#mairon/reader

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Snippet of what to look forward to this Friday

“So be it then,” Mairon said. He turned his attention to the door. One of the Balrogs was singing. Their deep voice rang around the halls and chambers like rumbling thunder. It was not unpleasant to hear. “Now come, y/n. You have toiled in here long enough. It is time you indulged in some amusement and gave yourself some relief. Lord Melkor is presently away. Your designs for Ungoliant can wait until he returns.” “But I do not need relief,” you said, as you walked around setting the chamber to rights. The discarded quills and empty bottles of ink you placed in a rough-hewn chest. The parchment you arranged into neat little stacks, each according to their own theme. Then you went to the windows, and closed the shutters. “Why would I need relief, pray?”

From "Silk" - A smutty Mairon/Fem. Reader story

A/n: This is still a WIP. The text could change here and there during editing.

[sh1-n0bu]

i have noticed a small pattern of elves being on my latest fictional character obsessions and HEAR ME OUT!!

elf who has lived for hundreds upon thousands of years, who had experienced many of the things the world has to offer. sadness of bidding hundreds of farewells to the beauty of life and alliance of different races

elf who even after all his years of living still yet to find a love for himself. regal and seemingly detached to the concepts of relationships elves may be, even they get lonely. some nights feeling a little bit too long, a little bit too cold as they add another layer of blanket over themselves or reaching over to hug one of his puffy pillows like how he would hug his future lover. the coldness of being immortal seeping into his bones and making him shiver despite elves being above the concept of getting sick or feeling the cold temperatures

elf who runs into you by some chance meeting. maybe you were walking in the territory of elves without knowing it, maybe he purposely goes to human residences and towns, seeking adventure, excitement and change of pace. who immediately is enamored by you just by your smile that you flash his way, a kind one, a gentle one, to a nearby passenger. who falls in love with the callouses of your hand, the freckles, the small scars, the little bits of imperfection that marked you as clearly human, very much mortal, very much brittle but still with your own strength that he hasn’t felt before

elf bf who starts to court you the moment he realizes that you weren’t seeing anyone, bringing small gifts, exchanging knowledge, singing you soft ancient lullabies that no other mortal has ever heard before. maybe he finds himself writing a poem about you one day, describing your looks, your feelings, your everyday actions that you may see as mundane but ones he sees as just as courageous and beautiful in their own ways

elf bf who has never seen human flesh or bare skin before, finding the rippling biceps and toned legs of yours to be… curious. a tentative finger touching the muscles here and there, stopping you mid work as he inquires about them in a soft tone. elves of course were magical beings, blessed with magic and eternity and had no need to develop visible physical muscles till the point they become buff or beefy to some extent all due to their magic and ancient powers. the tips of his pointy ear twitching softly, eyes wide in wonder as you explain that contrary to his kin, your own develop muscles if they are put to work in physically demanding job for enough time

elf bf who over time, finds himself obsessively scribbling down any sort of new information about human anatomy on a journal, always asking you new things as he finds himself able to learn more despite having been alive for hundreds upon thousands of years. tracing the old faded scars on your body with the tip of his finger, counting the freckles, kissing the stretch marks as they were all you. regardless of how you see it, to him it was all you, together and healthy. you were alive even if you may have battle scars and he always makes sure to thank the stars as it was thanks to the tribulations you have conquered that you two were here now. staring eye to eye, touching your foreheads together as you whisper about mundane things

elf bf who one day sees you cut down a tree, cut a log off or prepare firewood and finds that he was imagining the bulge of your muscles against himself. big arms caging him in a bear hug, legs to support him and strong back that he could sink his nails into as he moans under you— hold. since when has his thoughts of you turned… impure? since when has he become turned on? sitting there on one of the logs with a painful strain against his pants as he swallowed the saliva that gathered in his jaw down, tearing his gaze away. no no, he really shouldn’t think of you as such, you were still in courting phase after all and elves were a race that took their romances and courting extremely important

yet regardless of his kin’s customs and traditions, your pretty elf bf couldn’t help but continue to stare. his gaze constantly seeking your figure out, seeing you just go through the motions of every life peacefully while he gets pathetically turned on by your actions as if he was still but a fledgling who learned of a kiss. chopping down trees for firewood, maybe you would work in front of a fire or heat for too long and get sweaty, removing one of the overtunics. maybe you’re just simply dragging a bucket full of water from the well, cranking the pulley as the muscles on your arms and back strained

elf bf who finds himself extremely aroused as his mind wanders to the gutters as he just shamelessly stares at your working form. oh, to feel those calloused hands touch his colder skin, palms smoothening over his creamy skin, and down his chest, his stomach and over his bulge. maybe you would tease the poor thing, tease him of how quick he is to get aroused, the pre of his half-hard cock weeping through his underwear and pants like he was some sore pathetic loser. a little virgin. bully him about being unable to use his cock, make him whine at your mean words as his hips weakly buckle under your exploratory hands

elf bf who couldn’t help but imagine the usual sweetness of your attitude gone, replaced by one that was just a tad bit meaner as you pushes his face down into the pillows of your bed, force his hands to stretch open his puckering hole for you to fuck senselessly. imagining you whispering all sorts of filth into his twitching ears, promising to breed him full, to use him to your heart’s content all night long as he whines and squeals like a little lamb caught in the nest of a hungry wolf. who couldn’t swallow down the quiet whimper coming from his throat as he imagined your hand grasping at his long locks, fisting it tightly as you yank him back, forcing him to arch his back and push the tip of your cock to bruise his guts even more

elf bf who waves off your worry when you had managed to hear the embarrassing noise that slipped past his lips, saying that he was having a bit of a sore throat. gods, he would love to actually whimper from having a sore throat of getting his mouth plowed all day by your fat cock head forcing his jaws wiiideee open

elf bf who couldn’t help but get a little needy in his kisses since then. hands that touched your muscles with curiosity now running over your skin as if trying to feebly seduce you. dropping things to the ground a bit too many times, following you close behind even as you told him that some of the work you needed to do required space and for him to be away for his own safety. who straddles your lap all snug, pushing his chest flush against your own as your simply daily evening kisses after dinner becomes a bit too heated. he definitely had little to no experience with the way his tongue kept licking at your lips meagerly, long fingers curling over your shoulders tightly while his bucking hips on your lap as he starts to get hard again

elf bf who has finally had enough of just his meager imaginations, tugging on the strings of your white tunic with shaky hands as he rambles about touching you, you touching him, feeling him, using him — anything dammit! use those hands of yours on him!

elf bf who soon realizes that he had perhaps bitten off more than he could chew when your hands grip at his hips, dragging his clothed cock against your thigh that had him whining like a cat in heat. meagerly, he tries to replicate what you just made him do, dragging his hips back and forth on your thigh but he all but just looks like an inexperienced bunny. which he probably was judging by the things he spoke to you about himself

elf bf who finds so much pleasure in simply grinding against your thigh for now, the precum of his now hard cock weeping through his pants, staining it into a darker color. all cute and red in the face that spread to his pointy ears, cute high pitched whines falling from his chewed up pink lips. a cute, surprised “a-aahn♡︎??” echoing in the room as you pull his eager body against your own. your chest to his back, hands loosely draped over the hip bone of his

elf bf who lets out the most embarrassing high pitched squeals when your hands travel up his body under his clothes, traveling more and more until teasing at his nipples. rolling your fingertips against the soft areola, squeezing and fondling his pecks as if they were breasts. who jolts in place when you pinch at the hardened buds, tugging at them to test the waters as he arches his back off of your chest, a filthy mewl falling as if he was being fucked stupid already

elf bf who blubbers out uncharacteristic words of “s-shensiitiivgh♡︎ n-no, don’t pinch the-eeengk♡︎♡︎!“ his pleads of your rough hands not torturing his sensitive nipples being replaced with an open mouthed wail when you place a kiss to the pointy tip of his ear. his ears were so sensitive! you knew that and now you were just being downright mean to him as you whisper filth into his ears of acting like a cooped up virgin for merely getting his chest played with. he wasn’t! he was way older than you! slurring out “how c-could you be sooh m-meanngk…♡︎?” as you lick a slow stripe up the pointy helix

elf bf who bucks his hips on your thigh, trying to bounce, trying to move away but ending up whining as his clothed cock grazes against your hardened muscles again. his cute nipples being tortured and groped by your hands, the delicate helix of his ears being assaulted by your wet kisses and licks. any time your hot breath spoke into his ears of how he was such a precious little thing, just like a bunny in heat, he would try to wiggle away. shaking his head with a weak sniffle, his mind churning into a mush as all he could do was to pathetically fuck his cock into your thigh, letting out a soft mewl everytime you buck your leg up to meet his shy excuse of thrusts, jumping in place

elf bf whose minds and body starts to feel weird. the room feeling stifling and your touch making his own skin heat up too much. who tries to tell you that he was feeling ‘odd’ and concerned, yet only to harshly thrust his hips back into your own arousal. eyes widening, a shudder running down his spine at the feeling. still clothed and hidden like his own but good grief, it just felt… so huge since he was sure your human dick couldn’t possibly be much bigger than his own. but no, it got him gulping down the saliva in his mouth

elf bf who bounces himself experimentally onto your own hardened, covered dick, feeling his balls brush against where he guesses is the tip of your strap. his earlier cute whines growing in volume as your torture of his sensitive spots grow worse, groping, squeezing, calling him too eager to get fucked, making him dumb and airheaded. the constant tugs to his chest, the words you spat into his mind so lovingly and the small actions of your hips thrusting up to meet his own weaker excuse of grinding

elf bf who’s voice grow more and more breathier, who finally loses it as he throws himself back against your chest, his head on your shoulder as he let out a wail of “h-hoowt!! t-too ahgg♡︎ haah anhg t-too hoounwt...♥︎!” as he cums into his pants, dirtying the material as a single glob or two of his sweet transparent arousal oozes out through the linen. the dark patch growing into a considerable size, his body racked with twitches and jolts as he cums untouched on your lap. precious little thing getting drunk on the feeling of sex and physical pleasure so much till the point he disregards all of his traditions, bending himself over onto the bed, his hand reaching back to tug you forward by the belt with a desperate whine and a cute blown wide pupils and twitching ears♡︎

⇨ meludir, lindir, legolas, maglor, mairon + whoever you like

[thirteenducks]

feverish

(wriothesley x wife!reader) [sfw]

༻❁༺ content: fem!reader (reader is referred to by ‘wife’ and "she/her"), established relationship, marriage, reader has hair long enough to reach neck

༻❁༺ word count: ~1.5k

༻❁༺ tags: sickfic, banter while sick, this is just wrio taking care of you and being a butt while doing it, feat. sigewinne who does not get paid enough for this, if you are sick and reading this rn im so sorry and i hope you get well soon, coldsink wrio x heatsource wife agenda

༻❁༺ author’s note: my friend @mmmairon is sick and i am in another country and cannot help so i'm sending wrio on my behalf. pls enjoy especially if you don't feel well right now :(

After a restless night, Wriothesley is thrilled to hear that you're awake now. He wastes no time in rushing to your side.

Wriothesley’s pen scratches unpleasantly against a disciplinary notice, its point threatening to carve into the wood of the desk beneath. The owner mutters darkly under his breath as he completes a signature on the offending paper and slides it to his left. Immediately, another takes its place from the stack on his right.

For two hours, nothing else has broken the quiet of the Duke’s office. Two hours too long, by Wriothesley’s measure. He glances at the clock, hand continuing to sign his name by sheer muscle memory.

Are you getting any rest? Did the chamomile from your tea an hour ago help at all, or are the throes of fever keeping you awake? Does he have the right ingredients to make you beef stew? Preoccupied, he writes “soup” on the signature line of a prisoner release form by mistake.

He sighs, pinching the crooked bridge of his nose between his fingers. They’re as cold as ever. He misses the warmth of yours unspeakably.

The next thirty minutes pass like an eternity. Surely, Sigewinne would be at his side in an instant if you were awake. His presence there now would only serve to wake you from much-needed rest and defer his backlog of paperwork even more. Neither of these points keeps him from staring the clock down like he’s in the ring again.

Suddenly, there’s a quiet knock on his door and Wriothesley snaps to attention, nearly knocking over an inkwell in his haste. Sigewinne enters without his bidding, an unreadable expression on her kind face. She doesn’t wait for his question before she answers it.

“Yes, the tea put her to sleep, and yes, she’s awake now.”

His features relax in a moment, the furrow in his brow smoothing.

“I’m afraid she’s not any better than she was this morning, however. I would have really liked to see her fever come down by now...” The Melusine trails off, her small hand on her chin and a pout on her face. “The chill probably isn’t doing her much good, either.”

Her boss, however, is already halfway downstairs, pulling his coat on as he takes the steps two at a time. Sigewinne sighs as she turns to follow him at a much slower pace. So predictable when his wife is involved.

In contrast to the speed at which he crosses the fortress to your shared living quarters, Wriothesley’s steps are soft as he nears your bedroom door.

“Sweetheart? Are you up?”

A weak cough answers him. He’s by the bedside in a moment, kneeling and pushing aside the curtain that hides you from him. Your eyes squint a bit as the sickly light of the fortress filters in, and his hand moves up to shield your face as he appears in your field of vision.

Despite the red ringing your eyes and nose and the congestion in your breathing, you smile up at him and his heart almost jumps out of his chest.

“Hi, darling.”

The side of his mouth quirks up. “Hi. Feeling any better?”

You shake your head slightly, your hair fanning out on the pillow beneath you. He silently gathers it in one hand and moves it away from your neck as he waits for you to continue. The brush of his cool hand against your flushed skin feels incredible and you bring your hand to rest on his, a silent entreaty to keep it there.

“Sigewinne says I’m in the worst of it now and that from here-” you stop to cough, Wriothesley’s eyes raking over your frame as it shakes with the effort. “-from here it should be uphill. As long as I can rest up today.”

He pushes the hair back from your forehead with his other hand, stroking it absentmindedly. “Well, we’ll have to stick it out until tomorrow then, huh?” The grin he shoots you, all teeth, does more for you than you think any of the medicine on your bedside table has.

That’s why you’re as surprised as he is when the tears start to roll down your cheeks. You hadn’t even known they were there until now, but suddenly it’s so much harder to breathe than it was and Wriothesley is a swimming blur in front of you. The shooting pain in your head, dulled to an ache until now, comes back in full force as your body curls in on itself and your temple meets your husband’s shoulder.

You don’t know if you’re crying from the headache, from exhaustion, or from something else, and your mind is too foggy to care. All you can do is be held as his arms come to rest firmly around you and he pulls you to him, murmuring words of comfort.

“Oh, sweetheart, I’m so sorry... I wish I could do more.” Your hands grip his collar a little tighter as you sob into the juncture of his neck and shoulder. “I know, love. You’ll feel better soon, I promise. Sigewinne and I are gonna take care of everything, okay?”

There’s an edge of concern to his voice that you can hear even through the haze of sickness. You hate it. It’s likely just the seasonal flu; half the Fortress has had it at some point this winter. The thought of how much you were making him worry over something so small as this...

“I know what you’re thinking. Stop it,” Wriothesley gently reprimands, his cool fingers stroking your forehead again. You can feel the cold metal of his wedding ring against the heated skin. “You’re not being a baby about anything. You hear me?”

Your silence speaks volumes. He laughs a little, the sound loud in the silence of your bedroom. “I know you well, don’t I?”

It takes a while for your tears to completely subside. When you’re finished sniffling against his collar, he props you up against the headboard with pillows behind your back. You’re more congested than ever, something your husband has the nerve to laugh at as he hands you tissues, but there’s no unkindness in his tone.

He disappears into the kitchen for a few minutes as you doze, exhausted from the effort of crying for so long. When he eases the door open again, he’s carrying a tray with a teacup and pot (of course) and a bowl of something that smells warm and comforting.

“Hmm. Excellent room service this place has. The waiter is a little scruffy, though,” you say as Wriothesley places it on your lap, tucking in the covers around you.

He gives you a fake look of injury. “How dare you, ma’am. I’ll have you know I’m too worried about my wife to shave, who I’m afraid is deathly ill,” he sighs, stroking the stubble on his jaw. He spoons soup into your mouth before you can retort, stifling a smile.

Once you’ve drained half the soup, Wriothesley seems satisfied. He removes the tray from your lap and takes your hand, bringing it to his own forehead.

“Oh, no. How awful.” He shoots you a glance. “It appears the Duke of the Fortress has come down with something.”

You raise an eyebrow. His forehead is as cool as the rest of him is. “Really.”

“Oh, yes,” he says, flopping onto your lap. “It looks like he’ll be out of the office for the rest of the day.”

You laugh, wincing when it makes your head throb. “The Duke sounds like a slacker, if you ask me.”

“Well, everyone knows that,” Wriothesley murmurs, burying his face into your thigh. “They’ll have to tell my boss about it.” You feel him grin against your leg.

You sigh, feigning exasperation. “What a shame. I was just about to ask him to dinner, too.”

Wriothesley has migrated to his side of the bed by now and is nestling into your side with the stubbornness of a dog. “Don’t worry, I hear he’s a messy eater. Absolute carnivore.”

Your hands come to rest on his head, the soft grey strands tickling your palms. “You know you’re going to get sick, right? I’m highly contagious.”

No answer.

“You’re the head of the Fortress, Wrio. If you get laid up, Sigewinne might put a bounty out on you. She seems like the type.”

Your husband murmurs into your side, already half-asleep. “She’ll have to catch me first.”

Despite your many blankets and the body next to you, a sudden chill runs through you and you stiffen. He feels it, arms tightening around your waist.

“Fever pills are on the bedside in the white bottle. Water is next to it.”

You smile. “Thank you, darling.” He hums in response.

A few days later, you’re well enough to leave your room again. Sigewinne would be thrilled, if not for your husband, who looks more smug than any sick man has a right to be.

He sniffles, burrowing into your sheets again as the Melusine glares daggers at him. “I’ll be fine. My wife loves me and I have leftover soup in the fridge. What else does a man need?”

[tar-thelien]

Look I´m a full believer that you should ship what you want and not harass others for their ships BUT

Lately on the Sauron/Mairon tag I´ve seen some people say he wouldn´t be interested in men!??!? Like I´m sorry to break it to you but he literally saw the most beautiful woman to ever exist and instead of thinking about his own desires he instantly thought "my boss would be so proud of me if I gave her to him."

WHAT´S NOT GAY ABOUT THAT CREATURE!?!??!?

Also on a smaller note the few posts that say Sauron could NEVER be gay are literally calling people weird for shipping him with men?? So, could we please just go back to shipping the mass murder with who we want to and stop bothering others with who they ship him with?? No?

So ship who you want and have fun, talk with those who ship the same and all that, but don´t go in and accuse others for having the wrong ship :)

EDIT: just to make sure everyone understands I DON´T IN ANY WAY SUPPORT PEOPLE WHO POLICE SHIPS OR SHAME PEOPLE FOR THEIR SHIP OR ACCUSING THEM OF NOT FOLLOWING CANON ETC ship who you want and don´t bother people who have another ship and try to "teach" them about your ship if they don´t ask for it.

[nataliabdraws]

narien and sauron (tar-mairon) in their high priest and priestess of melkor era

[dreamlandcreations]

Imagine accepting Annatar's proposal...

Imagine accepting Annatar's proposal after centuries of him trying to court you...

He knew you had doubts despite your feelings for him being so clear from the beginning, and he understood your reasoning, to be hesitant to bind yourself to someone for eternity was normal. After all, it can't be undone. He understood, even if you did not share all your thoughts on the matter. Or at least he thought he did.

For your mind changed suddenly and without explanation but after so many years you claimed to be ready to bind yourself to him. He made you a ring on the same day, not silver for engagement but gold to call you his as soon as he could.

Neither of you wanted a big celebration so you didn't share the news with anyone yet. You wanted this moment to be yours only.

He said the sacred vows first, declaring his intent, calling upon the One to make the union unbreakable, he named you as his chosen, then he waited for you to do the same before you could consummate your marriage.

He was holding you close, caressing your cheeks as he smiled at you lovingly, eyes glistening with untold emotions while you started your vow. His expression changed into mild terror when, instead of the name he went by in Eregion these days, you used the name he was first given, the one you shouldn't know to associate with him, the one no one called him in literal ages because people didn't think him worthy of it anymore.

Yet here you were, saying it with so many different meanings. A sign of acceptance, a challenge, a chance, an offer, a surrounder of more than your knowledge of his true identity but your very soul that could now belong to him if he chose to take that last step...

[waterlooletterwrb]

WRITE WITH ME!

I will start, and you can use the reblog to continue this story however you desire! The idea is that post by post we do a longer story (but if you wanna post your version somewhere else feel free to do so, you just remember to credit me!).

The One rule: You can't gender the Elf!Reader character.

If you need, add more warnings to your post!

OTP: Mairon (Sauron) x Elf!Reader

Universe: Rings of Power / Tolkien

Warnings: main character death, angst, blood, "you can fix him" plot;

Summary: You're the one who stole the Dark Lord's heart, yet you're dying in his arms.

A Forbidden Promise

"Don't go. I — I cannot follow you there. You can't go. You can't go." His voice was frenetic, desperate in a way the dark lord never sounded. How could he not be? You're dying in his arms, the only sweet touch, warmth, love he's ever known. And he will never be able to follow you to Mandos. "Please, I will never be able to go with you there, please."

His plea sounds like he wants to go tho. A begging, maybe the first time in more than two ages that Mairon of the Maiar actually regrets his choices. In you he found his perfection. And now he would lose it. Was that the vengeance of the Valar?

You raise your weak hand, resting it on this face. With your thumb you wipe one of the tears from his cheek. Even now he is as beautiful as the first time you saw each other.

"I — I will come back. For you, I will come back." Your voice is not much more than an whisper. Yet, somehow you make a disbelieving smile appears on his lips.

"Who would give up paradise for me? For Sauron?" The name disgust you as much as it disgust him, and your face probably shows it because he sighs. "If you're leaving me, at least leave saying the truth. It's too... cruel to say it. For I never hoped before."

That makes you give him a pity sad smile. Ignoring the pain, you do everything you can to raise yourself. He holds you tighter, his warmth is what you need to concentrate even when your vision starts to fade.

"Mairon, endanya¹. Hear the last words of the one who stole your heart." This make you see for one last time the sweet smile that he only ever directed to you. "As I promised once, I will never lie to you."

He presses his forehead against yours. For the last time you breathe the same air. "So I dare to command you, Mairon or whatever name you desire to hear now: learn to hope." I little cry escapes your lips, and you feel his hands tremble where he holds you, for a moment you lose your mind and all you can hear is the blood dripping. It's a shame, his always beautiful tunics will forever be stained within your blood now.

Even so, he won't stop holding you. So you do everything you can to reassure him again. He needs to understand, he must believe.

"Learn to hope." You mumble. "For I shall return to you."

You no longer can see or feel, your hand falling from his face is the first sign you went to the undying lands. But you were right. And Mairon, Sauron, does not let you go. He holds you tightly, in a crying so long it's impossible to believe that that destroyed and devastated being was once Morgoth's heir.

The grief is too much and, when he finally let you, there's no one to hear but the wind while he whispers:

"I — I'm yours to command, endanya. I will hear whatever name you call me. I will do whatever you wish. I will hope — I will hope for you."

A promise and a threat. Because in his soul he knows; you were the only one that could stop what's coming for Middle Earth. You were the only one that could stop him.

So now even the wind hopes. You need to return.

••••••••••••••••

Endanya¹ = if i did the word correctly it should be quenya for "my love/my soul", but in a deeper way of calling the one you love "your everything". In my mind, when Sauron says it he is also telling that the reader is his light.

[two-white-butterflies]

CHANGED | part one

Description: You have found that there are different types of love. Self-serving ones who grovel when abandoned in pity for themselves. However, there is another greater form of love, one that creates life. What happens when your husband uses you in the creation of the rings?

Pairing: Annatar/Reader reincarnation trope that i am a sucker for

Mairon — admirable, splendid, and gorgeous.

Your husband is perhaps the greatest maia to ever grace the lands, his gentle touch, his kind smile, his beautiful auburn hair — and his strong shoulders that you have found yourself massaging as of the late. "You are spending far too much time in Lord Aulë's smiths." You opened your mouth to speak, while continuing to massage his back.

"We are doing good work, my love." He defends.

The way that his eyes glitter at the slight of crafting, he brings the finest little treasures to your shared home every day. He creates stories behind the treasures, claiming them to have come from distant lands — you always answer him with a giggle, and he finishes every tale by telling you that he only made it up.

"We spend little time together. I've missed you." You sigh.

He turns to look at you — his eyebrows merged together, eyes filled with concern. "I apologize, lover." He pouts, and you press a kiss to his lips. "...and our child has longed for you too." You place a hand on your stomach. "Aulë says that a great darkness grows," Mairon says.

Goosebumps travel down your spine as you remember whispers of Melkor's darkness, he has always gone against Eru Illuvatar. "He visited the gardens yesterday, Iellas and I were looking for fruits for today's feast. He spoke to us, told us that this world is flawed." You informed, feeling the dread pool in the pit of your stomach.

Mairon rises to his feet.

He looks deep inside of your eyes, searching for any trace of — an emotion that you are unfamiliar with. "You must not speak of that encounter to anyone else, tell Iellas to do the same," Mairon commanded, his voice firm.

"We must tell someone. If Melkor seeks to sew discord — create a conflict that cannot be resolved by mere words, then the very peace of our realm is thrown in limbo." You whispered, afraid that anyone else would be able to hear. "Eru Illuvatar sees all." Mairon affirmed.

You wanted to argue with him — tell him that a dark cloud follows after Melkor, a cloud that you are sure obscures Illuvatar's vision. You stare deep into his eyes again, allowing those sea-green orbs to bring you peace. Mairon knows better. His power exceeds yours.

"— as his children, we must fight against temptation. It is our test." His eyebrows relaxed, but you could sense that there was a deeper meaning to his words. In his eyes, you could see conflict, of both light and darkness, of safety and reckoning. "I see no future in following Melkor's faith. No one shall follow after him, for no one shall desire to leave this paradise." You stated.

Valinor is beautiful — its green fields, warmth, and its promise of eternal peace. Only a fool would leave. Only a fool would follow after a dark mist of dread.

He cups your cheeks with his hands. He presses a soft kiss on your lips. You inhale his scent of roses. "We do not have to worry about that — because we are safe here. The whims of the Valar are beyond our hold, we can only do what makes us happy." He smiles.

"I love you, lover."

"I love you most,"

Mairon slowly turned distant after that, he'd make up excuses — tell you that there was work needed to be done in Lord Aulë's smiths. He'd wake up early in the morning and sleep late in the night. He'd whisper in your ears — all the ways that this world is flawed, all the creations of Illuvatar that are broken.

His songs, which used to feel like feathers and bamboo leaves, now turned grim, reminding you of rocks grinding upon rocks. You tried to intervene...you tried to help him, but one day he just left, without a note, without a word, without a goodbye.

The light that used to fill your child with strength now dwindled like their father — their movements became little, until one day, you were sure that there was no longer life inside of your stomach.

"You are the fairest of Illuvatar's creations," Yavanna's voice echoed throughout the large chambers. "I feel your light." She adds.

"Lady Yavanna, there is no life left for me to live." You opened your mouth to speak, and after centuries of crying and mourning your beloved and child, all joy has shaken off your body.

You kept your eyes on the floor, bowing in the presence of the Valar. Great darkness has consumed these lands and corrupted its people, even your husband, who was more powerful than you. "The Grey Havens exist to provide us with peace. It saddens me that you cannot find it here," Yavanna tilts her head.

"I do not wish to be...How I am jealous of mankind, for their souls can leave this sphere, unlike mine, unlike ours." You breathed.

How beautiful it must be, the feeling of release. The feeling of not having to be in this world anymore, simply a spirit or an energy that floats, incapable of thought, incapable of action, finished in existing.

"It is not death that your spirit seeks, but the privilege of forgetting." Yavanna looks deep inside your thoughts, feeling your memories flow through her veins. "Do you wish to forget, child? To have a new beginning?" She inquires, she is not the most merciful of the Valar, but she sees herself inside of you — she loves Aulë in the same way that you love Mairon, and the thought of her lover being pried out of her hands, it makes her shiver.

"If you will allow me, my lady." You say with hidden pleading.

Yavanna raises her hand — and everything turns to black.

Halbrand — veiled, hidden, shadowed.

You always hated staring at the sea, your mother says that the Grey Havens are always waiting for you out there — but it sounds so dreadful being stuck there, unable to do anything, unable to speak to any other creature besides elf and valar.

But now, you are stuck in the middle of sea, drowning because you refused to learn how to swim.

"Help me, please!" You scream, and a man helps you on his raft. The 'man' gives you a thin-lipped smile, saving you before you can inhale seawater. A cough escapes your mouth, feeling the unforgiving sun kiss your bare skin. "Thank you," you breathed.

The man standing in front of you is ... strange.

He has long brown hair that reaches past his neck. He has a charming beard and a mysterious fea. "What are you called?" He asks, feeling waves of familiarity crash over his body.

This elf maiden standing in front of him — with raven black hair and piercing purple eyes, he feels something hidden inside of her. 'I love you, lover.' His wife's voice floods his thoughts. Halbrand is in this raft because of you — because he wants to chafe his knees, earn his spot back in the Grey Havens, earn his spot back to you.

"Artanis," you say, your name sounds like a prayer.

Artanis, one of the names that he was supposed to give his child. He closes his eyes for a second, imagining his child standing in front of him, a smile ghosts his lips, how old was the child now? Ten thousand years? Fifteen thousand years? He has lost count in Morgoth's caves.

Will he even recognize you or his child? Will he even be allowed to see his family?

"I am Halbrand," he introduces himself.

"...and what are you doing here, Halbrand?" You raise an eyebrow.

"I cannot tell you, fair-Artanis." He chides.

You kept your distance from him, instead, choosing to sit on the farthest corner of the raft, intending to jump ship the moment that this blasted thing touches land.

Halbrand continues thinking about you, unaware that you are sitting right in front of him. "Where is your raft headed?" You asked, he tilted his head — for a second, your voice sounded so familiar. "...I doubt that we will be able to find safety until landfall." You added.

He chooses to ignore your chatty mouth.

"You are a deserter, aren't you?" He says with certainty. Nothing has changed with these elves, they've always run with their tails in between their legs.

Your eyebrows merged together, offended at his insinuation. "Do I have the look of a deserter?" You raised an eyebrow.

Halbrand admits you have the grace of a noble woman, the light of the two trees hiding behind your eyes. He chuckles, he must've wounded your vanity.

"You don't have the look of someone to whom things happen by accident," he teases, his eyes trailing back and forth between your eyes and your lips. The way that your waterline looks...no, it is the sea that is making him remember these memories of you. Of your warm hands massaging his back, of your fingers gently braiding his hair.

"Which means you were running. Whether toward or from something, I haven't decided." He placed a finger on his lips, pretending to be deep in thought.

You have landed right inside of his raft, it is biblical.

"Duty demanded that I return to Middle Earth. That is all that you need to know."

"Important Elf business, no doubt."

"What have Elves ever done to you?" You snapped.

You had already finished your studies by the time Halbrand learned to walk. Speaking from experience, it is always the youngest ones that have a lot to say!

"Do you blame us for your being stranded here?" You queried. Horrible people have horrible stories to tell. "Worry not, Artanis, it was not the elves that chased me from my homeland. It was the darkness that I am sure still remains there." Halbrand looks off to the far distance.

"Your home, where is it?"

"What's it matter? It's gone now." Halbrand interrupts. The light of the sun casts an eerie glow on his face. "I know something of the pain you carry. My father dedicated himself to eradicating darkness. My mother — she lost herself to temptation." You shared.

Your mother was one of the few people that Sauron stole from the Grey Havens. He sewed chaos into the very realm that he once promised to protect. "Morgoth has done terrible things to my kind," you continued. "— my aunt, her husband was Mairon before he became Sauron."

His eyes widen slightly, but his face shifts back to normal before you can notice. "Your aunt, did you know her?" He cannot fight against the urge to ask a question — even when it is uncharacteristic of Halbrand.

"She begged Yavanna to grant her new life. I was born centuries after her spirit left the Grey Havens." You informed. "...and her spirit, where is it now?" Halbrand tried to make his voice sound curious — like something that a human would say after hearing a tale about elves.

"Not even Yavanna knows," your lips pursed into a thin line.

Silence permeates throughout the atmosphere. You turned to look at him again. "What's that around your neck? Is that a mark of your people's king?" You stared at his neck.

"My people have no king," his voice turns cold.

He cannot return to the Grey Havens now. He must find you.

"But if they did, where might that kingdom be found?" You asked with furrowed eyebrows, a plan beginning to form. "What if I told you we might be able to reclaim it?" You say, hoping to ignite a fire of hope in his heart.

Halbrand will be useful to you.

"I am afraid you are short an army," Halbrand scoffs. There was something inside of him that shifted — like mechanical gears suddenly turning in the other direction. Darkness follows him, and engulfs his figure, but you are unable to see it, thinking of it as nothing but his strong fea.

"Leave the army to me." You state with confidence.

"Do you usually plan or do these schemes come to you in dreams?" Halbrand stares. "Why're you stranded at sea, anyways?" He interrogates.

"Because rather than rest in glory, I chose to seek out the very enemy responsible for your suffering." You raise your chin.

"Look, Artanis. You didn't cause my suffering, and you can't fix it." Halbrand breathes.

"I have pursued this foe since before the first sunrise bloodied the sky. It will take longer than your lifetime even to speak the names of those they have taken from me." You argued, he cannot help but roll his eyes again.

If only you knew.

"If you want to murder orcs and settle a score, that is your affair. Don't dress it up as heroism." He spat.

"Are you going to tell me where the enemy is or not?"

"The Southlands." He finally answers. His plan is already fully formed inside of his head.

"I need to know how many the enemy were, under whose banner they marched, and then you are going to take me to their last-known location." You demanded.

Seeing as his wife was no longer in the Grey Havens, and his child could have traveled to Middle Earth during the interim. He could only purse his lips before saying: "Alright, Elf." He relents.

But the moment that you find out about the truth.

It shall not be his fault.

PART TWO ||

COMMENT TO GET TAGGED

[space-zaddy-din-djarin]

Mairon/ Halbrand / Annatar / Sauron

(Last Updated: November 17, 2024)

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[cilil]

𝐏𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐯𝐞!𝐌𝐚𝐢𝐚𝐫 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 - 𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓀𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓎ℴ𝓊 𝒶𝓈 𝓉𝒽ℯ𝒾𝓇𝓈

Characters: Mairon, Gothmog, Eönwë, Tilion & Ossë; reader's gender is unspecified - all up to your imagination~

Featuring: 2nd person POV, vampire!Mairon, werewolf!Mairon, monsterfucking, Balrog anatomy, avian Ainu, merman, some Dom/sub dynamics, bit of predator/prey and other kinks, penetrative sex, intercrural sex, dirty talk

Warnings: Possessive themes, smut, tiny bit of degradation branding/burn marks, blood drinking/vampirism, mentions of impact play (whipping, spanking), swords/blades, bit of blood, biting, scratching

AN: Thanks to everyone who voted on my poll (back in the day). Sorry for the delay and here are your top choices plus our favorite birdy boy - hope you enjoy!

Mairon

𓂀 Once your heart is his, Mairon makes sure to live up to his reputation as the Lord of Gifts and the Lord of the Rings. Whether it is to seal a bond of marriage, asking for your hand or a promise of love and courtship, he crafts a beautiful ring just for you - showing everyone that you are now his and possibly also enhancing said ring with a few spells so he can watch over you.

𓂀 Yet gold is not the only way for him to mark your body; he also loves to use his fire to ensure neither you nor anyone else will ever forget where you belong. Mairon's preferred symbol to draw on your skin is The Eye, and he loves to place it right on your neck or chest so he can see it every time he takes you.

𓂀 His love and desire for you take many forms, as does he; when in the shape of a vampire, he enjoys biting you and drinking your blood while he makes love to you, strengthening the bond between you. He may sing to you to keep you calm while he feeds, and his song causes the wound and the vein he drank from to appear golden for a time until it slowly fades. Mairon expects you to wear those marks with pride and not cover them up.

𓂀 Whenever his form has more wolfish attributes, he also likes leaving bite marks, but his favorite feature is his knot. He loves how it swells inside you and stretches you out while he breeds you and how it keeps his seed inside until he decides he's done with you for the night.

. . . . . ◟੭. . . . . ◟੭. . . . . ◟੭

"Do you think you can take it?" 

Mairon slams into you with the full strength of his fána, making sure you can feel every inch of his hot, hard cock stretching you out without mercy. 

"Do you think you can take my knot, my precious little slut?" 

You barely manage to nod before a searing hot sensation makes you cry out in pain and pleasure alike. The eye symbol, proudly adorning your chest, glows in response to his words, like on the day when you were first marked by his hand. 

Satisfied with your obedience, Mairon stops moving and allows his seed to fill you. His knot swells proudly, binding you to him, and you try to muffle another scream — only for him to deter you with a quick slap on your thigh. 

"No," he says firmly, "let me hear it. I want to hear how much you love this, and you will not deny me."

Gothmog

☄ Contrary to popular belief, Gothmog can be affectionate and isn't afraid to show it. He likes to keep you close in public and holds you like a pretty little doll, making it clear to everyone that you belong to him and no one else may come close to you, let alone touch you. Even when he isn't around, the scent of fire and heat of his touch seems to surround you everywhere you go.

☄ Yet make no mistake: The Lord of Balrogs is incredibly strong and likes it rough. He may use his claws and fangs to as part of passionate love making and leave bite and scratch marks in strategic spots to ensure that everyone knows he has claimed you. Carry your marks with pride: To Balrogs, they are a symbol of strength and a sign that you belong.

☄ Gothmog's favorite way to claim and mark you, however, is fire - but he won't use his whip unless you ask him to. Instead, he may opt to simply use his hands to leave a nice and warm hand print on your skin; the same applies to any sort of impact play where he uses his hands instead of any tools. The touch of a Balrog leaves a lingering feeling of either cosy warmth or searing heat, and which one it will be is his choice to make.

☄ Aside from horns that you can hold on to, Gothmog also has a tail - and yes, he can and will use it. Not only is it a convenient as an additional limb to wrap around you and pull you close when his hands and arms are occupied and to keep others away from you, but he can also use it to fuck you if he so chooses, be it to tease you or for double penetration. He loves to test your limits.

. . . . . ◟੭. . . . . ◟੭. . . . . ◟੭

"What a pretty little thing you are." Gothmog pats your head with his large hand while he continues to effortlessly bounce you on his lap as if you weigh nothing. 

You would have cried out from the intensity of his massive cock thrusting in and out of you rapidly, but all you manage is a muffled moan; your mouth is currently occupied by the tip of his tail. 

"We don't need the entire fortress to hear you," Gothmog said beforehand, and you agreed. 

He is — for his standards — gentle with you, but you also know that there isn't much mercy to be had in Angband. You consider yourself lucky to be with him. 

Your thoughts are interrupted when Gothmog rakes the claws of his free hand down your back and chuckles when he feels your throat vibrate with muted screams. 

"And so good for me too," he adds to his previous statement. "Keep taking me so nicely and I might even let you rest after this round."

Eönwë

⚔ As sweet and affectionate as Eönwë is with you in private, he's not exactly fond of others trying to compete, particularly during avian mating season. He stays with you whenever he can, guarding you like a precious treasure, and watches the people who approach you, both when's nearby and when he's somewhere else. Should another suitor be so foolish as to approach you anyway, they will soon notice a very irate Maia glaring at them and posturing aggressively, every single feather fluffed up.

⚔ While you two are still courting and not quite ready for marriage yet, Eönwë presents you with a lovely promise bracelet or anklet (your choice), made of his favorite materials that he gathered himself. Nothing makes him happier than seeing you wear it, and conveniently enough it also serves as a reminder to other suitors that you are very much taken - by the chief of the Maiar, no less.

⚔ When Eönwë makes love to you, he can be gentle, but he can also be feral. Sometimes his desire simply overwhelms him. Depending on his current form, he has talons on his hands and will make use of them to mark you, even drawing ancient patterns on you to show everyone who claimed you. You can also expect to find yourself covered in love bites, with his favorite area being your neck.

⚔ If you enjoy rough sex and agree to try out some more "extreme" kinks, Eönwë would love to make use of his sword - the song of steel and battle is ingrained in his very being, after all. As much as the rational part of him hates to see you hurt, the feral part of him is fascinated by the way you shiver when a cold blade is pressed against you or when it leaves beautiful lines of red on your skin and draws a few droplets of blood.

. . . . . ◟੭. . . . . ◟੭. . . . . ◟੭

Cold steel bites into your skin as the blade touches your throat, but you only have eyes for Eönwë. He's breathing heavily, and his fána glows with barely contained lust. 

"I want you," he breathes. 

You spread your legs in silent invitation. Surely he must know that you are already his; even if you decided to fight back now, which is the last thing on your mind, he would be too strong for you. 

"Exactly like this," Eönwë says then, and you understand. He wants to take you with his sword at your throat, utterly at his mercy, and your skin prickles with excitement. 

The prospect of submitting to the greatest warrior of the Maiar so completely is thrilling. 

Eönwë enters you with one swift thrust, his free hand reaching for your hip. You make sure not to move, as you know he wants from you, and welcome him inside. The blade presses against your skin, but only lightly; his hold is steady, his posture impeccable, no blood is drawn. 

You surrender. 

Tilion

☽ Tilion loves antlers, his pride and joy when it comes to his fána, and wants to share that with you. If you yourself are an Ainu and grow your own pair, he will paint them silver with moonlight. If not, he will gladly hunt beasts of your choosing for you to claim their horns or antlers as a prize for you to wear and paint them as well. Nothing makes him more proud than everyone seeing that you belong to him.

☽ In order to make sure you are always safe, even when he isn't around, Tilion also crafts protective moon charms, infused with the light of Telperion's fruit. These are designed to keep creatures of darkness away, fearing his wrath, and may also glow to alert you to nearby danger. Not least of all they come with the additional benefit of letting everyone know that Tilion is only ever one call away.

☽ He loves to be intimate with you whenever he can, worshiping your body to his heart's content. Like his own hunt and war paint, Tilion enjoys painting your skin with matching patterns. These are expressions of love and companionship, glowing hymns to your beauty, but also marks of ownership and desire.

☽ For as hopelessly romantic as Tilion is, never forget that he's also a hunter. When lust overwhelms him, he is a passionate and wild lover, and sex with him can get rough. He enjoys chasing you, catching you and holding you down while he takes you, as well as leaving bite marks all over your body. Rest assured though that he will take good care of you after and do anything to ensure that you're comfortable and at ease.

. . . . . ◟੭. . . . . ◟੭. . . . . ◟੭

"You are too beautiful for your own good," Tilion sighs, smiling as he kisses you on the lips. 

You are both naked, lying together on a bed of moss in the woods of Oromë, and panting heavily after a wild and lengthy chase. Of course your lover has caught you in the end and carried you to a comfortable hidden spot to enjoy his prey. 

Tilion trails his hand down your chest, your stomach, your lower body, and you spread your legs in anticipation. He wants you, you can see it; his midnight blue eyes darken with desire. 

"There you go, little deer," whispers gentle praise against your lips before pushing two fingers inside of you. "You will be all nice and wet for me soon, won't you?" 

You nod. Of course you will be; how could you not when you are with your beloved hunter, chasing your love and your pleasure with no less determination and ferocity than he chases his prey. 

Ossë

⚡︎ Ossë is a capricious and jealous lover. His feelings for you are strong and passionate, and he will fight anyone who wishes you ill - or comes closer than he would like. The storms he conjures are mighty, and even if Ulmo and Uinen stop him from giving in to his jealousy, Ossë is also a mischievous Maia who will find other ways to mess with those who have wronged you or him.

⚡︎ You will find yourself getting showered with gifts from him, various trinkets that he picks up in the oceans of Arda: Pearls, seashells, items and parts from sunken ships, bones, teeth and also all sorts of fish and sea creatures he caught for you. Ossë delights in swimming, diving and hunting to his heart's content, but most importantly coming home to you with something new to show you.

⚡︎ Just like he himself is wild and fierce, so is intimacy with him. You will find yourself completely soaked, regardless of whether he takes you in the water (as he prefers) or outside, and covered in bite and scratch marks; Ossë simply can't resist taking a bite out of something as beautiful as you are. He also loves the thought that everyone can tell what you two have done afterwards.

⚡︎ Ossë enjoys being on top of you, all around you and inside you, having his tail wrapped tightly around you. After he's done making love to you, he likes carrying you around like a precious little pearl and singing to you in ancient tongues until you fall asleep. You may also notice that, whenever you've been with him, the scent of seawater sticks with you for days.

. . . . . ◟੭. . . . . ◟੭. . . . . ◟੭

The sand feels warm against your skin, but Ossë's form is cool and smooth. He rolls over so he's lying on top of you, his tail wrapping around your legs, and flashes you a toothy grin, like a hungry sea monster about to devour its unfortunate prey. 

"Should I take you here, marilla? Or should I drag you to the bottom of the ocean first?" he teases. 

Clawed, webbed fingers hold onto you possessively, and Ossë wastes no time nibbling on the side of your neck as you writhe underneath him. 

"Please have mercy, o lord of storms," you gasp, entertaining his little game to entice him to go on. 

You know your words had the intended effect when you feel something hard pressing against your thigh. 

"Perhaps I will," Ossë muses, a mischievous glint in his eyes. 

His tail keeps its grip on your legs, and he pushes his now-exposed cock between your thighs to rut against you.

"We will even start slowly," he whispers, "but worry not. You shall feel my full strength soon enough."

. . . . . ◟੭. . . . . ◟੭. . . . . ◟੭

marilla (Quenya) - pearl

Thanks for reading! ♡

taglist: @angbangbaby @asianbutnotjapanese @a-world-of-whimsy-5 @bluezenzennie @edensrose @elanna-elrondiel @eunoiaastralwings @i-did-not-mean-to @just-little-human @saintstars @singleteapot @urwendii

[animatorweirdo]

Imagine Reuniting with Mairon After Many Years

You had lived your life as you wanted and finally decided to retire after age caught up to you. Unexpectedly, Mairon, came to to visit you after so many years.

Requested by @asianbutnotjapanese

If it's fine with you, how about Mairon and reader meeting again after their separation from this story, maybe some tinny tiny angst on how the years been hard on them?

Continuation from this: Imagine being raised by Sauron...

Warnings: mentions of mairons actions, some fluff and a bit angst.

------------------------------------------

-It had been many years since you’d last seen him.

-You knew what would happen if you tried to involve yourself in his plans for the world, so you never interfered unless they directly affected you. However, you understood that whenever you wielded the sword he had given you, his servants would leave you and your home undisturbed.

-You had lived life as best as you could. You went on your own adventures, found love, and built a family. You even had your own children, both by birth and adoption. Years went by and age had finally caught up with you.

-While living your own life, you kept your ears open for news about Mairon’s deeds as Sauron. No matter how terrible the stories were, you couldn’t bring yourself to get involved.

-However, you noticed certain peculiarities. Even as his influence spread across the world and orcs lingered on the edges of your home, he never attacked or sent his forces to pillage where you happened to be. Your home, in particular, remained untouched. Perhaps, despite his infamy, the dark lord still held some fragment of love in his heart, protecting you from his rule.

-The years had made you wise and unafraid of the idea of dying from old age. You had seen and experienced everything you wanted in life and accepted that your time in this world would eventually end. You decided to spend your remaining days with your family, cherishing every moment.

-Yet, you never expected the day when Mairon would come to visit you.

-You were spending time with your grandchildren outside your home when you glanced toward the woods and saw him. Though he wore a hood, the faint hum from your sword was enough to tell you that it was him.

-You told the children to go to their parents and then invited him over.

-You sat in silence at first, observing his appearance. Despite being a Maia, the years seemed to have worn on him.

-He commented on your aged appearance, noting how time had taken your youth. You assured him it was natural and that you were unbothered by it. Compared to most people your age, you were remarkably healthy and had lived a fulfilling life. You had even outlived those who once predicted you would die sad and alone if you didn’t conform to their standards. Mairon’s lessons had taught you never to settle for anything less—or more—than what you truly wanted.

-This prompted a rare chuckle from him.

-You then asked the reason for his visit. You had been convinced you would never see each other again after he sent you off to live your own life.

-Mairon admitted he wasn’t entirely sure why he had come. One day, you simply came to mind, and he felt an inexplicable urge to see what kind of life you had made for yourself. He hadn’t realized how much time had passed until he saw how much older you had become.

-He asked about your family, and you shared your story—how you had met someone worthy of your love and loyalty, and through twists of fate, built a large and loving family.

-He listened surprisingly attentively. You suspected this was one of those rare moments where he felt lonely amidst his relentless quest for world domination.

-When you asked how his plans were progressing, he confessed, somewhat unexpectedly, that they had been exhausting. He then began commenting on how ordinary yet fulfilling your life seemed, as though trying to understand its appeal.

-You suggested that perhaps living an ordinary life wasn’t such a terrible thing. You knew where his ambitions might lead him, and you had long accepted that part of him. Yet, despite everything, a part of you still held a measure of love for him; after all, you had known him since your mother’s death.

-He firmly stated that he would not abandon his plans but assured you that neither you nor your family would be harmed. He promised that your home would remain untouched by him or his orcs.

-You accepted his terms and thanked him.

-After bidding each other farewell, you watched him leave. Though you understood his ambitions and unwavering conviction, a deep sorrow lingered within you. Somehow, you knew this would be the last time you saw him.

[batsyforyou]

Sauron Sleep Headcanons

Pairing: Sauron x reader 

Author’s note: I realized that just because my bigger projects aren’t done, that doesn’t mean I can’t post my much smaller projects. 

Taglist: @asianbutnotjapanese

This boy is troublesome. 

He doesn’t want to cuddle, in fact I’m sure he doesn’t even know how to sleep or cuddle. 

Primarily because Maia don’t require sleep and Sauron would much rather be up in his forge working or at his desk scheming. 

However; even if he doesn’t say it, he enjoys your company and will feign being annoyed or put off about sleep itself. 

At first he doesn’t seem to notice your lack of attention at night mostly because he doesn’t realize that it’s nighttime. But he does notice your nagging about him going to sleep and getting some rest. 

And he hated to realize that your twelve hour nap kept you away from him, kept you from being in awe over him, kept you from fussing over him, kept you from admiring him, kept you from buzzing about his side like a bothersome fly; it even kept you from annoyingly asking stupid questions about his work. 

He loathed to know that he missed you when you weren’t there, not that he’d ever admit it. He also came to realize that his refusal to sleep and go to bed hurt you. Every time he denied you he would turn away before he could discover that the face you made wasn’t out of spite or frustration but out of hurt and with your absence he recognized that you stopped asking him to sleep.

 Was he inadvertently …fighting with you?

Reluctantly, he understands that he hurt you and he wonders if you knew that he doesn’t need rest. (If only he knew it wasn’t just about rest. Relaxing together, spending time together and receiving affection is important to you.)

So, late at night in his forge he hasn’t so much as started the fire, lifted his hammer or sketched out plans he simply stared at what had been dubbed your spot. Empty and cold. 

He couldn’t take it anymore. Rolling his eyes he groans and drags himself to your room. Not bothering to knock he trudges in and strips off his ‘outside’ attire knowing that you hated it when he sat even remotely close to bed in them. 

And there you were in a dark room with the fireplace lapping at the stone walls of its home. His bare glittery skin shimmering with every flicker of light and you sound asleep in bed wrapped up tightly in the covers. 

Approaching soundlessly he crouched down by your side to watch you. You looked peaceful and warm with every breath you took. He thought that despite being sound asleep that you were lonely.

Observing how your eyes were shut and that you rested beneath the covers he went about the other side and, very gently, pulled the covers down and crawled in. Laying flat on his back he checked that the door was shut and closed his eyes. 

… … Now what? 

He laid there for several hours unable to fall asleep and he was becoming irritated. How could you do this for so long? 

Grumbling, he gave up and instead watched you; taking note of every breath, every twitch of your nose, when you tossed and turned and remarkably, you rolled into his side and snuggled close to his arm. Sighing at his warmth. 

Intrigued, he lifted a hand and smoothly stroked your cheek with his thumb. The difference in size between you, softened something in him and he wondered if laying beside you, sleeping or not, was a good idea. 

… Well that’s enough sentiment for a suitable amount of years. 

Shoving the covers off he dressed himself and went back to his work. And when morning came you could tell that he had been there and was both confused and excited about it. Knowing that he hated compromising you didn’t bring it up simply letting him believe that he was accommodating you in secret. 

For the next few weeks he would come to your bed a few hours after you to ensure that you were asleep and lay beside you. Mimicking how you breathed and closed your eyes until surprisingly he fell asleep. Waking up to you grinning down at him he felt embarrassed. Huffing and puffing like his master's dragons downstairs while you laughed. 

And it is funny because after his first experience with true good sleep he willingly went to bed with you but he didn’t understand why you always wanted to be pressed against him. He didn’t mind it but he certainly didn’t encourage it. Mostly turning onto his side facing away from you so you couldn’t see the content on his face. 

But that didn’t stop you from cuddling up behind him and acting like the big spoon when it was more like you were backpacking him lol. And he liked it, always gripping your hand and bringing it to his lips. 

However, with the more you aged and withered the more he held you in his arms and the more he put off his work and stayed in bed with you. Until you died there in your sleep at the ripe age of 80. He never sleeps again. Not even so much as walking down the hall to your room after your death.

Masterlist

[sun-snatcher]

( credits to @perryabbott for this phenomenal gifset ! )

2/? | SEAWARDS, TO YOU. ; REPENTANT!AU

summ.  A continuation. You & Halbrand find common ground. Philosophies are debated. A bond is formed. or: A Smith and a Sculptor begin their friendship. pairing.  (Repentant!Mairon/Sauron) Halbrand / f!reader , ( established in #SEAWARDSTOYOU ) w.count.  4k a/n.  Important tags in first chapter ! Two artisans share their craft and debate their disciplines. Grumpy x sunshine trope coded in this one !

       WEARINESS IS NOT the word, he learns very quickly, when the hammer and tongs had been placed in his calloused hands at Númenor, and he’d been put to the test to earn his Guild crest and prove himself useful to the master blacksmith. 

(They’d tasked him to create the best blade he could, and the finest steel sword is what he’d forged for them. When they’d asked if he knew how to shape a sturdy anchor, he laughed and said, “How many would you like?”)

It is, for all intents and purposes, still a hammer and tongs; still a weighty familiarity where the memory of Aulë rests in one hand and the blackness of Morgoth in the other. But now all attributions coalesce and measure to some… distant nostalgia. 

Homesickness.

He wonders if a Maia could even be capable of such trivial things like a sickness. Wonders if maybe it’s borne from this mortal flesh he’d awoken in; if perhaps Melian had fretted too over this fatigued, adrift state of sense when she bound herself to her corporeality and the menial necessities that came with living in such a body.

Is this what it’s like to fall from grace?

He’d found himself in an endless loop of madness in trying to decipher his Judgement the day he first awoke: Why the Valar had allowed him— Sauron, the Abhorred, Gorthaur the Cruel, Shadow of Morgoth— a second chance; a rebirth. It doesn’t feel like mercy. Is this punishment? A test? Is he truly as free as they're making him believe?

Why, if anything, these hammer and tongs— his age-old solace— just feel like another shackle binding his wrists. 

It’s both too good to be true and not at all.

Perhaps this is the play. To have his uncertainty drive him into insanity. To be the architect of his own demise. Or maybe this is just another part of a grand design amongst the Ainur he isn’t privy to anymore— but surely not; Who would want to give a role of any significance to him? He is Sauron. The Great Deceiver. He cannot be trusted. 

By his very own hands, he had ensured that.

…Except you. Eärmaril. The one who’d offered him wine and proverbial bread and a new beginning. 

Foolish, he thinks, pursing his lips. But with whatever few days of time he chanced to spend with you sitting in that cell, there’d been a graceful naïveté to you he found (charming) himself envying. A mortal innocence. An excitable youth he’d long since grown out of. This seemingly bright wonder and an ever-light in your eyes he deemed frustratingly blinding— like the blaze of a sun, or the glare of a moonglade— that he surprisingly couldn’t help but be drawn into out of pure fascination.

Even moreso, now, since he’s discovered:

“You’re a craftsman?” says Halbrand, stunned. “You didn’t tell me.”

In the clear midday afternoon, you pause to look up from your potter’s wheel. 

He’s fascinated. It shows in the curious dart of his eyes. 

Earthenware line the front of your atelier, all in odd colours, shapes and sizes, still dewy from catching the remains of the late morning shower. They trail into your workshop; great pots and elaborate vases dotting the floor while the flatware stack neatly on shelves lining limestone walls. The ceramics are all set aside in a way one could see a careful path to your throwing wheel, where you’re nestled behind and idly washing the slip off your fingernails in a bucket of water.

“You don’t tell me a lot of things, either,” you snort, drying your hands on your apron. Your tousled hair is tied neatly away, and there’s a spot of clay marking the edge of your jaw. “Besides, is it so surprising I am?”

Halbrand had seen you at the docks, just this salty morning when he stood at the forge (that you’d spent hours cajoling the Master blacksmith into accepting him into the day prior); barefooted on the docks among the local sailors, casually dirtying your pretty alabaster skirts with wet sand and seawater to help tug the ropes of a wayward skiff, dainty sleeves rolled and rumpled up to your elbows as you moored it with the unwomanly ease of a seasoned sailor.

“How unladylike!” he’d overheard the chinwag of the traditional Númenorean mothers when she came upshore. “What a mess!”

(What a mess, indeed. But it explains plenty, and as a Smith, Mairon can understand it. An esoteric signature between all artisans is to be a mess; to rebel against the orthodox. It had been what set him apart from the other Maiar— And it had been precisely what led him into Morgoth’s hands.)

“No, I suppose not,” says Halbrand, sounding somewhat breathless. You stamp down the prickle of alarm when he picks up a piece to study it; the instinctual urge to warn him to be careful.

There is a thread of… something, after all, no matter how unconsciously thin it may be, between you two. You cannot call it trust— not yet, but you’re determined to get there— so perhaps understanding would do; And if it starts with something as small a step as trusting him not to mishandle your works, then you’ll chance it.

Craftsmanship appears to be the only bridge to a version of Halbrand you’ve not yet seen since you’ve met him, after all. You want to hold on to it. No, you want him to hold on to it, more like. To this lifeline; this rare flicker of radiant light in him.

“Have you ever tried pottery?” you ask, noticing the acuity of his appraising gaze.

For a moment, his gaze had fallen inwards, and he was not in the room with you when he spoke with a longing look. Sauron is far away, in the place where Aulë first taught Mairon all there is to know of the joys of creation. 

“I’ve tried my hand in plenty a craft before metalwork, believe it or not,” Halbrand says, and sets the plate back down with a clink. “Admittedly, clay is my weakest medium.”

“Oh?” you smile, suddenly curious, and Halbrand meets your inquisitive look once you’ve set your finished piece— a jug it looks to be— alongside the rest of the unfired clay prepared for the kilns.

“Clay is ever elusive,” says Halbrand, mildly as he can to avoid offense. “It is the inferior material to work with. The most fragile after being tempered.”

It had sounded almost recited, the way he said it, and so you frown, “Right. And who told you that?”

Morgoth. “…My old master.”

“Valar, then your old master must’ve been as good as…” you wave, face twisting in incredulity to find the words. “A netless net cast on shallow shores.”

There’s a pause, and you wonder if you’d crossed a line at the sudden seize of him— until he lets out a breath, akin to a wheeze, almost. 

It’s a small sound, but enough to catch you off-guard nonetheless. You've never heard him laugh before. 

“You disagree?” asks Halbrand, amusingly. 

“Not entirely.” You cock your head, sidling a hip at the table as you playfully stare him down. “It is elusive and fragile, yes. That it is an inferior material? No. Shaped correctly, pottery can endure centuries. It does not rust like steel, erode like stone, or decay like wood. It can outlast an age. Outlast even us.”

Us. He tarries on the word more longer than he should. He suddenly remembers he isn’t Mairon the Admirable— not just a craftsman speaking to another craftsman— but Sauron, hiding beneath the veneer that is Halbrand, a mortal man with a seemingly inevitable end.

He looks at the pot sitting underneath the table beside you. Bright green and lustrous, with elegant filigree of cresting waves and boats adorned with sails carrying the sun. Then he looks at the bucket by his feet, filled to the brim with broken shards of colourful ceramic, toeing it with his boot. 

“And yet,” is all he says.

You wrinkle your nose. “Those will be repurposed. That is its very beauty.”

“There is no strength in fragilities.”

You uncross your arms with a narrow look, as if he’s missed your point, and pick up a cup from the tray of bisqueware. Then, to his utter surprise— toss it casually aways from you. 

Reflex serves him well.

He catches it before it can shatter. “What—?!”

“The nature of the claypots strength relies solely on how one holds it,” you correct his previous statement. “And therefore, its value.”

Sauron looks at you then, and realises what it is you’re doing; what it is you’re asking of him. 

The thought should not have been that frightening, frankly— but there lingers still an ache in his nape and the unseen scars of a thousand daggers across his chest. There sears still a phantom hole in his beating heart, however much he decides to stubbornly ignore it.

“Trust,” he states, finally. The word sounds bitter to hear coming from him as he grips the delicate cup in his hand. “You know, I can very well crush this, Eärmaril.” 

“Yes. You could.” That is to say: Exactly my point!

He huffs out his nose, bristling. Halbrand moves over to return the cup in your palms. 

“You don’t know what you’re asking of me.”

There’s the Judgement of Eru and Manwë echoing like a chorus in his head. There’s Mairon long gone, and Sauron that remains. The Great Deceiver. The one who cannot be trusted, because he had made it so with his bare hands.

“I am asking a man—”

“I am not—” A man, Sauron very nearly overrides. “—who you think I am.”

“What about who you can be, then?” You catch his wrist just before he can step back to retreat, and he can feel the ignition of a flame running through his arm like a frisson. “Isn’t that what this all is?”

“Halbrand, you told me you’ve done evil; irrevocable, irredeemable sin. Yes, so what shall you do now, then? This repentance of yours— to whom are you atoning for? The dead? The Valar? They are not here. What can they do with it? It is your life, after all, and your freedom.”

You let him go. Sauron stays rooted, prickled by how this feels alot like one of his unspoken, one-sided conversations he’d have with Uinen’s statue back at the cells.

“I will carry this regret with me forever.” His voice is heavy with a fell conviction. “It is not something your seas can absolve me of, or whatever other metaphor it is your people like to believe in.”

You hum at that. A reluctant assent of agreement. It’s infuriatingly patient. (This is an unfamiliar battleground. He’d expected you to be put off by him; to be angry— instead he’s been unsteadied with startling kindness.)

“Well, I am not asking you to forget, Halbrand. I am asking you to be free of it,” you roll your eyes, voice light and matter-of-fact. “You can choose to spend it wallowing in misery; shackle yourself to your past like a victim of your own villainy; But that would be the true evil— a disservice to those you’ve so claimed have suffered under your deeds. The real victims.”

Another voice interrupts the both of you. Apologies! says the young messenger, shifting timidly at the foot of your atelier with a scroll in hand, It is urgent. 

You wave in assent, then look back to Halbrand.

“You pace so long in your cage you’ve conditioned yourself to its unseen shadows,” you muse, and Sauron can hear your steady voice, both as delicate and as mighty as freshly-fired clay. “Remember this: What you do with the second chance the seas have granted you is what will define your atonement— nothing more, nothing less. Do not waste it on being a jailbird.”

And then—

And then.

You’re off, brushing past him like the sweetness of a saltbreeze, leaving him standing in your wake and staring at the cup you’ve left purposely behind.

It’s set precariously close to the edge of the table.

Open invitation.

(Mairon’s finger twitches in instinct.) 

He looks at the cup, and thinks, then looks and thinks again— only to conclude he couldn’t think at all, that you make it irritatingly impossible to do so. His mind is too far fixed on the fond smile of your face and your sunburst laugh carrying up the docks; the striking touch of your hand when you’d grabbed his wrist and the sincerity in your eyes.

No. He shan’t take your bait.

He ought not to entertain this little exercise of yours— this petty endeavour. Ought not to give in to this fairytale you fancy yourself a saviour in. 

He shouldn’t.

He’ll leave everything untouched as you left it.

…The cup is pushed noticeably further— safer— into the table, pristine despite the telling thumbprint of soot, by evening when you return.

You smile.

He had been unprepared for how aimless this would all feel, even in the dusty comforts of a forge and the timely strike he makes on every metal he wills to bend.

What could a great, primordial Being in the material shell of a common, mortal man do? For as much as Mairon now sought peace, he had no idea what to do with it. Where to go from here— much less begin. 

“Lost the way to your rookery, fair lady?” says Halbrand, not blinking an eye from his worktable. 

Even between the thick silt and smoke of the blazing forge, your nebulous presence sticks out in the air like a phantom itch he couldn’t ignore. 

“Do all Southlanders bite the hand that feeds them?” 

Puzzled, he pauses mid-polish of a blade, looking over his shoulder to see you’ve set a lidded claypot of what he assumes to be dinner, to heat on stray coals of the hearth.

“Wolves do,” he muses warningly, going back to turning his sword in his hands to scrutinise it for any flaws. “They tend to have an appetite for harmless little seabirds who don’t know any better than to fly too close to the snap of jaws.”

You laugh.

It feels like a tender caress.

Halbrand fails to resist the urge to turn to the honey-sweet sound.

“I suppose a hound was, indeed, how you looked like,” you tease, feigning distant recollection. “Locked in a cage, backed in a corner…”

He raises his brows. “I remember being right at the bars of my cell.”

“When we were at the Queen’s court,” you correct, remembering the way he seemed to shrink before you when the guards had unshackled him. “I didn’t mean the prison. Though— ah, pass me the tongs, would you?— you did look quite like a wet dog in there, too. ”

The casual request knocks him from getting scathed at the passing insult. He passes you the tongs, and watches as you use it to lift the lid of the claypot and examine the braised Snapper between the steam, before setting everything back down, back wholly turned against him.

Something about how easy you move around him, how easy it is to turn your back towards him so calmly— flickers a spark of annoyance in him. It isn’t so much that he felt less of a powerful being around your aloof-self— he still is a Maia, after all, even if constrained in certain aspects; and his entire plan is to appear mortal, anyway— but moreso in that you are vexingly… trusting? Foolish? 

“Shall I toss the spoon?” you heartily jest. “I imagine Great Halbrand the Wolf hardly needs one—”

“I’ve had time to think,” he interrupts rudely, finally putting aside his sword to cross his arms accusingly. “That if it’s not 'grand adventure and finer things' you seek, seabird, that it must then be something much more intangible. Personal.”

“So tell me, what do you expect this kindness will bring you? Is this your version of penance? Are you— as you’ve so eloquently described it— defining your atonement?” He dips his head to meet your gaze from where he’s leaning against an anvil, and the firelight paints him razor-sharp. “You pace a cage of your own, too, Eärmaril. I can see it.”

A beat. If you had been rattled, you didn’t show.

You look up at him, and your face is impassive. 

Sauron decides, then and there, that he hates it. He’s decided a lot about you, lately; That he detested your courage, your blind faith, your pestering kindness, and your utter unpredictability— though none so much as the look on your face here and now: startlingly dim and devoid of your usual sword-bright light. 

He has half the mind to rescind his words.

“I’m glad to see you’re not your old Master, Halbrand,” you comment, and mistake the flinch he’d made for a timely shift in his weight. “Who was as pitifully brittle as a sand dollar and outwitted by something as simple as clay.”

“Yes, I pace a cage. But it is not entirely of my making,” you allow, and leave out: Not like yours. 

Unlike him, your cage is being unhistoried and irreconcilable, found as a waif with no one but a white seabird standing guard by moon-water and jagged black rocks. Your cage is a sandbar between diaspora and anemoia, appearing and disappearing now and then like the ebb and flow of tides.

“So no, it is not an atonement, rather a purpose I have given myself. Something you ought to do, really, lest you become aimless.” 

Too often do mortal men reduce regrets into nothing more than abstract performance; do not tread the erroneous path of causeless martyrdom— is probably the more appropriate way to warn him, but you decide against that. 

“Is that what I am to you, then?” he finds himself snapping, the same tone he’d used on Galadriel when they’d been stranded at sea on that raft. “A project to bide your time with? A means to an end?” 

“No!” you bite, aghast and suddenly severe. That jars him. He very nearly averts his gaze when you level him with a stricken look. “You’re my—” 

—Friend, you mean to say, just before you felt dwarfed by the admission. I hoped for us to be friends.

You let it hang tenuously in the air instead. It’s the first he’d ever seen you look so small.

“You have far too much faith in the hands of others,” Sauron begins, calmer now. He remembers the light weight of a white cup in his grasp, the thin daintiness of its handle. “Trust broken is far worse than trust never first given.”

(He’s far away again, with a carafe in his hands, by a shape upon a dark and nameless peak.)

“Yes,” you recognise. “Though one would lead a terribly lonely life without taking that risk.”

“But I will leave you be, Halbrand, if you so desire. You need only to tell me,” you say, solemn and abrupt. “I can go back. I can leave you; to your hammer and your tongs and your metal; like the lone wolf you fancy yourself to be.”

Your expression is solid— but not cruel. 

He doesn’t think you’re capable of that, now that he thinks about it. 

You’re not like Sauron, not like him.

He is a Smith, after all; And Smiths value strength and resilience above mercy and benevolence. Every hammer strike must be measured and every blade sharpened to its finest point. Mairon is born with the endogenous instinct to craft nothing short of mastered perfection and intention; and more often than not that calls for an unyielding, iron fist— to control instead of cradle as you do.

(The claypot is spared the dilemma of the steel sword; that is, preservation of peace through necessary violence.)

It’s no wonder Morgoth was quick to corrupt him into Sauron; Into a Being with too cruel a grip, too demanding a voice, too pragmatic a soul and too utilitarian a heart. 

And yet—

“…No,” he remarks quietly, suddenly inconceivably panicked at the very thought of you (and your light) turning away from him. 

But his answer had made him feel too vulnerable— too exposed, and so he says, “My days of commanding people are over.” And is quick to deflect before you could question him, by going: “Regardless, I hardly believe it’d take that little to stop a pesky seagull.”

“Seagull?” you hiss, diverted by the non-sequitur. “What happened to seabird?”

“I see no difference.” 

You scoff, but without heat. It relieves him more than he should’ve allowed it. “Then you’re a—! How does the saying go? An albatross around one’s neck. Except you’re the albatross, and you’re around your own neck.”

You childishly swat at the space between you, and with it went the uneasy tension in the air as a gust blew in. It had simmered the furnace, and he caught the scent of you between the coals and the dish you’ve slid off it, and he found you smelled like your earthen clay and the salt of the seas.

You smell like— not life, per se, but the very act of living.

“I was like you, once upon a time,” Sauron blurts. “Young and unbearably credulous.”

“You mean young and at peace.”

An indefinable muscle tics in his jaw. “Peaceful, but not as ignorant.”

“You’re just cynical.”

“I’m a realist!” Mairon states, sounding offended. 

“Pessimist.”

“Agree to disagree, then,” Halbrand finally sighs, rolling his eyes as he uncrosses his arms after a dismissive wave, feigning surrender. 

Your eyes reflexively travel up the rugged curl of them, before settling on his face. You’re surprised to see there’s a ghost of a smile across it— As if he’d enjoyed the mindless banter.

“Very well.” You offer a friendly shake to end the mock-parley, only to catch him by surprise when you playfully tug him a step forward after he meets it. 

“What?” blinks Halbrand, after a quiet moment.

“You look different in the forge,” you say fondly, looking up at his towering figure, “Less a jailbird, more a… More at home, maybe. Walls down.”

There’s green in his eyes— Viridian. Verdigris. Otherworldly, almost. You never quite noticed it until now, this up and close to him. It’s beautiful. (He’s beautiful.)

A powdery streak of black soot marks the smooth of your skin now. It feels less like a dirty stain, and more like a sacred covenant of sorts— as if both of you have piously hallowed into your bones the dawning of something he couldn't quite yet fathom; as if an uncrossable threshold has miraculously been crossed, or an act set in sacrosanct motion, and neither of you could ever turn back from here.

It feels like a bind.

“Walls down…” Halbrand repeats, voice a low rasp that sends a shiver through you. His thumb slides tentatively across your forearm as he hums. “Must I put them up, Eärmaril?”

Your voice is endearingly light. 

“Not around me. Didn’t you call me a harmless little seabird?”

Then you’re laughing. Soft, susurrus, dulcet; Fair as the sea and sun—

And a terrible, fleeting catharsis blooms in Mairon as he realises: it’s a sound he doesn’t mind drowning in.

Footnotes in AO3!

[psidiumnocte]

the way i'm constantly thinking about halbrand/annatar/sauron is alarming

like yeah he's been on my mind for days now and the lack of work of fiction about him is clearly not helping

so maybe I'll help solve this problem cos I have A LOT a headcanons through my brain right now

[saint-altruist]

you know what?

there are not enough Sauron x reader fics on here...

I think I have to take matters in my own hands. @nesryn-x

[nataliabdraws]

Númenor nights