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Mairon had much to bemoan, truly. His was a life of misery and deprivation and endless torture all at the hand of one whom he’d first hated, then had come to love, then to want so fiercely that it made his synapses go haywire, little fires lining the inside of his skull, spilling over into his body. His skin glowed with his unfulfilled desires and it was only by the lower intellect of those he worked with that he hadn’t been found out yet.
That and the fact that Melkor had gone off to other spheres, his physical body like a marble statue on his throne. Chin permanently attached to the palm of his right hand, eyes closed, his other hand a fist on his lap. And atop his brow, a mockery of all that Mairon valued, treasured: an iron crown. Wrought in cold apathy for craft, with nothing but utility in mind. An abomination of twisted, charred metal that lacked both symmetry and refinement and was only ever meant for one purpose. To hold devices of torture, three of them. Veiled in their otherworldly beauty, they hid their purpose well, but Mairon had felt their malice ere Melkor had first set foot into Angband after his escapades with Ungoliant. Had felt the air curl around him in revolt, had felt the ground tremble in an attempt to bury itself at the prospect of the Children’s finest work turning its master a caricature.
As Melkor had sped towards the fortress, the orcs had dropped dead by the dozens, death out of thin air and Mairon and Gothmog had dissected the carcasses for days after to determine what had gone wrong. Now they knew.
As Melkor had broken through the gates, all in the courtyard, orc, spirit and balrog alike had frozen on the spot. Too terrified by the sight that greeted them – charred fingers that crackled and split open to reveal the light of Valinor, bared teeth, a body swathed in foul spider ichor.
As Melkor had reclaimed his throne, Gothmog had averted his eyes and the castle walls had shaken and Mairon had sunk to his knees on the dais. Renewing his vows. Laying his soul bare. Not a day had gone by since then that he hadn’t wanted to climb atop his master and see himself be thoroughly used and maltreated. Such misery, yes.
Mairon sighed where he lounged on Melkor’s bed. His day’s work was done, and he had showered off the dust and grime of the forges, and though the taste of smoke still clung to his lips, his mind had wandered far already. Towards this space he occupied with its soft linens that whispered against his overly sensitized skin, a crackling fire that serenaded his heartbeat to go faster, faster. Perhaps, today would be the day that Melkor walked through that door and saw him and wanted him again. Perhaps today would be the day that he wasn’t the one to beckon out his own climax. Or perhaps not.
A low whine escaped him as he lazily pinched his nipples, let fingertips like heated coals dance over the sensitive skin of his stomach. Grazed the tip of his erection with his thumb. Mairon was desperate enough that he couldn’t wait. Deep in his heart he knew Melkor wouldn’t appear, he hadn’t occupied this room since well before Utumno had fallen to ruin. The disappointment was a harsh edge that threatened to burst the bubble of his desire, his cock hard against the sheets, his cheeks flushed. He wouldn’t let Melkor have that triumph too, no, he would find other means of pleasing himself.
His mind shuffled back through the last weeks for something his dark desire could feast off.
There had been a skirmish near the borders of Neldoreth where Mairon had sent some orcs to cause a ruckus. He had been a spectator, airborne, the flaps of his wings drowned out by the shrill clang of iron, by the harsh screams. It was the first time in a long time that Mairon had seen his own creations in action. Curved blades with jagged edges that ripped elvish skin like parchment. Broadswords that splintered skulls and cut down shields as they gleamed red, coated in blood and guts. Finely crafted daggers that whizzed through the air, a song only Mairon could hear. The thought made his blood boil and his gut contract in pleasure. He stroked the inside of his thigh, moaning.
There had been a series of weapon tests, just him and Gothmog on the open tundra plains of the North. Gothmog had wrought a mace, as tall as an orc with a thin handle and an elaborate horned head of gold and lava. Mairon had watched Gothmog fondle and swing the weapon, his muscles bulging, his swings creating a honey-colored blur. The image made his toes curl and he cradled his balls, squeezing as, before his inner eye, Gothmog brought the mighty mace down to pulverize a large boulder. Grunting as he did so. The weapon sang and smashed and glowed and Mairon’s pulse skipped a beat.
There had been a finely braided whip of leather so soft it felt liquid as Mairon ripped it out of their executioner’s claws. The elf at his knees had sobbed in relief, thinking it meant mercy, but Mairon had merely cackled and brought the whip down. Basking in the lashes as they echoed through the courtyard. Moaning in tandem with the elf. Such a beautiful instrument if not at all by his own craft. The handle fit perfectly into his palms, the way his own length did now as he stroked it with lazy movements of his wrist. Writhing in pleasure, but still.
Not enough.
Mairon needed more than images, something to facilitate his desire, to act it out on. With Melkor absent, there was but one solution left.
It was then that Mairon’s half-lidded gaze caught on something in the corner of the room. A blackened cylinder that leaned against a rotten wardrobe. Dust and cobwebs hugged it close, ran all the way down to the head of hammer which was hidden beneath a pile of cloth and bone. Its ornate carvings buried under rotten memories, wolves and fire devoured by old age. Grond. Mairon smirked as an idea struck him.
„Aren’t we just a sodden pair,“ he purred and got up from the bed, sparks falling from his lips to singe the bed sheets. “Aren’t we just sad.” Mairon walked over to the weapon and dragged it out of the corner, dust and dirt burning away as he did so. When Grond sat on its head in the middle of the room, it gleamed a chromatic black. A sheen as though it had come fresh off the anvil rather than being abandoned for several thousand years. It vibrated from the movement, malice awoken from a deep slumber.
“Me too, darling.”
Mairon eyed the weapon, its twirling patterns that curled all the way down the handle. The head that looked like two wolves whose bodies had been cut off and who’d been sewn together at the neck. Rubies and amber gemstones to mimic infernal fire spilling from their eyes and mouths. Sharp teeth that promised agony. Mairon licked his lips.
„Now how to go about this, hmm?“ He wrapped his arms around the handle, rubbed his chest against it before gripping it. He couldn’t wield Grond, not in this form, not even with both hands and his powers fully unlocked. It was simple physicality. But what he could do was lower it to make it more manageable. It sat comfortably on the side of its head, balanced so that the handle hovered parallel to the ground.
“This could work,” he murmured, and sank to his knees. The stone ground was cold against his skin, but it quickly heated up, supplied with Mairon’s energy, and so did Grond under Mairon’s touch. He wrapped one leg around the handle, both his arms to embrace the weapon and rubbed himself against it, moaning where the metal stimulated his pulsing erection.
Not enough.
“You think so too, right?” he whispered against the hammer, lips grazing warm metal, and crawled all the way to the tip of the handle, slipped off the hammer to position himself in front of it on all fours. “This should do.” Grond was steady, unmoving which was perfect for Mairon to reach behind himself and press his entrance up against the tip. His body complied, welcomed the intrusion like an old friend.
As such, one hand braced on the ground, the other on the handle behind him, Mairon inched backward. Willing his muscles to relax around the thickness of the hammer which split him open exquisitely. Mairon threw his head back and gasped. It wasn’t Melkor, warm and pliable, it was something else entirely. Unyielding and big and hard to the point of being painful and Mairon cursed himself that he hadn’t thought of this earlier. It was glorious. It was almost enough.
Mairon crawled back forward, slow to start to draw out this feeling, until he was at the tip of the handle once more. Took a moment to catch his breath which was shallow and fast.
That was when the door banged open and the King of the World entered his room. A storm cloud of rage for an aura. A blessing like Mairon hadn’t thought would ever come to him.
„What exactly am I looking at?“ Melkor said, his thumbs rubbing along his forehead.
„Join me and find out,“ Mairon panted. He slid back down the hilt of the hammer, stretching, stretching himself to fit it as deep as he could inside of his body. When it wouldn’t go further his insides clenched around it and he moaned lasciviously. His balls tightened and he wanted desperately to put his own hands to his cock, but his balance was precarious and now that Melkor was here, there might be a chance he’d get some help with that.
Melkor’s face was contorted in disgust, lip curled and eyes hidden in the shimmer of the jewels that seemed to bask the room in their brilliance yet suck all light out of it at the same time. Mairon averted his eyes, bit his lower lip. His cock was dripping now and his whole body was tense, aching for release. He made to jerk his hips forward, but a low growl from Melkor stopped him dead. Could it be a hint of lust? Or had it been Mairon’s imagination?
„You vile little creature,“ the Vala said and crossed his arms over his broad breastplate. „Abusing my mighty weapon for your filthy purposes. When have I sanctioned this?”
„He and I have both found ourselves abandoned by our master’s hand and so we united to find purpose elsewhere,” Mairon said. Fury ignited his skin. He felt the ends of his hair singe, sizzle away. It was too much to hold in, the pleasure, the anger, the want, the steel buried inside of him.
„Oh, please. You were horny and thought to feel close to me by using Grond. It’s revolting.“
Mairon shuddered. These words, harsh though they were, scraped at all the right walls in the twisted maze that was his mind. If Melkor but touched him while talking as such.
“What other option did I have? Three ages you have been torn from me. Three ages with nothing but the thought of you to keep me warm at night.”
“Those ages have passed,” Melkor said simply.
“And yet you haven’t touched me once. Not even a personal word.” Mairon arched his back. If he could slide down just a little more it would surely get him off, trigger his release. So desperate. “Mylord,” he added hastily.
“Get out of here. Leave the hammer and get out.”
“But-“
“You leave now, or I will have you exiled,” Melkor said and the air in the room dropped several degrees, the fire died with a gurgle. Mairon shivered, goose bumps chasing the heat off his skin. His cock twitched, leaked. But he couldn’t risk it. The jewels had made Melkor more incalculable than ever before. He had always been angry, revolutionary, impulsive. But never this vengeful, not with Mairon. And being shunned and ignored by this Melkor was still better than not being around him at all. Mairon would be nothing and it was that simple truth that had him inch forward, bracing himself on the ground, until he slid free of the hammer. Got to his feet, dusted off his knees. Walked past his centre of gravity. It had never been as hard as this.
And then it wasn’t.
“Wait,” Melkor said and Mairon froze in the doorway, grinning like a maniac. He schooled his expression into apathy as he turned. Melkor had picked up Grond to rest upright on its head once more. His arms were open wide. “I changed my mind. Come here.”
Mairon’s heart fluttered in his chest and he wanted to fly into his master’s embrace, wanted to thank whatever dark force had convinced Melkor to change his mind, but he kept his cool. One step after the next, his bare feet slapping against the stone floor as he walked up to Melkor who bent down and lifted Mairon up against his chest as though he weighed nothing. Mairon wrapped his arms around Melkor’s neck, his legs around his hips.
“Finally,” he sighed. “How I have missed you.”
“You must have,” Melkor said and brought their lips together in a brutal kiss that had Mairon gasp for air, gasp for more. Something in his chest snapped, the deprivation of millennia undone by a single touch. Melkor’s charred hands were coarse against the skin of Mairon’s bottom as he rearranged his grip on the Maia so that he could hold him with one arm. He kissed Mairon’s lips raw and bruised, licked into his mouth with an aggression bordering on clinical and Mairon was helpless. He could only take this treatment and revel in it. The simmering lust he had felt before was nothing compared to this tempest that left flame and devastation in its wake. His heart had stopped beating, electricity raked across his backside from where Melkor held him, it was more than blissful. It made Mairon grateful to have been created.
Melkor’s free hand found Mairon’s cock, engulfed it in dry, hot flesh and Mairon moaned into Melkor’s mouth, wanton and guttural and finally free. Judgment day was upon him.
The strokes were harsh and fast. Mairon’s overly stimulated system was quick to adapt, had him convulsing with every pump, calves cramping, fingers tangled in Melkor’s hair, eyes closed to block out the light of the jewels. Not even they could stop the tsunami that was bound to crash over them. No child of Eru would deny Mairon this release.
Their tongues met, teeth clashed, saliva dripped down Mairon’s chin as the pace quickened, quickened. Judgment day, yes. All of Beleriand would shake with this one. How gloriously it would fall apart.
It was those fingers that finally took him over, first scraping over his skin, stroking his cock raw and aching, the others entering him. Mairon cried out and came in hot spurts, all over Melkor’s breastplate, his blackened hand. The moment caught in a kiss that drew blood. Post-apocalyptic, pure, bone-slacking bliss.
“If I ever find you engaging in this sort of behaviour again,” Melkor murmured against Mairon’s slack mouth. “I will end you.” And he gripped Mairon by the hips and lifted him up, up until the grip of Grond pushed against his entrance once more, familiar now, rekindling that spark of lust. Mairon whined feebly as Melkor guided him down the hilt, down until the boundaries of his body put a stop to the movement.
“What does mylord have in mind?” he said, his voice high, his eyes closed. He smiled. Then tensed. Melkor kept pushing him down, his grip on Mairon hard enough to draw bruising, but his body resisted. That didn’t stop the Vala though, and he used more force until Mairon’s hipbones creaked dangerously, until something inside of him tore open. He yelped in pain, felt blood run down his thighs and still, Melkor kept pushing. Mairon gasped, half in pleasure, half in pain, felt the handle of the hammer push aside, push through organs. Gargled as his lungs were squished to bits in his chest and opened his eyes to stare up at Melkor.
“What?” he barely managed.
“That’s it,” Melkor crooned and bent down to place a kiss on Mairon’s forehead. “Keep your mouth nice and open.” And with a harsh jerk of his arms he pushed Mairon all the way down to Grond’s head. The handle shot through Mairon’s neck, made him gag briefly before it destroyed everything in its wake. Smashed in his teeth and came out of his mouth. His lips tore at the corners. His jaw unhinged, then locked in an angle that was exquisitely painful. He couldn’t even make a sound now, sitting on the hammer head. Parts of its embellishments dug into his flesh, drawing blood. His hips ached. His chest was close to explosion. His cock swelling once more.
Melkor stepped back, wiping his hands on his pants. The Silmarils veiled his expression again, but his posture was proud.
“Ponder this,” he said.
I will, Mairon thought gleefully. And I hope you will too.