Work Text:
Toxic Attraction
Manwë glared darkly at his older brother as they waited in the cold, queued up at the entrance of the run-down establishment Melkor had chosen to waste away his night in: a sodding strip club from which came some truly obnoxiously loud and tasteless music that would have made their father weep in despair; the man had lulled them to sleep with Chopin, hummed Rachmaninov’s melodies under the shower, taught them how to flawlessly play Brahms and Mozart, enrolled them in conservatory as soon as they had been able to stand on their own feet “Tell me this is a joke” he pleaded through clenched teeth.
Melkor laughed merrily and arrogantly arched a perfectly groomed eyebrow “Aww, are you uncomfortable at the prospect of twerking butts and blatant displays of sexual activities?” he teased, well aware of his brother’s delicate sensibilities “What would Varda do if she knew you came here with me?” he inquired evilly, hoping that the mention of his fiancée would have been enough to drive Manwë home.
“She knows I’m playing babysitter to you so, she expects us to end up in a place like this” the other answered, wrinkling his nose in disgust as he glanced once more at the club and its blaring, neon bright lights blinking gaudily in the dark. The only thing that made the whole endeavor bearable was the fact that his presence was probably completely ruining Melkor’s plan of drinking himself into a stupor, fucking every willing hole in there and stumbling back home only at dawn, as high as a kite and delirious with exhaustion – he hoped: he really wasn’t thrilled at the concrete possibility of watching his brother perform in his natural habitat.
They shuffled closer to the entrance and one of the bouncers sauntered off to them, swaggering his narrow hips and winking at Melkor, clapping his broad and leather-clad shoulder as he stopped next to him with an ease that spoke of familiarity “Mate, it’s been an Age!” the stranger reproached fondly, grinning down at his brother – a strange view since Melkor usually towered over everyone.
“Gothmog!” Melkor punched the bouncer’s heavily muscled arm “How’s everything been going in here?” It had been so long since he had had a whole night to himself and go out – he actually cared enough about his degree that he wasn’t going to botch his exams up only for having some fun – and Manwë just had to trail along and intrude upon his free time.
Gothmog shrugged elegantly “The boss haired some new dancers and we haven’t seen hide nor hair of the police” he offered and dragged him out of the line from his elbow “Is the prissy dude with you?” he asked, giving a sharp nod in his brother’s direction and eyeing him up with some distaste.
“Yeah. Gothmog this is my brother Manwë, Manwë this is an old friend of mine” he introduced quickly, already striding towards the entrance and nodding politely at the greetings the other bouncers threw him: every single nerve ending was craving for the cloudy and sensual atmosphere of the place, his skin hungry for scalding hot and sweaty contact, his mind reeling with the overpowering need of losing itself in the obscene haze of alcohol and nightmare-inducing drugs. He sighed with satisfaction as tension uncoiled from his muscles and the maddening heat of the twisting crowd enveloped him along with the loud and beating music, resonating through his chest and deliciously disquieting his heartrate “Fuck, yes”
Gothmog laughed “Well, have fun! I’ll see you later” he wished the brothers before dashing back to his place at the entrance, where he donned his best glare on and scanned the awaiting people with careful irises: he usually was pretty attentive but with Melkor in the club, he knew he needed to be even more selective than usual if he didn’t want to sort some nasty fights out later in the night.
Manwë looked around with eyes wide in shock, unconsciously taking a step closer to his brother who seemed to be already far gone despite not having indulged in any illicit substances yet. The club was dark and claustrophobic; flashing lights bathed the crowd in deep crimson and sickly vivid green, cutting through the thick and toxic fog of nicotine; sensual and crudely displayed bodies entwined around shiny metal poles and dripped sweat mixed with oil on the exalted spectators from their raised platforms, divinities basking in their accolades’ mindless worship from their unorthodox thrones; the floor was sticky with spilled drinks and who-knew-which other bodily fluids “I think I may need some water”
“Over there” Melkor dismissively pointed at an extremely busy bar at the back of the club “Tell Ungoliant you’re with me and she’ll make sure nobody drops anything in your drinks” he added, an imperious finger jabbed in direction of a truly terrifying barmaid sheathed in a latex cat-suit that did nothing to conceal her generous curves that swayed with her movements: she was so fast that it seemed she had eight arms instead of just two. In a rare second of respite, the barmaid raised her blindingly white face on which the smattering of black lipstick looked somewhat out of place, and her dark eyes caught sight of Melkor; she ferally smiled at him, displaying a set of pointy canines, and waved her hand in a welcoming gesture before going back to work “Go on, she won’t eat you” he prompted before disappearing.
Manwë tried to follow him with his keen eyes, but his pupils kept being distracted by more and more disturbing details he hadn’t noticed upon entering that not-so-fine establishment. It was with uneasiness churning at his gut that he braved the crowd to reach Ungoliant, hunched on himself to avoid contact as much as possible and direct eye-contact with those threatening-looking and intoxicated strangers.
“What can I get you?” the barmaid drawled before taking a sip of a brightly colored concoction, eyeing him up with a bored expression. When he didn’t offer a prompt answer, she huffed and snapped her fingers in front of his face, drawing his attention to her knifelike sharp nails “I’m not here for your viewing pleasure!”
Manwë could feel a blush stain his skin “I’m… I’m sorry. Melkor told me I could come to you for a glass of water?”
The barmaid poured him some frizzy chilled water in a tall soda glass before calling out to her colleague “Thuringwethil! Blondie here is with Mel, put him on his tab!” The other barmaid glanced at him and nodded, blowing her fringe out of her cerulean eyes “Well, go and have fun! Melkor is probably stalking the new redhead pole-dancer” Ungoliant shooed him away and smiled at her next costumer, predatorily licking her lips as she took in the gorgeous woman asking for a Sex On the Beach.
Scanning the raised platforms for a redhead, Manwë slowly sipped his water and made sure to stay out of anyone’s way, already dreading the moment he would spot his brother and had to dive in that hellish pit to reach him.
It wasn’t an easy task.
He was almost ready to go back and brave bothering Ungoliant to have her point him the dancer she was talking about when he spotted a waterfall of hair as red as freshly spilled blood flay freely in the stale air, immediately recognizing it: Mairon, the son of one of their father’s associates, was the one expertly and languidly twisting his perfect body around the pole with a seductive and carefree grin painted on his full lips – a grin aimed at Melkor, who was looking up at him with raw hunger etched on his sharp features. Manwë didn’t know how Mairon had ended up in that line of work – he remembered him as an uncannily bright boy, constantly praised for his abnormally high I.Q. but berated for his inexistent social skills: he and Melkor had hit it off brilliantly, back then.
Mairon was hypnotizing, his movements a mute siren’s song that naturally enticed everyone witnessing it to ache for his pale and lithe body. With a salacious smirk, he crooked his finger at Melkor, wordlessly ordering him upon the platform – his brother was waiting just for that, it seemed, if the speed with which he climbed on that raised dais was anything to go by.
Manwë hurried towards them before Melkor could make something embarrassing, elbowing those who were in his way and slowed him down.
“My Little Flame” Melkor hissed, burying his hands in that hair he had dreamed of so many times since that bastard of Aulë had moved out of town in a vain attempt to preserve his adoptive son from his clutches “Back at home, I see”
The redhead raised on his tiptoes and licked the taller man’s chin, up to his thin lips and languorously traced their seams, savoring in the spicy and long-forgotten taste “Father wasn’t pleased when I moved out that house” he whispered before shoving Melkor in the slightly stuffed chair half-hidden in the darkness and climbing in his lap, uncaring of the catcalls the sight of his barely covered firm arse elicited.
“What are you doing?” Melkor inquired, large hands immediately grabbing for those sharp and already undulating hipbones he once had bruised with love bites.
“I’m giving you a lap dance” The ‘duh’ was heavily implied in his tone of voice as he swayed his hips to the upbeat rhythm of the music, teasingly ghosting his crotch over Melkor’s and rubbing his chest against his face. He threw his head back and let a moan loose when the other sucked on his pierced nipple, tugging at the golden ring with his teeth, and his burning irises met another familiar pair of eyes “What is your brother doing here?”
“Father makes him babysit me” Melkor answered in between nips “Ignore him” His hands splayed on that perfect bottom and squeezed hard, recalling how Mairon had enjoyed the times they had gotten rough in the bedroom; he pulled the subtly muscled cheeks apart and let his thumbs ghost down the slightly sweaty crack, nudging aside the thin strip of silk of his G-string to tease the puckered rim of his hole “I’m gonna fuck you”
“No complaints here” Mairon laughed and pushed back against the thumb, keening when he felt the digit pop inside him “Get on with it” he intimated; he had completely forgotten their audience, too eager to finally feel Melkor’s seed coat his insides again. He clawed at the other’s crotch, questing fingers quickly undoing the flies of his leather pants and freeing his impressive erection that was going to dryly possess him in front of the whole club – including that annoying stuck-up that was Manwë. Eagerly, he lowered himself on Melkor, accepting his thorough kisses to distract himself from the deliciously painful and sick burn of the penetration.
Manwë’s jaws hung open in distress and shock, wishing he could simply look away instead of taking in every detail of his big brother and his once-paramour having sex in the middle of the club: it was like witnessing a car accident – no matter how horrid and bloody, you couldn’t help watching. He could feel his pupils widen as he observed their movements speed up and studied how deep Melkor’s fingers raked on that lean back while Mairon seemed hell bent on devouring his brother’s taurine neck, leaving saliva-soaked bruises behind – he bet he didn’t look half as hot as them when he made love to Varda. He kept staring as they raced towards their completion, gulped down dryly as he spotted his brother’s milky semen leak from Mairon’s bottom and run down his toned thighs while Melkor rapidly stroked his lover’s leaking erection, ‘till it burst and spilled on his silken black shirt and his leather jacket – only then he could lower his gaze.
Breathing hard, Manwë fled the club, mentally apologizing to his father. Later on, when Melkor and Mairon threatened their families’ peace with their acts of terrorism and illegal activities, he would remember that evening and mark it as the start of something beautifully destructive.