TW: gore – MisbehavingMaiar: Tumblr Archive

The touch of his hand, of his blade (you haven’t deserved his hand yet), is light, barely more than a sudden caress, yet it leaves behind a trail of excruciating pain, yet another line of agony etched over your skin. If the pain weren’t so strong you might even be able to appreciate the elegance of the design that has bloomed over the days, covering your entire torso. He let you know that, times and again, the silk of a poisonous calm barely hiding his savage pleasure; like a spider in her web.

((Under the cut for violence/gore/sadism))

He wants to answer. He wants to say I remember these cuts. He wants to say I remember how your body twisted beneath my knife, how your neck bent back as you screamed. But the elf’s hand is closed around his windpipe, and while he does not need to breathe to stay alive, he needs air to speak. The muscles in his throat clench uselessly under the vice of Maehdros’s palm, producing only the weak, wet clicks of one choking.

And he is excited. Because the pain is terrible, but worse would have been disregard– if this stone-faced, savage elf had ignored him, let the memories of his torture fade to distant hurt, forgotten the name behind his scars, his name– that would have broken his heart.

Every time the knife enters him he makes sure to watch his face; he is fascinated by the tension in the elf’s jaw, the hard curve of his lips, the way his nostrils constrict when he inhales sharply, drunk with cruelty.
He has so often been on the other side of the blade, watching with pleasure every twitch, every grinding of clenched teeth, every whimper; he knows he is meant to savor the irony of it. Every flourish of the knife is a love note from an avid pupil.

In the pause between cuts there is the hope of a release that does not come; that a part of him hopes will never come until Maedhros is finished, and they understand each other fully. He hopes. He wants to ask do you love me the way I loved you, when I pressed the brand to your thigh, when I looked into your eyes and broke the bones in your hand, one by one? Am I as beautiful as you were?

But his lungs are empty, and there is too much blood in his mouth to speak.

Would you rather I count all the vertebrae down your back with my hand, or all your teeth with my thumb? Would you rather discover how much of your hair I can knot in one fist, or how long you can hold your breath under pressure?

doegred:

meme: Send my muse “Would you rather” questions

@misbehavingmaiar

Oh!
I thought you would know by now that you won’t make me choose between such.. options, so to speak.
Besides, since civilised questions seem not to be your forte, why to.. reenact what has already happened when there are so many better option yet to explore?

I would rather meet you on the field where I would see your blood gush and your pupils grow wide with every blow of my sword; I would have your hammer chipped and you beaten down in the mud blended by your own blood.
Still I would not kill you, no.
I would rather have your neck collared in a garrote and my knife trace the labyrinth of your nerves, your wolf teeth on a string and your power trapped in a cage of field-lines, i would have your hands broken and their tendons cut before putting my braid between your fingers and my teeth over the pad of your thumb.
I would have your spine snapped and my foot slowly pressing more and more on your ribcage as I look you in the eyes..

That is what I would rather have

looms over bath I won’t tell if you won’t. ~Sauron

doegred-main:

doegred-main:

*pales, gripping the side of the tub, while breathing slowly through his nose*

“Get. Out!”

Suddenly the pressure of Sauron’s arm on his stump wasn’t there anymore, its loss quick enough to unbalance Maedhros and force him to compensate by pressing his right thigh against the Maias’ body. Thankfully the frenzy of the fight dulled every other feeling the sensation of his enemy’s naked skin against such a vulnerable part of his body gave him.
Desperately trying to move his arm and slide on the floor the Noldo attempted to prevent what he knew would be his opponent’s next move, even as a part of him knew it for a doomed effort.
Gritting his teeth he gave the knife a final twist, rotating it almost completely inside the flesh, making sure it would rip most of the muscle it was embedded in, weakening the limb further. A dark satisfaction cursing through his body at his enemy’s sounds of distress.
Then a spark of pain made the Noldo grunt as the tingling ache of pinched nerves spread like a line of fire from the inside of his elbow to the tip of his fingers, making his muscles spasm, go lax and then cramp in an unnatural position.
A half-shout of pain came rom his lips as his arm was twisted and slammed on the floor. The scars left by his father’s jewel becoming numb as his hand smarted.
Maedhros could feel desperation rise in his mind with every movement of the powerful body over him, like a black tide, ebbing and flowing in synchrony with the weight pinning him down. A trickle of blood fell from the Maia’s shoulder on the Fëanorion’s neck, making the sweetish reek of corruption become a mist that surrounded him burning the inside of his nose. The black liquid slid down further and mixed with the water dripped from his body on the marble floor, making it warmish and slick.
The Maia’s face came near to his enough that Maedhros could feel his hot breath on his cheeks and, from behind the wet strands of hair, could see his eyes burning.
He saw it thanks to the cold haze of the fight, the almost cranky frustration in the Maia’s gaze. A sneer twisted Maedhros’ lips. Once such a display of weakness might have given him a measure of satisfaction, yet now whatever he might have felt was drowned in an almost euphoric hate and despairing rage.
Refusing to let him win any ground the Noldo didn’t turn his head, looking him straight in the eyes as he twisted his muscles, trying to slide on the floor and make Sauron loose purchase, but the weight on his chest was unwavering. As an iron shackle.
Then the Maia sprung into action.
Maedhros had barely the time to begin turning his head before Sauron’s teeth sank into the flesh of his face. In an instant the smell of his own blood drowned even the Maia’s reek and the Fëanorion felt an ice cold spray fall from his lips and cheek as the skin burst under Sauron’s teeth. The arm falling heavy against his neck cut his breath almost completely. It was as if every pain had disappeared; Maedhros could feel the other’s tongue touching his skin and in the red glow cast by his hair the world started to become dark around the edges.
A guttural muffled scream of rage and hate tore from his chest. With a strength borne of despair the Noldo clasped the Maia’s hips between his thighs in an unyielding grip and, with an effort that made his sight go completely black he was able to arch his hips up from the floor in the same moment that his stump flew towards the Maia’s face, hitting it with all the strength he could muster in his right eye. He felt the protruding bone fit into the orbit and kept pushing as he suddenly twisted his hips left, using all of the strength left in his body in a last desperate attempt to reverse their positions.

The sharp, broken point slammed into the socket of his eye, pain bursting hot and red through his skull. Sauron screamed like a burnt jungle cat, rearing back with blood on his teeth. He recoiled off his opponent, not giving Maedhros time to gain advantage, even if the elf had not been choking for air. He could feel the knife still in the meat of his shoulder, stinging brine dripping from his eye.

Panting, the huge maia rolled to his feet, retreating. Tussles between lions seldom lasted this long when they had nothing to gain… It was not worth the injuries he could sustain to bring one elf to submission. This was not worth the grief.

He spat blood on the floor, growling as he wrenched the blade from his back. The wound shrank even as the steel left it.

“You will never—” he hissed, “—never have the satisfaction of meeting me again in the flesh, Lefthander. You will die in my shadow; my armies will march over your bones, and no one will live to mourn your nameless corpse.” The knife clattered to the floor as the Dark Lord turned his back.

doegred:

misbehavingmaiar:

The prince’s hand scrambled for the hilt of his sword, but Sauron’s found the back of his head faster.

He drew back a fistful of black hair and gold ribbons, lifting the elf off the ground and pulling him back prone on his knees.

“I said I would still your tongue.“

…

When he had been alerted of the possible hostile presence Maedhros had gathered his personal guard, a small company of knights and left Himring, leaving word to organise a larger force and have it ready to march out, should his signal come.
The Noldo Lord guided his men, some carrying the weighted nets used for greater beasts, making them proceed silently, unwilling to immediately reveal their presence to a possible enemy while trying to assess the situation.
As they went he took the time to muse, it was odd how for the second time in a row, something had seemed to surface in a place completely devoid of traps. Maybe the time had come to take a second look at some workers.
Vàsa had hardly changed her position when the sounds of battle reached their ears, a familiar cry making Maedhros tap the sides of his mare with his heels, while gesturing for his troop to hasten.
Realising time was of the essence the Noldo Lord had his rearguard sound the horns to summon the battalion while, accompanied by Dimhelesin and few others he reached a terrain.
Down, in a small vale between two hills, a thinning company of Noldor wearing his cousin’s colours was fighting against a small battalion of orcs.
Yet what Immediately caught his eye was the shadow lingering on the top of the hill overlooking the battlefield.
Maedhros signaled for the rest of his men to continue a full frontal assault the very moment the shadow morphed into an ogrish creature descending upon the troop.
"The priority is the prince, enemy has heavy armour, use slingshots or aim for the junctures. Give the prince time.”
Gorthaur had made his move.
The familiar feeling of cold dread and elation surrounded him as a small company separated from the main body and approached Sauron from behind at the same time that most of the troop charged from ahead. Dimhelesin rode by his side, shield at the ready.
They were luckily far enough to allow their horses to keep their footing as the monster slammed into the ground, yet the sight of black hair between grey armoured fingers made his attention focus on a single point as he fought to keep rage under control.
It was not yet the time.
At his silent signal, as his cavalry broke the ring of wolves in front of Sauron the men with him drew slingshots and a flurry of lead projectiles fell with incredible force on the Maia’s armour.
Wanting to give the best possibility to escape the enemy’s grasp to his cousin Maedhros let his anger bleed from him, like a cloud of fire and smoke that surrounded his body and his spear as it flew right into the shoulder juncture of the arm the monster was using to hold Fingon’s head.

Oh, but the prince’s scream was satisfying! A wet, raw-throated howl that tore out of his muddied face. Sauron grinned wide beneath his visor, scraping the fingers of his gauntlet past Fingon’s back teeth, ready to clamp down on the root of his tongue… Would he bleed out and choke to death on the field, or return to his fortress in mute humiliation? Each had its pleasing merits.

Sauron felt a sting at the base of his neck; the report from the shot rang loud as a canon in his ear– he grunted, twitching to one side.

A hail of metal pellets struck him like a swarm of biting insects, enraged and buzzing as they clattered against his armor. The stinging was hardly more than an irritation, and the sound was dreadful, but it was enough to make him stop, and turn his awful head.

Too late. The spear burst through his shoulder in a wall of red pain. Sauron let loose a stunned snarl, catching himself with a stumble as the bolt struck him off balance. The projectile’s point had cleared the leather joint of his armor with as much resistance as water; he could feel the tip of it make contact with the inside of his breastplate, having transfixed his shoulder.

That had been thrown with the precision of revenge.

The warlord’s breath howled in him like a furnace, dropping the prince, his previous quarry forgotten in rage. He could see the red-haired elf riding to meet him, cold eyed, foam at his horse’s bit. One handed he had made that shot, from horseback. There was only one on earth who’s hate could have honed an aim so sharp.

Anguished yelping from dying wolves told him it was time to retreat. The Noldor charged from higher ground, splitting his force in half.

There was no way to reach the spear lodged in his arm to pull it out– he would have to leave the field with the dart still protruding from him.

He shouted the Blacktongue orders– withdraw to safety, scatter and reconvene in the foothills. Yet, it would not do to seem daunted by pain before the orcs that served him. Reaching awkwardly behind him he snapped the shaft of the spear, and threw it, whirling with black blood, at the unhelmed prince.

Black smoke and wolves covered his retreat, wary of mounted Noldor and entangling nets.