Do you now see the good in the fruits of chaos? How your dragons shall not be monsters but beautiful, powerful forces of nature?” You were still reluctant, clinging onto a shred of hesitation that implored you to think twice about this. He raised his head as a hand wrapped around your throat, fingers pressing onto your pulse. “You speak when spoken to, little one.” His eyes narrowed at you and you let out a shaky breath at how the pressure on your neck made your head feel foggy.

“Yes, my Lord.” You nodded your head minutely, quickly and his smile returned.

“A clueless little thing that knows her place.” He cooed, “Tell me: where is your place?”

“Serving you, my Lord.” Your eyes flickered between his as his body pressed up against your front, hoping that you had given him the answer that he sought.

“Serving me?” He echoed, “I brought you here for refuge from the Valar's mistreatment of you, to have you teach me your marvellous craft but if you wish to serve me, who would I be to deny such a depraved request from my sweet little maia?” You could no longer meet his eyes and looked away, feeling your face flush with heat. “Oh, have I embarrassed her? Poor thing… Imagine what your previous master would think of you now, telling the dark Lord that your purpose is to serve him… I think you have every right to be embarrassed.” Your face was burning already and yet your hands resting on his chest weren’t pushing him away. He tugged you away from the desk and began circling you, hands skimming over the curve of your waist, your lower back, your shoulders. “Yes… you will serve me well, I am sure of it.” You could feel his chin rest upon your shoulder as he inhaled deeply, burying his face into your hair before his lips skimmed across the shell of your ear, “You will surrender yourself to me for my pleasure, I am sure of it.”

You found that you were panting from the idea alone: that this was happening. Were you truly about to allow this to happen?

“I surrendered that part of myself to you the moment my seeking for the Valar’s approval ceased, my Lord.” You found yourself murmuring to the air before you and you were suddenly swept up, hands gripping onto the clothes upon Melkor’s back as you were thrown over his shoulder. He carried you from the study to an adjacent room, the door falling shut with a thud behind the two of you before you were tossed onto the bed. You reached down to assure that your legs remained covered by your dress but your hands were quickly gathered up and pinned above your head as Melkor’s body caged you to the bed, muscular thighs straddling your hips.

“I never would have taken you for such an easy slut.” His words made you press your thighs together as his hand reached down to hike your skirts up around your waist, “You spend centuries denying me and all it takes is some honeyed words for me to have you on your back, in my bed.” He pushed himself up a little as his eyes flickered down over your body, raking hungrily over the curves of your form, “This position is so very becoming of you. Tell me: do you crave me?” Heat pooled in your core but your words caught in your throat, causing you to remain silent. Swiftly, he got up onto one knee, both hands tangling in the hair at the back of your head and harshly yanking your upper body towards him, making your hands cover his in an attempt to ease up the pull on your locks. “You speak when spoken to, I shall not repeat myself again.” You gasped when his grip only grew firmer and a whine was torn from the back of your throat.

“Yes, yes I crave you, my Lord.” His eyes scanned your face as you spoke and he seemed very pleased at the way your lower lip quivered and your hands were desperately clutching over his, trying to ease his harsh pulling on your hair.

“And in what way do you crave me?” There was a sadistic glint in his eye as his hands eased up, luring you into a false sense of security, allowing you to think that he would be lenient for a moment.

“I…” All you knew was that there was a hot ache between your legs and you longed for him to sate it, though you had very little idea how to ask that of him. The patience in his eyes wore thin and it was like watching a sand timer spill to its end. Your body was grabbed and harshly forced up the bed once more and you reached out to push your hands against his chest, doing very little to stop his weight from pinning you down, “I do not know what to ask!” You exclaimed, “I have never… Of course I know about… But with so much of my attention being taken up by the workshop, I never had the time for…” You swallowed hard, heart hammering in your chest as you looked into those eyes that lit up with an utterly sadistic mirth.

“You?” His brows raised, “Such an easy, needy thing like you? A blank slate for me to write my name all over…” You couldn’t be sure where his mind was, nothing unusual, but now it worried you to not be able to tell what he thought of such information, “Shall I? Write my name all over you?” If that meant he would fill your growing need then you were more than willing to agree. You nodded your head and uttered a ‘please, my Lord’ which seemed to greatly please him.

A part of you felt like a child walking alone into the woods at night, filled with wonder and a ravenous curiosity that chose to ignore the dangers which you knew lurked in the shadows.

“I will show you the beauty of what is created here…” He murmured as he made his way down your body, pushing one of your thighs upwards in his large hand and pressing a hot kiss to your soft flesh there. You squirmed under his touch and his gaze that was utterly smouldering with lust and he reached up to tear your panties from your body, pushing your skirts further up to bunch around your waist. A loud moan was torn from your throat when his lips wrapped around your clit, laving his tongue over the sensitive nerves there and then sucking down harshly. Your hands flew down to tangle in his dark hair, whining when the crown got in the way and his long tongue swiped through your wet slit before he pushed himself up. He took the crown from his head and placed it upon yours instead, taking in the sight of you: blushing, panting, dress bunched around your waist, spread out on his bed and wearing his crown. There was a groan from the back of his throat as his hands wrapped around your thighs and he dove back down to bury his face between them again, making your hips jolt as he licked against your hot entrance, pushing his tongue into you.

One of his forearms rested over your hips to pin them down and you eased up your tug on his hair in favour of pushing the dark and glossy locks away from his face, gasping when it made him moan against you and he withdrew a little to kiss along the inside of your left thigh.

“Look at you, clueless little thing…” He cooed, fingertips swiping through your soaked folds and you tried to grind down against them, seeking more pressure, but his arm over your hips kept you firmly pinned down, “Touching me so sweetly when you have no idea of what I plan on doing to you…”

“And what do you plan on doing to me, my Lord?” That wicked grin of his returned as he buried his face in your aching cunt once more, pushing his tongue into your entrance and you gasped, fingers curling harshly in his hair at the sensation of his tongue swiping over that sensitive point within you. The wet muscle began slipping in and out from you and you whined at the sensations, knowing no other than Melkor would ever be able to give you such an experience. He knew his assets and how to use them, it would seem. You couldn’t do much other than moan and squirm under his attention as the coil in your abdomen tightened. “Are you close?” He mused, withdrawing his mouth from your entrance in favour of grazing his teeth over your clit and then sucking down hard on it. You rapidly nodded your head.

“Ye-es, my Lord.” Your words were airy and he smirked against your cunt before thrusting two fingers into your dripping entrance, making your back jolt up into an arch as you came around them, whimpering as he pistoned them in and out of you, brushing against that sweet spot with each stroke. He didn’t relent as your legs quivered and you could do little else but moan and let out a string of nonsensical words. Your tugging on his hair must have become too much because he soon withdrew and brought his palm down harshly on your clit as he knelt between your spread legs. Pleasure wracked violently through your body, causing you to cry out at the sensitivity and the way the pain of it made you utterly desperate for him to do it again. “Melkor, please.” You begged, needing more of him. His body looming over yours cast you in shadow as his hand wrapped around your throat, pressing on your pulse to feel your hammering heart.

“You don’t have the privilege of using my name right now.” He spoke as his eyes bore into yours, his tone dripping with warning. “But if you like it so much, I can give it to you.” There was something akin to mischief in his eyes as he voiced this idea aloud and you furrowed your brows at him, not knowing what he meant by that.

“What?” There was an almost pitiful hum from him as he smirked down at you, sitting back on his calves as he reached into the back of his robes. You saw the glint of the object before you registered what it was: a knife. Your eyes widened at the sight of the stiletto knife in his hand with its wavered edge and black handle and he seemed delighted at the way your eyes widened in horror.

“My Lord, what do you plan to do with that?” Your voice was weak, wavering from both fear and the aftershocks of your orgasm.

“Awe, are you frightened, little one?” He mocked you, a hand pressing to your chest to keep you against the mattress. The tip of the blade ran across your clothed breasts as he spoke and you couldn’t help the excitement that coursed through your veins, asking yourself what in Arda was wrong with you.

“Not nearly as much as I should be…” You replied and he grinned at your reply as he sank the blade into the neckline of your dress, making you hold your breath unless the rise and fall of your chest caused your skin to meet the sharpness of the weapon.

“How much do you wish to serve me? To be mine?” He mused, letting the pointed end dance over the tops of your breasts gently.

“In this moment, words could not possibly do justice to my want.” The blade slipped beneath one strap of your dress and then the other, slicing through the material before pulling at the centre of your neckline, tucked beneath it.

“You are far too out of your depth and much too wanton to see it.” Your breath hitched as his words were punctuated by the loud tearing noise of the knife slicing your dress down the front, his free hand pushing the fabric away from your body. You shivered a little as the cold air met your exposed skin, particularly your breasts. He set the knife down on your stomach and grabbed you by the thighs to pull you closer, setting your legs over his and keeping his own apart to spread yours. Your cunt was just millimetres away from brushing against his hips and it made you whine out in need of some friction.

He took up the knife again and began trailing the point of it across the softness of your thigh. His other hand clamped down firmly over your leg, pinning it to his as his eyes flickered up to your confused ones.

“Do not move.” And you hissed as the blade sliced into your flesh, watching as he quickly cut a shallow and elegant script into your skin. You craned your neck up a little and blinked away tears to get a look at what he was doing, much too frightened that you would be hurt severely should you try to pull away. When he finished, he blew over the wound and your vision had cleared enough to see that the slices that stung your leg spelled out his name.

You bit down hard on your lip and turned your head to the side, bringing your arm up to cover your flushed face. You were far too humiliated by the fact that you enjoyed it to admit that the sting and the feeling of being possessed by him turned you on to no end. Your wrist was grabbed and roughly pinned beside your head, the push against your hand a silent command to keep it there as that same hand grabbed you by your cheeks and turned you to face him.

“Look at you… Not a single protest… Do you enjoy it? Do you enjoy pain?” You tried to look away but his grip only pushed more against the softness of your cheeks and you found yourself unable to break eye contact with him. You nodded your head minutely, cheeks flaring.

“I didn’t… know - until now, that is…” You murmured and he cooed, hand slipping down to your jaw to push your head aside as his lips ghosted over your skin. You cried out when he bit down hard enough to break skin, bringing your legs up to wrap around his waist, hands clutching his clothes over his shoulders in an attempt to keep him close. However, Melkor was much stronger than you and broke free from your grasp with ease, sitting back up.

“Shall I mark you again?” The blade of the knife glinted in his hand as he twirled it in his fingers.

“Yes, please.” Your voice came out weak and it seemed to amuse him as he dragged the flat of the blade against your skin, making you hold your breath in a mixture of fear and anticipation.

“Here?” He hummed as it danced over your stomach, “Or perhaps here?” He brought the blade to the top of your right breast, “Or maybe…” You felt the point of it against your cheek and your eyes went wide, “I should make sure that everyone can see who you belong to?” He laughed at your look of fright and tapped the blade twice against your cheekbone. “Perhaps another time…” Instead, he brought the knife to just beneath your right breast and he leaned over you a little more, balancing his weight on the hand he put on your chest to hold you down. You hissed once more at the initial slice of the blade and tears sprung to your eyes as you fought to remain still, letting out a groan of pain that turned into a whine.

Once more, he blew gently over the wound, only making it feel hotter when he stopped. He pulled back a little more and cooed at your teary eyes. “Did that hurt?” His voice dripped with faux sympathy and all you could do was nod your head, trying to get a glimpse of the mark but his hand was covering your shoulder, pinning it down, “Then I shall have to pick somewhere less painful next.”

The liar began cutting into your collarbone, making you cry out and you fought to still your body when it jolted in pain. This area hurt far more than the previous two.

“That hurts…” You whimpered out and he grimaced, stopping his work and clapping his hand over your mouth, leaning over you menacingly.

“Do not be such an ungrateful slut.” He seethed, “It is an honour to have my name carved into you and you will not revoke it.” His hand roughly pushed your face to the side to make you watch as he took up his work again, pinning your shoulder down once more. His handwriting was beyond elegant and you couldn’t help but sigh as he blew over this marking too. Though, that sigh quickly morphed into a pained hiss when he swiped his thumb over his name, smearing beads of your blood across your skin and then licking it off his thumb.

His hand skimmed beneath the other two marks before arriving back between your legs, his two innermost fingers swiping through your slick slit.

“Even wetter than how I left you. You truly do like pain.” His lips hovered over yours, “And I am more than happy to bestow it upon you, my precious little maia.” He swallowed the moan that you let out with a kiss as he pushed two fingers into you, not easing you at all and beginning a swift and shallow pace that stroked over your sweet spot again and again in rapid succession. You reached down to grasp his wrist when he pushed a third finger into you but he quickly snatched it up in his other hand and pinned it beside you. “You can take it, little one.” He spoke, voice lowering even more, “You are doing so, so well for me.” Your head fell back and you could feel the crown fall with it. The slick noises that he was drawing from your cunt made you flush with heat and you whined out as he withdrew his fingers entirely, shedding off his robes and tossing them to the side, including the knife which had previously been dropped on the mattress beside you.

You couldn’t withhold the small gasp that escaped you when his torso was utterly bare. The vala truly were of the first design: he was utter definition, proportion, symmetry, a blueprint that every being to come after him aspired to achieve but never could. You tentatively reached out to skim your fingers across his adonis belt, dragging them upwards to his abs as he watched your reaction to him with intrigue and pride, each little caress of your fingertips stroking his ego.

“Do you like what you see?” He teased.

“Very much…” Your voice came out in a whisper, in utter awe of his beauty.

He leaned down over you and almost sucked the breath out of you with a dizzying kiss. You felt a press against your entrance and tilted your head to look down but his hand wrapped around your neck at the base of your jaw, keeping your eyes trained on his.

“I believe it would be best if you did not look.” He spoke in a hushed voice, pecking the corner of your mouth with a kiss. You were certain that many in the world would not assume Melkor to be capable of such tenderness and your heart fluttered at the thought that this was behaviour reserved for very few, perhaps even less, people. Your breath hitched as the head of his cock pushed into your entrance and your jaw clenched at the stretch as he continued to slowly sheath himself inside of you.

“Hurts…” You whimpered out after a few more inches and he quietly shushed you, kissing you deeply before bringing his lips to just below your ear.

“You can take it, little one…” He murmured, “My sweet maia, taking me so, so well.” Your hands tangled in his hair as he bottomed out inside of you and your chest heaved with ragged breaths as you tried to adjust to the size of him. Longing for the intrusive pain to become something sweeter, you crashed your lips onto Melkor’s and rolled your hips down against his, your cunt squeezing him and making him groan into your mouth. “So desperate…” He breathed out before pulling out to the very tip of his cock and then pushing back in, making your hips jump at the sensation. Each thrust became faster and firmer than the last and it had you moaning with each piston of his hips against your as the burn mostly melted away and you brought your legs up against his sides, arms coiling around his shoulder to hold him close as he fucked you.

“I would be willing to bet that you are the depraved soft of slut who needs it rough.” He rasped against your ear and hearing the pleasure in his voice turned you on to no end, “That love-making simply would not be enough to satisfy a tight-” He groaned at a particularly hard thrust that made you throw your head back with a whimper, “desperate cunt such as yours.” And with his words, his pace slowed down, grew much more patient, “Shall we find out?” The slow pace gave you the opportunity to adjust to him at last but it still wasn’t enough. You craved the way he had tangled his hands in your hair and pulled your body up to his earlier, the way that he had pressed down on your limbs as he cut into your skin, how he had thrown you over his shoulder.

“Please…” You breathed out, to be met with an ary laugh against the side of your neck.

“There you are…” You could feel the vibration of his voice against your skin and his arms wound around your middle before he flipped the both of you over and he was laid back with you on his lap, large hands curling around your hips. Your eyes flickered over to where you had just been laid and widened at the sight of a small streak of blood before Melkor’s fingers at your chin turned your attention back to him, tutting. “Look at me, nothing else.” He rolled his hips up against yours, “Take your pleasure.” You raised your hips up and let them fall down onto his lap again and again, building up the confidence to do it more firmly each time until you had to set your hands against his abdomen to support yourself with each thrust. You noticed how his eyes would switch between watching your face contort in pleasure and taking in the sight of your bodies meeting.

The coil that had been building in your abdomen snapped and you ground your hips down against him to ride out your high, a moan being torn from your lips when Melkor’s hands squeezed your hips firmly and he began to fuck up into you.

“Surely you cannot be tired already?” He mocked as your eyes met his, your nails scratching against his skin as they curled into fists at how sensitive you felt. You felt much like a doll with the way he was lifting you up and down on his cock as his hips thrust up each time he brought you down. You threw your head back as your back arched up, panting for breath and Melkor’s eyes fixed to how your breasts moved each time he brought you down onto the snap of his hips. Your world flipped for the third time that day as he pushed you backwards to lay on your back once again, covering your body with his and entering you once more.

“Take it.” His voice was gravelly against your ear as he set one of your legs over his shoulder, the position allowing him to enter you deeper.

“My Lord…” You whined out as you could feel another orgasm building up, “I canno- I ca-”

“You will.” He cut you off and you felt far too blissful to be humiliated by the fact that the authority in his voice paired with how he was fucking you made you cum on his cock a second time. He allowed you no time to recover and only seemed to fuck you more erratically as your body trembled violently beneath him, a few sobs managing to escape your lips even though you willed them not to, not wanting him to stop. “Look at me.” He ordered and you tried to meet him through your blurry vision, “Let me see those pretty tears.” He let out a drawn-out groan at the sight of you and you could feel his cock twitch within your walls, “Such an adorable little thing when you cry for me… I think I will have to make you cum for me one last time.” He reached a hand down to press his thumb against your clit and it tore a sob from your throat as he began rubbing harsh circles into it and you were almost sure that you saw stars when you came undone for a third time, hearing Melkor moan against your cheekbone as he shuddered, lips skimming across your skin to crash onto yours as he gave the last few thrusts, feeling the warmth of his seed spilling into your cunt.

When you came down from your high, it was to the feeling of his lips beneath your eyes, tongue flicking slightly at the saltiness of your tears. You felt boneless as he scooped you up in his arms and set you down against the pillows. He collected his coat from the ground and laid it over you, making you hum at the feeling of soft velvet against your skin. His lips hovered above the crown of your head but you felt far too exhausted to open your eyes.

“Tomorrow morning, you will meet me in the forges and you shall teach me how to create dragons.” You whimpered as his hand tangled in your hair and his teeth grazed over the skin of your throat before he rested his cheek against yours, voice menacing when he spoke in your ear: “Or the next time I take out a knife on you, it will be to do far worse than carve my name into your pretty skin.”

There was no going back now.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Mairon watched your retreating figure as you made your way towards Melkor’s chambers, eyes then flickering down to the plate of raw meat on the table before he took up a piece in his slender fingers, catching the attention of both dragons in front of him. He tossed it towards the black dragon whose head snapped to catch it in his jaws of razor-sharp teeth.��

“Eat up.” He spoke quietly, “She will be gone for a while…”

Taglist: @edensrose @itseivwhore

#melkor #melkor x reader #morgoth #morgoth x reader #silmarillion #silmarillion x reader #silm #sometimes I write things that mean I owe Tolkien a formal apology #this is one of them #mairon #smut #melkor x reader smut #morgoth x reader smut

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polutrope · 1 year

Note

Hello! For the silm prompts could I please be terribly predictable and request Maedhros&Maglor, “the years lengthen ever more sorrowful”? Thank you ❤️

and for @cuarthol (laughed that I got this twice for poor Mags)

From this prompt list. (My pace is slow but still taking them!)

* * *

Maglor remembers a time on the parapet that circled Himring’s eastern tower. It was night, but the sky was bright with a thick dust of snowfall. It pillowed in smooth mounds along the fortress walls and blanketed the walkway.

Maglor was laughing, loudly. Maedhros chuckled and nudged his shoulder and said, “Shush,” but didn’t really mean it.

“Look!” Maglor shouted, and flung an arm out eastwards.

“Cáno,” said Maedhros, “there is nothing to see but snow.”

“There, over the mountains. That is where we will go. Sweet run the waters in Cuiviénen under unclouded stars! Our journey does not end here, do you know that? Onwards!”

“You’re drunk,” said Maedhros. “And you know we cannot.”

“One day, though.” Maglor was grinning, because after a hundred years of peace and however many cups of dwarven mead (a taste of the world beyond the Ered Luin), he really believed it.

“One day,” said Maedhros, and Maglor had been too enraptured by the glitter of snow and a vain fantasy to notice if his brother had been smiling or not.

Maglor does not remember the last time he saw Maedhros. Was it weeks? Months? The wrack of war in the North, though it has ended, still blots out the Sun, and the days coalesce into an oppressive What if. For many years it was: What if the host of the West is victorious? What if they take what is ours from the Iron Crown? Now it is: What if the Herald of Manwë denies our claim? What then?

That, or a question like it, must have been what Maglor had asked the last time he saw his brother. Maedhros hates such questions. He hates Maglor for asking them, as if the answers are not as plain as the pull of sorrow on the corners of his mouth and the determined set of his jaw.

The answer that he no longer troubles to give is: We made that choice long ago, when we drew our swords in the square of Tirion.

Maedhros stands now on the threshold of their shelter tucked into the western foothills of the mountains. He pushes back his hood and waits.

“Where were you?” asks Maglor.

“I intercepted their messenger,” Maedhros says at length. “We are summoned West for judgement.”

And even when Maglor concedes with words that refusal of the summons is inevitable, that there is no other choice but to follow their doom to its appointed end, in his heart he holds the truth that for him the years of sorrow will not end there. Not if he has the choice.

His journey goes on.

* * *

I realise Maglor wanting to go East (and the implication that he does?) is a bit uncanonical given that he ends up wandering the shores of the sea, but it’s my headcanon that he eventually strays to Cuiviénen, or what remains of it.

“Sweet run the waters in Cuiviénen under unclouded stars!” is paraphrased from Fëanor’s speech in the square in Tirion in the Silmarillion.

#prompts #prompt fill #maedhros #maglor #silm phrase prompts #my fic #silm fic

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edensrose · 2 years

Text

( ❀ ) ˙ ˖ characters I write for ⠀〳 ⠀reader ❜᭡ㅤㅤ

·⊰ 𝓶𝓲𝓼𝓬 : imagine them walking in on you changingㅤ

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ THRANDUIL

ʚ "must you be so indecent!"

ʚ realises he walked into YOUR room unannounced and mutters an apology

ʚ leaves immediately after

ʚ probably calls back for you to lock the door next time despite knowing it was clearly his fault for not knocking

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤLEGOLAS

ʚ poor bby nearly fell to the floor face first

ʚ immediately slapped a hand over his eyes and stuttered out a slew of apologies

ʚ "I-I am so so sorry, forgive me, you're very beautiful? — uhm, sorry, sorry"

ʚ couldn't look you in the eye for the next coming days without going bright pink

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤMAIRON

ʚ does a little once over, completely unfazed

ʚ locks eyes with you and starts the conversation he came here for

ʚ wouldn't really show any difference if you confronted him, merely arch his brow

ʚ "what? your physical form is rather fair anyway, I see no issue. this is more important."

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ MELKOR

ʚ "nice. anyway —"

ʚ continues on conversation as though this is completely normal

ʚ would not be ashamed to look you over, he has no filter

ʚ if you were to grow flustered he'd definitely tease you on it to wit's end

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ MANWË

ʚ you have never seen a man turn more pink in your entire life

ʚ covers his eyes with BOTH hands

ʚ the most far from graceful you have seen him as he stumbles out of the room, probably refusing to remove his hands even after he's long gone

ʚ "I am so deeply sorry, I will never look upon you again I promise!"

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤFËANOR

ʚ doesn't even realise at first because he's probably come to you to rant about something

ʚ only notices after a few moments and immediately freezes up

ʚ probably goes pink and immediately storms out

ʚ "lock the damn door next time!!"

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤAU!SMAUG

ʚ completely indifferent, doesn't even bat an eye and carries out the conversation

ʚ he doesn't seem flustered nor staring at your exposed body

ʚ confused when you confront him

ʚ "what? you are simply bare. should I be concerned? is this not natural?"

taglist ━ @kiatheinsomniac @augustwithquills @blueberryrock @a-chaotic-dumbass @m-shade @nerdydcfan @flowerchildishere @camilomyshiningsun @bugnug @algae-rave @snakesofindia-sursesaji @theroguemaia @yellowbadgermole @spoopy-fish-writes @perwaineintsomi @rurifangirl

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cilil · 7 months

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For my modern age parody verse I like to imagine that the Valar decide to modernize the herald business so they can better communicate with Ilúvatar's Children and Eönwë is the poor soul who then becomes their social media intern, since he, as Manwë proudly proclaims, has experience with talking to all sides

#eonwe #eönwë #manwe #manwë #valar #ainur #crack #silm crack #shitpost #silmarillion #my *incredible* parody verse

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eilinelsghost · 6 months

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Fight With Thine Own Hand

Happy happy birthday, @that-angry-noldo! You are such a lovely, talented, kind, and caring person and it's been a delight getting to know you over this past year.

I hope the horrors of a completed Orodreth-and-Finarfin-have-the-worst-day-ever bring you some suffering joy(?) on this, your day of birth. ❤️

Apologies in advance for *gestures at everything below*

The laugh rumbled through Finarfin’s bones. He was only half-conscious, the room reeling about him with sickening fluidity, the reek burning his nostrils and stabbing along his throat, raw from the screams of battle and the torment of his journey across Anfauglith. His legs had given out amid the endless descent and at the last he had been dragged by his hair across the threshold and kicked to lie gasping and helpless in the open space before Morgoth’s seat.

And the Foe laughed.

“Your courtesy is somewhat lessoned since the blinding days of Tirion.” Morgoth’s voice drifted over the prostrate form at his feet and Finarfin shuddered at its familiarity. “Your brothers came to me willingly and I find I take offense that your approach is so marked by coercion.”

Finarfin fought to catch his breath. The air was acrid and smoke stung his eyes. But there was Tree Light—Tree Light! Amid the choking dark and terror, the mingled silver and gold touched his gaze for the first time since all he loved had broken beyond repair. Ai, Malinalda… Ninquelótë… His eyes watered from the brilliance, wept as memory rose and drowned him in its familiar despair. Rebellion, repentance, reparation, reconciliation, and yet he too fell now at the feet of Darkness. Airë Manwë, were none of them to escape it?

“It is a poor finish to collect the coward last of all, but I am satisfied. Each whelp of that petty king now accounted for. Each son of his brought down by my hand. It will suffice.”

His eyes had begun to acclimate to the fractured vision of the nethermost hall, impenetrable darkness mingled with unquenchable light. It was like seeing through the glass windows in the palace upon Túna where each was constructed from shards of shaped glass, and the new sun stabbed in fractal light through its facets. Everything image here was pieced together in shards.

There were wolves about the throne, beneath its looming bulk. And with naught but his own hands he slew the wolf who came… No, press down the thought. Memory would only weaken. Despair is what widens the cracks, hope is that which binds them together. Think rather on Tirion. Think on gold and silver, on Ingoldo and Litsemir bending together over the parchment in the library, gold and silver mingled in the light, and gold and silver mingled in their hair.

Hope. Hold to hope and he would hold himself whole.

Silver glimmered amid the shadow beside the throne. A familiar silver. It ran like the water of Alqualondë’s harbors, there in the far years when those were yet an image of joy and not desperation. When they danced in the twilit brush of Telperion and Laurelin reaching out through the Calacirya, and Eärwen murmured their son’s hair was lit with the very image of that silver…

Litsemir.

Finarfin’s cry was a hoarse gasp as he tried to push up from the stones.

“Down, dog.”

Some force outside himself had control of his arms and they wrenched out from under him, the air knocked from his lungs once again as his chest and face rammed against the floor. Litsemir, Litsemir, Litsemir…His son’s name pounded through his senses. He was a phantom, surely a phantom. They had told him of Orodreth’s end, those few Nargothromdrim he had met in the Falas; the dragon had come and the host’s blood was scattered across Tumhalad in wreck irreparable, and Orodreth was lost.

Ai, holy Valar, they had said lost, they had not said slain. His eyes dragged upward once again till he saw the face, half-shrouded in gloom but unmistakable. The slight features, his mother’s silver hair, the sharp slant of his ears which had ever been more pronounced than his siblings. Litsemir…Artaresto… How beautiful he was, even here in the clinging dark; half his face in shadow and half lit by the echo of that long lost light. It danced off of him even as it had when he ran through the valley around Tirion, a shy and quiet child brimming over with laughter. The joy in that face was silenced now, etched in the light as though of stone, too pale and too still.

“Söa, the guest cannot stand.”

There was a pause. Then his son was walking toward him, descending the dais with silent steps, and nearing, nearing…

Finarfin reached out to him with all his thought and at once an unbearable weight crushed his senses. It was pressing forward through a bog, every movement a grim wrench through the will bearing down about him, but he was close, he could feel the ripples about his son’s mind like the shimmer of sea water, he could nearly reach him. And then he touched a wall of ice. His thought flinched back in shock and he shuddered as Orodreth’s hands closed about his wrists and pulled him up from the ground with unexpected strength. The guards who stood yet at his sides took hold of his forearms and his son reached up to retrieve the shackles hanging loose in the air above him without ever looking at his face.

“Litsemir,” Finarfin whispered as the iron locked about his flesh, “Onya…How has he hurt thee, Artaresto?”

The second shackle was fastened about his other wrist and he felt a rising horror through his senses as Orodreth still made no sign of recognition. “Onya! Yéta nin!”

There, at last. The slight twinge along the jaw muscle, the little quiver that ever heralded the first signs of the storm. He was alive, he was here yet within the marble visage.

“Artaresto–” he began again, then broke off with a gasp as the chains drew suddenly taught and he was hauled to his feet, arms stretched painfully above his head.

“You have heard the story of your brother’s ruin, I am certain.” The voice rumbled again through the cracked light. The ever-burning gems lit swaths of the chamber about the throne, but some deep, tangible darkness hovered yet about the visage and Finarfin could see naught beyond the sharp edges of his crown. “So you will know that a crushed fly nevertheless may prove an irritant. Your brother died with a debt unpaid, Finwion.”

The shackles were cutting into the edges of his hands, and his feet scrabbled against stone in an attempt to hold his weight, but he had been lifted just high enough that he could gain little traction and no more than a margin of relief. Which brother, he wondered frantically, his reason spinning the possible scenarios. What would the Foe count in liability? There was movement in the shadows about him and he felt the hair prickle at the back of his neck.

“Seven debts,” the voice continued, “if we are to draw the contract clearly.”

Nolofinwë. His apprehension turned to panic as Elwing’s voice sprang from his memory, quiet and clear, recounting the roll of the dead, calling out their deeds in effigy. And he wounded Morgoth with seven wounds, and seven times Morgoth gave a cry of anguish.

“Litsemir,” Finarfin breathed as his son lingered before him, and he saw the shudder run through his frame. “Onya, do you hear me?”

Once more the hall rumbled with mirthless laughter and a pitch of mockery ran through the words. “Tell him your name, laman,[1] so that he may address you rightly.”

Orodreth hesitated and the shiver rippled across his jaw once more.

“Your name!” The intonation was a snarl now and Finarfin saw his son flinch at the sound.

“I am called Söa Ustation.”[2] The ghost of his child’s voice passed over him, cold and flat, fractured as all the room about him. And in that moment the eyes shifted up at last, blue as the heedless gems his mother once cast along the shores with her laughter, piercing and bright as sea spray, deadened now and glassy.

For the first time Finarfin saw the white lines tracing across his face, a lace-pattern of scarring, and he felt hot fury rising through every vein. Holy Manwë, the number of them…And then he saw that the other too was bound in iron. A band wound around the neck before him and the name he had spoken was etched in repetition about its circumference. Filth, the son of Usurper. An empty chain loop rested below the chin, a mockery of where a gemstone might lie, and its laden potential drew a choked strain of profanity from Finarfin’s lips.

“Söa, call out the debt that he might know it in full.”

There was hardly a hesitation this time before his son’s voice began again in rote recitation. One by one he listed the tally of seven wounds, but Finarfin hardly heard them. His eyes were bound to the threaded scars along the cheekbones, encircling the lips, the brows…Varda, there was not an inch without.

“One blow dealt to the thigh of the left leg, severing the muscle. One blow to the wrist of the sword arm.“

“Onya…” Finarfin pressed hard against his son’s thought, pleading against every edge and crevice he could find. Thou art named Artaresto son of Arafinwë, long-sought and beloved. Thou art named Litsemir son of Eärwen, sea’s jewel and song. The ice shuddered against his touch.

“One blow to the right leg below the knee.”

A slight crack had opened and it was with an effort that Finarfin held back from pouring all his love through it to force the breaking dam. Instead, he rested against the fracture, a hand hovering upon a lintel, and held out the memory of twilight, of his own voice drifting through the air amid the sea-brine and rolling surf, of an infant curled within his arms. The hair upon the tiny head was fine as corn silk and shimmering in the mirrored starlight. Hairanna palan-tírienwa, he had sung, endórellon aldarembinë… [3]

It was brittle now, the barricade between them. A fluttering thing forged of fear.

“One blow piercing beneath the eighth rib.”

Fanoiolossë, lyé liruvan han ëar, si han ëaron!

With a quiver of panic, the resistance gave way and Finarfin’s breath caught in a choke. The expanse before him was as splintered as the gloom about them, a trammeled corridor, flinching and terrified.

“One blow hewing the left foot and rendering it lame.”

The gloom reared up as Orodreth’s voice trailed off into silence. Finarfin saw in the corner of his eye that an Orc captain had moved to stand beside them while the litany was recited. He was tall, a match for Finarfin’s stature, and his face was shaped still with lines of beauty.

“Dutifully have you learned your lessons, laman.” Morgoth’s voice fell nearly to a breath and Finarfin had to strain to hear the words. But he saw Orodreth tense before him as it continued. “Now show them forth.”

The captain stepped forward and held out a knife, long and cruel, and Orodreth’s hand shook as he took the hilt in hand.

Another memory reached through the tenuous brush of thought and Finarfin’s blood ran cold as the fragmented snatches reached him. A dark-haired Elf, vaguely familiar—Gaelon, captain—bound even as Finarfin was now, the same whispered voice of command, the same drowning panic, a hot iron clattering from Orodreth’s hand and his son’s voice sobbing I cannot, I cannot. Then in a burning rush he was struck with nausea, with terror and horror and a relentless barrage of images—the same Elf again, his body variously contorted and mutilated, alive still and screaming—

The memory broke apart as Orodreth stepped forward, and at last he looked up of his own will to meet his father’s eyes. Refuse, said the Foe’s voice in memory, and I shall decide instead what he undergoes.

“One blow dealt to the thigh of the left leg, severing the muscle.” Morgoth’s voice rumbled in the darkness and the knife shook as it hovered in the space between them.

And at once Finarfin’s fear settled into defiance. This, at least, this he could give. He had left his child in the dark of Araman—he had left all of them pressing onward through the clinging mists, every infant he cradled renounced with his retreating steps—but here he would hold him through every step in the darkness.

“One blow dealt to the thigh,” Finarfin echoed, holding his son’s eye, and through the same path he pressed the song once more, the lullaby encircling each precious fragment within its embrace.

A Elentári Tintallë, his spirit sang as the first strike passed through his flesh.

The melody shuddered with pain and his right arm tensed against the coming blow, tyelpë pendas mírilya…

…menelo alcar elerrimbë! He ground his teeth nearly to breaking as he fought back the threatening scream. The third strike landed.

Hairanna palan-tírienwa, he sang. His blood began to pool upon the floor.

“One blow piercing beneath the eighth rib.”

…endórellon aldarembinë, Litsemir was weeping. Hold him fast.

Fanoiolossë, lyé liruvan, he sang as his breath faltered,

…han ëar, si han ëaron! The blade hewed through the bones of his foot and he could no longer hold back a cry as he collapsed against the shackles. He dangled, helpless as the blood ran down his limbs. He was dizzy. He could not hold.

“Atta!” The knife clattered to the ground and his son’s arms were about him, clinging and desperate. The chains cut into the wounded wrists, but at no angle could Orodreth lift him without worsening some other wound.

“Back, Söa. The debt remains.”

“I have done all your bidding!” Orodreth staggered back at once despite the protest, his breath heaving in ragged gasps.

“There is one thing yet lacking,” the voice murmured, “and then this score is settled.”

“Please…” Litsemir whispered, but the captain stepped forward and held out a second tool—four curved spikes, splayed out from a short handle—and he sobbed as he took it within his palm.

Then through the haze, Finarfin saw the Foe lean forward; and through the haze he saw the face pass at last into the light, scarred with deep trenches along each side—the signet seal of Manwë’s messenger.

Finarfin wrapped his thought about his son’s once more, cradling him close as though they walked again along the twilit sea walls, with the tiny face tucked and slumbering against his neck. Then he lifted his head and laughed into the shadow, and once more in the dark he began to sing—aloud now, his voice rasping out the melody of defiance.

“Come forth, O monstrous craven lord, And fight with thine own hand and sword. I wait thee here. Come! Show thy face!” [4]

Then the strike fell and he knew no more.

1. Laman: [Quenya] tame beast 2. Söa: [Quenya] filth; Ustation: [Quenya] misappropriate, supplant, usurp (the son of) 3. A Hymn to Elbereth, in the Tongue of Valinor 4. The Lay of Leithian, Canto XII, Fingolfin and Morgoth

All credit to @that-angry-noldo and @actual-bill-potts for spawning this au that somehow contains both Orodreth and Finarfin in Angband.

RIP, boys, you're their favorites and consequently they've sent you to literal hell.

#birthday gift fic #finarfin #orodreth #that-angry-noldo's AU #i'm very squeamish about violence so sorry if this doesn't do the Horrors justice #but happy birthday noldo!#may all your blorbos have the whumpiest time in celebration #the silmarillion #my fic

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eunoiaastralwings · 7 months

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Hop into my inbox and provide a sentence or a rant about which of much ocs would date/marry and why?

As for my ocs, I have their character sheets but also included a brief - I do recommend you at least scan through the character to get a better understanding as int he briefs i only provided small things.

Anyways - I cannot wait to hear what y'all opinions are. I hope you enjoy - have fun, place nice and anons are allowed.

I'll respond to ever ask - even provide the oc thoughts too so you have interactions with them too :)

Lúthriel Tinuviel: daughter of Beren and Lúthien, twin sister of Dior

brief: she's kind, compassionate, grows attached, a part maia who is insecure about her heterochromia eyes. sometimes has trouble navigating her magic, forced to an immortal because of her powers, lost her twin and parents forever - she's bi!

Quildalótien: Valar daughter of lord Oromë and lady Vána.

brief: Valinor!Quilda has a crazy 4D personality, she will embrace fun in your life. She's wild, crazy and fun - already pranked even Manwë a few times. On dates she will pull you into doing pranks with her. ME!Quilda however is on the opposite sit - she is scared easily and you need shower her with love :) - she's a pansexual! She can grow a vast forest, give herself wings, and create creators like Huan.

Cala: Son of Tilion and Arien

Brief: Cala is caring, sweet. He's a panromatic demisexual. strict to the rules of propriety - scowls and lectures if anyone breaks them. the embodiment of 'turning a joke into a lecture' - but he means well because he doesnt want to see you hurt. Concerned if you do so little as clumsily fall. Maia of lunar eclipses.

Ixalië: Maia of Mandos

brief: after having being bullied, and pushed to her death - she is mean and while Lawful chaotic Good, she has sadistic tendencies! She can be easily manipulated into the dark side so keep a watch over her. She doesn't know what love is -you almost have to teach it do her. She is stubborn, single-minded and a born strategist. She's a pansexual but doesn't know it yet.

Cóloniélë: Maia of Nienna

brief: this poor baby is a heartbroken maia who lost the love of her life to Fëanor. The SIndar meaned her Pelineldes meaning Fading Star Woman - Given to her by the Sindar when she is in middle earth as she a star (referring to the light in her) ready to fade away. She needs to learn to love again - heal her own heart. She was the power to heal you mentally, take away your tears to provide you comfort even though she was soul crushing pain when heals someone too. She's a panromatic demisexual.

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i-did-not-mean-to · 1 month

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Prologue: Eönwë x Gothmog

Let's start...Besides vampires, cabbage, dogs, and bread, crime stories are amongst my favourite things in life!

Special thanks to @cilil (once again) for encouraging me! (and for totally letting me steal her idea!) :D

Pairing: Eönwë x Gothmog

Prompt: Cultural Differences

Words: 1800

Warnings: It's a crime story, there's a dead person...insecurity, flirting, fear of death, threats...the usual :D

Manwë slammed the idiotic laptop the department demanded he use shut vehemently—he had a perfectly good, functional desktop computer, and he could not understand for the life of him why he had to bother with those tiny, cheap, finicky keys.

The news he’d just gotten made him pinch the bridge of his nose in silent exasperation; this one would be bad.

Part of him wanted to go home, imbibe beyond what was reasonable, and crawl into bed beside his resentful wife, but he was too dutiful and cautious to let this get out of hand before it had even started.

Thus, he leaned out of his office to check which one of his underlings was still around so he could pawn off the legwork on some other poor overworked soul.

Eönwë. Manwë sighed. Theoretically, Eönwë had everything it took to be a good detective—athletic, diligent, and graced with a strong moral fibre, he could have known an exceptional career.

Unfortunately, though, he was painfully naïve.

It often seemed almost comical to Manwë how Eönwë could be lucky enough to somehow always be in the right spot at the right time, only to then completely miss the point and bungle an otherwise airtight case.

“Eönwë,” he called, convinced that he’d regret his decision very soon. “A word, please!”

“Yes?” Eager as a puppy and just as energetic, the golden-haired man all but bounded into the elegantly furnished room. “What can I do?”

At once, Manwë rued his ungenerous thoughts.

“I’ve just been informed that there has been a homicide,” he explained cautiously. “This could potentially become a high-profile case—be warned—but I need someone to look into this, first thing in the morning.”

“And you want me to go?” Eönwë’s voice vacillated between hope and disbelief. “I’d love to!”

“Hold your horses,” Manwë cut in sharply. “Someone lies dead even as we speak.”

He took another deep, steadying breath. “It’s Fëanor.”

“The tech-magnate?” His big, blue eyes widening even further in horror and alarm, Eönwë leaned forward as if suspecting that he had suffered an auditory hallucination.

“Yes,” Manwë grunted. “The very same. It was Melkor—that much is clear to me. All I need you to do is…prove it. Do you think you can do that?”

Any other detective of his rank would have objected to being demoted to doing the hard, tiring, and unsatisfying grunt work, especially as his boss had already settled on a culprit, but Eönwë beamed with humbling gratitude. “Will do, boss! I won’t let you down!”

Manwë half-lifted one hand to detain the other, but then, he dropped it again listlessly.

“I’ll go sniff around their usual haunts tonight. Afterwork beer…and I’ll report on what I’ve found tomorrow morning!” Eönwë chirped, tearing his coat from a crooked hanger, and rushing towards the double doors.

Torn between the knowledge that he put too much pressure on the poor fool and his desperate desire to see Melkor brought to justice, Manwë gnawed on his lower lip in torturous indecision until the last chance to dissuade Eönwë was lost.

No matter, he told himself. It was better that he was alone for this—he still had work to do on this night, and what he had planned was not exactly legal.

Melkor frowned at his phone.

“What is it, my love?” Mairon asked, his voice as smooth and soothing as velvet. His eyes, though, were sharp as blades and twice as gleaming.

“That is for you to tell me,” Melkor, founder of Angband Inc.—a company which had been inexorably doomed before Mairon had intervened—muttered distractedly. “Manwë just texted me that he’ll get me this time.”

“Manwë?” Crossing the room with quick, precise steps, Mairon snatched the device out of Melkor’s huge paw and stared at the bright screen with murderous intensity.

Of course, there was neither number nor signature—Manwë would never commit so obvious and deleterious a mistake—but he agreed with his lover; this message could only have come from one person.

“I am going to find out what happened,” he promised Melkor. “And how bad it is for us.”

“Not tonight,” Melkor objected. He rarely pulled rank, as they both knew that those titles were but smoke and mirrors, but Mairon could clearly discern that the other would brook no opposition on this subject. “I need you with me tonight. Just in case we have to establish an alibi for whatever crime we’re being framed for.”

“Give me just a second, precious,” Mairon pleaded, pressing a comforting kiss onto Melkor’s high, smooth brow. “I’ll order take-out, and then we’ll go home.”

As soon as he was out of earshot, Mairon did call the restaurant—he called Gothmog, friend and henchman, first, though.

“Go out, please. Just…have a few drinks and listen to the latest gossip, would you?”

“Sure thing,” Gothmog rumbled at the other end of the line. “I’ll be in tomorrow morning with whatever intel I can gather. Good night to you two!”

Schooling his face into an optimistically calm expression, Mairon slipped back into Melkor’s office. “It’s taken care of…let’s go!”

Eönwë was not in the habit of frequenting seedy bars after nightfall, but he didn’t want to leave anything to chance on this one.

After his last regrettable failure to apprehend a proven perpetrator, he had been condemned to desk duty, and he’d half-expected never to make it out on a big case again.

Once more, Manwë had placed his trust in him, though, and he would not disappoint his mentor and role model this time.

Unable to dispel the proud, smug expression on his angelic face, he entered the run-down establishment Melkor and his posse were known to frequent.

“Baby, have you lost your way?” Thuri, a long-limbed beauty purred, leaning against the counter of the dirty bar with a wicked smile.

Anyone who had talked to her for more than 2 minutes knew that she was not in the least interested in men, but that generally didn’t stop her from flirting outrageously with every breathing organism in her immediate vicinity.

Eönwë cleared his throat and tugged on his lucky pendant nervously. He didn’t want to be rude, but the woman with the half-shaved head and the innumerable, flashing piercings made him slightly uneasy.

“No,” he squeaked and nodded at the unlabelled bottles, lined up on a wonky shelf behind her. “Make it a double!”

“Right away, darling,” she drawled and twisted to grab a grimy container in which an amber liquid sloshed around ominously.

“Have you heard the news?” Eönwë asked brazenly, trying to emulate the bored, weary demeanour of his senior colleagues, and hoping that his bright-eyed eagerness was not all too noticeable.

“What news?” A deep, grumbling voice resounded from a dark corner of the counter.

Whirling around in alarm, Eönwë felt his determinedly set jaw slacken alarmingly. If the overabundance of black eyeliner and the torn tank top on the barkeeper had made his stomach lurch, the man staring at him unblinkingly positively turned his insides to goo.

Impossibly tall and broad, the mountain of muscle and flashing teeth reminded the young detective of a large predator, lazily eyeing his clueless prey.

“The bloke with the autonomous energy source was offed,” Eönwë replied, dragging his thumb over his throat dramatically even though he didn’t yet know what exactly had happened to wretched Fëanor.

This seemed to interest the mesmerising stranger for he slid off his barstool noiselessly and padded over. “Is that so? Do they know what happened? Oh, they’ll probably send out some newbie before declaring that there wasn’t enough evidence.”

“How would I know?” Eönwë squawked, miffed by the unwitting insult.

“Baby,” Thuri chuckled, setting down a water-stained glass on a worn coaster and giving the other patron a warning glance, “the cheap suit, the giddy smile, and the evident discomfort have given you away as soon as you’ve walked in. You’re here to pump us for clues—so, I’ve got to ask…police or press?”

Instantly, Eönwë—who had hitherto believed himself to be an acceptable actor—deflated.

“Police,” he admitted dejectedly.

“We don’t know anything,” Thuri declared firmly. “This is the first time I’ve heard about this. Whoever killed that ass did the world a favour in my opinion.”

“Hmmm, he was involved in a few conflicts,” Eönwë conceded, trying hard not to scrunch up his face as he tried to find another angle to get to the reason for his nightly excursion. “Didn’t he take someone to court over a theft claim?”

“Mel,” Thuri nodded, then froze. “You don’t think…”

The atmosphere noticeably shifted, and her whole deportment grew hostile.

Before Eönwë could back out of a room full of angry faces, a huge hand was clasped around his upper arm like a vice.

“With me,” the enigmatic giant hissed and dragged Eönwë out the back door.

The last thing the poor detective saw was his untouched glass being swept off the counter—Thuri even wiped the condensation ring off the oily bar. It was as if he had never been there, and he did not doubt for a second that—if asked about it—every single soul in that accursed hole would swear that they’d never seen him once his mangled corpse was found.

“Don’t make that face.” His would-be assaulter laughed. “I am not going to hurt you—I want to help you. I’m Gothmog, and I work with and for Melkor.”

Flinching, Eönwë felt panic rise in his throat.

“Relax. I’m almost sure that my boss didn’t do this…and I’ll help you prove it.”

“You and the vixen in there?” Eönwë asked, the sarcasm he was aiming for thoroughly foiled by the distinct note of perplexed longing in his voice.

“Thuri? She’s into women, don’t get any funny ideas,” Gothmog said good-humouredly. “No, just you and me. You stick out like a sore thumb, and—for all your good intentions—you seem to be less observant than recommendable.”

Of course, Eönwë knew that he should not agree to so ludicrous and borderline amoral an offer, but neither the idea of dying beside a smelly trashcan nor the thought of letting Manwë down again sounded like a better option.

“I’ll have a briefing with my boss tomorrow,” he finally sighed. “Let’s meet here around noon—we’ll see how to proceed from there, deal?”

Nodding gravely, Gothmog let go of his arm at long last. “Deal! Don’t run—I’ll find you.”

“I didn’t intend to,” Eönwë replied in an embarrassingly petulant tone.

“We’ll get to the bottom of this,” Gothmog promised. “I’ll see what I can find out on our end. Our very smart, but also quite scary lawyer has dug up a good deal of dirt on Fëanor; I am sure there’s something useful in there!”

So, that was the prologue of this <3

Lots of love from me!

-> Masterlist

#og post #Fanfiction #writing #IDNMT writes #jrrt #Tolkien fanfiction #Masterlist #NSFT #NSFT rarepair bingo #rare pairs #Prologue #Eönwë x Gothmog #Firebird #Eönwë #Gothmog #Cultural Differences

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