#Mairon imagine

[dreamlandcreations]

Imagine Halbrand trying to avoid looking at you...

Imagine Halbrand trying to avoid looking at you because he knows the moment your eyes meet his he will fall in love with you...

He knows there's this concept of love at first sight for elves and he witnessed something similar with the Ainur, finding the one who was meant to be yours for eternity was always a reason for celebration but witnessing it and feeling it was entirely different.

As an elf you would need to lock your gaze with him to see the truth in his spirit, he was no elf though.

He felt something when he arrived at the elven city but now he knows. Being in your presence, feeling your soul unknowingly call out to him, hearing your voice, like an enchantment taunting him, it was torture. It terrified him like nothing else in his long existence.

He never thought he would have this, well, he never even thought of it as something that would interest him. Part of him was angry for losing control over his decisions once more, after all, this was decided for him, not by him. On the other hand he knew this could be a gift but he felt fear at the thought of being tied to someone, of being so vulnerable to another being.

The inner battle in him took too much of his attention and he didn't realise he was turning in the wrong direction until it was too late.

You never believed in the tales of love at first sight, the idea seemed to be ridiculous to you. How could you get to know someone enough in a simple glance to decide to spend the rest of, well, forever, with them? A glimpse into the soul, they said. A glimpse... Ridiculous.

Except, that was all it took...

[doodle-pops]

The Ainur | With Reader Experiencing Panic Attacks

Request: I've been like an overexcited Buddy the Elf since you announced requests open, I love them so unbelievably much, they make my week and sometimes my month. So if I may please make a little request... how do you think the Ainur would react if the reader suffers from panic attacks? - anon

A/N: I went with the classic bunch I usually write for, however, I found it difficult to come up with something for Melkor (because I couldn't picture him being patient or soft enough? Idk, if that's just me). So he’s out in this one. Enjoy!

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･Manwë

As someone gentle and nurturing when it comes to dealing with others, Manwë would be a wonderful individual to assess your panic attacks when they strike. Whether they come in waves of frantic panicking or silence, he’s observant and on the lookout for when an episode can arise. Hence why he has a hand in certain activities in your day-to-day duties to reduce any form of stress that would bring it on. This also extends to arranging secluded spots where you can be at peace and blend into nature.

If your panic attacks derive from traumatic events or stress, the Lord of Airs will do his best to ensure that you are never placed in situations where you can relive or entertain such build-ups. His eyes are always on your figure, not too close nor too far, as he observes the people you communicate with and the level of work you handle.

All in all, you’ve got someone who would invite his little bird friends to perform melodies to ease your pain, or the Lord himself would engage in leisurely activities for your sanity.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･Irmo

The moment he enters you spot your figure, he’s aware that something is off. In fact, it was the reason why he was drawn to your presence in the first place, high levels stress of radiating strongly. Irmo would be worried about the blank look on your face as you’re staring off into the distance and your body slumps. He’s more familiar with the frantic forms of panic attacks, that this other outcome has him slightly worried. Just how much stress or possible trauma were you under at that very moment.

Communicating with you by calling out your name would come surprisingly at ease as you take glances at him with a lethargic expression. He could see that in your mind, thoughts were raging war rapidly to the point you could barely keep up with a single focal point, and he understood how you felt at that moment. He is tender and gentle as he calls out to you and informs you that he’s going to hold you closely to help bring you back into reality.

With Irmo, you get the opportunity to spend lots of time in his gardens to soothe your mind. He practically opens it to you and invites you to use it when the thoughts in your mind are colliding and creating a frenzy. There are moments, when he would pay you a visit as you’re relaxing to hold your hand and reassure you that he’s here and you not drifting off deep into your thoughts.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･Námo

The Lord of the Dead would find the situation unfamiliar to him since his profession deals with souls and not of the flesh. When he faces you in your panicked state, panting and gasping for air as your eyes flutter like a storm around the room and clinging to some surface, his first thought is that you were harmed. Quickly rushing to your side, Námo would attempt his best to pacify your erraticism, placing his hands against your face to get you to focus on him while guiding your hands to his face to anchor yourself back to earth. It breaks his heart to eventually learn that it wasn’t an injury but rather a panic attack once his brother accessed your health.

As Námo now learns of what a panic attack looks like and has become familiar with it and how it can arise, he would arrange with his brother to pardon you visitations to his garden for peaceful moments while he was busy attempting to create one at his domain to surprise you upon your return. It’s difficult for Námo to find breaks in between his duties, but he tries his hardest to meet with you and spend more time conversing about any problems or possible traumatic experiences that can cause your panic attacks.

He would remedy incense, teas, and music for you, under the assistance of his brother and Lady Ëste. There would be more breaks in your schedule if stress is the cause and a higher demand that you relax and enjoy the beauty of life while leaving the heavier duties to him. While Námo would be eyeing you like a hawk, courtesy his Maiar who would be placed in charge of you, he would step in and handle your care on his own.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･Ëonwë

The Herald of Manwë would be partially familiar with the dynamic of what serve panicking looks like after fighting alongside other elves who are more susceptible to such conditions. He may not have treated soldiers who suffered the attacks but witnessed the procedure, which is why when it occurred to you, he was able to access the situation. Swiftly he moves, but beneath his appearance, he’s panicking as well, as he captures your attention after noticing your symptoms. Using his wings, Ëonwë will embrace you in a hug and have them cocoon you both from the outside world.

His wings are one of the best sources to dealing with your panic attacks as it brings an extra sense of security and comfort. He normally uses his wings when he wants to shut the world (noises) out, so it comes in handy in a situation like yours. His hands are on your face as he guides your breathing to reduce your erraticism. The soft coos and a few chirps would slip out because his heart breaks at the sight of you appearing distorted.

Ëonwë would whisk you away to an enclosed area where it can simply be you and him without any distractions. He would spend the rest of the moment in tranquillity, lounging about the place with you in his arms, stroking your hair and watching as you sleep.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･Mairon

 Confused and concerned at your state of silence, you blankly stare off into God knows where, probably the wall, as your mind turns into a battlefield of thoughts. At first, he’ll ignore you and believe you’re just being your usual self (weird), but as time passes and you’re still sitting there for almost an hour unresponsive, he becomes concerned. He’ll hover over you, unsure if to gently touch you or firmly shake you awake, instead, he settles on calling you. Mairon wouldn’t understand that it was a panic attack because he tends to experience erratic ones and is familiar with those.

However, after learning, he would be on the lookout anytime he notices you slumped with a blank expression and eyes distantly gazing into the unknown. His actions would be a lot more caring as he gingerly touches your shoulder or hands for you to grasp the concept of not slipping away too deeply into your thoughts. Mairon wouldn’t be an expert at having professional care, because how he deals with his own panic attacks isn’t for everyone, so he understands that being sensitive is necessary.

It’s one of the times when his tone changes, and so do his expressions as he tends to you. Might crack a few jokes to test the waters and see where you stand on the scale before advancing with the rest of his care. You might get him to stop for a moment with his plotting and crafting to sit with you in a quiet embrace and listen to your thoughts. A small kiss to your forehead before he sends you off to your shared chambers or gardens (if he has one appropriate to sit in) to spend the rest of the day.

Masterlist

Taglist: @ranhanabi777 @lilmelily @mysticmoomin @rain-on-my-umbrella @asianbutnotjapanese @batsyforyou @mcwentfandomtraveling @involuntaryspasms @stormchaser819 @aconstructofamind @addaigio @lamemaster

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Hi M! Kindly requesting threesome Melkor x AFAB!reader x Mairon for kinktober please! If you’re comfortable with this :) thank you!

Ask and you shall recieve!

“Another bedmate”

Pairing: Melkor x Mairon x Fem. reader (Maia/second person POV) | Location: Angband

Themes: Smut (Lemon/Graphic)

Warnings: Threesome | Kissing | Mild dirty talk | Explicit language | Cockwarming | Nipple play | Mentions of oral (fem, receiving) | Penetrative sex | Cream pie

Word count: 1.1K words

Summary: You join Melkor and Mairon in bed after the latter invites you to join them.

Rating: 🔥🔥 | Minors DNI | 18+ | You are responsible for the media you consume

Melkor was never one to share, not when it came to many things. But for this one request, made by his most favored, no less, he was willing to make an exception.

"I am glad I listened to your entreaties," he declares, smug and satisfied. "What joys would I have missed if I had said no?"

"Many and more, my lord," Mairon replies. His molten gold eyes flutter and close even as a deep moan rolls off his lips. "And how fortunate are we to find another bedmate so willing to indulge us?

"Indeed, precious." Melkor rises to his knees and makes his way over the rumpled silk sheets. He slips his arms around your waist, helping you stay steady. His hands glide up your waist. They’re hot, then cold, then hot again, but not uncomfortably so. It made you quiver. Melkor leans and whispers, "He feels good; does he not?"

Mairon was not the only one who felt good. It was wonderful to be near Melkor as well.

“Yes, my lord.” Your hands moved to rest over his when his fingers found your nipples. You made a whimpering sound when soft peaks stiffened with each brush of the thumb. He…oh my stars… he most certainly is."

"No talking stars here," Melkor insists. There was steel and menace in his voice. “We do not speak of their wretched creations in Angband."

Melkor was angry. He never took kindly to any reminder of the other Valar, Varda most of all. You shudder and say, "Of course, my lord. My pardons for the slip of the tongue."

Melkor pinched, and pinched harder, delighting in your keening whine. "Very good."

You gasp and close your eyes. Melkor’s touch was a delightful torment, all heat and fervor, and yes, even control. The lord of Angband insisted on being in control from the moment he agreed to the arrangement. You did not mind. After spending more hours than you care to count presiding over others and issuing orders, having someone else take command was a true relief.

Mairon craved to move. He had been still for far too long. "May I?" he entreated.

Melkor nodded and dipped his head. "Yes," he agreed. "I want to see how well sweet y/n takes you."

The Vala nips at your neck before grasping the underside of your jaw, tilting your head towards him. His skin smelled of embers and ice, of blazing furnaces and new frost. It was strange and yet, incredibly intoxicating, filling your senses to the brim. His lips opened over yours. Your moan poured into his mouth. Melkor trembled, then deepened his kiss, his lips plump and warm.

Mairon is enraptured by what he is witnessing: Melkor kissing you with raw and unbridled lust, your hands pressing over his, urging him to touch you harder. Then Mairon bucked his hips. You cried out. It allowed Melkor to slip his sweet tongue into your mouth. You could not get enough of it. Melkor had put it to good use when he fucked you first, and the orgasm that followed was unlike anything you had experienced before.  

It was not something you expected of him. Melkor was always stern and cold and so very cruel. Only Mairon was blessed to receive any token of his affection. You did not expect him to favor you as well with his attention, and you certainly did not expect Mairon to invite you to share their bed. It was not an offer that was made lightly. Mairon would never have asked if he thought you unsuited for him and Melkor, and it honored you that Melkor would even consider allowing another bedmate to join them.

"Go on, precious," Melkor commands softly before pulling away. "Have your way with y/n while I watch."  

Mairon held onto your hips when they rocked in time with his thrusts. You threw your head back, crying out whenever he drove his cock into you, again, and again, and again. You clutched his arms when he set a deep and unrelenting pace, and the soft, wet sound of you taking him inside of you soon filled your ears.

Melkor watched and listened, and found himself hardening to the point that it nearly hurt. He had enough in him for another turn, he mused, and he wondered if you would agree to him and Mairon bedding you at the same time. Perhaps after you have had enough time to rest and regain your strength.

Your nails digging little indents into Mairon’s arms undid him. He rose to his knees and threw his arms around you to pull you closer. His kisses were softer than Melkor’s, and tender, but there was hunger to be found, and greed. He chased his release, grunting into your shoulder when your hands delved into his hair.

Melkor rose to his knees as well, moving beside you and leaning over your shoulder. Mairon slowed just long enough to return his lord’s kiss, his eyes burning when they locked on yours. You flashed a wicked grin and found yourself rewarded with another that mirrored yours.

"When you are finished with him," Melkor’s words were like honey when he purred against your ear. "You will take the both of us together."

His suggestion alone was enough to fill you with wild and wanton thoughts. "I accept," you answer quickly, your breath now shallow gasps. You felt something—a quickening just beneath your skin. It was potent and dizzying. "Gladly."

"Your fana will be a canvas once we are done with you," Melkor promised before drawing away again.

You were soaring, rising higher and higher with every moment. That quickening spread and strengthened, binding you within its steely grip. With one last, glorious thrust, it released you, leaving you to fall and shatter against the rocks. You clung to Mairon desperately, arching your back, crying out, losing yourself to a state of utter ecstasy while he spent his seed inside you. Mairon stopped, his chest still heaving.

Time drifted slowly. You became aware of your breathing, the warmth of a hand brushing over your hair, and someone urging you to open your eyes. Mairon drew back, and laid you in bed. He took his place beside you, his arm slung over your belly. Melkor joined not long after. He cupped your cheek and kissed you, half-whispering words of endearment and praise.

You had done well, he said. You were now free to use their dim but elegant chambers—the bed you now rested in. His words were soft, a far cry from the clipped, icy commands you were accustomed to hearing. Mairon agreed.

“Stay with us,” he urged.

Silence followed. You considered their offer, the rewards, and the implications.

As long as I am faithful, and serve them well, I will never have to fear the cost of being bound to them.

“I agree,” you reply.

They were pleased. “Good,” Melkor said. “Now rest a while. We can know more about you after.”

Tags: @cilil @asianbutnotjapanese

[itsmetheabnormalone]

Obsessed with this 😭

our smol lady of light

[yashmel]

[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!

[myworldrightnow]

HeHe

Not HeHe

[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

[likesdoodling]

>:)

[dreamlandcreations]

Imagine that you meet your soulmate...

Imagine that you meet your soulmate, Halbrand, who is a mortal...

As a half-elven, you had the chance to choose the mortals' fate. It was not something you ever imagined you wanted, you never really considered it as an option. Until him....

He lures you in one moment, enjoying your company and the bond you share, but pushes you away in the next, telling you that you can't give up on your immortality.

He beats up a couple of men for only mentioning the possibility of you not wanting to be his, then he is refusing to entertain the thought to share a life with you...

You know he wants you, you can tell that he is afraid to fully accept the bond though for some reason but he can't let you go either. He asks for a little bit of blissfully ignorant peace with you, and you agree because you are already too attached and you can't imagine losing him.

He knows it's a temporary solution, not even that, this solves nothing, he is just delaying the inevitable because he can't lose you either but he knows he will. You will either figure out his secret or he will be forced to share it with you to prevent you from throwing your immortality away. He dreads every second that takes him closer to that moment, yet he simultaneously loves every moment he can spend with you until then. Despite being convinced of the opposite, he even foolishly hopes that it will be enough for you to accept him after all.

[doodle-pops]

Ok. I had a thotty thought and I can't live being the only one thinking about it so since your the progenitor of it I thought I'd share. So since manwe and eonwe have heats due to their birdyness. Wouldn't mairon/sauron have a rut because he's the Lord of werewolves and could become one? (I hc that bc he's a perfectionist and control freak he HATES it) like him acting like a feral wolf just sounds 🥵 just some thotty thots to think about

This entire thotty thought is giving me urges to write a Rut/Heat headcanon for him even though I only write him in group hc 🥴. Like now, I can't get the creative juices out my head the more I read this.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･Mairon Rut/Matting Headcanons⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

His pupils dilate more over the course of the days as his rut approaches and his iris glow gold while his orbs remain a darker shade of gold. And he growls a lot.

His nails grow out and his hair eventually becomes wilder. He stops caring for his attire, wanting his natural scents to permeate the room he's selected to mate with you.

He'd become more affectionate, rubbing all over you and nuzzling his hair across your skin, scenting you. Mairon would even go as far as licking/cleaning your skin.

Like Eönwë, he doesn't want you out of his sight or mingling with anyone else because of the whole scent business.

His den for mating comprises of furs and quilts that smells like him. The inner him in clawing at how unkempt he appears. Mairon practically looks wild and feral.

You can bet he's pressing himself against you every chance he has, wanting to arouse and get your hormones pumping.

His rut lasts for like five to seven days and he is WILD and ROUGH. You really look like an animal ate you up (yeah, he knots you as well).

He isn't even aware but he growls A LOT. And he will clean you, like deadass lick-your-skin type of cleaning when you're done matting.

When matting is over and he returns to his normal senses, he is disturbed by his animalistic display and how unkempt he has himself and den/room. You can bet that he's tidying up and getting servants to rearranging his room.

But first, he'll make the exception to lie with you and do a little aftercare since you're incapacitated for 5-7 days straight.

Funny hc, since wolves are basically giant puppies, before his rut is over, you have the chance to witness Mairon acting like an overgrown puppy before he snaps out of it.

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Hi! I love your writing! Especially your Mairon. Can I request a Mairon x wife Reader (female Maia of Yavanna) where she insists that spending the day outside with her away from his forge will cure his burnout on his current project. He doesn’t like the idea at first, but is quickly impressed with the new skills she shows him. So impressed that it leads to smut in the garden. Thank you!

"The beauty in imperfections"

Pairing: Mairon x Fem. Reader (Maia | Established relationship | Second person POV | Location - Almaren)

Themes: Soft | Smut (Lemon-ish)

Warnings: Kissing | Public sex | Hand job (Male receiving) | Fingering | Penetrative sex | Cream pie

Word count: 1.7k words

Summary: Things heat up between you and Mairon while resting in a starlit meadow.

Rating:🔥🔥 | Minors DNI | 18+

For rules and tag form, read here.

"You toil too much, husband."

Mairon poured over many pieces of parchment, all of which were filled with drawings. He welled up with loathing whenever he glanced at them.

"Master Aulë tasked me with the creation of a diadem worthy of Varda herself," he replied, turning to face you, his voice and eyes dulled by exhaustion. "It must be perfect...none of these are perfect."

Ah, yes. Mairon and his quest for order and perfection. It was both a blessing and a curse, one that threatened to cripple him most of the time. You looked at him, your eyes filling with worry.

"You have confined yourself to the four walls of this forge for too long, husband," you said, taking his hand. "You need a diversion. A change of air will do you good, I think."

Mairon protested with, "But my task... Master Aulë..."

You were quick to cut him off. "Can wait. Come, husband. I am certain your vision can wait."

Mairon opened his mouth to refuse. You simply stood there, hands on your hips, bearing a look that would take no refusal. Mairon glared, the light slowly returning to his golden-orange eyes. You were unmoved. He crossed his arms over his chest. You were unmoved. You tapped the toe of your shoe against the floor. The forge soon filled with the unmistakable tap tap tap of hardened leather against stone. You arched a brow.

Mairon's lips curled at the corners. The tap tap tap grew insistent. Mairon's chest rumbled. You grinned while he struggled to hold back his amusement. Mairon finally laughed long and softly and shook his head.

"Determined little thing, yes?" He paused to walk around the forge. The flames in the furnace had been extinguished, and it was cool to the touch. Tools had been safely put away. All that remained was to shut the doors and windows, and he could leave. "Pray be patient a little longer, and we will leave, you and I."

It was not long before you were leading Mairon down a pebbled path that threaded around a beautiful meadow. The way ahead was lit with bright starlight. It turned the world a glorious silver. Mairon glanced at you, how your hair shone, how your eyes had gone soft and bright and dreamy. He found himself sighing softly.

"Here," you said, and led him under the gnarled branches of an oak tree that had withered with time. You spread your skirts over the soft grass and sat down with your back to the bark. "Come lay here and place your head on my lap."

Mairon made himself comfortable, sighing wistfully when cool air washed over him and you brushed your hand down his hair. He looked at you, wondering how much he would have missed and how long he would have been away from you, toiling on a vision that kept slipping through his fingers.

"Forgive me," he whispered, reaching up to curl his fingers around your hair. "For keeping myself from you for so long. Are you angry?"

"No," you replied truthfully. "For you have your duties just as much as I have mine. But I must confess," you sighed with worry, "watching your tasks consume you alarms me."

"I know," he agreed, "but I cannot help myself. It has to be perfection, nothing less. Is that wrong?"

"Perfection is an illusion, husband." You counseled, and reached to the side to pluck a dandelion in full bloom. "Nothing is truly perfect. Look at this flower. Yavannah created these with her own hands. See how uneven its petals and leaves are, how it is filled with little bumps and lines."

Mairon took the flower and looked over it critically. He found the little bumps and lines, the mismatched petals and leaves.

"And yet it is still beautiful," he admitted, albeit reluctantly. Mairon craved order and perfection; he could not help himself. Still, there was truth to what you said. Nothing was perfect, and even imperfections bring about beauty all of their own. "Perhaps you are right. I will stay away from the forge for a while, and go back to my task with rested eyes."

"Yes," you allowed, and looked around you. The meadow was a riot of blooms, and at that moment, the light from Telperion slowly spread out against the night sky in a brilliant display. The world was even more beautiful for it. Mairon saw it too. There was peace here, and magic. He slowly rose to his feet and dusted himself off, wanting to make the most of the time the two of you had together.

"Walk with me, wife," he implored, taking your hand into his. "Come walk with me."

Walk with him you did. You showed where the roses were, and where the wildflowers bloomed, even the lavender and sage and jasmines. Every flower and vine and tree imaginable was here. Mairon followed you, listening to you while you talked, his eyes on your lips the entire time. They were lips that were meant to be kissed. It had been long, too long in his mind, when the two of you kissed. And he thought he might not find himself in a more wonderous moment like this ever again. He stopped walking. You turned your attention to him, your gaze holding his even as he inched closer. His eyes burned into yours as the two of you stood close—so close that you felt the warmth wash off his fana and make your heart race a beat faster. Mairon wasted no time. He took you into his embrace and lowered his head, his lips barely brushing over yours.

His kiss shrouded your thoughts in a veil of bliss when it slowly deepened. Mairon growled, the sound low in his throat, when you responded passionately and returned his kiss eagerly. Goosebumps prickled all over your skin when his tongue slipped into the warmth of your mouth and the tips of his fingers dug into your dress.

"Husband," you breathed, and drew back. "Someone may find us."

"Eru take the others," he muttered thickly, and led you to a patch of meadow filled with glorious red blooms gilded in silver light. He lay down on soft grass and extended his arm. "Come here, wife. We may never get another moment like this again."

You licked your lips and considered his request. To engage in an act so private in a place where anyone could see... it was terrifying, and daring, and so very exciting at the same time. You looked over your shoulder, at the path you took. There was not a soul to be seen. And Mairon was right. The two of you might never come across an enchanting moment like this. You took his hand and lay beside him.

Mairon kissed you, now gently, his skilled hands undoing the lacing of your dress, loosening it, while you found the fastenings on his. He had you on your back before you could even think and he moved over you, caging you to the grass beneath you.

The air smelled so sweet. It was all roses and new leaves and him. You could smell him: all flames and leather and steel and the clean scent of him beneath it all. Your hands were curious in their exploration. You slipped them beneath his robes, running them all over his heated flesh. His breath hitched when you took him into your hands. Mairon trembled, really trembled, his eyes closing, his breathing reducing to ragged little gasps whenever you tightened and released, tightened and released. Just listening to him moan and whisper sweet endearments while hardening in your hands was enough to make you throb and dampen between your thighs.

His hand glided up your leg, going higher and higher before finding your small clothes. There was a sharp rip when he tore apart the wisps in his haste to reach the apex between your thighs. Your back bowed when skilled fingers touched you in a way that was familiar to you, fanning the flames already ablaze in your belly. His kisses muffled your moans. The delicious friction caused by his touch unraveled you.

It was not enough. He drew back and tugged his tunic over his head, his breeches even lower to free his cock. He helped you pull the top of your dress down, dipping his head to taste.

"You taste so sweet," he declared, his tongue leaving a damp trail over the soft expanse of your breasts. You had to bite your tongue. Mairon gripped your chin and tilted it up, compelling you to look at him. He did not want silence. He wanted to hear the sounds of your pleasure. He considered it to be the most beautiful sound he had ever heard. "Moan for me, wife. You know how I enjoy it when you do."

He eagerly dipped his head again. This time his kisses were violent and bruising, turning your fana into a canvas all of its own. Your moans, now wanton and unrestrained, spilled free. Mairon grew drunk on the sounds and shook when your arms slipped around his shoulders and your nails dug in.

"Hurry," you urged. The need to have him inside you was growing stronger by the moment. "Hurry, husband. There. There. Right there."

Mairon slowly sank his cock into your heat and lost himself in your flesh. He felt like such a fool, putting his labors over time with you. Not even the finest of his creations could compare to the time spent with you. His thrusts went from slow to rhythmic to hard and deep and fast, his hips slapping against the insides of your thighs. He trembled when your hands devled into his hair and the tips of your fingers brushed over his scalp, sending wave after wave of unimaginable bliss washing over him. He crushed your mouth with his when your legs scrambled for purchase against his hips.

It was over so soon. When he shuddered and spilled his seed, whispering your name, your fana splintered as your orgasm ripped through you. Mairon moaned when your cunt tightened around his cock. He kept still, his hand over your belly.

"Keep me in," he urged softly. "Do not move."

You forced open your eyes and looked up at him. Jolts of pleasure still licked up your spine. Mairon himself was gilded in the silvery light of the stars. He never looked more beautiful than at that moment. "More," you plead, "Please."

Mairon chuckled. "Then let me take you home. I plan on ruining you, wife."

Tags: @cilil @wandererindreams @edensrose @asianbutnotjapanese

[winds-of-zephyr416]

I love the idea that Saruman looked up to Sauron during the Almaren days so much. It always makes me think of Curumo as an annoying younger brother. Like,

Curumo: Hey bro come check this out!

Mairon: Not right now, I’m busy.

Curumo: No you have to come see it now

Mairon: I said no.

Curumo: Come on, please?

Mairon: No.

Curumo: come on come on come on come on come on come on come on com—

Mairon: No!! Leave me alone!

Curumo: Pleeeeaseee? I’ll leave if you just come see what it is!

Mairon, sighing: Fine. What is it.

Curumo: A dead slug I cast in silver! :D

Mairon: I AM NOT LOOKING AT THAT!

(Mairon would, actually. He just doesn’t like letting Curumo win).

[lemoneyshipz]

i kinda want to see the 7 sons of feanor +tyelpe forced to go on an agatha all along style road trip with mairon (post lotr) like can you imagine how funny that would be

[melestasflight]

I'd love to see a blond sparkly Morgoth and a black (or at the very least dark-haired) Sauron for once. Hear me, artists!

[green-apple-juice]

Melkor should be grateful to Mairon for not staying a spiteful, hateful incel until the end of his long existence.

Thanks to the little lieutenant, he became a hater who actually managed to get laid.