Note: You don’t want to know how long this has been hibernating in my drawer. Well, who do you think will seize the chance of this trope and get that long-awaited kiss? Bets can be placed in the comments, hehe
Pairing: TROP Elves x reader (gender neutral)
Characters: Elrond, Galadriel, Gil-Galad, Celebrimbor, Annatar, Adar
Word count: 4.1k
Warnings: Injuries and references to memory loss (Adar), being locked in a confined space (Celebrimbor, Galadriel), blood (Annatar), idiots, longing, clichés, reader is implied to be an elf (with longer hair) in some parts
How well TROP Elves would handle forced proximity ranked from worst to best
Annatar ⟡ hiding in a nook
Among all the creatures roaming Middle-earth, feared for their bloodlust, Sauron proved to be by far the most cunning hunter. While wolves formed packs to corner their prey, chasing it to death until they could sink their teeth into its throat and hawks shot down from the sky like lightning before their target could notice them or flee, Sauron preferred a more refined strategy. His prey was chosen with forethought, and every step observed until a pattern revealed itself to him, a pattern he could then sculpt to his liking. He arranged the circumstances thoroughly, sowing doubt to lure them into his snare, convinced it was their own decision.
Sauron had no need for claws or fangs, instead slipping into the minds of his victims, tearing them apart from within, and they thanked him for it. But though he hid behind a veil of deception, he understood that it was never truly an act of free volition. No deer would willingly place its neck in the jaws of a wolf, knowing that it sought blood.
Until today.
As he strode through Eregion that evening, a deer unexpectedly leapt before his feet, a game he never intended to hunt. Clatter of metal pierced the darkness, heavy boots thundering over stone, calls echoing through the night sky. Two guards rushed past Annatar, their drawn swords prison bars meant to constrain a fugitive thief who had just escaped from the hall of records. A thief who was clearly skilled enough to evade the noisy guards, heading straight toward a far more dangerous hunter.
Some strands of your tied-back hair had come loose, your ink-stained fingers clutching a few scrolls. As you ran, you glanced back over your shoulder, making sure you had shaken off your pursuers. A fatal mistake, because in that brief moment, Annatar got hold of your collar, pulling you to a sudden halt. Your gazes crossed, yours filled with fright, his calculating.
Annatar did not recognize you, so you were probably no one whose secret he could use as leverage if he let you go now. It was more useful to hand you over to the guards, further strengthening his reputation as Eregion's diligent servant. But just when he was about to call them back, something strange happened: you overpowered him.
In one swift motion, you freed yourself from his grip, shoved him back behind a wall, covering his mouth. One hand pressed against his lips, the other clutching your scrolls. The act occurred so unexpected that he simply let it happen.
You shot Annatar a determined look, the fear now vanished from your eyes. In a hissing whisper, you explained that the scrolls contained construction plans you had developed, a project unjustly confiscated from you, which you planned to present to Lord Celebrimbor personally.
A quest for justice. A renegade master builder. An elf who dared to threaten Sauron himself. Now you had piqued his curiosity, ignited a spark. He granted you this transgression, even though he could not yet deduce any benefit from it, amused by your demeanor and surprised by the turn this interaction had taken.
Footsteps approached from the other side, two guards patrolling the square. You pressed yourself closer to Annatar, attempting to blend into the shadow of the wall, your breath brushing his neck. The warmth of your hand burned his lips, and he was overcome by the urge to sink his teeth into its flesh, licking the hot blood clean off. Why had he not noticed you before? He studied your profile, the rapid rise and fall of your chest, like a startled deer. Yet your gaze calmly observed the surroundings, like a wolf on the hunt.
During the following days, this scene kept flaring up in his mind, the memory of your warmth burning his skin. You received your audience with Lord Celebrimbor, and your project was returned to you. Annatar had made sure of it, now being able to supervise its construction and draw you closer into his sphere. The surprise on your face when you realized who your nighttime encounter had been seeped into him like sweet wine. How you shifted under his gaze, shy with embarrassment. He could not take his eyes off you, and why should he? After all, you had run into his arms willingly.
1/10: The fleeting nature of this encounter only fuels his obsession
Celebrimbor ⟡ locked out on a balcony
The dancing evening breeze carried sounds of cheerful music, clinking glasses, and laughter high into the sky. It swirled around Celebrimbor, who was watching the colorful bustle of Nost-na-Lothion far below him from the small balcony of his workshop. He flinched when your voice rang out behind him and his heart skipped a beat at the sight of you, your dress swaying as you approached him through the empty workshop, two glasses of wine in your hands.
The last time he had seen you, you had been in the arms of an entirely unfamiliar elf - a circumstance which had seemingly not diminished your delight for the dance you had shared. He was uncomfortable with you seeing him like this, a Lord hiding from his own feast, not to mention his feelings.
Under your watchful gaze, a heat crept under his skin, so he picked up a glass and swiftly downed some of the sweet wine, trying not to dwell on why he always felt as if he were standing in the flames of his forge whenever in your presence.
A few petals from the flowers adorning your hair in honor of the festivities sought to sway along with the music beneath you and got caught among some loose strands in the attempt. The urge to gently brush them out of your hair was almost impossible to resist. Celebrimbors fingers fidgeted along the rim of his glass, seeking a distraction, and finding it in the question of what had moved you to leave your dance partner behind.
Your mouth opened to reply just as a violent gust of wind rushed through the open workshop door and slammed the balcony door shut. The loud sound struck you like lightning. Instinctively, you grabbed Celebrimbor’s arm, his glass slipped from his grasp, shattering on the floor. Celebrimbor stammered an apology as you pressed against the door, both of you rushing to hide the flush spreading across your faces.
To your surprise, the wood did not yield. The bolt had slammed shut from the impact, locking the door from the inside. Celebrimbor possessed the strength and technical skill one would expect from a smith of his reputation, yet even he could accomplish nothing against the simple lock mechanism from the outside. Calling for help seemded hopeless as well, due to the height of the balcony and the festive commotion. There was nothing left for you to do but drink the remaining wine and wait.
A scenario that appeared to have been deliberately constructed by the Valar solely to torment Celebrimbor. He was not averse to sharing the last wine with you, but the implication of pressing his lips to the same glass that had touched yours made him hesitate. It felt too akin to the intimacy of a kiss. Not that he recoiled from the thought of kissing you. Quite the opposite.
He tried to let himself be carried along by the flow of your engaging conversation as usual, but that proved to be a far more challenging feat when you were this near, and, to make matters worse, were crowned with delicate blossoms and silver moonlight. It illuminated you so brightly he could study the color of your Iris. For years, Celebrimbor had searched for the gemstone that could best capture its brilliance, but now, for the first time, he was close enough to take in their color in every facet.
His gaze drifted from your eyes to your lips just as you leaned forward slightly, and, seemingly absentmindedly, plucked one of your stray petals that had found its way into his hair, as you spoke. Your story faltered, you looked up at him, the gemstone of your iris, which Celebrimbor had finally recognized, shimmering. The empty wine glass rested abandoned on the balustrade, the imprint of your lips long since cold. If he tilted forward just a fraction, he could truly taste their warmth.
He wanted to taste them.
Terrified by his own thoughts, Celebrimbor flinched back at once and was saved just then by a voice from outside. A guard had discovered the open workshop and had entered to inspect it. Surprise was written all over his face when he found none other than the Lord of Eregion and his herald trapped on the balcony. His discovery left the young guard so taken aback that he completely failed to notice his lord’s troubled state.
In the months following Nost-na-Lothion, Mirdania would be left wondering why her master exclusively would use one particular gemstone for his work.
2/10: Out of insecurity, he misses the perfect opportunity for a first kiss
Adar ⟡ receiving medical care
He can not recall how he got here, but when Adar awakens, he is lying on a mat woven from reeds and ferns. The blurry outlines of a weathered wooden shack become sharper, the smell of fire catches his attention, rain drips onto the roof above him. It takes Adar a moment to gain his orientation in this unfamiliar environment. His skull feels as if someone had split it open with an axe, and judging by the various injuries and pain throughout his body, someone had attempted to do just that.
No surprise that his weary mind immediately suspects you once you step into the shack and his line of sight. He feels more vulnerable without his breastplate; instinctively reaching for the nearest sharp object to defend himself. But you don’t even flinch, you just stand there with the bundle of wood in your arms, looking down at him. Your eyes are tired, deep shadows adorn their undersides, a bandage decorates your thigh, and only now does Adar notice that you, too, appear to be injured.
You command him to lie down, for if you wanted him dead, you could have spared yourself the trouble of stopping his bleeding, bandaging him, and brewing that reeking herbal tincture for his fever. It takes some time for him to grasp the meaning of your words, but when you order him to keep still so you can change the bandage on a particularly gruesome flesh wound on his arm, he begins to understand.
The reasoning behind your aid sounds rational. The Uruks place all their trust and loyalty in him alone. Adar is a means of keeping them under control, a predictable variable and a potential temporary ally in the war against Sauron. Without him, the horde of his children would dissolve into an uncontrollable mass, another fire burning the Elves' strained resources.
Your explanation and the earnesty of your efforts to keep him alive appease Adar's mistrust for the time being. It is a strange arrangement: you cook, maintain the fire, brew ointments, tend to his wounds and your own, while he can only observe your every move with masked suspicion. The gentleness of your touch, the care with which you treat him, is unfamiliar - not solely due to your previous interactions. He is the one who provides for others, ensuring his children have food and shelter, never the other way around.
By the fourth day, relief outweighs his alertness when you return from gathering in the forest. You still keep his weapons hidden beyond his reach, but you don’t carry any yourself - a concession, the visible proof of your temporary partnership. Adar tries to repay some of the debt he is accumulating by sharing his herbal knowledge with you, where to find the right plants, which mixtures hasten wound healing, calm inflammation. He still feels unease when you touch him, your beautiful hands against his scarred skin, but it is no longer rooted in the fear you might seek to harm him.
The quiet care you bestow upon him, no matter how conditional it may be, is slowly consuming him. He knows you, or at least, he once thought he did. The enemy who crossed his sword, he knew. But the elf who stays by his side day and night, wiping his forehead with a damp cloth or serving him warm soup - that tender person, he does not know. It throws him off balance, gnaws at him in the night when you sleep beside him. A faint feeling deep inside his chest, a whisper he tries to shut out, telling him that no matter how you two part ways from here on out, he can no longer face you the same way he did before.
4/10: He does not know how to deal with this kind of affection, the hidden longing for it unsettles him deeply
Gil-Galad ⟡ being taught a craft
When his herald delivered your message, Gil-Galad considered it a jest. But by the time he stood in the doorway of Lindon's palace kitchen - a figure framed in gold by the midday sun, completely out of place in this workspace - he gave credence to Elrond's words. Even though his eyes still hesitated to accept the scene presented to them. Your jewelry rested safely on a wooden tray behind you, hair tied back, a simple apron covering your formal court attire, your hands buried in a bowl of dough. Unbelievable.
With a brief wave of his hand, the High King dismissed everyone else, guards and kitchen staff alike. He could not resist raising an eyebrow, displaying his scepticism, as he approached the cooking station to inspect your culinary skills. You merely responded with a knowing smile when he inquired the purpose of this decidedly...humble activity. Although it was you who had summoned him – which in itself would be considered impudent – you made no effort to follow courtly protocol by greeting him with a bow or otherwise honoring his presence by pausing your work.
Such formalities were not required when you were alone, privacy granted your friendship precedence over your ranks. Secretly, Gil-Galad enjoyed your casual manner toward him, although he would never gift you the satisfaction of displaying his fondness outwardly.
As you continued to work through the dough with firm movements, you explained this unusual choice of meeting place. It was not the first time that you had taken refuge in the kitchen in order to sort your thoughts. As your hands shaped the dough, your mind shaped thoughts, the steady motion grounding you. Sometimes the answer was not buried in stacks of scrolls gathered by Lord Elrond, but in the silence and warmth of bread rising in the oven.
Naturally, you had to punish Gil-Galad’s doubtful gaze and lofty tone with a demonstration. Before he knew it, he found himself facing another bowl of sticky mass, while you tied an apron behind his back. This was certainly not how he had imagined the strategy meeting with his advisor. Putting on an indifferent expression, he swallowed the nervousness that crept up as you carefully removed his rings and placed them beside yours.
His first movements were awkward, clearly the attempts of an elf who only ever encountered food when it was elegantly arranged and placed before him by servants. So you stepped in to guide him, an act Gil-Galad submitted to with dignity, despite his heart nearly leaping from his chest whenever your hands brushed his. He almost breathed a sigh of relief when you withdrew to continue kneading your own dough. You were mistaken, this activity did nothing to calm his troubled spirit.
But after a while, the tension in his shoulders eased a little. Warmth from the oven seeped into his tired bones, the scent of herbs and charcoal filled the air, soothing his senses. By the time you took the fresh loaves out of the oven, a solution for every matter on your meeting agenda had been found. As always, you had been right. It was grounding to create something with one's own hands, something with a tangible outcome. Not merely abstract commands and plans, the consequences of which weighed solely on his head.
He expressed his reluctant gratitude to you as you savored the still-warm bread with a few figs and wine, a knowing grin playing across your face. The golden midday sun streaming into the kitchen cast a soft glow around you, presumably the reason for the warmth spreading from Gil-Galad’s core throughout his entire body. Or so he assured himself.
6/10: He’s still too caught up in his own head to fully savor the moment and will find himself yearning to return there weeks later without admitting the reason why
Elrond ⟡ taking shelter during rain
t was supposed to be nothing more than a brief ride to the Grey Havens, but within the first third of the journey, delicate raindrops kissed Elrond's hair, turning into a dense veil of pearling water by the halfway point. The saddles' leather grew slippery, and the view across the open meadow was obscured by a fog so thick that even the sharp elven eyes could barely tell west from east. Only a fool would insist on riding on under such conditions, and Elrond Half-elven was many things, but certainly no fool.
As soon as a tree with a mighty crown came into view, Elrond signaled for you to halt there and seek shelter. Breathing heavy, you dismounted the horses. As if the sudden downpour was not trouble enough, the High King had chosen you, of all elves, to accompany Elrond. It should have been expected - the success of your other missions spoke for itself - yet he could not help but question whether Gil-Galad was abusing his authority to torment him beyond necessity.
White wisps of mist curled around your wet face, your damp clothes clung to your body, outlining every curve, every muscle. Elrond averted his gaze, using the excuse of loosening his horse’s saddle slightly so that the wet leather would not rub against the animal’s coat, in order to hide the blush spreading across his face. You followed his example, checking to see if the scrolls in their metal cases had stayed dry. Then you both stood a bit self-conscious under the tree’s canopy, while the horses grazed peacefully on the other side.
Elrond was never at a loss for words, language his sharpest weapon, one he wielded with precision. But under the circumstances - alone with you in such a confined space, soaked to the bone, your clothes leaving less room for the imagination than he was comfortable with - his tongue twisted itself around the words, unable to form a smooth, flowing stream.
You seemed to sense his unease and, perhaps out of pity, perhaps out of affection, you made a joke that lightened the mood a bit. Chuckling, Elrond brushed his damp curls back and carried on discussing the next steps with you. As you spoke, you attempted to tame your windswept and rain-soaked hair into a presentable state as well. A far more challenging task given the length of your braid. You had tidied your hair as best you could, but a few loose strands at the crown of your head escaped your attention. Elrond moved closer before his better judgment could stop him and asked for permission to assist you.
Gently, he untangled the disarray, ignoring his treacherous heart racing. The conversation fell silent, only the soft rain and a cascade of feelings pouring down upon you. Small clouds of steam rose from your breath, intertwining in the close space between your bodies, gazes and unspoken words mingling within.
Slowly, careful not to startle you, Elrond brushed a strand of hair clinging to your forehead back behind your ear. His fingers lingered there, caressing the tender skin of your cheek. He had been mistaken. He was a fool after all, for only a fool would be so reckless to do what followed.
Hesitant, giving you enough time to pull away, he leaned in toward you, drawn by the irresistible gaze of your eyes tracing his face. The kiss was as light as a feather, merely the gentle touch of your lips, as delicate as the rain that had caressed your skin moments before. You leaned in, and Elrond’s heart struck the first note a melody, so much sweeter than the fading rustle of the water above you.
9/10: He seizes the moment and finds what he longed for, even if it was an impulse
Galadriel ⟡ trapped on a raft
What are dreams if not shadows of the past, tightening their clutches around the lungs and hearts of those they haunt? Galadriel dreaded sleep, for at night she lost command of her mind. It became vulnerable to Sauron, open for him to slip inside and play his cruel games with her. Even after she closed that door and lay down, safe in the knowledge that she had banished him, she did not find the peace she longed for. Her newfound freedom proved to be yet another cage, trapped in experiencing the same dream time and time again. She stood on the raft amid the storm, begging Halbrand - no, Sauron - to bind himself to her. Her greatest regret played out endlessly in her sleep, mocking her.
She could not conceal her unrest and weariness from you, your concern touched her like rain falling on parched flowers. Galadriel hid the contents of her dreams from you, but naturally that did not dissuade you from seeking a way to lighten her burdens. The advice you had given her that day still echoed in her mind as evening fell. She was the master of her dreams. She could shape them to her liking, you had said, and if that failed, you would pray to the Valar, asking to be sent in her dreams.
A silent smile had graced Galadriel's face, touched by affection for your declaration to protect her. But when she eventually lost the battle against fatigue that night, she was once again overcome with fear of what would await her on the other side.
She found herself in the same hell as the previous weeks. The sea was raging, black waves crashing against rotten wood, tossing the raft. Trembling, Galadriel closed her eyes, water sticking to her skin, cold air scratching her lungs. You are the master of your dreams. Your voice echoed through her, a ribbon of delicate light she clung to. She repeated the words in her mind, tracing them with her tongue like a prayer. Forcing herself to breathe deeply, Galadriel steeled herself to hear the words that would follow now.
But Sauron's voice never reached her ear. Galadriel's eyes flew open, her heart beating high in her throat. The image before her had been completely transformed into its opposite. Seawater gently rocked the raft in its arms, warm sun soaking up the cold from her skin. In disbelief, she turned around. Instead of facing her incarnate nightmare, her gaze fell upon your familiar figure, fastening the mast with rope. When you noticed her and paused your work to approach her, she shied away. Galadriel was certain that your lovely form would shatter any moment, revealing the true nature of evil that wore your face in mockery. But her fears remained unfulfilled.
Your eyes gave no sign of malice, only tenderness and worry. You urged her to breathe, affirming that you were with her. Shaky fingers reached out to your face, seeking reassurance. When Galadriel felt the warmth of your hand holding hers, the dam broke. She sank to her knees, letting you hold her in your arms, tears silently escaping her. You held her tight, promising you would not let any harm come to her.
In the following days, this dream returned. Once Galadriel fell asleep, she found herself back on the raft, but instead of Sauron, you were the one awaiting her, speaking to her, holding her in your arms. You bathed in the sun and swam in the sea, sharing laughter and glances, even a kiss one night. The raft was no longer a prison, but a small haven of peace.
10/10: The forced proximity is her sanctuary, her refuge, and her salvation
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part seven of monster fucker may: sauron x f!reader (lord of the rings)
brought to mordor to be used for pleasure, sauron made quick and brutal work of his new and pretty pet — themes: non!con, size difference, exploitation, some plot before it happens, written in the lotr universe so i tried to match the flowery way of writing but it was a challenge so it’s like yes—this is what we’ll have, haha, and he’s not human so it totally counts in this event!! • w.c: 2.5k • on ao3
Your settlement had fallen in a matter of mere hours, and although many had their lives taken in the process, you were spared. Other survivors had been whisked away for various fates; some to feed the countless orcs, others cast into labour. You weren’t entirely sure where you were going, otherwise.
It was all a blur. You caught on briefly, upon one of them growling out, that you could serve well to be a gift for their master. You did not like the implications, for your survival felt more like a punishment than a reward.
And eventually, the dirt road faded into polished stone, and the trees and fire and smoke turned into lavish halls greater than anything your sheltered eyes had ever seen. Whoever met you next, in progression, was tall and clad in shadow, and though there was no crown resting upon his brow, the way in which he carried himself with command felt natural. In the firelight, his face seemed surprisingly fair, but not in a manner that would be comforting. His beauty was ancient and terrible; his eyes bright, perhaps, although far from merciful.
He blinked at you just once, his lips curving faintly.
“A human”, he spoke, his voice laced with malice. “Is this truly all they have brought before me?”
Your stomach tightened from the way he spoke, and dread anchored somewhere deeper in your gut as you started to understand who you were facing. Rumours of a dark lord had spread through every corner and village and town and wherever else. You understood only on the surface level what a maiar could even be. A god before the world was old, but surely not. The only version you understood was from bedtime stories, from when you were small.
He then moved closer, his footsteps barely making a sound. He did not raise his voice, nor did he seem keen to hurt you—yet—though the grand space seemed to grow smaller, somehow.
“Are you aware of your circumstances?” he asked once, almost casually. It felt as if he were testing you, or no, rather, teasing you. Mocking you for the inevitable that awaited you.
You nodded quietly, not daring to speak. Not able to.
At your submission, his gaze sharpened instead of softened.
“Good,” he concluded after a moment had passed. “You know well to fear me. You should.”
He let the silence hang for the moment, as if savouring the dread that had surfaced between you both. “Men are brief and eager and easily broken, flattering themselves with notions of worth as if they are made to be knelt before,” he continued, his golden eyes remaining fixed on you as he circled your trembling form. “You are frail by nature. Fleeting. A lesser thing.”
You swallowed hard.
“Though you have a use,” he caught. “You are untouched despite appearing shapely.”
An even heavier gulp travelled down your throat as you understood the implication of his words, recognising why you weren’t turned into edible fodder or forced into labour like the rest of those who had remained. A surge of fear passed through you at that. For whom was he reserving you? The orcs? Surely—gods no—not that. You would rather take death! You would rather be reduced to nothing than to be used and discarded.
Still, some weary part of you had yielded, despite your thoughts.
“I-I… I understand,” you finally managed, your voice barely audible.
He regarded your surrender for a moment longer, then urged you closer, testing your behaviour perhaps, or rather, how much he could bring himself to tolerate you.
“Come,” he encouraged, his tone firm.
He snapped his fingers as he advanced further into the halls, inviting attendants to follow. Briefly, you felt a spike of dread surface, expecting things designed to maim and kill and hurt, but they arrived with folded garments made of soft, beautiful thread. You stared in confusion, your steps momentarily faltering as they laid them into your arms, quickly departing as soon as he drew an impatient breath. The fabric made you hesitate; finer than anything you had ever worn, softer than anything you had ever touched.
Sauron watched you take it before coming to a halt.
“You will change,” he decided.
“Here…?” you blurted out.
His lips curled faintly in disdain. “Yes. Here. I have no desire to be troubled by human modesty.”
You withdrew slightly, scrapping with the garments as you attempted to navigate the nature of the cloth. The cut was something unfamiliar, and the fastenings were arranged in a manner that made no sense to you. You found yourself fumbling more than once, and by the time you had stepped forward to present yourself to him, he met you with not approval, but judgment flaring in his eyes.
“The hands of men are clumsy things,” he said, crossing to assess you, adjusting the fabric as needed. His touch felt more precise than gentle, cool through the cloth. “There,” he eventually concluded, as if offended that he had to trouble himself. “That is nearer to how it should sit.”
“Sorry—” you scrambled.
Sauron caught you, your uncertainty seeming to insult him. “You may stop apologising for what you do not know,” he said, interrupting you.
“Do not mistake me,” he carried on. “I do not keep things without purpose. I have no patience for waste, but beauty is not common in this age, and it is an even rarer thing among men. You will not be forgotten to rage and ash when you still might have use.”
The pause that followed had stripped you of your ability to speak.
“You will remain as you are—here—seen only when I choose it,” he added. “Hidden when I do not. Maintained by those whom I only allow. That is a small mercy.”
His hand then lifted, almost as if he had meant to touch your face, but he stopped himself short. If it was out of tenderness, then you had missed the intention.
“There are many kinds of keeping,” he spoke in a low murmur, “and you will do well to understand our arrangement. You will learn the order of this place; to not leave at all, neither by whim or curiosity, nor by any plea of innocence. If you are to seek anything beyond these walls, then the consequences will be dire.”
You lowered your gaze at once, and this time, he seemed proud of your submission.
“Wise,” he almost praised. “Fear is often the beginning of wisdom.”
A softer smile spread on his face, though he stopped himself.
“You will eat,” he carried on, “and if you are hungry, then you will ask. You will be given what is needful. I have no use for fragility, after all,” he said, eyeing up your figure. “And another thing—do not mince your words with me. I have no desire to hear false flattery. Speak to me of your hatred and your fear and whatever else you wish. My only limit is disobedience.”
You said nothing the whole time, of course.
If he was trying to tempt you to kick and scream, then the fight in you had already been drained.
“It is late,” he then observed. “You will remain with me tonight, for I wish to see if there is more to you than being a pleasant sight for idle eyes.”
You gulped hard as you were led away, your footsteps trembling as you moved. You were only following after as a means of self-preservation; your whole frame wracked and nervous. Perhaps dread was what you further felt, especially as he seemed to be leading you to the bedchambers of some sort.
A deeper breath left you as you moved towards him, coming to sit on the bed as he so gestured. It felt softer than anything you had lain upon—the coverings almost as silky as what you wore—finding the give of the mattress to be a pleasant sensation. You could almost feel the ache and exhaustion bleed away.
Though before you could experience such a further luxury, he moved to loom over you. He reached for the buckles of his own clothes, slowly moving to reveal his uncovered form. When the last of the fabric fell away, he revealed hungry flesh. His hands moved quickly as soon as he was able to, gripping your thighs and forcing them apart as he forced you to lie and endure—and as he leaned in, the sheer size of him made you feel small, disposable, even, utterly consumed. His intentions were clear. They were so clear.
Before you could even gasp, let alone offer a voiced protest, he stopped you with the command of his voice, sounding almost starved and anticipating.
“Do not tremble,” he advised. “Your first night of servitude does not need to be of labour or toil. You only need to please me.”
You hesitated once, your hands clutching the sheets.
“You simply need to endure,” he added, his thumb digging into your inner thigh. “You shall lie there, and you shall take me.”
Albeit reluctantly, and only because you had to, you surrendered. Your body went limp, and your movements felt dull and automatic as you stared up at the veiling canopy, waiting for the inevitable. All the while, too, you could barely process the grief from not even a day ago, the home you could no longer return to. You could barely comprehend that this was your new present, and who you had to please in order to do something as simple as live.
Moving to tease you slowly, he traced his cock over your slit, smearing the moisture across your folds, the friction building into a terrifying kind of heat. You braced yourself for the entry, squeezing your eyes shut, perhaps foolishly expecting him to be gentle with the same poetic grace he granted you with speech.
But Sauron was not known for his mercy: he drove himself into you, sliding into your depths as soon as he was able. The force of him felt violent, too, producing a heavy, stretching ache that made you writhe beneath him. As you tried to find some way to ease the pressure of his assault, he slammed his palms down, pinning your wrists over the mattress. He held you there, grounded and trapped, securing your flailing limbs so that you had no choice but to take every part of him, staring down at you in a way that felt charged, with those piercing, golden eyes.
The rhythm of which he took you was relentless; heavily rutting into you at a force that was close to bruising. Between the jolts of pain and the overwhelming fullness of him, your mind drifted back home once more. Back to the smell of charred timber and the screams that still echoed in your chest. You thought of the ashen ruins and the voices you would never hear again. You felt more like a ghost, currently, forced to inhabit a living body—forced to endure someone you never hoped to meet.
You wished to weep, to wail, to cry—to grieve—but as the first tear poked from your eyes, he noticed. Sauron did not soften his pace, however, if anything, he continued at a punishing force, moving to drag his thick, calloused finger into your mouth, pressing it against your tongue.
“Soothe yourself if you must,” he rasped, his voice devoid of pity.
Your mind was a mess, so you could only do as you were told, falling into a mindless state of obedience, sucking on his finger to keep the sobs from turning into screams.
But then, he retracted, withdrawing his hand from your mouth, leaving you all breathless and salivating for a hot moment. His weight changed slightly as he reached down, hauling your legs up and hooking them over his broad shoulders. As soon as he had done so, he began to press down, forcing your knees towards your chest and folding your body until you had no choice but to take him even deeper. You winced each time he drove forward, his cock hitting the back of you with blunt force.
A broken whimper fled from your lips then, as he finally bottomed out, the sound of your cries adding fuel to his fire. His eyes fluttered shut in overwhelming pleasure, his jaw tightening as he felt you swallow him up completely, but then, he began to move again. His thrusts grew faster now, frantic, even, driven by the softness of your skin that yielded beneath his touch and the way your body could accommodate him so deliciously.
At the sight of you reaching your limit, though—at the sensation of your legs trembling—at the sheer combination of everything, a thought delighted him.
He leaned down, his voice low and charged—
“Look at you, so beautifully undone,” he whispered, his pace never faltering. “Should you give yourself to me completely—should you surrender every thought, tear, every part of your will, then I will reward you. A few nights of peace.”
His words barely reached you, as it truly felt like your body was no longer yours. You nodded passively as you processed the weight of his demand, but not eagerly so. Perhaps a ghost of a person was the wrong comparison. You felt more like a vessel fit for being filled, stretched and used. Your body was no longer yours. At your surrender, you felt your inner walls clench around him; something close to pleasure flooded your inner core, but it felt numb the same.
When his end followed, a pained gasp of a whimper was forced from your lungs, as the sheer impact of his orgasm forced the air from your lungs, leaving you unable to do anything at all but to indeed, endure the weight of him as he shuddered against you, his pulsing heat emptying itself into your tired depths.
Upon retracting from you, his absence felt almost wounding.
You no longer had the strength to move as he parted, though, he watched you as you drifted off, half amused, finding that it was almost poetic that after the devastation of your home and the terror of the first night here, it was his completion that allowed you rest.
Sauron had otherwise concluded something: he could not let you go.
The way in which you gripped him so tightly ignited a hunger that already clawed at his gut at a taste for more, but alas, he was utterly spent.
“Rest now,” he commanded, his voice soft, though laced with warning. “Recover, if you must. In a couple of days, I will explore your throat.”
Dread, cold and heavy, settled in your stomach, but indeed, you were exhausted.
Your eyes fluttered shut, and you succumbed to a fitful sleep.
And he stared at you the whole time with a gaze that felt possessive.
You are the daughter of Sauron and everyone is obsessed with you as they are obsessed with the rings.(Part 1)
"Everyone was aware that falling in love with you was madness, given your father's identity. Still, no one minded as long as they could have you by their side."
Morgoth/Melkor
He is obsessed with you as much as he is obsessed with the Silmarils.
Doesn't care if you are the daughter of his servant, he wants you.
Despite your refusal of Morgoth's advences, Sauron encourages you, and wanting to please your father, you decided to try and please Melkor.
"Your soul and body are mine like those silmarils"
He crafted a necklace made out of one of the Silmarils, gifting it to you as a token of your unity.
Thankfully, the Valar captured him after the battle of Wrath, however you already left him before the battle.
Maedhros
You met him while he was in Thangorodrim, getting tormented by your father.
At that time Morgoth was imprisoned in Angband, so you were free from his obsessed jealousy.
However, after seeing the handsome red-haired elf for the first time, you decided to take care of him and try to free him, feeling sympathy and gulit.
After freeing him with the help of his cousin Fingon who had to cut off his hand to free him, Maedhros tried to convince you to escape with him, as you handed him the Silmaril Morgoth gave you.
"Come with me, you will find peace away from your father's clutches"
And you did leave with him when you realize how awful Sauron is.
But your decision is like falling into another trap.
As Maedhros appeared to be the same as Morgoth in causing violence.
Celebrimbor
After discovering what Maedhros and his brothers have done to their kin, you fled without a second thought.
And as years passed, you kept yourself hidden wandering alone, until you met Celebrimbor whom you find his knowledge remarkable.
You thought of leaving when you discovered that he is the nephew of Maedhros, but his generosity tempted you to stay, and you did.
Honestly, you thought you found peace with him in the safety of his home, but that was never the case, Celebrimbor was possessive and refused to let you leave.
He crafted special rings to keep you safe from danger, and also to keep you in love with him.
"Your pain, your pleasure, your every thought belongs to me. You're mine to command and possess."
Celebrimbor thought he owned you, until Annatar 'Sauron' came into the picture and corrupted Celebrimbor into making the rings.
Sauron/Annatar 'platonic'
Sauron didn't realize how much you meant to him until you ran away.
He almost went insane and never stopped searching for you.
So, when he encountered Celebrimbor, he didn't expect to see you, and deep down it steered horrible jealousy at the sight of you, his only child, happy with Celebrimbor.
Adding to this, he noticed Celebrimbor's obessesive behavior towards you and how he tried to keep you away from his sight.
What is more amusing to Annatar is that you didn't discover his disguise.
So, he decided to reveal it to you.
"How sad that you don't remember your father, my sweet child"
You warn Celebrimbor about your father before handing him the rings he made for you and leaving.
Elrond
You knew Elrond since Maglor, brother of Maedhros, was the one fostered him and his twin brother, Elros.
So, seeing him after so many years surprised you and what made you feel shy is the fact that he invited you to stay with him at his realm.
You decided to take on his offer because you didn't want to keep on wandering in the middle earth after you did for many years.
Actually, you came to his realm after his wife decided to leave to the Undying Lands.
And Elrond is the only one who felt like he wanted to marry you but he decided not to act on it to not frighten you.
Especially after everything you told him about others 'locking you up' and 'refusing to let you leave'
Actually he witnessed how his foster Uncle treated you, so he understood where you are coming from.
"Do not worry, Nin meld, you are safe here with me, I promise to protect you from any danger."
─ ✧ Summary: Having been banished to rule a world that cannot see light, Sauron finds himself entranced by a maiden who wanders too far from her home and toward his domain.
Sauron loathes his banishment to the abyssal realm of the Underworld, a desolate dominion forged for a fallen dark lord who failed in his quest to bring a part of Arda under his control, a forsaken place devoid of light or warmth. In his relentless rituals, he compels the dead to repent for the sins they committed among the living. In certain aspects, the Underworld mirrors the dark vision of Middle-earth conceived by his predecessor—a realm bent on shackling all of Ilúvatar's children beneath his dominion. While some perceived Sauron's vision as a mere reflection of Morgoth's, he saw himself as forging a more perfected Middle-earth—accomplishing what his master had failed to achieve. After his defeat, his thoughts often drifted to Middle-earth, where he felt a deep longing for something—or someone. In the aftermath of his defeat, his mind was consumed by thoughts of Middle-earth, a place that stirred a haunting ache for something—or someone. In the shadowed depths of the Underworld, Sauron lingers in isolation. Solitude does not trouble him, yet the gnawing reminder of his loneliness causes him pain—a torment he has not felt since he was Mairon the Admirable. Now, it’s evident he desired a companion in his darkness. While he was banished to the Underworld, he could still wander among Middle-earth, but he could never remain long. Yet, this day would unravel as unlike any before it.
Savouring the cool embrace against her skin, the elf drew a soft breath and surrendered to the cerulean depths. A distant twig cracked, prompting the fawn to lift its head, its breath quickening as its sharp eyes scanned the surroundings before softly returning to its tranquil grazing. He was a masterpiece of deception: long, spun-gold hair that caught the stray beams of light, a jawline carved from ivory, and an irresistible presence that enveloped you in a smouldering, intoxicating heat. He held his breath, captivated by the sight, as he consumed his view. He had ruled the lightless void for an eternity of silence, a king of ash and echoing screams. He had forgotten the scent of living skin until the wind shifted, carrying the fragrance of crushed lilies and honey. Now, seeing her, the void in his chest collapsed. It wasn't mere lust. It was a feeling so violent it nearly brought him to his knees. He recognised those familiar eyes, a mesmerising shade of violet unique to the elves—the unmistakable allure of the High Elven King’s daughter. A smirk built upon Sauron’s lips as he silently observed her bathe. A sly smile played on Sauron's lips as he watched her bathe in silent fascination. His eyes traced the water as it caressed the curves of her breasts, lingered on her delicate, pale hands gliding over the soft swell of her hips, and drank in the trembling vulnerability that infused her every movement. To any other, she was a delicate blossom. To him, she was an unexpected, all-consuming desire. A violent hunger.
He had discovered his treasure, and the dance of the pomegranate had only just commenced.
─ ✧ The heart and soul of my new theme, a Hades & Persephone inspired fic with our beloved dark lord. Some of you have been wondering if my new theme was alluding to a new fic, and this was your little treat. It will be posted soon for you to enjoy <3
Notes: Sequel series to And Comes Dawn. Feedback as always is appreciated. If you wanna show your appreciation in other ways, Kofi is in my bio. Unhinged Sauron is back babyy
You stared up at the night sky, eyes watching the stars as the sound of water sloshed around you. The other survivors were fast asleep, or pretending to be. It was day two on the raft, you remained hopeful that this wouldn’t be the end, you wouldn’t give into the despair of it all. You looked upon the sky and hoped that the Valar would answer the unspoken prayer. You did not want to accept this fate and your faith had not led you astray thus far.
“You suspect they’ll talk back?” Halbrand's voice broke through the quiet of the night, turning to look, his eyes were still closed and arms crossed against his chest. “You’ve been looking at them since they first appeared in the sky.”
“I simply hope that they are listening, somewhere out there.” Your voice is quiet.
He opens his eyes, looking up at the same constellation that you are. “I doubt any of them will save anyone on this raft.”
“You do not know that. There is no hurt in hoping.”
He scoffs, “You and hope. It is almost sickening.”
“And what is wrong with hoping? What harm does it do?” You moved closer to him, almost challenging him.
“What does it do? You sit around, waiting for someone else to save you.”
You roll your eyes, “You mistake hope and laziness. Hopelessness is what inspires you to lay around and do nothing but hope is what inspires us. Armies would not have fought evil if there was no hope, we would burn this raft if there was no hope. Hope is what drives us all and a life without hope is just waiting around.”
Halbrand watches you, he looks as if he’s examining something. Almost like he doesn’t understand who you are. Perhaps he was thinking of whatever evil it was that he had done, perhaps he was thinking he was beyond hope.
“You know, there’s hope for you too.”
He looks at you for a moment more before closing his eyes once more, “Perhaps there is, sweet one.”
~
The dream fades, the edges of it in your psyche burning away like flames to a page, as a new reality overcomes you. It's not a memory of which you are familiar, not a memory of a place you’ve ever been. It smells of death and ash and filth. The air is thick, burning your throat as it fills your lungs. The room itself seems to be made of dirt or mud. Your eyes look around as you try to figure out your new nightmare.
“It brought me great joy to see you still dream of me.” The voice cut through it all, causing you to jump and turn around abruptly.
There he sits, back against the wall and hands in chains. His face dirty and lips chapped, he was continuing his ruse but for what purpose.Your heart and thoughts are conflicted: Anger and betrayal sing out the loudest but there is a part of you that is happy to see that he isn’t harmed. He watches you, eyes glimmering and lips turned in a smirk. He was studying you, watching your reaction with a tilted head as he had done many times before.
“What is it you wish of me?” You watch him with a clenched jaw.
“Is it so wrong for me to check on the woman I love?” He raises an eyebrow, the ghost of a smirk still on his lips.
“You do not know the meaning of the word.” The venom in your voice, running through your veins, you didn’t like it. It was foreign. It wasn’t who you were but the contempt at him for lying to you, using you, manipulating you….
“You are truly foolish if you believe me to be manipulating you,” Any hint of playfulness or levity was gone, his eyes flashing dangerously as he watched you.
“Is that not what this all is? Manipulation. You come to me in my dream, pretending to be in chains, pretending to be hurt.” You glared back at him.
“Pretending?” He scoffs, pushing himself up off the floor. “But I am not pretending, I am not lying to you but I could be anything you wanted to see in me.” Suddenly the chains were gone, his form switching to that of Elrond.
“I could be the elf.” He spoke, taking a step towards you. He switched again, this time the form of an orc.
“I could be one of these monsters. But I come to you as the man you love, as the one who loves you.” He is now Halbrand again. “But I supposed that is a lie too because when I’m with you I’m not Halbrand, I’m not Sauron, I am my true self. That is who loves you. Any face I take, personality I mimic, it matters not. My heart and what soul I have is all yours.”
You stared at him for a moment. “I ask again, what do you wish from me?” You stare coldly at him, but the war within you is reflected in your eyes.
“And I say again, I am seeing to the wellbeing of the woman I love.” His voice booms, it's unnatural how it fills in the room and your head. It's enough to make you close your eyes in fear. He takes that small moment to move so close to you that you feel his breath on your face.
“There is a war that is coming. Remember I do it for you. Remember that this is all for you.”
Hesitantly you open your eyes to look up at him, “Do you really think so little of me that I would want this world of death and ash?”
He scoffs, shaking his head and holding your face in his hand, “No, I think so highly of you that I will baptize this world in blood and fire to make it worthy of you.”
You shake your head, “Then you do not know me at all.” You stare back into his eyes.
“Anger, malice, courage. I’ve not seen them in you like this. Perhaps there are parts of you I do not know, perhaps there's parts of you that you don’t know of yourself.” He looks back into your eyes, forehead resting against yours. “You will come back to me.”
You close your eyes and savor the moment. You feel sick to your stomach that a part of you still longs for this closeness, to be loved by him. A tear slides down your cheek and he catches it with his finger.
“You can not escape it, you still love me.” He says softly, his nose brushing yours, one of his hands moving from your cheek, down your next, to rest on your chest in the valley between your breasts. “I can feel your heart beat and I know somewhere in there, I will always have a home.”
You clench your eyes, but you relax into the touch. You allow yourself to have this moment here with him. You are too weak and that will be something you will wrestle with later but now you do not care to dwell on the feeling.
His hand moves down to your waist, guiding you back until you hit a wall. The wood and dirt is uncomfortable against your back but you ignore it for the moment.
“Nothing changes from what you believed before,” He pressed a kiss to your neck. “I will still rule, and you will still be my queen.” He kisses underneath your ear. “Everything I have will also be yours.” He bunches up your dress at your waist, his fingers tracing your thighs.
“Everything I have now or will have in the future belongs to you,” He whispers in your ear, his hand sliding between your thighs. “My heart,” His thumb rubs against your clit, he’s pulled away now to watch your reactions with keen interest, “My soul,” His finger slides into you and he smirks when you gasp. He moves his finger slowly, a growl catching in his throat before he adds a second. “Look at me,” his free hand tilts your face up. You obey, opening your eyes to look at him.
In a second his mouth is on yours, tongue sliding into your mouth. He tastes like ash, the blood from his chapped lips on your tongue. His fingers don’t stop, curling inside of you and rubbing against the spongy flesh. His mouth swallows your moans and you're glad for it, you’re not sure if you want to hear how good he’s making you feel. To know that he still has that level of control over you. You clinch against his fingers, feeling the coil in your belly and suddenly he stops.
He pulls away from the kiss, his pupils blown wide as he stares at you for a moment before dropping to his knees. He hooks your leg over his shoulder and gives no warning before his lips are wrapped around your clit and sucking. You gasp, hand tugging at his hair. Your fingers tangle in his locks and you hold him there. He watches you as he sucks and licks, he’s always made it known that having your taste on his tongue was better than anything else. He’d spent literal hours between your legs with no breaks inbetween. His tongue gently probes before sliding inside, making you moan out loud.
“Hnng…I…if you don’t stop I’m…” you couldn’t form coherent words at this point, your heel pressing hard into his back as his nails dug into your thighs. He didn’t slow down or falter, he simply got more enthusiastic. You could feel his groans vibrating against your core, the lewd sounds of his mouth and your slick filled your ears and that was enough to push you over the edge.
You tugged his hair hard, holding him in place and crying out as you coated his face in your essence. He didn’t stop, not until you had ridden out every last wave and were trembling beneath him. He breaks away, making his way back up to you and, without a word, pressing his mouth back against yours. You can taste yourself on his tongue. Your hands move of their own accord, you knew it was wrong but you needed it, you tugged at his waist band. He lifts you with ease, pressing his body harder against you to keep you firm on the wall as he hooks your legs around him.
“Look at me,” He murmurs softly, holding your chin in his hands and looking into your eyes. He pushes into you slowly, his lips part and brow furrows. “Thats my girl,” he says with a breath, forehead pressing against yours. His movements are slow but deliberate, knowing exactly how to move to make you come undone under him.
You look into his eyes and the eyes looking back aren't that of the Great Deceiver, but of the man you loved. The man who worked to build a new life for himself for you. The one who was going to be a better man for you. You remembered every touch, how it felt like worship and adoration. How he had taken his love and forged a ring for you.
How could that all be fake? Perhaps, the man you loved and Sauron were one in the same. That would be the hardest truth to face.
“Don't let your thoughts wander,” his voice breaks you out of your thoughts. “Stay with me here, this is the only truth you need to know.” He cups your face, his movements easier as your slick coats his cock.
You gasp softly, words cannot move past your lips. You're too lost in the feeling of it all. You nod softly, looking back into his eyes.
His thumb traces your bottom lip, “Do you truly doubt my devotion to you?”
You shake your head, but that's not enough for him. His movements become rougher but not painful, still drawing soft moans from you. He grabs your face and makes you look at him. “You have words, sweet one. Use them.”
“No,” your voice is heavy but quiet.
“No, what?”
“No, I do not doubt your devotion.”
“Good girl,” his head falls to rest on your shoulder, hand grasping your thigh and fingers bruising the skin. He buries his face in the crook of your neck to muffle his own sounds.
He stays like that, slow thrusts and soft kisses pressed to your neck. The soft gasps fill the air, the slick sound of his cock claiming you. Your throat catches and your heart quickens. You feel it building and you're about to crumble when he moves, holding your face in his hands.
“Look at me, look at me,” he watches you, “Don't close those eyes. That's it,” he groans as you clench around him, reaching your peak with soft moans and fingers digging into his back. He follows you, filling you with his warmth. You can feel him running down your thighs when he pulls out.
He readjusts himself, then smooths your dress and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, “You will never be able to deny that the affection and devotion I hold for you is much more than any other. No one will love you as I do. There is none who have loved anything like I love you.”
You close your eyes, the regret seeping through your skin. His words do not comfort you. His fingers wrap around your wrist, holding you in place. “You think you don't belong to me?”
“I know I do not.” Your voice is hoarse and quiet, you dare not look into his eyes.
He growls, “You let me take you, knowing the evil I've done and am. You may doubt it but it is etched into your soul. My touch is burned into your skin.”
As he talks, you feel your skin burn under his touch causing you to cry out in pain. He unwraps his fingers and looks at your wrist. “Now you can never deny it.”
You hiss and gasp, the smell of burning skin - your burning skin - fills the air. You look at your wrist, there's a brand there. You can't read what it says but you know its black speech, the language of Sauron and orcs and evil. It's now burned into your skin.
“You will wake from this but that will never fade.” He moves back to the spot he was before, sitting against the wall. “I will never force you to be with me, though I could. Before this is over, you will choose me.”
The dream fades and you wake, the smell of burning skin hangs in the cool air. You've never felt so hopeless.
