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Mairon’s lips look bloody in the firelight that flickers over the walls of Melkor’s bedchamber.
The remarkable colour is the result of the red ochre paste that Mairon daubed over his lips before heeding Melkor’s summons. It is the latest trend among the denizens of Utumno, one that Mairon has taken a sudden interest in.
A whim, Mairon says when Melkor asks him why. A little experiment.
Melkor can’t take his eyes off him.
Mairon smiles at the attention, just a hint of teeth that are too sharp, and they gleam white against his crimson lips.
The sight goes straight to Melkor’s cock.
With a low rumble in his throat, Melkor crosses the distance between them and grabs Mairon, one hand tilting his face upwards while the other digs into the small of his back. He presses them together, capturing Mairon’s ruddy lips in a kiss, and it is not gentle, no: it is rough, it is bruising, all tongue and teeth. Mairon moans into Melkor’s mouth, a soft sound of abandon, and Melkor responds by nipping at his bottom lip, sucking it between his teeth until he tastes copper on his tongue.
When Melkor at last draws back, they are both breathing heavily. Like one in a trance, Melkor swipes his thumb across the split in Mairon’s lip. The blood smears across Mairon’s cheek and so does the ochre paste, a deep and vivid crimson blooming over his skin like an injury.
Mairon’s lips are slightly open, swollen and glistening after the kiss, and Melkor slips his thumb between them. Mairon cradles it against the plush of his tongue, and slowly, with wicked little motions, he starts to lick at the pad of it, a promise of more should Melkor simply reach out and take it.
Melkor does.
“On your knees,” he commands, voice rough with lust, and at the filthy, knowing smile that Mairon throws his way, he realises he’s not the one in charge here; he was lost the moment he saw those cruel lips painted crimson.
In one fluid motion, Mairon drops to his knees. He looks up, golden hair and golden eyes and those lips that shine like freshly spilled blood, and Melkor moans, tearing at the lacings on his breeches.
His cock springs free, and Mairon lets it brush against his lips, but he doesn’t take him into his mouth, not yet. He takes his time, damn him, slowly dipping his head and dragging his tongue over Melkor’s heated flesh until finally, finally, with agonising indolence, he parts those delicious lips.
All of a sudden Melkor’s thoughts fracture in a rush of pleasure, and the next thing he knows is that the heat of Mairon’s mouth is around him and his tip is nudging into Mairon’s throat and those bloodied lips stretch wide around the base of him, and Melkor snaps—
He fists his hands in Mairon’s hair and holds him still, fucking into his throat, and by the Void, Mairon is touching himself now, hand working beneath his leggings. Melkor might have told him off if he wasn’t utterly transfixed by those lips, red and tight around him, the ochre smearing down his cock, and it looks like blood, it looks like hunger and power and the wretched, writhing hurt at the heart of all beings, and Melkor doesn’t want to hold back any longer.
He comes down Mairon’s throat with a curse and Mairon spills in his own fist. The red on Mairon’s lips is mingled with creamy white now, and it is obscene and degrading except that Mairon doesn’t look degraded at all; he looks pleased down to the core of him, cheeks flushed and eyes half-lidded and a smirk across his white-red lips.
“I should always keep you like this,” Melkor says, because it’s true, because he can’t help himself; Mairon is so beautiful, and it nearly pains him to think of this moment breaking, of Mairon becoming the prim and proper lieutenant once more.
“You cannot,” Mairon says pleasantly, and, insolent creature that he is, he laughs. “I have my duties.”
“Your duty is to please me.”
“Pleasing you is among my many duties, yes,” Mairon concedes, somewhat archly, but it is with softness that he leans in, presses a kiss to the head of Melkor’s cock. “I would say this particular duty has been most excellently discharged for tonight, wouldn’t you agree?”
Melkor shakes his head at his brazenness. “I should whip you for speaking to me like this.”
Mairon shrugs, and even on his knees with Melkor’s seed staining his lips, he makes the motion look unbearably graceful. “I’d like that.”
“I’d make you scream.”
“Oh, my lord,” Mairon says, his voice almost a moan, “you don’t need a whip to make me scream.”
Arousal instantly reawakens in Melkor’s belly, burning white-hot and vicious. He kicks Mairon’s thighs apart, glancing downwards to where his leggings are wet with his own seed. His cock twitches in renewed interest as he imagines slicking his fingers in that creamy wetness, sliding them lower, twisting two and then three and then four into Mairon’s waiting hole. He imagines throwing him onto the bed, clamping a hand to the back of his neck and holding him down as he fucks him, hard and fast like beasts, leaving him raw and gaping and begging for more.
“Careful, little one,” Melkor warns, only half flirtatiously. “Don’t tempt me unless you want this to happen. I will make it hurt.”
With breathtaking boldness Mairon reaches forward, cupping Melkor’s balls in his hand, rolling them until Melkor’s hips jerk forwards of their own accord.
A sly smile spreads over Mairon’s face, crimson lips peeling back, Melkor’s challenge accepted.
“I wouldn’t want it any other way.”