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inky-duchess · 1 year ago

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Fantasy Guide to Creating Your Own Language

When writer's set out to world-build, language has a huge role in creating new cultures and lending a sense of realism to your efforts. A world and people just feel more real when language is involved. As the old Irish proverb says "tír gan teanga, tír gan anam”. A country without a language, is a country without a soul. So how can we create one?

Do Your Homework

First things off, you should start by studying languages. Nobody is asking you to get fluent but it's important to understand the basic mechanics of language. You will start to see certain tricks to language, how verbs are conjugated and how gender effects certain words. It will be easier to make up your own when you know these tricks. For example, in Irish one doesn't scold but "gives out to" - "a thabhairt amach". In German, numbers are arranged differently to the English with the smallest digit arranged before the tens for example 21 - Einsundzwanzig. By immersing yourself in an array of different languages (I recommend finding ones close to how you want your language to sound), you can gain the tools necessary for creating a believable language.

Keep it Simple

Nobody expects you to pull a Tolkien or channel the powers of David J. Peterson (hail bisa vala). You're not writing a dictionary of your con-lang. You will probably use only a handful of words in your story. Don't over complicate things. A reader will not be fluent in your con-lang and if they have to continually search for the meaning of words they will likely loose patience.

Start Small

When you're learning a language, you always start with the basics. You do the exact same when writing one. Start with introductions, the names of simple objects, simple verbs (to be, to do, to have for example) and most importantly your pronouns (you will use these more than any other word, which is why I always start with them). Simple everyday phrases should always be taken care of first. Build your foundation and work your way up, this is a marathon not a race.

Music to the Ears

If your creating a new language, you're more than likely doing it phonetically. Sound is important to language and especially a con-lang because you want to trick your reader into thinking of a real language when reading the words on the page. I suggest sitting down and actually speak your words aloud, get the feel of them on the tongue to work out the spelling. Spellings shouldn't be too complicated, as I said before the readers aren't fluent and you want to make it easier for them to try it out themselves.

Also when you're creating the con-lang, it's important to figure out how it sounds to an unsuspecting ear. If a character is walking down a street and hears a conversation in a strange language, they will likely describe to the reader what it sounds like. It might be guttural or soft, it might be bursque or flowery. It's always interesting to compare how different languages flow in the ear.

Writing in Your Language

Now that you've written your language and created some words, you will want to incoperate them into your story. The way most writers do this is by italicising them. As a reader, I generally prefer authors not to go too overboard with their con-lang. Swathes of con-lang words might intrigue a reader but it can leave them confused as well. It is better to feed con-lang to your readers bit by bit. In most published works writer's tend to use words here and there but there are few whole sentences. For example in A Game Of Thrones by George RR Martin, has actually only a handful of short sentences in Dothraki despite the language being prevalent throughout the book. Daenerys Targaryen pronounces that "Khalakka dothrae mr’anha!"/"A prince rides inside me!" and it's one of the only sentence we actually see in actual Dothraki.

There's also nothing stopping you from just saying a language has been spoken. If you're not comfortable writing out the words, then don't make yourself. A simple dialogue tag can do the trick just fine.

Know your Words

I do recommend keeping an actual record of your words. Make a dictionary if you want or a simple list of words you need. This is one of the most entertaining aspects of world building, have fun with it, go mad if you like. Also here's a short list of questions you can ask yourself about language in general which might help your juices flow.

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a-world-of-whimsy-5 · 6 months ago

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Hi and congratulations again!

I'd like "a thrall's brand" for Eönwë and Gothmog in the Valinor Falls AU with some fluff and smut between them (though the prompt and verse in itself are more on the dead dove side so...😌). Let's say they're in love, at least Gotty is, but the circumstances are dark.

Smut DNWs: Anything goes, our DNWs match up

Dark content details: I suppose it would go into dub-con territory somewhat due to the thrall situation

Thank you!♥️

I plunged into the dark. As always. I hope you like this story!

“Little bird”

Pairing: Gothmog/Eonwe

AU: Fall of Valinor

Themes: NSFT | Dark | Smut

Wordcount: 2.4k words

Summary: Gothmog is given Eönwë as a war prize, and he must brand him and then tend to him after the others take their leave of him.

A/N: This story has been inspired by one of these prompts, and it’s a follow up of sorts of these and these fics. Hope you enjoy reading this!

Minors DNI | 18+

Gothmog stood in the center of a dimly lit chamber, surrounded by many others half-hidden in shadows. “This will hurt a great deal, little bird,” he uttered softly, “but it must be done.”

Eönwë struggled against the great chain around his wrists; it had been affixed to a hook driven into the ceiling, keeping him upright and with his feet dangling over the floor. His mouth had been gagged with strips of fine silk; they muffled the screams that broke free when a red-hot brand was pressed along his waist, causing him to writhe in agony. He could feel the heat searing into his skin, burning it and leaving a charred ruin in its wake. Then it abruptly stopped, and he trembled. A tear coursed down his cheek.

“It is finished, my king,” Gothmog said, suddenly ashamed in a way he could not comprehend. He brushed his thumb against that single tear, wiping it away. An attendant took the still blazing hot brand out of his other hand. “I trust this is enough to satisfy you.”

“It is indeed,” Melkor replied, stepping into the light. He smiled when his gaze came to rest on the many scars adorning Eönwë’s naked form and the tendrils of smoke still curling around the brand he must now bear upon the earthly vessel that housed his worn spirit. Such torment and humiliation was well deserved, the Vala thought. “My brother’s servant is now yours, Lord Commander. Do with him what you will.”

“My king,” the Balrog returned, bowing deeply. He returned his attention to the being he claimed as soon as the others took their leave of him and beaten bronze doors half again as tall as Melkor himself closed behind them. The ceremony of claiming had come to an end; Eönwë was now his.

The Herald of Manwë desired nothing more than to sob in relief when the silk binds around his mouth were removed and the chain around his wrists loosened. Large, meaty hands held him gently as he was lowered onto the marble floor. Eönwë sighed; the icy chill that lingered on the surface provided a welcome relief from the pain that surged through him whenever he tried to move his limbs.

“Shhhh, little bird,” his captor said, crouching down to his haunches. He brushed his hand over all that remained of Eönwë’s once long sable hair. “It is over now.”

Eönwë compelled himself to open his eyes. When he looked up, he was greeted by the Lord of the Balrogs. Gothmog had chosen an elf-like form for himself; his horns had been adorned with golden chains and rings, and his clawed, cloven feet were bare against the floor. Supple leather breeches were all he had worn for raiment; anything more would have hindered the dark wings that dragged the Balrog behind like a train whenever he walked.

“Little bird,” he whispered after he clutched onto what was left of his strength. “Twas the same name you called me all those years ago.”

“Aye,” Gothmog said. He gathered Eönwë into his arms and lifted him with ease. “And ‘twas I who found you long before that, lying wounded against the snow. Do you remember that, little bird?”

“I remember the presence of another,” Eönwë forced himself to say, “and the warmth of their breath. But that is all I remember. Was it you? Was it you who found me and then saved me? It cannot be.”

“You are surprised by the revelation,” Gothmog said. He climbed up winding steps that led to the upper floor and his sleeping chamber. “And perhaps I cannot fault you for being so. We were sworn enemies, you and I.”

“We still are,” Eönwë said. “Pray where are you taking me?”

“My chambers,” Gothmog said. “The claiming is now over, and you are mine.”

The other Maia struggled against him in a bid to escape his grasp. “Escape is futile, little bird,” Gothmog said, holding Eönwë closer. “Compose yourself and obey me in all things, and you will find me a most charitable master and a most kindly companion.”

Eönwë scoffed. “I will never be your companion. I will never serve you.”

Gothmog looked at him and said, “Tis too late, little bird, for you are mine now. The brand upon your skin is proof of this.” He softened his voice, adding, “It is for the best; you will see. Our new king would have claimed you for himself had I not spoken for you, and you would have found yourself enduring a worse fate if that had happened.”

Eönwë would have struggled even more, but he could not do so; the strength he had held onto slipped through his fingers, leaving him helpless. He rested his head against Gothmog’s shoulder, repulsive as the notion was to him. He was too weak to do anything else.

“Rest against me,” the Balrog said, seizing the moment. He would have to coax Eönwë into obeying him, and his task was made all the easier with the other Maia finding himself in such a weakened state. “I will have you cleaned and abed soon.”

Eönwë fought away a shiver and closed his eyes. Gothmog would have him bathed and cleaned, and he would place him in his own bed. But where would it all lead to, Eönwë could not say. And that very notion was enough to fill him with a strange sense of dread. Still, he remained as he was, for there was naught he could do. He no longer possessed the strength to fight. He did not even know where he was.

“Where are we?” He finally asked at length. The walls were brilliant white marble veined with blue, but such were the walls in many a manse and palace found in Valinor. They could have been anywhere in the Blessed Realm.

“Ostmalta,” Gothmog said, entering another dimly lit chamber. Elven thralls with golden hair neatly arranged in thick, simple braids bowed and curtsied before scurrying away in fear. “In the palace King Ingwë once called home. The city in its entirety is mine now.”

The Maia who once served Manwë found himself overcome with much sorrow. Ingwë was slain, as were many an elf who refused to turn against the Valar. Their blood drenched the fields just beyond the borders of Tirion, and he, the one who should have kept them safe from such a fate, had been condemned to a life of enslavement.

“Why is it so cold?” Eönwë inquired. His breath came out like thin puffs of mist, and the air around him was as cold as the floor he had lain on. He had perceived this same chill during the journey that brought him to this place, and he could not understand the cause of it.

“Tis the time of winter, little bird,” Gothmog said. “Your king’s fall and my own king’s rise brought to this realm seasons that change, not just the season of eternal spring. But this place will be made warm, and soon. The thralls have already wrought braziers for the burning of wood and peat.”

“What will become of me?” He said. Gothmog crossed over to the bathing chamber. The water in the sunken pool was steaming, and the air was warm and fragrant with herbs. He would have sighed with pleasure had he forgotten who held him.

“You are my companion,” Gothmog insisted, lowering him onto a step beneath the water. “And you will remain so for as long as I will it.”

“And how long will that be?” Eönwë sat as comfortably as possible and stole a glimpse of the Balrog. Gothmog was disrobing himself. He arranged his belt and breeches on a wide pillowed bench by one wall before turning to face the pool and the one who already occupied it, smiling to himself when he caught Eönwë flushing from cheek to chest.

“Throughout the long years of my life, little bird,” Gothmog said. He reached for the beaten gold bowl left for him on the bench. “And not a moment before that.”

Eönwë looked away. He girded himself when water rippled all around him, and Gothmog took his place on a step above his. “I see,” he murmured, before crying out in torment. Warm water flowed down his back and his sides and over the wound from his marking. It was still red and raw as it should have been, and the pain that followed was nigh unbearable.

Gothmog stopped. He drew Eönwë closer to his body and whispered into his ear. “Breathe deeply now, little bird. Lay against me and breathe deeply. This will soon pass.”

Eönwë’s fingers dug into the Balrog’s thighs, marring them with little crescent-shaped bruises. He was breathing in quick, ragged gasps, but when Gothmog breathed deeply, he followed his lead, taking one deep breath and then another. Soon, his head dropped back against Gothmog’s chest when near-unbearable pain lessened to a dull throb, and he let out a sigh of relief.

“Forgive me, little bird,” Gothmog said. “I should have taken greater care with you. But you heeded me, which is a good thing. Continue to heed me, and you will find that having one such as me for a master is not a dreadful notion after all.”

“Why should I do such a thing?” Eönwë told him. He glanced back at Gothmog, his eyes spitting fire. “Why should I heed you?”

“Because I could be very generous to you, and I can be generous in many ways. Let me show you.”

The Balrog’s hands slipped around the other Maia’s waist. “No!” Eönwë cried. He twisted in his captor’s embrace when those same hands glided down his belly and over his thighs. “Please do not do this!”

“Hush, little bird,” Gothmog crooned gently. He grabbed Eönwë’s hands by the wrists, carefully pinning them to the other Maia’s torso. His free hand he allowed to wander freely. “And obey me. There will be much pleasure for you in this.”

It was hard to deny the truth in such words. Even when in pain, Eönwë felt a flickering of pleasure rising and falling in his flesh, and he was amazed at how tenderly the Balrog restrained him. Nevertheless, he fought valiantly to dampen all that he felt. Gothmog did not deserve the satisfaction of witnessing such things.

“There will be no pleasure for me,” Eönwë declared weakly. It was a false declaration, to be sure, for when Gothmog palmed him between his legs, he whimpered despite himself.

“You lie, little bird,” Gothmog said. “Yield to me, and you will taste greater delights than this.”

He continued his ministrations, uttering half-whispered commands and honeyed words to cajole Eönwë into obeying him. Perhaps, Gothmog thought, there were other ways to gain submission, other ways to convince his gift to yield to him. At the moment, however, he could conceive of none. All he could do was continue as he did and enjoy arousing the being who had haunted his every dream ever since he came upon him all those years ago.

It was not something considered possible, a Balrog like him being in love with one who served the enemy of his master. Still, it happened all the same that fateful day when he came upon Manwë’s herald lying helpless amidst the snow, his eyes closed, his physical form covered in many bruises. Duty commanded him to slay the wounded being or, at the very least, bring him to the master he served. Gothmog could not do either, for something he did not truly comprehend at the time stayed his hand. Later, he would learn what this was and what the others called it. And he lamented greatly, for he knew such a being would never be his. Such sadness lasted only until the Great Wars came, Valinor was conquered, and his master, the new King of Arda, asked him to name anything he desired as a gift.

“Please,” Eönwë pleaded, bringing Gothmog to the present moment. He found himself surrendering little by little to the gentle commands, the softly spoken endearments, and the skilled hand that stroked his cock. It shamed him to lose the battle against the wanton demands of his body, and to yield in such a manner to the one who claimed him as a war prize. “I should not feel such things. I cannot—”

“But you can,” Gothmog Interjected. He groaned when Eönwë cried out his pleasure. “Oh yes, you can. Yield to me, little bird. Give yourself to me fully. Will you do so?”

"I... yes." Eönwë was utterly lost. All he could think of now was the heady warmth of the fragrant air, the deft hand that drove him to the point of rapture, and the ecstasy that came from both; his pain, grief, and the knowledge of his current circumstances were all but forgotten. And it was good. It was all so good. The pleasure that at first flowed through him like a mild trickle turned into something more powerful, something that threatened to sweep him away and drown him whole. Soon, he was moaning without shame, arching his back as the one who held and caressed him took him to the very edge and beyond it. Then Gothmog pulled away, sighing wistfully, while he spilled into the water.

“Was that good, little bird?” The Balrog said, releasing the other Maia’s hands.

“Perhaps,” Eönwë said, offering no protest. He slumped against Gothmog, his chest still heaving from his release. The pain that burned through him slowly returned, but that did not alarm him as much as what he felt pressing against his back. “Will I have to reciprocate?”

“Later. When you are ready to do so. And you must be ready to do so. The others will expect me to lash you in the city square if they hear of your refusal to serve me in any way.”

The thought of such a possible humiliation was too much for even Eönwë to consider. “Then… then I shall serve.”

“Good. Do not give your heart over to fear, little bird. If you serve me well no further harm shall come to you.”

“Do you lie?”

“My vows are not fickle things,” Gothmog swore. “They do not bend and break like the thin reeds I trample beneath my feet. Serve me well, little bird, and I will stay true to my word. Heed me in all things, and no further harm shall be inflicted upon your person.”

“Then I shall serve you without question,” Eönwë said. His king was lost to him, as were so many others. He was very much on his own now, and wholly dependent on the mercy of darker, fouler beings. Perhaps, by serving Gothmog, his fate would be better than most.

“It pleases me to hear you say it. Now be still, little bird. I need to clean you and tend to your wound before I could let you rest.”

#firebird #eönwë #gothmog #eönwë x gothmog #dead dove do not eat #the silm #the silmarillion #the valar #the ainur #the maiar #the silm fanfiction #a world of whimsy writes

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robinssth · 2 months ago

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Le devolvió media sonrisa— Si están riendo, más vale que no sea a costa nuestra. Que mi tobillo esté algo herido no significa que mis manos no puedan hacer que lo lamenten —y aunque amenaza era, en su mayoría, ficticia, igual alzó puños e hizo una mueca exagerada para marcar su punto. Ante confirmación de su estadía en ese pueblo, mirada se fijó con atención en la joven—. ¿Cómo que lo que queda de él? —preguntó, tono tornándose en algo afligido. Su mandíbula se endureció, y sentía un nudo en la garganta, pero sabía que no debía preocuparle un sitio cualquiera. Lo único importante de allí ya lo había encontrado. Aunque quería saber qué habían tenido que sobrevivir para llegar hasta ella—. Yo iba camino a Safe Haven cuando empezó todo —agregó, como detalle que tal vez explicaba su interés por el estado de aquél pueblo—. Apena logramos llegar a Greenville hace... no sé, dos semanas. Esta torcedura me la hice escapando del refugio de unos locos de remate —junto con explicación alzó un poco el pie, como para ilustrar su punto—. ¿Y tú, qué cuentas de heridas de batalla?

Vala se inclinó un poco hacia adelante en la camilla, apoyando los codos sobre las rodillas mientras giraba la cabeza para seguir el sonido. Su tobillo palpitaba con una molestia sorda, pero lo ignoró. "Si se están riendo, espero que al menos tengan buen sentido del humor." Respondió con una sonrisa débil y algo irónica, aunque su tono reflejaba el mismo cansancio que el de la otra persona. Sus ojos finalmente encontraron al dueño del sonido, estudiándolo con cautela por un momento antes de volver a recostarse ligeramente. "Sí, vengo de Safe Haven." Dejó escapar un suspiro breve. "O lo que queda de él." Añadió, dejando que las palabras se deslizaran sin filtro. Se frotó la nuca, sintiendo el peso acumulado de los días. " ¿Y tú? No pareces tener mejor suerte que yo." Señaló el tobillo con un gesto leve, intentando distraerse de sus propios pensamientos mientras esperaba una respuesta.

#con: vala #buenas!!#je muchas gracias por prestarnos a vala #perdón por la tardanza #el calor me tiene a -7 por hora

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furious-haste-of-malice · 1 year ago

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❝ I want you, Námo. I have wanted you for a while. ❞

⊱ Prompt: Blackmail, obsession ⊱ Pairing: Manwë x Námo ⊱ Synopsis: After Námo disobeys an order from his king, Manwë forces him to make it up to him. ⊱ Warnings: Creepy Manwë, power dynamics, sexual content, non-con, the prompt in itself

𝑨𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓'𝒔 𝑵𝒐𝒕𝒆: Another one for @tolkienpinupcalendar's Dead Dove December and yes, I will be working on these for quite a while longer. Nevertheless: Enjoy!

"Please forgive me, my king."

Námo was kneeling in the chambers of his lord, head bowed in dutiful penitence. He was as aware as the Vala in front of him that his refusal to speak when he was bidden was a grievous offence to the Elder King's authority, even though he believed it had been necessary to adhere to the divine ordinance he had been given at the beginning of his existence – to never reveal more than what was needed.

Nevertheless, his being was bound to lawfulness, and he would accept punishment if his lord and his father deemed it necessary.

Manwë looked as holy and glorious as ever, even seated on his bed instead of his throne. His usual smile had faded, replaced by a sorrowful mien, and the deep sigh that fell from his lips sent a small breeze through the air surrounding them.

"Worry not, dear Námo. I shall surely forgive you, but I am afraid you will need to make it up to me."

Despite the perfectly serene and innocent tone, Námo felt a sense of unease, sending shivers down his spine.

"Anything that is within my power, my king," he said carefully.

"Very well. Rise." Manwë held out his hand, though it was a gesture of silent command instead of an invitation to take it.

Námo did as he had been told. Perhaps his obedience could help him atone for his sin, he thought, but then he was caught off-guard when Manwë rose as well and delivered three swift, decisive strikes, the gleam of silvery talons being his only warning – the first one tore off his veil, the second discarded his hood and the third undid the sash holding his robes in place.

A small gasp escaped Námo as his form was revealed to the eyes of his lord, and he saw delight blossoming within the depths of his blue eyes.

"Get on the bed."

"M-my king –"

"Now."

There was something rough and firm within Manwë's voice, something that was usually absent, that many thought him incapable of. Námo's fána trembled when he obeyed once more, leaving him exposed and prone in front of a Vala he had always trusted – until now that he saw his eyes glint like those of a raptor spotting prey in the grass.

"What do you want from me?" he managed to ask, attempting to suppress his fear when Manwë climbed on top of him with such natural ease –

As if we were lovers...

"Is it not obvious?" Manwë smiled at him, as kind and sweet as he had always done, but the dangerous gleam in his eyes hadn't vanished. "I want you, Námo. I have wanted you for a while."

Too stunned to speak, Námo could only stare at him as he lovingly cupped his cheeks.

"You are so beautiful," Manwë sighed. "And now you will finally be mine."

Námo stopped breathing when he was drawn into a kiss so tender it almost made him forget that it was forced, and his own lips remained stiff and unmoving. He still couldn't believe that he was being subjected to a punishment of carnal nature, at the hands of his pure, benevolent king no less.

Manwë withdrew after a few fruitless attempts, seeming upset. "You don't wish to kiss me?"

"Please, my king... n-not this..." Námo attempted to plead, but was ignored.

"If you continue to be disobedient I can no longer be patient with you. Your punishment is whatever I deem fit, and if I want to make you mine and show you where you belong, then this is what shall be done."

Talons dug into his sides as Manwë forced him to turn around and slipped his robes off his shoulders, tearing any remaining clothes to shreds. Námo was left lying on his stomach, held down by a Vala greater than himself. A still-clothed groin was pressed against his exposed backside, and he felt flesh hardening against him.

"Since you have cheated me out of a prophecy, I hope you at least haven't cheated me out of being your first," Manwë whispered in his ear.

Námo remained silent. He didn't wish to recount the ways in which his wife had made love to him and how they pleasured each other, and his mind struggled to comprehend the depths of the twisted lust his lord had suddenly revealed. How long had he desired him? Why did he believe he had a right to claim him?

Yet there was no time to ask himself such questions when two hands spread his legs first and then his cheeks, and he heard the sound of a bottle being uncorked, followed by the scent of vanilla and the sensation of liquid being poured onto his skin.

He prayed that those talons wouldn't be forced inside him, even if that meant he would be taken without further preparation; it was going to hurt, but repairing his flesh would be easier this way.

It was only then that Námo briefly considered fighting back, yet any spark of resistance was swiftly drowned out by the knowledge that his king was mightier than he, greater in power and stature. Something inside him had given up before the thought had even crossed his mind; perhaps he already knew that it was going to happen regardless.

Námo buried his head in the nearest pillow when he heard the rustling of fabric and attempted to muffle his cries of pain as Manwë forced himself inside. He had to will his fána to relax and open up, even as it felt like he was betraying himself and his objective of enduring this violation with as much dignity as he could.

"You feel so good."

"You are so beautiful."

"You sound lovely when you cry and moan for me."

Manwë whispered sweet nothings in his ear while taking him, but Námo refused to break his self-imposed silence. This was neither love nor pleasure, it was punishment just as his lord had said, and he would not think of it otherwise for the sake of his own sanity. He received no touch and no true affection, only the empty words of one whose mind had been tainted by greed and obsession.

"Say my name."

Manwë's command seemed to permeate the very air Námo was breathing, but he refused; he did not desire this, and he would not pretend to.

Taloned fingers closed around his neck. "I commanded you to say my name."

He remained silent. Manwë's grip tightened, making it nigh impossible to breathe, and despite knowing that he couldn't be slain, panic flooded his fána – as well as the realisation that his torment might only continue if he kept refusing.

Hesitant and in a broken voice, Námo at last obeyed his lord's command.

"M-man... wë..."

The whisper of his name and the choked noises he made sent a shudder of pleasure through Manwë's entire fána, and he spilled his seed inside his unwilling lover, withdrawing only after every last drop had left him.

Námo felt the need to curl up on his side, make himself small and disappear, but before he could move he was turned around to lie on his back once again.

Manwë looked down at him with a perfectly angelic smile, as if nothing had happened, and planted a chaste kiss on his forehead.

"You are forgiven."

Thanks for reading! ♡

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milasics · 2 months ago

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“ espero que no se les ocurra comerse mutuamente si nos quedamos sin comida ” — 22 de noviembre, entrenamiento físico.

" ¿lo dices con doble sentido, no? porque suena mejor " acusación no pretende más que disfrazar una repentina preocupación ante lo serio del asunto. los rumores se extienden cada día, camuflándose con las responsabilidades y rutina pesada. nadie es tan ciego para ignorar que están destinados a enfrentarse a lo que hay afuera. las autoridades lo acaban de entender — o es el siguiente paso que tenían planeado ¿cómo saberlo? " si debemos salir más allá para encontrar lo básico, habrá que hacerlo. " / con @vau0ghty

#01. ⸻ interacción. ⠀⠀⠀⠀#con vala.#jijij #su lado escorpiano hablando

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agirlsawalittlerose · 5 months ago

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SILK STRINGS

Aegon x OFC

Aegon Targaryen wanted nothing to do with that cursed crown. So, he fled to Volantis, hoping to live the good life amidst spiced wine, exotic whores, and strange customs, all paid for with the gold he'd stolen from the throne. But when he awoke outside the Black Walls of East Volantis, with no memory of how he had ended up there, he found himself entangled in the machinations of the Triarchy’s elections. With the help of an unlikely ally, he would come to understand the true value of power.

TW: Eventual Smut, Non-Con, slavery, sexism, inaccurate lore, canon divergent

Chapter 1: Volantis

Chapter 2: Dragonlords, C**ts & Tigers

CHAPTER 3: Marital Duties & Lust

The ride back to the Maegyr palace was quiet, but Qorlo’s silence was far from brooding. Dila could feel the tension that had held him throughout the gathering loosening, replaced by a satisfied calm. He’d drunk deep of the wine offered at the Tigers’ feast, and though he was no stranger to indulgence, tonight he was particularly flushed. The conversation about the elections and the Vala had gone well, and Dila could feel his pride swelling with each step their palanquin took through the winding streets of Volantis.

“I think I impressed them,” Qorlo finally said, a lazy smile curling his lips as he leaned back against the cushions of the litter. “Sallario and Draxos—they were intrigued. They’ll talk about him, about me.”

Dila smiled softly, knowing how to play the game. “You did well,” she said, her voice smooth as silk. “You planted the seed. Now, they’ll wait for the proof.”

Qorlo chuckled, his fingers tightening around the goblet he’d brought with him. “And they’ll have it. I’ve no doubt they’ll be crawling to our gates soon enough, begging to see the Vala.” He laughed, tipping the goblet back and spilling some of the wine over his chin. “And they’ll see him. They’ll see that I am the one destined for the Triarchy.”

Dila watched him, her face an unreadable mask. His confidence had grown in proportion to his indulgence tonight, but there was no denying the ripple of interest their tale of the Valyrian stranger had caused. She had played her part well, and the men had listened. For now, that was enough.

As they reached the palace, Qorlo stumbled slightly as he dismounted from the litter, though he recovered with a laugh, pulling Dila toward him. “You were perfect tonight,” he murmured, his breath hot against her ear as they entered the cool, shadowed halls of their home. “You spoke when you should have spoken, said just what was needed.”

Dila allowed him to pull her closer, her body pliant against his. His words were praise, but they tasted hollow. She had done her duty, played the role expected of her, but there was no joy in it. Whatever spark of passion they had once shared had long since faded, replaced by duty. But she knew her place, knew her role as wife to a man who sought the Triarchy. Her desires mattered little, and she had been raised to accept that.

They ascended the stairs to their private chambers, Qorlo’s hand growing more insistent on her waist as they passed the guards and slaves who bowed their heads as they passed. By the time they reached the heavy door of their bedchamber, Qorlo’s desire had sharpened into something more primal. His fingers fumbled at the laces of her gown, tugging it free from her shoulders with an urgency that belied his usual control.

Dila didn’t protest. She didn’t stiffen or resist as he pulled the fabric from her skin, baring her to the cool air of the chamber. She knew what was expected of her, and she played her part as she always had. She tilted her head back slightly as his lips found her neck, her hands resting on his shoulders as he pressed her back toward the bed.

Qorlo was too drunk to notice the lack of passion in her eyes, the absence of desire in her movements. His hands were rough on her skin, but she had grown used to it over the years. This was her duty, her place. She would give him what he wanted, as she always did.

He pushed her down onto the bed, his body heavy on top of hers as he fumbled with his own clothes, his breath hot and thick with wine. Dila shifted quickly, rolling them both so she was on top—grasping at the only semblance of control she could seize in moments like this. She closed her eyes as he sunk into her, allowing her mind to drift far from the room, far from him, to anywhere but here.

In the dim corridors of the palace, Aegon Targaryen was wide awake, despite the wine he’d consumed in excess. Volantene, rich and spiced, far more potent than anything he’d drunk in King’s Landing. He’d indulged, perhaps more than he should have, and now the room they had given him spun with every blink. He had tried lying down, hoping the wine would lull him to sleep, but it was no use. His mind raced with too many thoughts—images of Volantis, the words of the pleasure slave, memories of Westeros, and the haunting beauty of Dila Maegyr.

Rising from his bed, his bare feet touched the cold marble floors as he wandered through the halls.

Aegon hadn’t intended to wander far, but as he rounded a corner, the faint sound of movement caught his ear. He paused, listening, curiosity guiding his steps as he followed the noise down the corridor.

He soon found himself before a half-open door, and though he knew he should have turned back, something compelled him to look.

Through the gap in the door, he saw them.

Qorlo, his broad chest slick with sweat moving with every intense breath beneath Dila, who rode him, her pale skin glowing in the faint light of the chamber, her perfect figure facing the door. Aegon’s breath caught in his throat. He should leave, he knew that. He should turn away and return to his own room, pretend he had never seen them. But he couldn’t move. His feet were rooted to the ground, his gaze locked on Dila’s form.

Her silver-gold hair tousled, her pale blue eyes half-closed, but it was her face that held him. There was something about the way she looked, something distant, almost detached, as if she wasn’t truly there with Qorlo. It stirred something in Aegon, something that he didn’t fully understand.

Qorlo was too lost in his own pleasure to notice anything, but Dila… Dila’s eyes opened, and for a moment, they locked with Aegon’s.

The world seemed to stop. Aegon’s heart thundered in his chest as he stood frozen in the doorway, his breath shallow and ragged. He expected her to scream, to call out, to do something—but she didn’t.

Instead, they simply stared at each other, their gazes locked in a silent, forbidden exchange. For long, excruciating seconds, neither of them moved. There was no sound but the heavy breathing of Qorlo and the soft rustle of the sheets.

He was captivated by her, by the way her eyes held him, as if daring him to stay, to watch.

Aegon felt a rush of heat, a mixture of shame and something far darker, as his cock twitched and his breath stopped for what it felt like a year. This was the most appreciated gift his stupid life had offered him lately. He couldn’t help but wonder how she felt, how she tasted, how quickly she would make him reach his peak. Aegon cursed Qorlo’s name in his mind, hoping a stroke would strike him at that very moment, so he could dispose of his dead body and make Dila his.

Then, suddenly, Dila’s gaze shifted, something flickering in the depths of her pale blue eyes. The moment broke, and Aegon snapped back to himself, a wave of embarrassment crashing over him. Without another thought, he turned and fled down the corridor, his footsteps echoing through the palace as he ran from what he had seen, his heart pounding in his chest.

Behind him, in the bedchamber, Dila watched him go, her expression unreadable, the flicker of something—curiosity, perhaps—still lingering in her eyes.

Aegon sat in the salon, his heart still pounding, his thoughts spinning in circles. The evening breeze drifted in from the open terrace, carrying with it the scent of the river and the faint hum of distant voices from the streets below. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, running a hand through his silver hair. He had fled from her gaze, but now, he feared, there was nowhere left to run.

He barely heard her approach before she entered the room, a ghostly figure in the moonlight. When he looked up, there she stood, draped in a thin silk robe that clung to her form like water. The fabric shimmered in the dim light, revealing more than it concealed. His pulse quickened, and he averted his eyes, though the image of her from moments earlier—riding her husband—was burned into his mind.

“Is something troubling you?” Her voice was calm, almost amused, as she stepped further into the room.

Aegon straightened, struggling to compose himself. “I… I must apologize,” he stammered, his throat suddenly dry. “I did not mean to—”

Dila cut him off with a wave of her hand, gliding past him with the ease of a predator. “Apologies are unnecessary,” she said, her voice light. She walked to the window, letting the breeze catch the edges of her robe. “But I do find myself curious.”

Aegon froze, his body tensing. “Curious about what?”

Her pale eyes found him, sharp as blades. “Curious about the truth.”

She tilted her head slightly, studying him. “You claim to have no memory of who you are or where you come from, but I do not believe that. I think you know exactly who you are. You haven’t forgotten, have you?”

His heart skipped a beat, but he said nothing. The truth was there in his silence, hanging between them like a fragile thread.

Dila crossed the room and sank gracefully onto one of the low couches, her movements deliberate, slow, as if savoring the power she held in this moment. “I knew it the moment I heard you speak,” she said, her voice soft. “You come from Westeros, don’t you?”

Aegon cursed inwardly. He had tried to mask it, but it was impossible to fully erase the accent that clung to his High Valyrian. Not even his father or his siblings had ever mastered the language in the way the Free Cities had.

He had hoped, seeing the genuine confusion in Qorlo’s furrowed brow, that his identity might have remained hidden. It was clear the man had never concerned himself with the affairs of the West, nor bothered to learn its accents or customs.

But Dila… she knew.

Aegon’s heart raced, but he kept his face passive. His thoughts, however, spun wildly. She had seen through him. Perhaps she hadn’t figured out exactly who he was, but she knew enough to be dangerous. And yet, there was no malice in her eyes. Only curiosity.

Aegon’s breath caught in his throat. His blood turned to ice.

“I…” he began, unsure of how to answer, but before he could fumble through a lie, Dila spoke again, her words startling him.

“I can speak your language,” she said smoothly, switching effortlessly to the Common Tongue of Westeros. The sound of it on her lips, spoken with such fluency, caught Aegon off guard. He stared at her, surprised, uncertain of how to respond.

“I spent years learning it,” Dila continued, as if discussing the weather. “Studying your customs, your histories. Westeros fascinates me, and I know more than most Volantenes care to. So, you needn’t worry—I’m not some ignorant Tiger who thinks everything west of the Rhoyne is barbarism.” She smiled, her expression unreadable. “Your secret is safe with me.”

Aegon’s mind raced, every instinct screaming at him to flee, but her tone was disarming, almost… kind. He didn’t know what to make of her, of this strange game she seemed to be playing.

“What do you want from me?” he asked cautiously, his voice still tight with unease. “Why haven’t you told your husband?”

Dila’s smile widened, a flicker of amusement in her eyes. “Qorlo is many things, but he’s not a man of nuance. And as for what I want from you… that depends. What do you want, strange man?”

He hesitated. She knew more than she let on, and yet, she hadn’t betrayed him. Not yet.

His gaze dropped to the floor, his thoughts a tangled mess. “I have no plans,” he admitted quietly. “I wanted to leave my old life behind. Things I had to take but that were never meant for me. I don’t know what I want” he said, but that was a lie.

He wanted to capture her lips, die from her intoxicating scent, grab the pink nipples he could spot under her obscenely thin robe, make her moan his name…

Dila leaned back against the cushions, crossing one leg over the other, her silk robe shifting with the motion. “No plans at all?” she asked, her voice teasing. “You sound like a man who’s been running for a long time.”

“I have,” he muttered, looking away.

For a moment, she said nothing, simply watching him. Then, with a sudden clarity in her voice, she spoke again. “You’re perfect.”

Aegon frowned, confused. “Perfect?”

Dila rose from the couch, moving toward him with the grace of a dancer, each step measured. “Yes, perfect,” she said softly. “You’ll stay here, at least until the elections are over. You don’t need to make any decisions and you certainly don’t need to run.”

Aegon’s brow furrowed in suspicion. “And what do you mean by ‘stay here’? Am I a prisoner?”

Dila raised a delicate brow, amusement in her voice. “Do you see chains around your wrists?” she asked lightly. “We Volantenes know the difference between a free man and a captive. You are not a prisoner, Vala. Consider yourself an… honored guest.”

Aegon’s unease deepened. He didn’t feel like a guest, not with her eyes on him, not with the way his thoughts kept circling back to her, to the scene he had witnessed earlier. He shifted awkwardly, trying to control the heat rising in his chest, the memory of her body on Qorlo still vivid in his mind.

Dila’s gaze sharpened, and she tilted her head slightly, as if reading his thoughts. “There’s lust in your eyes,” she said suddenly, her voice quiet but unmistakable.

Aegon stiffened, caught off guard by her bluntness. “I—no, I didn’t mean—” He stumbled over his words, his face flushing with embarrassment.

But Dila wasn’t offended. If anything, she seemed more amused than before.

Aegon swallowed hard, searching for the right words. “You are… very beautiful,” he admitted, his voice carefully diplomatic, as if treading on dangerous ground.

Dila smiled again, almost bitterly. That knowing smile that sent a chill down his spine. “Yes,” she said, her tone casual. “I know.”

And with that, she turned, the silk of her robe flowing around her as she left the room, leaving Aegon standing there, still rigid, still uncertain of what had just happened.

#aegon ii fanfic #aegon targaryen smut #aegon #aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen fanfic #aegon x oc #hotd fanfic #hotd

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shinsdc · 2 months ago

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Observaba con atención cada uno de los movimientos de la fémina mientras hablaba, su mirada detenida en cómo sus dedos recorrían sus propios brazos. Aquella postura, tan recogida, le hizo fruncir ligeramente el ceño. "¿Tienes frío?" preguntó con suavidad, señalando su gesto. Pensaba que en estas fechas era normal y las lluvias no ayudan a mantener el calor. Se acomodó un poco en su lugar, permitiendo que su propia postura se relajara mientras la escuchaba.Asintió lentamente en cuanto terminó de hablar, procesando sus palabras. "Te entiendo. Tengo malas experiencias con religiosos." su tono era calmado, aunque había una cierta aspereza en sus palabras, evidencia de recuerdos que preferiría enterrar. "Respeto en lo que cada quien cree, pero... siempre me ha parecido fastidioso cómo algunos llegan a ser tan extremistas. Y el problema ahora es que esos extremistas podrían ser peligrosos. Ya no hay un sistema que les limite. Pueden hacer lo que quieran y justificarlo como les parezca." la miró directamente, tratando de evaluar lo que pasaba por su mente, aunque sabía que era una tarea imposible. Le parecía curioso cómo todos estaban aquí tratando de sobrevivir, pero algunos parecen más preocupados por imponer sus creencias que por mantenerse con vida. "¿Quién es tu hermano?" preguntó después de un momento, con genuino interés. "Tal vez le conozco." su voz era un poco más suave. Finalmente, soltó un suspiro profundo, desviando la mirada hacia el suelo antes de volver a encontrarse con la de ella. "Realmente preferiría irme con un grupo. Pero parece que la mayoría ya está tratando de adaptarse a este lugar. No los culpo; tiene su comodidad, supongo. Pero yo no puedo quedarme aquí. No cuando mis hijos están en el refugio militar. No me perdonaría quedarme estancado mientras ellos siguen esperando por mí." sus últimas palabras salieron cargadas de una determinación silenciosa, casi como si intentara reafirmar su propia decisión más que convencer a su interlocutora.

Se sintió liberada, una carga menos sobre sus hombros cuando figura contraria compartió opinión propia. Aspiró un poco de aire y sus dedos bailaron sobre brazo contrario, como si se estuviera protegiendo a sí misma y sus propias extremidades sirvieran de escudo. Era más un accionar llevado por su ansiedad que ni siquiera el medicamento podía controlar. "He visto que hay personas que realmente lo creen. Y no es que esté juzgando sus creencias, pero," otra pausa acompañó el inspeccionar que llevó a cabo con su mirada. No supo terminar la frase porque temía que las paredes escucharan y opiniones compartidas llegaran a oídos peligrosos. Carraspeó la garganta y movió su cabeza en ambas direcciones. Desde matrimonio fallido Jacqueline era bastante buena manteniendo la guardia baja, sin llamar demasiado la atención. Sabía moverse por los rincones sin hacer ruido, sin causar molestias. "No hay nada más peligroso que un fanático siendo cuestionado por sus propias creencias." Era claro que si seguían la corriente por un tiempo pudieran mantener las cosas bajo control hasta que dicha actividad se viera comprometida por intereses propios. "Te entiendo," admitió. "No lo he pensado. No es como que me quiera quedar, pero no estoy sola." Si lo estuviera todo sería más sencillo, pero realmente no quería estarlo. "Mi hermano ahora tiene la responsabilidad de un grupo y no puedo dejarlo solo. Quizá cuando tengamos más claridad también decidamos irnos." Pausó. "Deberíamos irnos todos juntos. Los que queramos hacerlo, por lo menos."

#ᶜʰᵃⁿᵍᵉ ᵗʰᵉ ᵖʳᵒᵖʰᵉᶜʸ ☽ convo.#ᶜʰᵃⁿᵍᵉ ᵗʰᵉ ᵖʳᵒᵖʰᵉᶜʸ ☽ ft. jacll0w.#siiii #con vala ha hablado bastantito #se han encontrado en varias acts #siempre muy sabia vala

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khakilike · 2 years ago

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youtube

Genuinely no hate here, but at this point, Bobby Vala's release-date announcements should be taken with a grain of salt. Things are available for purchase when he says they are, not when he says they will be. Annoying, but I get it.

June 10, 2023: "Series 3.1 should be arriving either at the end of July or very early August, and I will be putting up updates about that."

August 7, 2023: "We have been talking about 3.1 for some time now, and the shipment is on its way to us and it will be in our warehouse probably around the end of August/beginning of September."

#Valaverse #Valaverse Power Con Exclusive & Series 3.1 Early Release #Action figures #Bobby Vala #YouTube #Toys #Action Force #Youtube

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cilil · 10 months ago

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𝐇𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐇𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 | 𝐁𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐖𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐬

𓄌 Characters/pairings: Melkor x Mairon 𓄌 Synopsis: Melkor decides to join the hunt to search for fire spirits. Mairon's hunt is cut short when the Dark Vala finds him. 𓄌 Warnings: Ultimately consensual, but I'll issue a slight dub-con warning to be safe. Also rough sex and some fighting 𓄌 Oneshot (~2.1k words) | AO3

That little game of Oromë's was entertaining, he had to admit.

Melkor had been informed by his spies that another Feast of Horns was about to take place and had decided to join the Hunt as well, looking for his favourite prey: Fire spirits. Two in particular that had caught his eye, to be exact.

He hadn't attended the other festivities, of course, being at war with his brethren and not welcome in their realm as it was, but to sneak past any and all who might hinder him to secretly mingle with the Hunters as they dispersed in the fields and forests around Almaren had been laughably easy; on a night like this, vigilance was low.

Now all Melkor had to do was locate his prey and claim his catch, ideally far away from prying eyes where he would be undisturbed and any cries for help would not be heard. Discarding his raiment for the time being, he concealed his presence and began his search.

Arien was the one he found first. She was running through the fields of Arda, laughing and carefree, hand in hand with Ilmarë. Eönwë and Tilion were in hot pursuit, and Melkor glared at them from the shadows. Too many others around. He would not have her today, that much was clear, and the thought angered him. Having to yield his prey to lesser Ainur, how utterly irritating.

Mairon better be alone tonight. Melkor's impatience would not allow another unsuccessful hunt. He had no intention to settle for something other than what he wanted.

His anger quickly disappeared once Arien and her companions were out of sight and he caught Mairon's trace. The other Maia indeed appeared to be hunting by himself at the moment, as he was wont to do; he preferred working alone and having the fruits of his labour to himself, driven by his ambition to surpass his kin.

Melkor found him sneaking around in the deeper parts of a nearby forest, golden eyes gleaming in the twilight as he searched for something, most likely a good vantage point or the trace of whoever he had deemed worthy of his attention. A pair of artful spiral horns adorned his head, revealing that he was indeed one of the Hunters for this feast, but that meant little to the Vala pursuing him. He was going to have him regardless.

Mairon froze when Melkor stepped out of the shadows and revealed himself, wearing the shape of a tall and beautiful lord. His hair, blacker than a starless night, nearly reached his waist and a matching pair of horns grew on his head like a crown of darkness. He smiled at him, showing off deadly sharp fangs.

"Well met, little one," Melkor greeted, his voice low and resembling the purr of a huge cat. "I have come to claim my catch."

"Your catch?" Mairon let out a small, arrogant laugh and shook his head.

The way his flame-like hair moved around his bare shoulders only heightened Melkor's excitement and prompted him to come closer.

"Yes. Mine."

"I am a Hunter, as you can see. Find someone else."

Melkor regarded him quietly for a while, torn between irritation and amusement.

"You think I would care for the rules of Oromë's silly game, but you are mistaken," he said eventually. "For I am the greatest hunter this world has ever seen, and all that is therein is my prey if I wish it."

Mairon merely scoffed at him, though something akin to intrigue flashed within the golden depths of his eyes. "Still you have not claimed me, so you have not earned a favour from me."

"Then I shall."

Melkor was on top of him before he could even attempt to flee. Letting out a vicious snarl, Mairon bared his teeth and began clawing at every inch of skin he could reach. His nails, turning into deadly claws as his rage flared and burned hot within him, drew no blood even as he fought the Vala with all of his strength.

Yet no matter how much he struggled, how hard he kicked, how much pain he attempted to cause, Melkor held him down with ease.

"Feisty," was all he said, and Mairon gave an indignant hiss. Seeing red, he attempted to bite the Vala's neck, only to be met with cold, nigh impervious flesh, reminding him of marble and diamonds — deceptive in the way it yielded like flesh should, yet refused to be broken.

"Are you satisfied now, little flame?"

The question caught him off-guard, allowing Melkor to pin him to the ground with a satisfied smirk.

"What do you mean?! Unhand me!"

"But this is what you asked for, no? You wanted me to properly stake my claim, and I believe I have shown you my strength just now and successfully subdued you."

Dazed, Mairon let go and looked up at Melkor. As outrageous as this capture was, there was a certain truth to his words. Brief as their struggle had been, it had undeniably gone in the Vala's favour — unsurprising though it was. Even so, the way he could so easily withstand anything a powerful Maia could do against him, within the constraints of Oromë's rules at least, was impressive.

Melkor grinned down at him. "Well? Are you not going to call for help?"

"I would be surprised if you didn't anticipate that possibility and made sure to catch me all the way out here to avoid it," Mairon remarked dryly. Perhaps he should be afraid, angry or disgusted, but he couldn't help feeling some sort of begrudging respect.

"Of course," Melkor admitted, utterly nonchalant as if it was a normal thing to do.

At least he isn't attempting to lie about it, for what it's worth.

"I could still try," Mairon said.

"You could."

They stared at each for a moment.

"Well? Would you stop me?" he challenged.

"It depends. Could it perhaps be that you would not be doing yourself a favour if you tried?" Melkor bent down to nuzzle his hair.

"You think I might be amenable to your advances?" Mairon hissed, but made no move to bite him again.

"No prey you could have caught on your own would be the greatest of the Valar."

"You would be correct, but my other prey also wouldn't have dared to hunt me."

"You would claim that you don't enjoy being hunted?" Melkor brought his full weight down on top of him to press their fánar together. "What if it is merely a matter of pride because you don't allow yourself to be hunted by lesser spirits?"

"You would know all about pride, wouldn't you?"

"Naturally." His fangs gleamed in the twilight. "And I also know to make this worth your time, little flame."

"Do you now?" Mairon hated that his righteous anger was slowly but surely replaced with intrigue and curiosity.

It was true; he thought himself greater than most of his peers and would never submit to them. To be made to submit by a greater power, however, was new and strangely exciting, even if his pride was wounded.

He licked his lips. The Feast of Horns was the time to indulge, and nobody had to know.

"Very well then. You may have your favour, even though your catch was rather clumsy."

Melkor laughed, then captured his lips in a greedy kiss. It was nothing like the tender caresses Mairon had seen his lord and lady or other Maiar exchange, it was teeth and tongue and violence, and he bit the Vala's bottom lip in retaliation for his shameless claiming of him. Again soft skin yielded to the force of his bite, but didn't break; the taste of Valarin blood continued to elude him.

"Fiery creature," Melkor purred, drawing back to admire his prey. Despite his best efforts, Mairon was unmistakably flustered panting heavily and pouting at him, cheeks flushed.

He felt angry. Aroused. Alive. Defying the Dark One's withering grasp, his flames burning bright inside him. And Mairon saw these strange sensations mirrored within Melkor's eyes, cold like splinters of ice yet glittering like frost in the light of Illuin and Ormal, aglow with a fey light set within Void-like darkness.

It was as unsettling as it was exciting to do this to a Vala.

Mairon bared his teeth, showing fangs of his own; a challenge that wouldn't remain unanswered.

With just one large, clawed hand, Melkor flipped him around as if he weighed nothing. Mairon found himself lying on his stomach, arms and legs spread wide, vines slithering out of the ground to restrain him. What little he wore was torn to shreds within seconds, and he was left exposed to his enemy — enemy turned lover.

Even so, he wasn't going to make it that easy.

Mairon fought against his restraints, struggling, biting, setting them on fire, only to make no progress. Hearing Melkor laugh at him once again enraged him.

"You would force me to endure such treatment?" he hissed over his shoulder.

"Easy there, little flame. You will enjoy this."

Before Mairon could ask how the Vala had the audacity to make such assumptions — ignoring the way his arousal spiked with every futile attempt at escaping — he felt two hands taking hold of his ass and a tongue pressing against his entrance. A strangled moan made its way past his lips when Melkor proceeded to lick and kiss him with such vigour that he feared he would be devoured if his muscles relaxed just a bit; a prospect so tempting that he did, inviting him in.

Nobody had ever touched him like this. Nobody had such strength and passion alike.

Mairon rested his head on the ground and let himself be eaten out, even pushing his hips demandingly in Melkor's direction as far as he was able.

"Naughty," he heard his voice again, this time through ósanwë.

When that wonderful tongue was withdrawn, Mairon protested with small, impatient whine, though said no more; he knew what would be next, and after Melkor's efforts he was convinced that this illicit coupling, too, would bring him pleasure unlike any he had previously known.

The first thing he felt was pain. Had his fána not been restrained and cleft in two by a Vala's cock, he would have responded with a snarky comment, but all he could do was gasp and groan and frantically adjust to its size.

"You must not be used to this," Melkor whispered in his ear, now coming to rest on top of his helpless lover to cover his fána with his own. "But I prefer it that way. I want you to feel me and remember it well."

"Do not... think for a second that I will be yours... after one night," Mairon hissed through gritted teeth.

"You will want no other."

Melkor accentuated his words with one well-aimed thrust, and suddenly pleasure bled into the pain. Now that his fána slowly grew accustomed to the Vala, the only thing Mairon could think about was how nicely his cock filled him, how it rubbed and pushed against his sensitive spots with every movement, how it caressed his rim as if it had been made for that purpose. The intensity of it all made it feel divine, so much more than anything he had experienced in his existence.

Mairon relished every moment of it. Every thrust, every small noise Melkor made, every inch of skin against skin, every time hands dug into his flesh with fierce possessiveness. Perhaps he would indeed want no other after this, as he doubted that any other Ainu would fuck him like this. Without his arrogance, without his pride, he was well and truly stripped bare of all bravado and reduced to his base instincts, to a being filled with hidden desires, lust and a secret craving to be made to serve another, one greater and more powerful.

He loved that he had made a Vala chase and catch him. He loved that Melkor showed him how much he wanted him. He loved that he was taken in a manner worthy of one who called himself a hunter of hunters.

And he loved that, in the end, his flesh and his voice were what made a Vala come undone.

Melkor held his hips in a bruising grip as he came, seeking to leave his mark with jealous determination. He didn't know if there were any others, and Mairon felt no obligation to tell him; perhaps he could retain the Vala's admiration and attention if he kept him on edge.

"Mine," Melkor growled in his ear.

Whether or not it was intended as a threat or a warning, all Mairon heard was a promise.

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