He is my Sin by Sleepless_Malice

---

Chapter 1

---

He is my Sin

*

“It has been a while, O’ Lord of the Winds,” a voice in his mind comments and Manwë nearly jumps out of his throne in surprise. He knows who is speaking, he always does, and worse: he knows what wickedness the voice implies – suggests even whilst he is caught in the middle of a meeting with his herald. Briefly he wonders if Melkor knows that he is holding conversation with Eönwë right now, if he does it on purpose, relishing in the unease that floods him. “I have heard from various sources that Irmo’s gardens are supposed to be … lovely for such things.” Melkor adds, voice low and rumbling, leaving a shiver in its wake.

Manwë is not entirely certain if his brother is mocking him; a bad habit which has become worse over the past years and seems to grow constantly. For moments Manwë glances into the distance, silent, considering before he answers his brethren through their mental connection: “Irmo’s gardens? Surely you must be kidding…”

Involuntarily, he quirks one eyebrow, barely able to keep his composure in his herald’s presence as his brother’s words evoke something within him, as fleeting images of past clandestine meetings dance through his mind.

“I am always kidding, you should know that by now, dearest brother,” Melkor says with a hearty laugh, “when the lamps begin to mingle, meet me at the far end of the gardens near Estë’s pond. I will await thee.”

Manwë’s eyes widen in terror, but before he can find words to reply the blasphemous suggestion his brother’s presence in his mind is gone, and he hopes that Eönwë does not notice his awkward behavior.

There has been a time when Manwë and Melkor would just meet somewhere, lying amidst flowers on the soft meadows side-by-side with their shoulders barely touching. More often than not, hours passed in silence; it was a comfortable silences stretching between them, appreciated by those who do not need words to sense the emotions of the other.

There has been a time when both of them were content with the brotherly affection they shared, there has been a time when all this was enough.

A time that now is long forgotten.

 

*

Lord of the Winds, Súlimo - the breath of Arda they name him, king in Ilúvatar’s stead and many other names he carries.

As much as he wishes that Melkor’s words would not affect him, they have.

When he descends from his lofty throne, shining silks in silver and blue cover his impressive fána, the one he usually chooses to project himself into – translucent skin, so pale that it almost resembles the clouds above him, blue eyes that perfectly match the light blue of his garments.

He finds himself wondering how much time has passed since their exchange of thoughts, if he is late already, but then he decides no harm would come if his brother has to wait a little; despite the knowledge that Melkor’s temper is recently a fickle one.

From the heights of snow-covered mountains the wind falls down, sweeping across the land with an icy embrace; he is the wind, and the wind is him. Exactly this he uses for his advantage to bridge the distance between Ilmarin and the Gardens of Lorien.

Within the blink of an eye there he stands, amidst the incredible beauty Irmo’s garden truly are; terraces so richly covered with plants, symmetrically aligned fountains that fill the air with sounds of gushing water, water lilies on the surface of natural pools which are fed by small streams that meander peacefully through the garden.

Even for the Valar this place offers a firework of scents and surreal impressions.

He has come in silence without announcing his presence to the garden’s keeper, and deep inside he wishes that Irmo has not noticed him enter. Soundlessly he finds himself wandering along the pebbled pathways until he senses the presence of the one he has been looking for.

Manwë doesn’t have to search for long until his gaze falls onto Melkor.

His brother’s face is shaded by an impressive weeping willow beneath which he casually stands, back leaned against the trunk of the tree, one leg cooked with the sole of his foot touching the bark.

Midnight-blue strands, seeming almost black in the shade, fall idly across his shoulders, a few of them right into his face. Beautiful he is, Manwë thinks whilst his gaze wanders along his brother’s handsome form. Where he often uses braids and jeweled clips to keep his pale hair at bay and out of his face, Melkor apparently cannot be bothered.

For a few moments Manwë simply regards him: the smile that tugs at the corner of his lips, the sharp nose and high cheekbones, his muscular body covered with black silks.

So unlike they are – both in appearance and mind, yet at the same time so strangely alike.

When Melkor spots his brother walking towards him, his smile widens into a naughty smirk.

“The mighty Lord of the Winds has indeed stepped down from his lofty throne – what a most welcoming surprise, brother; I almost have lost hope.”

He inclines his head and offers Melkor a small smile in response when he comes to stand before him. “I do not know if this is wise,” Manwë whispers, the words spoken so low as if he fears somebody might overhear their conversation.

“You did not have to come, you know,” Melkor coos with amusement, because obviously he has come and great delight he takes in his brother’s apparent unease, “yet here you are.”

Yes indeed he has dismissed all the warnings of his own mind – again. It’s a dangerous game they are playing, and he knows it.

No matter how often he says in silence he wouldn’t follow his brother’s invitation this time, deny him finally, he finds himself unable to; Melkor’s charms seem to be irresistibly.

It is unhealthy, depraved and filthy, Manwë knows, an utter betrayal of those whom are dear to him.

“Why do we have to meet here?” he asks in a slight frown with narrowed eyes. The land is covered with forests so vast that the chances would be highly unlike to be discovered, with meadows and hill slopes, deserted beaches – just so many opportunities where they could indulge into their frantic follies.

He has a suspicion, of course he has and that for a good while. Above everything else Manwë thinks Melkor gets strangely aroused by the mere thought of somebody knowing, somebody even watching.

He is a shameless narcissist – always has been.

With nonchalance Melkor answers: “Admittedly Námo’s halls would be even better, but sadly they are entirely not an option; oh just imagine the gloomy twilight in there – I bet he has sort of .. well .. different cells in there.”

The malicious chuckle renders Manwë speechless for moments.

“Melkor!” he hisses in sharp disapproval but no matter how hard he fights against the rush of blood, his body betrays him, cheeks tainted scarlet.

With a smirk, Melkor takes a swift step forward until he leans over him to kiss his mouth, utterly sweet at first – soft and gentle – so highly unusual for him, but the moment he responds with a silent moan his caresses become fiercer.

“What?” Melkor says, keeping his expression suitably blank, feigning innocence.

“You know exactly what,” Manwë tells him, wrinkles of worry creasing on his brow.

He doesn’t know why he tries it again – over and over – because he never obtains a satisfying answer from him, and – hardly a surprise - today it isn’t any different.

With ease Melkor runs a finger through Manwë’s silver strands and frames his face with his palms: “So do you,” he coos.

The moment Manwë wishes to respond vocally, Melkor licks all around Manwë’s lips before he allows his tongue to dive deep into his brother’s mouth until Manwë writhes against him in desperation.

The smile he gives him after breaking the kiss is blinding and Manwë feels lost in rapture. “Yes, yes, I may – but I do not care, and every so often I have told you so. And anyways: the words arouse you, no matter how much you pretend they do not. Want to deny it still? Oh I do not think so.” Dangerously his eyes glitter in the low light.

Without a warning he steps forward and begins to grope his brother’s hardened length beneath the soft fabric; and then he snickers. “What do we have here?” states Melkor in mocking amusement, because it is beyond obvious that his words have hit the mark.

Manwë resists a moan; instead he makes a choked, muffled sound when Melkor’s lips cover his own again and Melkor takes another step, their bodies pressed together tightly now and all he can do is to follow his brother’s movements.

It feels as if Melkor smirks against his lips, he can only assume it though as his vision is blocked, and he wonders what wicked thoughts cross his brother’s mind. Before he can indulge more into it, he finds himself pinned against the nearest tree. Of course he struggles and tries to escape Melkor’s hold, naturally, but with all his strength Melkor keeps him in place, eyes glittering in amusement.

He can feel his brother’s erection pressed against his thigh, warm and wet and so utterly hard, and in response his own desire sparks.

“Let go of me,” he hisses, but in response Melkor merely laughs. He drops his hands from Manwë’s shoulders to his hips, and then further down to his buttocks, kneading and groping him until he feels his brother writhe against his body.

“Melkor..” Manwë says weakly, the words nothing more than a pleading whisper, something he is not entirely certain if he wishes him to stop. Although the position is compromising and not entirely uncomfortable, he cannot deny a certain desire for his brother’s vivid display of possessiveness, “brother, please.”

“Nay,” states Melkor but not without a hint of affection audibly in his voice, “you are a sight to behold in this position, I would be mad to ever let go of you.”

Melkor cups his head with both hands and kisses him hungrily and the faintest notes of disapproval that persisted begin to blur, subsided by a warm sensation sparking in his lower abdomen.

 

*

With Melkor’s demanding lips and hands brushing against his skin Manwë does not know what to think anymore, to still fret over the semi-public space they are caught in - or not. Their lips meet as if Melkor senses his unease, hands sliding oh so sensually over his hips and chest, and as always he melts into the kiss, into the embrace with eyes closed.

Fleeting thoughts of unease and worry still occupy his thoughts, yet he cannot resist him, he never can. Before the kiss breaks his silken robes are pooling around his ankles with Melkor’s tunic soon following. The small protesting sound is muffled by another kiss, with Melkor’s tongue slipping even deeper into his mouth, and with desperation he grips his brother’s shoulders then. On their own accord he feels his legs part further to grant Melkor’s searching fingers better access.

Often when he is alone and brooding, he wonders if Melkor thinks the same way about him as he does think about his brother – and often he says he will ask him, yet he never does, afraid of the answer he might receive.

With mastered perfection Melkor’s slickened fingers slip between his buttocks and sharply Manwë inhales in response. Both of his hands clench into fists when the first digit slips into him with a single move, impatience gnawing.

“By Eru’s balls, relax Manwë. If I wouldn’t know better, I would suspect you have never done this before.”

Something incoherent Manwë mumbles then, but apparently Melkor does not wish to hear any of it. Instead he bites down hard, right above his brother’s collarbone and in surprise Manwë screams out when he feels his skin break under his brother’s fierce caress only to cover his mouth with his hand.

They MUST be silent.

“You feel so wonderful, so good,” Melkor murmurs in his ear as he pushes another slickened finger inside him, feeling him squeeze tight around the digits. Admittedly the position is not the most comfortable one, quite the contrary but Manwë finds himself unable to deny Melkor’s wish anymore. Back pressed against the tree that bites so maliciously into his skin, one leg resting against his brother’s hip he struggles to keep balance. Strangely exposed he is, and when he dares to spin his thoughts further he hears a breathless laugh vibrating against his chest, his brother’s laugh. “Shh, do not fret, what harm would come from it when Irmo sees us – apart from him getting jealous.”

One of Melkor’s hands tugs roughly through his hair whilst the other skims along his exposed thigh because the leggings he usually wears beneath his robes lies torn next to the other garments.

“Melkor,” he hears himself pleading, yet he doesn’t know for what exactly he ask.

For him to stop, for more – Manwë doesn’t know.

A third finger enters him and he cannot bite back the gasp that forms in his throat, the gasp he knows all too well that will only spur Melkor on.

The scissoring motion is not entirely pleasant, as need coils in his brother’s guts, need that often drowns all gentleness he is capable of. Melkor likes it, well unconventional, roughish from time to time, and although often he finds himself at a loss he cannot say ‘nay I do not want to’ – at the end it’s always Melkor who wins.

"You like it when I'm rough with you, don’t you?" remarks Melkor with a sly grin and all Manwë finds himself able to is to gasp anew. “You like it when I take you despite all your whines, now don’t you?”

Melkor’s mouth seems to be everywhere – the spot where he has left his mark earlier, on his neck, his cheeks, his ears, breath hot and heavy, demanding, biting, scratching. The sacred place seems indeed to multiply his lust, Manwë thinks, he’s wary still, fearing the consequences their clandestine thrust may evoke, but when the forth finger enters him his worries are subsides, drowned out by pleasure and the feeling of being completely filled.

“Wonderful,” Melkor comments instantly, as if this is exactly for what he has waited for.

Without warning he withdraws his fingers and an odd emptiness embraces Manwë, and despite better knowledge he begs for more, much to his brother’s delight.

“Oh how I love you when you are so needy – for me,” he remarks.

For seconds time stands still between them as they look into each other’s eyes, minds and thoughts unguarded, and Manwë feels an odd warmth embrace him.

At the end it is Melkor who disrupts the beauty of the moment; with a sly grin he holds up a wet and glistening finger between them, and begins to let his tongue lick along it, sucking his brother’s flavor off the digit.

A generous smirk tugs at Melkor’s lips the moment he lifts him up into the air – he should have known it, because patience is certainly not among his brother’s biggest strengths. His body is trapped between Melkor’s own and the tree, his limbs now wrapped around his brother’s waist.

As they kiss again, Manwë lets his hands wander over his brother’s muscular body, and with delight he notices the twitch in Melkor’s breath. He lets his hands wander down his sides, traces the curves of his waist before coherency leaves him the moment Melkor’s cock breeches him.

No matter how often they indulge into those forbidden trysts, no matter how well prepared he is, at the beginning it always hurts and more often than not he curses his brother’s fána, especially the thick length that comes with it.

“Be careful,” Manwë tries to say, but his comment is met with silence and firmly then Melkor’s hands grip his hips and force him down onto his cock. With a single motion he’s sitting on the stinging erection and for seconds his vision blurs – stars, birds, heaven itself mingles behind closed eye-lids when he tries to force his body into a more relaxed state. Manwë covers his own mouth with a hand to hinder the cries from falling; nobody must ever know, nobody must ever hear them. Where he has hoped for at least a few moments to recover from the sudden invasion, he is mistaken, gravely so, as Melkor rolls his hips against him.

The air is filled with the earthy scent of the gardens, of golden leaves and sacred flowers, of sweat and arousal; the tranquility dis – it nearly is as if Melkor is extra unquiet tonight whilst he fucks him Manwë thinks with a certain amount of dismay.

What if .. what if truly somebody discovers into what folly they indulge into?

Aren’t they brethren, brothers in the name of The One?

Isn’t this wrong as anything could ever be?

Perhaps.

Yet irresistible Melkor is, divine and sacred the act in which they indulge in secrecy. However, it is not only carnal lust that drives him, there is so much more he feels, for what he hopes: if he just gives him enough satisfaction, if he just means enough to him, he will stay around him forever. Deep inside Manwë knows already that his thoughts are nothing more than futile hope, fed by desperation and love, by forbidden feelings.

Sharp nails dig into his sides and in response his entire body jolts, the train of thoughts heavily disrupted as pain mingles with pleasure. When he cries out in discomfort, Melkor merely smirks and does exactly the same again.

“Melkor,” he warns then, but unimpressed his brother regards him, idly commenting: “it’s wonderful to hear you scream.”

With unexpected gentleness Melkor lets his fingertips trail along the red marks that already adorn Manwë’s iridescent skin, a mocking caress – almost, but somehow and for once utmost sincere.

The emotion is only short-lived as soon relentlessly Melkor thrusts into him, aiming at a certain spot hidden deep inside of him; he is losing his sense completely, devoured by the bliss he feels, drowned by the waves of pleasure that rise and ebb in the rhythm of his body.

By now he has bitten his lower lip raw to muffle his cries.

It is the ecstasy Melkor’s touches evoke, the frenzy of their couplings that makes him give into his brother’s pleas again and again, the sparks that flare between them, the searing flame he never fails to ignite within him.

It is odd, Manwë thinks, how easily Melkor seduces him – over and over again, how he has mastered the art of seduction over the years. He isn’t prone to fall, to be used (and abused) yet so weak he becomes in his brother’s arms, reduced to a being of carnal lust. All the gloating, all those hurtful and mocking comments Melkor has said - he still finds himself yearning for him, for the divine touch - and he endures and saviors every second that passes between them.

By now his back is raw from the up and down motion against the trunk of the tree, bruised and swollen, perhaps even bloody and so much he wishes that Melkor would take him amidst the lush grass.

Melkor does not even think about it, taking delight in his futile struggle, in the vulnerability of his brother’s position.

“Be quiet,” Manwë murmurs when the rustling of leaves stirs him out of his haze of lust and evoke a slight panic. He doesn’t sense another fëa nearby, it is only him and his brother he feels, still a slight unease persists. Out of nowhere the leaves do not begin to rustle, not even in the sacred gardens of Lorien, especially not when nightingales can be heard nearby.

“Why?” Melkor glances at him, eyes dark and full of turmoil like the stormy sky; too many emotions Manwë sees flitting through them, a vast darkness and so much more, and quickly he looks away.

The words he speaks are barely audibly and for seconds, Melkor indeed stops his frantic movements to listen. “You want them to hear us, to see us, don’t you? The prospect of being discovered thrills you..” Manwë whispers against his brother’s lips.

“At last you understand, dearest brother,” he says in confirmation before he kisses him with such a strength that Manwë feels he will pass out from the kiss alone. As much as he despises his brother’s wicked deeds, his carelessness, he has to admit that there is nothing better than this, nothing better than being taken by him in such a ferocious way.

Melkor is everywhere; around him, inside him, his length buried deep down him, embracing him with imaginary arms, tenfold. For once no boundaries exist between them, no secrets, no lies as their fëar are mingled, soaring high up in the sky during the heights of pleasure. He wishes to pull him close, to show his own affection but since he cannot in the position he is caught in, he vocally showers him with everything he can give, keening noises and hearty moans that sound so surreal coming from his throat.

They do not fail to nearly push Melkor over the edge.

With every moan that spills from his lips, with every thrust Melkor’s lust grows sharper, his kisses along Manwë’s throat all teeth and tongue now, leaving marks and bruises along the way, but finally his brooding mood has ebbed, and Manwë would give the world to let this state of mind last forever. It is always like this; the moment when his brother is scraping at the edge of orgasm his thoughts are pure and innocent once more, devoid of all the blackness that recently surrounds and enwraps him. In response to another frantic kiss, Manwë embeds his nails into Melkor’s back, scratching down along the spine until his brother arched and trembled against him.

Two can easily play at his game.

They hardly speak whilst they fuck, least of all romanticizing words of devotion and love, because their clandestine encounters speak volumes instead; of things that are and persist, yetnever should come to pass.

When Melkor reaches his climax, a groan of relief, of fulfillment spills past his lips – so dark, so guttural as something within him tears apart, something set lose for seconds. With a last shallow thrust he spills his fluids inside Manwë, his entire body tensing, shuddering violently.

Manwë feels as if he’s floating through the endless vaults of the sky when Melkor reaches between them and gives his cock a few languid strokes until he follows him into oblivion. Often he is described as stoic, devoid and incapable of the slightest traits of emotion – certainly nobody suspects that he can be unraveled in this way (knowledge Melkor takes great delight in). Right now, collapsing into his brother’s arms, he is none.

As always, at the brink of exhaustion, Melkor’s strong arms catch him, hinder his quivering body from falling and with such gentleness he lays him down amidst the lush green and kisses him languidly.

Faintly and far away whispered words reach his mind, yet he does not know if Melkor is truly speaking or if he simply fantasizes, imagine things that are not there.

The air is thick with summer humidity and heavy with the smell of spent arousal, their scents clinging to each other’s skin so wonderfully, and their skin sticky and warm from the act of passion.

Briefly Manwë allows himself to indulge into a world in which their clandestine meetings wouldn’t be frowned upon, a world without the trait of evil that is so alien to him; without the darkness that relentlessly stirs in his brother’s heart – even know that he rests in his arms with the air of summer, of ripening fruit surrounding them.

 

 

---

Chapter End Notes

[Disclaimer] - The Valar are (unfortunately) not mine. They belong to J.R.R. Tolkien and Tolkien Estate – I just like to explore their lives a little further. No money is made from this story.

[General] - Feel free to contact me on tumblr: feanope