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elaratheguardian · 6 days ago

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Dying Souls.

Pairing: Sauron/Mairon x Nurutúrwë (My OC)

Word count: 10.471

Author's Notes: English is not my first language, so I apologize for any mistakes or confusion. You know, this is a bit funny. Generally speaking, Devouring Heart was supposed to be a single chapter, but it became a series. And from the first chapters, I knew I wanted Melkor and Nienna to have a child, so I started with small suggestions of what it would be like (oh, hi, Ancalagon). But Sauron and Nurutúrwë was a more recent idea, and I didn't know if it could work, so there was this "strange attraction between Sauron and Nienna" thing, which was never really about her. Once I decided how the main series should end, I knew it would work, because a second part of the story will be written. I don't know if you're as into this as I am, but we'll find out if it makes sense. Hm, Nurutúrwë is seventeen here, but being immortal, I guess that doesn't matter at all. This chapter takes place after chapter 25.

Warnings: 18+, MDNI. Unprotected sex. Oral (male receiving.) Praise Kink. Masturbation. First time. Anguish. Manipulation. Power imbalance. The age gap has arrived in Middle-earth (if you think about canon, it's been here a long time, right?)

Summary: When the siege ended and Gondolin finally fell, the few remaining survivors escaped the Dark Lord's mind. However, much escaped the Valar's knowledge when the Dark Lord's son and his most trusted lieutenant had to escape together to recover from the battle, and, perhaps understand what that unnamed feeling could mean.

Additional story: PART IV -> SERIES MASTERLIST

At the Beginning of Time, when the Dark Lord rebelled against the Ainur and the sovereignty of Ilúvatar, he long kept his true intentions a secret. For dark was his heart, and many secrets dwelt in Melkor's spirit. To Arda the Valar must go, and with Eru's blessing, they would watch over all creations that sang in harmony in the Great Song. And when the time finally came, they would guide the Firstborn. None of this, of course, Melkor desired, but with the Ainur he departed, and in Arda, his malice flourished.

The Dark Lord's cruelties were countless, and the hearts of the Valar closed to him. Yet, far from Valinor, in Middle-earth, he forged a fortress. Powerful, awesome, and corrupted it was, and he called it Utumno. Long were the years he remained there, corrupting other beings of Arda while continuing to destroy all the Valar's creations. And idle they remained for long, allowing the Dark Vala to reign over chaos and despair. But even he, as powerful as he was, knew that one day, the Valar would fight him for all his perversions.

Despite this, he knew many things, and prepared for the arrival of the Ainur. He had another fortress. Unknown, heavily guarded, consumed by his Shadow so masterfully, that not even the mighty Ainur discovered this most protected of Melkor's creations. When defeat came, and Utumno was destroyed forever, Melkor did not care; quite the opposite, for Angnaire remained standing. Far from Middle-earth, the fortress was abandoned, but not completely.

The Orcs and their families were to remain in Angnaire until they were needed by the Dark Lord. It was unacceptable for the children of the Orcs to remain near Melkor, and, frankly, the parents themselves feared for their children's safety and were content to keep distant. Rarely, after being freed by the Ainur and forging Angband, did the Dark Lord visit Angnaire. Until her arrival, of course. Because, as protected as the fortress was, he wished to keep Nienna safe, away from all his schemes. After all, not even she could see the full depth of his cruelty and remain with him, right?

However, to his surprise, when Tevildo was overpowered, and the rumors were too disturbing for the Dark Lord to keep Ancalagon in Angband, Nienna agreed to leave the fortress with the dragon, taking him to a place where no Elf or Man could find them. To Angnaire, she went, accompanied by Adar. Because only the Dark Lord's servants knew the true location. But he need not have feared, right? Nienna would never betray his trust, never tell the Valar about the secret fortress.

At the time, she was unaware of Melkor's true intentions. Indeed, he hoped she would keep Ancalagon at bay, shielded from the knowledge of those in the Undying Lands. Yet, it was more than that, much more. For, just as Ancalagon was a gift to Nienna, even if she did not know it, a plot to make her cling to Melkor's creations, to desire not only to create with him, but to bear with him. Above all, he hoped she would meet the Orcs and their families who lived in Angnaire. If Nienna wanted him to be merciful, to believe they could have much more than just power and passion, nothing better than meeting the most vulnerable, those spared by his malice, or nearly so.

And even though all the Valar considered it impossible, even improbable, Nienna developed a genuine affection for the Orcs and their families. Because, to the Lady of All Mercy, they were not merely corrupted beings, but creatures deserving of true forgiveness. So, it came as no surprise to the Orcs, of course, when they discovered that the Dark Lord's wife, Queen of Angband and Arda, was expecting his child. It was everything Melkor had long plotted, carefully, slowly, until the moment she gladly agreed to bear his child.

Many years, indeed, would pass before he was born. But when the Nirnaeth Arnoediad arrived, and Men and Elves went to fight side by side against the cruelty of Melkor, in Angband, the Valarindi most feared and despised by the Valar was born. Nurutúrwë, they called him, Master of Death. And though the Ainur would not trust a creation untouched but sired by the Dark Lord, his purity was undeniable. For, corrupted in blood he was by his father, but his spirit was as heavenly as that of the other Valarindi, for Nienna remained the same from when Ilúvatar created her.

Strangely, to the Ainur, Nurutúrwë remained a mystery to them all. They knew little about the child, and even less about what he truly was. Protected and hidden, he was by the Dark Lord, and he was rarely far from his parents, always guarded like a treasure in Angband. He was Melkor's most divine and pure creation. And unlike so many others, not even the Dark Lord's cruelty had been able to corrupt his son completely. Melancholy and fury, malice and purity, emanated from him, and not even the Valar understood a being so celestial, yet, impure, as Nurutúrwë.

When seventeen years had passed since the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, Middle-earth was about to face another ruin, another torture. For when the armies of Angband marched toward the Hidden Kingdom, the Valar would finally discover the full extent of the cruelty of the one the Elves called Raukondo. To Gondolin, the Dark Lord's son marched, alongside the army of Orcs and beasts. None of this, of course, escaped the judge and watchful eye of the Valar, who beheld the ruin the young god wrought in his father's name, forever sealing his fate before the Valar.

Not even the most powerful, indeed, can escape the consequences of war. And when the Hidden Kingdom was left behind, nothing but ruins and smoke, the army of Orcs and beasts returned to the Dark Lord's fortress, but not Nurutúrwë, nor even Sauron. Far, far from the reach of the Dark Vala and She Who Weeps, they went. Whether it was the scars left by the fall of Gondolin, or the strange feelings blossoming between them, they did not even care when Adar tried to prevent Nurutúrwë's departure, begging him to return to Angband.

Honestly, the consequences for the Uruks and Adar would be dire if they returned from the war without the Dark Lord's son. But that was not the only reason, not at all. Because deep down, even if he would not admit it, even if he masked his intentions, Adar did not trust Nurutúrwë's safety to Sauron.

Indeed, there was little Sauron could do against such a powerful Valarindi, especially if he did not wish to arouse Melkor's wrath. It was not about any of this, of course. Adar looked reluctantly at Nurutúrwë, who departed resolutely with Sauron, holding his hand possessively, as if to remind Adar, and all the Uruks staring at them, that nothing could be said or done by any of them to the Dark Lord without having to face the irritable and tempestuous temper of Melkor's son. Perhaps, Adar thought, Melkor already suspected Sauron's intentions, of his recent closeness to Nurutúrwë. Still, the Uruk was wary of returning without the young god.

Slowly, they walked toward the Dark Lord's most secure and forgotten fortress. Angnaire seemed no part of Middle-earth, or even Arda, as if it were a nightmare escaped from the Void itself. So strong, so thick was the evil in that land that constant snow and cold were the only climate surrounding the fortress. Without Sauron's help, they would never have reached it; after all, Angnaire was unknown to Nurutúrwë, of course. For when the Dark Vala discovered Sauron's strange closeness to his wife, the Maia was driven away for many years, and Nurutúrwë could not approach the fortress, not while his lieutenant was there.

How ironic, thought Sauron, as they glimpsed the frozen gates of the fortress. Years ago, he had been punished, forced to remain in Angnaire, free to return to Angband only when the Dark Lord permitted. A very failed attempt to keep the Maia away from Nienna. Away from Nurutúrwë. Well, if Eru Ilúvatar had a sense of humor, Sauron was discovering it now, as he returned to the place that had been his exile, but now, it was a new hope, a new opportunity.

Nurutúrwë walked silently beside Sauron, gazing curiously at the frozen land. At moments like these, the Maia remembered that he was still very young, very inexperienced. For seventeen years, he had lived alone in Angband, with only his parents and the Orcs, whom he so despised, for company. Unlike Nienna, who felt deep melancholy for the Orcs upbringing, the young god felt nothing but contempt. From his earliest childhood, Nurutúrwë had never borne to be around the Orcs, even though he spent hours in the caves of Angband with the dragons.

In all fairness, Nurutúrwë was close to the Orcs, yes. However, they were mere playthings, mere servants, whom he used as a way to vent his own rage, his own loneliness. Quickly, as the years passed, the Orcs discovered that the young god, though so similar to Nienna, was the perfect likeness of Melkor, and as brutal and powerful as his father. Perhaps, even worse than Melkor. As the ages passed, with all the essence the Dark Vala unleashed on his creations, his power, though considerable, slowly diminished. Nurutúrwë, however, was young and inexperienced, and was still learning his own limits. Something that proved quite dangerous.

Absently, the young god watched the falling snow as Sauron led him to the gates, ignoring the curious glances of the Orcs. Few Orc families remained in Angnaire. With the coming of another war, families dwindled, and the fathers and mothers who had lost children were too wounded to form new ones. These Orcs, Sauron realized, did not know Nurutúrwë, but they exaggerated the similarities to Melkor, yes, as much as they sensed his cloying and powerful essence. Even though he had never glimpsed the Undying Lands, the purity of Valinor shone in his eyes.

“The Dark Lord must not know we are here,” Sauron bellowed like a thunderstorm, the order thundering over the icy gates as the Orcs opened them to admit them into the fortress. “Your tongues will be cut out, and your wives murdered, if you dare disobey my command.”

Horrified, one of the Orcs stared at Nurutúrwë, who laughed at Sauron's words as if they did not matter, as if the threat were a mere joke. After all, having grown up in Angband, few things seemed truly bad to him, and he looked with interest at Sauron, who continued to stare at the Orc. But Nurutúrwë's sweet laughter caught the lieutenant's attention, and he sighed contentedly as the gates closed, and bows were quickly made to Nurutúrwë. When Sauron's eyes finally met his, he noticed how the Valarindi smiled differently now, realizing he had captured his attention.

Abruptly, Nurutúrwë released Sauron's hand, which aroused the interest of the Orcs guarding the gates, as the Valarindi entered the fortress. Although they had never met the Dark Lord's son, Sauron's words and their behavior were somewhat strange, even inappropriate, they thought. They highly doubted that Melkor knew of their presence there, especially given the warm glances Sauron directed at Nurutúrwë, who walked away from him, eager to see the fortress.

For many years, Melkor had exploited Nienna's fears, her dread, to keep her and their son imprisoned in Angband, far from the world, but always under his watchful eye. Gondolin had been the first time Nurutúrwë had been completely alone, and that new freedom seemed to shine in his eyes. For when he turned back, eager to see if Sauron was walking near him, he noticed again, that small smile, the same smile he had given when the Orc had died before him, before they departed Gondolin.

Nurutúrwë walked much faster, and when Sauron finally entered the fortress, he could not find him. Then he realized, he was toying with him, of course he was. That was always how he saw things, was not it? Nurutúrwë was too innocent to think of his own actions as cruel or unwelcome. Nienna was too protective, too kind, and Melkor too permissive for him to understand the full extent of his own actions. It was not that he was being cruel to Sauron; on the contrary, he seemed desperate for Sauron to come after him. And he was more than happy to give Nurutúrwë what he desired.

Angnaire was a fortress, not a home. But a chamber had been made ages ago, almost as if the Dark Lord expected the Lady of Mercy to seek him out. Indeed, she had. And Nurutúrwë, so much like her, could only be in one place in the entire fortress. Slowly, Sauron approached Nienna's former chambers, hearing a strange weeping coming from within. Sighing, he opened the doors, finding Nurutúrwë sitting on the bed, his hands covering his face. He might smile and mock the Orcs, but Sauron saw the weight of war in him, in those young shoulders.

“Nurutúrwë,” Sauron murmured, closing the door. But the boy did not answer him, not even when Sauron approached and knelt before him. “My boy, it is well.” Sauron’s hands reached for his arms, pushing Nurutúrwë’s hands away.

The divine, celestial face, streaked with tears, stained the ash that still lingered, a reminder of what they had done, of what he had done. The cut on his cheek looked a little better, but the black blood still trickled down, giving Nurutúrwë a strange, corrupt beauty. Calmly, so as not to alarm the Valarindi further, Sauron stood, searching for Nienna's former belongings. So much of her essence still lingered, even though years had passed, it was almost revolting to Sauron.

He rolled his eyes, reaching for one of her forgotten veils. Melkor hated it when she wore veils, because they prevented him from seeing her tears. It was no wonder so many had been forgotten, but they would be useful now. Woven from her own tears, the veils were as healing as her own tears. Nurutúrwë looked at Sauron silently, a few tears still streaming down his face, and Sauron knew deep down that he was thinking of Gothmog, lost forever. And Maeglin, discarded as if he did not matter, not that the Dark Lord cared, of course, but some cruelties were hidden from the young god.

“Look at me, my boy,” Sauron said, sitting beside Nurutúrwë. But all he received was silence.

Over the years, Sauron noticed how the personalities of Melkor and Nienna shone through him, as if they were fighting for control. While he was brutal and tempestuous like Melkor, he was solitary and melancholic like Nienna. And it still seemed very difficult for him to control both emotions. Still covered in armor but without his helmet, Nurutúrwë seemed very fragile to him. He had given the helmet and Aicamaitë to Adar, ordering him to take them to Angband, so that Nienna could be reassured of his safety, promising he would return soon, but that he needed to think, away from the fortress. Not that he was lying, not entirely. Nurutúrwë was clearly changed by the fall of Gondolin, by what he had done. By everything Melkor had demanded of him to bring about the Elves' defeat.

“Nurutúrwë,” He murmured again, bringing his hands to the boy’s chin, forcing him to look at him.

“I cannot go back, not now,” the Valarindi whispered, finally facing Sauron, but his eyes seemed so empty. “I cannot.”

“We do not need to.” Sauron nodded, lightly stroking Nurutúrwë’s face.

He understood that feeling, of course he did. Nurutúrwë was not just affected by the lives lost in the war, by the lives he had to cut short, no, it was more than that. He was not ready to face his mother, to look Nienna in the eye after everything he had done in the war. Of course, Sauron thought, appreciating the gentleness of his divine Fana as he brought the veil to the cut, cleaning the wound. Nurutúrwë, yes, suspected Nienna would never forgive him, never love him, after all. Distant, he did not need to be rejected by her, or face her wrath.

Nurutúrwë closed his eyes, appreciating Sauron's gesture, the way he so carefully wiped the blood from his face, as if he were delicate, as if he could not be touched roughly, as if Nurutúrwë were not much stronger than he. That simple realization, that mere contrast, only stole a gasp from Sauron, and he immediately understood what was happening. So consumed by war, by euphoria, Nurutúrwë was losing control of his own power, influencing Sauron's own emotions without even realizing what he was doing, but the Maia could sense his emotions.

It was all so confusing. So much anguish, so much fury, but something more. The desire was there, as it always had been, for so long, even if Nurutúrwë did not understand what that emotion was. Slowly, Sauron drew the veil from the Valarindi's face, who remained with his eyes closed, content with the affection, with the warm touch of Sauron's fingers against his face. He did not even care when the Maia held his face tightly, forcing Nurutúrwë to come closer.

“Hm, no, not like that,” He whispered, and they were so close now that Sauron could feel the heat of his breath, only warming a flame already burning in his chest. “I want to know your name first.”

“What?” Confused, Sauron briefly stepped away from Nurutúrwë, staring at the confused boy. What kind of request was that? Never before had something like this been necessary, at least, not with other people, but it was different with Nurutúrwë, so different.

Nurutúrwë opened his eyes, only to roll them at Sauron. Unlike Sauron, Nurutúrwë still wore the iron gloves, creating a barrier between them. But Sauron's bare fingers continued to caress the boy's face, waiting for an answer, an explanation of what it all meant. Now, with the cut clean and the tears almost forgotten, the boy sighed, dragging his body closer to Sauron, as if he could no longer bear the distance.

“Tell me your true name,” Nurutúrwë whispered, his hands reaching for Sauron’s shoulders, squeezing tightly as he moved closer and closer, until there was no space between them. “Please.”

Creator, Sauron could not bear it when he begged. It was too difficult to resist Nurutúrwë, and his cloying yet, utterly alluring essence. When he begged, it was almost unbearable to deny him anything. Sauron tried to regain some composure, some control, keeping his hands on the boy's face, desperately caressing the younger Fana, so much warmer and more delicate. He was divine, completely; no matter how much Melkor's corruption existed within him, her light, Nienna's pure light, still shone within him; not even Sauron could deny it.

Centuries, years, he could Not even remember, since he had last spoken his own name, the name he had abandoned when he chose to follow Melkor. A name, forgotten in time, from a time he did not wish to recall. But Nurutúrwë looked at him so insistently, so desperately, as if he needed the name more than anything, as if it were vital to him. His fingers rubbed slowly against Maia's shoulder, waiting for an answer, as if he would not take no for an answer.

“Mairon,” Sauron whispered, defeated. The name left a strange taste in his mouth. It felt almost profane to dare to speak that name again.

“The Admirable.” Nurutúrwë smiled as he whispered, squeezing Sauron's shoulder tightly, as if intoxicated by that name, so pleased to have his desires so easily granted. After all, he had never known what it was like to have his own wishes denied. “Why does not my atya call you that?”

“That name is from a time that is no more,” Sauron said, pushing Nurutúrwë back slightly to look into the boy’s dark eyes, who rolled his eyes at the distance, uneasy. “That Maia is no more.”

“Hm, I like Mairon,” Nurutúrwë said, smiling at Sauron. “Quite a bit.”

Before the Maia could comprehend what was happening, the boy pressed his lips against his, kissing desperately, with a ravishing urgency. Not that he was complaining, of course, returning the same desire, the same passion. His lips were demanding, like everything else about him, so accustomed to being served by Melkor's servants. So accustomed to being a prince. But it was not about that; it was very different. Because he had always felt that pull too, had not it?

As if something had always been pushing him toward Sauron. As if it were the right thing to do, as if things should always have been this way. He moaned into the kiss, pulling his hands away from Sauron's shoulders, only to reach for the red strands and tug hard, eliciting a furious groan from the Maia. Nurutúrwë should not have been so desperate, taking control of the situation. No, Sauron was older, much older, he would not let Nurutúrwë take control, no matter how good his immortal lips were against Sauron's.

“Mairon.” He whispered in Sauron’s mind, moaning carelessly. “My Mairon.”

The possessiveness, the lust, contained in those words awakened Sauron's mind, as if his entire Fana were on fire, as if he were the one touching the Silmarils. Sauron kept his hands on Nurutúrwë's face, deepening the kiss, consumed by the divine taste of his lips, which felt so different, so made for him. No rational thought existed in Sauron's mind, not as he forcefully pushed Nurutúrwë's body down, forcing the boy to lie down on the bed. Honestly, he should have felt guilty about this, ashamed even, but he did not, not at all.

It did not matter that this was the Dark Lord's fortress, and those were Nienna's chambers. It did not even matter that Nurutúrwë was younger, more desperate than he was. Because that kiss was good, it was certain, like nothing he had ever felt with anyone before. The devotion, the pleasure, yes, were there, but a strange affection, a need for contact, too. He knew it for sure when he pressed his Fana against the Valarindi, who felt so heavenly, and he could not resist losing himself in the kiss, sucking so devotedly on his tongue that Nurutúrwë moaned so loudly that if they were in Angband, things would have been much riskier.

“No, my boy,” Sauron whispered, breaking the kiss. “We cannot do this, you know that, right?” He gasped, using all his remaining control to keep his lips away from Nurutúrwë, who slowly opened his eyes, staring at the Maia with such frustration that it was completely arousing to watch. “Your father forbade me.”

“I do not care,” Nurutúrwë murmured, raising his body slightly, trying to chase Sauron’s lips again, their saliva still keeping them almost completely connected, and the desecration of that act only disturbed Sauron’s mind further. “You should not either, please.”

“He could kill me,” Sauron said, staring at Nurutúrwë.

Honestly, Sauron did not believe Melkor would go that far; after all, he still needed his lieutenant. But some fates were worse than death, and he was not particularly eager to be tortured by the Dark Lord, not when the most recent wounds he had inflicted were still painful. The young god gasped, tangling his fingers in Sauron's red hair, trying to bring the Maia closer, uneasy at the distance that seemed much greater than it actually was. Nurutúrwë had always been like this, he knew: desperate, needy, yearning to be the bearer of all love, all attention, and for Sauron, it was almost unbearable not to give in to him.

“No, Mairon.” Nurutúrwë groaned in disgust, shaking his head, unable to accept that his father would do something like that. “I will not let him.”

“Nurutúrwë.” The Maia closed his eyes, begging the Creator for control, for sanity. But how could he have any of those things when Nurutúrwë kept whispering his true name? As if it were a secret between them, something real, heavenly, only because it came from the boy's lips?

“I just want you, please.” Those words, so desperate, so broken, made the boy look so much like Nienna, as if, for a second, they were almost the same person. “I do not know how to do this, but you can teach me, cannot you? Teach me how to be good for you.”

For the first time in all those years, Sauron thought he glimpsed a small fear, an unusual shame in Nurutúrwë. But of course he was uncertain. It was not surprising. Being so young, so alone, he did not even understand what he was feeling, what he was asking for, what he wanted Sauron to do with him. Far from the world, he had been created, but far from all knowledge, all desire, all passion, too. When Nurutúrwë tried to draw closer to Sauron, unable to move against him, the Maia knew that this armor had to be removed, now.

“Let me feel you, once and for all.” Sauron said, looking at Nurutúrwë with such desire that not even Ilúvatar could prevent that feeling from dominating his entire Fana, his entire spirit.

Satisfied, Nurutúrwë nodded quickly, though reluctantly allowing Sauron to pull away. Slowly, the Valarindi sat up in bed, so breathless, so out of breath, that Sauron smiled maliciously at him. Not even in the chaotic heat of battle had he been so euphoric, so exhilarated, as he was now. Sitting beside Nurutúrwë, Sauron cupped the boy's face one last time, pressing his lips to his, unable to pull away, unable to stop himself from tasting the divine taste of him.

Using all his remaining strength, Sauron gave him a brief peck before pulling his hands away, reaching for his iron gauntlets. Calmly, taking far longer than necessary, he began to remove Nurutúrwë's armor piece by piece. Strangely, Nurutúrwë no longer looked at him. Not when everything seemed so real, so true. So intimate. If a Valarindi could blush like a mortal, Sauron imagined how red Nurutúrwë's divine face would be now. And by the Valar, this was more than he could bear, thought Sauron, as Nurutúrwë's pale, heavenly chest was finally exposed to him, and he knew that not even the Silmarils reflected a radiance so radiant, so pure, as his Fana.

“My boy, my beautiful boy,” Sauron whispered, now desperate to strip him completely, to catch any glimpse of his divinity. “There is nothing in all Arda more pure, bright, and magnificent than you.” Sauron practically growled, throwing the last piece of armor to the ground, unable to help but admire, to desire, all the divine Fana that was exposed to him so freely. “My prince.”

Nurutúrwë smiled at Sauron, appreciating the devotion, the flattery, like the true bastard he was, but that the lieutenant loved him nonetheless. Not that he was judging, of course. Nurutúrwë knew nothing but being loved, having been loved immensely by his parents since birth, and feared and respected by all the Dark Lord's servants. A world, an existence in which he was not loved completely, would be too painful for him to bear. And Sauron's desire, his desperation, could be felt by the Valarindi, who only gasped when Sauron's warm hand touched his chest, tracing every detail, every inch he could touch.

“Mairon.” Nurutúrwë moaned impatiently.

Sauron merely smiled mischievously, amused by the boy's haste. A boy who did not even know what he expected to happen, but who was desperate to be taught, to be good. How could Sauron refuse such a request? Tired of being rational, of controlling himself, he brought his lips to Nurutúrwë's exposed Fana, kissing desperately along his chest, memorizing every detail, lost in his warmth, his delicacy, as if he needed that sensation to live. Nurutúrwë's hands reached for his red hair, stroking, intertwining his fingers, desperate to do anything, to feel anything, unsure how to control his own desire.

As Sauron's kisses grew more loving on his chest, as the Maia's warm tongue traced his celestial skin, Nurutúrwë moaned, trying to press his body against Sauron's, but the lieutenant's armor was too cruel, too resistant, for him to feel the Maia's inviting warmth. Desperately, he pulled Sauron's hair so hard that he was rewarded with a sharp bite to his chest. He smiled at the lieutenant's small brutality, looking at Sauron, now, his lips stained with Nurutúrwë's black blood, which dripped down to his waist, just like the Maia's kisses.

“Oh, wait. What are you doing?” He gasped, confused. But Sauron's kisses felt so good, so light, so delicate, that he did not even care about the hardness of the armor, trying to find any friction, any relief. Anything to soothe the strange sensation awakening in him.

“Making you feel good, My Lord,” Sauron moaned against his chest, the corrupted blood staining his lips, making Nurutúrwë even more desperate. “Do not worry, I will take care of you.”

Nurutúrwë shivered, following Sauron's movements, unable to tear his eyes away. He did not know what that feeling was, that discomfort, the uneasiness that gripped his Fana, as if it were a craving that would not go away until he found some relief. Nothing was enough, not even when Nurutúrwë tried to rub himself against Sauron, who only laughed at his desperation, planting kisses on the young god's bare waist. Of course, Sauron thought, euphoric, that Nurutúrwë was so uncomfortable. It was no wonder, after all, not when he was so hard, so aroused, that it must be painful for him, that he did not even understand what arousal was, what it was to feel so much pleasure, that his reason was clouded. It did not matter, Sauron would help him with this; his boy deserved a reward, did not he? He had been so good, so committed during the battle. This moment was his, theirs, completely.

Never before had Sauron been allowed to be with Nurutúrwë like this, so intimate, so free from bonds, with the boy's celestial Fana exposed to him as it had been exposed to no one else, as it would never be again, Sauron would make sure of that. He was almost brilliant to Sauron, as if all his corruption warred against the purity within him. That light, he thought, was the kind of light that had corrupted so many Men and Elves in Middle-earth, and Sauron was no stronger than they. Kneeling before Nurutúrwë, he broke off the kiss, amused by the boy's gasps, revolted by the loss of Sauron's passionate lips.

Not that the discomfort would last long, of course, not when Sauron's tongue finally touched Nurutúrwë, and the young god practically growled at the unexpected contact, the slow but torturous touch overwhelming him. If he were a stronger, more controlled man, he might have taken his time, lost in Nurutúrwë's taste, letting his tongue mark him, proving that he finally belonged to him, but it was too much, even for Sauron. Nurutúrwë's scent, so sickeningly arousing, was hard to bear, always had been. But now, overcome with pleasure, desperate to be devoured by Sauron, he did not even seem aware of what he was doing, or how much the air smelled of him now, clouding Sauron's senses. Driving all reason from his mind.

“Oh, shit… Mairon.” He moaned, bringing his hand to Maia’s hair, gripping it so tightly, as if that would make the sensation more bearable and weaker. As if that would make his despair a little less.

It did not happen, because Sauron was tired of merely teasing, of keeping his own desire contained, even though he had been thinking about this moment for over a year. Nurutúrwë moaned so loudly, so so loudly, that Sauron knew the Orcs throughout the fortress heard. It was hard for him not to show how deeply he was affected. When he took Nurutúrwë to his lips, consumed by the taste of him, by his heat, Sauron could not help but moan, in love with the feel of the boy against his lips, so given over to desire that he did not even try to be coherent, moaning Sauron's name, his true name, whispered so deeply. Creator, it was all he could have desired since his creation, because all existence before Nurutúrwë felt empty now.

The Valarindi continued to moan, pulling at Sauron's hair, gripped by this new sensation, this feeling he had never experienced before. And, by the Valar, Sauron was so desperate too. This was all the devotion he could offer Nurutúrwë, taking him into his mouth, with such desire, such longing, struggling to keep his eyes open, enjoying how miserable the boy looked, moaning incoherently. And oh, how he could bear not to feel him again, not to have the opportunity to feel all of him, to have Nurutúrwë against his tongue, shattering his control forever. Sauron knew the pleasures of the flesh, of course he did. But this, this was different. So different, so special, so unique, like nothing he had ever felt with anyone else. He could not even control his movements, trying to be calm with Nurutúrwë, but desperate to consume more of him, until the taste of the Valarindi on his lips was all he remembered.

No matter how much Nurutúrwë pulled his hair, how much he tried to control himself, his moans were too loud for the Orcs to know exactly why they had come to Angnaire. May Melkor destroy him, Sauron thought, praying for Nurutúrwë's taste. He would endure anything, if he could remember this moment. The moment when the young god had seemed so desperate, trying to control something he did not even know he was holding. But Sauron knew, perfectly well, as he brought his hands to Nurutúrwë, intensifying the sensations, sucking him with even more passion.

“Mairon, Mairon, Mairon.” He groaned, trying to hold back his moans, trying to hold on to whatever control was rapidly slipping away from him. “My Mairon.”

But when he came against Sauron's lips, all he could do was let his body fall back, lying down on the bed, too incoherent to speak, too breathless even to beg Sauron, even though he did not know what he was begging for. What was this supposed to feel like? This heat, this desperation, this release so good, so right, that his mind was confused, jumbled, and all he could think about was Sauron's mouth against him, devouring him, even as Nurutúrwë began to moan softer, more sensitive with the constant movements, as if Sauron were incapable of stopping.

“Nurutúrwë,” Sauron moaned, pulling his mouth away from him, but not enough that he could not soon return to his torture.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” The boy murmured, forcing his elbows to raise his body enough so he could look at Sauron.

“Why did not you tell me?” Maia sighed, closing his eyes, his mind scrambled, his senses heightened. Creator, he needed help, salvation, anything.

“Tell you what?” Said Nurutúrwë, trying to move away from Sauron, but the Maia held his bare thighs tightly, preventing him from moving away.

“Good Creator,” Sauron gasped, kissing Nurutúrwë’s waist, letting his tongue trace his Fana calmly, savoring his taste, his essence. “You should have warned me. How can I control myself if this is how you taste, my boy?”

Confused, the young god stared at the Maia, briefly comprehending those words. Unlike other corrupted beings of Arda, like the Dark Lord himself, Nurutúrwë's essence was not corrupted, even though his blood was black as corruption, as all the evil within him. Yet, like Nienna, like all the Valar in the Blessed Realm, his essence remained pure, divine, even. And Sauron had not expected it to be so, not until he tasted it, not until the divinity of Nurutúrwë's pleasure consumed him so much that it was as if a new hunger awakened within him. Gold dripped from Sauron's lips, staining his mouth. A reminder that Nurutúrwë was still pure, yes, and he could feel how good that purity felt against his tongue.

“One more, my boy.” Sauron said, lowering his lips to him again, ready to devour Nurutúrwë as if his existence only made sense when he felt the heavenly pleasure of the god, his god.

“What?” The boy asked in confusion, trying to stop Sauron, trying to hold his hair with enough strength to keep the desperate lips away from him. “Oh, Mairon, no.”

“One more, my boy.” He practically begged, kissing Nurutúrwë’s waist, trailing kisses down to his groin, lost in his scent, his essence, his purity. In all of him. Sauron wanted all of him.

“Oh, no... Creator.” Nurutúrwë denied, releasing Sauron's hair and bringing his hands to his own face, rubbing it brutally, trying to contain his own desire. He wanted this, as much as the Maia did; Sauron knew it, knew it very well because no matter how much he denied it, Nurutúrwë remained so hard, all for him. “Damn, I cannot do it anymore.”

“You can, My Prince.” Sauron nodded, sliding his free hand around Nurutúrwë’s waist, squeezing tightly, earning a moan from the boy. “You are my good boy, and I want you to feel good as you taste.”

Nurutúrwë just gasped, feeling Sauron's mouth against him again. It was too much to bear, still so sensitive, yet, desperate to belong to Sauron even more. Honestly, he had no idea such sensations could exist, that he could feel so good, that Sauron could make him feel as if he were on the brink of salvation. Perhaps, it was better this way, he thought, moaning uncontrollably. Perhaps, this was why the Elves and Valar did not speak of this kind of pleasure, because it was too uncontrollable, too seductive, not to crave more and more. If he could define that feeling, that desire, he would call it corruption. Because it was almost that, was not it? Sauron's movements, the light touch of his tongue against him, were too corrupt for such a divine being, and yet, they were all he craved, so desperate to hold on to that sensation forever.

Eyes closed, unable to look at Sauron without practically moaning, he gasped as the Maia's hands tightened on his thighs, holding him even closer, as if it were not enough, perhaps never would be. And, Creator, Sauron could nit bear to wear that armor any longer, binding his Fana, preventing him from feeling the heat of Nurutúrwë's heavenly Fana. Hell, he was so hard, restrained by the iron, and so desperate to forget everything in Arda, in Middle-earth, while letting his thoughts be dominated by the taste of the boy.

With grim satisfaction, Sauron heard Nurutúrwë's sob. He truly was his mother's son. Finding what little strength remained in him, Sauron opened his eyes, seeing how destroyed Nurutúrwë looked, his dark hair plastered to his forehead as he practically wept with pleasure, whispering Sauron's name like a prayer. In Valinor, Sauron knew that pleasures were not permitted, even discouraged. But he understood, of course he understood. How could he care about holiness, about the Creator, when he could feel his boy so hard against his mouth, so resilient with his divine blood? That pleasure, yes, mattered more than anything in all Arda, in all Eä.

“Please, Mairon.” Nurutúrwë moaned pathetically, cumming again in Sauron’s mouth.

Not even the purest drink in Valinor could compare to this. Not when Nurutúrwë shuddered against him, murmuring words not even Sauron could understand, so intoxicated was he with the taste of him, his pleasure awakening the Maia's most forgotten desires. When Sauron finally managed to free Nurutúrwë, pulling his mouth away from him, he noticed how the boy, so ruined, so breathless, was smiling slightly, lost in his own pleasure. Without a doubt, Sauron thought, Ilúvatar had made Nurutúrwë for him, and him alone.

Slowly, he trailed his kisses up Nurutúrwë's waist, losing himself in the warmth of his chest. The young god only laughed briefly, so relaxed, so satisfied, yet, still so sensitive. But he still seemed to need more, so much more, as he tried to push off Sauron's armor, frustrated at not feeling the lieutenant's skin against his. Nurutúrwë opened his eyes, staring devotedly at Sauron, bringing his hands to the lieutenant's red hair, admiring how his lips looked so golden, so stained with his pleasure. To Nurutúrwë, Sauron seemed perfect like this, so his, only his.

“Take off your armor, Mairon.” Nurutúrwë said, like an order, like a true prince.

Nurutúrwë was so powerful, so immortal, so divine, and he knew it perfectly well. No matter how inexperienced he was, he knew the effect those words had on Sauron. Even so much older than him, the Maia found himself desperate to please the boy, to prove how good things could be, how different things could be between them. If Nurutúrwë wanted to be taught to be good, to learn how to feel pleasure, Sauron was more than happy to help, to be what the young god expected him to be. The Valarindi, Sauron remembered from the legends of Valinor, were far more tireless than the Valar, far more impressionable.

Though less powerful than their parents, they were younger, born in Arda, not from the mind of Eru Ilúvatar. The difference was obvious to Sauron, noting how the boy never seemed to tire, never had enough. Yes, centuries would pass, and everything would change, but now, Nurutúrwë was too tireless, too young, too unstoppable in all his emotions, and when Sauron stepped away, he stared at his lieutenant with a mixture of pleasure and curiosity. If Nurutúrwë was doom, the downfall himself, Sauron wanted to fall with him, for all eternity.

As the lieutenant rose, beginning to remove his own armor, Nurutúrwë sat up in bed, staring at him. For the devotion that shone in Sauron's eyes seemed very much like that reflected in Nurutúrwë's. Patiently, he waited, even as he gasped with each new piece of armor discarded, being graced with more and more of Sauron's Fana. Unlike Nurutúrwë's divine Fana, Sauron's represented all that he was: a Maia, a warrior, a lieutenant of the Dark Lord. And, to his surprise, the god looked with appreciation upon all his scars.

As the last piece of armor fell to the fortress floor, the silence was complete, a new air enveloping them both. The boy moved closer to Sauron, bringing his hands to Maia's pale skin, touching his waist with such delicacy, such fascination, that Sauron sighed at the warmth of his hands, the tenderness of each touch. So different from what he had experienced so many times, with so many people. Because it had never been more than physical, more than pleasure. Sauron had not even known it could be this way, so gentle, so passionate.

“These scars are fresh,” Nurutúrwë murmured, sliding his nimble fingers over Sauron’s skin, who was trying to maintain his composure.

“It does not matter.” Sauron whispered, letting his hands reach for Nurutúrwë’s dark hair.

“It does matter, Mairon.”

The Valarindi's eyes sparked with new emotion. Indeed, he remembered how Sauron had been arrayed for battle, to march for Gondolin. And yet, before they could depart, the armor seemed terribly damaged in so many places that he knew now, looking at Sauron, at the fresh scars. He had been warned, no, threatened, by the Dark Lord, and Nurutúrwë was not stupid, nor so innocent, as not to guess what his father's threat had been. Perhaps, even Nienna suspected that things were different between them, that a new feeling, a new emotion, was slowly awakening between them. Legends said Melkor was brutal, but Nurutúrwë had never thought his father truly was. Until the fall of Gondolin.

“I am sorry that he hurt you,” He whispered, kissing Sauron’s waist.

In Nurutúrwë's seventeen years, he had never asked forgiveness from anyone except Nienna, whom he loved more than any other being in Arda. Rarely had Sauron seen remorse, or genuine regret, on the Valarindi's divine face. But he looked genuinely upset, frustrated by his father's cruelty, as he kissed Sauron's waist. Without even realizing it, he was making it increasingly difficult for him to bear the distance, to not stay in Angnaire forever with him there, isolated from the world. Alone, so they could belong to each other.

“No, Nurutúrwë,” Sauron murmured, trying to push the boy away, trying to stop him from continuing to kiss him. “Not today.”

Not that it changed much, because Sauron was already utterly doomed. Without his armor, he could finally feel everything: the heat of Nurutúrwë's Fana, his passionate kisses, his divine hands, all making it harder for Sauron to control himself, to control from becoming so hard that his senses felt like they were boiling. Especially when Nurutúrwë looked at him, his lips never leaving his skin, and he seemed both divine and corrupted in that moment.

“Tell me if I am pleasing you,” Nurutúrwë said in Sauron’s mind, and the Maia could not contain his own groan.

Creator, how could he have said no? He merely nodded, while Nurutúrwë smiled at him. The kisses were brief, delicate, as he worked his way down Sauron's waist, as if he knew exactly what to do to torture the lieutenant. It was too much, too many sensations at once. The boy's warm hands caressed Sauron's thighs, and his lips felt so right now, so warm against his skin, that it was impossible not to moan pathetically, feeling Nurutúrwë's tongue slide over him. What new torture was this, that he was so gladly accepting it?

Inexperience, innocence, only made everything better for Sauron. Of course they did. He could feel how determined, how euphoric, Nurutúrwë was to be good to him, to please Sauron as much as the Maia had pleased him. When Sauron felt Nurutúrwë's mouth, all his thoughts were consumed by his essence, by the power of the young god, who dominated Sauron's pleasure, as if they had been made for each other. Sauron gripped Nurutúrwë's dark hair tightly, trying to regain some control, trying not to give in so easily, to show that it was he who should determine how things unfolded, not Nurutúrwë. And, to Sauron's surprise, he pretended to relinquish control, letting his lieutenant control his movements, guiding Nurutúrwë, as he had promised he would.

Eager to please, he was, and Sauron admired how Nurutúrwë seemed as overcome with pleasure as he was, moaning against Sauron, his eyes closed, a few sparse strands of dark hair clinging to his face. Well, not even the Undying Lands would have a sight as magnificent, as hallowed, as that. Because Nurutúrwë seemed ruined, addicted to being good boy to Sauron, to feeling the Maia against his mouth. And Sauron thought he looked so pure, even moaning, even squeezing his thighs tightly, even though he was far from pure, or innocent.

“Just like that, Nurutúrwë,” Sauron gasped, pulling the Valarindi’s hair even tighter. “Always so good, my boy. Making me feel so damn good.”

Perhaps, Sauron should have suspected that Nurutúrwë would be cruel to him, forcing him to endure this pleasure while pretending he could control himself, while trying to be the one who ruled the Valarindi. But the boy's hair was so silken against Sauron's hands, and his lips were so heavenly, so devoted, that he wondered if he were in Valinor again, consumed by Ilúvatar's eternal blessing. A purity he had never felt before, until now.

“My Mairon.” Nurutúrwë moaned in the Maia’s mind, and Sauron, if he were mortal, would have died with those words.

Honestly, immortal or not, it was too much for anyone to bear. Sauron was slow to realize he was cumming against Nurutúrwë's mouth. Never before had he had so little control over his own pleasure, over his own control. But this boy, with such a powerful, dominating essence, showed Sauron that control seemed increasingly impossible to achieve. Panting, he looked at Nurutúrwë, noticing the boy already looking at him with an amused look. Wicked little creature, thought Sauron, seeing the boy's black-stained lips as he smiled almost innocently at him, but only almost.

Without a second thought, Sauron pushed on Nurutúrwë's chest, forcing the boy back onto the bed. Silently, the Valarindi lay down, his half-closed eyes following Sauron's movements, which caressed his chest, mirroring the blood that continued to trickle down to his waist. When the god's eyes closed, Sauron knew it was an invitation, a desperate call, and he quickly lay on top of the younger Fana, pressing his body against Nurutúrwë's, only to groan at the feel of his impossibly hardness against his belly. Before he could think calmly, Sauron pressed his lips against his.

The kiss was urgent, devastating, as his own pleasure, still on Nurutúrwë's lips, mingled with it, which only elicited a moan from Sauron. The lieutenant's red hair covered the boy's face as he pressed himself closer, lost in the kiss, in the taste of him, in the way Nurutúrwë moaned against his lips. It must have been some curse; it was the only explanation for Sauron's inability to break the kiss, for his inability to stop his own body from grinding against Nurutúrwë's, growling into the kiss. With little resolve, Sauron pulled his lips away, trailing his kisses down to Nurutúrwë's pale neck, inhaling his sweet scent, before pressing even more passionately into the boy's skin.

Nurutúrwë wrapped his arms around Sauron's neck, restless, uncontrollable, overwhelmed by the kisses, by the painful bites Sauron placed on his neck, as if determined to show that the boy belonged to him, and only him. As if he wanted to mark him, so that everyone in Arda, even the Creator, would know that nothing could stop Sauron from falling in love with him. Even if he would never admit it, that was what was happening, was not it? Since the Beginning of Time, it should have been this way; it all made sense now. Because he had never been able to feel connection with other partners, no matter how hard he tried. He had known, deep down, ever since he first felt Nurutúrwë's essence, without knowing what it meant, that he would belong to him. One day.

“Hm, do not do that.” Nurutúrwë moaned, hugging Sauron even tighter, sighing every time the Maia bit harder.

“Do not do what, my boy?” Sauron whispered against his ear, dragging his tongue against his pale neck, never letting go of his hair.

“Oh, Creator.” He sighed, trying to sound coherent, trying to make sense of his own words. “Do not mark me as yours. You know we cannot.”

“They will not find out about us,” Sauron murmured, kissing his neck even more passionately, groaning as the Fana broke, and Nurutúrwë’s dark blood dripped against his lips. “No one needs to know about us, I promise.”

Nurutúrwë nodded, tangling his fingers in Sauron's hair, accepting the bites he dished out. Unexpectedly, the boy moaned, feeling Sauron's hands move away, now sliding down his Fana, touching him before he could utter a word. If possible, he would grow even harder, feeling Sauron's hand move with desire, with adoration, as he continued to kiss his neck. His whole body felt on fire, screaming for release, which he was beginning to understand, but could not yet control.

But the lieutenant's fingers were so hot, touching, sliding, pressing, all at once, overwhelming the Valarindi, who could not keep his eyes open, rubbing his face against Sauron's, clouded by pleasure, by the insistent touch. However, he would not accept suffering alone, not at all. If Sauron wanted to tease him, he was ready to grant the same torture. Sauron's surprised groan as Nurutúrwë wrapped his hand around him, smiling maliciously at the Maia who was no more in control than he. As a master of his craft, he learned quickly, guided by Sauron's movements against him. Sauron tore his lips from Nurutúrwë's neck, staring at the boy in awe.

“Hm, I do not know how, oh, damn it. I do not know how to control this.” Nurutúrwë moaned, touching Sauron with even more passion and even more hunger.

“You do not have to hold back, my boy,” Sauron whispered, biting hard on his lip, savoring the blood on his tongue, addicted to Nurutúrwë’s essence. “Show me how I make you feel. Show me how good it can feel to belong to me.”

“No, no, Creator.” He practically bellowed, furious that he had no control over his own desire. “Heavens, I cannot, Mairon.”

“Just like that, Nurutúrwë.” Sauron kissed the boy’s lips briefly, rubbing his face against Nurutúrwë’s. “My good boy, my prince. You do not need to hold back any longer.”

Sauron's lips attacked the boy's neck again as he choked him, trying to keep himself from cumming. Nurutúrwë gasped, his eyes closed, as Sauron bit brutally into his neck. Honestly, he could not stop, too intoxicated by his essence, by his pure, heavenly Fana, which felt so right, so warm against him, as Nurutúrwë rubbed against him, forcing Sauron to touch him harder, faster. He could feel the Valarindi pulling at his hair, completely uncontrollable, while Sauron kissed his neck, too addicted. The painful tugs did not even matter, not when his blood flooded his mouth, and his Fana was so hot, like the pure heat he could only find in Valinor.

Grunting, moaning euphorically, Nurutúrwë cumming against Sauron's hand, soiling the Maia's waist, his own, leaving them both covered in his pleasure. When Sauron lifted his lips from his neck, he noticed Nurutúrwë's passionate smile, even satisfied. The boy's eyes were closed, and his face was sweaty. The taste of corrupted blood on Sauron's lips and the sight of the Valarindi so destroyed, were too much for the lieutenant, who cumming in the boy's hand, who seemed unwilling to stop his movements, further stimulating Sauron. Creator, how could he look at him without wanting to be his completely, without uniting with him forever?

His closed eyes made him look so divine, even though he was so unholy. Slowly, Sauron panted, trying to recover from his own orgasm. Looking at his hand, now so sticky, so shiny, covered in the young god's gold, he almost begged Ilúvatar to destroy him, so he would no longer have to live with such a strong, uncontrollable desire in his chest. The young god merely murmured, uncaring that his own hand was covered in Sauron's corrupt pleasure. Tears streamed down his pale face as he panted, so excited, yet, so exhausted. Deep down, Sauron suspected that a Valarindi's first time would be devastating, as it was for most celestial beings. But Nurutúrwë's power was intimately linked to emotions, to sensations, and he felt everything on an almost cruel level.

“Make me yours,” Nurutúrwë said, but it sounded more like a desperate whisper. “I want to be yours, please.”

“My Nurutúrwë.” Whispered Sauron.

No matter the consequences, or how much might be asked of him for giving in to him, for choosing to love Nurutúrwë, even when the Dark Lord himself had threatened him, nothing else mattered. Everything could be destroyed, as long as he savored this moment. Nodding, he kissed Nurutúrwë slowly, exploring the Valarindi's mouth with devotion, but much more gently than before, as he pushed his body away, only to part his thighs. And nothing could be more corrupt than that, not when they were so coated in their own essences, their own pleasures, leaving their bodies so slick, so glistening. So impure, yet so divine, indeed.

Nurutúrwë moaned Sauron's name loudly, and the Maia begged the Creator that the Orcs would not rush to Angband at that very moment to warn the Dark Lord. When he finally overpowered Nurutúrwë, feeling how divine he felt against his body, how they seemed made for each other, fitting together achingly well, he knew he would die satisfied, because pleasure like that was worth even the suffering. The young god's hands reached for Sauron's hair, as he moaned desperately, accepting Sauron's gentleness, but tired of waiting, impatient for him to move harder, faster, anything.

“Stop trying to be gentle, Mairon,” Nurutúrwë said against Sauron’s lips. “I can handle it, just make me yours.”

Well, what kind of lieutenant would he be if he denied such a kind request from his prince? Sauron pushed Nurutúrwë's hand away from him, while pinning the young god's hands above his head, intertwining their fingers, giving the pleasure the boy so desperately craved. He could not stop, not now, even if he wanted to, not while Nurutúrwë continued moaning his name, accepting him so well, so content to belong to him, rubbing his thighs against Sauron's. And he tried, Sauron truly tried to control himself, not to lose himself in the pleasure, to be gentle, to be calm with Nurutúrwë, but he could not. Creator, he was not strong enough for that.

Nurutúrwë was making everything difficult, mirroring his own emotions, his very essence, brutally against Sauron, confusing their desire, intertwining their pleasure. Yet, it was not just that. This was the true connection, the true feeling consuming pleasure, making Nurutúrwë his, as much he wanted Sauron to be his. Nothing before could compare to this, not even physical pleasure could match what Nurutúrwë's innocent passion was provoking in him. He pressed his lips harder against him, kissing the boy as if that were enough, enough to make him disappear into him, forever, enough to never have to be without him.

Biting hard on Sauron's lip, Nurutúrwë enjoyed the blood flooding his mouth, staining his tongue, not understanding what it meant, how no union could be broken in Arda after the lovers exchanged blood so passionately. In truth, he would not have minded, not at all, if he knew what it meant, what it meant to belong completely to Sauron, only to him, for all eternity. Sauron only gasped, unable to return the Valarindi's kiss, trying to control the desire that grew ever stronger, making it painful to look at Nurutúrwë's pale, sweaty, and sticky chest.

“My Nurutúrwë. My good boy,” Sauron whispered, brushing his lips against Nurutúrwë's. “It is all right. I have you.”

He released Nurutúrwë's hands, sliding his hand across his Fana, touching the Valarindi again, with even more passion, even though he knew it would be too much to bear. Well, it was not a pointless torture, not at all. Sauron felt himself getting closer and closer to disappearing, to losing control completely. It was only fair that Nurutúrwë should feel the same suffering as him, right? The boy's dark eyes squeezed shut as he was no longer able to contain his pleasure, cumming against Sauron's hand, tears of exhaustion streaming down his delicate face.

“Mairon.” He gasped. “My Mairon.”

Sauron did not have time to react, because unexpectedly, the Valarindi brought his lips to his shoulder, gently kissing Sauron's Fana, only to bite down hard. And he bit so hard, so eagerly, that Sauron did not need to look at him to feel the blood running thickly, like a stream, down his shoulder. But he caught a glimpse of Nurutúrwë, sucking, stopping his bites, beginning to suckle at the wound, lost in the taste of his blood. Nothing could be more exciting than this, Sauron was certain, cumming against Nurutúrwë, not caring that his groan had been loud, reverberating throughout Angnaire.

Then, still consumed by pleasure, letting his body fall upon Nurutúrwë's, he heard the boy's delicate laughter. Even though it was weak and tired, he knew without a doubt how he was falling in love with him, and there was nothing he could do to stop the feeling. Using all his strength, he moved his body away from Nurutúrwë, struggling to lie beside the Valarindi. Was this, Sauron wondered, what it must be like? Intense, passionate, irresistible, and special? He felt more tired than he had during the battle, as if an immortal like him needed rest. But he knew Nurutúrwë must be exhausted. Not yet in complete control of his Fana, Nurutúrwë needed sleep once a month to keep his essence, his power, under control.

“Mairon.” He called, eyes closed, almost hoarse.

Quickly, he turned, bringing his hand to Nurutúrwë's face, noticing how the tears had dried, but he was still smiling foolishly at him. However, the war, the losses, the pleasure, seemed to finally be taking their toll. Sauron approached him, rubbing his face against Nurutúrwë's, feeling Nurutúrwë struggle to turn his face enough to reach Sauron's lips. He kissed the lieutenant, smiling against his lips, allowing Sauron to envelop his Fana in an embrace.

“Hm, I do not know how to do this alone.” Nurutúrwë whispered, stopping kissing Sauron, to bury his face in his neck, enjoying the Maia’s scent, being at peace, while his back was caressed.

“What do you mean, my boy?” Sauron murmured, rolling his eyes but smiling, as Nurutúrwë intertwined their legs, as if being embraced was not enough.

“Sleep.”

“What do you mean by that?” Sauron asked, kissing his dark hair, hugging the boy tighter.

“My ammë stays with me when I need to sleep. They will never let me be this vulnerable alone,” He murmured, and Sauron realized he missed her so much; he had always been so attached to her. “I cannot sleep without her. But I am so exhausted.”

“And you want me to stay here with you while you sleep?” Sauron said tenderly, understanding how Nurutúrwë’s few years were revealed whenever he needed affection.

“Will you stay with me while I sleep, and be here when I wake?” Said Nurutúrwë, and Sauron heard the youthful hope in his voice.

“Of course I will.” He whispered, feeling Nurutúrwë return the hug.

It was not long before he fell asleep, enveloped in Sauron's embrace, as if one of the most dangerous beings in Arda needed company to sleep. Protected, that was how he felt, completely secure in the knowledge that Sauron would watch over him. Well, he was right about that. Sauron had no intention of leaving him, caressing the boy's exposed Fana, lost in his sweet essence, while humming a song very old to him. A lost melody from the Undying Lands, one he could not believe he could still remember. But, perhaps, Nurutúrwë's purity would awaken a side of him that Sauron thought had been lost forever.

“My little prince.” Sauron whispered, hugging Nurutúrwë tighter.

In the name of Eru Ilúvatar, I can't explain what happened here. Because even I didn't think I could write this chapter like this. I'll stay in the afterlife until I recover from these two finally getting together.

Important: I don't know if the people reading this chapter followed the writing of Devouring Heart, so I'll explain the names again:

Angnaire, means: Iron Sorrow. Quenya 'Anga' for 'Iron' 'Naire' for 'Sorrow'

Nurutúrwë, means: Master of Death. Quenya 'Nuru' for 'death' 'Tur' for 'master' 'Wë' is a Quenya suffix also often used as 'person, being, individual.'

Raukondo, means: Demon Prince. Quenya 'Rauco' for 'demon' 'Kundō' for 'prince, leader'

Aicamaitë, means: Terrible Hand. Quenya 'Aica' for 'fell, terrible, dire' 'Maitë' for 'handy, skillful, handed; shapely'

tag: @valar-did-me-wrong

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