A Different Sort of Grond by AdmirablePrecious  

To most people, being grabbed by the upper arms, held until a cry pierces the air, and then slammed against the fortress walls is pain. Pain and terror. To Mairon, it is a gasp that leads to a smile that leads to being held up above his master. Morgoth smiles, something he never does except when Mairon is near. This is exquisite. Just like the pain is exquisite, and it’s only the beginning. It is tame for now. Morgoth shaped bruises are the most beautiful parts of Mairon’s body.

They are red, for now, but Mairon knows they will soon deepen into a purplish sort of black before fading into other colors he doesn’t consider worth remembering. He knows he can make them disappear, but he doesn’t want to, not yet anyway.

For Mairon, being beaten is a good time. Pain is a reward to him. Well, physical pain at least, but Morgoth has no reason to hurt him in all the other ways. Not that Morgoth ever needs a reason, but Mairon only ever wants to please. When Morgoth is pleased, there is sex. Lovely face pressed against a pillow while his insides are bruised with his Master’s thrusts and strokes. Pain most erotic.

Not the face though, Mairon notes with amusement, but he is fine with it since he is the most beautiful of the Maia even now. In this way, he and Morgoth are mirrors. Evil did not make them ugly, which makes seduction even more easy. Not that they need to seduce anyone, since Angband is full of orcs, dragons, and other terrifying creatures and crafts.

Morgoth embraces Mairon, but not the way others do it. Morgoth is tight, very tight, powerful and Mairon is close to his chest. Warmth is putting it charitably, but Mairon doesn’t care about that. He cares only about his ribs cracking, his spine doing the same and his own smile despite barely breathing. He is high now as he grinds against his master. It all feels good to him. Pain is just another smile to him, a reason for joy to soar in whatever heart he has.

The mirror shows purplish reds on his sides, but the colors mean nothing to him. The sharp pain shooting through him with every breath keeps him hard. One hand grips the table while the other brings forth climax once more. Others would be screaming, but Mairon is not like others. He is special, like his clothing. He shines in his robes while he forges yet more weapons that can kill a thousand elves. One day, he will create a Grond that will turn an entire city into one giant bruise amidst a pile of rubble and corpses.

Grond, his master’s Mace. Sometimes Mairon dreams of having something like it inside of him, pushing against his most sensitive spot, bruising it and all around it. There would be blood, of course, but he is fine with it. He can make it all go away, but the pain will remain until Mairon decides otherwise.

Morgoth does not need consent because Mairon always gives it with everything he has. Being grabbed means more of the same colors. Being taken means being high enough to inflict pain on others with that too being a joy. The power, oh, the power, is the best part of it all. It’s why Mairon knelt before Morgoth to begin with and yet their wills are ever different, which bruises Mairon in a different way.

He has always been in search of perfection, something Morgoth never cared about. Order is his goal, something Morgoth only uses to create chaos later, but there is a sliver in Morgoth only Mairon sees. Perhaps that would be enough since Morgoth is the Grond that beats his back into bloody purple blossoms that lead to a climax that sends him to the stars. Morgoth listens to him, and only him. Morgoth’s tiny light shines only for him. Perhaps that would be enough. Just that sliver laced with blood and bruises to forge into a different sort of Grond. One that does far more than just hear Mairon, but to obey without ever realizing it, to serve without intending to, to indulge Mairon is ways that veer from the chaotic destruction Morgoth plans.

Mairon never questions whose will is mightier because it’s obvious, but even the mightiest of wills can be forged with the right hands, beautiful hands, Mairon’s hands. Order is born from chaos and not even Morgoth’s will can get around that no matter how hard he tries.
/It’s all for you, my beloved master/. Mairon thinks while the stars shine brightly above. /Through perfect order, we will be together forever/. He smiles. /And it will be under my control/.

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