A mere hundred years ago— in recent memory for most— the Vala Melkor would not have been given a seat at the Table of the Guild.
The elder Quendi who had survived his reign of tyranny on the dark continent remembered only shadows; it was difficult to reconcile the Black Rider of memory with the Melkor who walked among them now, strange and beguiling.
It was testament to his skill with flattery and manipulation of ego that he had risen so quickly in popularity with the Aulendur of Tirion; despite his many critics, he had been invited to this gathering usually reserved for only the most elite among the Guild of Craftworkers, where he now held court for a dozen master smiths who waited on him as though gems might fall from his mouth.
“Would you like to know what this is?” asked the Vala, tossing his sleeves aside (long, elaborate things meant to concealed the shackles of Angainor, which he was bound to wear for centuries more; he displayed a fist-sized lump of mineral in his claws. His entourage gathered close.
“Coal,” answered a Noldo to his right at the table; then, leaning closer to inspect the silver-grey material, amended, “no, graphite. From the mines of Mandos?”
“ Diamond ;” smiled Melkor, the tips of his ears twitching like a cat’s, “a diamond that does not yet know it is a diamond.”
The smiths near him laughed. “Even your sly tongue will not convince me that a writing block is a gemstone!” but still they clustered expectantly, eager for the reveal.
At the far end of the table, in his customary seat of prominence, Prince Fëanor did not laugh. He sat with one knee slung over the other, arms crossed, his eyes dark with discontentment.
No one doubted that if the crown prince had been the master of the guild and not his father-in-law, Mahtan, there would be far fewer seats at the table– and certainly none for a rebel Ainu who walked free only by the grace of his brother.
The aura of malice directed at him from across the table did not escape Melkor’s notice, but he had the audience of many Noldor, all hanging on his words, and he was not one to resist an opportunity for showmanship.
“Water is the same as ice, which is the same as vapor. Shall I demonstrate?”
He stood, pulling back his sleeves once more and pressing his golden knuckles against the table’s marble top.
The marble’s surface blackened, and the lump of unprepossessing carbon in his hand began to glow with red heat, then yellow, and finally white.
The smiths scrambled back; the wave of heat coming from the Vala’s fist was as hot as Aulë’s great furnace, and there was a sound like spitting fire and grinding ice. Melkor’s fist clenched slowly, as though he were pressing out a ball of clay. When he opened his palm, the grey rock had become a small, irregular stone; as it cooled it revealed the color of smoky gold. Light shown through it, marking it as indisputably changed from its original, opaque state.
Wide-eyed, the assembly drew around with a flood of questions, some even applauded. Melkor’s curved lips pursed indulgently, and he tossed the raw gemstone to a Noldo at his side, who cursed as he fumbled with the rock that was still as hot as an ember.
As chatter flowed around him, Melkor held up a hand for silence and looked across the table to the only elf who had said nothing during the proceedings.
“Do diamonds hold no interest for you, Prince Fëanáro? Or is it my miracles that bore you?”
“That is no miracle,” Fëanor said incuriously, unfolding himself in his seat. “Burn a diamond, and it will disappear into a dense gas, the same vaporous spirit we exhale, which can be precipitated into carbonate1. The rearrangement of its lattice is the only difference, and it is no mystery. Give me a press of sufficient force and a furnace hot enough, and I too could create diamond.”
“…You did not share this knowledge with the rest of us,” chided one older smith, with a note of censure. “The purpose of this guild is to share our findings with one another, so that we may all progress. My prince, you must know it would give us great pleasure to hear the results of such experiments.”
“I am certain it would. But I did not see the benefit of sharing my labors with those who can do nothing with the information,” Fëanor blinked, showing no sign that the bitter mutterings of lesser minds meant any more to him than a passing breeze.
“You were not impressed,” Melkor’s face fell into a soft pout. “What mountains must I move, then, to rouse the great Spirit of Fire?”
Fëanor tilted his head with a squint. “Prisoner of Manwë and slave of Tulkas,” he began, and Melkor bristled— “thou art a Vala . Rearranging the matter of earth is thy birthright, it comes as easily to thee as breathing.”
He stood, and leaned over the table as if to deliver each word directly to Melkor’s face; “I am not impressed by breathing .”
The Guildhall of Craftworkers grew uncharacteristically silent. The tension between the prince and the Vala interloper seemed to force away the crowd, as the smiths and crafters took steps away from the creature in their midst who had, only moments before, produced the heat and pressure of a thousand years of volcanic activity in the palm of his hand.
But Melkor did not move, save for a stirring in his throat that caused the ring of his collar to clink, and Fëanor turned and made his way to the Dais of Treasures, where the guild’s latest works stood waiting to be revealed.
There were nested ivory spheres carved without seams, delicate silver trees, transparent bowls of chalcedony, harmonic chimes, a ruby with a thousand facets, even a great gong of bronze made for the house of Tulkas.
Fëanor reached amidst these to retrieve a single box, carved of cinnabar lacquer. Setting its weight carefully upon the table, he clicked open its hidden latch and the lid lifted of its own accord, giving out a faint sound of clockwork. As the contents were revealed, all earlier offense evaporated:
Prisms of light danced across the lacquer, spreading over the walls and ceiling of the hall.
Fëanor carefully gloved his hands and hefted a sphere of glass from its case; it was smooth and seamless as an egg, but beneath the polished surface bright facets sparkled. There was no indication of cuts or drilled inclusions; it seemed it could only have been cut by magic.
As Fëanor turned the prism-sphere, the room blossomed into a kaleidoscope, and he smiled thinly, more amused by the reactions of the crowd than by the wonder in his fingers. This, after all, was not his masterpiece— he would reveal that in time.
Melkor’s pupils widened from slits to full, black moons, shards of color and light caught in their void.
“But… how did you…?” A baffled guildswoman approached, squinting into a jeweler’s loupe to try and spy the prism’s secret.
“Lead crystal. Wafers of twin colored glass. Resin glue with the same refractive index as the medium. All milled repeatedly on a lathe. The process took many seasons.2” Fëanor answered flatly, in clear anticipation of the question. He turned his steely eyes on the smith who had questioned him, triangles of multicolored light moving over the hard angles of his face;
“This was only an experiment to pass the time. You said you wished for me to share my results; here they are.”
There was pride in his expression, but it was dulled, as though he beheld only a magic trick he’d seen often before. And then, with increasing coldness sharpening his voice, he turned to Melkor.
“This is the product of material science, knowledge, curiosity, and research. It represents months of labor, without benefit of unearthly powers, or Song. It is Art, every facet of which is intentional,” Fëanor tilted his work appreciatively, then snorted, “It is only glass. But my ingenuity makes it worth more than any rock created by accident of nature …Even my infant son creates work of more value to me than all thy diamonds.”
Melkor, meanwhile, seemed unable to hear. He approached the glittering crystal with reverence, pupils round and reflective, hand outstretched. “It’s extraordinary…”
Before his claws could touch the surface, Fëanor shut the lid with a crack.
“It is not for thou to touch to the work of my hands. I did not offer thee more than its sight,” Fëanor hissed, teeth bared.
The Vala drew back his hand quickly, anger flashing across his face and transforming it for an instant into something ugly, batlike– but then his fingers relaxed, curling into a more elegant shape and he raised his chin with a secretive smile.
“I too have something I might present, something of my own creation, sprung from my imagination alone and crafted by intent… But I will show it to you, Prince Fëanaró, and no one else,” he said quietly, a morsel not intended for the other bickering members of the guild, who had for the moment lost interest in their special guest.
Fëanor arched an eyebrow. “If any of the Ainur can create a work of artifice and not of nature, I would be amazed to see it.”
He placed the box holding his wondrous prism back upon the pedestal amidst the other, now lesser-seeming works.
“I will grant thee an audience, for the space of one hour, and one hour only. Produce something of interest, and thou mayest yet earn my curiosity.”
When Melkor arrived, the gold claws of his bare feet clicking down the flagstones of the court, he carried nothing with him; no box, no canvas, no sheet of parchment.
Otherwise unburdened, he had nevertheless dressed himself sumptuously in robes of diaphanous copper, with a ruff of fox fur around his throat that complimented his flame-colored hair. A heavy black mantle sat on his shoulders, broken by four embroidered slits, out from which a pair of curving, golden spikes jutted.
As before, he had taken great care to disguise the shackles around his wrists, neck, and ankles; he wore Angainor like a secret shame, and all his adornments were designed to distract from them.
Fëanor awaited his guest in a private study, a low fire in the hearth casting warm shadows across the room. He paced expectantly, his hands behind his back.
Soon, he would either see something noteworthy, or have cause to humiliate an obsequious pest that had insinuated itself into his guild. Whatever the outcome, he hoped it was worth an hour of his time.
Melkor slipped into the room as silently as a cat, bowing low before the crown prince– a gesture that he somehow made both mocking and over-formal.
“Your grace. What an honor it is to be received.”
Fëanor’s eyes twitched in a suspicious squint, seeing nothing on the Vala’s person which might be counted as smithwork, or any other kind of art.
“…And? Where is this invention thou wert so keen to show me? Remember thy time here is short.” He did not appreciate having things hidden from him, whether by lie or misdirection.
The Vala turned out his wrists with a slow flourish, causing the drape of copper-colored silk to drift out like the wings of an incendiary moth.
“Here,” he gestured to himself, “—this is my work. It took care to make. It required knowledge of flesh and bone. It is a marriage of intent and material, just the same as your art. I made it to suit me, to reflect my inner vision of Self.”
Long tails of fabric curled at his feet as he turned, displaying himself like dancer.
“Ainur need not house their spirits; bodies are an affectation for us, not a requirement. In many ways they are quite useless– I believe that’s a requirement of most art, yes?” he made a smug little gesture of acknowledgement; “And yet we choose clad ourselves thusly, for the sake of enjoying the world more fully. Not all of us are capable of it; our ability to clothe ourselves in shapes like unto yours is not innate, it is a skill the best of us learn.”
Melkor cocked his head in what seemed genuine curiosity, “…Do you like it?”
Fëanor stood rooted with his hands tense at his sides, eyeing the waterfall of copper and fur that hinted at the figure beneath, as if considering whether or not to be offended.
The display was a bold, insolent farce, and he had no doubt that the Vala meant it as such; the subject of his jest had been chosen carefully, for it met the criteria he’d provided while parodying them. He could have the indentured Vala thrown out– or he could play along and return the insult.
“…If thy desire is to have my frank appraisal, thou must intend to reveal more of thy work to scrutiny. Unless it is thy robes that want approval.”
Melkor laughed, surprised but undaunted. “Very well! If that is your wish, my host; I am not shy.”
At a touch, the belt holding closed his robes unwound, swinging three clean circuits round his waist before pooling at his feet. The mantle followed, and Melkor turned his back to let the ruff and cape slide from his shoulders, down to his arms, and finally to the floor. He glanced back over the slope of his bare shoulder, daring comment.
Fëanor beheld several things about his guest that he had not expected as the Vala pivoted to face him: one, was that the two sets of curving spines on his shoulders were not part of his costume, but natural protrusions, and two, that his hips were full and freckled enough to rival his wife’s. Thirdly, and most startling, was the sex that lay between his muted gold thighs.
He knew that Ainur took the form of whatever gender suited them best, and this was a variation he had not encountered before– either deliberately constructed between two he recognized, or something new altogether. He took a moment to adjust his expectations, and allowed himself to examine the details:
The back was broad and sculpted, the chest flat, the shoulders wide, with well-defined arms; below lay a moderately tapered waist, a soft belly, and hips curved like a bell. The mound of Melkor’s sex was plump, its folds downy with a triangle of amber hair.
The similarities to his spouse made him deeply uncomfortable; the situation now felt closer to infidelity than he’d have planned or liked, and Fëanor wondered if the farce had gone on long enough. But if he backed out now, it would be an obvious surrender– so the prince sat down slowly in a tall-backed chair, and knit his fingers beneath his chin in an obvious display of careful study.
“I have not yet made up my mind whether I count this as art . But it is at the very least unusual, and perhaps therefore worthy of note,” Fëanor made a rough sound in his throat, his brow furrowed, “…Unfortunately, I do not know how one goes about creating a body from nothing, so I cannot comment on your craftsmanship– only the result.”
Melkor noted the shift in tense from the insultingly familiar thee to a respectful you , and this pleased him. It was welcome progress to go from slave to guest– if only grammatically.
“I can tell you it is not like cutting glass or shaping metal,” laughed the Vala, with a modicum of humility which was more than Fëanor had ever heard from him; “It requires no steady hand, nor clever tools, only intense concentration. If one loses focus even for a moment during the construction, it will unravel; and if one does not know exactly what one wishes to create, the form will be lacking, liable to fall apart like wet sand the moment it ceases to be buttressed by thought.”
He looked over himself as if appraising a job well done, tracing the line of his collarbone carefully, avoiding the collar of iron that rested just above.
“Not all of us think building in flesh is worthwhile; in fact, there are only a few of us who take special pride in it. Most content themselves with forms built of materials they are already familiar with– You’ll notice Aulë has but one shape, resembling his own element, and Ulmo too. Crude, rudimentary,” Melkor lifted his chin and preened; “It takes considerable skill to make a body as flexible as mine.”
“Flexible, yes,” Fëanor paused, crossing his legs. “You say you shaped this body to match an image in your mind’s eye… But you were not always as you are now. We have seen you take other shapes. Were you not once described rather poetically…” he tapped his fingers, recalling the line, “a ‘mountain that wades in the sea and has its head above the clouds, clad in ice and crowned in’–”
“Smoke, and fire, yes, yes,” Melkor waved a hand dismissively, though his chest swelled a bit with pride at the familiar description.
“Did your vision of self change, then?”
“Oh it always changes, your grace. I am too many things to be all of them at once,” Melkor’s smile would have been dazzling had it not been filled with shark teeth. “At the moment, as you can see, I am only the least of the dwellers in Aman… and will be for an Age and a half more.”
“I see. Your creation is in flux because the subject is unstable, ” Fëanor smiled in return, a brief crook in the line of his mouth, “If you had not told me, I might have assumed it was merely unfinished– and no real craftsman would dare present me with a work in progress, expecting me to call it a masterpiece.”
Fëanor waited a moment for a sly rejoinder from his guest, but one never came, and so he sat amused by the lengthening silence. Once again, he considered dismissing his guest; he’d scored a point without embarrassment, and rejecting the Vala and his “art” now would be deeply satisfying.
A wrinkle creased Melkor’s features, his jaw clenching and his claws giving one ineffectual twitch as his sides.
“…I’m afraid I cannot presently revise my shape, as once I could,” Melkor said softly, “–else I would happily demonstrate the ease with which I could overwhelm your assumptions.”
Flames from the grate spat and crackled, gleaming in the reflection of Melkor’s softly metallic skin, something like a blush staining the gold.
“Then why don’t you?” asked Fëanor.
“Because I have been forbidden to do so!” Melkor spat; there was a tremor in his voice, and the ring on his collar chimed.
It occurred to Fëanor then that he could hardly have a better opportunity to study one of the Ainur– literally in the flesh, as the one he had now, with a Vala humbled and oath-bound to subservience in his very livingroom. As a rule, he was unimpressed with the ‘virtues’ of the Valar, who had failed to administer justice amidst their own kind, who had let his mother die in the realm of the deathless. He did not trust their judgement, and of all of them, none could be more conceited and untrustworthy than Melkor.
But perhaps there was something to be said for an honest scoundrel, whose self-interest and vanity were worn plain as the robes on his back, not secreted away behind lofty ideals and beneficent smiles. He had no doubt that little Melkor did or said was in good faith, and behind all his words was a hidden dagger. But he was not beholden to Melkor; he was not bidden to accept him as a pinnacle of virtue, nor obey his every word as an irreproachable king. In many ways, that was preferable.
In many ways, it was satisfying to have a clear and knowable enemy, who could be faced head on, whose knees might eventually bend.
Fëanor stood, his footsteps quiet as he approached his guest to observe him more closely in the light of the fire.
“My assessment will take your… condition into account.”
Up close, there were textures in Melkor’s flesh that were decidedly inorganic. The Vala’s slender throat was plated like the underbelly of a snake, the flesh of his shoulders was somehow pliant yet faceted like crystal, and the twin thorns that jutted above each arm…
The prince wondered what they’d look like in cross-section.
“What are these?” he asked, reaching to pluck the tip of the nearest. “They cannot be bone, else how could you raise your arms without—”
Before the touch could land the Vala swatted it away. “I offered you the sight of my work, not its touch,” his voice lilted.
Fëanor curled his lip, a hint of teeth bared in a fierce expression.
“ Offer it to me, then. ”
Melkor blinked, for he had not expected to be asked openly. (He’d meant to tease, yes, to cause rumors, certainly– and to be dismissed summarily for embarrassing the crown? To know he had gotten under the high prince’s insufferable, self-important skin? That would have been best of all!)
But after a moment the Vala bent his head, answering “very well,” in tones unreadable.
Cautiously, Fëanor raised his thumb and forefinger and pinched the very tip of one of the horns, as if uncertain they were not barbed or poisonous. Exploring them more thoroughly with a squeeze, he found them firm but ductile, with the same heat and texture as the surrounding flesh. The Vala stood still, hardly drawing a breath until they stopped.
“Cartilage. Are they sensitive?” Fëanor flicked the point of one and Melkor jerked away with a yelp, shielding his arm.
“ Yess.”
“Do not hiss at me. I am interested. I want to know if you wear only the seeming of flesh, or the true article. If you feel pain, I suspect you are well constructed.”
“Oh, I assure you , that smarts. At least as much as if you’d flicked an ear tip,” said the Vala through his teeth.
“Ah. And are those tender as well?” he pinched the outer curve of Melkor’s ear, and traced it inwards.
“Yes—“ whatever words might have followed died in Melkor’s throat as his spine stiffened.
The fire crackled in the silence as the prince mapped out the inner territory with a touch light as a whisper. By the time fingertips made their way down the line of his throat, the Vala’s breathing began to deepen, tension showing in his jaw and neck.
“Your pulse quickens.”
“Yes.”
“Very naturalistic,” Fëanor lifted an eyebrow.
“I told you, I’m very good,” the Vala snorted quietly in reply.
Unhurried, Fëanor resumed his perusal until he’d satisfied his curiosity about the texture of each broad, golden scale, watching the throat beneath his fingers dip and tighten as Melkor swallowed.
Even the way he held himself was a plea for acknowledgement, as though the Vala yearned to lean into every touch like a cat demanding to be pet, restraining himself only by some greater fear, or desire. His red eyes stared ahead unfocused, and his breathing stuttered in his chest–
It was so delicious to deny him the attention, feeding it to him drop by drop.
The desire for a more potent victory crept up on Fëanor, even as a voice of caution in mind, familiar and feminine, warned him that even victories have consequences.
“Apart,” he rapped his knuckles against the freckled thighs as if correcting the stance of a sparring student.
Melkor’s sharp teeth fell agape in confusion; Fëanor repeated himself with irritation. “ Apart!”
Slowly the Melkor’s limbs obeyed, unaccustomed to following orders, revealing the part in his sex and the hint of inner lips beneath the curls of flame-red hair. Claws fidgeted at his sides until Fëanor restrained them with gentle disapproval, positioning them behind Melkor’s back with no resistance.
The prince gave a small “tsk”, and stationed himself before his subject for better scrutiny.
“So far, I would say you are indeed well-wrought. I can find no flaw with your outer construct. But I wonder if you have bothered to fashion the inside as carefully…”
Slitted pupils fluctuated in the firelight.
“You’ll find I’ve been very thorough, should you care to inspect.”
Fëanor allowed himself a smirk. “Are you offering to let me dissect you?”
At that Melkor chuckled, a thin and wary sound of one who knows the truth behind a joke, his eyes never leaving Fëanor’s, every line of him bent in anticipation.
Two fingers slid between bare thighs, testing the seam there without parting them. Each fold was softly pendulous; when he brushed them, the inner lips folded like dark crumpled velvet. They were quite hot to the touch, especially where they briefly engulfed his finger tips.
Fëanor looked up to see that his guest was no longer looking at him, but had his feline eyes shut in what looked to be extreme concentration, as though each breath threatened to betray him. Fëanor found it entrancing to watch the Vala’s expression, flickering between restrained agony and bliss; knowing that he was not observed in return made it feel like a secret indulgence.
The muscles in Melkor’s gleaming arms flexed taut and quavering, and his claws were balled to fists from where they’d been positioned at the small of his back, as the prince continued to stroke him.
Hovering over the spot he knew concealed the most sensation, Fëanor traced a circle, gentle, coaxing, over Melkor’s clit with the pad of his thumb. He tried, almost successfully, to forget that he’d been taught this motion by his wife, whose patience in the bedroom had rewarded them both with fond memories— memories he would not wish to be tainted by this creature he despised, and yet…
Melkor bit his lip in silence, exhaling through his nose with head tilted back, as though the Vala fought a losing battle with himself, and Fëanor remembered… This was a god he had at his disposal, humbled by the mere touch of his fingertips. He did not feel this kind of power when he laid with the one he loved– he did not wish to. But he had it now, and it sang through his blood, made his prick stir, drove him forward with drunken inertia…
He waited until the Vala’s hips twitched against hand, failing to discreetly thrust the head of his flushed clit against the teasing pressure of his thumb; he crooked his fingers, beckoning open the folds from back to front, gentle and unhurried as Melkor wriggled, seeking more.
Circles and more slow circles traced over his pearl and around the waiting entrance that twitched, increasingly slick. And when Melkor was gasping and lost in a paroxysm of need, his plump, freckled thighs shivering astride his hand, Fëanor pressed two strong fingers deep inside.
A strained, desperate sound escaped Melkor’s clenched teeth, and Fëanor laughed low in triumph, feeling his own breath hitch and heart thunder with conquering delight
Inside the Vala was burning hot, almost painfully so, but Fëanor thrilled at the challenging sensation. His strokes pushed deeper, finding the inner ridge of pelvis with his fingers, sliding against the ledge there and beckoning, tugging. Melkor whimpered, high and shameless as the pace quickened, bending like a bow until he was bracing himself against a tide of pleasure, balling fists into the prince’s coat, mouth open and helpless.
Fëanor sucked in air through his teeth as a flood spilled over his fingers, hot as candle wax, dripping to the floor, and Melkor wailed, shaking, still clutching the front of the prince’s vest for balance.
He caught his breath, hearing Melkor do the same, and after a while withdrew, lingering to stroke the dripping cleft.
“Well,” Fëanor exhaled, “it performed adequately enough. I see you spared no detail with your—“
But his sentence was cut short. The Vala’s claws raked the back of Fëanor’s skull as he clasped the prince’s face, kissing the stern lips with greed and thirst, his careless razor teeth drawing blood.
Fëanor stood rigid, the kisses breaking over him like waves on a rock. Before either had said a word he’d thrust a hand through the collar of Angainor, shoving Melkor backwards by the throat, and then just as viciously forced him to his knees. Melkor choked, coughing, looking up with shock as Fëanor wiped his lips off with the back of his sleeve.
“Do. Not. Touch me,” he rasped, and his voice was a drawn sword, “ Never did I give thee leave to touch me. Thou mayst be eager to disgrace thyself, Vala-thrall, but I will NOT suffer thee to put thy hands upon me, dost thou understand?”
On his knees, Melkor grimaced, rubbing his throat. The look he gave Fëanor would have boiled iron, but his words came forth quietly.
“Please,” he grit his teeth, swallowing, “I need… more. Anything, as long as it’s more. I have not touched, nor been touched, in ten thousand years . I am the Mighty Arising, bound in shackles; I cannot be more disgraced than I am already. Please. ”
“If it were a hundred thousand years, I still would not pity thee.”
“Your pity is not what I want .”
“And what thou wantest, I will not give thee!” Fëanor snapped.
Melkor growled and rolled to his back in frustration on the floor.
“ Why not? You’ve already stained your hands. I’m not asking for your soul, just more than your fingers!”
“…That was already more than I owed thee.” Fëanor wiped his hands on the Vala’s discarded cape, regretting everything that had led to this conversation.
“You’d be the first among Quendi to fuck a Vala?” Melkor offered.
“ I would be the first to break vows to my living wife,” he snarled in return.
“You’d break no vows! I swear it! Only let me touch you!” Melkor begged, rolling to his knees before the prince. “You would not need to give me license, only… do nothing to stop me? ”
“And I say again: thou mayst touch no part of me!” Fëanor barked, eyes flaring. He did not need this. He did not wish to acknowledge that the sight of a Vala on his knees before him made his loins tighten and a fire burn through his veins.
“Not even your feet?”
Melkor slithered forward onto his belly, looking up through red lashes as he kissed the leather of the royal boot. Fëanor drew in breath through his nose.
As the Vala’s kisses made their way up and down his calves, and he felt, and heard, the lapping of a forked tongue over leather, reverent and warm, he indeed did nothing to stop it. He continued to do nothing but breathe as Melkor’s lips wet the inner seam of his leggings, kissed the hard curve of his thighs.
He felt the hot damp of the Vala’s mouth cover the strained front of his breeches, sucking at the cloth, tonguing the outline of his full balls and swollen cock through fabric, the wet soaking through to his unsheathing crown. The friction was so beautiful, the lapping so eager; lips plucked at his lengthening prick through the silken barrier, and this time it was Fëanor who braced himself against the Vala’s shoulders. Freckled thighs spread over the material of his boot as Melkor rode him, rutting himself raw against the stamped pattern of an eight-pointed star.
And suddenly Fëanor’s mind was empty of logic; guilt could fling itself into the sea— he needed pressure precisely there , where Melkor’s mouth sucked with concave cheeks . With a groan he smothered the Vala’s face into his loins, fisted both hands in the cropped and curling hair beneath him, and pumped his clothed hips savagely against Melkor’s mouth, panting without restraint. He felt Melkor’s stifled moans vibrate through him as he came harder than he had in months, spilling through the wet fabric as a ragged sound escaped his throat— for a moment he regretted nothing in the world.
But the moment passed, and shame rushed in to fill the void. Melkor purred with blissful satisfaction as he cleaned his face of Fëanor’s seed, looking pleased as a cat who had gotten away with eating a canary in its cage.
“Have I roused you, Spirit of Fire? Were you impressed after all?” he licked his lips.
Fëanor stepped away, looking with disgust at his ruined breeches, the slime on his boot.
“Thou willt not speak of this to anyone.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it!” said Melkor, before pouting, “but… what about you? What will you tell the Guild of how you burned your hand, your grace?”
Fëanor curled his fingers, realizing that they were beginning to blister from their contact with the unnatural heat of the Vala’s body.
“…Nothing. They will not dare to ask, and I will give them no reason to wonder.”
Melkor’s eyes narrowed, sly, “Oh!” he feigned a gasp, “but surely your lady wife will ask, and what then shall you tell Nerdan—”
Fëanor whipped about and struck the Vala across the face and snarled, ready to draw steel if he dared another word.
“Do not speak to me of my wife. Remove her name from thy lips forever, and get out of my hall!”
Melkor took the blow in silence, his jaw working visibly as he tendered his reddening cheek.
“…Very well,” he stood shakily, collecting his robes with more dignity than might be expected. “I hope you gained as much from this audience as I did, your grace. Your appraisal was most enlightening. Truly, your reputation as a critical lover the arts is well founded. I am sure they will say of you that the finest works in all Arda passed beneath your hands.”
“I do not care what others say of me,” Fëanor said into the hearth and the remains of the fire.
“How fortunate! For I’m sure they’ll have quite a bit to say by tomorrow…” Melkor remarked loftily, pacing around the stains he’d left on the carpet.
Fëanor looked to him sharply. “If any rumor of this reaches me outside this room, thy master Tulkas will hear of thy indiscretions, and how thou didst plot to spread discord within my house.”
“Hah! …As if you needed help doing that,” Melkor drawled, rolling his head with a chime from his collar; “But, as you command, prince Fëanáro, I will be silent as the stones.”
He did not leave immediately, but stood in the silence pending a second dismissal.
“…Did you…”, he licked his lips, “come to a conclusion? As to whether I may be counted as art or nature?”
Fëanor drew a breath and let it out with precarious composure.
“Thou art neither. Thou art thine own spirit made flesh. A mind made visible, no more.”
“Oh?” Melkor lilted, looking down at his bare figure, “You must explain to me sometime what the difference is. Perhaps you could tell me more during a second appraisal.”
“There will be no second.”
“Of course not, your grace.”
Melkor bowed, and left the halls of Tirion, making certain that he was seen by every attendant and curious onlooker as he passed the gates, entirely naked with his robes over one arm, the curve of his bell-hips swinging.
MisbehavingMaiar: Tumblr Archive 