Stuck! by annarobots  

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Stuck!

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Considering the circumstances, Indis was maintaining her composure, she thought.  She was hot, sweating, and covered in soot, but she would cling to her dignity even if it took everything she had. 

Someone was going to have to help her out of this mess. 

And if Fëanáro had to be the one to rescue her, she dreaded what he would say, as there was little doubt he would find a way to humiliate her. 

---

Despite years in residence, Indis had yet to feel truly at home in the palace.  Certainly, she had Finwë’s love.  And that of the children, such delights, one well into mischievous toddlerhood, the other, still so tiny, she could hold him in the crook of an arm.  But the role of Queen of the Noldor remained just beyond her full grasp.  Indis had understood the ways of her own people: poetry, prayer, dance.  So, too, did she understand the rituals demanded of her as Queen, and she was happy to appear at Finwë’s side when he called upon her, and fade into the background when he did not. 

Her true deficiency was that she lacked a craft.  Though few dared to say it aloud, she knew the Noldor’s estimation of her would never reach that of Míriel Serinde.  They looked upon Indis with curiosity, even affection, yes, and, to be sure, gratitude for returning Light to their King, for bringing more children into the palace at long last.  But they looked not with admiration upon Indis herself.  Not she who could wield no needle, no hammer, no chisel, brush, or pen.   

And there was the problem of Míriel’s son, who clung to his own implacable resentments.   

It had not always been so.  Indis could still recall, with perfect, painful clarity, the first time she and Fëanáro had crossed paths.  She had come upon the young prince quite unexpectedly, surprising him where he lay quietly sobbing in the field outside Lórien.  She knew him at once, from the echo of Finwë in the line of his brow, his lovely face.  It seemed he had run from the forest and flung himself upon the ground in sorrow.   

Indis loved children, and she knew how to approach one in pain.  She did not try and talk to Fëanáro, nor come too near.  She simply sat within his sight and began to make chains out of the sweet woodruff flowers growing in the damp grass. 

Little Fëanáro watched her with growing interest, his sobs gradually diminishing as he crept closer, and closer.   

Before long, he sat himself beside her, watching her hands as she looped and tied the little flowers together into the chain.  He joined in silently, and so they worked together, side-by-side for hours, looping the chain around each other’s necks and wrists as it grew longer and longer. 

When Finwë emerged from the forest to find them, Fëanáro’s tears had dried.  Finwë watched, a slow smile cracking his lovely face.  Indis caught his gaze, and the affection she saw within set to bloom a seed of hope in her own heart. 

That was the first and last day that she and Fëanáro shared a moment of softness.  For as soon as Finwë began to court her in earnest, Fëanáro’s grief for his own mother transformed into hatred for Indis, and there was nothing she could do to make it otherwise.  

“Fëanáro will come to accept you in his own time,” Finwë had reassured her, and so she waited, patient and undemanding.   

But time did not bring Fëanáro acceptance, and in fact, during his adolescence, he devoted himself to humiliating her.  He ridiculed her speech at dinner.  He stole her letters, written in her laborious, childlike hand, and held them up side-by-side to his own beautiful calligraphy.  He published pamphlets under the pretense of anonymity, but their authorship obvious to any who knew Fëanáro, as they dripped with mockery of Indis’s accent, critiques of the Vanyarization of their city, hand-wringing about the dangers of losing their Noldorin identity.  Indis, to her embarrassment, did not even realize, at first, that the pamphlets were meant to diminish her personally.  She had read them with swelling pride in Finwë’s brilliant, remarkable son.  A lady-in-waiting had pulled her aside to explain the attacks on her, veiled as they were in wordplay and pseudo-courtesy. 

After that, she withdrew her attempts to mother Fëanáro.  She would have settled for cool coexistence, if not for Finwë.  Indis knew, if she did not come to an accord of at least friendship with Fëanáro, he would, inevitably, drive a wedge between her and her husband.  It was simply a matter of time. 

Indis had hoped, naively, that the babies might serve as a bridge.  Surely a young man who was once a lonely child might be charmed by a sister, a brother?  She watched with hope in her heart when Finwë placed the first babe in Fëanáro’s arms.  By the time Findis was born, Fëanáro had reached his full height, though not his full breadth; that would come a few years later.  Fëanáro was beautiful, all glossy black hair and fine features, looking so like young Finwë before he belonged to Indis.  His piercing grey eyes were an exact match to his father’s, his fair face a soft and lovely echo, when not twisted in hatred. 

Yet that same elegant face looked on his sister with utter blankness, and later, on his brother with poorly hidden animosity.  No, there would be no knitting together of these souls through mere proximity and shared blood.   

Indis knew that if she and Fëanáro were ever to reach an accord, it would have to be of her own initiative. 

So.  That was why she went out to the forge in the first place, to attempt an accord.  She had crafted him a small offering, nothing of consequence to a Noldo, but within her clumsy capacity.  Remembering that first, tender meeting, Indis had returned to the fields outside Lórien, hand-picked an apronful of sweet woodruff flowers, and infused half of it into an oil and dried the rest over her hearth.  She tied the dried flowers into a soft pouch made from an old gown.  And she looped one hundred more flowers into a chain, which she arranged in a basket along with the oil and sachet.   

Indis felt silly, adolescent even, looking at the wicker basket.  As though a childish gift like this would sway a man with a will like Fëanáro’s. 

Still, she had to try.  For her children. 

When she arrived at the forge, it was empty. 

Empty, and filthy.  The coals in the hearth yet glowed, issuing forth smoke throughout.  Forge-tools lay scattered, and a thick residue of soot coated every surface.  Gems glittered from random places on the workbenches and the floor.  Someone had been here recently, hard at work, by the look of things, but had not cleaned up after himself.   

Indis immediately recognized she had been remiss in her duties.  As lady of the house, directing the household staff in cleaning was her domain.  She had, until now, entirely neglected the forge. 

Well.  She could make up for it now. 

Indis wiped down the workbench surface, using a few drops of her scented oil.  She set the gems in order.  She tried to organize the tools by size.  She thought of Fëanáro using them, in the grip of his strong hands, and imagined how he would like them best arranged.  He was taller than she, could easily reach above the span of her own arms.  Yes, that was correct—she found a series of hooks high along the wall, and hung the tools up.  She found a broom, swept the floor as clean of soot as she could. 

She would be sure to instruct the staff to keep it well-maintained going forward.  Even Fëanáro might appreciate such an effort, though she doubted he would admit it out loud. 

Indis, Vanya through and through, was yet unfamiliar with the works of the forge, however, and she foolishly picked up a set of still-hot tongs that nearly burnt her hands, before she let them clatter to the floor.  She swore and looked around for something to cool them.  A quenching barrel?  Wasn’t that what the smiths would use? 

She located the barrel near the back door.  Regrettably, it had already been emptied of its cooling water, leaving just a puddle of questionable residue, blackened and crusty, and an awful, acrid smell.  She considered refilling it but realized it would take far too many trips to the well.  The barrel was huge, just above waist-height, and wide, though it narrowed toward the base.   

And it was absolutely foul. 

She forgot about the hot tongs, and instead swiped at the quenching barrel with her rag, trying to remove the dried sludge.  It was slow going.  She found a flat-edged chisel, which was more effective at removing the clumps of ash and carbon, the crusted mineral scale.  She kept at it, scraping and swiping, chisel and rag, around the uppermost inner rim of the barrel, but the worst of it was lower down. 

Well, Indis was no stranger to hard work.  She removed her over-robe, hitched up her skirts, tied up her hair, and leaned in.  As she scrubbed, she realized she was getting soot on herself faster than she was removing it from the barrel.  The filth seemed only to multiply and spread, seeping onto her under-gown, her hands and arms, rubbing onto her face when she wiped her brow.  Rivulets of sweat mixed with the soot and ran down her body, sliding down between her breasts to her belly and thighs.   

The more she scrubbed, the hotter she became.  Why was she doing this, anyway?  Would Fëanáro even notice?  She scrubbed harder, reaching down deeper.  She stood on her tip-toes and then raised a leg, bracing it on the outside so she could reach even deeper inside. 

And that was her mistake. 

With dawning horror, she realized that the barrel, wide and open at the top, was studded along the interior with rivets as it narrowed toward the base.   

Rivets that, if one slipped inside just a bit too far, would snag on one’s clothing, trapping one’s head and arms in the lower half of the barrel, leaving one unable to free oneself without entirely ripping off one’s gown. 

And she tried, truly, to extract herself.  She wriggled, she squirmed, she twisted, but could not reach the place where she was caught.  Her other hand was braced on the interior ledge inside the barrel, holding up her weight.  If she let go, she’d fall all the way in, headfirst.  As it was, she was half-in, half-out, bent over at the waist like a goose with its head in the pond, one foot straining to reach the ground, the other dangling with no purchase. 

She could not go deeper.  She could not get herself out. 

Indis was well and truly stuck. 

Her skirts, which she had tucked up for practicality, now felt ridiculous, exposing her thighs.  She could feel the heat emanating from the glowing coals on the hearth against her legs.  She knew, even as she tried calling out for help, that it was no use.  The forge was set far away from the main household.  She tried reaching out to Finwë with ósanwë, but he was away in Alqualondë for the day, consulting with Olwë, and far out of range.  

She realized, with growing humiliation, that all she could do was wait.  Someone would eventually realize she was missing and come looking.   

That would take hours.  Possibly all day. 

Perhaps before anyone thought to look for her, Fëanáro would first return to his forge, ready to resume work. 

Indis’s heart beat faster at the thought. 

---

When Fëanáro entered, it smelled wrong. 

It wasn’t just the usual metallic tang of iron and smoke.   

No, it was the sweet, floral scent of Finwë’s wife.  It was unmistakable, the whole palace had reeked of it ever since she moved in.  Now he smelt it here.  In his forge!  The one place he had managed to keep free of her creeping influence. 

Heat crawled up the back of Fëanáro’s neck.  Cornered and off-balance, he felt his nostrils flare. 

As he surveyed the space, he saw disorder everywhere.  A pair of tongs abandoned on the floor, punches and chisels arranged oddly, work surfaces hastily cleared off and in-progress projects set carelessly to the side.   

Then he saw the most inexplicable, incongruous sight of all. 

It looked as though she was being eaten headfirst.  A pair of legs, suspended over the side of his quenching barrel, ending in delicate, feminine feet.  A woman, bent over at the hips, ass in the air, hardly covered by a sheer silk under-gown, skirts bunched up under the thighs where they were caught against the barrel.   

It was her.  He knew by the smell of her, the curve of her legs. 

Indis seemed to hear the step of his boots on the floor, as she tried to push herself up.  But Fëanáro could see, she had no leverage.  She slipped and fell back into the barrel headfirst, heaving a dramatic sigh. 

“Fëanáro?” she called out in a small voice.   

Acting as though she was mortified. 

“Please.  Can you help me?” 

Fëanáro laughed, and it came out hard as iron.  Aside from the laugh, he ignored her. 

She was a stupid fool, stuck in a stupid, foolish situation.  She could wait a little longer.  

Instead of approaching, he slowly, deliberately walked through the forge, his heels echoing.  He loudly narrated his actions as he began the task of returning his belongings to their proper place, knowing that the woman could hear him.   

“Ruining everything she touches, as usual,” he complained. “One might think that trespassing would be bad enough.  No, she must make her presence known, so that there is no confusion, who sabotaged my work.” 

She put pieces of herself everywhere, in Tirion, the very air.  His father. 

Now, here, too. 

“Are you pleased with yourself?” he asked, setting the last tool back into place. 

“Oh, are you speaking to me now?” she replied.  From within the barrel, her voice was muffled, but her tone was clear: angry, and more than a little imperious bravado covering up her fear. 

He scented it on the air like a wolf. 

“Quite uncomfortable in there, isn’t it?  One might wonder if ruining my forge is really worth the trouble, or if you’ve miscalculated.” 

“This wasn’t a miscalculation, Fëanáro.  I meant only to tidy up, and fell.  I need help.” 

Fëanáro felt a warm flood of pleasure at forcing her to admit it.   

“Surely, you’re not actually so stupid as to think what you’ve done is helpful.” 

Indis didn’t answer. 

Fëanáro stepped closer, considering.  “You couldn’t have done this out of anything but hate for me,” he said quietly.  “How else to explain it?  Tell me the truth.” 

“I wanted to help,” she said stubbornly.  “I have only ever wanted your love.” 

His heart seized up as a rush of something he couldn’t name filled his veins.  “Stop lying!  Stop it, you vixen!” 

She must have heard desperation in his voice, for she grasped onto it.  “I have never lied to you, child.  You are dearest to Finwë who is dearest to me.  I only wish to love you as a mother should,” she said softly. 

“Liar!  Deceiver!  Agent of deception, foul creature.” 

Indis only repeated her claim of desire to unite their family, the King and Crown Prince united in love for their Queen.   

She sickened him.  More tricks.  He saw through Indis, she who had feigned friendship with his mother for years, only to swoop in upon her death and seduce the grieving widower. 

“You hate me,” Fëanáro said.  “You’ve always hated me, because I am proof that Finwë loved another, first, and better.” 

“How could I hate you?  Oh, Fëanáro.  Curufinwë.  So like him, you are.  Please, I am in need of you.” 

Still lying, even now!  Fëanáro knew he had been awful to her for years, taking every opportunity to humiliate her.  What room could she have in her heart for anything else?   

Why else would she be here at all, ass and thighs on display, helpless? 

That was when Indis began to beg.  “Please, Fëanáro.  I’m quite uncomfortable now,” she said, squirming.  “My head is aching.  Please, have pity.  Please.  I’m at your mercy.”  Her breaths sound pained, panting and labored, her lungs perhaps compressed due to her position. 

She was, indeed, at his mercy. 

He circled her like a bone vulture. 

Perhaps— 

“Say you’re sorry,” Fëanáro ordered. 

“I am sorry,” Indis said immediately. 

Too easy.  It wasn’t enough.  He was yet unsatisfied, hairs prickling on his arms, warm anger raging in his belly and curling his fingers.   

“What are you sorry for?” he growled. 

Indis stilled as she heard him circling closer.  “I don’t know what you want me to say.” 

“Of course!  Because you lack shame for all of it!  You’re a liar, you always have been, you wench, you vamp, you manipulative shrew.” 

“I’m sorry, I am, I am so sorry,” Indis said in a rush.  At least she seemed to grasp the precarity of her situation, now.  “I know I messed up your forge.  I meant only to help, it looked so dirty, and I thought you might enjoy the touch of the lady of the house.” 

“Stop it, you thought no such thing.” 

“I did, I did,” Indis said, her voice beginning to break. 

“What else are you sorry for?” 

“Fëanáro, I don’t…” 

He stepped away, loudly, so she could hear him retreating. 

“Fine!  Please don’t leave me here.  I… oh, I’m… I’m sorry for your mother.  She was my friend, too, and I miss her.  I never meant to take her place.” 

“Shut up, stop lying!” 

Indis did not stop.  “I’m sorry I fell in love with your father to begin with.  I could not help the turn of my heart.” 

Everything she said, instead of quenching the fire inside Fëanáro, simply fed it, until he burned ever hotter, the knot of rage twisting and turning inside him.  He rushed at her, slamming his hands on the iron rim of the barrel on either side of her outstretched legs.  She flinched, frightened, spiking Fëanáro’s pleasure, to cause her to react so. 

“You aren’t in love with him,” he spat.  “You never were.  You just wanted his authority, his prestige, his power to rub off on you.” 

Fëanáro could hear quiet sobs from inside the barrel.  Her cries sounded sweet to his ears.  Yet her suffering, such as it was, still didn’t feel like enough. 

---

Indis had grown weary of Fëanáro’s games.   

Happily, he, too, seemed to have tired, as he promised, at last, he would help her. 

“Thank you, Fëanáro,” she said, relaxing and softening.  He had to be ready to get back to work, had to want her out of his space by now.  She would go, and they would never speak of this again.  Her belly felt sore where it pressed over the rim of the barrel, her head was aching and hot from being upside down for so long, and her arms and legs strained with the effort of trying to get out, though of course, she had long since realized it was futile. 

She heard Fëanáro walk away, then return, and felt something slick and viscous drip down her sides, down to where her dress was snagged on the rivet.  It smelled of forge-oil.   

“Fëanáro?” 

Then Indis felt his fingers drift along the edge of her gown where it was rucked up around her thighs. 

A chill rippled through her body.   

“Why did you put on this act?” Fëanáro said in a low voice, playing with the fabric, slipping his fingers underneath.  “Why did you come all the way out, just here to pretend?” 

“I’ve told you, I’ve told you the truth,” she said, stumbling over her words as his fingers slid all the way under her gown onto the meat of her thigh and grasping at it.  “I leant in too far, I fell, and I got stuck.  That’s the truth of it.  Nothing more.” 

Did she hesitate too long before she answered? 

Fëanáro certainly seemed to think so.  He laughed, hard and disbelieving, and began to caress her thighs in earnest with both hands.  He said: “But if you were really here to clean like a maid, why wear the whorish perfume?  Why these fine skirts?”   

And with that, he shoved her skirts fully up past her waist.   

She wore underclothes, thankfully.   

But then Fëanáro turned that into evil, too: “Such delicate, lacy, pretty underthings—you wanted me to see them, did you not?” 

He cupped her ass, kneading the flesh there, the heat of his hands pressing through the lace like a brand.  The strength that the blacksmith’s forge had given him was evident in his grip, though the skin of his palms remained soft. 

“You’ve always baited me with this body,” Fëanáro murmured, sliding his hands all around, dragging the lace against her skin with aching slowness.  “The gown you wore at your engagement, hugging you like a glove.  Did you think I would not remember?” 

Indis gasped, recalling the gown, but no, no, she did not think of him at all, he was but a boy then— 

“You offered your arms to me as comfort, you tried to hold me to your breast.  Those great pillows, what was I to think?  Were you this depraved even then?  Wished you to ignite in me a desire for you, a replacement mother, yet offering only temptation in place of sustenance?” 

He leaned in, running his hands up her back and down her sides, before returning roughly to her ass and thighs.  “And at every festival and ball, you danced with my father but looked always to me!” 

“Only to ensure you remained pleased with your company,” she choked, “Courtiers crawling all around you, it seemed so much for a young boy—how could you twist it so?” 

“And my formal debut,” he continued, ignoring her.  “The dressmaker said your instructions were so precise, this color, that fabric, to show me off.  I wonder, Queen,” his voice dripping with venom, “How much did you enjoy dressing me like a doll, parading me in front of all the young ladies of Tirion, as a stallion at stud?  You relished the opportunity to stare openly, did you not?” 

No, no, Fëanáro was distorting everything.  She had never looked at him that way when he was still a child.  When his body grew taller, stronger—she could not deny that she noticed his beauty, after all, was he not famously the fairest of all Eldar?  And yes, at his debut, she did stare.  As did they all!  Fëanáro, mantled in red and orange flowers like fire, gold and jewels adorning his ears, his nose and brows, and atop it all, the crown of red rubies, copper-and-gold filagree, and white sparkling gems he had crafted himself.  Certainly, his beauty had struck her like a great wave, and she had clung to Finwë to keep her balance.  He had looked like a Vala incarnate in the body of an Elda, impossibly luminous.  But no—no—it had not been what he was implying!  It could not have been! 

“You’ve always lusted for me,” he said conversationally. 

Then—shockingly—Fëanáro pressed himself against her.   

Indis felt his hardness through the layers of clothing between them, and her breath hitched. 

Fëanáro noticed. 

“You can admit it,” he said, and then he hooked two fingers into her undergarments and drew them down to her ankles. 

Indis cried out. 

Fëanáro pressed himself on her again, this time, only his own leggings forming a barrier.  And despite herself, Indis felt her skin begin to sing with the pleasure of it.  Damn him. 

It had been so long since she had last been touched.  When she was with child, Finwë was ever so gentle, happily chaste for the year of pregnancy, and beyond.  Even the effort to conceive the second child took more than she might have liked, as Finwë remained terribly afraid to damage her, not wanting to risk using up her spirit.  And when he finally had taken her to bed again, he was sweet, careful, nothing like the powerful man who had so hungered for her, he was willing to face the Valar.   

And now, after the birth of Arakáno, Finwë gave her a soft good-night kiss each evening before departing to his own rooms to sleep.  Leaving her alone, in her great white bed, with only her own hands for release. 

Indis had always been like this: eager for the pleasures of the flesh beyond what was proper for a lady of the Vanyar or a Noldorin queen.  She could not help it.  She had wanted Finwë from the moment she had first seen him, sparking a throbbing emptiness between her thighs that could not be satisfied with her own fingers or the handle of a hairbrush.  The day the Valar decreed that she and Finwë were allowed to marry, and he took her, fucked her, filled her up inside, nothing had ever felt so right.  She had been insatiable, demanding he take her every which way, on her back, on her stomach, seated like a king while she rode him like a stallion, insisting he remain hard, not allowing him to climax or withdraw until she had taken her bliss several times over. 

And right now, in the presence of Finwë’s son, as he rutted on her, reminding her of the warmth of a thick cock, she felt desperate, aching, breathless with desire.  All her nerves were set alight, demanding again, to have something inside her, something raw and alive and hard.   

But who she wanted was her husband, not his son, she reminded herself.  She wanted Finwë, her lord King.  Finwë, who had not touched her as she desired in years.  

And yet here and now, when she was pinned, defenseless, it was not Finwë, but Fëanáro who raised his hand and brought it down on her ass with a smack.  

It was delightful. 

She wished, momentarily, that the slap had truly hurt, for then she might have been able to deny him.  No, the truth was, it stung in just the way she liked, as Finwë would never have dreamed.  Finwë had never struck her.  Finwë was gentle, all soft caresses and breathless promises.  That was what she was supposed to want.  How a Queen was meant to desire: out of love, to make children, to solidify the divine marital bond with blessed union of body and spirit.   

Not this—cruel, helpless, and delicious. 

“Why aren’t you calling for help?” Fëanáro taunted.  “If you wanted me to keep stop, wouldn’t you cry out?  Call for someone, anyone, to come and save you?”  He slapped her again, in the same spot, and she jerked in response.  He leaned in closer, lowering his voice to a near whisper.  “Your lack of protest would be enough to prove your desire—were I unable to see you dripping from here.” 

Surely, she could not—this could not be— 

Indis said, a final, desperate claim: “No, I do not desire this!  Not from you!  Not like this.” 

She almost believed herself. 

---

Not like this, she said.   

“Oh?  Then how?” Fëanáro asked.  He ceased slapping, and ground his hips against Indis again.  He felt the front of his leggings soaking up her arousal.  It was incredible, how wanton she was.  He was growing harder and harder by the minute; though she disgusted him, he could not deny the heady effect of the combination of her weak protests and lewd wiggles. 

Indis was visibly in discomfort from her strained position.  Yet Fëanáro could plainly see and feel that her objections were for show only.  With every thrust of his hips, she moaned and pushed back in a way that signified desire, not rejection.  He wondered how far he could push her.  What would she do if…  

He reached around and put his hand on her mound, slipping two fingers down lower.  She wriggled harder, falling beyond speech, beyond reason. 

“Shh, shh,” Fëanáro said, mock-kindly.  He rubbed one hand on her lower back in pretense of comfort.  “I’ll give you what you need.” 

The air was thick with her need, he could smell it, over the iron and soot and smoke of the forge and the sickly-sweet floral of her perfume.  He grabbed her hip with one hand, bringing her ass flush against his hard cock one more time, then with the other, probed further inside her, first teasing around her hole, slowly spreading her wetness around. 

“You want me inside you,” he whispered, stroking his finger around her entrance, feather-light.  By all the Valar, she was so wet.   

He pushed his index finger in, just the tip of it, past the nail but no farther, and she wailed.  Pure pleasure, he thought with cruel satisfaction, and proceeded to shove in the rest of the way, till the palm of his hand rocked against her, one finger deep inside.  He thrust with his hips as he thrust with the finger, reveling in the strangled sounds of her want, as she yielded to him, giving up all restraint.  She thrashed, and he thrilled at it.   

Fëanáro was in danger of enjoying himself.  He looked down and watched the golden skin of her ass rippling as she bounced back on him, his erection straining the lacings of his leggings as it strove to break free and breach her.  Her body had abandoned the show of objection, revealing the pleasure she was ready to take with him, yet the sounds she made, those remained conflicted.  Soft whimpers and cries, dropping low as though she did not want him to hear.   

Perhaps she was still denying to herself how much she wanted him.   

Perhaps he needed to work harder to get her to admit it. 

He withdrew his finger entirely, then penetrated her again with two, this time, her inner walls stretching as he pushed inside.  He ground his palm against her, slipping the two fingers deeper and then retreating, in and out, feeling the clench and pull of her body as her pleasure built higher, and higher.  Then three fingers, splitting her open, the first sensation of resistance inside her body as he shoved them inside, reaching for her deepest places.  She stopped bouncing for a moment, freezing up as his fingers made their way in, but only for a moment, and then he felt that resistance give way, loosening, as she accepted, no, encouraged the intrusion, resuming her thrusts and gasps of pleasure. 

His cock was enjoying this too much.  He shifted himself to the side, so that he was no longer receiving direct stimulation, and delighted in her whimper of complaint. 

“I know, I know,” he soothed.  He petted her cheek with his free hand, then dug in with his nails, causing her to hiss. 

With his thumb, he grazed her asshole. 

That merited a shriek, and a full-body clench. 

“Oh, so that’s the one hole you aren’t willing to use to get what you want, is it?” he asked, circling the pucker with his thumb.  He contemplated sticking it in.  Oh, how she would scream. 

Ultimately, he decided against it.  He withdrew both hands and dropped to his knees instead. 

She was truly disgusting.  She wailed at the removal of his hands from her, only to screech harder when he licked her up and down with the flat of his tongue.  He could see everything from this angle, and picked her up by the thighs with his strong arms so he could angle her towards him and reach everything he wanted.  In so doing, she lost any last shred of leverage she had retained, her feet now dangling with no support, no traction, nothing they could do but kick up into the air.  She could only twitch in ecstasy.   

Indis was completely at his mercy.  He could push her headfirst all the way into the tub, if he wanted, and she would never be able to get out on her own.  She could rot in there, for all he cared. 

Instead, he spat and swore and told her she repulsed him, such a vile slut, a dirty whore, all of the terrible things he had always dreamed of saying to her face.  Saying them instead to her wet, pink pussy was giving him unimaginable satisfaction.  He was hard, yes—not out of desire for the woman—he would never—but as proof of the rightness of his domination of her.   

“You’re making such a mess of things,” he growled into her cunt, his spit and her moisture mixing and dripping down onto the floor of his forge.  His sooty, dirty forge, which was never meant to be clean in the first place.  The forge was dirty, he was dirty, and now, Finwë’s golden wife, the Vanya who had wormed into his home—she was dirty, too. 

Fëanáro let go of her thighs, to Indis’s wordless protests, stood back up, unable to restrain himself from unlacing his leggings, shoving them down, and taking out his dick.  He was harder than he could ever remember being in his life.   

He pressed against her again.  Indis screamed when she felt it, realizing he was fully exposed, his bare skin was against hers.  She whimpered. 

“Fëanáro, no,” she said, the first coherent words she had managed to speak in quite some time.  “We mustn’t, no.” 

Fëanáro could tell from the tone of her voice, she was still deceiving herself. 

He leaned down and said as much: “You need not lie anymore.  Your cunt tells me the truth of your desires.” 

He circled his hips.  “Tell me no again,” he said, his cock sliding between her folds. 

“Say no one more time, and I’ll remove myself.  I’ll help you out of this tub and we shall never speak of it again,” he said, reaching a hand down to play with her clit again. 

“All you must do is say it, Mother Indis.  Tell me you don’t want my cock inside you.  Tell me you haven’t curled your fingers against yourself dreaming of this.  Tell me that isn’t why you came here, that no part of you was wishing for this, for me to take you and make you mine.” 

Indis sobbed. 

“Tell me to stop.  Tell me not to fuck you, and I won’t.” 

She did not. 

And she let out a loud, heaving cry of utter need and despair.  “You’re evil, you’re an awful boy.  Why are you always so cruel to me?” 

“Because, Mother,” Fëanáro’s voice dripped with venom, “I could see through you all along.  I knew you had this gaping wound inside you, nasty, base woman.  You’ve always wanted me.  You want me to stick it inside and spill my seed in you.  You want me to make you scream.” 

Oh, but she again did not deny it, could not.  She was so hot and needy for him. 

For a moment, Fëanáro considered it.  He could do it.  It would be easy.  She was so slippery, so wet, he would just ease right in.  It wouldn’t take anything at all, just a slight change of the angle, a little push.  He would not be forcing her.  He had the head of his cock right at her entrance and felt her need pulling at him, almost demanding he enter her, take her for his own. 

It dawned upon him, too, he could entirely get away with it.  Indis was already married, after all—damn all the Valar for that—and fucking her would not bind him to her.  He would remain free.  Only she and he would know that his flesh had united to hers, that he had marked her with his spend. 

Fëanáro rubbed his dick against her again, sliding it between the wetness of her lips.  Fuck, but she felt good.  He was losing his mind, considering this.  Wasn’t he? 

He played with her clit with his fingers as he teased her entrance with his cockhead.  His balls were growing tight, aching with the need to release, his thighs straining with the effort of not thrusting into her, shaking from the restraint.   

Perhaps he could put it in, just a little bit.  Just the tip, just to see how it felt.  What could it hurt?    

He felt her seize and tighten as he stroked her, whispering filth. 

And then—she finally admitted it. 

“Please, Fëanáro,” she begged. 

“Please what?” he teased, circling his hips.  By all the Valar, she was absolutely dripping.   

“Please end this torture.” 

“How?  How should I end it?  What would please you?” 

“You know what I want,” she said, her voice defeated, miserable. 

“Yes, I do, foul creature, but I want to hear you say it.” 

He stopped moving, forced himself to freeze against her, holding his dick in his hand, just on the verge of breaching her, the second she asked.  She knew it.  He knew it. 

All she had to do was say it. 

Fëanáro stroked her clit once more and whispered that it was all right. 

And she broke. 

“Fuck me.  Stick it in me, Fëanáro, do it!” 

Ah.  Satisfaction. 

A shocking wave of loathing rolled over Fëanáro.  For a crazed splinter of a moment, he thought he would do it, he would shove forward and fill her up and spill in one long thrust.  He knew it would take no more than that, so close to the edge was he, and then he would force her to walk back to the palace with his seed dripping from her, proof of her debauchery.  He could show everyone, and they would see what she truly was.   

At the last possible moment, he retreated.  He withdrew his cock, took himself in hand, and in three jerks—her wetness all over him, sliding in his hand, disgusting—he ejaculated onto her lower back and ass, painting her with his spend.   

Fëanáro groaned, repulsed by himself and by her, still begging, forlorn, before him.   

He wanted to slap her.  He wanted to leave her there.  He wanted never to see her in his forge, in his palace, in his presence ever again.   

Her sobs of lust and deprivation did not move him. 

“Fëanáro?” she asked, low and hesitant. 

He looked around the forge, eyes settling on the row of implements where they hung on the wall.  

He walks away from Indis, leaving her where she was still stuck, half hanging out of the barrel, ass up, glistening with his seed. 

“Fëanáro?” she asked again as she heard him step away. 

He made his choice.  Removed it from the hook on the wall. 

Stepped back to Indis. 

And in one fluid movement, he penetrated her with the handle end of an iron hammer, stimulating her clit with his other hand, bringing her to a screaming, shuddering climax. 

---

Fëanáro released Indis from the quenching tub at last, lifting her by the hips and setting her down on the floor.  He removed the hammer from where it dangled inside of her.  It made a wet noise, slipping easily out like a fish.  She did not see where he set it aside.  She had the momentary, mad thought that it should probably be wiped down, and laughed harshly. 

Fëanáro did not meet her eyes. 

She could not recall ever feeling greater humiliation, heat and rage coursing through her body along with the aftershocks of blinding pleasure, and the delicious sting of that final violation.  Her face felt afire, her hair all askew.  Her gown was beyond redemption. 

She found her over-robe and put it on, tying it in place.  Smoothed her hands over the robe and set her skirts aright, though they were irrevocably ruined with soot and fluids.   

Fëanáro stood in place, looking at the glowing coals of the hearth, the hanging rack of tools, the floor, everywhere but at Indis herself. 

She saw his disgust, and knew.  It was not only for her.  Long had he loathed her, and she knew now, always would he, embedded as it was, deep inside his spirit.  She could never gain his friendship, nor his love. 

But she saw too, Fëanáro struck immobile by disgust in himself. 

And she knew its cause.  She knew where she could strike.  

“Fëanáro,” she said softly, her voice a caress.   

He met her gaze at last, suddenly looking like a boy again. 

“Fëanáro,” she said with tenderness.  “How could you do this to your father?” 

Fëanor’s proud face crumpled.  He collapsed, heaving, onto the workbench. 

She left him and looked not back. 

Yet the heat of his fingers inside, the wetness of his seed dripping down her ass, the shame and rapture of it all, she could not, nor did she wish to, shake from her memory, and for many long nights to follow, she would bring herself to release again, and again, at the thought of Fëanáro’s cruel hands.