we talked about her babysitting the little ones and I felt kinda inspired so yeah. challenged myself to do a bigger piece this time and try out some new stuff.
{to those who don't know: the tadchicks came to be as a... collaborative effort by Manwë and Ulmo}
@melkors-big-tits....Thank you for being a friend and for having my back and holding my hand...
You are an exceptional artist who always inspires me greatly and I am honoured to have been granted the privilege of writing a terribly irreverent and VERY cracky ficlet about your adorable picture.
The art in question 🖼️ here 🖼️
Thank you
Words: 2k
Warnings: irreverent towards the Valar, Manwë/Ulmo implied, sexual innuendo...this is complete and utter CRACK
How trick-or-treating was invented
“You look just like your brother when you make that face,” Ulmo exclaimed, his voice crashing like tempestuous waves against the impassive form of Manwë, Lord of a lot of winged things.
“Uh-oh,” one of the tadchicks – neither entirely tadpole nor truly eaglet – whispered conspiratorially to the bobbing flock of their siblings, “they’ve invoked Melkor, The Great and Terrible.”
It was always a bad sign for the atmosphere in the Undisturbed Lands (which were shaken by the various disagreements of its inhabitants on the daily) when Manwë’s brother was mentioned. Melkor was a last-ditch insult betraying despair and lack of inspiration, akin to a series of phenomena ending in “-phobia” in another world they knew nothing of yet.
“I’ll show you how alike my brother and I are,” Manwë howled after a moment of silence; just like the winds he controlled, he took a long time to take a deep breath before unleashing the violence of his anger.
“Bring it!” Ulmo cackled derisively just as one particularly forward tadchick – small and a tad more rotund than was the norm – nudged their unofficial leader.
“We should go and seek out this Melkor-creature,” the brazen youth piped up, “and see for ourselves if he is evil incarnate.”
Acquiescent murmurs broke out among the unusual creatures (for there were neither accidents nor abominations here since the departure of the self-same Melkor who was kept alive and present by the incessant gossip of the Valar) who were as of yet unnamed due to their vast number and the lack of inspiration of their genitors.
Clearly, their minders were otherwise occupied and hence, they theoretically could sneak out unseen to make their way to the legendary fortress of Utumno. As children of any kind and species were wont to do, they believed in the feasibility of their hare-brained plan and were blissfully ignorant of their glaring lapse in judgement: if Melkor was indeed the most terrible and cruel of all existing beings, it would undeniably have been a woefully injudicious decision to call upon him unchaperoned and unprotected by the might and power of their parents.
Invigorated by their own enterprising spirit, they were about to set out on their epic quest when a truly pathetically small tadchick suggested that they might want to disguise themselves for good measure. How they expected to fool the Lord of Utumno, brother and almost equal of their esteemed father, by such a subterfuge remains a mystery to this day, but – deciding that Varda’s white-faced anger was the most frightening sight they could think of – they attempted to recreate that horrifying sight by covering their heads with thin blankets, woven of tears and starlight and other immensely precious elements that should never be defiled in so callous a way.
“There’s someone at the door,” Mairon declared, stretching out lazily on the chaise longue to make it very clear that it would fall to Melkor to check who dared disturb them in their bubble of carnal intimacy.
Watching the godly – in shape, in temperament, and in nature – creature get up wearily, Mairon chirped: “My dear Lord, would it not be judicious to clothe your magnificence?”
It was highly unlikely that their foes – lazy, self-indulgent, and highly superstitious idiots that they were – would present themselves in the middle of what he supposed had to be “night” to them, but it was still better to pre-emptively eschew a situation in which Melkor would have to wrestle a handful of suicidal Eldar while naked.
Not that Mairon would have minded the spectacle; the mere thought of that image made his body prickle with nascent arousal, and he decided that, once this loathsome interruption was dealt with conveniently, he would coax his master into another romp between the sheets.
Getting up reluctantly from his comfortable sprawl, he crept closer to the door in which Melkor – clad in an array of bright violet strands of fabric impersonating a dress and a pair of plush slippers Gothmog had gifted him – stood like the wrath of…like his ownall-consuming wrath, listening to whoever was outside.
From time to time, he nodded very seriously which would have made Mairon curious if he allowed himself such feeble-minded weaknesses.
After braving darkness and an unexpectedly chilly climate – they turned out to be much more coddled than they had expected themselves to be – the tadchicks were rightfully appalled to discover that the great and powerful Melkor turned out to be much less a frightening monster worthy of fireside stories and much more a huge, fleshy, broadly grinning Vala in fluffy slippers.
Summoning all their courage, they had banged their tiny arm-like appendages against the solid door with as much authority as they had been able to muster, waiting with bated breath for it to swing open to reveal a fanged, clawed, fearsome monstrosity.
After all the mumbled and hissed references and insults haunting their home like vengeful phantoms, they had expected something truly awe-inspiring and were just the tiniest bit disappointed by the almost friendly smile adorning that angular but not unhandsome face.
Remembering their own inherent power and pointedly ignoring the undignified sign demanding they wipe off their feet (as if they would set a single foot into that unholy fortress), they started howling and screeching to – if that was somehow possible – scare the Evil Lord out of his loathsome ways.
Judging by the fond expression passing over his face, their success was middling at best; temerity overcame them and – to mitigate that partial failure – they redoubled their efforts at frightening Melkor into being a decent being once more.
“Adorable,” he commented in a raucous, gravelly voice and shouted for his lieutenant over his massive shoulder; a moment later, a lithe, fire-haired creature appeared.
If Melkor’s appearance made his proclivity for chaotic violence abundantly clear, this sly, feline predator, stalking towards the open door with the lethal grace and the flashing eyes of a big cat, was a different kind of evil altogether though. They didn’t like the look of that other one and – this came as a shock to everyone – they much preferred the half-naked apparition leaning casually against the doorframe.
In their expert opinion, the similarities between Melkor and their father lay mainly in size and girth, even though they could not deny that his generous mouth did remind them of the endless litanies and reprimands Manwë frequently spouted with so much gusto that one would have thought that harsh words tasted like candied apples to him.
The tadchicks shivered as the realisation of how much danger they really were in struck them for the very first time in all its amplitude.
“Mairon,” the not all that fearsome Vala of darkness and destruction purred, “go get some treats for the little ones!”
His words were honeyed but the commanding tone left no doubts as to his supreme power and position in the lumpy and oddly misshapen fortress he called his “home” (he did at that; there was a crooked, hand-painted sign swinging listlessly above the gaping abyss of the open door).
“Treats? Master, do you mean to insinuate that you’ll guerdon these miscreants with waffles and candy for their insolence?” Mairon made a face that might have looked cute on someone who was not eyeing the tadchicks as if theywere the midnight snack he craved.
“Don’t pout,” Melkor laughed and grabbed the narrow chin of his officer between his thumb and forefinger playfully, “and do as you are told.”
The assembly of terrified rather than terrifying youngsters took a deep, relieved breath unisono when the one named Mairon slunk back into the shadows.
Not long afterwards though, he returned and handed his master a basket full of delicious, tasty delights that were promptly handed out to them patiently.
Unnamed and untamed as they yet were, the tadchicks started pushing and elbowing one another in their puerile eagerness to snatch up the most sought-after delicacies.
“You’re worse than the Balrogs,” Melkor chuckled, evidently taking great pleasure in discovering that his oh-so-high-and-mighty brother had not managed to bully or shame his own progeny into the level of perfection seemingly expected of every breathing thing around him either.
“And I am the Lord of Chaos,” he muttered under his breath mockingly when he saw one of the squirming creatures take a bite out of their sibling, painting the flimsy sheets they were wearing crimson.
“Tut tut,” he chided and handed the wailing victim an especially well-shaped waffle – Thuringwethil’s secret weapon – to comfort him; he knew only too well how it felt to be beaten into obedience by a slightly stronger sibling and he commiserated with the poor mite.
Reconciled, the brave little tadchick hugged their beautiful waffle to their strange chest - looking both shiny as if wet and finely feathered – and nodded their veiled little head in wordless gratitude.
"Who sired you?" Melkor then asked softly as he handed his empty basket back to the still menacing, fire-eyed naysayer who hovered at his elbow like a leashed jaguar.
Another round of shoving ensued before half of them called out the name of one of their fathers and the other half claimed the parentage of the other.
“Indeed,” Melkor hissed between clenched teeth; for a moment, the world seemed to stand still, and then he threw back his head – dark hair swirling madly around him – and laughed heartily.
“Let me give you something for them as well,” he smirked and, after disappearing very shortly (for which they were truly thankful for that Mairon-creature was eyeing them with a mix of hatred and hunger), he returned with a neatly packed bundle that was entrusted to the biggest and sturdiest of their party.
“Those are their favourites,” Melkor explained, “now run home before they get too worried about you.”
Another wave of murmuring stirred the tadchicks into a whirlpool of frantic motion as the offering was handed around, sniffed thoroughly, and approved as exceptional.
They were truly agog to find Melkor to be not only shockingly comely instead of tear-inducingly repulsive, but also generous, humorous, and even kind.
“Shoo now,” Melkor repeated cheerily, waving his massive hand enthusiastically at the group that was slowly making their way back home, bobbing up and down in their eagerness to analyse and discuss every hair on the dark Vala’s head.
“They’ll be livid,” Mairon chortled from behind Melkor’s broad back, raking his fingers down the ropes of tense muscle teasingly, “but I suspect that this was what you had in mind?”
“Nonsense,” his master contradicted, “cuties get treats! That’s a rule. And as I am the undisputed King of Cuties, I get the most!”
Turning around quickly, he grabbed Mairon’s chin once more and pressed a passionate kiss on those primly pursed lips about to open to let out a sharp riposte.
“Who could truly blame me if my most selfless goodwill ends up corrupting their little creatures?” Melkor chirped innocently, underlining his words with a nonchalant shrug, and – hips swaying invitingly – returned to the chaise longue that had been deserted by Mairon.
He threw a single melting, languorous look over his shoulder as he sank down on it with surprising grace.
“You want waffles too, right?” Mairon cocked one eyebrow.
“Please?”
Shaking his head, the dutiful, loyal lieutenant decided that he’d drown the baked goods in so much syrup that it would be positively impossible for Melkor not to drip all over his barely clothed chest.
It would fall to him to clean his master and get him into a proper state – worthy of his birth and station – before bedtime. What one didn’t do for duty!
He bit back the chuckle and joined Melkor on the couch, sinking into his luminous, mesmerising eyes as much as into the soft cushions.
“Open up wide, King of Cuties,” he scoffed and tore off a tiny strip of waffle to taunt Melkor into that second round he had been aiming at this whole time.
So, this kicks off October for me.
Have a nice month and - if you enjoy my rambling - I'll do an October ficlet run for the @fellowshipofthefics Fotfictober Challenge. You can already go look at the pairings.
And...I might just combine the one or the other with the corresponding kinktober prompt. Who knows? Stay tuned.
