#would CELEBRIMBOR be proud of me | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

kasagia · 2 months ago

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Tolerate it

Pairing: Annatar/Sauron x fem!maia! reader Summary: You were with him from the beginning of his existence, from the first break of the silence. You blindly and faithfully followed him—your great, epic love, doing everything to help him, to stay with him no matter what. Sauron was Morgoth's shadow. And you were Mairon's shadow. What will you do when you realise that your devotion is no longer valued and desired by him? Author's Note: I'm actually proud of this one… I shouldn't say this, but it's my favorite so far. Hope you will like it too! <3 Halbrand's Masterlist ~•♤♤♤•~ Main Masterlist

I know my love should be celebrated... but you tolerate it.

- "Tolerate it" by Taylor Swift

You watched carefully as Sauron spoke to the people of Eregion, showering them with his charming smiles and sweet promises. You stared at him, analysing his every little move, seeing the traces of lies and deceit on his face as he tried hard to get on their good side, to deceive them into not seeing through his vision what was really happening behind the castle walls.

You wonder if he did the same to you. When he assured you that Galadriel was just an annoying elf, an obstacle to his plans, could you have detected a hint of deceit in his voice and face if you had looked closely enough? Did he also smile at you sweetly, lying to you directly, only to congratulate himself a moment later and be happy that he had managed to deceive you and suppress your any doubts in him, that would have been inconvenient for his plans?

"My love." He murmurs against your ear, surprising you and tearing you out of your thoughts for a moment.

You flinch as he wraps his arms around you, but he takes it as a shiver of surprise, not disgust. Because how could you, blindly in love with him for centuries, ever untangle yourself from his web of beautiful lies? You wonder if he ever loved you at all, if you were just a toy for him to use from the start.

"You're quiet today. And distant. Is everything alright?" Usually that attentive, caring look he gave you was enough to awaken a wonderful, warm feeling of security and peace within you.

You wonder how many times you've fallen for that illusion of concern for you? How many times has his false concern for you cheered you up? How many times has he laughed behind your back at your naivety?

"Yes. Celebrimbor is making your rings. He should be finishing the Nine soon." You respond, wondering if he'll keep teasing you, if he'll actually care about your feelings. Or if he'll just pat you on the back like a loyal pet for good behaviour and leave you to his own plans like he's been doing lately.

"That's wonderful." He mumbles and presses his lips to your forehead. In any other situation, you would consider it a very affectionate and desirable gesture. But now… his lips burned you. And not in a pleasant way. "Watch over him for me a little longer, my love. Our work here is not over yet. I must make sure that the people of Eregion do not realise what is really happening for a few more hours. Will you keep an eye on him for me, my heart?"

My heart, my love, my dearest... so many beautiful words, words that were hard to hear from him a hundred years ago, now poured from his lips so easily like honey... or wine, which you were supposed to intoxicate yourself with, so as not to open your eyes. Just like the inhabitants of the city he was bringing doom to, as if they meant nothing.

Just like you probably were to him…

"Of course, my darling." You respond with the most genuine smile you can muster. Luckily, he either doesn't notice or doesn't care that you're faking your smile for him. He steals a quick, short kiss and walks away from you in the opposite direction—towards the western gates.

You sigh, leaning against the cool wall of the marble hallway and pressing a hand to your lips. You squeeze your eyes shut, seeing white spots as you try to somehow break free from the situation you've found yourself in.

Uncontrollable sobs wrack your body as the ring he'd forged for you falls from your hand—the ring that was a faint illusion of the real Nenya, which had befallen Galadriel instead of you, which Sauron had given to Galadriel instead of you.

Your heart clenches painfully as you recall the words he spoke to one of the elves last night. Words you accidentally overheard after you went looking for him when he didn't return to your chambers as he had promised you he would.

"Your hair… in this light it reminds me of my lady Galadriel's hair."

His lady Galadriel.

You've survived and gone through a lot of torture, but hearing him speak with such… affection and adoration in his tone of voice about another woman makes you suffer worse than the worst torture you've been throught.

The worst part was that you didn't know what he saw in her. She was just an elf. An elf bearing the light of Valinor—the same light he had forced you to give up for him. If it was so unpleasant to him, why had he been so fascinated by this arrogant elf? Why had he given her Nenya—the ring that was supposed to be yours? Why had he made you feel like the other woman when you were his most loyal soldier—the one who had stood by him through thick and thin?

You hiss as you clench your fists so hard that black blood spills from under your nails, dug into your palm. Through your watery eyes, you watch as the evidence of your corruption—black sap—runs down your palm, staining the metal of the ring he gave you.

You want to take it off, throw it out the window, and never look at this searing reminder of how much you truly meant to him, but you were too far gone. You couldn’t imagine your life without him.

He had become your master, your Valar, your support, your shelter, your heaven and hell, your everything. And for a while, you had been blinded enough to believe that you were just as important and precious to him as he was to you.

You stand before the forge door, feeling like a small child waiting for someone to call you inside—to grant you permission to enter. You wonder when exactly you became so obedient to him. If you could think back to the times when Sauron was just Mairon, Aulë's apprentice, in his forge, you would remember how different you were from who you were today. You were more confident, happier, and filled with light and love for the man who created wondrous, beautiful, unimaginable things under Valar's watchful eye.

You wonder if he was like this already or if Morgoth was slowly injecting poison into his soul. Could you have really prevented his fall? Could you have made sure he never left the forge? Was the fall between the two of you really your fault, the one you were paying for now as you watched your love slip away from you, or was it never truly true? You don't know. You don't want to know. You already feel like you're going mad without his touch and his tender words, without the certainty that you still have some remnant of his soul and love in a heart that clearly stopped beating for you ages ago.

You flinch as the door swings open. Sauron emerges from the forge in a huff, stained with the blood of the elf who forged his beloved rings. He stops, surprised to see you standing in front of the door. You stare at each other for a moment, left in a dull, heavy silence. You break under his intense gaze and instead shift your gaze to the blood stain that has soaked into the black silk material on his chest.

He looked... both angry and agitated, uncertain. You wonder what exactly Celebrimbor had said to him—what exactly had moved him so much that you could see his eyes glaze over for a brief moment before he realised you were waiting for him outside the door.

"Galadriel has them." He informs you, panting with rage. You frown, shifting your gaze uncertainly back to his face.

Thankfully, he’s no longer meeting your gaze. You wonder if it’s because he has the decency to feel guilty about his feelings for the elf, or if he can’t think of her when he looks at you.

You quickly push that thought out of your head. He had everything except decency.

"What?"

"My rings." He growls, looking at you again. You tremble under his dark gaze. HIS rings. Not yours. Not yours. Like all his plans lately - they belonged only to him. "The Orcs will escort you to Mordor. I have a few more things to attend to before I will join you."

You just nod, unsure how else to respond to his words.

You know perfectly well what he wants to do, even if he hasn't told you his entire plan. You know that Adar will soon meet his end at the hands of your beloved. Another life will be taken by him. And with each one, your eyes opened wider and wider.

You gasp as he suddenly covers the distance between you with quick steps and presses you against the wall behind you. He grabs you brutally by the neck and kisses you. Greedily, hungrily, avidly. The force with which he takes your lips and breath is so great that you can't mistake this kiss for anything other than marking his territory. And you know perfectly well that this is exactly what he wants to do.

What he always did.

How blind you were, never seeing that what kept him with you was fear of loneliness, the desire to possess something. You gave him your heart, your soul, your body, everything—without blinking an eye, without a moment's hesitation.

And you watched him tolerate your devotion to him.

As if what you gave him rightfully belonged to him. As if you were ought to bind yourself to him, to be utterly his.

He pulls away from you, cupping your cheeks in his bloody hands and spreading the blood across your skin with his thumbs, staining you with his sins once again. All you can do is stand there, trembling in his grip as he presses his lips to your forehead.

"You're mine. Only mine. Always mine." He brushes his nose against yours, pressing another kiss to your lips. His tongue caresses yours as he tries to reassure himself that you're still caught up in his web of lies and that you still believe in all his tender and sweet gestures that were never really meant to calm your nerves and worries—only him. It was always about him. "You'll look beautiful in a crown next to me. Right, my queen?"

Whatever that elf had told him, it had raised enough doubts in him that Sauron would seek comfort and reassurance from you. A rare thing. Very rare. And you would have treasured that moment, probably remembered it forever, and carved it into your heart if you had not learnt the ugly truth about your relationship.

No matter how much you give yourself to him, he will never be yours in return.

He would never belong to you. He would never celebrate your love; consider it more than something he owed, something he could conquer and flaunt like his rings. You were to be the jewel in his dark crown... right next to Galadriel.

And in that moment you truly envied the elf, for having managed to resist him before he defiled her as he had defiled you.

"Of course, my king." You promise with a smile and lean down to connect his lips with yours—you do what he taught you best. You lie.

Because you know perfectly well that the moment he turns away from you, you will run. Run far away. In the hope that you will escape the darkness that he has rooted in you. In the hope that you can survive, with your heart ripped out and left behind you.

"Have you finally stopped believing his lies? Or is this just another one of your illusions?" You freeze at the sound of Adar's voice behind you.

You turn slowly, watching the fallen elf carefully. Black blood seeps from his temples, but aside from a few wounds on his body, you see no major injuries on the one who once killed your love.

"I thought by now he would have killed you in one of his infamously creative ways." You mock him as you try to ignore the sight of Eregion burning behind him.

"You don't even reach for your weapon? That's an insult, Mistress of Darkness." You shiver at the nickname, playing with the ring on your finger—the very one Sauron had given you—as you consider your answer.

Adar was barely alive. But he was still alive. You wonder how Sauron had retained enough restraint to give him a fate worse than death—watching someone he loved slowly die. In Adar’s case, he had watched his orc children die; in yours, you had watched Mairon die—a death you had been blind to for centuries.

"It is not my intention to fight you." You sigh tiredly, meeting the dark elf's gaze. Something in his demeanour changes. He is less alert, less tense, as if he sees in you the same surrender he had after the clash with your beloved.

"That's funny. I remember you swore one of the worst deaths to me for killing him." You leave his mockery unanswered as you recall that moment. You thought you would go mad with despair and throw yourself at Morgoth's crown, piercing your heart to be reunited with your beloved in the afterlife. With the benefit of hindsight, when you are wiser, you want to laugh at your own stupidity. He played you, your feelings, your mind, and your heart exactly as he wanted. You let him do all he wanted with you, and then you even thanked him for using you. "Has that day finally come? Are you abandoning him to his lust for power?"

The shock in his voice should offend you and drive you to the point of passion and true, unpredictable rage. But it can't. You feel... numb. Empty. Like nothing really matters anymore. And maybe it doesn't, since your soul and heart slowly wither with every second you're not near him.

Pathetic, how after pulling the dagger from your heart that was Sauron's "love," you miss the pain it brought. Even though you accept with relief that you're slowly bleeding to death, you still crave him. Maybe it really was an addiction? An unhealthy obsession that defined who you were? Because who were you really without Sauron?

"Is it really abandonment if he wants to stick with someone else?" You justify yourself, remembering the look in his eyes when he mentioned the elf you hated. You wonder what you envy more, her light or the fact that she truly seemed to have the undivided attention and adoration of a man you would do anything for?

"Galadriel…"

"No one good is ever truly good… and no one bad is ever truly bad." You interrupt him, not wanting to talk about the elf.

You walk over to him and nod for him to sit on the fallen tree trunk next to you. You muster up some mercy towards him (or your own troubled conscience) and staunch his wounds enough for him to pass away in peace... or at least you hope he will.

At least one of you deserved to find peace.

"Is that what you told yourself while being with him?" The silence between you is uncomfortable, but necessary. Necessary for you to realize how much he was really using you. And how much you wanted him to be someone he never was…

"Maybe." You admit quietly, in a barely audible whisper.

Before he can reach for the dagger at his side, you're already pulling away from him and taking his consciousness, putting him into a sleep state. You run, not catching up with yourself, slowing down only to wipe the tears dripping down your cheeks with the back of your hand. The cold metal of Sauron's ring scratches your skin in a painful reminder of your sins.

You pull the hood over your head, using the back of your hand to shake off the snow that had already accumulated as you made your way through the streets in the dark of the night.

It had been a few weeks since you had escaped from Sauron. Weeks spent avoiding his army of orcs, closing the doors to your thoughts to him, and controlling the connection he had created between you in the time you had spent with him.

He had been looking for you—whether out of revenge for your abandonment, longing for you, a desire to punish you and make an example of you, or all three—you didn't figure it out yet. What you did know was that Galadriel had kept her ring, sacrificing the nine, and that Sauron had been gathering his forces to "heal" Middle-Earth, searching every corner he had conquered in the process, looking for you.

But he wasn't the only one looking for you.

Galadriel and Adar had joined forces in the fight against Sauron. And the latter had tried persistently to convince you to stop watching the fight between them. The need to stay away from Sauron was one thing, but the actual thought of hurting him, of being the cause of his downfall… you didn't know if you could survive that. To be honest, you know you wouldn't.

And he knew that too.

That's why he often tried to break down the wall you had put up between you to appear in the form of an illusion. It was often in moments when you thought of him. You're certain you'll never forget the first time he took the opportunity to reach out to you through your connection.

You were lying on a small bed in the inn, staring blankly at the ceiling above you. You had managed to slaughter the orc troop that was chasing you and had made it safely into the city beyond the mountain pass where you had come across them. You didn't know if Sauron had ordered you brought to him dead or alive, but you didn't particularly want to find out just yet.

That's why, after each such "chase," you left behind a trail of orc blood and bodies, escaping to another hole to wait out the danger and re-emerge into the light of day only when he shifted his attention elsewhere. Like you did now.

You lay in the darkness of your miserable room, cursing yourself for not needing sleep like these mortals. How much would you give for your mind to be immersed in the bliss of not a single thought coming to it? To stop fighting and trying so hard to not think about him...

That night you were particularly tired, not only from the fight and the injury you had suffered but also from the whole escape, which had lasted for several weeks. It was nothing in your immortal, long life, but you found those days without him by your side tiring more than any. You wonder what was worse: separation from him or the hardships of escaping from him?

You can't help but wonder what he's doing now. Does he also lie idle, thinking of you? No. That wasn't his style. He'd probably be sitting in some fortress, surrounded by his servants, whom he despised, as he hatched his plans to heal Middle-Earth. A cure that was supposed to be a disease that had begun in him ages ago. That you couldn't see and cure in him.

"Rather miserable and shabby chambers for a queen." You shiver at the sound of his voice echoing through the small room.

You sit up unsteadily, staring at his figure leaning against the door. You blink a few times, convinced that he was a trick of your tired mind, but when he speaks again, you realise that he managed to slip through your barriers and answer your call while you were thinking about him. You had unknowingly dug a rabbit hole for him inside you. And he took advantage of it, crawling through it before you could block him.

"Although… I think this is a room fit for a treacherous queen."

His mockery shakes you out of your strange state of numbness. You stare at him, anger rising in your chest as you hear him accuse you of the one thing he had no right to.

"It is ironic to hear you, of all the creatures, accusing me of cheating, when I was the one who stood faithfully by your side all these years. Besides... you can't say that you didn't see that coming."

"Maybe I am as naive as my queen?" He replies, slowly walking over to you. You get out of bed, standing on the other side of it, desperately trying to put some distance between you.

"Which one? Forgive me, but I'm starting to get a little confused since you're calling so many women by that title." You say, sticking the pin where it hurts.

"Jealous of the elf?"He asks, raising an eyebrow mockingly at you.

"I didn't leave because of jealousy. You know that very well."

Honesty was always something he accepted... worse. He didn't like being vulnerable, showing his cards and saying what he really felt... that's why looks away and tries to change the subject.

"If you come back, I won't punish you too harshly… at least not in a way you don't like." You shiver as memories of your times together—those particularly intense ones, where all you could do was whisper or scream his name, as he destroyed you for anyone else in the sheets of your bed—run through your mind.

“Go back to what?”

"You promised to stand by me. To be my right hand." He responds, offended by the thought that you ask him such a question, that you don't know what awaits you, that he has to explain to you how grateful you should be that he will take you back without any problems.

"I am sure you will find many worthy replacements for me. For example, such a commander of elven forces…"

"I don't want Galadriel." He interrupts you with a sharp, cold tone, irritated that you're bringing up the subject of the elf. He starts to walk around the bed, wanting to get closer to you, and you take a few steps away from him with each one he comes with.

"Did you come to this conclusion before or after she rejected you?" You mock him, watching him closely. And you see perfectly on his face the moment his composure breaks.

After berely a blink of an eye later, he’s standing in front of you, grabbing you roughly by the shoulders and shoving you against the wall behind you. You fight his grip, struggling, trying to kick him, but he’s got both of your wrists in one hand and lifting them above your head, pressing his torso against yours.

"You are mine. I will kill anyone who says or thinks otherwise… including you." He growls in your ear and runs his nose over your temple. You take quick, ragged breaths as you give in to his illusion and his will, sensing his scent, the warmth, as if he were actually with you.

"I am not one of your rings. You can't put me on your finger and expect me not to slip off when you lose interest in me, to faithfully wait for your attention until you feel like playing with me again." You hiss angrily in his face and lift your legs, trying to kick him. He gasps, struggling to keep his grip on your wrists. After a moment, he grabs you roughly by the waist and pushes you onto the bed.

"Stop making this difficult. We both know how it will end. Go home. Before I will drag you to it." He warns you, glaring at you intensely as he steps closer to you. You raise your leg to kick him in the chest, but he catches your ankle, grounding you.

"I have no home. You made sure of that." You growl at him, trying to yank your leg out of his grip, but he won't let you. He takes a step towards you and braces your leg over his shoulder. He presses his lips to your ankle, sending a shiver right up your spine.

"I am your husband..."

"I don't remember you swearing any oaths to me." You respond angrily, yanking your leg out of his grip as he presses kisses along your ankle and lower. You can't let him have enough space to play his tricks and seduce you to get you on his side again.

"It is enough that you have given me one. You cannot break it."

"In the eyes of the Valar we do not exist anyway. We have no souls. So why should I keep the promises made by that part of me that died long ago, buried by your own hand, Mairon?" The use of his true name somehow unsettles him, causing his mask of composure to crumble for a moment. You see in his eyes as old memories of the two of you flash through his mind—when you both bathed in the light of the Valar, when he was just your Mairon. "Forgive me... Sauron."

He recoils from you as if scalded when he hears the hateful tone in your voice as you speak his other name—the one given to him by Morgoth. You see him tremble when it feels from your lips like a foul curse. You give him one of your coldest, most cruel looks, and you almost crumble in your resolve to keep him away from you when you see him shake his head gently, allowing himself a moment of weakness with you.

"You knew perfectly well what I had become… after Morgoth."

"I did. What I didn't realize was that you would want to remain his shadow forever." You respond with bitterness and stare at him with resentment equal to the one he accused you of abandoning him… but how could you stay with him when he hurt you more than anyone else had before?

"I am not his shadow. I am my own master. This... this is who I am."

"Then this is not the man I promised myself to." Your words hurt him. He may not show it in a big way, but you can see it in the way his jaw clenches a little harder after your statement.

"But this is a man you've bonded yourself to. Til the end of the time and much longer after that." He reminds you, never taking his piercing, cold gaze off you.

"Or until one of us is forever gone." There’s another long silence after your statement, this time more tense. You swallow hard, watching in the piercing silence, broken only by your loud heartbeat, as he takes in the meaning of your words. And you can clearly say that he doesn’t like them at all.

"You can't kill me. You won't. You can't. You care too much."

"I know. I meant something else."

At those words, something inside him snaps. He stops controlling you completely. Before you can blink, he's straddling you. You struggle against his grip, fighting him with everything you have, but he pins you down to the bed with all his strength, not letting you move away from him for even an inch.

"If you do… I will pull you from the land of the dead, find your soul, and make you suffer more than Morgoth ever did to us. You will not leave me… not you… if you do not return to me…"

"What will you do? Burn whole Middle-Earth? Destroy me? You've already done that or are about to do it." You growl, digging your nails into his wrists as he tries to lock your hands back in his iron grip. You whine, in pain and shock, as he bites into your shoulder, effectively distracting you so he can overpower you. "Unlike you, I have nothing to lose, my king."

Your mockery only fuels his anger. You gasp as he pushes his knee between your legs, creating a space for himself. Before you can even react, he leans down and captures your lips in a punishing, bruising kiss, as if it were some form of punishment for you - a punishment created by him specifically for his pleasure.

"I will find you… I will find you, and bind you to myself with golden shackles if necessary." He mumbles against your lips, cupping your cheek in his hand.

He presses his thigh against your core, teasing your shamefully dripping pussy for him, asserting his dominance over you. As if to reassure himself that he still has some kind of control over you.

"I'll rip my heart out before you lay even the tip of your littlest finger on me again." You promise him, but it seems unlikely considering the way you grind against his thigh, desperate to get away from him yet unable to do anything but endure his treatment.

"Then I will lay at your feet the heads of everyone who has caused you to leave me. Their lives, the lives of everyone in Middle-Earth, and their blood will be stained your hands."

You can’t help but moan as his fingers find their way to your cunt and pinch it. You bite your lip until it bleeds as he pushes two of his fingers inside you, stretching the tight walls of your pussy for him once more.

"They already do. Since the day I brought you back... since the day I followed you and supported you. Since the day I naively fell into your arms believing that I meant as much to you as you did to me. Since then I have had your sins on my shoulders." You mumble, digging your fingers into his arms as he is tirelessly working on your pleasure.

"If what I feel for you is not love, then I don't know what it feels like."

And then you almost give in to him, almost surrender, wanting to believe his sweet words, wanting to believe that he is actually capable of loving you sincerely, that all those centuries spent by his side were not a waste of time at all.

Almost. Because you realize he is much wiser in the art of deceiving everyone around him than you will ever be.

You sigh as he removes his fingers and instead teases your entrance with the tip of his cock. And even though you know better than to give in to him like that, you can't stop or push him away—too eager for his touch after so long apart to do the right thing.

Instead, you let yourself be submerged in his perfectly tailored illusion of him thrusting into you, glad that he's not actually with you in the flesh, because then you'd fail completely to him once again. In your mind, you find a twisted excuse for your actions and grab his hair hard, sinking your fingers into the perfectly coiffed bow and tugging on it as he pounds into you at an unforgiving pace.

"You will regret this. When I put a crown on you made of your blood and the blood of our enemies, you will regret having abandoned me. I will make you my ornament, my prize, a pretty thing on my arm. Then you will understand how I treat my toys." You whine as each sentence he says ends with him thrusting harder and harder into you.

You close your eyes and bite your lip, trying to keep from making too many sounds, but it doesn’t meet with his approval. He wraps a warning hand around your neck, pressing down just a little as he forces you to look him in the eyes.

You feel the heat spreading across your chest, the ragged breaths that leave your lungs a reward that makes him redouble his efforts, abusing your poor, overstimulated body, forcing sweet whimpers and moans out of you over and over for his pleasure.

"The thing is... you've always treated me this way. Maybe we're both blind—me for seeing it too late and you for thinking you did me a favour by letting me love you endlessly when I got nothing in return."

"I have always adored you." He quickly denies it, telling you another well-practiced lie.

"Did you?" You ask, grabbing his chin firmly. He freezes for a moment, staring at you without saying a word, too surprised that you're still trying to defy him. "Look me in the eyes and tell me it was always me. Look me in the eyes and tell me you would give it all up for me. Look me in the eyes and tell me it was all in my head—that I got your intentions wrong somehow, that instead of celebrating my love, you didn't take it for granted and started craving power more than my love. Look me in the eyes and tell me you would choose me over a hundred rings. I dare you. Show me your alleged love."

You hold your breath, waiting impatiently for his response. For the first time, you realise that you're seeing him without any words. He's staring at you, shocked and frozen, trying to get something out of his mouth.

You laugh bitterly, still with him deep inside you, as he proves to you exactly what you suspected, exactly what you didn't want to see all these years. He didn't truly love you. He never did.

"Get out of my mind. Have enough decency and mercy for my tormented heart and leave me alone." You beg him shakily, allowing yourself to show so much weakness. You close your eyes tightly, stopping any tears from spilling out as the painful truth hits you.

"I can't." He spits it out reluctantly, admitting, probably for the first time in a long time, honestly to you.

Sauron wraps his arms around you tightly, pressing you painfully against him. He digs his fingers into your arms, as if to make sure you don't break free from his grip. He presses his forehead to yours and closes his eyes, taking a shuddering breath.

"Come back. Just come back."

You're not used to seeing him like this. To seeing him... lost, begging for something, being not the one in control. You close your eyes, letting your tears mingle with his—the ones that are dripping onto your cheek from his.

"To watch you tolerate my love again?" You spit at him angrily, and he shakes his head slightly. He removes his forehead from yours and cups your cheek gently in his hand, caressing it as he forces you to look at him again.

"To watch me make everyone in all Middle-Earth fall at your feet and worship you."

"I only want your adoration… it's a pity you're not able to give it to me honestly."

"Y/N... please." He tries one last time, pressing his lips to yours, stealing the words you wanted to use against him. You gasp into his desperate kiss as he begins to move his hips again, tearing you, your soul, and your body in half.

"It was not me who left us in ruins… you have no right… you have no right to ask or beg me for anything." You whine, letting your tears fall down your cheeks.

His plush lips kiss off each tear as he continues to desperately hold you, thrusting into you as if he can redeem himself through his sweet words and the pleasure he brings you.

"Y/N." He whispers desperately, pleadingly, as he brings the two of you closer and closer to climax, despite how reluctant you are to accept him inside you.

He craves your touch, your tenderness, and your warmth. He has to have you back; he can't imagine a world without you; he can't imagine you by anyone else's side but him. And if he has to burn all of Middle-Earth and take you against your will, then he will.

He will do anything to make you see again that you belong together, that he worships you—maybe not to the extent you expect, but as madly and devotedly as his black rotten heart can handle.

"Get out of my mind, you deceiver."

"You… of all people… don't call me that… at least not you." He mumbles against your temple, pressing his lips there.

Every little whisper, every tender touch is just another dose of poison—poison you thought you were already healed from. But in that little moment between you, he reminded you so clearly of the power he has over you and how strong he is. Because even knowing what he is like, you couldn't fight the pull between you. That's why you had to stay away from him. For your own good.

The moment you both fall apart, reaching your peaks, you focus your power and throw him out of your mind, slamming the door shut with a bang. You breathe deeply, tiredly, as the connection between you weakens, even as you feel him hammering with all his might against the gates to your mind you’ve closed. You allow yourself a moment of shuddering sobs, wrapping your arms tightly around yourself and holding on, rocking back and forth on the bed to somehow calm your shattered emotions.

You’d forgotten how strong his illusions could be and how gracefully he could mess with the minds of others, passing off his thoughts to them as their own. You begin to wonder how much of you was really there and how much of the emotion you felt was really coming from him.

You decide you don't want to know.

You quickly gather yourself to set off on your journey, convinced that he has caught your scent and is already in pursuit of you. And you are not wrong. A few hours later, you watch in the distance as the village you stopped at burns under fire and the feet of orcs. At least he has not lied to you about this one thing.

He will burn the world to get to you.

You shiver, coming back to the present as a cold blade is pressed to your neck. You glance at the weapon and frown, recognizing Adar's black blade.

"I thought you wanted to meet like civilized beings?"

"As if you or I could be one." He whispers in your ear. You manoeuvre his hand and push him away from you, throwing him against the wall behind him and pulling out your blade. You aim it at him, watching him carefully.

"What do you want?"

"I want you to specify which side you are on." You laugh mockingly at the demand coming from him. He had definitely become too arrogant over the centuries he had managed to live through. Perhaps you should remind the fallen elf of his place…

"The answer has not changed since we last saw each other. I am on the only side that is right for me in this little war between you, Galadriel, and him. On my own."

"He wants you. And he won't rest until he gets you. You know that." You frown at his words, not at all appreciating the conversation about your former lover. The lover who continued to pursue you tirelessly despite how many times you had escaped the clutches of his orc army.

"And so?"

"We both know you will succumb to him the moment you come within his reach again. And Galadriel and I cannot have that. If you join him… the world will burn in the fires of his creation."

"It is already burning in the fires of its furious search for me." You growl, blocking the attack he launches at you just as you try to move away from him. You land a few blows, which he successfully blocks, but not as effortlessly as he would like.

"This flame we are able to control. The question is for how long?"

"You know very well that I will not join him of my own free will."

"Just enough to also know that he won't give you a choice once he catches you. Together you are too dangerous. So one of you must die."

"And you want it to be me?" You ask with a mocking smile on your face, ignoring the cold shiver that ran through you.

He was right. Partly. It seemed logical to destroy one of you since you were connected to Sauron. By getting rid of one, you take away some of the power from the other. And since you didn't seem like a particularly great threat, they wanted to remove you from the picture.

"I'd prefer it to be Sauron, but since you leave me no choice… I don't care whose dead bodies I step over to bring about his eternal end."

"Oh you showed this very well by sacrificing your so-called children." You mock him, pleased when you manage to hurt him in a vulnerable spot.

He attacks you harder this time, actually forcing you to block his sword. You push him away from you, moving to the next street, one that leads out more to the outskirts of the village, where you could see the nearby forest.

"I don't want you to die. But I will kill you if I have to." He growls, thrusting forward, trying his best to cut your skin with his blade.

Adar posed no threat to you. Yet you knew you would not be able to avoid their efforts to kill you for long. Eventually you would have to choose a side. But you feared your battered heart had not yet healed enough to make the best decisions for yourself.

"Then you will make him win. He'll have nothing to lose after my death. Literally nothing. And you know perfectly well what a desperate man will do, don't you, Adar?"

"Make him fall… or fall before him."

"What should I do? Return to his side and be your spy? Do you think he won't notice that I won't sense the trick? Or that I won't change my mind? He knows my mind. He will see over this little lie."

"But he doesn't know your heart." You can't stop the slight twitch of your facial muscles—a sign of weakness that he quickly spits out and greets with a dark, mocking smile of victory.

"I don't have one anymore." You answer without emotion, knowing that it is partly true. Part of your heart had been cut out, and what was left of it was no longer fit to function like it once did. Sauron made sure of it.

"That's why I trust you in terms of making him disappear once and for all." An unpleasant shiver runs through you, and a strange feeling of unease settles heavy in your chest at his words. The thought of killing him, of being part of the cause of his death, isn't... as liberating as it should be. Which scares you a little bit.

But before you can say anything, agree or reject his proposal by mocking him, you hear the howl of a warg coming from the nearby forest. And that could only mean one thing…

"You fucking traitor." You growl at Adar and charge at him. He deliberately delayed you, allowing the orc scouts to catch up with you.

Instead of thinking about escaping, you think about how to hurt him the most. That's why you want to show him what happened to his children. You're both in the middle of the fight when the first orc units reach you. They throw themselves at you as well as at their father, with the difference that none of them dares to raise a weapon at you. They have a clear mission. To catch you and take you to their master. The rest of the world was of lesser importance to Sauron.

Unfortunately, Adar manages to escape the battlefield. If you weren't busy killing orcs, you'd mock what a coward he is, since he can't face what he once loved and cared for. On the other hand, unfortunately, you understand him. You realise this when, in this sudden commotion, amidst blood both black and red, the fire from the torched village, the screams of men, and the army of orcs, you see him.

Sauron. Halbrand. Annatar. Mairon. He had many names. And many faces. You wonder if you ever got to know his real one.

But you won't let me win that easily. That's why when your eyes meet his, you run in the opposite direction. He's not calling you. He's not stupid enough to think that you'll come to him of your own free will. That's why you run, not even turning to see if he's following you. Because you know perfectly well that if you focus your senses enough, you'll feel his breath on the back of your neck.

Running into the ruins of the forest, you know you have no escape route. They burnt everything and buried every possible hiding place, leaving only fire and darkness behind. Strangely, you didn't pay any attention to it. You wonder if your ignorance stems from the far worse things you've already seen while at Sauron's side or if you've simply stopped paying attention to things that don't directly concern you.

Your heart beats madly as you hear his footsteps behind you, and you feel him trying to simultaneously cage you in his arms and break through the barrier you've put up in your mind.

In your flight from him, you fail to notice how he manipulates your surroundings, masking his protruding crotch with his illusion. You stumble, giving him just enough time to catch up to you.

You fight him, trying to break through his armour with your dagger, but he doesn’t let you squirm under him for long. He knocks the weapon out of your hands, catching your wrists in a tight grip and lifting them above your head. He lets you fight his clinging grip for a moment longer, staring at you intently, drinking in all the changes in you since he last saw you. And you can’t stop your heart from beating a little faster at the sight of him.

"Are you done?" He asks you mockingly, piercing you through with his icy gaze.

"I don't know yet." You pant, still exhausted from running away from him and fighting him. You try to kick him with your legs and push him off of you, but he holds his ground above you, his body pinning you to the dead ground beneath you.

"I can go on like this for eternity." He warns you, bored, as if he hadn’t spent all those nights over the past century searching for you, cursing your name as you slipped through his fingertips each time he was close to catching you.

"Me too." You growl at him angrily, renewing your attempts to defeat him with even more furious passion.

You managed to surprise him enough to somehow crawl out from under his grip. You push him away and stand up to keep running, but he grabs your ankle and pulls you back to him. And before you can react, his mouth is on yours, devouring you in the most ravenous, unholy way possible—taking your breath away, any thought that was going to cross your mind.

You can't help but moan into his mouth. He takes the opportunity to slide his tongue into your mouth, ravaging you even more with each movement of his tongue against yours. He cups your cheeks in his hands, making sure you don't pull away from his kiss. He presses his body against yours with a groan, as he is finally able to properly sink into the feeling of your lips, warmth, and scent.

He can't count how many sleepless nights he spent thinking about you. It was pathetic, how frustrated he felt, how he had to meet his needs on his own, while sinful images of you—precious memories he held onto—tempted him and distracted him from his main mission.

But he finally had you. And he'd be damned if he'd ever let you walk away from his watchful gaze again.

"Lord Sauron we have taken over…" The orc who was supposed to give him the message couldn't even finish his sentence as Sauron sent one of his blades towards him.

You could hear his dead body fall to the ground a little further away from you as Sauron hungrily, open-mouthed, moved along the column of your neck with his lips, placing wet kisses, leaving hickies and bite marks all the way down to your clothed chest—marking you as his property once again.

"You killed him."

"I have many of them. And only one of you." He doesn't even have the decency to care about your accusation and stop kissing every tiny inch of your skin he can reach. You sigh, trying to pull away from him, but with each tender kiss he places against your skin, it becomes more and more difficult.

"It's exactly the same with your rings, and yet this rule doesn't apply when it comes to them."

"Don't start." He mumbles and pinches your side in warning. You give him a hurt, angry look, and he just chuckles darkly, thug-like. It's one of the rare times you see him so... relaxed and carefree, without any worries or plans nagging at him, when all he wants to do is lose himself in you.

"I should have killed you ages ago. Or myself. Or both of us." You mumble as his fingers begin to work on the laces of your blouse. He presses a kiss to your cheek, completely ignoring your small threats as he cups your breast in his hand and begins to fondle it. You hiss as he plays with your nipples, and you involuntarily tangle your hands in his hair, pulling him closer to you.

"And I should punish you for leaving me, but yet here I am, worshiping my queen." "We need each other. You know that. So stop fighting it." He whispers into the crook of your neck, continuing to pepper it with kisses. With your other hand, you reach for the dagger at your side and, taking advantage of its looseness, press the metal against the back of his neck.

"You may have needed me… but I never needed you."

"Lier." He growls, not moving an inch, waiting to see if you dare to pierce his skin and draw his black blood, or if you will finally give in to your wild desire, fuelled by a century of your running away from him.

"Deceiver." You respond just as furious, and you roughly push his head away from you so you can look him in the eye. He licks his lips, watching the furious look in your eyes, a raging storm of both lust and rage.

"A damn good couple, don't you think?" He asks, raising an eyebrow at you. You bite your lip, staring at him, your grip on the dagger tightening as you lightly trace the line of hair at the nape of his neck with the tip of the blade, still hesitating.

"It's them or you. From the rain to the gutter."

"But only at my side will you become queen." He entices you and puts his hand around your neck, forcing you to lift your chin and meet his intense gaze.

"Queen of nothing." You comment, emphasizing the last word with a glance at the empty, scorched earth around you.

"My queen." He corrects you. He gently removes his hand from your body and reaches for the back of his head—where you still have an iron grip on his hair. You freeze when you feel him slide his little breast onto your free finger.

"This time we will be equal. Or I will bring doom upon us both."

And though your warning sends an unpleasant shiver of alarm through him, he ignores it completely. He leans down, capturing your lips in a bruising, passionate kiss, and can't help but smile as he hears and feels you drop the dagger to the ground.

"I think I can work with that." He mumbles against your mouth, throwing himself at you like a starving man looking for a warm meal.

You idly trace patterns on his back with your fingers, carefully considering your next move. For now, you'll let him think he's placated you and that he's on your good side again.

And in time, when he once again takes your devotion for granted—and you're convinced he will—you'll seize the opportunity against him. You'll be the queen of nothing. And you'll do it without a king by your side. If he can't celebrate your love, then you don't have to accept his rule.

This time you will be the one to tolerate his affection for you.

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just-trying-to-fangirl-in-peace · 3 months ago

Text

Kill and make up (Sauron x fem!Elf!reader)

-> in which you and your husband discover that Celebrimbor has escaped with the Nine, and it brings out the uglier side of your relationship

Warnings: evil!reader, brief eye injury, intense argument between spouses: reader and Sauron aren’t physically violent with each other (only like a hand grab and a shove), but they scream and throw things towards each other (he does it by accident, she does it on purpose, neither get hit); seeing and touching a severed finger, sadistic tendencies, lots of violence, murder, allusions to smut, fucked up relationship dynamics (as usual with these two but this may be the most deranged one I’ve written to date)

Note: part of the evil!reader collection. For context, reader has been married/soulbound to Sauron since before Adar killed him and infiltrated herself in Eregion as a smith while she waited for his return.

Sometimes you wonder if, when you and your husband bound yourselves to one another and part of his power was bestowed upon you, he had not let some of his short temper trickle into you as well.

But you never were entirely level-headed, even before Morgoth took you. The difference now is that you have tasted the fulfillment of giving in to your more violent urges in the past, which makes for even greater frustration when you must, for practical reasons, withhold.

Hence why you are now striding down the chaos-filled streets of Eregion, rather than watching over Celebrimbor whilst your husband commands the city’s defences. You do not trust yourself to leave him intact so he can finish the Nine unless you take the time to cool down after the little stunt he tried to pull on you.

He was only just applying the final touches to the very last of the Rings, and not a moment too soon. The siege had gone on into the night, and soon there may not be much of Eregion’s people left for your husband to promise he would spare so long as Celebrimbor provides him with the Rings. You meant it as a gesture of encouragement, truly—the way you idly fiddled with the keys to Celebrimbor’s shackles as you sat by his side, all but dangling his freedom before his eyes.

He must have noticed, though he did his best not to glance your way. You supposed he was taking some refuge in the work, throwing himself into it so that he might forget his less than savoury circumstances. That was fine by you. The thoughts in his mind were of little consequence, so long as his hands performed their duty with their usual skill.

And skilled they were indeed. Your eyes had drifted to the distance, glazed over with boredom at some point after your husband had left you alone with Celebrimbor, but you were pulled out of your little reveries of ruling Middle-Earth when you realized eight of the Nine now stood each in their holder on the other side of Celebrimbor, all shiny and brand new. Your fiddling with the keys had stopped then, and you stood to walk there and lean over Celebrimbor’s shoulder, touching the cool metal of one Ring in awe as you admired them.

“You have outdone yourself, really,” you praised, and meant it. The designs of the Rings varied, but they all possessed the same utterly impeccable kind of beauty, and the fact that you knew they had been made with your husband’s precious blood... you would wear and cherish them forever yourself if they weren’t meant for more practical purposes.

Celebrimbor, however, didn’t seem as proud of his own work.

“I had little choice,” he muttered, not looking away from the Ring in his hand.

You straightened yourself with a little sigh, and placed a hand upon his shoulder.

“This really is a pity,” you confessed. “I always hated being your so-called ‘subject’, but I can’t say you ever gave me another reason to dislike you. And your talents are bound to prove most useful in the future as well.”

At that, he looked up at you with a fresh kind of disbelief in his eyes.

“Am I to be your prisoner for the rest of my days, then?” he asked, nearly a challenge.

“That would be quite bothersome for everyone involved, wouldn’t it?” you said, perfectly pragmatic. “Hopefully, we can come to... understand each other. My husband and I are more than willing to make some allies of your value.”

By which you meant conveniently skilled or powerful beings who would serve your purposes blindly, much like you expected the Orcs to do, but the word ‘ally’ had a better ring to it.

It was plain to see in Celebrimbor’s eyes that he was hardly convinced, though, as he kept his stubborn silence. The time was fast approaching when your true conquest of Middle-Earth would begin, and it was never too early to plant the seeds for the network of opportune connections you planned on weaving all throughout it.

But also, you did enjoy being the equivalent of a cat playing with a mouse.

“How about a peace offering, then?” you said, plastering an inviting smile on your face. “A little show of good faith, to prove that your suffering in itself is far from our end in all this. Once you finish the Nine,” you made a show of holding up the keys, then tucking them safely away in a discreet pocket at the waist of your dress, “I leave you free to roam about the room, and merely lock the doors behind me whilst I deliver the Rings to my husband. Not that you’d make it two steps into the streets without being dragged back here by your own guards, but, as I said—in good faith—I shall spare you the humiliation of trying.”

There was a slight furrow in Celebrimbor’s brow as he hesitated. How confusing it must have been for him, to reconcile the kind tone of your voice he’d heard so many times with the cruel reality of who you are.

“Well,” he said tentatively, “I suppose that would be a bit better than my... current position.”

You gave him a bright smile, satisfied you had managed to bring him in agreement with you for the first time since he learned the truth. That was how it began—small victories, little ‘yeses’ here and there, until the intended target settled into a collaboration, or rather subservience, that was most convenient to your plans.

As you passed by Celebrimbor to return to your seat, he turned around on his stool and grabbed your hand, calling your name with sudden urgency. Your instinct was to shake off the touch, but, with only a tick in your jaw, you stopped to indulge him. You were playing nice, after all.

“Was truly all of it a lie?” he asked in a disheartened breath. “Was there no part of you that... wanted this life you have made for yourself here with us? The craft and the friendship we shared?”

He was quite the pitiful sight, looking up at you with that glint of hope in his eyes. You were quite sure that had been snuffed out the moment you had told him the story of how the bond between you and your husband had been forged, the salvation you had found in it from Morgoth’s cruelty, erasing all doubts that you and him might ever betray one another now.

Even Celebrimbor wouldn’t be so foolish as to believe he might still sway you with his words. You suspected what he was truly after—but you played along. In fact, you even stepped a little closer, and held up the hand with which he had grabbed yours, patting his knuckles condescendingly.

“Why would I want to serve you as a smith of Eregion,” you said, “when I could be served by all others?”

Celebrimbor’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, containing the nervous tremble of his voice as he spoke, “I may have been Lord of Eregion, and as such above you in station, but I never thought of you as anything less than my peer and my companion. Sauron—your husband,” he corrected, perceiving your ire at the less than savoury Elvish term, “he may believe even himself when he claims to consider you his equal, but with time... with the Rings...” He sighed, closing his eyes as if it pained him to speak the words, but in the end met your gaze and said with all the sincerity he could muster, “I do not wish to see you hurt.”

You tilted your head and knitted your brow in sympathy, softening your gaze as well as your voice.

“Oh, Celebrimbor,” you sighed, “have you come to care for me so much that my fate still concerns you after all I’ve put you through?”

“I’m afraid I have,” he confessed quietly.

You were meant to be surprised, intrigued, perhaps even touched. Distracted, in any case, your focus drawn to his face and the one hand of his you held within your grasp. That was his intent, which you had sensed since the very beginning of his entreating speech. He had some reason to believe his idea would work. His smith’s fingers are, after all, nimble and quick, as his craft demand them to be. But unlike you, he is a stranger to deceit and the mere attempt at it suits him ill. The only reason he succeeded in his little misguided endeavour was because you preferred to end his satisfaction, rather than prevent it altogether.

“They say imitation is the highest form of flattery,” you all but purred to him. “Alas, you have not the talent for treachery that I do.”

With that, you wrenched your hand from his and grabbed his other one. His struggle was brief and futile as you forced that fist to open, and retrieved the keys he had just subtly slipped out of your pocket.

Any trace of poorly feigned concern vanished from his face, replaced by the frustration of defeat. You tsk-ed to yourself as you shoved the keys back into your pocket.

“And here I thought you were becoming reasonable,” you lamented, leaning against the table by his side with your other hand planted onto your hip, much like an irritated teacher. “What did you imagine? That you would unlock yourself when my back was turned and then... what? Outrun me? Fight me? I know you’ve never seen that particular side of me, but I assure you, I am as skilled in combat as you are in your craft.”

He couldn’t hold your scolding gaze. He turned back towards the table and leaned his elbows on it, resting his forehead upon his clenched fists, no doubt trying to stave off a stress-induced headache and crushing sense of hopelessness. Still, to ensure he knew better than to underestimate you next time, you intended to grab his chin and make him look you in the eye as you made one final threat, but he spoke before you had the chance to.

“In that case,” he admitted, lifting his head, “I suppose I was going about it all wrong.”

This time, you didn’t see it coming. By the time you jumped out of the way, he had already grabbed a small recipient on the table and projected the powdered metal inside straight into your eyes—real powdered metal, not the blood your husband had passed as mithril. The burn of the fine shards in your eyes was instant, forced them shut and ripped a cry from your throat as you scrambled away, one hand covering them—

Celebrimbor grabbed that elbow to yank you into his lap, but that only made it all the easier to drive it into his ribs, knocking the breath and a short scream out of him. You needed no eyesight for that—only sharp instincts and red-hot anger, and you had quite enough of both. He hadn’t even managed to find your pocket again before you escaped his grasp and stumbled out of his reach, even without seeing where you were going.

A quick thinker, the bastard. The moment he understood he could not defeat you by sheer strength or deceit, he had attempted to blind you instead.

With a string of anguished grunts, you fumbled around blindly until you knocked into what must have been the railing to the upper side of the forge where you and Celebrimbor were, with enough force that you might have toppled over it if you hadn’t caught yourself. Gripping the metal, you squeezed your already shut eyes, and tried to concentrate through the pain and mend the damage. You may not have had to do it in recent years, but you’d had enough such experience under Morgoth’s rule. Gradually, the burn dimmed, and the metal in your eyes dissolved, and you were left shaking with wrath as you opened your eyes.

In different circumstances, you might have slowly turned towards him first, made him cower in terror under your murderous gaze before you sprung into action. But you were beyond such theatrics now. With the swiftness of a snake lunging to sink its fangs into a victim, you whipped around, marched over to Celebrimbor and grabbed his throat so quickly he didn’t even get to gasp before your other hand yanked his head back by the hair.

“You are going to regret that,” you growled. Rage boiled within you, a furious thirst for revenge, an all-consuming urge to return the pain he had given you tenfold and hear him scream—

But the Nine were not finished.

It was with tremendous self-restraint that you slowly lowered your face an inch away from Celebrimbor’s, your ragged breath hitting his quivering lips.

“...later,” you whispered viciously. “Finish!”

He gasped for the breath you had denied him the moment you released him with a shove, nearly falling from his chair with the force of it. No amount of deep breathing in his presence would stop the blood roaring in your ears. So, you stormed down the stairs and out of the forge, slamming the doors shut behind you without even locking them.

He was in shackles, after all.

As you reenter the forge room some time later, you are pleased to say you have regained your composure. Nothing like a stroll through a raging battle to calm the senses, especially when you were briefly treated to the sight of your beloved standing upon a distant rampart, tall and fair as he commanded the forces of Eregion.

If not for the need to maintain appearances, you’d have called for his attention through your bond and blown him a loving kiss from below.

“All right, Celebrimbor,” you say now, shutting the doors behind you, “I believe we must clarify some—”

He’s gone.

Heart pounding, you practically fly across the room, running up the stairs to the empty desk where Celebrimbor had been sitting before. Your husband could not have freed him. Could he? You had only just seen him outside, and the Rings are gone as well. Had they been finished, surely he would have reached for you through your bond the moment he had learned of it, called you to bask in the victory at his side. You scramble through every object on the desk, turning them over, opening cases, looking for any sign of the Rings.

Something squelches beneath your foot. But before you lower your gaze all the way down there, something else catches your eye on the floor—Celebrimbor’s shackle. Still locked. Blood-stained.

Entirely mechanical, you reach down and pinch the wet thing beneath the sole of your foot between two fingers, lifting it to your eyes to confirm your suspicion of what it is.

A severed finger.

When you wish to, or when the circumstances demand such a thing, you have many more vicious and sophisticated ways of expressing anger than mere spoken words. However, at times such a predicament arises where you are simply reduced to plain old foul language.

“Fuck,” you breathe out.

If the Rings were not finished, that is going to be a problem. But you have a feeling that they are, which is precisely why Celebrimbor has resorted to such a desperate gesture to withhold them from you and your husband.

Speaking of whom—his familiar steps are echoing down the hall.

Nearly releasing another expletive, you rush right back the way you came, down the stairs and across the room and out the door just in the nick of time to slam it shut before your husband would have stepped inside. He halts before you, taken aback.

“Love,” you greet him with a small smile. He’s seen enough of those to know which ones are fake. Not to mention the slight tremor in your voice, the alarm you’re attempting to conceal on your end of the bond, and—if those weren’t quite enough—the severed digit in your grasp which you seem to have acquired in your husband’s absence.

It’s endearing, really, how your skills of deception vanish like smoke in the wind when it comes to fooling your husband in any regard.

“I see our friend has upset you once more,” he remarks calmly, eyeing the finger in your hand. “However, I should hope you allowed him to finish the Rings before you claimed your little trophy, beloved.”

His smile is ever-so-slightly tense, his tone ever-so-slighty warning, and you are a lot more than slightly flustered to realize that in your haste, it had slipped your mind to do something so simple as to toss away the bloody finger in your hand.

You do so now, furiously wiping off the mess on your dress for lack of a better outlet for your nerves.

“I did not...” you begin. “Celebrimbor has apparently...”

“What is it?” your husband demands briskly. He knows something is wrong, wrong enough to have you acting so flustered, and that can only mean it will anger him beyond belief.

You release a sharp sigh, and quite frankly, give up. There is no way to break the news to him gently. So, you fix your husband with as stern a look as you can. “If you could just refrain from tearing this whole place to the ground—”

But he has already pushed past you and burst into the forge room.

“—that would be nice,” you finish to the empty hall, then follow him inside.

“Where is he?” your husband growls, storming up the stairs and staring at the empty desk with wide, crazed eyes as he shouts, “Where are the Rings?”

“He must have taken them,” you tell him, angered but far more level-headed than him as you climb the stairs as well. “They were nearly finished, and—”

An entire wooden cabinet clatters to the ground, furiously toppled by your husband. But the sound is barely the buzz of a fly compared to the deafening roar that tears out of his throat. You halt near the top of the stairs and wince, waiting for the sound to die down. No doubt it echoed to every Elf below, even through the ruckus of battle.

This... is the sort of thing you were hoping to avoid.

How nice of you to inform Celebrimbor that his absence has been noticed, you think, simply because such quips are in your nature. You know better than to say it—but you are both fraught with powerful emotions, and your bond turns volatile, and things slip through. You know he’s felt the reproach the moment his furious gaze turns upon you.

“Perhaps I should ask...” he says, eerily quiet as he approaches you, “where were you?”

Someone else might have fled, or fallen to their knees to plead for mercy under such a withering glare. You, however, have the luxury of knowing that you are the only being who has or ever will remain perfectly unscathed despite incurring your husband’s wrath. So, you climb the last of the steps and meet his gaze head on, unintimidated by such theatrics.

“Celebrimbor attempted a most distasteful treachery,” you declare, arms crossed defiantly as your husband comes to tower above you. “He tried to steal the keys to his shackles by blinding me with powdered metal. I knew better than to risk damaging his precious fingers—or worse—in retaliation before his work was finished. As such, I stepped outside.”

“You left him alone,” your husband fumes in disbelief, “because you couldn’t keep your daggers sheathed?”

“Oh please,” you scoff. “You’ve made far more strategically inconvenient kills for far less. I was merely being practical.”

“Practical, you say?” he mocks, whipping away and striding back to Celebrimbor’s work table. “Pray tell, how come you were within his reach to begin with?” He proceeds to toss every item away and open every possible compartment, his voice growing to a hoarse shout with each accusation he spits. “Were you perhaps taunting him, goading him, playing with your food as you can never seem to refrain from doing?”

“Oh, so when you do it, it’s fine,” you raise your voice right back, uncrossing your arms so you can gesture as frantically as he behaves while he moves to deface another table. “When I do it, it’s irresponsible.”

“What is irresponsible,” he points a finger at you, “is that you left the Nine and our most valuable asset unattended so you could go for a stroll!”

You’ve seen dragons with less fire on their hottest breath than that of the rage ignited in your chest. You surge towards him and snatch his accusatory finger in a death grip.

“I needed a break,” you scream in his face, “and he was in shackles! And he’s obsessed with his craft—which very much requires hands! How was I to imagine he’d be idiotic enough to chop off his own fucking finger?!”

“Enough!” he roars over your screech, prying your hand from around his with a powerful shove. Your calf hits Celebrimbor’s desk stool as you shuffle back, and you kick it with a yell and a burst of your power that sends it flying over the railing and splintering to pieces on the steps all the way at the entrance to the forge room. The same destructive force is behind the glare with which you fix your husband.

Forget not tearing this place to the ground. You feel as if you could crack every table in two with your bare hands, you could shatter all the windows with nothing but a shriek, you could crumble the stone floors with the stomp of your foot, you could— you could—

You turn on your heel and storm away. The moment you do, your husband demands in a gruff shout, “Where are you going?”

“To fix this!” you snarl. You whip around to face him, your voice dropping to mocking sweetness before it builds right back into a hoarse scream. “But please, do keep smashing to pieces every single object in your sight. I’m sure Celebrimbor simply stashed the Rings in some hidden corner whilst he went for a nine-fingered stroll in the rubble!”

With that, you leave again. The sounds of destruction resume behind you, but you block them out the same way you do your husband’s inflamed end of your bond. Until you’ve nearly reached the stairs, and some glass object hits the railing with a loud smash, shattering to pieces. Relatively close to you.

You don’t even look down. You simply stop, take a breath in the sudden silence. Turn around. Then, chin high, perfectly poised and in the most controlled of tones, you ask your husband:

“Did you just throw that in my direction?”

Rage rolls off him in waves—but he has ceased his rampage, and there is the subtlest hesitant crease of his brow as he looks at you.

“Don’t be absurd,” he says stiffly. “I was hardly even looking your way—”

But then he’s dodging a projectile—a metal case you had picked off the ground and chucked his way in the blink of an eye.

“You weren’t looking?” you growl, already snatching a creasing hammer from the table to throw his way next. “You weren’t looking? Well, I am!”

He catches the hammer, swats away the chisel that follows with his power, advancing through the enemy fire until he can grip your wrists and pull them to his chest to stop you from gathering further ammunition.

“Save you energy, love,” he growls as you struggle in his grip. “Try as you might, you cannot harm my flesh.”

“I know! That’s why I’m trying!”

You wrest yourself out of his hold, chest heaving as you stumble back a couple of steps. For a moment, your ragged breaths are all there is. But the storm is far from over, and the moment you open your mouths again, your voices escalate into screams once more.

“You, on the other hand,” you accuse, nearly in tears, “the moment my back was turned—”

“You know very well I cannot hurt you!”

“But you wish to hurt me?”

“I wish to hurt something!”

“So do I!”

Your roar echoes in the chamber, your throat raw, your every muscle trembling with rage. You cannot harm my flesh. But you could harm his soul. You could, simply by doubting him. You have. It brings no satisfaction. It isn’t what you want. What you want is for him to kneel and beg forgiveness for his words, or maybe to fuck you so hard you forget he ever said them at all.

But you can have neither, because you are no longer alone.

They must have arrived when you and your husband were at the height of your screaming match, thus why you only now turn your heads to see them entering the room—ten or so guards, led by Captain Malendol and, supported by him as he limps to a stop, Celebrimbor himself.

“Marital spat?” he derides flatly, a shred of defiance in his voice even as he cradles his thumb-less left hand to his chest. From the appalled way in which Malendol looks at you, it’s plain to see that Celebrimbor has somehow regained the trust of his guards and exposed you for who you are, once and for all. Or perhaps the glimpse he’d caught of your lover’s quarrel had been proof enough. Either way, you’re so ablaze with rage, you can’t even bask in the grand reveal.

“Foreplay,” you reply dryly—and there is, after all, a bit of satisfaction in the various degrees of shock and discomfort that flash across the guards’ faces.

“Where are the Rings?” your husband demands, ice cold as he passes by you and descends the stairs.

“Not here,” Celebrimbor answers. “They will be far from your reach by now.”

“Oh, come now, Celebrimbor,” you coax with all the goodwill of a viper as you join your husband down the stairs. “It was such a silly thing you did to that precious hand of yours. If you return the Rings, maybe we can find a way to mend it.”

His eyes shine with tears, which he holds proudly back.

“The loss shall be well worth it,” he says, pained, “so long as it ensures that neither of you will ever touch a Ring again.”

You grit your teeth, his audacity adding fuel to the already blazing fire of your rage. Whatever retort you and your husband might have made, you are rudely interrupted.

“Seize them!” Malendol orders, and his soldiers march forward. “By order of the true Lord of Eregion, you, Sauron and—”

The words die in his throat. He’s choked out, jaw slack and quivering as he struggles against your husband’s power. The soldiers halt, gazes shifting hesitantly between you and your husband and their captain.

“I believe you’ve spoken my wife’s name quite enough times already,” your husband says. Any other time, you would be delighted. With Mirdania gone, it’s time for the Elf whose affections you had entertained only closely enough to grate your husband’s nerves to meet his own end. Perfect symmetry, mutual satisfaction. But you are beyond being assuaged by such games in this moment.

You grip your husband’s arm, and fix him with a gaze which demands that he meet it. It would be so easy for him to flick that wrist of his and have the guards fall upon their own swords. But that would leave the issue of your unconsummated lust for violence, and when such a volatile feeling bounced off each other in an endless loop through the bond without release, it led to nothing good, not even for you.

So, staring in your husband’s eyes, you hiss, “Let us hurt something.”

You need not say a word more. Your husband narrows his eyes at you briefly, but the suggestion immediately sinks in. Malendol sputters a panicked breath as his throat is released from your husband’s power, a look of even deeper dread than before written on his face, but he repeats his order.

“Seize them!”

And his soldiers, now valiantly joined by their captain, advance on you once more. The sight of them circling you with swords drawn as you and your husband stand back to back is quite invigorating. It even brings a little smile and a quip to your lips.

“Might you be so kind as to lend me that?” You point to the sword of the guard facing you.

And answer your own question—with lightning-fast mayhem.

A concealed dagger is brandished from your sleeve and you swiftly send it flying to its new home in the guard’s skull. A quick pull of your power draws the hilt of his sword to your hand whilst your other imitates the dagger-throw and sword-stealing with another guard, and by the time three others have attacked, you have more than enough steel in your hands to meet their own with a loud clang. Behind you, similar sounds of confrontation are made by your husband and his own side of opponents.

It is to be noted that the ensuing fight is by no means a desperate struggle for escape on you and your husband’s part. In fact, the guards are hardly your main focus, even as you single-handedly hold your own against several of them at the same time and, over the course of the following few minutes, decimate them one by one. You simply wish to feel your bones rattle with each blow you land, to hear the tearing of flesh under your blade, to give yourself an outlet of your anger whom you have no reservation to make bleed, when the true source of your rage is quite off-limits in that regard—and driven by the same compulsion to inflict pain as you.

Now, you can really have a go at each other.

“You realize,” your husband begins between easily placed parries, wielding a guard’s sword to which he had helped himself, “this only serves to prove my point.”

You glance briefly at him, kicking a guard in the shin whilst you block another’s blade. “Which is?”

“There is work,” he grabs one by the helmet, “and there is play,” then slits his throat before attacking another. “And you, my love, tend to confuse them.”

“Yet here you are,” you retort through grunts of effort, “indulging me as though you take no joy in it yourself.” You are as triumphant in your words as you are in thrusting your sword into a guard’s gut. But your husband does not relent.

“There would be nothing to indulge,” he growls, “if you hadn’t allowed the Rings to be taken!”

With a furious wave of his hand, a guard flies out the window, screaming on his long way down.

“Maybe the Rings would not have been taken, had you not grown negligent with your illusion in the first place!” you growl right back, snapping a neck. “Maybe if you had spared a thought to the way candles function, we would not be here!”

Your husband crushes a skull. “You have not the slightest idea of the skill required to maintain such an intricate illusion. You had one simple task of—”

“One simple task? One?” A well-placed kick relieves a guard of the future children he might have had, if you didn’t cut his throat next. “Was it one simple task to spend centuries insinuating myself by Celebrimbor’s side—”

“Not this again—”

“Yes, this again! This, forever!” you scream over the guard whose leg you break. “I put myself through years of suffering based on nothing but blind faith that you would return!”

“And yet,” your husband presses on cruelly, plunging his blade into a heart, “you could not perform the simple task of ensuring Celebrimbor remained in his shackles.”

You slash a throat, screaming. Speaking of Celebrimbor—in the quick glimpse you catch of him, he looks like he might be questioning his reality all over again in the face of your ‘marital spat’.

And he thought you licking your husband’s blood was deranged.

A guard nearly stabs you in the side, and you resume fighting fueled by a brand new bout of anger.

“You do this... every time!” you yell at your husband. “The moment something doesn’t go to plan, you blame everything and everyone but yourself.” Having stripped the guard of his weapon and helmet, you are now in the process of forcing him to his knees. “And since I’m the closest at hand, you blame me!” For good measure, you emphasize each word with a smash of the guard’s head into a nearby table. “Every,” smash, “single,” smash, “time!”

Smash and thud, when the guard’s limp body hits the ground.

Your husband watches, his lips twitching into a snarl as he flings a guard into a wall.

“Very well,” he grunts. “We are both to blame. But if you could restrain your sadistic tendencies—”

“Oh, please! Nothing gets you harder than your wife wreaking havoc, even when it’s in defiance of you. Especially then.” You put a guard in a chokehold, throwing your husband a most flirtatious smile. “If it was in my nature to ‘restrain my sadistic tendencies’, you would not have wed me.”

Snap goes the guard’s neck. Another struggles on the ground, much like a roach beneath your husband’s boot on his chest.

“If I wished only to sate my carnal desires,” he rasps out, “I would have wed no one at all.”

He crushes said chest as he steps over it to lunge at another guard. You cackle like a mad woman as you break a nose. “You are a Maia! You had no carnal desire until I invented it!” You feel the retort on his tongue, no doubt a claim that you are exaggerating—which maybe you are, but not in what you say next, between the occasional pants and grunts of the fight.

“There was always me, or no one—and from the moment you first had me, you could never go back to not having me.” Your current opponent drops to the ground, his heart pierced by your blade. “So blame me all you want, love. I could inconvenience you a thousand times, and you’d adore me still.”

There is no retort. No screams, or clangs of metal, or broken bones, or any noise at all—for all your foes are dead, and your fight consummated. All that is left is you and your husband, standing before each other in the aftermath of your destruction. Panting, covered in blood. Sated.

Gazes locked, you move towards each other, sparing not the slightest of glances to the rubble and bodies over which you step until you are close enough to breathe each other’s air. Weapons lowered to your sides, you do not touch, or speak. One last confrontation, to see which one of you will break first.

“I spoke in anger,” your husband yields.

As he very well should. Still, you eye him with a not-quite-convinced look. “Is that your idea of an apology?”

“What is yours?” he challenges, but his words have no true bite. Not anymore.

It would be less of an apology and more of something you would have done anyway, but the timing is poetically symbolic when the guard whose chest your husband had crushed under his boot suddenly takes a whizzing breath. Captain Malendol himsef, as a quick glance tells you, is still alive—barely—and picking himself off the ground a few feet to your side with staggering resolve.

He raises his sword, charging towards you with one last, valiant cry, and manages the great feat of having his throat swiftly cut by with your blade. A most tragically heroic sight, surely, but you wouldn’t know, since you never once took your eyes off your husband’s while you did it.

The captain’s armored body clatters to the ground, the same time as your weapons. Your husband’s eyes dart to him, visibly satisfied, but not fully so. His gaze meets yours, then lowers to your lips, and he leans in—only half the way, in invitation.

With an indulgent little hum, you close the distance and give him a kiss. No more than a little peck, really. A token of reconciliation. Something clicks back into place within you as the tension in your bond subsides, and you feel a matching sense of relief on your husband’s end of it. Fighting each other always feels like tearing out your own flesh, yet you do it anyway, with lethal consequences—to others, of course.

Towards others, in fact, is the only direction in which you and your beloved should ever direct your fury, as you feel him agree now that you have finally murdered your way to making up.

“Look at us,” you lament, “blaming each other, when the fault is all his.”

The last word is as venomous as the look with which you then fix Celebrimbor, glued to the same spot where he had been standing since he entered. Defiance and terror battle in his eyes as he stares back, mouth slightly open in disbelief at your display, surely aware that any attempt to escape would only end in more suffering than is already in store for him—should he refuse to obey your husband’s command, that is.

“How right you are, my love,” your husband says as you face Celebrimbor, standing as one once more. “You will give us the Nine,” he orders darkly.

Celebrimbor shuts his mouth, clenches his jaw, as if that would be enough to keep the secret of the Nine’s whereabouts locked behind his lips. His eyes dart to the fallen soldiers decorating the floor of his once beautiful forge, and you can practically hear him resolve to ensure that those sacrifices will not have been in vain.

“Oh, my love...” A most wicked smile blooms on your lips. “I think he wants us to play with him, too.”

Your husband’s voice is lethal.

“He shall have his wish.”

Previous fic with same reader -> Old wounds

Next fic with same reader -> Defied

#sauron x reader #annatar x reader #the rings of power

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rey-jake-therapist · 2 months ago

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Controversial opinion, but today I don't care. I'm way too excited by all this Morfydd/Charlie new content to care about what anyone, be it fellow shippers or antis, will think reading this post. Anyway:

If it turned out that Galadriel and Halbrand slept together before she found out he was Sauron, it would make her reluctance to tell Elrond and Celebrimbor the truth about him much more understandable to me. If Halbrand was just a friend to her, I don't really see what was the problem in admitting that he deceived her. I mean, he's Sauron the Deceiver©, everybody knows it's his game! Anybody would have been deceived in her place, as a matter of fact.

Granted, Galadriel is proud, and I understand this is the reason why she didn't tell anyone. But still, they were going to forge rings of power with material Sauron had touched, in a forge where he had worked for weeks, putting his filthy hands everywhere... That was worth at least discussing the matter with them, asking them if they thought they should let the work proceed or not! Elrond would have probably voted against, but Galadriel would have probably convinced Celebrimbor, the same way she convinced Gil-Galad that the Rings were safe from his influence (hahaha lol, erm)! They would have asked Gil-Galad' to decide; he would have probably greenlighted the projet because it was the only way for the Elves to remain in Middle-Earth. If he accepted that the Elves wear the rings, he would have accepted to forge them as well imho.

Now, if at some point Galadriel crossed a line with Halbrand she was not supposed to cross... And everybody knew it or suspected it (Elrond definitely did... "The lost king who could ride you to victory" and the ironic smile... he was barely subtle here)... I could buy the idea that she was too proud to admit she had been fooled *that much*. Let's not forget that acording to the laws of the Eldar, Galadriel was still married to Celeborn even if he was presumed 'dead', which for an Elf doesn't mean what it means for a mere mortal, because their spirit is immortal. If people came to think that she slept with Sauron, it would be really, really bad for her reputation. And I could see Galadriel unwilling to face that shame and thus, do as much damage control as she could.

There, I said it.

#haladriel #saurondriel #sauron x galadriel #galadriel x halbrand #galadriel #halbrand #trop #sauron

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morganas-pendragons · 2 months ago

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stargazing | celebrimbor

HUZZAH A S2 gif

@pentaghasm and I have been playing ideas off each other for a fun project I'm working on, which will be revealed here within the next month. in the meantime, let's clear out the ideas I've had in my drafts for 3 months!

i intended this to be a drabble and it FAILED lol

tag: @celebrimbormylove @thesolarangel @ladyoflindon @erebusbabylon - let me know if you want to be tagged!!

***

Time passes. You find out that the more you and Celebrimbor spend time together, the more comfortable you feel and the more willing you are to initiate the physical contact he so clearly desires. It's so easy with him.

A soft knock at his forge door late in the evening beckons a new idea: Stargazing. Hopefully, it has the intended effect.

"Celebrimbor?"

It takes a moment for him to reach the door and answer to, but when he does, Celebrimbor brightens at the sight of you. "My dear, come in!" He exclaims, ushering you inside and then frowning once he realizes you might not be making a social call. "It's late... are you well? Or has something happened?"

You shake your head. "No no, nothing is wrong. I wanted to ask you something."

He relaxes visibly and smiles. "You may ask me whatever you want."

"The stars are particularly clear outside. Would you-" You shuffle nervously on your feet. "Would you like to come out and gaze with me? I've found a spot over the last few times I've done this. I'd like to share it with you."

He's pleasantly surprised by your request, and his face shows it. "I would be honored to," Celebrimbor remarks. "Lead the way."

Before you approach the door, you extend your hand expectantly. There is a moment when Celebrimbor just stares down at it, his brain working overtime to try and lift his own. His fears and insecurities swirl within his mind, but he finally finds the ability to move his fingers and feel the warmth of your skin on his.

It's heavenly, it is addictive. How has he gone this long without it?

You grin. That's a good step forward. "Come on, I think you'll love this. You may want to grab your cloak." You reach upward to throw the hood of your own over your head, fingertips brushing the holly leaf hairpin he'd helped you craft several months before.

Celebrimbor follows you out of the forge willingly, in the process of unfolding his own cloak so he can put it on. His own holly leaf pin stands proud against his collarbone.

He frowns as he realizes you are heading towards the city gates.

"Wait, wait-" He calls. "Where is this spot?"

"Shhh... You'll see. It's not too far out." You absently wave your hand over your shoulder at the buildings looming about the two of you. "There is no suitable spot in the city to get the view you see out here."

You come to a stop outside of the city gates. Knowing that you are within Celebrimbor's charge, the guards are familiar with you and the fact you are constantly in and out of the city. They know your spot. They know that you frequently leave here in search of quiet, of peace.

They also know you are always armed.

Celebrimbor follows you out of the city, eyes darting around in the darkness. A part of him is yelling that that they should not be out here without guards, and not when it's this dark out. He curses himself for not having thought to bring anything to defend them should the worst happen.

So enveloped in his own worries, Celebrimbor doesn't realize where you are leading him until the two of you come to a stop.

"Hey, we're fine out here. I promise. I come out here almost every night." Whispering softly in Quenya, you lean forward toward the fireflies at your feet who brighten at your command. It is not enough light to hide the view above them, but it provides a dim enough glow for them to see one another. "Look up, Celebrimbor."

Celebrimbor drags himself out of his head and does as you ask. Suddenly, his own fears are the last thing on his mind.

"This..." Celebrimbor falters as he looks over to you, eyes filled with warmth and quiet yearning. "I am honored you share this with me."

Black bleeds into midnight blue that covers an entire canvas of stars above you. The river echoes in the distance, a quiet bubbling of water that flows around Eregion.

You motion to the ground. "The grass is dry and the cloaks are warm. will you lay with me?" The words are out before you can take them back, and your cheeks redden at the implication and how it will likely frighten him. You want him so badly to feel safe like you do around him.

Celebrimbor wills himself to not think of the other ways your words can be interpreted. It was highly irregular for the Lord of Eregion to be out past dark without guards, let alone with an unchaperoned elleth. He quashed any thoughts of propriety by reminding himself you were different.

You settle yourself against his side with comfortable ease, extending your hand for his after resting your head on his shoulder. "Let me see your hand," You said. "I have many tales to tell about these stars, but you cannot leave without being able to recognize them. It would be most unfortunate."

Celebrimbor gives you his hand without question, though he wonders what that has to do with the stars.

You smile down at him and drag your fingers across his palm before asking, "Is this okay? I don't want to do anything that makes you uncomfortable."

Celebrimbor suppresses a shiver and instead smiles at you reassuringly. "I promise you that you never make me feel uncomfortable."

You note his response and lean inward to press a kiss to his cheek before beginning to point out each constellation.

The feel of your fingers against his palm was one thing, but your lips? On his cheek? Celebrimbor isn't sure how to react. Does he kiss you back? On the cheek? Lips?

Does he just smile and shrug it off as you tell him about the stars?

His heart hammers loudly in his chest, which makes it difficult to discern anything you're saying. He swallows hard to regain his control once more.

"Hey," You say softly. You're propped up on your elbow over him, one hand on his chest, brow furrowed in concern. "Where did you go?"

Celebrimbor curses himself inwardly. Of course you noticed. How could you not? You notice everything about him.

"Forgive me," He murmurs, looking up at you. "I sometimes have difficulty getting out of my own mind." He lifts your joined hands and gently kisses the back of your own. "Please, continue."

You frown but settle back down, continuing to use your joined hands to point out the stars. There's a quiet passion behind your words, an aching familiarity for something you can't quite put your finger on.

When your voice falters off, you shiver and tighten your arms around yourself.

"Are you cold?" Celebrimbor asks. He is already sitting up and reaching for his cloak so he can wrap it around you. It's as warm as he is, and it smells like him, and you want nothing more than for him to wrap his arms around you.

A soft sigh breaks past your lips as his fingers press against your shoulders. "Thank you." You murmur, meeting his eyes over your shoulder. "For coming with me."

"I'm honored you thought of me, my dear. It does me well to get out of the city every now and then, I think." He smiles warmly at you. "It is more enjoyable in your company."

You tilt your head at him. "Will you walk me home?" You ask softly.

Celebrimbor lets out a bark of laughter. "As if I would let you walk back alone in the dark of night," There's a mischievous glint in his eyes as he teases you. "You must think me some unfeeling cad."

You smile and wrap your arm through his own. "Oh no," You argue. "You are my heart's protector. You are quite the opposite of unfeeling. Lead me home, love."

He comes to a complete stop.

"L-Love?" Celebrimbor repeats, completely dumbfounded at the endearment. Between the burn of your touch and the ache in him at your obvious deeper affections, he's not sure how to process all of this at once. The two of you haven't spoken at length about deeper feelings yet.

His are anchored to your soul, your existence, your smile.

All of you.

Awe flashes across your face at his confusion. He really does not understand how he too is worthy of the love he so often gives to everyone else. "Celebrimbor," You close the space between the two of you and reach for his hands. "It is a mere term of endearment for someone who knows how much I care about him by now. I could also say sweetheart, or my love if you want."

Your teasing tone eases the pounding of your own heart. It's equally as frightening for you as it is for him.

Celebrimbor clears his throat, pushing back the swelling emotion that threatened to come up his throat, and takes your hand in his. "Forgive me, I was simply unprepared. I will take any endearment you offer." He gestures back toward the city. "Might I escort you home?"

"Always."

He leads you back into Eregion and to your abode that he'd set aside for you in your earliest days of living in the city. It is not far from his own, and that is what you prefer.

When you arrive at your door, you turn and pull your hood down to properly look at him. He is the picture of beauty - all unkempt curls and soft eyes - as he patiently waits for you to go inside.

"I..."

Words fail you for the first time that night. You instead allow your actions to speak for you, stepping into Celebrimbor's space to stand on your tiptoes and cup his jaw with your hand as you kiss his cheek.

You linger just a little bit longer than before. His breath shudders beneath your fingers as you part, and your eyes fall on his parted lips as you step toward the door.

"Would you like me to join you for breakfast tomorrow?" You ask.

His eyes brighten. Celebrimbor is nothing if not one for his routine. "I would love nothing more," He replies, lips parting in that brilliant smile reserved for you that often makes your knees weak. "Sleep well, love."

You watch him go with a fierce ache in your heart.

Love.

#Celebrimbor x Reader #Celebrimbor #Rings of Power fanfiction

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hailturinturambar · 2 months ago

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The Seduction of Power: Sauron and Celebrimbor's relationship

This analysis is not thought of in a romantic or human way. But it follows the patterns of elven and more powerful creatures who have feelings like us, but guided by greed and power.

As in my previous analysis, to understand the full extent of the relationship between Sauron and Celebrimbor, we must return to the Beginning of Days, the First Age. Our story begins in Valinor.

When Eru's eldest sons, the Firstborn, awoke, the Valar assembled a company to lead the Elves to safety in Valinor. Many were lost on the journey, and many went on to live among the gods.

And the Valar loved the Elves dearly, and the Elves loved them. When the Valar brought war to Melkor and overcame him, he was taken captive and the Elves lived in peace. For nine ages Melkor was under the dominion of Mandos, and the Elves knew peace.

As the ages passed, Melkor's imprisonment ended and the Valar fulfilled their promise. Melkor asked his brothers for forgiveness and humbled himself, promising to heal the evil he had caused and to live in peace with the elves and gods. But in his dark heart, Melkor envied the elves, who were the cause of his capture.

However, not all the Elves trusted Melkor's words. And the Teleri, most beloved by Ulmo, trusted the Valar and turned their backs on Melkor. Despite this, not all were against Melkor. Especially the Noldor.

In this age, Finwë was king of the Noldor and loved his eldest son deeply. Fëanor was a powerful Noldor prince, rich in knowledge and power. A great smith and master craftsman, he forged the Silmarils, and Melkor desired them. And these same jewels would doom countless Elves and Men to their doom. And even Celebrimbor would see his ruin at their hand.

Melkor poisoned Fëanor with his lies and greed, and the Elves turned against the Valar. Departing Valinor with the ships of his murdered kin, Fëanor took his children and followers with him to Middle-earth. And much sorrow came from his choice.

Fëanor had seven sons, seven sons who swore never to rest until they had obtained their jewels again and destroyed Melkor. Curufin, his fifth son, had a son named Celebrimbor.

Elrdon calls Celebrimbor the Greatest Elven Smith. But Celebrimbor is not just that. According to the accounts in the book, Celebrimbor is a handsome Noldor prince, who fought in Gondolin, who fought strongly against Morgoth in countless battles and was present in the War of Wrath.

The weight of his grandfather's legacy still weighed heavily on his shoulders, no matter how powerful and learned he was. Fëanor's legacy would always cast a shadow over Celebrimbor.

It's hard to draw a correct parallel between Celebrimbor's story in the series and the books. But I do wonder about Celebrimbor's relationship with his father, Curufin. Celegorm and Curufin in the tale of Beren and Lúthien, well, they didn't seem very friendly.

And this makes me think that perhaps Curufin was not an extremely loving father, although Fëanor seemed to be attached to his children and to have loved them, despite everything.

When Celebrimbor talks about "true creation requires sacrifice", did he think about how the Silmarils cost his family? How the jewels and the oath destroyed everything good in them and condemned them to eternal suffering?

Elrond's comment about the beauty and destruction of the jewels brings out Celebrimbor's insecurity. There again is the shadow of his grandfather over him. He does not trust his creation, believing that it will never be on the level of his predecessor.

The parallel between Elrond and Celebrimbor is very interesting. When Celebrimbor talks about Elrond's father and how their destinies were intertwined. Sons of powerful men who were present in their legacy. And continue to dictate how their lives should be, always determined to make those who left them proud.

Desperate to save Middle-earth, Celebrimbor and Gil-galad hide their true intentions from Elrond towards the people of Khazad-dûm. Elrond had his trust betrayed and unknowingly lied to his great friend. For me, this is the first sign that Celebrimbor would do anything for power.

Could this gaze, blinded by the value and power of Mithril and its composition, the way it could save the elves, be a foreshadowing of his greed for the creation of the Rings of Power?

Middle-earth is made up of many points of no return. Durin III's choice not to aid the Elves in their struggle for survival, and Halbrand's arrival in Eregion.

It is now that Celebrimbor's story changes forever. He meets this man, this mortal, who fought alongside Galadriel and nearly died at the hands of the Orcs. Halbrand's vulnerability and purity is Sauron's first deception.

When Halbrand asks if Galadriel is there, in the forge, I don't believe he was genuinely looking for her. After all, why would she be there? He knew whose kingdom it was. It's all part of the illusion.

Celebrimbor beams when Halbrand speaks of "The Celebrimbor." This inflames Celebrimbor's ego. Yes, the elves know of his legacy and the legacy of his family. But for a mere mortal to meet him?

It is a treat, no doubt. He was recognized for his craft, not his grandfather's. And Halbrand speaks of his master who taught him his craft and spoke so much of Celebrimbor. Of course Morgoth would speak of Fëanor grandson!

Halbrand appears humble and ashamed of his lack of knowledge before Celebrimbor. When Halbrand talks about the ways to combine metal and jewelry, Celebrimbor is enchanted by his knowledge. Halbrand becomes indispensable at that moment.

How did a mere mortal clear up an elf's doubts? He must surely be important.

"Call it a gift."

With these simple words Sauron's deception was laid and he knew that he had tricked Celebrimbor. Sauron's seduction is there, when Galadriel, Elrond and Celebrimbor talk about the salvation of the elves with Gil-galad, we see the beginning of the poison in Sauron's words.

A crown? Gil-galad is too pure to consider carrying such an artifact of power without suspecting its corruption. But Celebrimbor looks at him madly, intoxicated by all the power they could achieve. And it is his words that alert Galadriel. A power not of the flesh, but over flesh. Words spoken by Adar, but which he learned from Sauron.

And from whom else could Celebrimbor have heard those words? He had been so close to Halbrand alone lately. And his presence had overwhelmed him. The gentle, caring elf was frantic and agitated, raising his voice and nearly losing his temper.

The chain behind Celebrimbor? That unusual shadow on the ground? It is no coincidence, it cannot be. What if this was the beginning of the bonds Sauron was binding him with? The beginning of his corruption and ruin.

If Galadriel suspected Celebrimbor's words, why didn't she stop him? Why didn't she warn the others? Because, like Celebrimbor, she was desperate to save the Elves and remain in Middle-earth.

And I believe that deep down, she was in denial. She had hunted the terrible and wicked evil Sauron for centuries, how could this human be him? Galadriel trusted Halbrand, enjoyed his company, she could not prevent the forging of the rings on suspicion. And her denial was decisive for Sauron's victory.

Sauron takes advantage of this. He tortures Galadriel, claiming that she helped him and that she can never escape this. No matter what happens, Galadriel's intentions were never evil.

And for this she blames herself, for deep down, she is good. And now Halbrand/Sauron has escaped. The Rings of Power are ready and she asks Celebrimbor to never accept the return of the mortal king.

But why? She never explained, so it was obvious that Celebrimbor could not keep his promise.

Then we have a decisive event. Celebrimbor is inaugurating a new forge, eager for answers from the Three Elven Rings. And that's when his new hope arrives on a white horse. He came to propose a deal, they say. But what could he offer?

We can then glimpse his new deception. The suffering mortal king has returned begging for help, but Celebrimbor refuses to receive him. Sauron then tries to seduce Mirdania. Does she want him to leave? Well, if she doesn't want him to, he won't. So he lets her notice his injuries, as he suffered at the hands of the Orcs.

Unconsciously, like Galadriel, Mirdania takes pity on Halbrand. She takes his side, saying that he looks hurt. That the night is cold. However, Celebrimbor tries to keep his promise; he must be faithful to Galadriel. But Mirdania is softening his heart.

Sauron is the Great Deceiver. He knows the deepest desires of the lustful heart. And he knows what Celebrimbor is desperate to know. Have his Rings of Power worked? Galadriel has kept Celebrimbor in the dark, but Halbrand is there to tell him of the progress.

If the Rings of Power saved the Elves, would they be able to cure all the ills of Middle-earth? Who knows. But Sauron uses these thoughts to convince Celebrimbor. But how could he know of the Dwarves' suffering? That's when he puts an end to the mystery.

Sauron is being truthful. He is not Halbrand, a king, or a mortal. Sauron can be truthful when he wants to be. But his truth is always tainted by his lies and his own tricks.

The breaking point has come. Sauron lays bare Celebrimbor's greatest desire. To be recognized, to be revered. To be remembered as The Lord of the Rings. To escape his grandfather's shadow once and for all. Whether it's Sauron's ethereal appearance, or his manipulative words, the fact is that Celebrimbor wants what he's offering so badly that he ignores his fears.

And Annatar is humble. He is powerful, but he does not seek reverence, or thanks. He is an emissary of the Valar, and he only wishes to share his knowledge with Celebrimbor.

"Annatar. A sharer of gifts."

When he heard these words, did Celebrimbor remember Halbrand's words? Was that all it took to earn his trust?

Celebrimbor accepts Annatar's advice and now they need to help the Dwarves. Celebrimbor is a good person, he is kind and described in the book as a great friend of the Dwarves. And he says this to Durin IV. They helped them before, now, it is time for the Elves to help.

Sauron knows that Gil-galad has sent a messenger in his name. A messenger who would thwart his plans to forge the rings.

Celebrimbor is isolated from the people of Lindon, Galadriel and Elrond are far away. He has Celebrimbor in his hands. The Dwarves do not trust him at first, and why would they? Where did this emissary of the Valar come from?

But Sauron is a clever liar. The Dwarves are suffering and they have no choice but to rely on the Elves to survive. And Sauron must appeal to Celebrimbor's pride. Who does Gil-galad think he is to stop the forging of new rings? Who, indeed? Perhaps the King of all the Elves? Celebrimbor is too blinded by power to reflect.

Sauron, however, is greedy. Rings for the Dwarves are not enough. He always wants more. More power. More servants. If he is to heal Middle-earth, he needs everyone under his control. So he pretends, and talks about how frustrated he is about the suffering of men. How they deserve rings to protect themselves.

It is madness and Celebrimbor knows it. Men are fragile and easily corrupted. Many have followed Morgoth without any effort. Sauron reminds him of all the great men who have ever lived, but it is not enough to convince the elf. Like a child, Sauron refuses to accept no and awakens Celebrimbor's greatest fear. Annatar will make the rings without him, he is no longer needed.

Sauron’s manipulation is nearly complete. Without Celebrimbor’s help, Mirdania see the terrible evil that lies among them, the evil hidden all along. Annatar calms her, gaining an ally to his side. She believes Annatar, and so believes that men deserve their rings.

Durin IV adds to Celebrimbor’s concerns, but he tries not to see them. Power weighs heavily on his shoulders, and accepting the truth is too difficult. Annatar deceives him, claiming that it is the lies of the making that are affecting the rings.

Celebrimbor desperately needs to make amends for his mistake with the Dwarves. He forces himself to accept the creation of new rings, but something seems wrong. While Annatar is kind and caring to the Elves, Celebrimbor is slowly losing his way. His actions surprise even himself.

If things aren't bad enough, they can always get worse, right?

The rings don't work, something is wrong. Who knows, because deep down, Celebrimbor knew that those rings couldn't be created? A part of him could have been suspicious of that creation.

But he's losing his mind, he's angry and unstable. And Celebrimbor has forgotten Mirdania's name, his protégé. How could he do that? I would say, in my humble opinion, that Sauron had his claws deep inside him, subtly controlling his decisions, so that he would only be able to think about the rings and do nothing until he completed the nine.

As the worthy manipulator, Sauron is increasingly isolating his victim. Preventing Celebrimbor from leaving the forge. Most importantly, Sauron is comforting Celebrimbor, giving him support and standing by his side. Who would suspect an emissary of the Valar?

However, Adar is getting in the way of Sauron's plans. The rings cannot be forged if Eregion falls. Sauron does not have much time left and he knows it, he must redouble his efforts.

The Dwarves will not give Sauron peace either. He leaves Eregion, but does not get what he wants. The rings are corrupting the Dwarves, and greed is consuming the king's heart. Did Sauron know about the Balrog? Was it at that moment that he realized he had no need of a people who would find their own ruin?

Whether it is the work of the Valar or not, Celebrimbor senses that something is happening in Eregion and Annatar is not informing him. He does not stop creating the design of the rings, but something is disturbing him. His peaceful and calm kingdom is under attack, is it possible?

When Celebrimbor tries to leave the forge, Sauron is there to stop him. He knows that Celebrimbor will not create the rings if he knows that a siege is underway and his people are being attacked by Adar's army.

Desperate to keep Celebrimbor trapped in his web of lies, Sauron forges the most perfect illusion to confuse the smith's mind. Eregion is safe and sound. Why can't Celebrimbor return to the forge?

This, I would say, is his greatest manipulation. Sauron uses Celebrimbor's greed, his desire to be greater than the creator of the Silmarils, greater than his family's legacy. There is the statue depicting Celebrimbor's insecurities. Everything is fine, Sauron even managed to get the Mithril for the rings. Celebrimbor, blinded by power, seduced by Annatar's words, once again follows him.

While Eregion has been under siege for weeks, Celebrimbor keeps his forge burning and never stops. The world is at peace, ideas are clear, and he only has Annatar to thank.

Was Annatar sincere? That it would be a shame when his partnership with Celebrimbor ended?

Honestly, I would say so. But not for the reasons Celebrimbor imagined. Without Aulë and Melkor, Sauron had no one left to share his craft, his passion that did not abandon him even when he turned his back on Valinor. And Celebrimbor, the greatest Elven-smith of his time, is almost his equal.

However, he knows that Celebrimbor would never agree with him, so he must leave in the end, even though it is a shame for both of them.

The illusion is, however, failing. Sauron is spending too much energy holding back the people of Eregion and preventing the attack of Adar long enough to forge the rings. His mind is not fully devoted to Celebrimbor, and that is his greatest mistake.

Celebrimbor begins to notice the small inconsistencies in the environment. The fire burns the same every day. The little mouse who repeats the same patterns. But he already knew that, didn't he? He knew what Annatar was doing, but he couldn't admit it to himself.

Sauron's mask finally falls.

Sauron tries to convince Celebrimbor of his truth. To Sauron, he was obviously doing the elf a favor, teaching him his knowledge and improving his creation. Sauron genuinely believes he was helping him, in his own way.

"I am the one keeping the storm at bay."

Ding Dong, Sauron and his twisted view of healing is knocking at the door again!

Sauron is confident that he has done everything in his power to make Celebrimbor prove his worth. Did he feel that way about Melkor? Did he believe that all the suffering and pain caused by his master would help him to become more improve? Probably.

I believe that breaking the illusion was more painful. Forcing Celebrimbor to contemplate the destruction of his beloved kingdom, to observe the death of his people and, worst of all, to realize that none of them believe him, not when Annatar is there, claiming that the master blacksmith has gone mad.

Celebrimbor is left to deal with his guilt. Sauron’s revelation is not only cruel, but devastating. Celebrimbor realizes that he helped Sauron, and that is a hard truth to swallow, and Sauron knows it.

For me, Mirdania’s death was Celebrimbor’s greatest regret. She was his ward, and he lost her to Sauron. She trusted Annatar and died believing in him, and she died at his hands.

And the death of Mirdania is the breaking point. There is nothing left for Celebrimbor. Sauron is the Great Deceiver and he has won. Celebrimbor is tired of fighting.

Honestly, Sauron almost fooled me too. When he talks about the suffering caused by Morgoth, I don't think that's a lie, not to him. He suffered at the hands of a Valar because their worldviews were different. Morgoth wanted to destroy and Sauron wanted to heal, but in the end their methods were the same.

The lie is revealed throughout the conversation. Did Sauron want to hurt Celebrimbor? Yes and no. As in an abusive relationship, Sauron believes he hurt him because he had to, but did not want to. As he says, Celebrimbor caused it, and that is his truth.

In a desperate attempt, Celebrimbor tries to destroy the rings. But the Rings of Power are too powerful for the fire. All that remains is to escape with the rings, and there is Galadriel, his beloved friend, as if sent by the Valar.

It's a very difficult conversation, I must admit. Galadriel realizes that Celebrimbor hurt himself to escape Sauron and save Middle-earth. And after so much suffering, she is the only person who trusts Celebrimbor.

Galadriel and Celebrimbor share the same guilt. Focused on their hearts' desires, they were seduced by Sauron's promises and power, and this hurts them deeply. They wish more than anything to make amends for the harm they have caused, even if unintentionally.

Sauron is enraged and Galadriel leaves with the rings, she is the last hope of Middle-earth. Celebrimbor is once again alone, his guards are trapped in Sauron's power and he can no longer escape the hands of the Great Deceiver and his vengeance.

I still get goosebumps when I remember the sound of the bow firing its next arrow.

This is the end of Celebrimbor's legacy, the ruin of his existence. All that remains is his blood staining his forge and his body riddled with arrows. Where did the trail of blood come from, I wonder. Was Sauron cruel enough to drag the bleeding Celebrimbor here?

Sauron tries to break Celebrimbor's spirit one last time. But Celebrimbor has already lost everything, and his solace is that the rings are far away.

And he thinks of the old days, when all was fair in Eregion. I believe it is this memory, of the good times before Sauron's destruction, that strengthens Celebrimbor.

"For soon I shall go to the shore of the morning. Borne hence, by a wind that you can never follow!"

This is Sauron's greatest fear, isn't it? He has lost Aulë, he has lost Melkor. Because of his cowardice and refusal to beg forgiveness from the Valar, he will never be able to return to Valinor. Galadriel has resisted his temptation, and Celebrimbor is dying; there is no one left for Sauron.

Sauron wants to inflict as much pain on Celebrimbor as possible to make up for his words. Would he be able to use his unholy magic to keep Celebrimbor alive? Was it all for the rings, or once again because he would be alone in the world?

"Hear me! Shadow of Morgoth. Hear the dying words of Celebrimbor."

Celebrimbor's prophecy affects Sauron deeply, laying bare his greatest fears. He will be betrayed by his rings, we know that. His own corrupt power will doom him to destruction. And it breaks him, because Sauron must have believed Celebrimbor's words.

Unfinished Tales of Númenor and Middle-earth:

"In black anger he turned back to battle; and bearing as a banner Celebrimbor’s body hung upon a pole, shot through with Orc-arrows, he turned upon the forces of Elrond."

Sauron, it's time to work on all that anger.

Blinded by red rage, Sauron kills Celebrimbor and interrupts his words. Did he realize what he was doing? Always so driven by his seething emotions.

And this is Sauron's moment of breaking. He realizes what he has done. He has murdered his last equal in all of Middle-earth, once again he has fulfilled his fears, and he is alone. Why is he crying?

As I analyzed before, he was alone and there was no one to deceive. Sauron understood his actions and had no way of going back, all he could do was accept the consequences.

Just as Celebrimbor was seduced by power and glory, Sauron was seduced by Celebrimbor’s power and knowledge. Like an Ouroboros, Sauron and Celebrimbor were seduced by power and found their downfall in each other.

Sauron may have been Celebrimbor’s downfall. But Celebrimbor and his rings, and the knowledge they gave Sauron, will be the Great Deceiver’s downfall at the end of the road.

#the rings of power #trop #the lord of the rings #tolkien #the silmarillion #sauron #morgoth #celebrimbor #annatar #galadriel #charlie vickers #mairon #charles edwards #sauron x celebrimbor #trop spoilers #silvergifting #my analysis

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lyragoth · 2 months ago

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"Angrod is gone, and Aegnor is gone, and Felagund is no more. Of Finarfin's children I am the last. But my heart is still proud. What wrong did the golden house of Finarfin do that I should ask the pardon of the Valar, or be content with an isle in the sea whose native land was Aman the Blessed? Here I am mightier."

"What would you then?" said Celebrimbor.

"I would have trees and grass about me that do not die - here in the land that is mine," she answered. "What has become of the skill of the Eldar?" (...) Therefore Celebrimbor, who loved Galadriel began to work on making the second Elessar. Wielding the Elessar all things grew fair about Galadriel, until the coming of the Shadow to the Forest. But afterwards when Nenya, chief of the Three, was sent to her by Celebrimbor, she needed it (as she thought) no more, and she gave it to Celebrían her daughter, and so it came to Arwen and to Aragorn who was called Elessar. Unfinished Tales - The Elessar Two things I love about this passage: 1. Celebrimbor and Galadriel's friendship. They are confidants. 2. Prideful Galadriel. Although she is wise, her character arc is not yet complete (until LOTR), where she finally overcomes her pride, 'diminishes' and sails West. @rosenrotstuff Achei essa passagem e quis compartilhar com você, bebê. Te amo.

#unfinished tales #celebrimbor #galadriel #tolkien

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quinacridonered · 4 months ago

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ROP Recap - Season 2, Episode 5

Ring of Power: Wear meeeeeeee!

Entire World: Don’t wear it!

King Durin: *wears it*

Prince Durin: Dad?

King Durin: SIRE! Dig over here.

Prince Durin: Sire! Who is also Dad! You’ll bury us!

King Durin: Get out of my way or I will bury *you* specifically.

Sun Shaft: *emerges*

King Durin: If you don’t do what I tell you, our previous falling out will be your best family memory.

Prince Durin: This seems like a lot even for you.

Celebrimbor: Work party! Dwarves and elves! Awkward standing around! Mediocre beverage!

Sauron: Too bad about that First Age wine.

Celebrimbor: ’Tis a loss for the world.

Sauron: You know what will fix it? Rings for Men.

Celebrimbor: Not this again.

Sauron: I already put on a Broadway-level production to convince you. Are we gonna have to upgrade to Vegas?

Celebrimbor: If we give humans anything, it should be something like Xanax.

Sauron: Have to do everything myself around here.

Assistants: We'll help!

Celebrimbor: At what point did I completely lose control of my own ring factory?

Sauron: Probably back when I wandered in wearing Halbrand pyjamas.

Pharazon: If a mob made me king, does this constitute a democracy?

Miriel: We should ask the eagle.

Pharazon: The eagle has already spoken.

Eärien: Dad? You are demoted.

Elendil: This is the kid I’m stuck with.

Miriel: Wow.

Elendil: You should have seen her as a teen.

Dwarf Business Improvement Association: What news, King Durin?

King Durin: I give you magic rings. You give me half your money.

Dwarf Business Improvement Association: This seems like a lot even for you.

King Durin: Dig, motherfuckers! DIG!

Disa: We’re digging too much.

Prince Durin: I thought you wanted him to?

Disa: Consistency is the hobgoblin of small minds.

King Durin: I’m proud of you, my son!

Prince Durin: You’re right. He’s off his rocker.

Invisible Mirdania: AAAAAAAAH!

Celebrimbor: On the plus side, now we know how to make rings of invisibility.

Visible Mirdania: The unseen world sucks and I want to unsee it! What was that demon?

Sauron: Your boss.

Mirdania: You mean you?

Sauron: Your other boss.

Mirdania: Obviously.

Prince Durin: The ring you gave us is fucked up.

Celebrimbor: Did you fuck up the ring?

Sauron: Is it me who is a lying liar?

Celebrimbor: …No?

Sauron: Is it you perchance?

Celebrimbor: …Yes? Oh god, what do I do?

Sauron: Make more rings.

Celebrimbor: Obviously.

Sauron: Thank god, your prefrontal cortex is no longer working.

Kevin: Guards! Rough up the faithful!

Valandil: Or we could rough up Kevin.

Kevin: *kills Valandil*

Elendil: My son-in-law, everyone.

Kevin: To your chagrin and mine.

Sauron: Can I play with your hair and pretend you are my ex?

Mirdania: You are beautiful, good at smithing and 600 meters tall. You can do whatever you want.

Eregion Industries HR Department: Would you like to report workplace harassment, defined as vexatious conduct that is known or reasonably ought to be known to be unwelcome?

Mirdania: To be perfectly honest, he is welcome to vex me straight into next week. Or next fiscal year, for that matter.

Sauron: Noted.

HR Department: We tried.

Galadriel: A star shines upon me taking you hostage, asshole.

Orc Daddy: Ex-of-Sauron Support Group is now in session.

Galadriel: He’s not my ex!

Orc Daddy: Does the thought bring you relief and regret in vast and equal measure?

Galadriel: Crap. It does.

Orc Daddy: Welcome to the group, Galadriel.

---

More recaps:

Season 2, Episode 1

Season 2, Episode 2

Season 2, Episode 3

Season 2, Episode 4

#rings of power #the rings of power #trop crack #trop season 2 #trop spoilers

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emyn-arnens · 20 days ago

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2024 Fic Roundup

Thanks for tagging me @hobbitwrangler! 💛 2024 is over, but I spent the past week in Galadriel fic lockdown, so I'm doing this now.

Total Words Published at end of year: 73,559 (including a handful of fic from other fandoms)

Fandoms: Mostly LOTR and Silm with some brief forays into Narnia, the Sevenwaters series, and Timeless.

Highest Everything (raw kudos, hits, comments): Keeping this to Tolkien fics:

Kudos: Like a Wave That Should Engulf the World (G, Faramir/Éowyn, 0.7k)

Hits: Across So Wide a Sea (G, Galadriel, Finrod, Celeborn, Celebrían, and more, 33.1k)

Comments: Across So Wide a Sea again

New Things I Tried: Quite a bit! I dug deeper into writing horror; wrote a number of characters and relationships I'd never written before; wrote my first all-OC fic; wrote my first epistolary fic; and wrote about the Second Age and early Third Age, which I had previously avoided because they're time periods I wasn't as familiar with. And, best of all, I finished a long fic for the first time! 🎉

Fic I Spent the Most Time On: Across So Wide a Sea, by far. I spent about three quarters of the year on it, between researching and writing. I hadn't initially planned on the fic covering such a sprawling length of time (end of the First Age to end of the Third Age), so I had to give myself some crash courses on parts of the Second Age and early Third Age that I wasn't as familiar with.

Writing it also brought up a lot of questions about things I had previously taken for granted and not thought much about, including things like "did the Elves try to figure out what happened to the Ring after Isildur's death and its subsequent vanishing from history? If they didn't, why, and if they did, how did they do so? And didn't they wonder why the Istari showed up in what was largely a time of peace (about one hundred years before Sauron took over Dol Guldur for the first time)?" And so on and so on. I spent a lot of time working out what Galadriel would have plausibly known and how she would have reacted to some of Tolkien's less-described events.

Fic I Spent the Least Time On: Any of my ficlets for the Three Sentence Ficathon, really, but probably either As Watchful As Any Living Thing (G, anthropomorphic Nargothrond, 0.1k) or As Thunder Echoing in the Deep Hills (G, Oromë, 0.1k).

Favourite Thing I Wrote: Not to keep going on about Across So Wide a Sea, but Across So Wide a Sea. I spent a lot of time digging into Galadriel's mind this year, and I'm proud of what I created. She's a hard character to capture (and I'd avoided writing her for a long time just because of that), but I feel like I truly understand her now. Who knew first person POV could be just the thing for getting into the heads of characters who intimidate you!

Favourite Thing(s) I Read:

the plain sight of our destiny is the cruellest thing of all by @hobbitwrangler (T, OCs, 4.3k): A fascinating, horrifying look at Umbar during Sauron's takeover, with a rich cast of characters and perfectly claustrophobic horror.

The Manner of His Return by @thelordofgifs (G, Faramir & Denethor, 1.6k): An aching depiction of Faramir's complicated relationship with Denethor.

call it peace by simaetha (G, Celebrimbor & Galadriel, Celebrimbor & Sauron, 3.6k): A hard-hitting timeloop fic about Celebrimbor's attempts to undo what he's started.

One day, but not today by @hobbitwrangler (G, Elros/Elros' wife, 3k): Do you want a thousand feelings about Elros and his unnamed wife and the inevitability of death? If so, read this.

with every seed you sow, let is wash away, wash away by @rarepairnation (G, Faramir & Éowyn & Legolas, 4k): The Faramir, Éowyn, and Legolas in Ithilien fic everyone needs, with a delicious chaser of the specter of Denethor and Minas Tirith hanging over Faramir.

Chrysalis by @cuarthol (G, Andreth & Bregor, 1.3k): The sweetest, tenderest depiction of Andreth and Bregor's relationship.

The Spinner by @searchingforserendipity25 (G, Galadriel, 1k): A proud, ambitious Galadriel who is just so determined to stick it to Fëanor. What more could you want.

A Sea Change by @sallysavestheday (G, Curufin & Finrod, 0.7k): A beautiful depiction of Curufin and Finrod's relationship, post-reembodiment, lyrical and full of forgiveness.

Writing Goals for 2025:

Finish some of the WIPs that have been wallowing in my WIPs folder for two or three years or more.

Really, just kick some WIPs out of the WIPs folder. Any WIPs.

Tagging everyone previously mentioned as well as @dreamingthroughthenoise @thescrapwitch @camille-lachenille if you're interested in doing this!

#tag games

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eri-pl · 5 months ago

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Yay! I remembered to pick the right blog to post to!

So, I was thinking about Annatar,

probably because of all the gifs and stuff, I wish you all happy watching, but I was thinking about Anntar in the book. Anyway. There's one angle that seems underexplored to me. Long post below cut, no ships except those burned at Losgar. Sorry if you had hopes. ;)

He's more or less openly claiming to be an emissary of the Valar. And he is approaching various Noldor. Especially Celebrimbor (the last* living descendant of Feanor) and Galadriel (iirc banned from returning after War of Wrath per special exception for being an unrepentant jerk? Or am I misremembering?)

\* However, Annatar approaching Maglor on the beach and getting blast away with just a few notes and flying a few miles and landing in mud, is a wonderful image to ponder. Yes, I know, Sauron + duels of song = bad… but Finrod relied on skill, not on infrasound + centuries of repressed rage. :)

Anyway, back to Celebrimbor.

Imagine: Your grandfather rebelled against the Valar, swore a blasphemous oath and died. Your father did the same, but with more mass murders in the meantime. The Valar have rejected your family long, long ago. And now someone comes, an emissary.

How anxious Celebrimbor must have been. A lot depends on what exactly happenned with Celebrimbor at the War of Wrath, what Eonwë told him (probably nothing, he's not a HR guy, he's a warrior, he wouldn't think it necessary to talk indyvidually to that one Noldo, and Celebrimbor was afraid to ask), was he allowed to return (I assume yes, because why not, but he was either too insecure or... idk, hoping to find his uncle?) and so on.

Or maybe it's like with Galadriel: he didn't return after the WoW and believes that now it's too late?

I'm sure Annatar comforts him. (No, you can't return just yet, you have an important task to do here). I'm sure he assures Celebrimbor that the Valar still remember Middle Earth and still remember him. Or… maybe not?

Maybe it's more half-truths? Maybe it's more along the lines of "technically i shouldn't be here, but I pity the Elves who stayed here, and you especially and I chose to help regardless". Maybe it's more of "You have a lot of baggage, and I do have some things that I'm not proud of, but if we work together to fix the world, we both can be forgiven". Maybe a part of Sauron even believes in this.

One way or another, the topic of Feanorian legacy must be an important thread here, and not only in the aspect of "my grandfather was a great craftsman" but also, maybe even moreso, "my grandfather rejected the Valar and Annatar still wants to work with me regardless of that".

Also, I am absolutely certain that, after he opened up more and trusted Annatar a bit more, Celebrimbor at one point asked (probably very indirectly, because that is a really hard question for him to ask), "Is my father in the Halls, or—"

And I suppose that whatever story Sauron came up with, this very well may have been one of the reasons why Celebrimbor did not fully trust him. This is a perfect conversation topic to notice someone lacks empathy and, well, goodness.

But anyway, I really wish someone wrote a fic with those conversations. Especially with Celebrimbor daring to ask about the fate of the Feanorians. And what the Everlasting Darkness even is.

But also about others who stayed in aman or died. About his mother, whoever she was. His grandmother Nerdanel. There would be a lot of questions for Sauron to avoid and slither around.

Or maybe it was somwhat the other way around?

Maybe Annatar, in his kindness of course, asked a lot about Curufin, about Feanor. (Of course not at the start of their relationship, but as they get to know each other better… I assume Celebrimbor did open up enough to talk that). About how Celebrimbor feels, of course, how he is coping and so on, all the emotionally inteligent, helpful questions... What the Darkness is, where did Feanor get this idea, how was he able to craft an Oath so strong, so binding, where to find that power he called upon— How does it feel to be compared to Feanor all the time, how would it feel to finally be equal to him in greatness (Annatar of course can make this happen).

Darkness that binds. Darkness that calls, that never forgets. That gathers and never lets go. Darkness that binds.

Or (hmmm, this is starting to blend into crack territory) at some point of his cooperation with Annatar, among talks of his father and his terrible fate, there came into Celebrimbor's mind a thought of freing him, of freeing all the family. After all, who could invent a way to get someone back from the Void Everlasting Darkness, if not the heir of the House of Feanor?

This… could be an interesting starting point for a fic.

#silm #silmarillion #tolkien legendarium #the silm #the silmarillion #celebrimbor #annatar #sauron #mairon

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fatcatlittlebox · 6 hours ago

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Yay!! It’s more meta time! I had previously wrote short metas about the bond between Sauron and Galadriel and the creation of mithril as a corresponding metaphor. And interestingly enough, the showrunners JDP and McKay were proud to highlight it in their interviews. And the reason I want to bring this up is because if the writers are so keen to highlight it, it’s not just because they are proud of its cleverness. It’s because it reveals something about the characters’ psyche and portends what will play out in their future.

Let’s start with Galadriel and Sauron’s joining when she first made the proposal. I think the minute she uttered those words, “Bind yourself to me”, it was as if she primed the cosmic milieu that would spark the alchemy of their connection. She was the missing piece, Valinor’s purest silver and gold. And the actions and accidents that happened during the events on the Sundering Sea were the other necessary ingredients of that merging. And I agree with Morfydd that most of it was by chance. But not all of it.

Choices were made. Galadriel extending her hand in compassion and trust to someone who had (in her mind) already proven less than worthy. Halbrand/Sauron forgoing self-preservation to save his great adversary. These were offerings made and placed in the crucible — true creation requires sacrifice. The storm is the force that coaxes these two hostile entities, these elements together. The lightning signifies the randomness and rarity of their pairing. The whole scene is one of electric chaos.

But that element of chance is an absolutely critical ingredient. Galadriel is a being used to wielding strength and power and is suddenly rendered the opposite. Sauron is a creature of order and control and, at that moment, has none. These circumstances of nature or divine providence had stripped them bare and it was only in this state would these two immortals be drawn to each other. Note that many of the shots in this scene emphasize how these two Middle Earth juggernauts are so small compared to the wide sea. And the shots include birdseye views of them from seemingly 10000 feet above, suggesting that others’ eyes are watching. Are they watching their handiwork? Is it a test? Or are they watching with bated breath the union they didn’t predict.

As I have said before, their joining was a confluence of unexpected variables and choices: namely, Galadriel was not expected to choose Sauron and Sauron was not supposed to choose Galadriel. And those elements of chance, luck (bad or good), and anomaly are highlighted especially in season 2. Because after Sauron is rejected by Galadriel, he tries to recreate that alchemy, metaphorically and interpersonally with Celebrimbor. He falsely believes that it is something that he can control.

First, he comes to Eregion in his Halbrand form, low and humbled, and is immediately rebuffed. This is the first ingredient and it is rejected. The "alloy" here is off to a bad start. Then Sauron tries to force their meeting together: not at all like how he met Galadriel which happened because of a storm at sea. So Sauron conjures up a storm of his own. And I think he cast that spell as you can see here:

His eyes turn black and clouds immediately start churning and gathering overhead. This storm is artifice, an imitation. Celebrimbor and Sauron's partnership is already being formed with hollow filler. It is not genuine.

And if you look at the above gif, which is Galadriel's vision of Sauron in the same scenario, there is a subtle but noticeable difference. The horse is not in the foreground as it is when Sauron casts the spell in the audience's real time. There, the horse is in focus and at his shoulder. I think this is meant to signify Sauron invoking the memory of Galadriel. We know that Galadriel is represented by a horse frequently and is often conjured in Sauron's visions where Galadriel's presence is felt. In this scene, the horse is present again and is right there next to him. He's thinking of her.

Later, Sauron quickly abandons the "Halbrand" form and assumes the glamoured ruse of a noble elf. Many people disagree but I think when Sauron was Halbrand with Galadriel, this was the most honest, "purest" form of himself he had taken in ages and is the reason why Galadriel (the gold and silver here) was drawn to him. It was that "rightness" as I had mentioned in previous posts, that allow her soul to embrace him. To meld and intertwine. And we can debate whether or not Sauron was a corrupted element that hence produced a tainted bond. But for the purposes of this metaphor, I don't think he needed to be perfectly good. He only needed to be true to himself. And in that moment, that brief, impulsive, unforseen moment, he was. He was Mairon and it was captured and intertwined in an everlasting connection. And just as quickly, the window closed. In all the relationships he had before this and since, he has never been able to reproduce it.

The second season, I believe is meant to contrast that. As Annatar, there is nothing true or genuine he offers. It isn't real. This alloy is not going to take. It is destined to fracture. And you can see that. Because as he grows in power, his control over others, his control over his environment and even himself starts coming apart. The audience sees that manifest in his repeated failures at forging the 9 rings himself. Even when Celebrimbor is able to complete the rings alone, the results are flawed and the connection between Celebrimbor and Annatar immediately breaks and withers like the lies and illusions they were founded with.

Now where do we go from here? Now that Galadriel has been impaled by Morgoth's crown and Sauron's blood now mingles with hers, what will become of their connection, this "alloy" they had formed? We have to look at what will come of these 9 rings and what their effect will be on those that bear them. They are also poisoned with Sauron's blood and we already know what happens in the book. This will be his fated Achilles heel. Because he can't help but try to control what he can't. The bond between him and Galadriel was unique because he was not the hand that coaxed them together. He was not it's smith. In trying to grasp control over it, over her, over what he was not meant to instead of recognizing his greatest accomplishment was achieved by surrendering to the forces greater than himself, he will be destined to lose it all. A strong alloy requires balance.

#soooo yah #i wont stop meta-ing #i cant help it my bad #lol #haladriel #saurondriel #charlie vickers #morfydd clark #sauron x galadriel #halbrand x galadriel #haladriel meta #saurondriel meta #my edit

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katrina37973 · 5 months ago

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Day 7: Post-canon

New beginning. Valinor. Reconciliation. Recovery. Remembering the past.

@silvergiftingweek

__________________

Non-betaed fic under cut, will edit post sometime later, probably will post to AO3 later as well.

Unfortunately due to uni I haven't been able to participate in this as much as I would have liked.

Hope you'll enjoy my work!

Warnings: Allusion to violence but mostly vague? Tell me if you think i ought to add another.

How odd it was, that he kept the scar across his sternum.

It was an oblong starburst shape, pink skin puckered and occasionally white, other scars long and thin laid on top. It was the size of a hand, stretching and claiming.

Celebrimbir had purposefully kept all his scars before Sauron’s betrayal, even the ones he gained during his reign as the lord of Ost-in-Edhil. All the burns from forge accidents, the fumbling of a knife or two, the accidental broken bones or burns or stray exploding metal from experiments gone wrong.

It all held memory, memory of the bad, the good, of the naive and foolish or the learned and understanding.

He couldn’t wear jewllery, at least, not the amount he once wore as proud lord of the golden city, teeming with promises of more. Certainly no rings, too many uncertain memories and broken promises and trust. Stone he wore proudly as if it was some great rare jewel to the bafflement of everyone outside of previous mebers of Ost-in-Edhil. Even his own family could not fully understand his care and dedication for the art of stones.

It meant something to him that they didn’t question his choices. He couldn’t pinpoint exactly what the emotions were but it was somewhere in the range of appreciation and a weary understanding.

They didn’t treat him as a child anymore, young and tagging along their adventures with short stubby legs, wide eyed and all innocence. They didn’t treat him as a young child or even a young adult, certain in his skills and voice. They never knew him as the lord of Ost-in-Edhil, beloved by all that dwelt within her once sturdy walls. The lord that hosted and welcomed all of any kind, elf, dwarf, human and other.

The problem with that was they didn’t know how to treat him at all.

They loved him, Celebrimbor had no doubt, but the years had gone by, stretching their already tenuous bonds. But it hurt him to see the heistance in their hugs, their kisses and affection. Even grandmother Nerdanel hesitated in hugging him, helping him braid his hair, and even the simple clap on the back or shoulder.

Of all the things he missed of Sauron it was the easy touch and affection that flowed between them.

Valinor, for all the paradise it was with no danger and plenty of things to do, people to talk with, crafts to learn and create, was stifling. It was like the whole world walked on eggshells when he entered, even old acquaintances were overly gentle and eager to please. Or rather they were the ones most akward. Very few of Ost-in-Edhil’s people could meet him eye to eye and talk as they once had. Even those within his venerated Gwaith-i-mirdain had doubts. Only Ithril, Kazforza and Fingrithil treated him normally.

Everyone else talked in circles, making leaps and jumps to avoid talking about Ost-in-Edhil, his death and everything in the Second Age to his face.

It was infuriating.

It was hurtful and condescending and he deeply, deeply missed Annatar and the conversations they would have, taboo and casual, anything and everything, no thought filtered and halting.

He loved his family he did. Even with the awful deeds they had done, they sought a path forward to atonement, dragging themselves from the sea of blood that bathed them all cleaning themselves with the forgiveness of thise they wrobed and accpeting those who could not. Celebrimbor was proud of them beyond words found in any language, maybe save the one spoken by the Valar.

“Tyelpe?” His eldest uncle’s voice called softly from the entrance to his bedroom. “Can I come in?”

“I’m alright,” Celebrimbor hastily said, rising to his feet. It took an immense effort to tear his eyes from the mirror, or more accurately the reflection of the scar on his sternum. It was not the largest scar he had kept, not by far really. He wasn’t sure why he kept some of the scars himself, marks from whips and burns from balrogs and that one that came from a furious and heartbroken elf who heated up his sword with the symbol of his house etched onto the pommel and burned it where his heart laid under skin, flesh and bone.

“A silmaril for your thoughts?” Maedhros’ voice was light but concern tinged it.

“Come in, come in,” Celebrimbor ushered him in, realising he hadn’t actually answered Maedhros. “Nothing important, just thinking of the past.”

That earned him one of Maedhros' very unnerving stares. The one that felt like it looked into one’s feä and judged it. A little like how Manwë and Namo’s gaze had felt. But his uncle judged that Celebrimbor was alright, not lying and not about to have any sort of panic attack or flashback. It had happened a few times.

With Celebrimbor and pretty much all of their family, save Nerdanel whose worst mood would be an oppressive sort of worry.

She had not participated nor started the whole kinslaying afterall.

“You’ve been off for the last couple of days,” Maedhros quietly remarked, looking out of the window, gazing at the setting sun and the garden that they all had built and grown together. It had been healing for his father and uncles, knowing that their hands were not restricted to the mastery of the blade. Feanor merely grumbled about dirt under fingernails which amused them as his work in the forge arguably dirtied them more.

“You did not flinch nor mourn at Sauron’s defeat, nor did you hesitate in greeting the little Hobbits that have taken residence amongst us,” he continued, “your behaviour after the aforementioned events were predictable, nightmares and regrets dredged up but not wholly destructive to your healing.”

Celebrimbor kept silent, hands frozen on the back of a chair. Maedhros stood, still gazing out the window. It was the stance he took as a soldier, a general, standing at attention all wound up. Now too, for Ages of habits drove him to.

“And yet,” his uncle sighed, turning to face him, “here we after all of this, the Fourth Age of Men starting strong and continuing, all of us free and healing, Sauron finally defeated-” His remaining hand came to rest on his stump - “yet still there us something troubling you, something new.”

He turned to face Celebrimbor.

“What is wrong?” Maedhros asked.

Celebrimbor knew the last few days, nay, weeks had him behaving oddly, something making him restless and jumpy despite being perfectly at peace for more than half an Age.

“I-” he started saying before narrowing his eyes. “Wait, are you here by yourself or with the others?”

Maedhros shrugged.

Sighing, Celebrimbor sprawled across his bed, mussing up the cleaned linen.

Of course they all elected Maedhros to be the one to ask him. Of course they did.

Silence filled his room.

On one hand, he had no desire to talk today, let alone about the odd presence that perplexed him. On the other, he knew his uncle well; an unending well of patience and a keenness that rivalled Manwë’s eagles. His uncle would wait until Celebrimbor was comfortable to talk, no matter how long it took. A day, a week, maybe even a yen if he needed to.

He sighed again.

“There’s… something.” Celebrimbor at last admitted. Frustrated by his inability to give forth direct answers, he gestured angrily at the ceiling. “ I mean, what I meant was-”

He tried to organise his thoughts, to explain the taste lingering in the air, the presence that occasionally brushed past, soft and light like how a cat moves around a person. To explain the smell of ash and regret. To explain it wasn’t a bad smell but relieving in a way. To explain whenever he entered the forge it felt like home, then a warning, then a deep set regret, then a gentle but hesitant nudge forward, a sort of controlled eagerness. A penance, an acknowledgement.

To explain the utter soul crushing relief that he was back.

Back and diminished and suddenly it all made sense.

“Oh,” Celebrimbor exhaled. “Oh.”

He could see in his minds eye how his uncle inclined his head out of confusion, the rustle of clothing as Maedhros adjusted his position and waited for an explanation.

What could Celebrimbor say?

Should he say anything?

The Valar should know. Or maybe they already did? No. No, the presence would be like a grain of sand on the sea shore. Diminshed as such to be on par or even less than a mere elf’s.

He distantly registered his uncle walking out from his room, closing the door with a soft click. Like all the doors in the house, the lock had been refitted so that it could only be locked from the inside and not out.

Celebrimbor stayed there as Arien fell, and Teleprion replaced her golden light with a silver one.

The presence never approached him within his room, he realised with a start. Nor when he was together with his family, any one of them. He sat there calcuating and recalcuating the effects of taking ones own soul and using it as a material to be harnessed.

Theoretically some of the power would be lost in the process of the making. Even more would be at its unmaking, an explosion of sorts but how could you measure whats lost with a material that never had been used as a one in the first place?

Wpuld it be categorised as a death? Could Ainur die? Or would it be a restructuring rather than a death? However to restructure something, does it not mean a part or whole of the previous would have to ‘die’ in some way? To make space for the changed.

That led to the Ages debated question of the Ships and Celebrimbor could admit, although rather reluctantly, that he was not suited for those lines of thinking. It usually resulted in a headache.

Whatever reason the remnants of Sauron had in seeking Celebrimbor out, and staying, could only be found with the Dark Lord himself. Or ex-dark lord? The maia certainly hadn’t done anything yet but be arguably helpful and encouraging. He also didn’t think Sauron had any remaining power left, not if he bypassed all of Valinor unnoticed to come to Formenos.

It was surprisingly easy enough of a decision, to escape from his bedroom through the open window and into the darkened forge; his grandfather had gone to bed after countless hours of needling by his grandmother, his father was away with Celegorm and Ambarussa on a hunting trip recently departed and not due to return in another week or so. Maglor and Caranthir were in Torion, hosted by Elrond and Celebrian for the next few days too, and Maedhros no doubt had gone to bed once he thought that Celebrimbor would stay in bed for the rest of the day and night. He might have rivalled Sauron in cleverness and strategy but with his family, his guard was unconsciously lowered enough.

Celebrimbor didn’t quite like the nagging notion that his father and uncles had decided their presence would hinder his healing and understanding.

His bare feet were silent as he slipped into the forge, lighting only a single candle and placed in the corner where no light could be seen from outside and no smell of smoke or incense could be detected form inside the house.

He waited.

First he waited standing, leaning against the wall and looking at the flickering candlelight, watching the shadows dance and twirl in faint light amongst the darkness of the forge. Then he slid down to kneel and meditate, closing his eyes but not his ears.

After a few minutes and countless breaths, he registered the faintest brush against his feä. He kept steady, keeping his own feä from responding and reaching. Much like a cat, he thought in wry amusement though he allowed none to show on his fana.

Soon it grew stronger, the barest brushes becoming more persistent and more present. It reminded him of how cats demanded attention, how they took to warm sunlight, fires or presences. He wondered how conscientious the action was on Annatar’s behalf. Sauron’s that is.

Celebrimbor.

At last, Celebrimbor thought. He smiled and responded sweetly, Sauron.

A pause and he could feel the other presence debate on what might have been called a tactical retreat. Or, since Celebrimbor was feeling rather ruthless as of now, cowardly flee.

He reached out to the maia and offered up a memory. A recollection of tangled feelings, of grief and mourning for a friend and foe, for longing of the presence of someone who finally, finally he felt harmony with. Who destroyed him as much as brought him to life.

Sauron shrank from the echoes that stretched between them. A quiet but no less powerful, I’m sorry came forth from the unhoused spirit.

Celebrimbor wandered how many times Sauron had said that before and had genuinely meant it. He wandered how often he himself had longed to hear those words, to hear the acknowledgement that he, the all powerful maia supposedly better than all Elder, was wrong.

Victory tasted like bloodied dirt in his mouth, dry, coopery. Inescapable.

I love you, Celebrimbor thought.

You loved me, Annatar corrected.

Eru damned fool, Celebrimbor was going to find a way to give this formless spirit a void-damned fana if it meant he could punch him.

And now he was wandering about the mechanics that allowed a fana to be operated. He sighed. Of course he would have the strangest and appealingly challenging ideas due to Sauron.

I do not say things lightly; my choice of tenses was purposeful. Celebrimbor admonished.

For a long moment he was sure Sauron had fled.

Then the hint of utter confusion, horror and an unwanted relief touched his feä and he felt deeply, deeply satisfied.

Maybe it might have bordered on smug but he quite rightly deserved to.

Why?

Why not? He countered just to be contrary.

Sauron snapped back, roiling tension and anger and something that seemed like so much hope it hurt. Tyelperinquar! I ripped and ground our home into the earth, I burnt our people, I tortured you-

Sauron shuddered, regret clear in his tone and feä, alongside a deep, deep longing that matched Celebrimbor’s own.

Nothing can repair what hurt you have dealt, Celebrimbor remarked sharply, to you or ours. To the countless thralls and orcs that still suffer now. To my family and our friends. He softened. But that does not render what we once had and now could have moot.

But why would you choose-

“Is it a choice?” Celebrimbor whispered out loud, disturbing the silence that had descended softly onto the forge and house. He opened his eyes and tilted his head to see the candleflame had petered out, the wick still slightly smoldering.

He sighed, not feeling Sauron’s presence anymore. His back ached and he was cold.

Brilliant red hair caught Arien’s early rays.

“That wasn’t directed at me, was it.” His eldest uncle remarked sitting crossed legged on the anvil.

Celebrimbor yelped.

#silmarillion #silvergifting #celebrimbor #sauron #fanfic #silvergiftingweek #tyelperinquar #annatar

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mai-komagata · 1 month ago

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My 2024 Fic I’m Most Proud Of

As we're finishing out 2024, what is one thing from your writing this year that you're particularly proud of? And what is one fic you wrote that you would recommend for others to read?

Thanks for the tag @fandom-chameleon23

I only just started again about a month ago. The last time i published a story was in 2003. I've written snippets here and there but never enough to put something online. And I'm so happy i have! it's the most rewarding thing i've done to feel connected to a fandom and I hope to do it for more shows i love in the future. It's great to feel creative again. And not only did i write the two stories i had "in the bank" in my head, but I wrote a story which i plotted from conversations with new fandom friends! Gonna recommend others read my newest story. Not because it is the best but because I think based on the numbers everyone who was gonna read them already read the other two, lol. (Pain must be something you enjoy is the one readers like the most and the reason i started writing. But it doesn't need boosting its doing great.) Its a silvergifting fic like all my others. I like that I wrote from Celebrimbor's POV, which is not my usual inclination since he is not the character I relate to/think about the most. I like that there is a little section with Narvi and some dumb dwarf lore i made up. It also has a lot of sex scenes so if you are looking for some longer porn to read over winter break this will fit the bill! (a bit of self-critique, i hate the title.)

I don't know who to tag, since most of the writers i follow aren't even in the tolkien fandom, dunno if it is okay to break containment for this sort of thing, lol. But If you follow me and want to do this, tag me, I'd love to hear what what fic you are proud of! In the meantime, i'll tag @damnyoubishop <3 if you want to do this meme.

#silvergifting #fic writing #celebrimbor #annatar

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just-trying-to-fangirl-in-peace · 3 months ago

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Further inspiration (Sauron x fem!Elf!reader)

❕but also Sauron x Celebrimbor + slight Celebrimbor x reader❕

-> in which you discover Annatar aiding Celebrimbor in his work with the same unconventional method he used with you, but that doesn’t mean he has discarded you

Warnings: smut, voyeurism kink, exhibitionism kink, tease and denial, handjob (Annatar x Celebrimbor, Annatar x Reader) oral (R + C receiving from A), mutual masturbation (C x R), p in v (A x R), manipulation cause you still don’t know he’s Sauron, Sauron will have more influence over the Rings if he soft doms their creators or something, I just wanted to write pure filth

Note: sequel to Inspiration. I wasn’t expecting to write something like this but the idea wouldn’t leave me alone so I experimented a little🤭

Mature content below the cut - minors DNI!!!

You are not proud of the disappointment you feel knowing Celebrimbor has returned to his work. You should be glad that he has recovered enough to carry on with forging the Rings—using the designs with which you provided him, no less—and you are happy. Truly. It’s only that part of you wishes you still had the forge room to yourself and Lord Annatar.

You had not been alone with him since he had... aided you to finish the designs, and you are driving yourself mad with thoughts of what might happen when or if you shall find yourselves in an intimate setting again. Will he be poised as ever, as though you had never known each other most intimately? Or will there be recognition between you? Connection.

Repetition.

The thought sends a pleasant shiver racing down your spine, right as you reach the forge room. You stop to breathe. Even if Annatar is inside, he is there assisting Celebrimbor with his work, and that is your purpose as well. Nothing more.

Before you can push the doors open, just as your fingers nearly reach the wood, one slides ever so slightly ajar, as if moved by the wind. Except there is no wind, and the doors are too heavy to be simply blown open, and so quietly no less. But you cease to ask yourself how such a thing has happened the moment you catch a glimpse of the sight revealed by the small opening.

From your angle, you can see Celebrimbor at his worktable, Annatar sitting beside him. There would be nothing unusual about that, if they were not sitting so much closer than you have seen them do on previous occasions. If Annatar’s arm were not wrapped around Celebrimbor’s shoulders, as if to cradle him close. And if that may yet pass for an exceedingly warm gesture of friendship, there is no mistaking the rhythmic movement of Annatar’s other hand in the area of Celebrimbor’s lap beneath the table, or the nature of the smith’s tortured groans as he struggles through the finishing touches of a Ring.

You cover your mouth to prevent an audible gasp. So, you had been right to assume you were not the only one for whom Lord Annatar performs such unconventional acts of... creative encouragement. Your first, panicked thought is that you need to leave before they sense your presence, pretend as though you never witnessed such a thing. But your legs simply refuse to move. Your eyes will not, cannot turn away from the sight. You watch, heat blooming within your belly, as Annatar’s fingers pinch and fondle the tip of the smith’s pointed ear, and Celebrimbor shudders almost violently.

“Please,” he begs, barely above a whisper, “I can bear it no longer.”

“You are capable of much greater feats than you know, my friend,” Annatar encourages, ever so trusting. But Celebrimbor shakes his head in utter defeat. His hands cease their trembling work and lower the utensils on the table as he turns to Annatar with an anguished gaze.

“I beg you,” he all but whimpers, “grant me release.”

Annatar smiles, a tinge of disappointment in his eyes, and releases Celebrimbor altogether, standing from his seat. The smith cannot help but whine, looking down at what is sure to be a most helpless state of arousal, but makes no attempt to touch himself, either. He must have understood by now, as you did before, that he is not to act without Annatar’s permission.

A trembling breath escapes you. Your hand is on your stomach, having come to rest there you know not when, and you stifle the growing urge to reach lower, between your legs, if only to ease the light throb that has begun there with a quick press of your fingers.

You shake your head, squeeze your eyes shut, and turn away to press your back to the wall by the door. It’s Lord Celebrimbor, you remind yourself. Your mentor. Your friend. If anything, you should be mortified that you have witnessed him in such a state of arousal, or envious that he is receiving the same attentions as you did from Annatar. And, to some extent, you are, but... seeing Annatar’s hands upon him only reminds you how they felt upon you, and Celebrimbor’s pleas for release remind you of the torturous stretch you had endured with Annatar keeping still inside of you, of the ache of helplessly unfulfilled pleasure and the beauty that had come from it.

Celebrimbor must have gathered his will, same as you did back then, and resumed his work, because his moans reach your ears again. You will your legs to carry you away, but all they do is take you back where you can peer through the crack in the door once more. Annatar is now hunched over Celebrimbor, mouth on his neck and hand back to stroking him beneath the table, and when the smith wavers anew in his feeble attempts to work, the cry he gives out at the loss of stimulation sends a bolt of pleasure to your clit. You press your thighs together, in vain. You cannot touch yourself in the hallway, where anyone might see you.

Just as you think you have gathered the resolve to flee to your chambers, where you may indulge in the pleasure of your own fingers without risking your dignity, Annatar says your name. It happens in an instant—a flick of his wrist, and the door slides all the way open, leaving you exposed to their sight.

Every cell in your body freezes.

“I am glad you have joined us,” Annatar greets politely, standing to his full height at Celebrimbor’s side. “You need not linger at the door.”

Celebrimbor, on the other hand, goes into a wide-eyed panic that matches the one no doubt written on your own face. His jaw drops, trembling, and he fumbles beneath the table to make himself decent again before he shoots to his feet.

“I-I assure you,” he stammers, awfully flushed in the face, “this is not at all what you might imagine—”

“Do not fret, Celebrimbor,” Annatar intercedes, mildly amused. “She is quite familiar with my methods.”

A small gasp leaves you as you avert your eyes, heat flooding your skin. It is one thing to catch Lord Celebrimbor in the act, quite another to admit to your own. His eyes dart between you and Annatar as he blinks, stunned at the revelation.

“Come... come inside,” he urges you. “Shut the door.”

You do so in haste, but remain standing in the doorway. You cannot tell whether Celebrimbor is more angry or ashamed. Though he hardly has the right to judge your behaviour, given that he has engaged in similarly improper acts himself, if he were to banish one of you, it will not be the emissary of the Valar.

“Is it true?” he asks, thankfully seeming more curious than scandalized. You glance at Annatar, unsure, and he gives you a small, encouraging nod of his head. It serves as a balm to your nerves.

“Lord Annatar...” you begin, willing your voice to be steady as you look at Celebrimbor. “He helped me to finish the designs, my lord.”

Celebrimbor’s brows shoot up. His mouth opens, then closes. Then he scrambles to pick up the sketches by which he had been guided as he worked—your sketches—from the table, and holds them up to you.

“You made these, while...?”

“Indeed,” Annatar says, the sole word imbued with such pride and admiration, your knees weaken.

“But they are excellent! Flawless!” Celebrimbor protests, his tone raised in disbelief. “It cannot be that... Under such torment...?”

It is plain to see, from the distress in his eyes, that he truly does not understand how such a thing might be possible. This must be the first time Annatar has tried this with him, catching him as off guard as you had been, and he has yet to learn how to accept the gift as you did. A gift which is too precious, you realize, to be kept only to yourself, especially with the fate of all Middle-Earth at stake. Sympathy for Celebrimbor fills your heart, and you meet his questioning look with a slight nod. Once again, your gaze briefly meets Annatar’s, and something in his eyes along with your own inner realization gives you the boldness to go on and confess, “It helps, Lord Celebrimbor. If you allow it. And... it does not go unrewarded.”

Celebrimbor releases a stunned huff, and puts the paper back on the table with a small thud of his fingers against the wood.

“She is right,” Annatar speaks when Celebrimbor seems at a loss for words. “But then again...” His brow knits, and he ponders something. “No two creative minds are alike,” he muses. “And yours, Celebrimbor, I’m afraid is in a rather fragile state. Perhaps a less... direct approach would suit you better.”

Celebrimbor eyes him warily, but his interest is visibly piqued, your words having eased his reluctance to believe such a method might prove fruitful. Slowly, he returns to his seat.

“And... what might that be?” he asks, cautiously.

Annatar gives him a rather cryptic smile before he turns his gaze to yours, extending a hand towards you in invitation.

“Would you come here?” he beckons.

For a moment, you hesitate, glancing to Celebrimbor to find him as puzzled as you, then looking back at Annatar in silent question. He gives no answer, only waits patiently. Waits for your trust, as you have given it before.

And as before, you give it. Holding his gaze, you go to him, and place your hand in his. Your skin tingles pleasantly as he takes it in his gentle hold, reminding you how you had longed to feel his touch again. He pulls you close to him and wraps his other arm around your waist with elegance, almost as if preparing for a waltz. You are transfixed by his eyes as he speaks in that wise voice of his, close enough that his breath touches your lips.

“There are more ways to open one’s mind to their most natural instincts than touch itself,” he says. “Sometimes, one needs only to be reminded... shown... how fulfilling it is to cease denying oneself.”

The last words are spoken just as he presses his lips to yours, and you sigh into the gentle kiss. His mouth’s caresses are so languid, so patient as you follow their lead. He takes his sweet time tracing your lips with his tongue, then sliding it against your own, allowing them to intertwine and dance together at leisure, savouring each and every sensation. But that is not all he means to do, you realize as a sudden intake of breath reaches your ears, one which belongs to neither you nor Annatar. This sensuous display is meant for Celebrimbor—who is still sitting right at your side, though the haze of desire had all but erased that knowledge from your mind.

When Annatar removes his lips from yours with a softly wet sound, you cannot help but glance a bit self-consciously to the smith. His eyes are clouded with an emotion you have never seen in them in all your years working together—yearning of the purely carnal sort. Though he flushes at being caught eyeing you so, the look he sends Annatar holds a glint of ruefulness.

“You can hardly expect my eyes to not stray from my work,” he warns, “whilst you engage in such... titillating behaviour a mere glance away.”

“And yet,” Annatar says, looking at him but leaning into you, “I expect you to not only finish your work,” you give a soft gasp as he presses his lips to your neck, “but to craft your greatest creations yet.”

“I do not think—”

The protest dies in Celebrimbor’s throat as Annatar engulfs you in his arms and swiftly lifts you onto the table, close enough to Celebrimbor that you could reach out with your leg and rest a foot in his lap if you so wished. You make no move to do anything but remain right where Annatar has placed you, your breath quickening as he reaches to your ankles and begins to draw the skirts of your dress slowly up, up, over your knees, until they are gathered gracelessly around your waist and all that covers your modesty is your undergarments.

You can’t help but squirm lightly, adjusting to the most unusual exposure. It’s already more than you had ever imagined Celebrimbor would see of you, and now Annatar is running the palm of his hands gently along your thighs, coaxing you to part them and reveal the damp fabric between your legs. His piercing gaze won’t let you look away. He holds such power over you, willingly given yet ruinous in its might.

And he is no less in control as he lowers himself to his knees before you, in the space between your legs. The realization of what he means to do, and in what circumstances, punches a small mewl from your chest. But perhaps you should know better than to think you can anticipate his actions by now. You must only take what you are given, and at the moment he gives you feather-light caresses of your legs, from your ankles to the sensitive skin at the back of your knees, whilst his lips begin a trail of kisses upon the inside of your thighs. A few on the left, a few on the right. Languorous, attentive, drawing ever upward.

If you were aching before, you now crave him with devastating force. You want to moan, but some deeply rooted instinct within you still tries to clip the sounds in your throat, sharply aware of your audience. Unbidden, your eyes drift to Celebrimbor. His are glued to the spot where Annatar’s lips meet the soft flesh of your thigh, his lips slightly parted in silent desire, and his fingers digging into his own thigh as he no doubt withholds from seeking his own relief. You shudder with a sudden burst of bashfulness... but also the thrill of it. Of behaving yourself in such a scandalous manner, leaving all thoughts of propriety aside and wearing your pleasure on display.

Lifting his head from your leg, barely a few inches from where you need him most, Annatar gives Celebrimbor an encouraging look. “Go on, then,” he instructs, much like he had done when coaxing you into resuming your drawing whilst impaled on his length. Celebrimbor’s throat bobs with what looks to be a painful swallow, but he does as he is asked and picks the object of his labour back up.

Satisfied, Annatar aims a wolfish smile at you, then works to free you of the only fabric covering your wetness. Once he has pulled it down your legs and tucked it safely within his own robes, leaving you quivering in anticipation as the cool air meets your soaked center, he parts your legs once more and looks up at you.

“Would you be so kind,” he says, caressing your thighs, “as to share with Lord Celebrimbor exactly what transpired between us upon our past encounter? From beginning to end. In as much detail as your sensibility allows.”

He says it with as much ease as he would request that you bring Lord Celebrimbor some tea. You’d scoff at the absurdity, at the word ‘sensibility’, if not for his thumb, which begins to massage your clit with small, slow circles as he awaits your compliance. You are helpless to do anything but whimper as you nod, and will yourself to speak through stifled sounds of pleasure as your swollen bud sings beneath his touch.

“Lord Annatar... he touched me,” you begin, egged on by his approving gaze. You can hardly make the story sound as coherent or vivid as it felt at the time, but you do your best to at least remember the sequence of events. “First, he massaged my shoulders. Then, he traced his fingers along my cheek and... my hair... and then he... touched the tip of my ear. Tugged at it with his fingers. I-I was surprised, but... I let him, because it felt... so good.”

The word melts into a moan, for Annatar has replaced his finger with his lips, pressing them gently to your clit before giving it a firm lick. All inhibitions set aside, you lay your hand on Annatar’s head and hook your fingers into the bow at the back of it, marvelling at the softness of his tresses. He raises his eyes to yours as he continues to kiss you between your legs, and by the Valar, he is the most divine sight you have ever laid eyes upon.

“What then?” Celebrimbor asks, nearly as breathless as you feel. When you glance at him, his eyes are painstakingly glued to his work, obeying Annatar’s command. The Lord of Gifts gives your thigh a soft pinch, silently instructing you to do the same.

“Then, he kissed my neck,” you go on, in between mewls and little gasps of pleasure as Annatar makes a meal of your most intimate flesh. “And touched my breasts. He kneaded them and... pinched my nipples through my dress.” Almost absent-mindedly, your own hand which isn’t in Annatar’s hair does the very same now, overwhelmed by the combined elation his mouth offers at present and the memory you are recounting out loud. “Then... his hand went lower and... touched my— between my legs.” You avoid the word, and immediately find it laughable. Annatar’s face is buried in your cunt right now, so close to Celebrimbor that he can no doubt hear the wet sounds of his tongue lapping at your folds—why on Middle-Earth would you shy away from something as harmless as a mere word now?

As if to further emphasize that point, Annatar’s kisses turn more vigorous, and he slips a long finger past your entrance, adding to the squelch. You gasp and tighten your grip on his hair, writhing on the table.

“Then, he stopped,” you go on, and your voice might as well be one continuous, obscene whine. “Told me to stand, and sat in my chair instead. And then... I sat in his lap... with my back to him... with him inside of me.” You mewl as he slips in a second finger, and begins to curl them into your sweetest spots with ravaging precision. “And it felt so good... and I wanted to move so badly... but he said I was to finish the designs first... and I trusted him... so I obeyed. When I had him in me... I could finally let go and just... create.”

He groans into your cunt, and you quake with the overwhelming sensations. It’s too much, how he sucks your clit into the heat of his mouth, how his fingers put relentless and heavenly pressure to the parts within you where it most wrecks you to feel it. Your already breathy voice grows in pitch, littered with desperate mewls as you pant and writhe your way to your peak.

“Once I finished, he lifted me from the chair... and into his arms... and he took me against a wall... hard and deep... until, finally... finally... My lord!”

You grip his hair mercilessly as you clench around his fingers, lost to an onslaught of pleasure that leaves you gasping and panting without shame. Annatar laps at your folds all the way through it, until your hips begin to twitch with too much sensation to bear.

“Until, finally,” Annatar continues, calm and composed as he rises to his feet, “she found her well-earned release.” He cups your cheek, admiring your pleasure-dazed expression with a blend of pride and hunger as you lean into his touch. “And looked as splendid as her creations whilst she clenched around my cock.”

He kisses you, and you moan as you taste yourself on his tongue. You feel so light and so wonderfully tired, all you want is to fall into his arms, rest your head upon his shoulder and close your eyes. So you do, breaking away from his lips to melt into his embrace, where he welcomes you with utmost tenderness.

“She does,” Celebrimbor agrees. You open your eyes to find his gaze has strayed toward you after all, and is filled with a soft kind of awe. “You do. Together.”

Annatar coaxes you to part from him with care, and a pleased smile graces his lips as he looks down at Celebrimbor’s hand.

“As does the fruit of your labours.”

You notice then, too—Celebrimbor now holds a finished, most exquisite Ring.

“I suppose I have begun to understand what you meant by... surrendering,” he admits, contemplating the precious jewel before he sets it carefully into one of the nine ring holders on the table. He knits his brow, somewhat nervous as he turns to Annatar. “Am I to finish all the rest before...?”

“That would be rather cruel, would it not?” Annatar says indulgently. “To craft none rings is more time-consuming than to draw them, after all. Stand, Celebrimbor.”

Hope sparks in the smith’s eyes as he obeys. Annatar rearranges your dress, allowing it to fall over your legs once more, and leaves a tender caress on your cheek before he turns to Celebrimbor.

You are not sure what you’re meant to do, but you don’t feel strong enough to stand yet either way. It’s almost as though you’re peering through the crack in the door again as, without further teasing, Annatar parts Celebrimbor’s robes and unfastens his trousers, releasing the hard and swollen flesh beneath to the air as well as your sight. It’s strange to think you and the Lord of Eregion have now officially seen each other’s private parts not only bared, but also evident with arousal. Celebrimbor is already weeping at the tip as Annatar wraps his elegant fingers around his cock and gives it a tug.

“Oh, my friend,” he coos, cupping Celebrimbor’s cheek. The smith whines softly, leaning into his touch. “How you must be aching.”

Celebrimbor nods, beyond words as Annatar begins to stroke his cock. The Lord of Gifts claims his mouth, and the smith clings to his shoulders desperately. You remember how it felt, to have gone so long without release and finally have the promise of it within reach. Arousal stirs anew within you, as though it had not been thunderously relieved barely a minute before.

At the same time, however, you are beginning to feel quite out of place as the kiss unfolding before your eyes grows deeper, more intense, Annatar’s tongue dominating Celebrimbor’s. His movements are still teasingly slow, despite the promise that he would finally relieve Celebrimbor’s suffering, and the more self-conscious part of your mind is beginning to wonder whether you are not hindering Annatar’s plans, somehow.

“Should I...?” you say, hesitating to interrupt. “Would you prefer if I left you to...?”

“No, please,” Celebrimbor blurts out, breaking the kiss and flushing as he meets your eyes. Remembering himself and to whom he must submit, he turns to Annatar, and somewhat bashfully asks, “Would it be all right if she stayed?”

Annatar nods, pleased by his deference. “If that is her wish.”

They both look to you then, awaiting your response—Celebrimbor with hope, Annatar with patience, and perhaps a tinge of expectation. You nod, a welcome one for all three of you. Now that you have become a part of this creative process, you wish to see it through to the end, whenever Annatar deems that may be.

“Good,” Annatar smiles. “There are eight more Rings to be crafted, after all.”

The implication thrills you to the core. Only the first of the Nine is finished, and it had mostly been completed by the time you had joined Annatar and Celebrimbor in the forge. How many more sensuous games will the emissary of the Valar invent until all the Rings are finished? In how many ways will he have you unravel, mind and body? The creamy sensation between your legs grows ever more persistent as you realize Annatar is unlikely to let it recede any time soon.

Under your gaze, Annatar returns his attentions to Celebrimbor’s neck, nipping and sucking at his skin in rhythm with his still-languid strokes. Celebrimbor says your name, practically moans it, and he wears a deep frown as he looks at you, half from pleasure and half from guilt.

“I do not wish for you to think that...” he falters when Annatar’s teeth find his ear, “in all our time together, I was harbouring improper thoughts towards you...”

“It’s quite all right, my lord,” you reassure him, watching as Annatar’s thumb gathers the bead of arousal blooming at his tip before you give him a fond smile. “There were many things I did not understand about myself and the act of creation, until Lord Annatar helped me to discover them. There is no shame in sharing in such knowledge. I do not think so,” you add, a bit more quietly. If one of the other smiths were to go against Celebrimbor’s wishes for some reason and come inside the forge now, surely they would scorn the three of you for engaging in such apparent depravity together. But you are equally sure that Annatar would help them understand the importance of your endeavours, just as he had you and Celebrimbor.

Annatar pulls away from Celebrimbor’s neck, caressing his cheek as he wears an adoring smile with which he then graces you as well as he speaks. “It brings me such joy,” he says, “to see the greatest of Elven smiths working in such harmony. Learning from one another.”

“We learned from you, my friend,” Celebrimbor is quick to return the praise. “We have you to thank for everything.”

“Let us say that we should thank one another,” Annatar insists. And as if in his own gratitude, he kneels before Celebrimbor, though he does so in that same manner he did with you before, without losing an ounce of the authority he commands. If anything, having his gaze meet yours from below has a way of making you feel as though you are standing on a precipice, dangerously close to toppling into the abyss, and he is all that keeps you upright still. Celebrimbor certainly seems to share that sentiment, his fingers brushing Annatar’s smooth cheek with deep reverence, as if he barely dares to touch such beauty.

Annatar begins with small kisses peppered to Celebrimbor’s cock, tongue darting out ever so teasingly to flick against the straining length and sensitive tip. The pleading sound that escapes the smith’s throat combined with the sight has you crossing your legs where you are still sitting on the table, to better press your thighs together.

“Oh, by the Valar,” Celebrimbor rasps out as his length is all at once engulfed in Annatar’s mouth, not a trace of discomfort on his face as the smith’s cock sinks deep into his throat.

“Lord Annatar,” you breathe out, unable to contain yourself any longer, “may I touch myself?”

You expect—hope—to be given a hum of approval, the rumble of which in Annatar’s throat will surely prevent Celebrimbor from begrudging you this small interruption. But Annatar releases the smith’s cock abruptly, pulling a strained groan from him.

“You shall take your pleasure when I see fit,” he replies before returning to his task. His voice is soft, yet the command in it is clear. It only serves to highten your arousal. And really, you should not interfere with Celebrimbor’s long-awaited pleasure again, but you fear the wooden table might begin to splinter within your white-knuckled grip unless you do something.

“May I touch you, then?” you entreat.

This time, when Annatar frees his mouth, a mischievous smile is tugging at its corners. “So long as you do not interfere with my task,” he says, looking up at the trembling smith before him. “Our dear Celebrimbor might be quite upset if you do.”

Celebrimbor caresses Annatar’s hair, giving a slight shake of his head. “I shall gladly take whatever I am given.”

You, on the other hand, waste no time to take that which you have asked for and were generously granted. You leave your seat to go and kneel behind Annatar, humming with delight as your fingers caress the soft strands of his beautiful, long hair. You brush it to the side to reveal his neck, and begin to leave your own kisses there, laving the skin between his jaw and shoulder with affection as he bobs his head while sucking Celebrimbor.

How ironic that he should warn you about interfering with his task, for a change. But even now, you seem to be the one in more difficulty as you reach around his waist, seeking to gain access to the part of him you have been missing inside you for every second since your last joining had ended. It’s an awkward position, with him kneeling and you trying to work through the layers of his clothing from behind, and however you try, you cannot seem to figure out how to even part his robe enough to reach the fastening of the trousers beneath.

He groans impatiently, and you soon find out why—when, in a few swift movements and shuffles of fabric, he frees himself from their confines and takes your hand to wrap it around his cock. He is hard and eager, practically pulsing with need within your grip, and you are reminded that to offer you these gifts requires his own sacrifice, his own desire going unfulfilled.

His hands return to Celebrimbor whilst yours remains on his cock, and you marvel at the heat and firmness of him in your grip as you begin to stroke it. He is leaking generously at the tip, and you smear the wetness along his length as you hasten your pace, and you moan as though the ridges of him are catching on your inner walls instead of the palm of your hand as your cunt aches helplessly.

But you focus solely on him. Your lips travel up the curve of his neck, trying to adjust to the movements of his head as you lick a stripe up his ear, and catch the pointed tip between your teeth as you had been longing to for so long. He groans, a low, hoarse sound that must scrape against Celebrimbor’s cock oh so wonderfully. Or torturously, if the smith’s broken whimper is any indication. With Annatar, it tends to be a blend of both.

It isn’t a coincidence, you think, but rather Annatar’s perfectly controlled timing, when they both find their end at once. It’s plain to see, from the way Celebrimbor bucks forward with a sob of relief, that he is spilling inside Annatar’s mouth, who keeps it firmly closed around him, receiving every drop—whilst Annatar’s own hips give a tense jerk and he throbs in your hand, some of his spend landing on Celebrimbor’s pant leg and some dribbling down your fingers.

It’s nearly enough to have you coming yourself. Alas, you clench around the emptiness within you, gently stroking Annatar until he pulls away from both of you. Releasing Celebrimbor’s spent cock and removing your hand from his own length, he rises from the ground, poised as ever, leaving the smith stumbling back into his seat and you panting on your knees. It isn’t long, though, before Annatar’s hand is held out within the line of your sight, and you raise your eyes to find him looking down at you like a blessing sent to be your salvation—which he, in fact, is.

“Come, now,” he urges tenderly. “The floor is hardly the place for an Elf of your talents. And generosity.”

Touched by his compliments as always, you place your hand in his and let him pull you to your unsteady feet. Though he praises your generosity, the result of it hardly shows—his cock still appears to be as furiously rigid as ever, and you frown slightly as it catches your gaze.

“Have I not satisfied you well enough, my lord?” you ask, barely a whisper. He lifts your chin, having your gaze meet his.

“You have satisfied me wonderfully,” he reassures you. “However, I shall not be truly finished until I will it so. And we still have long hours of toil ahead of us. Do we not, Celebrimbor?”

The smith gives a small chuckle. He had tucked himself away, and is now leaning on the table, resting his chin on his fist as he looks at you and Annatar with a hazy gaze.

“I am afraid I do not possess your prowess, my godly friend. It shall be a little while before I am able to endure such wonderful torment again.”

“How fortunate, then,” Annatar says, “that our dear friend is willing to share in your burden.”

You think you would share in any burden he might ask you to, so long as he kisses you all through it the same as he does now. His tongue plunges past your lips, and your eyebrows raise slightly as you realize both that the musky taste you feel is Celebrimbor’s spend, and that he must have felt your taste as well when Annatar had kissed him after feasting on you.

You are tempted to reach for Annatar’s length again as you feel its inviting weight on your belly, but then his arms surround you and you are being swept in his embrace effortlessly. You wrap yourself around him as he carries you back to the chair right beside Celebrimbor’s, sitting down with you astride him. He makes quick work of lifting your dress to expose you to him once more. Nothing would have made you happier. The moment you are able to, you cant your hips so that your moist folds caress his cock, moaning softly as your clit catches on the tip of him.

Annatar murmurs your name, gaze trained on your mouth as he traces your slightly parted lips with his thumb, “So needy,” he muses. “You neglected to mention, when you told our little story, how you came undone with barely a few grazes of my fingers, right before I took you fully.” He leans into your ear, “Should we see if we can achieve that once more?”

He grips your hips, preventing you from seeking friction much like he did the last time you had been seated in his lap. But at least then, you were achingly full instead of empty.

“Please,” you whimper, pulling away so he may see the plea within your eyes as well. “I’ve missed you inside me. So much.”

Annatar regards you tenderly, as though genuinely touched by your sentiment.

“Very well, then,” he says, running his knuckles down your cheek. “When I next bring you to the height of your pleasure, it shall be whilst we are most intimately joined.”

Your eyelids flutter shut in relief, and you turn your head to press a kiss to the palm of his hand.

“Whether that is to be now, however…”

You open your eyes to find a now familiar glint of mischief in his.

“Celebrimbor.” He turns his gaze to the smith, who seems quite surprised to be addressed in the midst of your exchange. “If you were to choose,” Annatar begins, voice honeyed with promise, “would you like me to keep you full while you work... or to hear me fill her?”

Your heart all but stills in your chest. It was one thing to put yourself at Annatar’s mercy, but for him to have Celebrimbor decide your fate is a turn you had not expected. Perhaps it is only the illusion of control which he offers, a choice he asks Celebrimbor to make only for him to do the opposite instead. Either way, it’s a new flavour of the same addictive torment you have known at his hands, and your heartbeat practically echoes between your legs as you await Celebrimbor’s answer.

For his part, the smith seems at an utter loss. He meets Annatar’s expectant gaze, then your pleading one. “Both,” he confesses in the end. “Only... might you see to her first? I am quite sated for the moment, and she…” His eyes drop to your glistening folds. “Oh my dearest, look how wet you are.”

He forgets himself for a moment, resting his hand on your thigh. It’s nice and warm upon your already heated skin, but tenses when Celebrimbor notices Annatar eyeing it with a slightly raised eyebrow. Realizing he had failed to ask for permission, the smith bows his head in apology and begins to retreat.

Annatar, however, lays a hand upon his, keeping it pressed to your skin. He must have deemed, in the end, that the touch was tentative enough to count as a plea for more rather than a claim to it. He meets your gaze with a searching look and, finding nothing but the heat of anticipation there, he slides Celebrimbor’s hand further up your thigh, guiding it to the aching flesh between your legs.

A breath escapes Celebrimbor as he feels you intimately. Annatar ensures the tips of the smith’s fingers find your bundle of nerves, and guides them into circling it with torturous slowness before leaving him to carry on with the touch on his own. Your eyes fall shut, relishing the stimulation even as it worsens the emptiness you feel within.

“Wet indeed, is she not?” Annatar murmurs. Celebrimbor nods, unable to look away from the sight of your flesh beneath his fingers. You’ve never had two pairs of eyes trained on your exposed sex, drinking it in at the same time, and the rush brought by that fact alone pulls a whimper from you. Celebrimbor’s pace increases slightly as your hips chase his touch, but Annatar puts a tempering hand to his. “Not too much,” he instructs. “Not yet.”

Looking down, the sight you find is most frustrating. Annatar’s cock is so close, lying rigid and eager right before your core, yet your cunt weeps helplessly under much too tame a touch. You feel like you might cry if you don’t get to come soon, but you remind yourself to breathe and leave yourself to Annatar’s care, knowing his ways will leave you more fulfilled in the end than what you think you need in the heat of passion.

To your partial relief, Annatar takes himself in hand, teasing the tip of his cock at your entrance, below Celebrimbor’s fingers. He leans closer, as though he means to kiss your cheek, but before his lips touch your skin, he gives Celebrimbor a meaningful look, tapping a suggestive finger to the side of your neck closest to him. Here.

Celebrimbor’s eyes brighten with understanding and eagerness. They both lean in, and then there are two sets of lips, two tongues, wet and warm and soft on the sensitive skin between your neck and both shoulders at once. All whilst Celebrimbor caresses your clit, and Annatar soaks his cockhead through your folds, and you moan as you tremble under their combined attentions.

Then, all at once and at long last, Annatar tightens his hold around your waist, and pulls you onto him. You gasp and mewl, your hand flying to grip Celebrimbor’s sleeve as you are finally filled to the brim. Celebrimbor pulls away from your neck to look down, a shuddering breath escaping him at the sight of Annatar’s flesh engulfed by yours. His fingers falter on your clit.

“Tell me,” Annatar murmurs in your ear, “is our friend still ‘quite sated’?”

You lock eyes with Celebrimbor, then lower them to his crotch. He opens his legs slightly as you reach out to return his intimate touch, and groans as you feel the renewed hardness between them.

“He is hard, my lord,” you reply, breathless, as Annatar retreats from you enough to watch you fondle Celebrimbor through his clothes for himself. You would like to relieve him, and you wish to begin riding the cock within you more than anything, but you know better than to do either before Annatar has allowed it. Your brow knits in apology as you remove your hand from Celebrimbor. He catches it in his, though he doesn’t return it to where he aches most.

“Please,” he breathes out, gaze shifting between you and Annatar. “Would you...? Could she...? If only for a while?”

Annatar smiles, wickedly. “We’ll see later if she feels inclined to return your generosity. For now, Celebrimbor,” he gently removes the smith’s hand from where it was still working slowly between your legs, “I believe the skills of your fingers are needed elsewhere.”

Celebrimbor deflates somewhat, releasing your hand. But he is no longer a stranger to this game, nor does he question Annatar’s judgment. “Yes,” he agrees, shifting in his chair to face the table. “Yes, of course.”

“Excellent,” Annatar praises, his voice coated in the sweetest honey. “As for you…” He takes hold of your chin, turning your head so you meet his gaze. “You may take your pleasure. Once. Then, you shall lend your talents to the making of the Rings, along with our friend. Under my instruction,” he adds with the kind of gentle firmness only he can manage. You nod at once.

“Yes, Lord Annatar,” you promise breathlessly, already beginning to fuck yourself onto him. “Oh, thank you.”

He takes on a most humble expression, though you are too busy seeking the right angle at which to ride his cock to notice his carefully crafted façade. “The pleasure is entirely mine.”

It truly is—for your pleasure, as well as Celebrimbor’s, belongs to him. The smith performs his craft with a faint smile as he listens to your pretty moans, his mind no longer muddled by the toils of the past weeks, both of you trusting blindly in your beloved emissary. And your sweet surrender to his will shall bleed into the Rings through the fingertips with which you bring them into being, and bind them to their Lord all the more closely.

He claims your mouth, your moans melting on his tongue as his cock throbs in pleasure with each eager roll of your hips—and creation has never tested sweeter, indeed.

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