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The events at Formenos seem to follow in his steps for weeks after. Even long after the marks he hides under high necked tunics finally fade once more into unblemished skin. The memory of Melkor's hands upon him, clawing and grasping and all consuming, and the bite and sweet bliss of his lips, haunts his waking hours and follows him even into his dreams. Fire roars within him, growing brighter and stronger by the moment, a mixture of hatred and lust that he cannot be free of even when he takes himself in hand.
The shame that always follows burns almost brighter than his own fire, but it does not stop him from repeating the act every night. Nor does it stop the way he seems to become more rough with each act, wrapping his own fingers around his neck, digging his nails into any bare flesh they may find purchase on until blood dots the skin. There is a permanent mark in the shape of his own teeth upon the palm of his hand, and he takes to wearing gloves when outside the confines of his own room.
His sons and father know naught of what occurred the day Melkor came to Formenos, save that he came under the guise of a friend and sought to attempt to grasp the Silmarils for himself. While at first his sons question, as if knowing something else must have happened to temper their father so, his ensuing snap is enough to bring an end to that. What they discuss when not in his presence is unknown to him, but he cares not so long as they do not invite the worm back to Formenos and so long as they continue to respect him. And if he avoids being alone with his father, fearing his questioning more than that of his sons, then he will not admit to it.
It is difficult, some days, to juggle that fear with the loathing he sometimes holds for his father. For the fact that after his mother departing to the Halls of Mandos, his father could not find contentment and joy in the son he already had and took to wife one of the Vanyar to have two more with. For the fact that it is those sons, his half-brothers, that are the reason why he and his sons have found themselves cast to this far away fortress. For Fëanor may have drawn his blade on Fingolfin first, but what had followed his act only furthered to prove that he had been right to do so in the first place.
For it was his half-brother, now, who laid claim to the crown of the Noldor, just as he had been forewarned.
Anger flashes through him yet again, and he brings his hammer down harshly on the torque he has been working to forge, sending sparks flying and cracking the temperamental metal he has been working with. A curse escapes from between his lips, and he throws the hammer - beautiful, though not quite so beautiful as the jewels it helped create, and perfectly fit to his hand - down upon his workbench. The leather apron he was wearing is the next thing to go, barely hung up on its hook on the wall before he finds himself storming out of his forge.
Later, when he does not feel the urge to press his own face to the coals, he will return and finish the torque. In the meantime he allows his anger to carry him from the forge to his bedroom on the other side of the fortress. It is, if he is ever granted such a thing, a minor blessing that he does not run into his father nor any of his sons along the way.
He is beginning to suspect that his sons are avoiding him, but that may be for the best until this darkness passes. Until he can force Melkor from his mind and never again feel the phantom press of him against his body.
The door to his chambers slams shut behind him, rattling the painting on the wall next to it and echoing throughout the room and the hall beyond it. It continues echoing in his head long after it fades, as he rips his soot-ridden tunic off and throws it haphazardly over the back of a chair near the cold fireplace. He’s quick to drop into the chair after that, reaching down to begin violently yanking his boots off.
He has one off and is fighting to remove the second, cursing colorfully as it catches on and drags against his heel, when the fireplace suddenly springs to life.
The boot slides off, tumbling forgotten to the floor, and his hands are pressing to the arms of the chair in an attempt to rise when hands clasp down upon his shoulders, forcing him back down into the chair. He tenses, the rage that has been coiling its way through him since he was in the forge preparing to rear its head like a venomous serpent. He does not know who this is, if it is his father come to coerce him into conversation or one of his sons overstepping, but he knows that whoever it is will regret-
“You are so tense, Fëanáro,” The one who has decided to press him down finally speaks, and from them comes the voice which has haunted both his waking and sleeping moments for weeks. Smooth as silk and warm like the very fires of his forge.
One of the hands loosens its grip on his shoulder to lightly brush fingertips against the skin of his neck and while the marks may have faded to nothingness since Melkor last came to Formenos, in this moment he feels as if they are still there, marked against his fëa itself. He barely manages to repress the shiver that tries to force its way down his spine, grasping at his anger with both hands to use as both anchor and shield.
“You do not belong here, worm,” The elf snaps, trying to wrench himself out of the Vala’s hold unsuccessfully. As the grip on him tightens, nails digging into the bare skin of his shoulder and pulling him flush with the back of his chair, he can hear a disapproving tut come from behind. As if he is simply an unruly child to be dealt with and not a prince of the Noldor, creator of the most beloved jewels in all of Arda, someone who demands respect.
He is torn between attempting to bite at one of the hands on his shoulders in an attempt to free himself from this hold and chase Melkor from Formenos once again, and turning around to see why he has dared to return, to sneak into Fëanor’s chambers of all places, and accost him so.
Traitorously, he feels himself begin to harden in his trousers at the unyielding strength of the hold on him. At the feeling of nails once again digging into his skin. He rages and lusts in equal measures, and so he remains seated and does not bite despite the juvenile instinct to do so.
Besides, unarmed and clothed only in his trousers, he has little chance of truly fighting the Vala if he even wishes to.
“Our last parting was not warm, nárnya ,” The term of endearment, my flame , causes his breath to catch in his throat. Something equally proud and indignant rises up in him as Melkor continues, “Did you truly think I would leave it at that?”
“I would think you would know when I say to get thee gone,” Fëanor growls, “I mean, get thee gone .”
There is a pause, as his biting words seem to sink in, before one of Melkor’s hands abruptly shifts. It rises, sinking into raven locks on the back of his head, pulling tight and dragging nails against his scalp as he forms a fist. And then, with a brutal yank, Fëanor is being dragged to his feet.
The sound that escapes him is less a cry of indignation, and more an unbidden groan that causes embarrassment to flush through him. He desperately fights to turn that embarrassment into further fuel for the rage which he has been carrying around with him. Spirit of fire , his mother had named him before her journey to the gardens of Lórien and further passing to the Halls of Mandos, and he needs to embody that now more than ever in the face of this foe.
His gaze meets that of Melkor, bright and hot with the light of flame and yet deadly cool all at once, and he hopes that his own flame burns bright in his eyes at this moment, as he fights against the baser wants of his hröa.
“Release me,” He orders, one of his hands coming up to claw at the hand grasping his hair. He tries to yank his head away from the hand, but Melkor’s grip only tightens impossibly further in response.
It is silent as Melkor seems to stare through him into his very fëa, and then the Vala moves, rounding the chair and using both the grip on Fëanor’s hair and his own body to crowd the elf backwards until he finds himself pinned against the wall beside the fireplace. Heat courses through him and it is impossible to tell if it comes from himself, the fire beside them, or the body pressed against his.
For there is no denying that there is a significant lack of space between himself and Melkor. The Vala’s dark robes drag against the bare expanse of his chest and a thigh is pressed between his legs making it impossible to hide the way that the rough handling has roused him. The hand in his hair forces his head to tilt up so that their gazes remain unbroken and the dark thing that has been slithering within him for weeks begins to twist around again and again.
In this moment, he cannot help but hate and want in equal measure.
He cannot forget the look in Melkor’s eyes when he’d spoken of the Silmarils last they came together, nor the possessive and lustful way that he’d seemed to covet Fëanor himself. He will not, cannot , be owned by this being of darkness and he will not let the light of his most beautiful creations become perverted by his touch. But to be wanted by one so high as the Vala before him almost makes him dizzy with pride .
Whatever Melkor has been searching for in the silence he must find, because a satisfied grin washes over his face as he finally responds to Fëanor’s demand, “But you do not want that, do you, Fëanor?”
The thigh between his legs presses closer, dragging against his hard cock, and he grits his teeth to try and fight against the noise that attempts to make itself known. Something heady and desperate that he cannot admit to, but is laid bare nonetheless by the way his eyes dilate and his breaths come out in heaving pants. With every breath his nipples are dragged against the silken cloth of Melkor’s robes, bringing his nipples to hardened peaks before they have even been truly touched.
With the hand not gripping his hair, Melkor runs a hand across the planes of Fëanor’s stomach, reverent and surprisingly gentle with his touch in a way that is wholly foreign between them. Before when they’d come together, their touches had been violent. Biting and clawing in equal measure. It makes Melkor’s actions even more unsettling as that soft touch begins to travel upward, fingers ghosting across his chest.
Only when Fëanor begins to speak, some mindless biting response to the Vala’s previous words, does Melkor’s touch once again turn harsh. This time, there are no gritted teeth to hide his strangled groan as fingernails dig into one of his nipples and the surrounding skin. Dragging and scratching so that he momentarily loses all sense of self.
Melkor chuckles, leaning in so that the tips of their noses brush as he quickly shifts his hand to give the other nipple the same treatment, before saying, “There you are, nárnya .”
Lips crash against his own and he is lost, swept away by the rush of sickening elation that runs through him as he is devoured. There is no consideration of not returning this kiss, only that this is what he has been longing for these past weeks. It is wet and brutal, teeth clashing and his hips roll against Melkor’s when the Vala bites down on his bottom lip hard enough that the taste of his own blood begins to coat his tongue. It does little to bring reason back to this situation, and instead he finds himself relenting further as the dark one’s tongue finds purchase in his mouth, leaving no part of it unexplored.
The hand that had busied itself with abusing his nipples moves to scratch down his back instead before finding its way beneath the waistband of his trousers, grabbing a fistful of his ass to begin rocking their hips together. Moans catch in his throat, and there is a fire rising within him that is not his own.
At one particularly hard roll of their hips, he breaks from the kiss to tilt his head back, eyes shut tight as he tries and fails to catch his breath.
Melkor’s attentions shift then from his lips to his neck, tongue licking a stripe down to the crook where he drags his teeth as if in promise of things to come, before he begins to bite and suck a trail back up to his jaw. But he does not remain there, and instead moves further, nipping first at Fëanor’s cheekbone and then biting at the tip of his ear. He laves it with attention, licking at the shell of and taking it between his lips to suck .
The hand holding his ass moves to push down his trousers. Down past his hard, leaking, cock and the tense muscles of his thighs. They pool at his feet and there is no question as he kicks them away, leaving him bare before the fully clothes Vala, who wraps his hand around the back of one of his thighs and lifts so that it is perched against Melkor’s hip and he is left grinding his cock against his clothed thigh.
The humiliation of the act should serve to snap him out of his lust fueled haze, but instead only seems to sink him deeper.
Melkor releases his grasp on Fëanor’s hair and presses their foreheads together, instead using his hand to wrap his fingers around his throat, fingers squeezing dizzyingly as his gaze bores into the elf’s.
“Just like that, Fëanor,” He purrs, encouraging the drag of Fëanor’s cock against his thigh, “I want to watch you come apart. First on my thigh, and then - I think - I’ll bring you apart again with my cock.”
His own cock, already painfully hard, twitches at the words. Precum beads at his tip and he has been so worked up these last few weeks that he does not think it will be long before Melkor gets what he wants here. He has shamefully taken himself in hand enough times with nearly this exact scenario in mind that it would be more surprising if he didn’t fall apart like this.
That telltale warmth begins to coil deep in his core, dragging him forward almost violently as the roll of his hips grows rougher and quicker. And all the while, Melkor’s gaze does not leave his own. Even when he tries to close his eyes and escape what he finds in that gaze, the Vala’s fingers around his neck tighten and fingernails begin to dig in, drawing him right back in. And so he loses himself to the lust and possession he finds there. The bare want and desire. He loses himself to it and in turn becomes it.
“That’s it,” Melkor whispers, “That’s my elf.”
With a cry louder than even he expected to come from himself, he comes apart. Spills himself across his own stomach and sullies the robes of the dark one against him. He cums with such force that he is left feeling lightheaded after, vision blurring as his hips thrust a few more times before stilling and beginning to soften.
It takes a moment to come back to himself, but when he does the hand around his throat has begun gently stroking his hair instead as Melkor seems to whisper, “Very good, nárnya , very good indeed.”
And then his gaze darkens, as he follows it with, “But we are not done.”
He drops Fëanor’s thigh, forcing him to hold himself up as his hands move to the buckles and ties of his own robes, beginning to finally unclothe. The elf, mindless in the face of his own orgasm, attempts to reach out and assist with a shaking hand that is quickly smacked away. The slap echoes and his hand stings beautifully. When the Vala’s chest is bare, he helps to push the robes from Melkor’s shoulders, caring naught for where the other throws them once they are removed.
Fëanor sets his own fingers to explore the expanse of chest before him before something seems to overcome him and he shifts forward to bend and latch his mouth to one of his nipples. Flicks his tongue and brings it to a peak even as his teeth graze against it. His eyes close and he begins to suck, losing himself in the rhythm of it and finding pride when a groan reverberates through his partner’s chest and lingers in the air around them. His hands press against the Vala’s back, holding him close as he switches to the other nipple and lavishes him with attention before one hand moves to reach and wrap an unyielding hand around the hard cock still hidden behind thick black trousers.
Both of Melkor’s hands return to his hair, then, and he bites down almost violently at the nipple between his lips as he is forced away and then, before he can process the movement, brought to his knees before the Vala. Indignation rises up in him at the submissive position, but no amount of struggling will cause the hold on him to loosen and so he glares up at the one in front of him.
“Release me,” He growls once again, just as he had before they had begun this dance. Before he’d come apart on Melkor’s thigh as he whispered possessively in his ear. And once again, the Vala gives him a satisfied grin. One hand remains anchored in his hair - and oh, how he cannot deny that the press and pull sends flashes of pleasure through him he had not known possible before he and Melkor came together - and the other moves to trace fingers against his lips.
Then, Melkor’s thumb presses between them, traces along the ridges of his teeth, before pressing until he opens his mouth further and the thumb sinks in. Lays against his tongue, the taste of salty skin overtaking his senses as saliva begins to fill his mouth. They remain like that for a moment, as if simply existing in such a way he could not have conceived before this. And then the hand retreats, pushing Melkor’s trousers down so that his cock, hard and beading, springs free.
He watches as the other takes his cock in hand, stroking it as his eyes never seem to leave Fëanor’s own. The elf’s head is pressed back, so that the only thing between him and the wall is the fingers that guide him, and the head of Melkor’s cock is pressed to his lips.
There is a moment as they seem to glare at one another in challenge before, as if possessed, his lips part and his tongue darts out to lap at the tip of the cock before him, drawing a hiss from the Vala above him. The taste of precum washes over his tongue, bitter and salty and yet not altogether unpleasant, and so he allows himself to wrap his lips around the head and presses his tongue to it once again.
An act such as this should be beneath him, a Prince of the Noldor, and part of him does care about that. But acts such as these, for elves, are more often than not about procreating, about having children. Yet he has seven of those, and never before have these acts brought him as much pleasure as it does now. Never before has he taken a cock in his mouth with or without purpose, but the weight of Melkor between his lips and against his tongue is addicting.
So taken he seems that when Melkor begins to press his hips forward, bringing more of himself into Fëanor’s mouth, he does not protest. Nor does he protest when the Vala begins to thrust, using the elf’s mouth as but a tool for pleasure. It is only when the thrusts begin to push his partner further into his mouth, that his hands come up to press against the taught thighs of Melkor, digging his nails in as if to bid the Vala to not go so deep.
It has the opposite effect, and he finds himself choking on cock and spit alike when Melkor presses against the back of his throat with one particularly rough thrust. The sound of Fëanor’s choking only seems to spur him on, as a guttural groan escapes him and his forehead presses forward to rest against the wall, tilting so that his burning gaze has nowhere to go but Fëanor himself.
His cock begins to harden once more, hips humping the air without his permission, and shame burns within him.
The thrusts into his mouth quicken and then, with one last thrust that brings Melkor’s cock once more to the back of his throat, the Vala stills, holding Fëanor’s head in place as he releases into his mouth. It is too sudden, and Fëanor once again finds himself choking as he tries and fails to swallow cum that makes its way down his throat. He manages to push Melkor’s hips from his face, the Vala’s cock falling from his mouth and the last of the cum painting streaks across Feanor’s face. Catching in his eyelashes and clinging to his cheeks and dripping from his lips.
There is no moment to catch his breath before he is being pulled to stand once again by his hair - this is something Melkor seems to enjoy, he has realized, using his hair as means of leading him, and he cannot deny that he enjoys the sweet pain that comes with each pull - so that they stand pressed together once again. And then Melkor’s tongue is dragging along his cheek, tasting his own cum against Fëanor’s skin even as the elf heaves and struggles to catch his breath. It’s no use, though, as their lips are brought together once again.
Arms wrap around him to pull him away from the wall and the heat of the fireplace, turning and beginning to walk him backwards toward the bed. And, like a fool who has been put under the spell of lust, he allows himself to be led until the backs of his knees are pressed against the deep red, goose down, comforter and he is pressed down onto it by hands upon his shoulders.
They linger like this, Melkor’s hands caressing his shoulders and then his cheeks and his hair while Fëanor stares up at him from half-lidded eyes. His cock hurts where it hangs between his legs and Melkor seems to have never truly softened. The Vala’s prior words, then, echo throughout his mind as he moves his gaze from Melkor to the cock before him.
First on my thigh , He had said, and then - I think - I’ll bring you apart again with my cock.
The hands that caress him leave his body, and he watches enraptured as Melkor kicks off his boots and pushes down his trousers to kick those away as well. Finally, the both of them are bare and Fëanor cannot help but marvel at the sight before him. Of the body of a Vala, both strong and lean, beautiful and terrible to gaze upon. This is a sight that no other of his race has been gifted before, and that revelation makes him nauseous.
“Tell me, Fëanáro,” Melkor purrs as he steps forward again to urge Fëanor to lay back upon the bed, scooting him back until his head hits the soft pillows and the Vala begins to crawl his way up to him, “When you touch yourself, have you tried to put your fingers inside yourself?”
With one arm, the Vala holds himself above the elf, and the other moves to ghost his fingers against Fëanor’s cock. His touch, teasing and light, draws a grunt from the elf as he forces his breathing to even out so that he might answer the question before him.
“Yes,” The admittance is soft, so quiet one might miss it were they not listening for it, but in this he finds no shame. Not like the shame he’d felt during the act itself, or the shame he’d felt just now when he’d taken pleasure from the taste and weight of Melkor in his mouth. For how could he feel shame in admitting to it when the Vala proceeds to look so pleased with him. His hate tries to rear its head, but his sex addled brain cannot seem to maintain it, and instead it makes his cock only harden further.
“And what did you use?” Melkor presses further, and in response Fëanor simply turns his head, casting a glance towards the drawer of his nightstand before looking once more to his partner. The fingers that have been lightly caressing his cock wrap around his suddenly, squeezing it tightly and drawing a cry from him before the Vala leans forward to press a deceptively gentle kiss upon his lips all while whispering an equally gentle, “Good.”
The hand on his cock leaves him then and Melkor reaches to open the drawer, drawing from it the half-empty phial of oil that Fëanor has been hiding away within his rooms.
A smirk passes over Melkor’s lips, and then they are pressed once more against Fëanor’s. His tongue delves into his mouth, but this time Fëanor finds himself pressing back until he slips his own into the Vala’s. Delights in the remnants of cum that linger in both their mouths, and gets lost in mapping every part of the Vala’s mouth that he can reach. So lost is he in their kiss, that the press of something cold and wet against his hole causes him to jerk back from it, eyes blown wide as he looks to the one above him.
Fingers press, dragging cold oil over his hole, not yet daring to slip in. Whether his partner intends to prepare him or make a mess of him, he cannot be certain. Perhaps, if the self-satisfied smirk on the Vala’s face is anything to go by, the answer is both. The fingers pull away, and Fëanor watches as more oil is poured upon them, before they return to their place between his legs.
This time when they press, the tip of one finger does breach him, drawing a hiss as his he cannot help but tense and throw his head back to stare at the dark canopy above them.
“Do not tense, nárnya ,” Melkor scolds, leaning his head down to nip at the elf’s collarbone, slowly but surely easing the finger further into him until first one knuckle and then the next are buried within him. It is an odd feeling, and he remembers how frustrated and unsatisfied he had been with his own fingers. Perhaps that is all this is meant to be, odd and frustrating.
But then the finger in him begins to move, as Melkor withdraws until it is almost out before pushing in once more with little of the gentleness that had accompanied the first intrusion. It twists, as if searching for something, and just when Fëanor finds himself on the verge of voicing his displeasure, the Vala brushes up against something that sends his back arching and draws a loud moan from between his lips. His legs attempt to close and trap the finger within him, and Melkor sits back on his haunches so that the hand that had been supporting him is free to hold Fëanor’s legs open.
He does not know how much time passes like this, that singular finger pumping in and out of him, causing something in him to twist and squirm with pleasure. But eventually, he feels the press of a second finger against his entrance, and with little warning it begins to press in alongside the first. The burn and pinch makes his head spin and turns his breaths to gasps, and even as Melkor scissors those fingers within him, stretching him and preparing him to take his cock, he continues to brush up against that spot that makes Fëanor whimper .
A third finger joins the other two, leaving the elf feeling impossibly full and stretched to the brink. If this is what three fingers feels like, he cannot imagine what Melkor’s cock will feel like. Addicting, he thinks. Or perhaps it will split him in half and leave him feeling it for years after he has gone. Both, seems the correct answer, as the Vala withdraws his fingers and grasps once more for the phial.
This time, he watches as Melkor strokes his own cock. Watches as oil shines upon it and precum beads on the tip once again, before he stoppers the phial and tosses it carelessly aside.
The Vala moves over him once again, wiping any remaining oil from his hand on Fëanor’s thigh and presses the tip of his cock to his entrance.
“Breathe, nárnya ,” Is the only warning the elf is given before he begins to press in. If his fingers had filled him, then his cock indeed threatens to split him in half. The push is slow, and Melkor does not bother to swallow the pained moans that escape from Fëanor. Instead he watches on with delight and once more brings the hand not supporting himself to grasp and tug painfully at the hair he seems so fascinated by. And Fëanor, split open and more full than ever before, simply takes it.
Only once Melkor’s hips press against his ass and he is buried to the hilt, does he truly seem to come back to himself. His fingers ache as they release their grip on the comforter below him, one hand coming to softly rest upon the Vala’s back while the other digs its nails into his partner’s chest in juxtaposition with one another. Another moment passes before finally he growls his own demand, “ Move , serpent.”
Something equally cruel and possessive flashes behind the Vala’s eyes and pulls out until only the tip remains before slamming back within Fëanor. Thus begins the give and take, with Melkor thrusting in and out of him roughly, possessively, and Fëanor dragging his nails against every bit of skin he can reach. Digging scratches while attempting and failing to draw blood. His knees bend and he tightens the hold of his thighs upon Melkor’s waist while savoring the feeling of being so thoroughly fucked he will not be able to think straight for yet more weeks.
There is a stutter in the Vala’s thrusting as he bites down hard upon his own lip, and Fëanor watches enraptured as blood beads where he has pierced the skin. The blood of one of the Valar, and he is witnessing it in his own bed in the throes of pleasure.
Melkor leans down and drags his lips against his shoulder and on one particularly hard thrust, Fëanor cries out at the feeling of teeth clamping down on his shoulder. The pain of the bite fills his head, and when he tries to pull away from it the Vala only digs his teeth in harder. When he does finally pull away with a smirk, there is blood upon his lips. Lips that are then pressed against Fëanor’s own, allowing the metallic taste of their combined blood to fill his mouth.
His cock leaks against his stomach, painfully hard and smearing more cum amidst that which had dried on him from earlier.
Melkor begins to mutter then, in a language that must be Valarin, for Fëanor does not recognize its like. And he feels as if he is on fire, as if his fëa is threatening to burn through his hröa in his bed. He can only watch on, gone from pleasure, as his partner straights upon, grasping one of Fëanor’s thighs to force it up and against his chest while spreading the other leg further, opening him up even more to the fucking he is being given.
He has long forgotten that he should likely be quiet, so as to not alert another member of the household to what is happening in this room. All that is left of his mind is want and need, and so he has no thought to put towards his worry.
Fëanor watches as Melkor spits upon his palm before reaching and taking Fëanor in hand. His thrusts have grown erratic, as if he is nearing the end, and the feeling of his hand wrapping around him is enough to tell Fëanor that he will be following him with ease. The cock pounding his ass alone would have sent him over, but as the Vala strokes him, he finds his end much quicker. Spills himself over the hand of Melkor and watches lightheaded as fresh cum joins that which had already dried upon him.
But Melkor does not release him as he chases his own end. Does not lighten his hold or gentle the thrust of his hips. Instead he grows impossibly rougher, until Fëanor is crying out with every thrust and a tear, not of his own volition, makes its way down his cheek.
Seeing it, the Vala’s eyes dilate, and his thrusts stutter until stilling all together as he releases, painting Fëanor’s insides with his cum. It feels as if he is being branded, and he whimpers as the hand around his cock squeezes on last time before letting go. Though the cock buried within him remains as Melkor leans down to lick to trail the tear had left before pressing a kiss first to his lips and then to the mark of his bite on Fëanor’s shoulder. His tongue laps at it and the elf hisses as teeth gently graze against it.
Finally, the heat that had coursed through him begins to fade. Melkor pulls out his now softened cock from the elf, and Fëanor finds himself unable to do anything but lay there. As if his fëa has been thoroughly fucked from his body for the moment. Hands gently comb through his hair, and he watches without comment as Melkor rises from the bed and wipes himself clean with the comforter before beginning to dress once again.
Though this is only the second time they have come together like this, it is not their way, it seems, to discuss and linger after these acts.
But when he expects the Vala to depart immediately, he instead watches as Melkor moves to the wash basin in the corner of the room and takes a rag, wetting it before returning to the bed. Lays there as his partner wipes the cum from his body and hisses from overstimulation when he cleans the oil from between his legs. Cries out softly when the Vala gently slides one finger back in him before pulling it out again to run his own cum between his fingertips and then that, too, is wiped away with the cloth.
The cum still inside of him, however, is left alone beyond that. And Fëanor cannot help but relish in the feeling of it leaking out of him.
Similarly, the bite mark upon his shoulder is also left unattended.
The cloth is then sat down on the nightstand, and Melkor’s midnight black hair creates a curtain as he leans over the elf, pressing a kiss to sore lips.
“I will go to Endórë, soon,” The Vala discloses with barely a whisper, “I look forward to seeing you there, nárnya .”
Fëanor’s nostrils flare and his eyes narrow as he glares at the one above him, “You will not see me, nor anything of my make, upon those shores. Now get thee gone, and remain gone this time.”
Melkor only laughs, looking pleased at Fëanor’s rebuttal, before he leans down to press a final parting kiss to his lips. And then the Vala leaves. Gone as if he had never been there in the first place. But the ache between Fëanor’s legs and the pain in his shoulder tells him otherwise, even as the heavy blanket of sleep lays itself across his body.
The mark upon his shoulder, however, while eventually healed, does not fade. There is a tugging in his fëa that seems to attempt to pull him away from these undying shores. And months later, as the world is once again plunged into darkness, he will think back on this day and on Melkor’s parting words. And he will curse him and name him Morgoth as he does what he said he would not and follows his foe into the East.