Melkor is… talking.
Mairon is too tired and annoyed to actually bother with listening to what he has to say. Utumno has been a cacophony of noises and screams and shouts from its inhabitants that now it’s quite impossible to focus for even one more second on what his Lord is saying.
The Maia’s gaze falls on Melkor’s lips, moving and forming words that he can’t quite bother to actually listen to or even try to decipher. He really hopes his Master is not sharing one of his grand ideas.
That would mean he has to actually pay attention, plan it through and put it in action. In any other case, he would do it in the blink of an eye, so willing and ready as he is to please his Lord.
Now, all he wants is for Melkor to stop talking.
He should not be able to get a headache. It is impossible. But here he is, sprawled on their shared bed, with black dots dancing behind his shut eyelids.
“What say you, Mairon?” he hears Melkor ask, and for a moment after, all is quiet.
Mairon smiles in relief, a big wide smile that is quite not him. He is moderate and reserved with his reactions, anyone acquainted with the Maia would know this.
It is an unsettling sight.
And Melkor notices this as well. His brows furrowed in confusion, he observes his Mairon from where he is standing a few feet away from their bed.
He thinks he is beautiful. The very epitome of perfection and grace on his bed, with his golden locks all over the pillows and his body languidly stretched over the sheets.
Mairon rests his hands against his stomach, the fabric of his loose tunic soft beneath his fingers. He feels the empty spot next to him dip and shift under the weight of Melkor settling on the bed.
“You know,” Melkor begins, and Mairon inwardly curses everything that has ever existed. He can feel Melkor’s gaze on him, soft yet calculating.
“I believe it would be wise to follow that course of action,” Melkor continues, and Mairon has not the slightest inkling of what he is talking about.
“Whatever you say, my precious,” Mairon responds, and he can practically sense the subtle tilt of Melkor's head.
“What do you mean? Do you no longer believe we ought to–”
Melkor’s words are cut off abruptly when Mairon lifts his head from the pillows and reaches for him, fists clutching his robes and pulling him into a rough, messy kiss.
Their teeth clash, but Mairon pays it no mind.
Despite his initial shock, Melkor eagerly returns the kiss, his hands resting on Mairon’s hips, pushing him back down on the bed.
Mairon complies willingly, trapped between the pillows and Melkor’s body.
Yet he pulls away too soon, his head tilting back and away from Melkor’s attempts to follow him and taste him again.
Mairon gently presses two fingers against Melkor’s parted lips.
“Later, precious,” he promises and Melkor grunts in protest. “Hush now.”
For once, his Master relents and actually listens to him.
The blessed silence that follows is the greatest of gifts bestowed upon Mairon.