Fight

Defiant AU.  The games have begun, and they become more treacherous and fulfilling by the moment.  Quenya name used for Angrod (Angaráto).  This is basically a continuation of "Flowers", which is the culmination of the arc started by "Defiant" on a complete and utter whim.  It is, of course, also related to "Puppy Love", "Loved" and "Odds and Ends", but has a completely different pairing (obviously).  Takes place in Angband in the First Age.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion

Pairings: one-sided Morgoth x Angrod

Characters: Angrod, Sauron, Morgoth (mentions orcs, Balrogs, random elven slaves, etc...)

Warning: non-canon compliant, non-canon character survival, slavery, sexual slavery, borderline sex scenes, politics, unpleasant kissing, threatening, mentions non-con, starvation, mutilation, violence, etc... reference to mercy-killing/kinslaying, infidelity (unwilling?)

Song: Fake or Fate?

Words: 1,283
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fight (verb): to contend in battle or physical combat; especially: to strive to overcome a person by blows or weapons; to put forth a determined effort; to struggle to endure or surmount
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/fight

"The game you play is not one to be taken lightly."

It was the first and last piece of advice he had ever received from his hated adversary, the golden-haired, traitorously-inclined right hand of the Dark Lord of Angband.  And Angaráto took that advice completely and wholly to heart.  He never dared forget for even a moment.

That one wrong move could make any moment his last.

After all, being a favorite pet of the Dark Lord was nothing short of war.

And not any mere war of blades and the dance of life and death ending in victory or demise.  Rather it was a war against enemies closing in from every direction, their envy and rage like fiery lashes upon his bare flesh, bearing down upon him, searching for any chink in his armor.  For a single exposed weakness to exploit.  A war against the sultry eyes of the smirking Lieutenant and the narrowed, sneering glares of the Balrogs.

They were waiting for one slip.  They only needed one chance to rip him to shreds.

It was a war for survival.  To stop his body from flinching at the slightest brush of fingers across his back or throat or cheek when he sat like a dog chained to his master's throne.  To never shudder in revulsion at the slimy, tainted feel of his master's essence brushing up against his soul when they lay together in the dark.  To sit still like a pretty doll, more naked than covered, and play to the every whim of that red-eyed fiend as though he enjoyed his place.  Enjoyed the rape and the humiliation and the torture.

The nights were the worst.  Every time he reached out to touch that blackened flesh, a small part of his spirit died, consumed in utter disgust and contempt.  Every time they joined, he thought he might die of the shame and tried to think of anything else but entwined bodies and rancid breath washing over his face.

Sometimes he just wanted to scream and cry and slit his own throat.  Spill his blood across the sheets and the floor.

But he just closed his eyes and moaned louder.  Pleaded and keened and begged for more.

Sickening... like a festering disease taken up within the cage of his body and mind...

Until, little by little, the pain went away...

But it war he continued to fight.  Angaráto could never have done it for himself alone; long since would he have curled up in a puddle of his own blood and died for the horror of this waking nightmare.  Little was worth sitting chained at the feet of the Black Enemy.

But he continued for his people.

Every moment was dangerous.  Every movement and word a calculated blow.  Every kiss and caress he bestowed upon shriveled, blackened flesh.  Every crooning, sultry whisper in the Dark Lord's ear.  They were all part of the cautious, reckless dance.

One wrong move in that dance of life and death, and Angaráto knew he was finished.

It was worth the danger to be able to capture that attention.  To see those fascinated scarlet orbs looking upon his face, fixated and riveted.  To be able to wrap his arms intimately around the Dark Lord's neck and hiss lies and rumors dipped in poison to willing ears.  To manipulate and twist and turn and wrench until the timeline of events was bent to his personal tune, until the world seemed to dance upon his strings.

"What has he done to deserve such a fine reward, master, but fail thee at every turn?"

No more were elves handed out like candies to any servant with a particularly sweet tooth.  No more were they worked to starvation, for they were useless if they were dead or crippled beyond repair.  No more did the orcs have free reign to rape and pillage and torment as they pleased for sport.

All it took was one stray comment... One little whisper in the wracking agony after coitus, lying against that burning hot body and forcing down the whimpers and the shudders and the bile rising in the back of his throat...

"Think of all the good that could be done if thou couldst just sway them to thy side... It would only take a little effort..."

"They would see what I see in thee, my master.  They would bow down before thy feet and follow thee willingly, loyally to the death.  And they would crush any who stood in thy way..."

Bit by bit he poked and prodded until his master gave in and indulged his words between scalding kisses and bouts of violent mating.  And it was dangerous.  With every radical suggestion, Angaráto held his breath and waited for the death blow to fall.  Waited for one of those powerful, bruising hands to crush his skull for his insubordinate behavior.

Yet, somehow, always those eyes remained riveted and fascinated upon his form.  Desiring.  Looking upon him the same way eyes looked upon the Silmarilli.  Like a treasure to be grasped and coveted and locked away.

It was a powerful weapon--a sword to strike and shield to protect.  And the prince did not waste.

Angaráto would protect his people for as long as he could with any advantage that he could scavenge in this hell, even putting his own wellbeing between them and the enemy's merciless clutches.  Taking the blows meant for those floundering beneath the weight of their suffering, slowly fading, giving up the never-ending fight to claw through another day.

He would hear his master chuckle, a low, raspy sound that vibrated through his very bones.  Sinister and filled with sadistic glee.  And he would feel the hands close around his body, squeezing nearly to breaking, leaving him in pain and fear...

And he would close his eyes and think of them.  The slaves he had been forced to kill to save from their imminent deaths.  The thralls tormented to madness in the dark.

If it would make their pitiful lives easier...

Even if in the end it was futile...

He would not yield.  He would fight until the end came upon him, and even then struggle to hold back the enemy.  To live another day to carry out his work...

The prince could not help but pray that something came of the disgusting sin and repulsive wickedness.  Of the moments in the dark when the pain turned to flashing pleasure, and the long minutes in the aftermath when he felt his soul wracked with guilt and horror.  When all he wished to do was weep, but his eyes remained dry and detached.

Am I doing right?  Or am I just as much of a monster...?

But he would push the thoughts away, lock them outside in the cold and pull tight the blinds over the barricaded windows to his soul.  In this game, there was no time or allowance for hesitation.  No room for regret.

Even if he fought like a spy and a traitor.  Side-by-side with the enemy.

He could not help but hope that, when he finally was taken to be judged in the Halls of the Waiting, he would be able to stand tall and proud as a prince and as a man.

As a warrior.  Defeated upon the field of battle, but a victor at the end of the game.

Something still pure in a cruel world that existed only to stamp out what little light it held within its weak grasp.
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Yeah.  I felt like it today.  That's all.  Honestly, it was going to end up being angst no matter what I wrote about, but I had another idea that fit another prompt for later and decided to go with that instead of trying to find another prompt for this idea, which has been on hiatus for quite some time.  Anyway...

I had originally intended for it to actually take a more Sauron x Angrod turn than Morgoth x Angrod, but it ran away with me like it always does.  Idk, maybe they will become unwillingly closer.  Or, at least, Angrod will feel sympathy pangs.  Sauron is probably just laughing at his efforts and thinking about what it would be like to smear his blood all over the floor.  That, or how good of a lay he must be.  In any case, it just didn't happen like I planned, which is not unusual at all.

The song for today is in Japanese and I don't actually know what it means, but it can be inferred rather easily from the images that go along with the song (and partially prompted this prompt, predictably).  Fake or Fate? is a Vocaloid song "sung" by Megurine Luka and composed (assumably) by maya, according to the video and the notes.  In any case, it just clicked.  I'm not a huge fan of Vocaloid stuff (because it sounds so fake), but sometimes songs just work out despite.  Anyway, it fit, so there LOL.

Enjoy my angst.  There will probably be a lot this semester.