#angbang fanfic

[saintstars]

A seduction of Mairon fanfic set in the Years of the Lamps and Almaren's golden age...Mairon and Melkor keep meeting and clashing during the Feast of Horns Festival

Rating: Explicit

sexual content, violence, blood, dubious consent, mutual maiming, enemies to enemies who fuck to married

Words: 30,282

Chapters: 17/17

Relationships: Melkor/Mairon, Eonwe/Mairon, Gothmog/Melkor, Gothmog/Eonwe, Osse/ Mairon, Osse/Uinen

read it now on ao3 sample under the cut

The third time he runs the hunt, Mairon grows great curving horns for himself and plays as hunter, waiting for the second sounding of Valaróma to launch after his prey. 

In time the Ainur will come to make plans with their desired partners but it is still early days and disordered revelry. Even so, Mairon has designs on Eönwë, noting the proud maia has draped his wings in golden chains. With the rules against flight he will likely be an easier target and it would be a delight to defeat the herald of Manwë himself and claim his favour. 

Mairon has learned from his past experiences too; those who seek to chase Yavanna’s host will quickly find themselves on the back foot in her own forests. His first Feast of Horns is most memorable for that lesson. 

Oromë sounds his horn again and Mairon takes off with the other hunters, noting the many fire maiar that have chosen this side of the chase. All the better to disorient their quarry. They fly like sparks, blazing into the greenery. 

Mairon burns bright with power to close the gap with the hunted, seeking out pale feathers in the light- rippled undergrowth. 

His fellow hunters slip ever further from view, each of them finding their own path. Tilion glimmers under every patch of light, his horns adorned with great swirls of silver. With all his adornments he is as likely to be confused for the hunted as the hunter. Mairon smiles to think of the kind of trouble he will soon find himself in. 

He is among the hunted now and cries ring out as hiding places are discovered and the chase becomes more intimate, more personal. He cannot see Eönwë anywhere around.

Mairon races on through the forest, scanning for his particular prey. He comes suddenly from shade into the light. 

A clearing, bright sky under the Lamps. Mairon turns his face into the unfiltered light, basking for a moment. Eönwë too would likely gravitate to the open spaces like this, rather than skulk in the cover of the trees. 

Mairon pauses, knowing more than simple speed is needed now. 

Movement flickers at the corner of his vision, and he gets the sense he is being watched. 

[perlen-gold]

Of Fairest Flame

Inspired by @melkors-defense-attorney and this post!

At Mairon’s heels the whole world was made of gold.

When he passed, even the black-oblivion, obsidian-sleek walls of Utumno lit brazen-bright. Pits of bonfires woke beneath the iced rocks, and gilded flame-tips licked at his limbs from the sheer walls of Angband, polished to hot embers and glowing coals in his presence.

Wherever he trod was the flame of his hair. However dark the night, its lustrous strands wove glowing rubies into the roaming night. Whatever darkness he summoned around him was pierced by the golden gaze of his eyes.

His shadow dissolved into a golden crown when his fairness shone forth, as he willed it to, as leaping water over steep stones and cleaving rocks.

And I saw him take it, this heated glow of his as he had taken the rising crown from my hands. Oh, I had stared at him, harder and deeper than any mountain flesh or gaping chasm. I could have struck him down, torn him asunder as easily as I called spitting heights and depths to my biding. And yet his flame never even flickered in my direction. Not even when, contemptuous, he took the gleaming jewels, heady with his disdain, from me. For my little flame did not shape mountains and chasms.

Gilded iron was his alloy and will his anvil.

It was beauty alone that Mairon shaped.

Patient, or as patient as I would, I watched him call forth in the forge the spearing splendor of my crown and the hideous shape of Orcs under the skies just as meticulously.

There is a fearsomeness in unpleasing appearance and Mairon knew it well. The dread Orcs inspire in the common man was of his design also-

So was the stronghold of Angband. A rock-hewn fortress of efficiency, warfare and secrecy, I never tired to wander its complexity, wondering and, with all my heart, occasionally longing to fell it just to see how Mairon would rebuild and recreate its terrible beauty all over again, though I never told him so. He knew anyway, of course, and kept his keen golden eye on me like a wolf guarding its prey.

Yes, ghastly they were, the creatures Mairon unleashed upon his foes, the heinous Orcs and gruesome goblins, mountain-trolls and blood-teethed wolves, swathed in the blinding darkness of my Balrogs and fire-drinking dragons.

Mairon, however, ceased to be fair in battle.

Oh, he could have seduced most of his adversaries, forced onto week knees with his sorcery many more and all the rest. But a cobra will not feed upon limp flesh, the cheetah must race, the falcon swoop to pierce the songbird onto its claw.

And so, with his flickering flame-smile, Sauron, as they called him, set a different trap entirely to spring.

The light upon his face was an uncanny ally of his.

Illuminating the finest of his bones to marble-cutting flawlessness.

Chiseled heights, darkness and light were there ought to be neither, glowing shades and whisper-gleaming rays of sunlight beneath a blackened sky.

His voice rang the air like silvered iron, mellifluous and haunting at once, as commanding as a furnace and as tender as a caressing hand, his laugh bright sunlit pearls and cruelly suffocating ashes.

At the dawn, on the shore of battle, the highest elven kings, fiercest queens and most spirited warriors rode for him without hesitation. Sauron, the cruel, they murmured stern-faced among them, and he was indeed wickeder than any Orc or Balrog of mine.

They set out and rode and stroke to earn their place facing him, swords held aloft, their steadfast resolve soaring to shield their people and beloved ones and let detested Morgoth’s lieutenant perish at last.

What they met utterly unnerved, unrooted, unhinged them.

Comeliness.

Handsomeness.

Fairness.

Pulchritude.

Beauty.

Those are mere words. Spoken tumbling winter-leaves struggling to paint a hail storm.

He was all and naught.

And more.

And more.

And more of it.

Both women and men trembled in mesmerized dread and eerie, bloodcurdling want, gaping upon him. Intoxicating pleasure rose in them when they first caught his eye. It was like pain to them.

 By then Marion’s battle-born strides would have become languid-long strolls. The few who still had any morsels of wit left about them tried to break away their eyes from the light-infused apparition frantically, searching for the malice of his mace, gripping their swords with their sweat-slippery fingers.

It always charmed him into the smallest, most dazzlingly curving smile. They almost never realized that to Mairon the sword tip’s deadly dance was just another art, another craft to master and shape.

The most valiant were always wild on their obedient horses to shoot like arrows at him.

Towards the end, they all fell, crawled, cursed, glowered, quivered under the tip of his iron-clad foot. I have always thought him nearly never more beautiful than when he coaxes his cruelty like a lover’s kiss before the bite.

Around them their friend’s torn faces and daughters’ and sons’ smeared lips, honeyed with crimson blossoms and singing gold flowers. The unnatural light painted the blood-gasping ground and changed their fallen comrade-in-arms’ gruesome wounds to crimson-cold brocade.

Mairon had them between his teeth till they died of bliss and horror alike.

Until they sighed and shrieked and moaned and wept.

 “You are Sauron,” they would utter, staring, accusing, spitting at him.

Oh, yes, Mairon said. Smiled. Oh, yes, yes.

Sometimes the very young ones, well-trained boys and girls, would beg him then. Then, Mairon’s rose-soft, velvet-curling lips smiled even more beautiful.

Around him the thrusting, piercing, blood-lilting, iron-soaked air was limned with gold. In this pause, this endless biding of time against the grey-spraying portrait of misting blood and blooming battle, he liked to pull off his helmet at last. Slow and delicately this one, rapidly in a great sweeping arch the other time.

It is the last thing they always see.

The reaching length of his hair curling into fire-lit waves of gleaming water ripples, his sun-shaming light pouring as endless waterfalls.

The pinkish tip of his tongue a glimpse between his curving, gold-dusted lips in the moment of his kill.

In the blink of a startled eye, Mairon’s beauty rippled into a haunting, living, wraith-like phantom.

The high-browed elven lord’s eyes always widened and their lips spit on the ground before his last smile.

Before he opened them as ripe figs bursting on touch.

When I came forth from my fortress, the ground shook with satisfying anticipation and a rumble swept through our armies, his and mine, mine and his, ours and theirs. As I stepped forward without forewarning, the roiling battle was surging under Mairon’s sway as usual.

A draught of wind … I could listen to the softness of Mairon’s petal-perfect skin in it. I could savor the unnatural shadows illuminating his brow and cheekbones whispering across his features and taste the lashing of his hair in my mouth, scarlet-sizzling as coals. On his flaming head his crown – for it was more iron crown than helmet – was a smooth black somehow enlightening the flawlessness of his features even more. His iron-slinking armor, sharp as curving wolf teeth, clung to the virtue of his shape. His fiery hair, tamed in the forge only, was afly like shimmering birds. I saw it whip through the air as Mairon turned abruptly around even before the roaring Orcs next to me blinked at my sudden presence.

At once, I saw the flare in him bright as sunlit gemstones as I set foot on the battle field, his intricate thoughts shooting like spider’s webs into a myriad of calculations at once.

The mind of any other Vala and their servants are like lily-bedded ponds. Deep their water runs but slow, and the pebble thrown barely bounces across the surface. The ripples are soon gone.

Mairon’s mind, however, darted like fire prancing, dazzling to watch its hundred and thousand swift flickers.

I seldom partook in battle and, oh, hard it was becoming already to stifle my laughter.

Promptly, I could see his clever embers stirred in their battle-focused ash-bed, swiftly and instantaneously.

Ah, how often had I thwarted his meticulous plans in the past before for no obvious reason – not obvious to him, that is – at all?

Sometimes I had leapt into action when he would have stalled my impatient hand, sought to preserve what I annihilated and at other times I had cherished what Mairon had deemed worthless.

So wary was his gaze as it first flew into my direction like a sleeping volcano’s first glimmer that I could sense a thousand thoughts ignite into a hundred interweaving sparks at once. He knew I was seldom to do what he bid me to and never to follow a plan to its end.

Oh, but he was a quick-bright little flame, and whatever havoc I wrought upon his elaborate schemes he would never be surprised nor deceived twice and what could scratch upon the perfection of his composure once never even reflected on the polished marble sheen of his features ever again.

Oh, but he knew me so well indeed, as the fire knows the logs it steadily consumes. It had become increasingly hard to catch him unawares, to make any impression upon his clever, ever-calm countenance.

A thousand wiles I had played upon him through the ages already and a thousand predictions and presumptions were lapping at his flame-spurred heels now.

As soon as I set foot on the ground it trembled and Mairon’s gold-flame hair was afly.

Instantaneously, his face turned in the direction of my arrival and, though he was far away on a lone hill, in the midst of battle, a commander of forces who would be commanded by none other, I could see his shimmering beauty whip around.

Belike, I would seek his advice or perhaps I would undo all his careful webs and sunder all his admirable designs upon a mere whim of mine – he was fascinated and loath to watch me do it.

So, as the ground rumbled beneath my iron-clad footfalls and even the darkest creatures of my armies shrank away in fright, I could see him not step back like them but instead devise and foretell a thousand things to be prepared for me, to predict my wisdom – of which he doomed little upon me – and envision the chaos I could wreck.

Bright could I see the light of his mind as he drew it, keen as the nimble blade he was wilding.

A lesser being he was, yes, so much more fragile and less mighty than I. But none of the other Vala, let alone their servants, possessed his mind’s spark-gleaming quickness, second only – or so I hoped to believe – to my own infinite-stretching mind.

Golden thoughts sparked within it, darting as light, trying to decipher the cause and – more important in Mairon’s glittering mind – the ends of my wild stepping into battle.

Again, I almost burst out laughing.

My hammer, however, dragged a gaping gorge behind me. I did not lift it nor unleash its deadly power and that, I thought, a brimming in my chest, was what drew Mairon’s suspsicion most. 

From my path, my army swayed, Orcs and darker creatures shrinking back.

But I am a god and it took me scarcely more than a few strides before I reached him.

Mairon’s face was like marble showing neither dent nor impression whatsoever. If I had knelt at his feet his splendid expression would have shattered – but in my mind the idea I carried within me was of another kind and I thrilled with the anticipation of it.

Ah, how unearthly, uncannily, unrelentingly beautiful he was!

Mairon, his sword reluctantly held, raised his gold-infused gaze to me.

Inside the dazzling gold there were cold calculation and smug disdain aglitter.

Ah.

That potent mixture of mocking smugness and complacent taunt.

I have never told him that, though lesser in being, immortality and power, Mairon’s visage bore one fruit none other in Eä could offer.

In all other beings I had seen and sniffed it, beasts and birds, elves and orcs, wild things and god-like creatures alike. The other Vala, too, I had seen the sheen of it upon them – why, even Manwë – and it had filled me with glee unimaginable.

Not him, though.

Never him.

Forest of wiles, oceans quick as arrows and mountains sharp as knives, I could see a whole world blazing in his aureate eyes.

Even jeering derision, if he had the nerve for it – and Mairon almost always did. Even, in those rarest moments when he was most unguarded, trust.

Amidst the tides of our forces I stood still in front of him. Around Mairon’s flaring hair and golden limbs curled the smoke grey of his armor, somehow illuming the brilliant symmetry of his features even more, his iron-slinking armor clinging to the sculptured fairness of his shape.

That fierce serpent beauty flashed.

Yes, my lord? What is it that drives you forward to my meek reign?

The scarlet flame of his hair tangling around him in a windless breeze, a luscious bow, mockingly coy, of curving lips and white teeth. I could hear his voice tingle in my head.

Having left your hideout, is there something you ask of me?

Ah.

Insolence and impudence. Arrogance. Amusement.

A whole world but never fear.

I could have wrapped my hands around his slender neck and squeezed without even a gleam of scare in him. I could have lifted my hammer, torn the earth beneath his feet, dictated the skies to strike him with thunder and lightning.

Ages and aeons ago, in the sweltering gleam of Aulë’s forge, he had spotted me among the darkness long before I revealed myself. His eyes shone in the dark brighter than any cat’s. Instead of raising his voice, crying wolf and havoc for help, he watched me and I could feel his gold-gaze lingering.

I went back to my underground halls that day, pondering that brazen insolence just to return the next night trying to break his unwavering gaze.

“How do you know I will not smite you where you stand?” I asked him upon the next day in the deserted forge when I let go of the shadows at last to bend over him.

He had cocked his head like a bird and returned, sleek as a raven:

“How will you know I will not betray you where you sit?”

The cheek! I was a poisonous viper and he was another and, oh, how fiercely I wanted him to be mine, mine, mine then and mine alone!

His soft neck was between my hands before even he could elude me. Instantaneously, the gold in his eyes sparked with realization and horrified shock of what I was about to do in a split heartbeat ere I was upon him. His lustrous hair flew like gold ribbons in a wind where there was none, his skin was iridescent in his otherworldly apparition-beauty.

His gilt-rimmed pupils dilated but it was already too late.

I pressed my mouth amidst the surging battle forces upon his pearly lips and kissed.

Flame-swift, Mairon’s rage was so instantaneous I had to swallow my cackling laughter just to prolong the touching of our lips a little longer before he could defy me.

A conflagration met my mouth and I, made of ice and fire, allowed him to singe me till I felt actual pain as I burnt and grinned now beholding the utter outrage in Mairon’s gold-limned eyes.

I could not fathom what incensed him more – the fact that I would do this outside the secrecy of his sweltering bed chambers or the incidental truth that I had accomplished to take him yet again by utter surprise.

Suddenly his hot-white fury came, ever more terrifying and beautiful than a thunderstorm.

He looked like he might have struck me down then and there, me, in front of everyone.

Then Mairon turned – not because he could not but would not strike me – and away he  went like an inferno to ravage the battlefield, descending upon our enemies as the sun, golden-bright and blind-burning, veiled in the light of stars and comets, and I watched him, his beautiful blaze transforming into a wraith-like furnace which he cast upon the enemy so that neither elven nor mortal survivor – if they survived – would be able to look upon a beautiful face, be it fair maiden or lovely lad or sweet rose, and bear it ever again.

As my thunder-laugh broke from my chest the ground around me shook and shuddered.

Pierced as though scorched, the swelling of my lower lip seared.

Oh, I was looking forward to golden vengeance he would spin to wreak upon me.

I laughed.

[green-apple-juice]

For the whole world they were Morgoth and Sauron, Black Foe and The Abhorred. But for each other they're always remained Melkor and Mairon, Mighty Arising and The Admirable One.

[buttered-milky]

Apparently my version of Melkor sheds teeth like a shark, and my version of Sauron keeps those teeth to make little trinkets and charms like some knight carrying off a lock of his lady’s hair

[cilil]

Summer Stories

AN: Have one Angbang for the gang!

Prompt: Ice | Melkor x Mairon Synopsis: As the dark lords enjoy a relaxing summer day, Melkor shares a cold treat with Mairon. Warnings: /

"Not even a spoonful?" Melkor purrs. 

The Lord of Darkness is sitting on a lounger, watching the werewolf pups play in the grass. In one hand he holds a spoon of ice cream, scooped from the sundae he's been consuming, and his other arm is wrapped around his beloved who clings to him as if the summer sun isn't warm enough. 

Mairon purses his lips. 

"It's chocolate," Melkor tempts him. 

"It's cold."

"It will melt."

Graciously, Mairon accepts the treat at last, and it sizzles on his lips and tongue. 

Smiling, Melkor leans in and steals a kiss in turn. 

Thanks for reading! ♡

taglist: @a-world-of-whimsy-5 @blauerregen @bluezenzennie @destinyeternity1 @edensrose

@elanna-elrondiel @eunoiaastralwings @i-did-not-mean-to @just-little-human @melkors-big-tits

@melkors-defense-attorney @numenhore @sauron-kraut @stormchaser819

@urwendii @wandererindreams

[902186]

we dont have enough fanart and fanfics about sauron in numenor. im begging for scraps im manifesting im sending signals to the universe

[sauron-kraut]

Summary: Mairon enjoys the new position he finds himself in with Melkor. Some reflection ensues. I'll stop with the puns now.

After writing his not-so-ideal mirror experience in Sugar I wanted to give Mairon another, more enjoyable one. Thus, catch me writing some Angbang.

Pairing: Melkor x Mairon

Words: 480

Warnings: explicit content, just a bit rough but everyone's enjoying themselves, pwp

As always: If you like this little piece, comments on AO3 are appreciated! 🖤

Not beta read!

Find the smut under the cut.

On Power

Mairon has never felt more powerful.

Might ripples through his entire being, enters him with each thrust into his body, which is alight, ready, and thrumming with thrill.

“Your legs.” Melkor’s voice reaches Mairon from behind him, like growling grey thunder in a summery vale, and Mairon spreads them wider. He lifts his chin to look at himself in the vast wrought iron mirror sitting above the bed, here in the Vala’s sleeping quarters, where the very walls pulse with his presence. No need for composure where power upholds. Mairon beholds his luscious red curls in disarray, dancing about his face, his cheeks flushed pink. He looks beautiful. On hands and knees, Mairon takes Melkor’s harsh thrusting, takes, takes, takes, with open thighs and open-mouthed as the mounting pleasure in his lower body wrenches ragged moans from his throat. Mairon whimpers, Mairon gasps.

Melkor hadn’t bothered to undress him properly, and neither had Mairon himself. He arches his back as Melkor drags the hem of his red and golden robe further up, his large hands wandering over Mairon’s backside, his thighs, his hips, more skin, more skin. A single low, rolling moan from Melkor. He must be close. Ravenous hunger rips through Mairon, seems to eat at his very bones. He feels stray warm droplets of his own arousal on his skin where his swollen flesh has brushed against his inner thigh. Mairon brings his hand to his lips, half covering his mouth, half biting. In the mirror, he watches as Melkor leans over him, until his bare chest is flush against Mairon’s back, wrapping his arm around his waist. “No, I want to hear you.” With his free hand, he removes Mairon’s fingers from his mouth, pushes his hand back onto the covers. Melkor slows the motions of his hips, makes them shallow, almost gentle. When he kisses Mairon’s earlobe, the Vala’s breathing trembles. Melkor’s raven hair curtains them both as he takes Mairon in hand, index finger stroking him with featherlight touches, smearing some of the liquid from the tip of Mairon’s length over his skin before he resumes taking him with what are now snapping, deep thrusts. Melkor’s hand moves faster. 

Mairon whimpers, Mairon pants. A wide grin forms on his lips. He watches as he reaches for the Vala’s face with one hand. Melkor kisses and licks his palm with abandon. Then, Mairon’s world narrows to the slickness between his legs, Melkor inside him, burning nerves, oil, heat, need, and Mairon lets go, tenses under Melkor’s hands, moaning obscenely, spilling himself over the Vala’s fingers and the bedding. 

Melkor pushes Mairon down by the neck. His face is pressed into the pillow, and Melkor’s thrusts shove his cheek across wet spots of his own release. Mairon twists his neck to look up at himself in the mirror. 

Mairon smiles, for he has never felt more powerful.

[lvsifer]

the sweet & talented @cilil tagged me on WIP Wednesday, so have a lil snipped from the next chapter of my Paul x Feyd fic <3

Feyd-Rautha lies down on the bed, closes his eyes and thinks of the boy. Reflected red light slashes the tenebrous room in half, a laceration that cuts Feyd-Rautha off by the chest. He touches where the light warms his skin just above his seventh rib and dips his fingers between his costal arches. Here. He imagines Paul’s blade push inside. He moans. “Come to me, Atreides,” Feyd-Rautha murmurs into the empty room, then throws an arm over his face, bites at his own skin enough to bruise while his free hand sinks between his legs. What if the secret door opened and the boy came to him now? Feyd-Rautha imagines Paul’s lesser weight on top of him, spreading Feyd-Rautha’s thighs.

And ALSO, this super old angbang wip from...2016..........that I will finish...some day:

Yet in gloaming Melkor had once more returned, gargantuan and of-augury. A light had shone in his eyes, both fiery and frore. Naught of offering or promises foul, only this: his hand extended, and crackling along the whiteness of his skin, power. And Mairon had taken it. For what Mairon wants is not to serve. He wants to make. Suddenly he needs not pledge himself. Nil binds him, but his own will to power. Torn from slumber, he for the first time sees, and stares into the depths of the world. And deeper than woe or servitude, cradled in igneous rock, lie his own blackening desires, clamouring for eternity. And eternal shall they be.

tagging: @sauron-kraut (i know cilil also tagged you but still <3), @jamlocked, @liesmyth, @saintstars, @crackinthecup, @curufiin @theskeletonprior

[the-namelessenemy]

dark lords learning parenting

[gingeragenda]

My 2024 fic i'm most proud of

As we're finishing out 2024, what is one thing from your writing this year that you're particularly proud of? And what is one fic you wrote that you would recommend for others to read?

Thanks for the tags @valar-did-me-wrong and @celebrimborsapron

So 2024 (well the last last three months of it!) have been a big deal for me in terms of writing again (I last finished and posted a fic in 2007 lol), and have been in a really horrible Autistic burnout/prolonged recovery for years BUT s2 of trop grabbed me by the throat and writing deranged smut has, perhaps ironically, made me feel something close to my ‘normal’ for the first time in a long time so really want to thank all the folks I’ve been getting to know on here lately, especially @whenimaunicorn

ANYWAY, the questions:

what is one thing from your writing this year that you're particularly proud of?

I’m so happy with how 🔥Anemoia🔥turned out, it’s my fave part of Dream a Little Dream and I’m particularly proud of the imagery I achieved in it

In fact I love it so much it spawned the Maidar in prequel nobody asked for! But I’m not recc’ing this as it’s so early days and I’m finding my feet with a longer-form thing

And what is one fic you wrote that you would recommend for others to read?

It’s taken me so long to respond since Valardidmewrong first tagged me because I guess I feel like I write some very niche stuff sometimes and it’s for who it’s for and read at your peril, don’t blame me if you don’t like it and always read the tags? lol

So instead of doing one I’ve picked out a few bits organised by your kink!

⛓️‍💥 Your kink is Halbrand choked by a collar and a cock:

An Insignificant Endeavour

🗣️ Your kink is listening to Sauron’s smutty gay podcast it’s called Admirable Anal whore :

Caged Chaper 2

🧝‍♀️ Your kink is Adar getting catfished by femme Sauron:

Caged Chapter 3

🍗 You just wanted Adar to fuck Gal on that table:

Freed Chapter 2

🍆 Your kink is Sauron coercing Adar in domming Galadriel aka you always wanted Adar to slap you with his cock

Freed Chapter 3

🧝‍♂️🧟‍♀️🧝‍♀️Your kink is chaotic F/M/M three way, featuring:

Gal holding Adar at knifepoint

Adar has to be tied up lest he f someone to death

mid-sex Maidar bickering/magically gagged Adar

hints that there are key gaps in Sauron’s prior sexual experience

Double penetration

Messed up power dynamics

Trifecta

🪦🕊️ Your kink is theatrical set piece in the Grand Guignol tradition following the hot and cold showers principle of alternating horror and comedy (and what is presented through Adar PoV as non con but the more I think about it the more sure I am that Mairon made the guillotine)

Spectacular

Tagging: @maironscrotchlessbreeches @ghostinthetumbchine @laurelonde if you haven’t been asked already

[perlen-gold]

A MelkorxMairon story

inspired by saintstars

“Come.”

They call me Great Death, the Constrainer. Black Foe of the World, Master of Lies. They say I am merciless and proud, atrocious, barbarous, brutal and ruthless, abominable and terrible to behold, wicked and vicious. They are not wrong.

 “Come,” I whispered, my voice a phantom of its earth-cracking thunder tracing across his heated stone-skin.

I imagined him adorned lightly. Onyx-black, ink-soft lace balming his skin. A hue of jewelry, the rings he so liked, fragrant with flawless gold.

Lose, the scarlet-crimsoned whisper of his hair, embroidering the tickling shadows about him, breathing with a faint, warm glow, lose, unbound, free.

Instead, iron and steel. Rather, I felt it was the blunt taste of metal humming beneath my fingertips., winter-gray and silver-cool.

Never had I hissed at the melody of cutting cold as he, freezing snow and whirling ice. Now, as I envisioned him in soft-light fiber and warmth-glowing fabric, I nearly did.

Instead, I touched upon the spiral shell of Mairon’s armor, inch by inch.

Enough work.

I almost say it.

I feel Mairon tense the moment the words soar upon my tongue. I think his bruises, sprains and scars, so carefully withheld beneath his armor, coil.

My own injuries are throbbing as the mountain’s heart pulsates.

On the tip of my tongue I finger two different syllables, then. I taste them, long and probing. They are not familiar between my lips.

Instead, I murmur, “Come.”

Then try, taste, whisper.

“Please.”

As I stroke the sounds, I feel the remnant scars of my wounds squirm and stretch.

Enough work. I had said those words before quite differently.

He had been absorbed in a long list of parchment, winding and dry, just like now, after an endless day of meetings and councils.

War is an ever-hungry machine that constantly must be fed and patted and attended to. Not I but Mairon is its master who keeps it ever roiling and toiling. Its needs are both endless and unending.

There are weaponries to be forged, armor to be hammered. Hosts of Orcs to be commanded, captains to be instructed, recruits to be trained.

Expedient though they are, Orcs make poor comrades in arms. Constantly squabbling, perpetually fighting each other for position or food or simply the lack of distraction or wit, they are ill-made for cooperation and it takes more than a whip to tame them. Fear might control them but it takes more to make them efficient, Mairon often says.

And efficient he makes them. Orcs and goblins have a natural aptitude for battle, their fighting is simple and crude nonetheless, Mairon often also sighed, and the imbeciles end up killing each other before they even learn how to swing an axe in an accurate arch.

Then there is food and rations to be retrieved and organized, routs to scout and news from spies and traitors to be collected and molded into benefits and advantages.

I knew all of this because Mairon had told me, complained to me of these things more often than I wished and, what was worse by far, even made me listen till I was fed up and bored beyond even my unyielding power. Oh, there was relentlessness in him that heeded neither my ostentatious disregard nor my sour mood whenever he pestered me with these trifles. I might have escaped, oh yes, but he would serve me thrice the tales of battlements in need of improvement, insufficient food resources and incompetent Orc armorers designing poorer battering rams when I hungered for the naked sheen of his skin.

I have always thought Mairon mercilessly vindictive beyond even my desire for revenge.

“Your army, my lord, needs attention”, he would say lilting as skittering pearls and with a tone so quizzacious I might seize his throat eventually which would make him laugh and brush the sweetest gasp against my ear.

Once, I sank my teeth into the tender rose-petal softness of his beautiful neck and he moaned softly into me while he enumerated all the little repairs needed for some dispensable outpost in such a shuddering, smile-curving little voice that I, smeared with his gold-liquor blood, considered biting off his tongue. It made his heedless smile curve even wickeder.

There had been always only one way to silence the brazen little creature.

And for a while he writhed and arched beneath me, trembling, mouth and body sealed, only to continue his speech in the fire-gilded afterglow of our bodies, his throbbing flame-heat and shivering legs still around me.

Oh, even my fell cruelty, which I thrust into him, could not match his own.

This time, however, it was different.

I say war is a machine but, in truth, Mairon is the machine that is war.

Like the rings he so loves for their boundless, immaculate symmetry, none of his designs or schemes knew either end or beginning and it was these endless, tedious things in his fingers around which they always snaked like wild adders eternally, perpetually.

And Mairon is just as endless and snaking.

There is no detail to escape his lidless mind’s gaze. No mosaic stone unset, no jigsaw piece uncontemplated. Every piece my and his spies gathered glides between his sizzling fingertips.

Not a single piece of floating ash is unknown to him. No trifling squabble crumbled under his high boots unseen, no minor sentiment of unrest skittered across his path without his notice. He weaves a single-minded Orc’s gripe into his hair when he rises in the crisp morning, he holds an outpost’s trivial failings in his grasp when setting the chisel in his forge and he slides a letter intercepted over his skin when he undresses in the evening.

I call him my little flame, and it delights his curving dagger smile, for he is neither little nor single-tipped flame.

My troops, on the other hand, my Balrocs and generals and captains and Orcs call him the lidless, sleepless, all-seeing eye. I might be the god they serve but one single gush of wind loosening a lone scarlet-gilded, fire-whipping strand of Mairon’s hair sends them scudding and scurrying as ants.

I did not, or barely, notice at first.

So consumed was I that it was only an irksomeness in the beginning before it grated at my attention, more and more.

Always there had been a piece of something on Mairon’s mind, a roll of parchment in his long-fingered hands, a whispered request in his well-shaped ear, another meticulously drawn map, another scouting route worked out, another keen-eyes report at his sharp-angled elbow.

It was as though catching an industrious spider weaving double the nets or spotting the arctic fox growing twice the pristine fur.

And yet.

I say I heeded not the change, at first. Yet, in truth there was something vexing me outside the range of my vision, like a buzzing fly my dragons cannot see yet not quite bait either.

When then, at long last, it woke me out of my razor-riven raptness, it was like a silent shiver running through the earth meeting a mountain, a cresting wave crashing against a sheer cliff of rock after building for weeks.

Ah, I had not known it had been there.

Suddenly, however, my ire raged clear and raw.

“Enough!”

Ah.

My skin prickling as the stagnant air before a storm.

My voice, having sundered heavens and cleaved continents, a lightning bolt lit.

Plans and maps, plans and schemes, schemes, schemes and plans! I had been surge-swelling with them like a river breaking its bed.

My captains and leaders, Orcs and goblins, their heads snapped around to my seat as if I had broken their necks. However, I was no longer seated. Why had I come to this counsel at all, dark creatures in my service startling and groveling? Mairon had stopped dragging me there long ago and I rarely obliged him when he did.

I did not take notice whether it was letter parchment or outline scroll I tore from Mairon’s hands. A shattering on the onyx black floor, I felt myself towering, looming with my mounting rage.

In the breathing space between us, him and me, my body was sparking at the edges.

Never had I, quite unlike Mairon, endeavored to control my wrath, unlike him who could mask the brightest blaze of anger like ash covers the still-glowing embers within.

Instead, I felt my shape rise and my all-seeing vision expand, fraying at the edges, burn with it.

Whatever it was that I tore from him crumbled into smoke and electric sparks under my hands.

And still he would not look at me.

Ah, there it was, the hilt and pike of my sudden temper which I was fingering like my warhammer, Mairon’s steady gaze still, still, still fastened on what he had been reading an instant before, parchment and scrolls and lesser creatures and, oh, everything without even once in weeks upon weeks and months uncounted looking up at me who was his master.

The fortress around us, the raven-black stone floor beneath our feet shivered with a ringing tremor.

I thought ages to pass but, in sooth, Mairon stared at the quivering remnants of what I had just ripped from his hands much longer while my rage sloshed and billowed into vastness.

Then, his gaze flared into mine.

It was as though a ray of morning light hit me, clear and spear-piercing.

His gold-crystal eyes were aflame as a crisp winter’s dawn. This was the only warning I was given.

I saw his transformation only in shreds ere Mairon lashed himself upon me, flame-gleaming fur and blaze-white teeth.

My wrath was sharp enough to wrap us both and Mairon’s teeth even sharper.

Fire cannot consume the mountain but it can sweep across, melt, mold and scar it beyond recognition.

Ah, and scar each other we did in our conflagration.

If any dark creature, Balrog or maggot Orc had been present, they must have fled for no insect lingers to watch whether slashing rains or whipping winds may triumph over the storm.

Had we been lesser beings, we might have easily slain each other.

Instead, the stone-blind walls around us gasped as we fought and parts of Utumno well-nigh collapsed under our rage.

When at last we both sank against opposite walls, the torches shook under our breaths as grass before the scythe.

My anger, however, fled as swiftly as it had come and his surely must have to.

The air tasted of stale smoke and departing thunder.

As we huffed, I expected him to limp toward me. Even lean against me, his inferno fury and my cosmic wilderness abated and washed away by the great tide of our fighting, leaving as brine-raw and satisfied enough to huff and touch each other’s wounds with well-practiced fingers softly and tender lips. I would have licked his wounds, and more, and his lips could have kissed mine till we shook from a different kind of fury and another quake came upon Utumno ere an unsimilar fatigue settled between us, and then we would have finally tended to each other’s injuries in a more lasting way.

What rags of his fine-woven garment had withstood his skin-changing were torn to shreds by me and fell from his bare skin.

Yes. I expected his sly smile dripping mockingly from his slyer lips.

Though rare, it had no been our first fight, after all.

As our breaths pooled in the empty counsel room, I saw Mairon rise to his staggering legs.

Instead, however, he left as abruptly as he had flared, limping.

He strode from my hall, naked, gold licking beneath the glowing soles of his feet, the hue of fire-lit blood in his whipping hair and gleaming skin the only cover to veil his lithe shape.

A single Orc stumbled from behind an onyx-carved column.

It stared.

And stared.

And stared.

And stared.

“Please”

The sounds touch queerly between my lips.

I feel my eyes, one of crystal-frozen ice and one of molten-moving magma, close against the silence of his shadow-hewn chambers.

There has been neither council nor meeting.

We have not talked since.

Mairon moves not.

My vision is obscured by the dusk of my own eyes.

The dancing darkness within me notwithstanding, I know his eyes, perusing the endless lines on the rustling scroll in his slender hands tenaciously, to have stopped, poised, on one spot alone.

Slowly.

Slowly my scarred hands begin to move.

Gradually, I touch upon what has been shaped unerringly by him. Layer by layer. Piece by piece.

I remember not undoing his or any other armor ever before. Haltingly, my fingers find few gold clasps sleeping beneath.

Iron plate and greave slither ceaselessly against each other, harness and chestplate.

I have never tasted, brushed my tongue against this creation among so many of his, immaculate in its deadly beauty as everything he invents.

But what my scorched hands find is not beauty alone.

Inch for inch, I let my scabbed finger pads slide over smooth plates of metal, one after another. Perfectly round circles of twisting iron, dark as night, black as a midnight’s dream. Slender-long gauntlets gliding sleekly against each other without the slightest hitch.

Polished, my charred fingertips find the glossy plates against his stomach.  

Not a nook or cranny on the metal stretching across the small of his back; neither scratch nor scrape beneath my quiet palms straying along his waist, down his iron-veiled flanks.

No plate hugging his legs, no piece of armor whispering, pressing against his thighs ever requires a drop of slick oil. I can feel it underneath my tingling hands. Not one part of metal will ever rub against its brothers nor bear mark or squeak. Like snake scales rising against each other’s fall.

As I wander him, a thought strikes me like a smiling fish in the presence of the diving king-fisher. That even Aulë himself would envy this. It is coiling perfection lured to making. It is usage spelled into fascination.

Another thought strikes my pricking skin, then. It is not what he has worn before.

My realization is another spell woven by the king fisher. When has Mairon created this new armor? It must have taken him an age of life to master it into being.

When did he do it? Where had I been?

But, of course, no beauty for Mairon without purpose.

I think, even Aulë will envy this.

It may be a day, it may be an age eternal till I draw his body against mine. Bare skin to skin.

Under my hands his armor is coming undone like a mountain peak, year by year, age by age.

I allow my gaze to fall on the graceful line of his neck then, note the lustrous strand of fire-lit hair that coiles around it. The smooth heel of his hand, aligned to the scroll, the tips hidden behind the faded yellow. The sharp angle of his left elbow, the serpentine line of his muscled back. The svelte shape of his ear, the cutting line of his jaw. All this, I merely graze with my gaze, light as raven feathers before I let the knuckles on the back of my fingers follow my eyes’ hushed trail.

Beneath, slashes and lacerations like gouges half-knitted, purple bruises and blood-cusped strains, half-healed.

Wroth and savage had been my violence, vicious and cruel his own.

I expect his skin, his body to be fire scolding, a blaze like a hurricane. My touch, however, evanesces upon contact with it as though one wraith reaches for another.

Somethings tugs at me then, strange-shaped and eternally coined.

He does not stir, does not move.

Still, his fire has not blazed my scarred skin. And still, Mairon’s voice of melting steel has not spoken to me.

I might pry into his mind, of course. What futility. Mairon has never given anything he did not offer first.

Last is his hair, bound tightly, wrought infinitely to the lovely shape of his neck. It is not in my nature to hesitate, not once, and like softest silk each flaming strand loosens between my stroking, combing fingers.

At last, my time is come to speak.

My eyes still veiled by the endless darkness of my own lashes, against the warm fall of his hair I lay my lips.

“Precious.” Murmurs. “It is enough.” Whispers, straight and firm. “Even you have an end to your flames. Even you must rest.” Murmers and whispers from my lips.

My darkness, a fortress. ”Even you must not be consumed by one thing alone in this world.”

Mairon stirs not. And yet, I feel it in the jolt of rigid muscles against my naked skin like a bow-string springing back.

I catch the thought he aims albeit he aims it not at me. It is the first time I hear his golden voice ever since I returned.

It is like laughter, only viler.

You are one to talk.

Around his naked waist and chest my hold tightens. In anticipation, perhaps, of another attack, wondering idly what other beastly form he might use, I look forward to whatever claws and teeth he will sink into me this time with a kind of grim satisfaction.

I palpate that almost-thought  of his idly, turn it around in my silent-grown mind seeking out its facets and angles.

His skin is cool silver light upon the parched flesh of my fingers despite the honed flames it shields within.

No beauty for Mairon without a purpose.

There.

Ah.

Here, at last. A morsel of truth.

Slowly. Gradually, I begin to comprehend. And yet, still, I understand not.

Long is the silence stretching between us, infinite as the darkened night sky, dull as the lessened moon shredded in wispy mists.

Slowly. Slowly, my arms’ force increases. Slowly, the hold of my embrace tightens.

Slowly, I force Mairon’s body around. Force him to turn. This is what I do and this is what I try.

Ah. Many are the minds and brains fooled by his appearance. He might shroud his viper shape in a robe of splendid cloth but I have seen the bare stretch of his arms and shoulders bent over the forge, his back straight and straining. The ones he seduces think him fair and beautiful alone, yet I have heard Orc sword masters threaten their fosterlings with Lord Mairon’s lust for challenge. His legs apart, sinews and muscles aglow in the sheen of the furnace. He would not even have to lift the hilt of his sword. Among the recruits, his physical strength is a legend told at night fire watches.

And with all his strength he is fighting me now, ah, what resistance against the strain of my arms around his back and sides, against my will to bind him to me, force his body around to face mine.

Vaguely, I am wondering once more if he will transform again, now, in this instant, to raise the amount of bristle and teeth and claws he can punish me with or if he will simply sink and dig his gilded nails and incandescent teeth into my flesh as he is.

Neither of us is speaking.

But this. This is more a fight of wills rather than a battle of physical force, and this once, this once in our eons of time, my will prevails over his.

I can feel him straining as his ember-honed cheek comes to rest upon my beating pulse. It is like holding a candle to my chest.

I feel the touch of his breath as warm as sun-lit honey on my chest, flecks of gold in it.

All at once, I am unable to remember. This. The wisp of his fiery hair. The width of his smooth brow. The length of his body, flush against mine. Unable. Unable to remember the last time I felt his gold-leaping warmth seep into my storm-cloud skin.

My injuries matter not. Their circling pain is forgotten like morning mists fracturing at the break of dawn. We move not and do not speak. However, this once, I will not let him escape.

Puzzled yet I am. Pondering. Wondering. I, Melkor, confess I fail to grasp his ire fully.

Would he envy another craftsman thus? Ah, I think not. Too proud Mairon is of his own prowess, too confident, too brilliant in his own skill.

Would he resent thus what he deems utter folly? He has stood and endured far greater whims of mine.

I know the fight to have seeped out of him, now. There is only the pooling of warmth, small huffs against my skin.

I am closing my eyes to darkness and stillness again.

Long is the silence stretching between us.

“Do with them as you please.”

At first, Mairon does not move.

Then, against the total blackness of my eyelids, I can see him stir. Rise. His head tilting back. His fire-honed gaze, at last, upon my face.

My hand opens for him.

They cannot burn me any more than their luminous light already has.

As I open my eyes, despite myself, my gaze falls upon them as splashing water from the sky.

Even before my eyelids lift, I know their lovely glow shedding light over my maimed, scorch-darkened hands. I know not whether Mairon’s eyes follow the lust of my eyes, become drawn and ensnared as mine. If not, I can neither examine it nor him.

Even now I cannot part my gaze with them.

If the moon had been carved into thirds in the bejeweled night, none of it, though born from that same radiance, would have glistered like any of them!

One sun-lit and citrine-hued, bright as sun-filled water. Vivid as the very heart of the earth the other, a thousand rubies aflame. The last, a brilliant, ever-shining, ever-pure, dazzling white.

Even now I am mesmerized at the luminosity of the first light, percolated through the incinerated cage of my fingeres.

Even Mairon’s light of fire-drunk gold almost dulled beside them. Almost.

This, maybe, is what makes me realize the flash of Mairon’s hand toward the blinding light.

All of a sudden, through the luminous splendor and breath-taking, sky-rendering incandescence, fear jolts through me like a thunder-spear.

No, I am no stranger to pain, not even to dread, the loathsome spider be cursed and all her descendants, but never has terror such as this seized at my hammering pulse.

The yell, the roar aimed at Mairon ignites in my throat as volcanoes erupt with spilling fire.

Almost as soon as it builds, I huff out a breath of absurd emptiness. Mairon’s supple fingers have gripped the resplendent silmarils long before my anger rushes in. Beneath his skin, like strands of his own hair, silk shimmers between him and the precious jewels.

Of course.

My chest almost tears with swallowed, frayed laughter.

Whatever rules Mairon’s black-sooted heart, greed is not a part of it.

His fiery gaze is thrumming into mine, the long-lashed gold of his eyes never once wavering to the wonders aglow between our hands. I imagine his wrist flick and a burst of radiant light clattering across the onyx floor.

Mairon’s voice is quenched iron, spitting with cooling water, “I shall cast them into the darkest sea, the deepest pit and highest sky.”

The fury of this world grows between us, gathers in the thunder lightning and earth-shading clouds, a fell music of drums and clangs.

It is arduous at first, cruelly laborious, to wretch my craving stare from them.

I can see Mairon’s eyes follow the length of my glance, the direction of my lusting breath.

They are magnificent in their effulgence, entrancing in their beauty, enrapturing in their unfathomable luster.

Long has the silence stretched between us.

Silently, I speak.

So you shall.

Mairon does blink. Now. Once. An eternity. Twice.

Finally, ultimately, I can see his gold-glittering eyes flicker toward the luminescent jewels in his hand, his gaze falling, cast down.

“I shall forge a crown fit for them and you, my lord,” he murmurs, lowly.

No love for the sea, the earth, the skies?, I think

“They are to be set in a crown by my hands already.” I speak aloud.

There it is, the sneer.

“It is like calling the elven child hoarding heaps of sand an architect.” Mairon returns, slyly as a minx.

Insolent creature, I think, letting the words flutter soft as lashes against his smile-honing lips.

“Not tonight,” I hum, drawing him closer still, pressing against his curving lips, “Tonight you are mine.”

I think, tonight I am yours alone.

Mairon’s limber shoulders rise as he lifts his hands to lay them along my face, his willowy fingers astir, roaming through my hair where there are caught the colors of the night and the light of fading stars. The light in his eyes is enough to blind and scar the whole world and everything that comes after.

They say I am merciless and proud, cruel and pitiless, tyrannical and spiteful, enviously, greedily, recklessly selfish beyond imagination. They call me Master of Lies, Great Death, Black Foe of the World. I feel giddy with delight when I think of it. It is all true.

Let them not see what else I am.

He, whom they call Sauron, whispers into my ear, his arched fingers woven into my shadow hair, his graceful limbs, the length of his pressing body pouring sun-lit heat into mine of melting ice and frozen stone, the smiling cheek of his lips thawing against my ear.

“You have yet to say ‘please’, my lord.”

[jiangwanyeehaw]

I wrote a little something for Angbang! Their dynamic is so fun and I love writing Mairon pov. He's got such a fun personality.

[demonscantgothere]

(You and I) Drink the Poison from the Same Vine. Morgoth | Melkor/Sauron | Mairon. Explicit. 6.9k | 3.6k chapter [2/4]

From Almaren, to Utumno, to Angband, to Tol-in-Gaurhoth — all of his life, Mairon has been running.

“I’ve always been that,” Mairon shot back. “Do not mistake simple ignorance for innocence—” “Yes, you have,” came the softer agreement, “but now you are mighty. I would have hardly called you ignorant in those days—” “—Yes, you would have,” Mairon snapped, grasping Melkor’s chin in a way that mimicked the hold the Vala had on him during their first kiss, digging his nail into the flesh of his lover’s cheek. “You were forceful.” “Yes, I was,” Melkor agreed in a mere whisper, his usually bright eyes quite dark this time, absorbing in all of the shadows instead of the light. “I had to test your mettle,” the Vala then murmured. “See what the Admirable was truly made out of . . . ”

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[cilil]

AN: Putting in an extra hour or two to get out my first contribution for @angbangweek today :D

⚡︎ Prompt(s): Injuries & haste ⚡︎ Synopsis: Mairon finds that Melkor has become just a little more mortal. ⚡︎ Warnings: Biting, scratching, some blood ⚡︎ Short oneshot (~600 words) | AO3

It had been a mere accident, a crime of passion so to speak. Between bruising kisses, teeth nipping at soft flesh and clawed fingers digging into exposed skin Mairon had no idea what had caused it, but even so he was alerted by Melkor flinching away ever so slightly, followed by the sharp stench of blood. 

"Precious? Are you alright?" 

It was an unnecessary question, for he could already see it. There was a wound on Melkor's cheek, like an angry red line that stood out against the cold, grey hue of his skin, and tiny droplets of blood oozed from it, slowly but steadily. 

"Am I... wounded?" Melkor asked, sounding just as confused. 

"You are." Mairon's mien shifted from desire to worry and his voice softened. "But I don't know how... well, I must have done it somehow, but why..." 

He trailed off. They both knew the unspoken truth that lingered between them — that Mairon shouldn't be able to wound Melkor. No one should be able to draw the blood of the mightiest of the Valar; and yet it had happened. 

Melkor lifted his hand to his cheek and gently touched the wound, then looked at his bloodied fingers in bewilderment. 

"I am bleeding," he confirmed, though more to himself. 

Mairon wondered if he had even seen his own blood before, considering how mighty and impervious to all harm he normally was. 

Gingerly, he moved Melkor's hand aside and snuggled up to him, leaning forward to lick the wound. It was the best he could do, having neither been instructed in the ways of healing nor access to any supplies, and he hoped that the fiery heat of his tongue would clean and soothe it. 

Any discomfort Melkor might have felt dissipated swiftly, and he allowed his lover to continue. Despite everything, Mairon felt a rush of joy and elation; the Vala was not in the habit of admitting when he needed help nor accepting it, and it was a sign of trust that he was allowed to take care of his wound. 

Even as he fell into a steady, calming rhythm, his mouth was filled with a metallic taste. Mairon had smelled and tasted blood before, mostly when he went out hunting, but the blood coursing through Melkor's veins had felt ever out of reach.

Not anymore. Now he could have it too. He could make even the mightiest of the Valar bleed, be it through his own strength or a moment of weakness on Melkor's part, and a rush of power went through him. 

Mairon stopped licking the wound and withdrew slightly. The bleeding had stopped, only a thin red line remaining. It would be healed very soon, perhaps within hours if the Vala's power allowed it. He looked at Melkor's face, his throat, his chest. All of his vulnerable areas were laid bare to him, and now the illusion of imperviousness and invincibility was gone. 

He wondered where else he might bleed. 

Melkor regarded him in silence, as if he was waiting for him to say something. Mairon met his eyes, then suddenly lunged forward to sink his teeth into the side of his neck, right where it met his shoulder above his clavicle. There was a grunt of pain, muscles tensing underneath and then warm, fresh blood filled his mouth. 

He was elated. Melkor was standing still, letting him do this, not even attempting to push him off; but most importantly, he was bleeding for him. By Mairon's hand, a god had become just a little more mortal, and he loved it. 

Thanks for reading! ♡

taglist: @angbangbaby @a-world-of-whimsy-5 @blauerregen @bluezenzennie @destinyeternity1 @edensrose @elanna-elrondiel @eunoiaastralwings @i-did-not-mean-to @just-little-human @melkors-big-tits @melkors-defense-attorney @saintstars @sauron-kraut @urwendii @wandererindreams

[rat-hand]

The idea of a reunion in the void holds my whole heart

[sauron-kraut]

I'd like to request Mairon + Melkor + Nr. 4 if you're still taking kiss-requests ; ) Thank you and have a nice day!

Here you go, mysterious anon! Thank you so much for the prompt.

Prompt list here

Warnings: injury

As always: Comments on AO3 are appreciated. 🖤

4. ...where it hurts.

A bruise blossoms across Mairon’s back; black and purple, ugly, skin grazed in parts. Beautiful. 

“You have fought well.” 

Mairon looks back at Melkor over his shoulder from where he is seated on the edge of the bed, wearing nothing but simple linen pants. Their eyes meet.

“Thank you, my lord,” Mairon says and a small, proud smile forms on his split lips adorned with dried blood. He is breathing heavily, his face tensed up.

Melkor moves closer to him on the bed and pulls him between his thighs. He drapes Mairon’s matted hair over his shoulder, the blotched skin now completely laid bare before him. Melkor wraps his arm around him and gently presses his cold lips to the bruise. He covers the entire area in slow, lingering kisses and licks Mairon’s skin repeatedly, savouring the faint taste of copper, of salt and victory. Tension starts to fade from the body in his arms, Mairon’s breathing slowly evening out. 

Another kiss, this time to the skin between Mairon’s neck and shoulder, before Melkor bites, hard. A sharp inhale from Mairon. Another bruise, it will look lovely. 

“Let me tell them to prepare you a bath. I will help you,” Melkor says, and pulls Mairon close before kissing his temple. The Maia buries his face in Melkor’s shoulder and sighs softly.