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“I must commend your cleverness,” Sauron had almost made it out the door with Galadriel, practically dragging the elven princess by her forearm in order to keep pace with his long stride.
Anything to get from the unpleasant dinner the Dark God once known as Melkor had insisted that his Lieutenant bring his new pet to before the Vala returned to Angband.
“My lord?” the Lord of Tol-in-Gaurhoth questioned, not immediately bringing his feet to a halt—they’d been so close, he had dismissed them what could he want now.
His expression portrays none of his frustration.
“In the task that I have set for you, you seek to discover the secrets to the light of the Two Trees,” the God had once been beautiful, now made hideous by his own corruption. Galadriel had been quite adept at avoiding looking at the real enemy for most of the evening. She knew not nearly as adept at cloaking her hatred from her eyes as the long-time servant was.
“I should have thought to study the inspiration sooner,” despite Morgoth’s banal tone, there was a gleam in his dark eyes as he could not seem to decide which lesser immortal to look at.
“I—” Mairon hesitated to collect even how to respond to the comment.
Galadriel for once did as he told her, keeping her eyes firmly planted on the ground as if she had been thoroughly cowed into submission by the Dark Lord’s Lieutenant.
“It’s glowing brighter, no?” Morgoth cocks his head to the side, a very picture of relaxation in the chair at the head of the table.
“Not enough for you to have stopped ordering my services,” the Maia responds with a testy edge to his voice.
Galadriel had seen master and servant disappear into the tower almost immediately upon Morgoth’s arrival. Although there had been no howl of pain, based on how Mairon spat the words, she could tell he was throwing Morgoth’s words back in his teeth.
“Not yet,” his face is hideous when he smiles, the God’s mouth looking like a red fissure opening in the earth. His eyes snap away from his servant turning to the oddly demure, usually quiet elf standing by his side.
Although this visit had been routine, Morgoth had been pleased to hear the reports of the granddaughter of Finwë had domesticated his most loyal servant were greatly exaggerated.
“It looks better than it has in quite some time, under the Princess’s presence here, no?” Mairon says nothing.
(At first, he had been irate to hear of the Jewel of Doriath had escaped. What consequence was the sister to a minor king, the daughter of a third son of a King, in comparison to the power of a half-Maia?
Adar was going to be richly rewarded when Morgoth returned to Angband. All others had said that the hair of this minor princess of the Noldor being likened to the Two Trees was a mere compliment told to Finarfin. It had been the Uruk who had ensured his otherwise, who had soothed the god’s temper, who had assured him that Mairon had caught a prize that everyone was foolish to overlook.)
“Has she been helping you with the drainings?” at that line of questioning, something lupine and vicious rises in his chest, the same feeling that has made him want to take her and lock her in a tower in some distant waste where Morgoth could never find her.
“No,” there was a defiant gleam to the Maia’s eyes that for a moment, made Galadriel think her plan wasn’t entirely lost.
There was a healthy dose of rebellion, a spark of revolution even amidst the fear Sauron held for the Dark God.
Morgoth keeps his eyes on the surprisingly short elf, waiting for the heat of his stare to force her eyes from the floor.
“Yet, you care for my servant, do you not?” the reptilian gaze forces Galadriel to finally meet his eyes.
She finds her voice caught in her throat, yet her chin still has a regal, defiant tilt to it as she bobs it up and down as an answer to the invasion question.
The sinking pit of dread only increases in Mairon’s stomach as something dark and horrible glitters in Morgoth’s eyes.
“You fret over him and bind his wounds like my Lieutenant’s hérincë?” her cheeks are burning, as the God’s drips with disgust. “Bring him back to vitality with your tender doting?”
The only thing keeping her from fleeing is the firm grip on her forearm, his thumb gently stroking a calming pattern on her lace sleeve.
“Because, my, I must say Mairon, I’ve never seen you as full of… vigor as you are now,” there’s something about his word choice that instantly summons the Noldorin Princess’s pride—from the same part of her heart that wants to scream at the God that he does not own the Maiar standing beside her.
“The Silmaril is fine for now, he doesn’t need to be drained for the sake of it,” Galadriel speaks for the first time, her voice sharp, clear, and authoritative—as if speaking to a fellow nobleman, not a God capable of smiting her where she stood.
Mairon sucks in a breath next to her.
Morgoth just smiles.
(There’s the Noldor temper, he knew it had to be in there somewhere. However, perhaps it was the gold in her hair or something about her voice that send him back to Tirion, where the Vanyari Queen tried to stand in front of the God as he struck down her husband.
Good to see that characteristic was passed down well through the generations. It was the kind of conviction the god looked for in his soldiers.)
“Tell me, Sifinwë, how would like to stop poor Sauron’s suffering?” Morgoth rests his burnt, mangled hand under his chin and adopts a patronizing, indulgent tone she does not believe for an instant.
“It’s clear that perhaps… other magic might hold the key to restoring the light of the Two Trees to your Uncle’s precious gems,” he croons and Galadriel drops her mouth open to answer, but Mairon is quicker.
“She’s not replacing me,” the Maia roughly pulls her behind him just a bit, as if it would do little good in shielding her if her blood was what the Vala wanted.
“Mairon, Mairon, Mairon,” Morgoth tuts, getting up from the table and striding over to the pair in the doorway.
“Perhaps, I was… hasty to judge what the Silmaril needed to restore its light.”
He looms over them, his eyes seeming to study the man and the woman like livestock at auction. Galadriel feels a shiver go up her spine under the cold appraising stare. Mairon’s hand moves down her arm to tangle her fingers in his.
“No more drainings,” he declares after a moment, bending low so that his rank breath tousled Galadriel’s hair from where he’d keenly been studying each individual strand like a prize mare.
“No, I was a fool to not think of it sooner—amplifying the light that the Stones derive their inspiration from—of course—and I suppose he is my most powerful Maiar,” Morgoth mutters half-sentences as he talks to himself, giving Sauron’s rangy form a cursory sort of assessment that one would give a racing stallion.
“My—my lord?” Sauron stammers out in bewilderment. “What do you mean by—”
Morgoth ignores his Lieutenant, his eyes snapping back to the Elf.
“Are you a maiden?” Galadriel jumps at the question and instantly, looks to the floor, to avoid answering.
She feels the tips of her ears burn with embarrassment at the hollow, ugly laughter that rings through the halls at her non-verbal answer.
“I’ll expect one before Yestarë, Mairon!” Morgoth starts to stride out of the hall.
“One what?” Sauron calls after him, still fairly static brained at the unhinged and disjointed line of questioning.
The God sighs at the door to the courtyard and looks back at his Lieutenant.
“I thought Adar was joking when he said you wouldn’t know what to do with a she-elf now that you had caught one,” he sounds exasperated, with a seething glare at the pair of them, bending over so his soulless black eyes were even with Mairon’s wide green ones.
“So that the light of the Two Trees can multiply,” Morgoth speaks slowly as if talking to a child. “Breed her with so many half-Maia whelps until those gems shine like they did the day they were forged in her image.”
“You can’t run away from this, Mairon,” she finds him in the forge two days later, brandishing a piece of parchment.
“Galadriel—” he sighs, reluctantly setting down his hammer.
She responds by shoving the letter in his face.
“This Adar has written you—says your master has asked for his orcs to report as to our… progress,” the Maia doesn’t even bother to make a jab at her, as he hadn’t read her correspondence with Finrod.
He had dreaded hearing from the Dark Elf since the moment his master had brought up that the little shit had probably told all of Angband that Mairon was a virgin.
The letter was as acidic and mocking as he had anticipated. Not as bad as it could have been, but not necessarily ideal that Galadriel had read it. She’s got her hands over the beginning and the end of the note, with enough visible for Mairon to read and know it wasn’t… good.
You moronic green boy, all the Orcs have been reporting for weeks that you already share a bed—our Master is impatient to try his experiment and I for one would like to stop the drainings as much as you do.
Just because you’re exempt from the draining for now in your little love nest doesn’t mean the rest of us aren’t being used on the other two Silmarils.
“See? We have plenty of time,” Mairon turned back to the forge, praying that Adar hadn’t said anything more embarrassing in the letter.
Praying that Galadriel hadn’t read between the lines of the ‘green boy’ insult and realized his face wasn’t red from the forge.
“Mairon, Yestarë is eleven months away,” she retorted.
“We still have time!” his hair was sticking up a bit in the back, giving his wild-eyed expression a rather crazed slant to it.
“Do you understand that this isn’t something that we just…. procrastinate on? Melian told me it took years for her and Thingol to… conceive Lúthien,” Galadriel’s face is burning but she forces out the word.
“Look, this Adar character sent you this as a courtesy, he’s not going to give your master false information—look” she shoved the letter back under his nose, this time her hands crumpling the stop, so the dark elf’s closing was visible.
I am not going to mince my reports to our Master. My children report enough of how you and the Elf have been dancing around each other, of your bashful courting gifts for her (a fucking tree, really? You always were a sap.)
Our master says if there are no reports of your… efforts by the next moon, he’ll have some lovely entertainment for the meeting during the Summer Solstice.
“You wouldn’t let my first time be in front of an audience, would you Mairon?” she’s blinking at him like she’s delicate and doll-like, not the manipulative princess he’d come to respect for her bewildering ability to wring concession from him.
(But this… he almost wished she was still demanding his Master’s head.)
“Go take care of your pets, Galadriel,” he snarls, crumbling the dark elf’s note into the flickering forge. He can still hear Adar mocking him, even as the parchment turns to ash.
The elf princess gives the Maia a day to sulk over the contents of the letter, before spending another night in their bed. The solitude had led her to the realization that if she wanted to get anything done, she’d have to do it himself.
Galadriel had said nothing at dinner about their shared bed chamber, a room he had avoided like plague since his master’s visit. Perhaps he had thought the temptation of her mere presence would prove too great and the suggestion Morgoth planted in his head would become too much to surpass.
(Or, really the Elf knew that he was likely terrified of a poor performance. She’d giggled the whole way to the forge after reading Adar’s letter, managing to wipe the smug grin from her face before she entered, content with the knowledge that hers were the only lips he had ever kissed.)
Her wedding trousseau had prepared at the same time as her cousin’s, although she doubted Lúthien was with all the pretty underthings her mother had painstakingly measured the girls for in whatever wooded cottage she was hiding.
Finrod hadn’t bothered to check which trunks he had sent his sister; she supposed she and Mairon were doing this a bit out of order, but Galadriel knew her brother would understand in time.
Once she was with child, once Mairon was able to gather his strength from the respite in drainings, she was certain that he would go through with her plan to rid Middle Earth of his master.
If not for her, if not for himself, then, for their child.
Finrod hadn’t known what weapons he was arming Galadriel with as she selected a stunning sheer slip.
It was woven with gold and silver thread, designed to accentuate the hair on her head as much as it made the tuft of hair between her legs glimmer brighter.
Galadriel inspected her appearance in front of the full-length mirror and opted to not add undergarments, throwing a thick dressing gown over the gown and sliding her silk slippers as she crept through the castle.
Mairon was burrowed in a nest of blankets on the cot. She steps out of her shoes, casting the robe in a trail behind her as she makes her way toward the Maia’s slumbering form.
He awakens abruptly as she slides the covering from his body, jerking upright in an instant, his back hitting the wall that served as a headboard.
“Galadriel,” he hisses, taking in her face first as she begins to crawl into the narrow bed, abruptly stopping in the process of throwing one leg over his hip.
His bare hip.
“Galadriel,” her name is strangled and mutilated in his throat as he looks past her face and realizes the picture she made, half in his lap, dressed… to call what she was wearing clothes was a bridge too far.
He should have known her mulish nature would have her crawling into his bed in some form or fashion.
(Really, hadn’t he chosen to sleep naked hoping that she would do exactly that?)
Mairon had not been prepared for the pretty package she had trussed herself up in, the indecent slip that accentuated the luster of her skin, that turned the dusty rose of her nipples moon-kissed, that made the slight wetness of her cunt shimmer like it had been doused in a ray of sunshine.
“Galadriel,” he mutters her name, with a lingering wonder of just how long his control is going to hold, his hands already going around her waist, preventing her from reneging that leg that she had thrown over his hip in a cavalier manner before she had gotten a good look at what she was dealing with.
The elf was regretting her earlier decision to forgo undergarments. She knew when men got aroused, they… grew.
But in gingerly climbing into his lap, she hadn’t thought it could get so long and tall that the tufts of her curls were tickling the angry, red head of his cock.
“You’re big,” she breathes, unable to stop looking at the space where she was hovering over him, one foot still firmly planted on the ground, her hands gripping his bare, muscled shoulders for stability.
“Is it because you’re Maia, I mean I know men of the Eldar can be quite long, but you’re thick too, I don’t even know if I’m able to wrap my hand all the way around you, there’s absolutely no way you’re going to fit in—”
“Please stop talking,” he squeezes his hands around her waist, momentarily pushing her breath from her diaphragm as he pulls her towards him.
Her other leg lifts from the floor and her left knee hits the mattress for balance as he situates her in his grasp. Her locked elbows on his shoulders are the only thing that kept Galadriel’s head from slamming into his as Mairon slid her forward a bit, no longer hovering over his hard cock.
It was between them, upright and very proud, her knees on either side of his hips aligning her wet cunt so that it coated the base as the head flopped against her belly button—a frankly terrifying height.
It's leaking a bit, smearing pre-come on the shimmery slip.
“Let’s get you out of this before it's ruined,” he murmurs, removing his hands from her waist and hooking his thumbs into the thin straps over her slim shoulders. Automatically, she raises her arms, feeling the cool material slip from her skin as he lifts it off of her.
“It’s much too fine to be put on the forge floor,” Mairon comments in a low voice, half to himself as he tosses it somewhere in the general direction of the end of the cot.
(Neither of them is going to bother with the illogicality of how her silk robe is already strewn on the ash-laden ground. Or how his aim could have been better, the gown slipping off the edge of the bed to land on the floor.)
He’d really neglected to think through the hasty removal of her slit, the covering was a ridiculous barrier, but once lifted he seemed transfixed by how her chest was moving up and down with her heavy breathing, erect nipples rising and lowering with every inhale and exhale.
“There’s no way you’re going to fit in me,” she squirms a bit against his erection as if to prove her point, although all she seemed to be doing is sliding against it, parting her curls with the rigid length, spreading her wetness around more of the shaft. “Literally, the head is practically half the width of my waist!”
He groans into the crook of her neck, wondering what the hell he had done to deserve this.
“I mean it’s not like I don’t want to, I mean I really came here with all intent and purpose of—”
“Having me breed you?” one of his large hands curled around the flare of her hip, the other coming to the nape of her neck, forcing her to stop staring at their sexes and instead look him in the eye if she was going to continue going on about the impossibility of his cock.
“Keep talking like that and this is going to be over quick,” his breath is ragged, his lips even with hers for the moment as he lifts her slightly to drown out whatever other commentary she had on his size with dark green eyes and a simmering stare.
“Galadriel, tell me, do you actually want this?” he murmured, scattering kisses along her jaw.
Leaning her head back and closing her eyes, she tried to focus on that sensation, not on how he has her held, lifted up ever so slightly.
She was entirely at his mercy; if he chose to be cruel, he could not wait for her answer and instead just ram her down onto his cock.
“Have you thought about what I said the other day?” she repeated the question that had interrupted their chance at intimacy before.
Mairon withdrew his lips from her neck and solemnly met her gaze.
“My price is less insane now when you think of what your Master is demanding of us,” her hands cup his face, her face fixed into an imploring plea.
“If we do this, if we do this right, you’ll be binding yourself to me forever,” he cautioned in a low voice that was supposed to scare her rather than entice her.
(She wants something to clamp down on when he talks like that. Maybe not the massive cock between them, but Galadriel would be remiss to say she hadn’t pretended her delicate fingers weren’t his own digits.)
“You’ll be an outcast in the Elvish kingdoms, likely to never see the light of Valinor again, and if you try to run from me, I will hunt you to the ends of this Middle Earth.”
He tries to sound dark and intimidating, to terrify the adventurous daughter of Finarfin and Eärwen into the prospect of being shackled to a creature such as him.
Galadriel is not so easily scared of the Dark.
“If we do this right and a child doesn’t brighten the Silmaril, you know our baby just become another magic user for Morgoth to drain,” a vein pops in his jaw and Galadriel knows she’s finally landed on perhaps the one thing that outweighed the Maia’s blind fear of Morgoth. “
“He would make us flay each other alive if he knew what we were plotting,” she ignores the flutter in her chest at the use of the word ‘we.’
“Your master is going to make us breed, whether we do so now or later in front of an audience,” Mairon knew she was right. There was no squirming out of Morgoth’s experiments once you were caught in his curiosity.
(The maia sometimes wonders if turning him to his side had been just that—an experiment. A game.)
“This is no longer about my ambitions—the victory we might win would not earn me enough respect to change the ties to the darkness I had to forge to earn it,” she can see the self-loathing, the doubt creeping into his features, no doubt imagining that she would feel shame to always have the proof that she had lain with the enemy.
“But I wouldn’t care,” he wants to look away from her burning blue gaze, as she traces the outlines of his lips.
“Because I’d know I chose the right sort of man to father my children, who would be brave enough to face his fears and deliver the head of a God for the sake of a better future for his children,” the attempt she had made to try and reach him, to appeal to the selfish part of him when she had coaxed him with how slaying Morgoth wasn’t just for her it was for him too.
“Children…” he savored her word choice on his tongue. “Are you going to give me a whole spring litter on your first try, nitya ulqi?”
Galadriel didn’t blush this time at the crude suggestion. She revels in the title he gives her, baring her teeth like the she-wolf he’d fondly dubbed her. The elf isn’t contesting that she is ‘little,’ their size difference feeling greater than usual with her in his grasp.
“We must be rid of Thingol first,” her dominant hand doesn’t shake as she grips his length for the first time, surprised at the paradoxical contrast of the soft skin and rigidity. “He thinks his Maia protects him, yet, Lúthien is one child.”
She widens her legs as far as she’s able as he slowly lowers her down onto his erection, his forearms shaking not from the effort of lifting the petite elf, but from the thinly held restraint he’s barely keeping together to not shove her down onto him.
It’s not comfortable and Galadriel knows her babbled fears had not been inaccurate.
Fit is not even a question, he was forcing her body to reform on account of the foreign intrusion, the sharp aching pain in her lower half something she tried to breathe through, burying her face in his neck.
(The Last Princess of the Noldor did not cry, she scolded herself, feeling a few tears leak out and drip down his muscular chest.)
“Give me a pack of pups to prove just how powerful my Maia is,” she whispers in his ear when his hands finally stilled and she was fully seated astride him.
Mairon had known this was going to be over quickly.
The adrenaline of conquest, how he had to fight for every inch of territory as he lowered her warm cunt down onto him, combined with her warm, supple body against him, her breasts smashed against his chest, was a heady feeling that overwhelmed any logical reason.
The Princess’s quick little inhales didn’t help, turning from sharp winces of pain to small whimpers of pleasure as her hard nipples scraped against the rough hair covering his chest.
He didn’t expect her admiring words would bring him off, coquettishly whispered in his ear as he finally lay between her legs, but he was a vain creature.
Galadriel was surprised when his grip tightened around her torso, cracking a few kinks out of her spine as he bucked twice into her and then abruptly stilled. The strange warm sensation of being filled made her hesitantly withdraw her face from the crook of his neck.
His eyes turned a minty shade of green when mortified, she discovered, studying his face as she realized oh.
Well… at least it ended up in the right place. But, in all fairness, she had been hovering over the green boy’s cock for the last ten minutes.
“I’m—” she kisses him rather than hear an apology. Knotting her hands in his hair, she pries open his mouth from her vantage point sliding her tongue against his.
(It’s much more comfortable now, sitting impaled on his lap, now that his cock had gradually begun to soften. It was hard enough to keep her there with the sensation of being filled, with his seed being plugged up into her an unexpectedly pleasant one.
The Eldar might solely engage in sex for procreative purposes, but Galadriel was fairly certain she was going to still enjoy this throne when she was so round with child that it would be a logistical nightmare for her to mount him.)
“You bred me, you have nothing to beg my pardon for,” she imperiously told him, wriggling a bit, to test a theory.
Sure enough, his divine nature meant that he didn’t have to wait like any mortal man, before he began to harden again inside of her, pushing his spend deeper towards the womb where their children would grow.
“Now for my forgiveness…” she presses a curious hand to her stomach and presses on it. The gush of fluid that oozes out of where their sexes are joined made his teeth suddenly pierce her neck.
“I want you to make me scream so loud that all of the Beleriand knows who has claimed me.”
Lord Father,
There were very strangled noises coming from the forge last night after Mistress made me take all her fancy things out of a trunk. The maia did not seem to last long, although the elf made a very loud show of complaining about size.
Is that some kind of mating game amongst your kind? She is a strange one, the wolf-queen, but was quite nice at Shadbak and Gorlug’s wedding.
If it is not a mating game, the Lieutenant’s stamina is concerning. Perhaps you should give him some advice, he sounded like an adolescent wolf caught in a trap when he yelped.