Be yourself. Everyone else is already taken.

Featuring one Maia who would very much prefer to get back to being useful, thank you.

Mairon is not particularly good at receiving pleasure, at accepting affection. Which is strange, because Mairon is good at everything. (At this thought, he inwardly scoffs.)

But this new, peculiar whim of Melkor’s throws him entirely off balance.

Why would he lay Mairon down upon the bed, slowly undress him, deny him even the chance to touch Melkor — when Mairon only means to help, to speed up the process? Why would he keep pushing Maia’s hands away, ordering him to grip the headboard and remain still?

Mairon watches in bewilderment, uncertain what to expect.

It is a foolish idea. Melkor’s hands still ache — always, always will — from the Silmarils, and so the preparation has always been Mairon’s responsibility. A duty he performed very, very willingly.

But the Vala kisses him with agonizing slowness, traces his tongue along Mairon’s neck, lingers over the chest — where fiery heart pounds so desperately beneath his lips. Black fingers drift along the lines of Maia’s sides — caresses ghostly, light, insufficient. Gradually slipping lower.

Tension gathers low in Mairon’s stomach, winding itself into a sweet, tight knot.

He feels awkward. Almost embarrassed. He finds himself counting the minutes wasted on him — minutes that surely bring Melkor no pleasure whatsoever.

He tenses, nearly bucking like a wild stallion when Melkor’s hands strokes his thighs with absurd tenderness, when the kisses against his stomach grow unbearably slow, teasing, tormenting.

Then the Vala draws back. He simply looks at Mairon, and Mairon is biting his lip, breathing heavily — flushed and thoroughly marked.

Only then does Melkor lean over him again, and the wet heat of his mouth envelops Mairon’s flesh. But before that, the Dark Lord finally deigns to give his servant an order. An order to do nothing, nothing at all.

Inktober 03/31

Antenna