#Curelkor

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Son of Finwë

Pairing: Fëanor x Melkor (Curelkor)

Themes: Soft | Smut | Slow burn

Warnings: Mentions of blood and injuries | Kissing | Hand job | Penetrative sex | Cream pie

Word count: 5.5k words 

Summary: Fëanor swears fealty to Melkor, and in time, something more than Lord and Servant develops. 

Rating:   🔥🔥| Minors DNI | 18+

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Author’s notes: As promised, here it is. My weird yen to pair Fëanor with Melkor. There are, I’m sure, holes in the story, but I tried to clean it up as much as possible. I also wrote the Valar as somewhat darker than I would have, although it is interesting to think of the Valar using less than noble methods to have their way.  

Melkor looked on, his mood darkening with each passing moment.

The son of Finwë was here, in this hall, feasting with the rest of his lieutenants. But that was not what troubled him, as Fëanor willingly swore fealty to Melkor's cause after the other Valar forced him to give up the silimarils. What incurred Melkor's wrath was the sight of Fëanor seemingly enraptured by another Maia in attendance.

It was irrational what he felt—those little arrows of jealousy that kept piercing his gut. Melkor considered himself above such petty feelings, thinking them a sign of great weakness and traits of lesser beings. He was first amongst all the Ainur after all, greater than all of them when it came to knowledge and power, and yet here he was, seated upon his high throne, his vexation growing as Fëanor listened to something Mairon said, and laughed. Melkor listened as that laugh carried over to him, his fana stirring in ways it had never done before. Then Mairon said something else, and Fëanor laughed even harder. There was that stirring again, something that would catch him unawares, and more often now. Melkor did not know when it began. All he did know it had something to do with the son of Finwë. And that it kept growing stronger.

Then Fëanor laughed once more, and Melkor found himself rising to his feet and making his way down the throne steps. A hush slowly enveloped the great hall as the Vala and high lord of Angband weaved his way around Orcs and Goblins and Shape-shifters and everything else in between. Thralls huddled in the shadows as he walked by, and the heavy thud of his boots echoed around the room. Melkor noticed none of it, so focused was he on what lay in front of him.

His two newest followers. One, a maia that once apprenticed under Aulë, and the other, one with piercing, bright blue eyes and raven hair. The first-born son of the high king of the Noldor, the one everyone called Fëanor.

"Lieutenant," he said in a waspish tone, and greeted Mairon first. "Son of Finwë. How goes your time with us?"

Fëanor leaned into his chair and smiled. "Quite well, actually. Mairon and I were exchanging stories."

Melkor arched a quizzical brow. "And those stories are?"

"My time with Aulë," Mairon said, his eyes still filled with mirth. "About all the things I learned. How I drove my mentor to distraction with my antics."

"Setting the sacred forge on fire more than once is far more than just an antic," Fëanor cut in.

"Not the entire forge!" Mairon protested in his defense. "Just a table. Or three," he mumbled into his wine.

Melkor narrowed his eyes as both chuckled, and another wave of jealousy stirred within him. He swallowed, unsure of these strange and unexplainable feelings that kept welling up within him. "And how are your duties, son of Finwë?" he asked, mostly to distract himself.

Fëanor's impish smirk did nothing to improve things. "Splendidly, my lord. I have finished working on a new blade. You should come by and see it sometime."

A chance to separate them, came the surprising thought. "I will see it now, then," he said.

The hour had grown very late, and Fëanor was in a mood to retire. He wanted to make his excuses, but that tone in Melkor’s voice—sharp and insistent… gave him pause and made him think. Melkor’s request was not a request. It was an order. And he looked like he was in no mood for refusal. Choking back a sigh, Fëanor nodded and pushed back his chair. Rest will have to wait a little longer. "Follow me, my lord," he said and rose.

As they descended deeper into the fortress, pale light found its way in through windows cut into Thangorodrim’s western walls. The light from a rejuvenated Telperion no doubt, swirling sheer rivers of the palest silver and blue, spreading far into the Ered Engrin. Fëanor looked up at it. He watched this display of light against thick black walls with his jaw clenched, then he yielded and let out a long sigh.

"Still vexed about the silmarils?" Melkor said, and he looked up as well. The blessed trees could not be touched now, not for anything. A ring of protection had been placed around both to shield them forever.

Of course, he was vexed. Fëanor did not want to give up the silmarils at all, but the Valar pushed him into a corner and forced him to choose: the jewels or the peace of his mother’s fëa. Oh, Fëanor did not know if they would truly follow through with their threat, but that Irmo was a tricky one, planting visions Fëanor did not wish to see. Not wanting to risk anything happening to his mother’s sense of peace, Fëanor yielded and relinquished possession of the jewels. The resentment that had taken root in his heart festered and grew until one fine day, Melkor came calling, offering him the chance to retaliate against those who had wronged him.

Fëanor had accepted his offer with eager hands.

"Always, my lord," he grumbled, turning his gaze to the looming doors of his forge. He opened them and let Melkor go in first, before following.

"You will get your chance to strike back soon enough," Melkor said, and looked around.

The heat within was not a shock. After all, it was a forge. On the other hand, the unusual blue light was. Melkor peered into a nearby lamp, one that he had never seen before. A clear blue flame burned within clear crystals. "Your work, I presume?"

"Aye," Fëanor held up one that was not yet finished. "I found a way to trap flame in crystal. This will never go out, not by air or water. We will not have to worry about light again."

Melkor nodded and kept looking around—at the tables filled with various sketches and at the shelves stacked with tools, all bearing Fëanor’s mark.

"You can look all you want, my lord," Fëanor said, making himself comfortable on a low bench. "But no putting your hands on anything," he added sharply when Melkor’s gaze cut to him. "Not unless you want something of yours broken."

And there it was. Fëanor’s famed sense of hospitality. Melkor quickly turned, to hide the beginnings of a grin. "I should have your hide for such insolence," he warned, though more amused than displeased. "But I will pardon it just this once."

"Of course," Fëanor murmured, his curiosity piqued. Melkor had slain many others for much less, but here he was, forgiving an elf no less. "And I see you have found the true cause for this visit."

He did indeed. Melkor was standing in front of a special rack, bearing a greatsword that gleamed red, orange, and gold, like a fire blazing from within. There was warmth too; Melkor could feel it even from where he was standing. He paid no mind to Fëanor's threat, for one such as he was above such trifles. He simply reached out and took the sword in his hand, the corners of his lips curling up when he heard a sigh.

"You sound like a much put upon mother, and not the famed firstborn son of Finwë," he snickered and swung the sword once, then twice. It moved swiftly and silently, the very air simmering as the blade moved through it. Melkor lifted it to get a feel of it in his hand. It was perfectly balanced, neither light nor heavy, as if it were made for him. This would be an excellent weapon to take to war, he thought. "This is magnificent work, son of Finwë, truly."

"Fëanor," the elf cut in, respectfully this time. "I would prefer if you called me Fëanor, my lord."

"Fëanor," Melkor said, slowly and deliberately, not slurring it like many of the others. "Well. You have outdone yourself, Fëanor. I will leave you to your tasks then."

"My lord?" Fëanor stopped him before he left. "The sword. I am not finished with it."

Melkor grumbled and cursed. Fëanor simply sat up straight and crossed his arms. Melkor glared, and hemmed and hawed, and Fëanor took a risk, preferring to not yield.

"I am a Vala," Melkor hissed when Fëanor remained unmoved.

"Yes, and that sword is not yet finished," Fëanor said, watching Melkor for any signs of temper. While there was no darkening of his mood, Fëanor still preferred to play it safe and appealed to Melkor’s ego instead. It was what his father would do whenever he wanted Fëanor to listen to him, though with poor success. "And surely the mightiest of all the Valar deserves nothing less than a perfect weapon."

His words appeased Melkor greatly. "I suppose you are right," he agreed, and returned the sword to its rack before taking his leave. "Finish it then. Farewell."

Fëanor gaped at Melkor’s retreating back. This was the first time he did not simply lay claim to something and call it his.

It was also the first time he said farewell.

Light from Laurelin made its way over the Ered Engrin, its vibrant, golden beams making the snow upon the mountains look like they were afire.

Bright, golden streams made their way into the fortress, and it was during this time that Melkor found them sparring in the training yard.

He kept to the shadows and watched as Mairon led Fëanor on a merry dance, always one step and one strike ahead. The Maia had the experience, having learned for a while under Tulkas and Oromë. He was able to anticipate the elf’s moves and block each attack with the deft use of a spear. Others had gathered to watch, with some even holding wagers to see how long it would take for Fëanor to yield. And Melkor kept watching, drawn in by Fëanor’s unwillingness to give up.

The sparring ended with Fëanor being knocked to the ground again. But instead of yielding and calling an end to the contest, he dusted himself off and rose for another round.

"You are a glutton for punishment!" Mairon cried, his chest heaving.

"And you are a dead Maia!" Fëanor smirked and wiped his hand over his bloodied lower lip.

Mairon snickered and readied himself for another attack. Only this time, Fëanor was better prepared. During their sparring, he had let himself lose, preferring to pay attention to the Maia’s footwork and searching for any tells in his movements. He found it in the way Mairon breathed just before he struck, in the way he shifted his feet before each blow.

The first blow was naturally blocked, but when Mairon moved again, Fëanor was ready. There was no impatience, no rush. Mairon brought down his spear, and Fëanor, anticipating it, blocked him. He countered, and Mairon deflected. Then Mairon abruptly moved and hit Fëanor across the chest, making him fall onto his back. Fëanor pushed himself to his feet, and this time, his temper slowly bubbled to the surface. Fëanor charged and was blocked. He charged once more, and Mairon hit him on the small of his back. On the third charge, Fëanor threw all caution to the wind with one last lunge. Mairon ducked and swung his spear at the backs of Fëanor’s knees, knocking the elf to the ground. When Fëanor tried to get up, Mairon kicked his spear out of his hand and brought his own down in a perfect arc.

"Yield," he hissed, the tip of his spear now barely a hair’s breadth over the curve of Fëanor’s neck.

"How did you know?" Fëanor brushed stray locks of hair out of his eyes and sputtered in disbelief.

"I was onto you less than halfway in," Mairon said and held out a hand, to help him up. "I am not the only one with tells, Fëanor."

Fëanor would have continued sparring had Mairon not stopped him. "You need to rein in that temper of yours first. And see to your wounds." he chided. "Rest and come back later with a clearer head, then we can start sparring again."

The elf reluctantly yielded and went away to nurse both his bruises and his wounded pride. Melkor followed him, overcome with worry. Mairon never held back when fighting, even if it was just practice sparring, and those blows of his were well-aimed and meant to hurt. He hung back when Fëanor opened the door, to give him time to settle himself, and went in only after he heard a curse.

"Sit," he insisted, pulling up a chair. Fëanor grumbled but did as he was told, making himself comfortable on the edge of his bed. Melkor looked around and found an ewer filled with fresh water. He emptied its contents into a bowl and ripped up a tunic Fëanor had left out on the bed to use the strips for cleaning.

Fëanor would have protested this last act but he was in too much pain to say anything. He kept still, trying not to take deep breaths as it hurt him even more.

"What were you thinking?" Melkor said as he dipped the piece of cloth into the bowl. "Challenging a Maia?"

Fëanor sighed. "I thought I could do it, but..."

"It was foolish, what you did," Melkor cut in, and he proceeded to clean Fëanor’s lower lip. "Mairon could have easily killed you."

"You sound just like my father," Fëanor muttered under his breath.

"Most unfortunate indeed, then, because you will not easily heed my counsel," Chuckling merrily, Melkor continued to dab and clean. "But I hope you will—too hard?"

Fëanor yelped when he pressed against the cut in his lip. "Yes," he said mournfully, and looked up.

Eyes the colour of obsidian and gold look right back at him, eyes that had witnessed the music of the Ainur and the creation of them all. Eyes that were, more often than not, cruel and pitiless. But not now. There was concern there, and something else. Something that made Fëanor’s skin warm in all sorts of ways. He coughed and looked away when Melkor quickly dipped his head and ran the damp cloth over his bruised knuckles.

"Mairon has a weakness. Just one," he said with a casual air, trying to mask his own inner turmoil. "There," Melkor gestured at Fëanor’s torso. "At the base of his left ribs. A parting gift, so to speak, after a skirmish with Oromë’s precious Tilion. Strike that point and he will be at your mercy."

The barely-there line on Mairon’s waist. Fëanor thought he had been imagining things at the time. "Why are you telling me this?" Fëanor asked slowly, trying not to dwell on the fact that Melkor’s hands, cold as they were, felt pleasant when pressed against his own.

"Just a suggestion, that is all." Melkor thought it best to leave before his tongue truly loosened and betrayed his inner thoughts. "These bruises require more than just water," he said and quickly pushed away from the bed, his chair scraping against the stone floor. "I will have a healer see to you."

"Of course," Fëanor gave Melkor a searching look after seeing confusion flash in his eyes. "My thanks, my lord."

Melkor gave him a curt nod before leaving, his hands balling into tight fists. With each step he took, his thoughts kept spiraling toward the elf, the son of Finwë. No, he corrected himself. Fëanor. It was Fëanor.

He shook his head, furious with himself. Fëanor was just an elf. An incredibly skilled elf, but still an elf, a being of little significance to a Vala. Melkor continued walking through the darkened corridors and halls, ignoring the Orcs and thralls scurrying out of the way, his mind racing. No matter what he did, his thoughts circled back to Fëanor, his arrogance and sudden flashes of temper, his undeniable skill, and finally, the scent that came off his skin.

Melkor sighed, his shoulders slumping as he neared the doors to his chambers. Fëanor’s skin smelled of smoke and leather and smoldering embers, and beneath it all, the sweet scent of the larinquë flower that grew in the pastures of Yavanna. It seemed to seep into all of his senses, like dark hooks for the fëa. Melkor’s hands suddenly trembled when he flexed them. He could still feel the impression of Fëanor’s palm against his.

In his own chambers, Fëanor lay in bed, flushed and more than a little breathless. He tried to rest, but rest kept slipping away from him. He tried to discipline his thoughts, but all they did was circle back to before, when he looked into Melkor’s eyes and found them softening at the sight of him. No one had looked at him that way, not even once, and he did not know whether he should be fearful or flattered by the attention, for this was Melkor after all. Fëanor finally sat up and rubbed his eyes, having given up on rest completely. His body ached, even after the healer’s careful ministrations. After allowing himself a few whimpers, he splashed cool water from the basin beside his bed, and got dressed.

Pain or no, a visit to his forge and long hours of toil was in order. Something to occupy himself and keep his mind firmly off of Melkor was necessary.

Elf and Vala soon found themselves entangled in a strange sort of dance. For days and weeks, there would be stolen glances, of hands brushing when one passed the other in hallways or corridors. Melkor started to seek Fëanor out for his counsel, and Fëanor found himself to be the only one who could talk Melkor out of doing something that could only end in defeat. Both started to seek the company of the other for no reason, but neither knew what to truly do with it.   

The true shift came one day when Fëanor found his way into the very bowels of Angband and the pits where the dragons were bred.

Oh, he had been warned not to come here and that the dragons did not take kindly to unwelcome visitors, but he could not help himself. He held up one of his lamps as he made his way down dark, musty stairways, going lower and lower, until heat washed over his skin. It kept growing and growing, until it felt like he was standing in front of a roaring furnace. His face lit up, and his heart giddy with the sense of anticipation. He had found them. And he was not alone.

Melkor was already here, talking to an Orc, one that was paler and stronger and taller than the others. There were more like him, tending to the many fell beasts Melkor bred within these pits using magic and other darker arts. Fëanor stopped just before the last few steps and dithered, wondering if he should simply turn back and leave. Alas, the light from his lamp was already seen, and his scent was already caught by the beasts that lived within these tunnels. One of them, a great winged creature that was all black with shots of deep crimson, reared its head and opened its maw in a roar that threatened to tear the tunnel walls asunder.

"Calm, Ancalogon!" Melkor cried, calling the beast’s attention to him. The dragon, larger than anything Fëanor had ever seen, snarled and huffed before facing his master. The Orc then shouted an order, one in a tongue Fëanor found painful to the ear, and the dragon retreated deeper into tunnels, the ground trembling with each step it took. By the time it retreated into its lair, all that was visible of it were ruby-red eyes, which glared out from the darkness.

“You were most unwise, coming down here," Melkor said, though not in the least displeased by Fëanor’s intrusion. "Ancalogon could have swallowed you whole and no one would have even known."

Fëanor could not tear his eyes away from the beast that continued to stare. "How… how old is he?"

"A decade, no more than that."

"A decade? But he is already bigger than a small mountain range."

Melkor beamed at this. "And soon he will be big enough to bring all of Arda to heel."

Fëanor swallowed, his skin prickling when Melkor placed a hand on the small of his back and slowly pushed him forward, as if to guide him. "Do you just have dragons down here?"

"No," Melkor said, thrilled that he had someone besides Mairon to talk to about his creatures. "There are many and more things down here besides the dragons."

He said no more, preferring to let Fëanor see with his own eyes. And Fëanor saw much, from the Balrogs whose roars sounded like blazing infernoes, to the werewolves that were as large as war horses. He stayed for as long as he could, walking over stone bridges and peering into deep chasms, before the heat started to have its way with him and he grew dizzy. Melkor kept a hand on Fëanor as he led him out of the tunnels.

"I forget the hröar of the eldar are not like the fana we create for ourselves," he said thoughtfully. "Your body is more susceptible to corruption and pain."

"And yet Mairon has a weakness in his," Fëanor countered, disappointed when Melkor took his hand the moment they entered the main halls.

"He was wounded by another Ainu wielding a weapon dipped in the dews of Telperion, that is why," Melkor said. He had murder in his eyes when a pair of Orcs stopped and stared at the unusual sight of their lord talking companionably with an elf. Fearful of incurring his wrath, they hurried away into the shadows, hiding behind thick columns, keeping as far away from him as possible.

"I see," Fëanor said, realizing the moment had come for them to part. He had his own duties to see to, after all. "Well, I will take my leave of you then."

"Can I watch?" Melkor could not bear for him to depart so soon. "I… I will not get in your way."

The elf stopped mid-stride and turned. The request took him by surprise. Even though they spent more time in each other’s company, Melkor never stopped by the forge, not even to see the sword that was meant for him. And Fëanor, first and foremost, was unaccustomed to spectators gawking while he worked. Second, he was shocked that Melkor would even ask such a thing of him in the first place.

"You are High Lord of Angband, and a Vala, no less." He heard himself say. "You need no-one’s permission to watch."

Melkor coughed, and for once in the many ages of his long existence, he did not know what to say.

"But I suppose I can agree," Fëanor continued, his stomach tying itself up in knots. "Providing you…"

"Do not put my hands upon anything," Melkor crossed his arms and grinned—slow and deliberate — and Fëanor was left momentarily breathless as he watched the way Melkor’s lips curved, the way his eyes seemed to brighten. "Not unless I want something of mine broken. We have an accord, Fëanor."

Fëanor took a choppy breath before swallowing and composing himself. "Very good," he said, his heart racing. "Shall we go then?"

During the last meal, Fëanor found he had no appetite, despite the many tempting dishes spread out before him. He simply stared into his goblet of wine, and then realized he had no thirst either. He sat there, lost in his thoughts, while the rest ate and drank and jested and argued around him.

He had enjoyed his shared time with Melkor. The two of them completely lost track of the hours passing, each learning something new about the other. Fëanor learned how Ungoliant came to Melkor, willing to swear fealty if he helped her feed from the sacred trees and the wells of Varda. He had refused, seeing the folly of helping such a creature consume from the source of such immense power and risking her betraying him once she had what she craved for. And he was proved right in the end. Ungoliant turned on the one who did help her, some foolish Maia who thought they knew better.

And Melkor was full of questions—another surprise for Fëanor. Those questions were both curious and personal, making Fëanor reveal parts of him that he did not do so to others. He spoke of his mother and her passing, and how he visited her resting place in the Gardens of Lórien. He spoke of his anger at his father's remarriage and at Indis intruding upon their lives.  Fëanor had questions of his own, about Eru, the other Ainur, and Melkor tampering with the great music and how he created his fell beasts. Melkor answered as much as he could, for there were things that even he did not have the power to say.

When Fëanor worked, he felt Melkor’s eyes following his every move. When he got him to help, he felt Melkor standing closer than he should, his touch lingering longer than it should, and, truth be told, Fëanor found himself welcoming this, once even leaning into Melkor when they were standing by the furnace, putting the finishing touches on the sword, his breath hitching when Melkor pressed himself even closer and larger hands squeezed his.

Fëanor raised his eyes, turning them to the high throne at the far end of the hall. There was Melkor, brooding as always. Then he turned, his gaze fixed on Fëanor.

Everyone and everything else were soon forgotten. Eyes the colour of jet and gold bore into vivid blue ones, darkening with each passing moment. Then, Melkor seemed to tire of the revelry. He rose and made his way down the steps of his throne, his eyes on Fëanor’s the entire time. When he walked past Fëanor’s table, his hand slowly reached over to brush against Fëanor’s hair. On impulse, Fëanor waited just long enough for Melkor to leave the hall before making his excuses and following.

Melkor was aware that Fëanor was only a few paces behind him. He walked through mostly empty corridors, making his way down one tunnel after another. On and on he walked until he reached the thick wooden doors of his private chambers. Fëanor followed him still, his pulse scrambling, his blood roaring in his ears. He did not turn back, not for anything. Something tugged at him, as if the very center of his being was shifting and pulling him to the Vala. He stepped through the open doorway without a moment’s hesitation, and found himself pulled into a passionate embrace. 

Melkor’s kiss was far from tender. Fëanor staggered by the sheer heat and intensity of it, his whimpers swallowed by kisses that burned him to the core, by lips that tasted like a heady wine. He felt arms tightening around his waist, and he yielded willingly, twining his arms around Melkor’s shoulders as Melkor lifted him and carried him to a large bed. Melkor never slept in it, and he never knew why he even had one in the first place. Now he was glad he did. He set Fëanor down on the edge and pulled away with a deep, satisfied sigh.

No words were said, for words would have simply ruined everything. Melkor helped Fëanor out of his clothes and made quick work of getting out of his. He pushed Fëanor back into bed and moved over him in a heartbeat. Skilled hands streaked over him, hands that were hot and possessive, urging him to take. And take Melkor did, his lips crushing Fëanor’s repeatedly. He kissed Fëanor until he was breathless, until he was moaning and trembling beneath him. When nails raked down his back, as if to mark him, and legs came to rest over his hips, he opened his eyes.

Fëanor’s lips were already bruised, his eyes darkened with lust, his breath harsh and ragged. His hair had spread out all over the silk sheets like spilled ink. Melkor took a moment to savour the sight before him before pressing his lips to Fëanor’s once more. This time his kisses were soft and gentle, his hand tangling itself in Fëanor’s hair. Melkor never knew what true pleasure was like—to have something given to him so freely. It frightened him, made him want to pull away and end everything and then Fëanor reared up and dragged him in with a kiss.

It felt so right. Everything about Fëanor and what he roused in him felt so right. Damn it, he thought. Damn his fears. Melkor groaned when Fëanor’s hands pulled at his hair and when his kisses turned into more teeth and tongue. Melkor’s hand glided lower, over trembling flesh, trailing over little dips and curves and the hardness of Fëanor’s thigh, before wrapping around his already erect cock.

"Fuck," Fëanor rasped, his voice already hoarse. His nails scoured Melkor’s flesh as the latter soon found a rhythm he liked. Melkor’s strokes were slow and languorous, his grip tightening and releasing. He watched, utterly enraptured, as Fëanor arched into him as his eyes slowly closed. He propped himself on his free arm, his lips brushing against Fëanor’s repeatedly, the nails digging into his back going unnoticed.

Fëanor found himself being pulled deeper into a dark tunnel of desire. No amount of pleasure he had felt over anything else could compare to this, the jolts that shook him, the coiling he felt in his belly and the sweetness that enveloped him completely. His hand rose weakly, tangled itself in Melkor’s hair. His moans spilled free as his very fëa soared higher and higher.

The sounds Fëanor made were deep and drugging, and Melkor grew drunk on them. He heard his name, moans turning into pleas, a brittle voice begging him not to stop. He did not stop. His strokes were ceaseless now, his ears honing into the sound of each sweet little gasp, of each quickening breath. He felt it, the hardening in his hand, and looked up just in time to see Fëanor’s mouth open in a deep, guttural cry. They were so close by then he felt a sudden spurt of warmth against his belly. Fëanor shuddered beneath him before going still.

Melkor wondered if this was it, and then Fëanor pulled him in for another kiss, his hips lifting. "Now," he demanded, his body craving to be filled. "Now."

With a growl, Melkor grabbed onto his hips and knelt up, lifting Fëanor’s back higher off the sheets. "Are you certain of this?"

"Yes," Fëanor breathed, his fingers digging into the sheets that had twisted around them when Melkor slickened two of his fingers and penetrated him. Lust clouded his mind as he felt the movement inside his body, preparing him, and he whined when Melkor pulled out. When nails dug into his hips, he braced himself, for he knew what would come next.

Melkor’s grip on Fëanor’s hips tightened as he entered him, slowly and carefully, not wanting to cause too much pain. Fëanor had to bite down on his lower lip as jolts of pain washed over him. With the pain came slow pin pricks of pleasure as Melkor pushed in even deeper, his cock filling him completely. Hands glided over Fëanor’s thighs, his belly, as if to soothe. Fëanor looked up at him, caught the questioning look in Melkor’s eyes.

"I am ready," he said, and closed his own.

Melkor pulled his hips back before pushing back in, fucking him slowly. Fëanor’s hands nearly ripped into the sheets as Melkor went faster and faster, pushing him even deeper into the bed. He opened his eyes and found Melkor’s squeezed shut, his moans growing louder and louder, and Fëanor’s slowly matching his. A hand moved over to find his, fingers lacing around each other as bliss of the most acute kind, something Melkor could not even fathom, washed over him. His breath and movements grew erratic as his hips ground against Fëanor’s thighs, and then his entire fana shook. Muscles that had coiled and tightened snapped, and it felt like his fana had splintered as his orgasm ripped through him. He nearly collapsed over Fëanor, bracing himself against his hand just in time. Then he blinked as consciousness came over him and opened his eyes.

What happened was something he had never experienced in the entirety of his existence. Not the pleasure or the warmth or the sheer intimacy of it all, certainly not the knowledge that even in this frozen world, one could form a bond of the deepest kind with another. And it was all due to an elf with bright blue eyes and black hair. Melkor blinked, opened his eyes. He found Fëanor looking up at him.

Fëanor, for the first time in his life, felt utterly satisfied and conpelte. He looked up at Melkor, at the warmth in those dark eyes.

"I do not have to leave, do I?" He breathed, hoping this would not be the end.

Melkor smiled back before leaning in and kissing him, softly this time.

Everything made sense now. The jealousy, the stirrings he felt in his fana, his yearning for Fëanor’s company. The words he will say, but not now. There was still much for him and Fëanor to discover about each other.

"Never," he whispered, before pulling Fëanor up into his arms.

Tags| @cilil​ @edensrose @asianbutnotjapanese @fictionfordays​ @floraroselaughter​

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

“Something new”

Pairing: Fëanor x Melkor

Themes: Throne room fun times | Smut 

Warnings: Kissing | Praise | Nicknames | Some explicit language | Oral

Word count: 1.3k words 

Summary:  Fëanor and Melkor try something new while alone in the throne room. 

Rating: 🔥 🔥 | Minors DNI | 18+

Rules and tag form can be found here.  

The High Lord of Angband sighed blissfully before slumping into his throne. "You will be the death of me, little one."

Fëanor flashed that impish smile of his. The throne room was empty, having been cleared of thralls and Melkor’s servants. The moment the others left and the hall’s heavy iron doors closed, Melkor summoned the elf to him. It had become a ritual for them: Melkor seated upon his throne, an imposing monstrosity of black stone and bones, and Fëanor on his lap. Most often than not, they would talk. On other occasions, other diversions took up the chief of their time.

"Pray tell me, sire," he fussed with the clasps on Melkor’s tunic, undoing them one by one. "Who insisted on being in the forge while I worked?"

"I simply wanted to make sure you were not idling about," Melkor said quickly enough.

It was a bold-faced lie, and Fëanor knew it. Melkor did not need to mind him the way a mother did with her babe, and idleness was one thing Fëanor loathed above all else. His lord knew this all too well, having been sent away from the forge on more than one occasion when Fëanor was in the midst of a task. He still went along with it and smiled, saying, "Perhaps. How about the way you insisted on being near me, sire? Coming up with every conceivable excuse to touch me? Came close to fucking me the moment we were alone?"

His cheeks flamed. Melkor had indeed done all the things he was accused of. Ever since the first time they had lain together, Melkor could not get enough of the elf, what he did to him, what he made him feel. And the Vala felt a great deal and wanted much.

This was not always true of him. Once, Melkor had been consumed by the domination of Arda, of seeking the Flame Imperishable for himself. Nothing else mattered save for the total mastery over everything he set his eyes on. Melkor sought no friendship, no brotherly bond, and no attachment of any kind. He considered them all weaknesses, weapons that could be used against him, and he went out of his way to avoid them. All of that changed when an elf swore loyalty to him, one with bright blue eyes and raven hair, one who consumed his every thought and awoke in him feelings he did not even know about.

It terrified him sometimes, the consequences of having such a bond with another. Being vulnerable, showing a softer side to someone else, giving them the power to destroy him in more ways than one. If the other Valar found out it would be their finest weapon against him. More than once Melkor wanted to finish things for good and for all, to put an end to what he shared with Fëanor and send him away, but the mere thought of being parted was hard, and as the days passed, it grew even harder. Once, he strengthened his resolve and approached the elf while he was alone. Yet as soon as Fëanor smiled and slipped a hand into his, his eyes lighting up, Melkor knew he could not do it. He came to a decision. If Fëanor was going to be his weakness then so be it, the consequences be damned.

"Now do not tell me you did not enjoy it," Melkor teased. He moaned when teeth marred his throat, leaving dark patches in their wake.

Fëanor would have grinned had Melkor not pulled him in for a kiss. His mouth tasted of the wine they had earlier, one that was light and sweet. "I will not lie," he breathed. "I did enjoy it. Pity we had to end it so quickly."

"Aye. Such a pity," Melkor agreed, raking his hands through Fëanor’s hair when his lips moved down his throat again. "But there is no one to disturb us now."

"No one indeed," Fëanor kept kissing, moving lower and lower, quietly relishing the trembles he felt beneath him. "But if you still want me to stop, you need only say the word and -"

"If you stop there will be consequences," Melkor murmured. "I give you my word."

A threat that was never a threat. Fëanor no longer had cause to fear Melkor and Melkor no longer gave him one. In the beginning, he thought he was imagining things, that he was caught up in a hazy dream. He expected to wake up and find it was all a sweet illusion, that Melkor’s promises had been nothing but lies, and that he had made use of him like he did so many others before him. Fëanor went as far as to prepare himself for such a fate, strengthening himself for the pain and bitterness that would inevitably follow. Time and the Vala himself showed that was not the case, and Fëanor found his fears were all for naught. He kissed Melkor again, his body pressing heatedly against the Vala's fana.

Fëanor shivered when strong arms slipped around his waist and pulled him even closer. Melkor wanted to take him to bed, but he did not have the patience for it. He wanted Fëanor now and did not want to wait a moment longer. He ground against the insides of Fëanor’s thighs, finding himself already hard. "I want you, little one," he purred helplessly. "I want you now."

Fëanor lifted his head, his lips already puffy and bruised. His blue eyes had darkened, the need in them matching Melkor’s. "What do you want, sire?"

"Something new." Melkor looked at those bruised lips. Idle chatter of those who had indulged sprang to mind and gave him a wicked idea. "That pretty mouth of yours," he said, running a thumb over Fëanor’s lips. "Do you perchance have another use for it?"

Fëanor understood quickly enough and grinned wolfishly. Slipping off Melkor’s lap he set his feet on the ground, pushing Melkor’s thighs apart with his hands. By the time he sank to his knees, Melkor’s gaze was locked on him. It did not take long to undo the fastenings in his breeches.

Fëanor’s mouth felt so warm around his cock. Melkor threw his head back and whispered words of praise spilled off his lips repeatedly.

"You look so good on your knees," he said softly, brushing the hair out of Fëanor’s face so he could see better. On impulse, he gathered all of that thick black hair into his hand and held it out of the way. Fëanor would occasionally flick his eyes at Melkor, triumph and lust burning in them when the Vala writhed and groaned in pleasure. His tongue running softly along the underside of Melkor’s length, his lips lingering over the tip, swirling his tongue around it—all of this made Melkor’s breath come out like a hiss. "And how well you take me. As if you were made for me."

Fëanor easily grew drunk on the praise, and praise he received in plenty.  He moaned when Melkor pushed his head down, his hand tight around the elf’s hair. Fëanor felt his cock twitch against his tongue and readied himself when praise slowly turned into desperate pleas.

Melkor’s breath had grown ragged, his hips rocking in erratic thrusts. He was so close now he could feel it in the sweet tension building in his fana. A wave of extreme pleasure rose within him when Fëanor stroked his cock, his hand moving in rhythm with his mouth. Melkor could hold on no longer and fell back into his throne, his fana trembling violently as his orgasm ripped through him. He could not think, he could not breathe; all that mattered was the blissed-out state he found himself in. Sweet words of endearment poured off his lips even as the tide slowly receded and passion had been sated.

When he blinked his eyes and opened them, he found Fëanor looking up expectantly. "Swallow," he commanded, "and come here."

Fëanor did as he was bid and found himself pulled into a tight embrace. They kissed again, softly and more playfully this time, before Melkor rested his brow against Fëanor’s with a sigh.

"You were so good to me little one," Melkor said, kissing Fëanor’s neck lightly. "Now how about I reward you in return?"

Tags: @cilil @asianbutnotjapanese​ @fictionfordays​