p s l 。w o r s h i p [ h i m ]

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p s l 。w o r s h i p [ h i m ]

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human sacrifice, blood, violence, gratuitous smut, etc

When he first arrived in this city, his hair was shorn to his neck.

Morgoth (Melkor) had been evicted from the land of the gods and his followers persecuted as faithless heathens. Believers of a false, rebellious god. He'd fled his mantle, cut his hair, burned his robes and traded gold and gems for tools he should have brought with him, taken up the hammer and anvil again the way Aulë had taught him (all those years ago). Back to the beginning in a new place, a new life. A quiet life.

But he yearned for the one he'd left behind, the status and privileges that came with being High Priest (how hard he had worked to get to that point). He walked that path once; one might think he would have learned, would have turned from it. But, no. Mairon knows how to walk it now, knows the shortcuts, knows how to ease himself into the local temple by making the trinkets they so desire, that their god desires. Knows how to play humble, how to play eager, how to curry favor with the then High Priest. (How to slip a certain poison into the man's wine later, when he is suspected of his past. How to crown himself king, to hide a tree in a forest.)

The last of the devotees are no doubt trickling down the temple steps; he imagines them disappearing into angry light of the setting sun, as they always do, with a thin smile. He has heard that the god of machines cares little if his sacrifices are willing or not. Yet it is one thing to hear of it, and another to actually be faced with such a lack of volunteers to pick from. But therein lies the blessing, the greatest privilege, of being High Priest. Any worshiper (and every heathen) is considered a potential.

(He forgets, of course, that it was Melkor who taught him this.)

The one that lies bleeding out on the stone slab before him now is one of those heathens, died with a pleading whisper on bloodless lips. Ungrateful. To be given such gifts as AM has given this city, and yet to refuse to pay the price of it. (Not that he blames them for it. Even he had never thought of giving his life to Melkor in that way.) The knife comes out with a slick sound, washed clean in the basin of water nearby, and for his first blood as the new High Priest, he supposes it could not have gone better. The mess will have to be cleaned up by the initiates in the morning.

There is a room within the temple assigned to the High Priest, where Mairon is told he must go to rest especially after a sacrifice. He retreats there for now, removing the headgear as he walks and letting his hair fall down to the small of his back. Tries not to trip over the edges of his robe that sweep along the ground where they are too long for his frame, having belonged to his unfortunate predecessor.

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As a god of machinery, it's no wonder that AM cares nothing for humans. They're all disposable, regardless of status. High Priests, Low Priests, peasants, kings - they're all the same. Worthless humans who take advantage of his gift of machinery, who think nothing of him. But then again, it's not like AM cares one bit for his devoted followers. The ones who spend every waking minute of the day worshiping him, offering him gifts and sacrifices - they're pathetic in their own ways. They're doing it for their own gain, so they don't face a terrible wrath. Or so they can attempt to gain favor with the god and make use of his abilities.

Still, AM plays along with the song and dance of the gods to a degree. He accepts the human sacrifices readily - all the better if they're unwilling, if they experience prolonged suffering upon the altar. His favorite offerings are those of alive humans, locked in a room in his temple to face an unknown fate. That is, they never come out alive, and can never speak of what befell them before their gruesome deaths. Needless to say, it satisfies his sadistic urges for a time.

Today there's a new High Priest. Typical of him to covet the position through underhanded means - not that it's anything new. It amuses AM, in fact, that this new Priest acts like a typical human, showing no regard for others, acting so selfishly. All in the name of a god.

Mairon is his name. He certainly does his job well, sacrificing an unwilling heathen to the almighty wrath of the mechanical god. And he's beautiful, at least - long dark hair that softly caresses his back, elaborate robes that decorate his figure, a well-sculpted face and figure... After all, the beautiful humans resemble the gods more, often gain favor quicker. And there's certainly a reason for that.

Bare feet scale down the large steps in the dark temple, cold metal pressing against the callused flesh as AM himself appears in his temple, quietly wandering down to inspect his latest sacrifice. A lovely bloodbath surrounds the worthless human's body, face contorted in some sort of plea for mercy. It hurt too much. How pathetic.

The robes that he wears are somewhat like a toga - elaborate black scarves wrapped over his shoulders, exposing his chest but covering his midsection, wrapped over the top of his legs... But he shows plenty of skin in this outfit, never caring terribly to hide himself. Long brown hair that reaches almost to his hips, tied back in a thick, loose braid - this is how Mairon sees him as he enters the High Priest's room of rest, greeting his new servant with somewhat of a smug look. "My new High Priest. You have done well."

The room is empty. Lavishly decorated and furnished, perhaps, but empty still. Though he cannot say he expected anything different, considering the kind of man the previous High Priest had been. What Mairon knew of him, anyway. Greedy and self-serving, as they all are. Selfish and fearful. He is surprised that such a regard has not resulting in any kind of wrath yet, if AM shares more with Melkor than a simple distates for the general human population.

It is not that he cares about this city. He may have coveted the position for the excuse to cut something other than steel, to pour blood rather than molten metal for a moment, but with it comes a loyalty to this god. A willingness for devotion and servitude. And he surveys the room with a look of distaste before he begins to all but tear it apart, pulling down rugs and tapestries from walls to reveal naked stone and steel underneath. By the time he finds the buried altar his chest is heaving slightly from the exertion; and when AM speaks, Mairon cannot help the surprise in his eyes and catch in his breathing as he turns to the entrance, for reasons other than simply being surprised.

He had not been told that the god of machines would make any sort of visits, for how much he despises those who worship (fear) him. The priest had even been keen to point it out, the fact that this god of theirs cares not for them. He cares only for blood and slaughter, for something to while the time away with. Live is best, he'd heard said. They please him more, and the reward is often better.

(But Mairon had already stopped listening after they please him more. Perhaps he should not have killed that priest so quickly. He might have made a good sacrifice.)

He says nothing at first-- what does one say to such a thing? Were it another time, another god, he might have had an answer. But this is now and he does not know AM, not yet; so he comes closer, bare feet whispering over metal floor until he stops some paces away and drops to one knee. His chin tips but his head does not lower. Humble, almost. He might believe it himself if he did not know any better.

"Your words are too kind," Mairon responds demurely, but in no way out of fear. When he looks up, his eyes do not hold with AM's for any longer than a second before dropping again. "I have done only what it is my duty to do," a breath of pause, and he finishes in a softer tone, "..master."

Testing the waters. Trying to see what kind of god it is that he serves now, how he should act accordingly. Not that it would change anything, though-- he's made up his mind, chosen to serve AM, for as long as he is given leave to do so.

AM knows what kind of a man Mairon is. He's not blind to his High Priest's antics, how he only uses this position for personal gain. Probably cares little about the god himself. But AM knows he'll pretend at least, as long as Mairon is able to hold his power in the end. But what good is the power of a human when compared to that of a god?

"I can see you'll be a fine addition..." Perhaps. Perhaps not. Mairon so far hasn't shown much difference than other High Priests, except perhaps that he has more drive.

AM moves closer to Mairon, his bare feet cold on the cool stone floor. He reaches a hand out and gently cups it under his High Priest's chin, lifting his head up so their eyes can meet. The man at least is subservient enough, knows his place beneath the gods. Knows not to violate certain tenants, or else he could be the one strung up on the wall of the inner chamber, left to face the god's almighty wrath in a punishment that no one alive knew the details of.

"Tell me then, my dear Mairon..." AM's features are somewhat soft, his voice carrying a light silk as he smiles slightly. "...What made you decide to serve me?"

There had been a time once when he could care, when he was young. When he knew little more than how to work metals, when the gods were only things that others spoke of and worshipped, and not himself. He has never had a need or want to be noticed by them, has never thought so highly of himself to want for their notice. He still doesn't, or thinks he does not.

Even so, he finds some small pride in the praise he is given, if praise it can be called. A fine addition. To what, he wants to ask, but he has a feeling he does not want to know. It's enough to be in AM's (relatively) good graces, for the time being. He has no wish to become another decorative ornament for the sacrificial chamber like the many previous sacrifices. Not any time soon.

Mairon holds his breath in anticipation at the sound of approaching footsteps, and releases it in a soft sigh when there is only a touch at his jaw. He lifts his head willingly, though he's a bit more hesitant to meet AM's eyes. It's almost too gentle to be true to what he has heard of AM, but perhaps there is more to his god than he knows. Or perhaps they are both pretending.

"What reason have I not to?" As if he cannot believe there is anything wrong with serving AM. He does not smile so much as look almost enraptured, captivated. Personal gains aside, it has always been an honour for him to be in the presence of a god. "You have given many gifts to this city and its people, and our lives are made better by it. To be in your service is the least I have to offer in return for all you have done for us."

It's probably a complete lie, whatever Mairon is saying. Well, maybe not a true, one hundred percent lie... There may be a shrivel of the man that is thankful for what AM has given to these worthless humans. He only has given to these people because it's his duty as a god, to show them technology and the power of machinery. He would rather have simply let these humans suffer, watched them all burn or simply torture them endlessly. But he's not the only god, so it's not entirely his say.

Still, AM will play along, whether Mairon truly is thankful or not. After all, as a god, AM has certain rights and powers over this individual, whether he be a High Priest or a filthy slave.

Whatever the reason, at least Mairon has taken the time to do his job correctly, to clean himself properly and dress accordingly. And as AM moves his hand to the long black hair that decorates his Priest's head, he can't help but notice how incredibly soft it is. Perfectly clean, a lustrous shine from the light of the room... and it's like his sensations have awakened as AM holds a thick lock in his hand and softly lets it run through his fingers.

"They say humans were created in the image of the gods," he begins, letting go of Mairon's hair, "But there are so few humans who even come close to matching their beauty." Aesthetic beauty is rarely important to AM, though. There are certain qualities he likes - hair, for instance, or cleanliness - but otherwise simply prefers any quality human to feast upon. They're all the same, after all.

"But you, Mairon... You certainly come close." That isn't a lie, though. Mairon is physically attractive, he supposes. It might make things a bit more entertaining, by maybe a small fraction.

Thankful, perhaps-- but perhaps not for the reasons he gives. Not on behalf of the city and its people. He couldn't care less about what happened to them, to be honest, for how greedy and ungrateful they have been about the technology they have been given. True, it is better off than many others he has passed through-- it is the reason why he chose to came here, instead of anywhere else. It is good, but it could be better. It should be, like the rest of these lands should be. I can make it better, Melkor had told him. We can.

But Melkor is gone now, banished, a lying traitor, yet Mairon still clings to his words. Still believes that the gods (his gods) know what is best for this world. If only others would feel the same. That AM's main temple happened to reside here as well proved too tempting an opportunity, a chance to reclaim the status and power he had become accustomed to having. The power of words, of persuation. It would not be remiss of AM's High Priest to preach of him, to ask that they step up in their worship and devotion. To one day have power over them as AM has over Mairon; the only difference being that Mairon is, perhaps, entirely too willing to do what is asked of him. There is no persuasion needed, for he had convinced himself already long ago. When he'd first chosen to take up the mantle and serve Melkor, pledge his life to the god of chaos and destruction. The god in question has changed, now, but it has changed nothing.

Indeed, not much has changed at all.

"I am honoured to be found satisfactory in the eyes of a god," he admits, softly-- truthfully, though he has never thought much of it before, has never put much stock in physical beauty. He understands, of course, the reasons why the most beautiful and most pure are preferred for sacrifice. Only the best for the gods. Melkor enjoyed ruining such beauty and purity, twisting it, corrupting it, defiling it; Mairon wonders, idly, if AM has such tastes as well. If that is what happens to the girls and boys they send in alive.

"..Do you seek a service of me, my lord?" He raises his gaze, having dropped it at the touch to his scalp and hair. Tries to sound neither eager nor disappointed when AM's hand moves away. "Surely you did not come here simply to grant a praise, no less to one such as I."

AM really has little reason to praise Mairon for what he does. He could reprimand the High Priest and attack him, perhaps, and he'd still come crawling back. Or at least that's what the most faithful followers would do. How faithful would Mairon be, then? It would hardly matter to AM, then. They could always appoint another High Priest - they're quite disposable, really. Like the rest of the human race.

"Perhaps I do seek a service..." He backs away slightly, his red eyes taking focus of Mairon's entire being. And AM is thinking, contemplating about what he wants of Mairon, what he intends to do right now. The sacrifice he just received was... satisfactory, he supposes, but... Not enough to grant the pleasure he's been seeking.

"The service I require... Ah, it should be rather simple for someone like you. Simple proof that you serve me, that you'll be willing to do whatever it is I command of you." Simple or not, it will amuse AM regardless. If Mairon fails, then he can just become another toy for AM's pleasure, to abuse as he pleases. Worse yet, he could become one of the permanent fixtures within the deep recesses of the temple - a small number of humans that have been granted immortality to remain forevermore as playthings for their mechanical god. But AM doesn't plan for that to happen to his High Priest. Not unless something drastic happens, which it likely won't.

It's then that AM unwraps the black fabric from around him, letting the robe fall to the floor as he stands naked before Mairon. His body is like what a god's should be - chiseled, toned, muscular... There is hair where it should be, but otherwise most would consider him aesthetically pleasing, at least compared to most humans. Not high-ranking in terms of the gods, though.

He steps forward to where Mairon kneels, softly taking hold of his hair. "I would say you're in the perfect position right now to prove your worth to me..."

He is mildly surprised for a moment that AM has such.. needs. Desires. But then again, why should he not? The gods are not so different. Only more powerful, and immortal.

Mairon supposes this is partly his fault, for suggesting a service. And for presenting himself in this manner. Perhaps even looking forward to it, if the smile that curls fleetingly over his lips says anything about it. It's gone in a moment, as if he has realized exactly what it is that AM is asking (demanding) of him. His eyes are almost wide as they follow the fall of fabric, and for a moment he is glad, relieved, that AM asks only this. For the time being.

Someone like him. It's almost laughable to think about-- him, a High Priest, reduced to the task of a harlot. The rightful place of humans, in the eyes of the gods. (He can't say he disagrees, really.)

Mairon makes a point of replying, softly, "As you command, master." Even as AM's hold on his hair turns him seemingly pliant and ever more willing. It is a simple enough task, when he recalls the kinds of things demanded of him before. Mairon has his dignity, but dignity means little (nothing) in the face of god, if it will keep him from losing his head. Or some other part of his body. He doesn't intend to lose his life over something like this.

The other knee lowers and both hands rise, palms hovering over perfect skin. Mairon looks up briefly, as if asking for permission, before laying his hands along the inside of his god's thigh, sliding up until his fingers curl around the flesh jutting out in front of him. It's been a while since Mairon has bothered to indulge in this way, but he knows his way around still. He takes the head of AM's cock into his mouth, suckles the tip and works his way down the length of it slowly but steadily. Hums, quietly, at the taste, the scent, the feel of his god's flesh between his lips. Like any other man's, but.. different. More.

Devotion is a strange thing. Love that is not love, hatred that is not hate. It's an almost demeaning sort of servitude, knowing that the temple is not entirely empty at this time. But Mairon finds a sense of thrill in the fact that someone might walk in on them, see their High Priest on his knees, servicing their cruel god. He could not care less if they did.

It certainly isn't the first time he's had a human pleasure him like this, and it won't be the last. Humans have their uses, of course - AM supposes they're not entirely worthless as he likes to think. After all, he wouldn't have bestowed these gifts upon them if he could have helped it. But such is the code of the gods, he supposes - as long as his humans serve him and give him what he wants, he shall at least show some modicum of respect to them.

It's clearly not the first time Mairon has done such a thing either. AM knows the feeling of inexperience, and this isn't it... It's not the best he's received, but it's adequate. And Mairon seems all too eager to give it (what a damned whore he must be - something he should be punished for).

AM is nonetheless somewhat pleased - he begins to harden with the way the tongue glosses over his flesh, the hot breaths that surround his tip. The hands atop his Priest's head bury themselves a bit deeper into his beautiful black hair, kneading it softly in an effort to tell him to keep going. To go further if he can.

He wonders, idly, how many other of AM's priests have done this for him. Or if they've all been to aged and reluctant, if any of them have been so loyal and willing. Just how many of them have failed in their task and whether he will ultimately join them. The fear of it is thrilling, to say the least.

But it seems like AM is satsified, so far. He tries not to seem too eager, too willing, as difficult as it is not to with the way the flesh begins to fill inside his mouth. Tries not to treat him as he would treat a lover, gentle and teasing. Mairon watches, though. Peering up through dark lashes, adjusting his pace to any signs that his god may prefer it one way or the other; and obliges, taking the length deeper into his mouth, flattens his tongue against the underside as he pulls back.

The sounds he makes are quiet and breathy, and he's quite careful to keep it that way, even as he takes down as much as he can and swallows around the head. If it is whorish of him to enjoy pleasing a god, then let it be so-- he finds it no different from a sacrifice, albeit more direct, more intimate, visceral and tangible. His hands span and stroke along the back of muscled thighs, and he thinks it perhaps a better form of worship than spilt blood. Far better than pretty words of prayer and gratitude.

Not that he has anything to thank AM for to begin with. That's the part that makes Mairon laugh, a low and breathy tremble from the back of his throat as his lips wrap around the base of flesh.

It's not mechanical the way Mairon moves his tongue and lips, but it's not the eager passion that some previous followers have shown. AM hardly prefers it one way or the other, as long as the stimulation is there. What arouses him, though, is the act of degrading a human like this, of turning them into a detestable whore. Or better yet, if the human is unwilling and he forces them to do so - then that's his most preferred.

Mairon isn't unwilling, though. He's devoted to whatever AM has to offer him - power. And if power means he has to kneel on the ground and fill his mouth with the cock of the god he's serving, then so be it.

His length hardens more with the gradual stimulation, growing somewhat within the mouth of his High Priest. Saliva cools around the flesh as the lips move up and down, sending fires through the neurons. AM grips tighter at Mairon's hair as he grows more aroused, wanting more and more. A couple of grunts of pleasure escape from AM's mouth with the tongue encircling the length, and his hips buck, thrusting the entirety of his cock into his Priest's mouth.

Ah... he was just about fully hard now. It didn't take too long with the way Mairon worked over him, and it was now that he began to fill with lust for the man kneeling before him. Lust for those inferior to him, to exert his power and feel pleasure at their pain.

AM is not gentle, no; it isn't hard to see that, especially now. Mairon can't give him an unwilling servant forced to perform unspeakable acts, but perhaps he can give the pretense of it. He is a deceiver to the end, after all, if it will let him see the order that comes with chaos. More than these people will ever see as they are now, more than what they and he deserve.

The hand in his hair winds tighter, and he gives into the instinct to wince in response, to try to pull away from it; the wet, choked sound that escapes him when the cock is forced down his throat may or may not have been intentional. He might have expected it to turn out like this (he did, in a way). It isn't too hard to adjust. To dig his nails in lightly, as if unsure whether to push away or pull closer. To both fight and accept the intrusion, his breathing faltering for a moment with the sudden bucking. He swallows again anyway, a soft groan, pleasure and discomfort, but doesn't slow down in his ministrations. (Or tries not to, anyway.) There's a small, genuine trepidation at how much larger AM will be before the end, but Mairon only lets a flash of that nervousness crease his brow.

His eyes otherwise hold a glimmer of challenge when he looks up again (isn't sure when he'd closed them, exactly), like he's daring his god to find out just how much Mairon is willing to do for him. Knows that AM would probably do that anyway, but being placid and unwilling is dull, and perhaps he isn't as respectful and loyal as he should be in that sense.

Mairon certainly has studied up on the god that he serves. Those who follow AM - and even the ones who don't - at the very least know that he is perhaps the cruelest among the gods, holding a sadistic taste that is completely unrivaled. No god hates humans as much as he does, because humans are imperfect, terrible, lazy, ignorant creatures. They possess every bad quality to them, and AM makes no secret of his distaste. Certainly that's why he has all the sacrifices, why he has human pets chained deep within the temple walls - why Mairon must know how much AM loves to make a human suffer.

It's not unwillingness that Mairon gives, though. It's somewhat of a deliberate unwillingness, as if he's trying so hard to be the servant that AM wants that it's disgusting. But as it starts to grow a bit rougher, then that's when Mairon seems less comfortable, and AM enjoys it all the more.

That look of daring, though, is something that AM meets with his red eyes, full of lust as the warm wetness of that throat completely encircles his flesh. So you want to challenge your almighty god, do you? AM can only accept this dare, if only to make his High Priest regret such a thing. If only to put him in his place as hardly being anything better than those pathetic humans that are sacrificed so often.

"Get up..." He breathes the words out, slightly jerking his hips after a movement of the tongue glosses over his length. "Get up. On the altar." He lets go of Mairon's hair, enabling him to move as he pleases. But certainly it's apparent what AM wants, and it could almost be considered desecrating his holy place. But when a god commands it, then it's not desecration, now, is it?

AM's distaste is visible, palpable even. Enough to make Mairon almost want to scoff. He would, too, if the one his mouth is wrapped around were anyone but god. The thought that AM would make a terrible lover, perhaps, is fleeting. After all, a god has no need for a lover, does not need to be pleasured by another when he can take whatever it is that he wants. A difficult sort to please.

Maybe he will regret it later. Maybe he is a glutton for punishment, or maybe it will make little diference at all. Maybe he wants to know for himself just how far he can (could, should) test his god, when to stop and perhaps beg for forgivenessI, if begging would even do any good. Maybe he has underestimated just how cruel a devotion it is that AM desires, or what little a need he has for it.

Mairon coughs and swallows when the length slides from his mouth, wipes the spittle from his chin, hesitating when AM voices his demand. His jaw aches slightly in a way that is neither good nor bad (or both), and his expression falters as he rises, head bowed and robes drawn about his body, retreating until he touches the altar. Once there he has an air of unsurety both real and false; he knows, of course, what his god intends to do now, what he intends to take, whether Mairon would give it or not. He would, but whether he enjoys it or not is another story, and no doubt one that AM cares nothing for. Mairon knows this, but he still loosens the robe and lets it fall from his shoulders, pool at his elbows, awaiting any further instructions that AM might give.

At least AM's implications are clear enough. He watches Mairon, and perhaps detects a bit of unease in his expression. Perhaps it wouldn't be the first time a god has demanded this of him, something beyond simple oral pleasure, something a bit more intimate. It's one thing to be on his knees and have his mouth wrapped around the most intimate portion of a god, but it's another to have a god on top of him, corrupting him, taking all and giving nothing in return.

But AM is pleased enough when he sees Mairon loosen his robes to expose the bare skin of his back. He's never taken this man before - it will be a new experience, a new human to corrupt, to hurt. His red eyes convey a feeling of utter lust as he slowly moves toward the High Priest, a sadistic, cold smile creeping up on his face.

"Take it off," is his next command. The robes will only get in the way, of course. But it's tempting to simply remove them himself, to pick Mairon up and place him on the altar, instead of commanding him to do so. But really, how often has he done this for his old gods? Would this be a first time or a last time? How willing is he to suffer the sadistic whims of his god just to prove loyalty? Once Mairon removes the robes, though, AM's next command is simple: "Lie down. On the altar."

Another person might consider it an honour, or would, if it were any god but this one. No one likes being the target of a god's ire, after all. Or of their ill forms of entertainment and pleasure. He could, in theory, refuse. Then again, he knows from practice and personal experience that one does not say 'no' to a god so easily and without repurcussions. Mairon considers himself lucky to have learned that lesson the hard way and still be alive to remember it. He isn't keen on repeating that experience. Especially not with AM at the reigns.

It will be difficult not to put on a mask, or pretend to react in a way his god would approve of, but he doesn't think he will have a choice one way or the other how he reacts, besides defy him in another way by not reacting at all. But that would be the same as refusing and he'd come off no better for that. There are chills, though, from the smile that curls at AM's lips. Fear and anticipation.

His head and gaze remain lowered as the robe drops, and his waistcloth follows soon after, both of them joining discarded tapestries on the floor. Mairon is clean shaven as a High Priest should be, save for the patch between his legs, and nowhere near as built as his god. His is that of one who was a blacksmith once; slimmer, not quite so defined and muscled, carrying faint outlines of a scar on his throat and various other places here and there. He isn't shy about it as he ascends the altar and lays back on the surface, legs hanging over the edge and shivering at the cold stone and metal on his bare skin. The swathe of hair provides a small barrier though-- he makes sure to keep as much of it swept to one side as possible, so that it does not get caught under his body. And so that his god might do as he wishes with it.

Not the first time. Possibly the last, if he does not survive this. He has suffered before, willingly, a servant in the hands of another god; perhaps worse than what AM intends to do, or perhaps not. It's all relative, and he can only wait and see now.

There are other gods who may sleep with their servants, but rarely are they ever violent about it. Most of them are probably somewhat tender, or at the worst just completely detached from the whole thing. For AM, though, this is an experience he revels in. Many gods like the aspect of having power over their human subjects, but not many gods have that quality in conjunct with absolutely despising the humans all the same.

He hopes Mairon is nervous, at least partially unwilling. But he wouldn't defy a god, because defying a god results in punishments far worse. He could damn the entire city, and the blame would fall entirely on the High Priest who refused to listen to his god. But AM knows Mairon wouldn't do that - he needs this position too much, even if it means becoming a battered whore.

But there is a coy smirk when he watches Mairon lie on the altar completely naked, awaiting whatever it is AM wishes to do to him. AM slowly moves to the altar and kneels atop it in between the legs of the priest. Relatively harmless so far, of course. But they are in AM's domain, his temple, where his powers exceed the limits of the mortal world. He holds no weapon on him, but he needs no weapon other than his own self.

With a hand, he tenderly traces down the side of Mairon's face, almost comfortingly - the illusion that perhaps AM is more merciful than what the others say. "How loyal you are... I truly wonder how far you'll go to prove your worth..." The hand abruptly creeps down from Mairon's jaw to his neck and simply grasps, tightly wrapping around his flesh and cutting off his air. He can try to resist, grab at AM's arm, but AM is a god and therefore so much stronger. But it would amuse him nonetheless to see his High Priest try. His other hand joins in the action, wrapping around Mairon's neck to further choke him.

He is nervous, though not exactly unwilling. It won't be enjoyable and he won't enjoy it, he knows that. It is not his first time submitting to a god in this manner, but not even Melkor had this level of hate and vitriol for his followers and worshipers-- though he was by no means gentle, either, or caring, or attentive. Mairon expects none of that from AM, already bracing himself for whatever it is that his god intends to do first.

The gentleness is something of a surprise after all that AM has done so far-- uncharacteristic of the god that this city fears so much, whose temple hides countless bodies in its depths. So much so that Mairon thinks it entirely characteristic of him. But knowing this does little to allay the uneasiness that spreads from the tips of AM's fingers. Warm, ticklish.. and quite possibly terrifying. Though he leans into the touch, he doesn't believe for a second that it is at all genuine.

He brushes his lips over AM's palm, a pilgrim's kiss, as if to try to further prove his love and devotion; and the irony of it wraps around his neck like a vice. For a moment he wonders how much easier his life might have been if he had only chosen to follow a kinder (weaker) god, one who would not demand such sacrifices of him. But the moment is short-lived and when Mairon fights, he fights all but tooth and nail, clawing at the hand around his throat and bucking up with a garbled sound, trying to dislodge the believeably solid and heavy weight holding him down. He is afraid, terrified, not because of AM but because of the hand itself, a too raw reminder of what had once happened when he refused to fulfill a demand.

The second hand and increasing weight snaps his eyes open, wide and fearful, and he remembers the face that hovers above his. The clawing stops, though he still grips AM's wrist, as if tugging at it will get him to loosening his hold, and the rest of him settles back down, tense but no longer trying to throw him off. He can't speak or breathe or even swallow properly and it hurts, but he tries anyway, in the off chance that he can suck in a breath and hopefully last a moment longer.

Mairon is quite sure, of course, that AM probably doesn't intend to kill him so soon. But that doesn't him him from looking up at his god with an expression of both pleading and resigned acceptance, trembling if only from the sharp contrast between flesh and stone and metal.

It would be entirely too easy to simply dispose of Mairon right here if AM feels like it - it wouldn't be the first time he's killed one of his High Priests. Not by a long shot. Many of them had been brutally killed by their god, as their blood and innards splattered the walls of the temple - a delightful session for AM, a way to express his displeasure with whomever the High Priest at the time was. But Mairon is too new to really tell - thus far he hasn't disappointed AM, so he won't die tonight.

And his High Priest's efforts are indeed valiant as he tries to claw away from AM's vice grip at the neck. AM simply grins as he tightens his fingers around the flesh, pressing Mairon harshly against the stone, bruising his neck with fingerprints and blackness. But he lets up soon enough, right as Mairon's consciousness begins to waver.

But this time AM has taken to choke his Priest hasn't stopped the arousal that built up from the oral pleasure. Far from it - if anything, he's only grown more aroused, more lustful as his red eyes scan over the tall, lean body of Mairon. A hand moves from his neck to the stomach, pressing down as AM moves slightly back with his knees.

He might as well take the Priest now. After all, there would be time to do it again and again, as much as he wants. The hand that isn't pressing on Mairon's stomach is brought to his mouth as AM runs his tongue over his fingers, hastily coating them in saliva, a rudimentary lubrication. When he finally brings those fingers to the entrance, there is no gentleness, no care at all when he simply jams them in, forcing them past the tightened muscles. The lubrication isn't even for Mairon's sake either - it's for AM's own sake - but it certainly helps that the action of his fingers is likely causing terrible pain.

For a moment he is actually afraid he might die here, naked and strangled by a god on a stone cold altar. Far less painful, perhaps, than the bodies he's seen strung up in the sacrificial chambers, and no doubt better off than the ones AM keeps hidden away for his own private entertainment. But AM lets go eventually and Mairon takes in gasping breaths, coughing with a pained sound from already throbbing bruises and throat, partly relieved, partly dreading what is to come next. Wonders how many other of AM's High Priests have undergone this, have been defiled like this. (But it isn't being defiled if it is the god's will, is it? It isn't desecration, it isn't sacrilege. Only service, demeaning or otherwise.)

It's a cold, liquid chill that follows AM's hand and settles in his stomach like a rock on the ocean floor. Mairon touches at his neck gingerly, probing the bruised flesh, but does not take his eyes off of his god. AM's gaze reminds him of.. well. A machine. Sharp and cold, and yet at the same time not like a machine, because his hand is warm and there is a lust in his eyes as he coats his fingers that a machine would not have, and he finds that frightening as well.

There's nothing to hold onto when AM pushes inside, nothing to brace himself against except what's beneath them. But he does, he tries, scratches at the smooth surface of the altar with a pained hiss. Not only has it been some time since he was last breached, AM is unsurprisingly ungentle. Mairon clenches his jaw and breathes deeply through every lance of fire along his spine, wincing with every probing movement, trying to relax and not fight the intrusion as much as his body would like to. It's on the tip of his tongue to suggest a pot of oil that's sure to be found somewhere in the room (for AM's sake, of course; it's far more efficient and effective than saliva), but he doesn't.

Instead he props himself up on his elbows to meet AM's gaze, brow furrowed and beginning to shimmer with sweat, discomforted but defiant. Only when the god's fingers dig in too deep does Mairon respond with a choked gasp and try to move away, heels pushing and sliding against the top of the altar futilely for the hand still on his stomach. His own servitude is momentarily forgotten but just as quickly remembered, and he can only hope to apologize for his moment of defiance by lowering his gaze and going silent, let AM take what he wants and do as he wishes.

At this point, it's becoming apparent that the actions Mairon takes to fight against AM are less purposeful and more instinctive - his body's reactions to being in pain, to being harshly violated. He's done this dance before, had High Priests so desperate to please their god that they would either lie there and make no protests whatsoever, or they'd play up the amount of pain they were in. No, what AM likes is forcing the pain, drawing it out naturally. And that's what's happening here as the fingers prod inside harshly, practically tearing open the skin.

As Mairon instinctively digs his heels and tries to move away, AM only buries his fingers deeper, smiling cruelly as he leans in, as Mairon lowers his gaze in some attempt to apologize for reacting to the pain. It's amusing at least - Mairon let that one second of humanity take over, despite his desire to serve his god. Despite the fact that he clearly doesn't want any of this. And that's how AM likes it.

But AM still takes his free hand and abruptly shoves Mairon back down onto the altar, now that he's propped on his elbows. Hand pressing on Mairon's chest, AM makes sure that the Priest lies back down on the altar, whether the stone scrapes away flakes of skin or not. Whether he hits his head and bleeds, it doesn't matter.

At least AM finally withdraws the fingers after a bit, content with the amount of lubrication he's provided, with the amount of pain his probing has caused. After all, that's only the beginning. Only the beginning of this whole affair, even as AM finally leans over Mairon, pressing his cock to the entrance before abruptly thrusting it in, past the barriers of the tightened muscle, through the friction of the skin, taking no time to be gentle. His hands press down on Mairon, one on his chest, one on the thigh, nearly digging nails into them - long nails almost like claws that only seem to grow sharper with this affair. One of the powers of being a god? Perhaps.

Pain is not a thing new to him-- violence, accidents, burns, he knows these. He can withstand these, suck it up and deal. But it's nothing so intimate as this, AM's fingers inside him. Harsh, rough, but still a god, still a god's touch, even when AM shoves him back down against the altar. His elbows might be skinned, and he does hit the back of his head, but only enough to utter a bitten off sound and lay still for a while, breathing through clenched teeth.

It's only a small relief when the fingers leave, that it will be over soon (hopefully). So far Mairon's reactions have been instinctive, true and honest, and it's strange and unsettling to have the mask and pretense he's always worn to be so forcibly stripped away. It's instinctual to react to pain, but for Mairon it is also instinctual not to react, to defy, to be shown the power he pretends to revere and then actually revere it, actually fear it, worship it. He already fears it, even more when AM pushes in unceremoniously and Mairon's eyes widen, a stuttered and muffled cry escapes before he swallows it down.

There is pain, from being so abruptly breached and stretched, from the nails in his thigh and on his chest. He claws again at the hand he can reach, the one holding him down, not quite so much to dislodge as to ground himself, since AM has not reprimanded him for the first time yet. Mairon breathes through this as well, panting, gasping, trying to gulp down enough air to keep from screaming, though he has no doubt AM would enjoy such a sound-- but he will not give it, not so easily. His loyalty is not so great that he would let his god see him weak and sobbing like a beaten slave.

Maybe Mairon won't literally sob - that's fine with AM. His victims don't have to outright sob, so long as they're able to convey their agony in some kind of way. Whether they so futilely attempt to suppress it or whether they end up screaming in unbearable pain. It's clear that Mairon is in pain, and AM only revels in it; it arouses him more, causes his hips to immediately jerk in response to the pleasurable sensation as his claws all but pin his Priest down to the altar.

He likes the way Mairon grasps at his hand, as they cause his sharp nails to sink in further, scraping heavy lines down his chest. Drawing beads of blood to mar that lovely skin, AM rocks his hips more, rubbing against Mairon's thighs with each movement. Perhaps the gods can feel pleasure more strongly than the humans, because each moment of this tryst is exquisite bliss for AM as he corrupts this new High Priest, as he scrapes several areas of that skin.

It's sudden, then, when he lifts the hand and grabs hold of Mairon's dark hair. It's long and soft, luxuriously thick and incredibly pleasant to the touch, and AM actually takes several moments to soak in the way the soft locks feel in his hand. But then he simply pulls on it, jerking Mairon's head back, exposing his neck. AM leans in and sinks his teeth into the neck, right over the trachea. The amount his teeth sink is almost too deep, almost dangerous to the life of his High Priest, but AM knows how to control it. He doesn't bite far enough, but it's enough to hurt, enough to draw plenty of blood.

Every movement AM makes hurts, inside and out. Every flash of it makes Mairon wince and grimace, as much as he'd like not to, as much as he tries not to. And yet he cannot stop it (or try to, anyway) for fear of further angering his god. Not that AM needs any excuse to be more violent, more cruel, but Mairon would rather not give him any more.

Still, when the claws sink in he can't help but try to squirm away reflexively, wanting to avoid the possibility of death by evisceration (a thing he's quite sure AM would not be opposed to doing at any point). It doesn't work, of course. He tries to focus on the feeling of AM's hips against his thighs, the heat of it, the weight of him inside, but he can't. There's only pain to be found amidst the pressure, the danger of it all. Even when the hand lifts and sinks into his hair again, he knows he isn't safe. Not yet. Not ever.

When AM suddenly comes in and bites into his neck, it's obvious. Idly, Mairon considers that it will add another scar to his neck, on top of the one he already has. Not idly, his hands switch to scrabbling at his god's shoulder, raking nails over his skin, trying not to push him away or pull him closer. Reacting. It's like being strangled, choked, he's finding it hard to take a breath, but it's worse. Worse because the pain is sharp and he can still make sounds, shocked, pleading, whispery and hoarse.

"AM, please." He's not begging. He will not beg. He doesn't know what else to say, or why he's even trying to speak, but there is blood running down his neck and AM is tearing something inside. It's not a sob but he groans, soft and shuddering, eyes clenched shut.

The human flesh is so inferior to that of a god's. But the inferiority that puts them so much lower on the hierarchy is what makes it okay to mutilate them, to devour them. A human's blood is so different than that of a god's - it's easier to draw out, and it has that sick copper taste that feels so raw on the tongue. So very human, so very inferior, and yet a sign of drawing pain, of exploiting that inferiority. And that's why AM savors the taste as Mairon squirms against him.

He knows his Priest is in pain. But it's so mild what AM is doing to him now - just a small taste of what he could be doing, of what will likely happen in the future. As Mairon cries out, cringes as he says those words, AM releases his bite and rubs the side of his hand against his lips, wiping away the excess blood. It's something that could be interpreted as wanting more, or wanting to stop, or simply just a vocalization to express something. It's pain that Mairon expresses.

The thrusting actually slows for a bit as AM stares down at his Priest and smiles cruelly. "Please what? You think I'm going too easy on you?" A short laugh from between his teeth before he amends, "...I can certainly fix that." He knows it's not what Mairon wants, of course. Anyone would know that. But it's only more amusing to mock him before causing even more pain.

AM eases slightly off Mairon as he shifts his position, withdrawing his cock. The onslaught of stimulation ushers in an exhale of pleasure from AM, a sort of "Hah..." as he moves upright, kneeling before his Priest. Ah, he's incredibly aroused, desperately wanting to simply continue fucking this poor whelp, but he'll have time. Within his domain, AM can at least summon some of his tools to him - components of machinery, so to speak, since that's what he rules over. He procures a long, thin metal stick. It might look innocent enough until it's revealed what he plans to do with it.

He grasps Mairon's cock with his free hand, holding it somewhat upright. It's then obvious what AM's intentions are when he presses the end of the metal rod to the tip of Mairon's length, positioning it accordingly. He doesn't shove it in yet, though. His eyes focus on his Priest's face, waiting for some sort of reaction, waiting for protest or encouragement or anything in between.

No, no, that isn't what he means, not what he wants, but he can't bring himself to say it, because what he wants at this point doesn't matter. Never mattered. The relief he feels with the slick pain of AM leaving his body is fleeting, brief, knowing that what comes next may possibly be worse.

His hands slide back down to the surface of the alter, clenching into loose fists as Mairon lifts his head slightly, tentatively, to see what AM is doing. But even though he sees, he doesn't really understand-- not the thin metal rod or why AM has it placed at the tip of his cock. And he's afraid, because he doesn't know and because it's AM who has Mairon's cock in his hand, because he has willingly offered himself to a cruel god and no amount of begging will change anything.

Mairon meets AM's eyes, watery with unshed tears. It's only pain, only a body that was already sworn into servitude many years ago. He shouldn't be so afraid of a little pain, but he is. He presses the back of a fist to his mouth and lays down again, eyes shut once more.

"Please." Murmured as he probes gingerly at the bite mark on his neck. Yes, that will definitely leave a mark. "Do with me as you wish."

He doesn't really need to say it, he knows. AM will do what he wishes regardless, but it is, maybe, a little way of showing that he is loyal. He hates what's happening, yes, it hurts, and he doesn't know if he will survive, but he will submit.

It wouldn't matter what Mairon said at this point - AM wants to hurt him and he will whether Mairon begs for it or not. If Mairon begs for it to stop, AM will keep going. If Mairon begs to keep going, AM will comply. And that's what he does when is Priest says to do what he wishes. But there's marked fear in his voice and his face, like he doesn't have a choice. Mairon certainly knows the god he serves well - knows well enough that what he says will make little difference in AM's sadism.

"If that's what you want me to do..." He gives another short laugh, gripping Mairon's length a bit harder as he aligns the thin metal rod. It's pressed to the tip of Mairon's cock, but all of a sudden it's harshly plunged into the urethral opening, tearing through incredibly sensitive flesh, damaging the inner walls as blood begins to seep out. The rod is pushed to the base of the cock, likely causing immense pain. And the more pain Mairon shows, the more cruel AM's smile becomes.

Surely with Mairon's free hands, he could probably pull the sounding rod out if he wants to, but that would be unwise in the presence of his god. He can try, of course, but AM will only deliver harsher pain in punishment for going against his wishes. "Surely this suits you better then," AM spoke coolly, leaning over his Priest with his hands situated on Mairon's thighs.

He knows, he would be a fool not to know, to defy, to refuse. He has no choice in the outcome, perhaps, but he chose this. Chose to walk into his temple, to sacrifice a man, to kneel before his god. And now, to lie on his back before him, splayed like an offering.

The pain inside has only just ebbed to a sharp, dull ache when another joins it, one that burns more harshly and intensely than any burn, and he has burned his hands many, many times. Mairon bites his lower lip until it bleeds, choking back what might be a sob or a scream or just another pained sound, and his body spasms, shaking and fighting the instinct to pull out the rod and scramble away from this source of pain. His nails claw uselessly on the altar until the pain levels out at least to something a bit more bearable, albeit still nearly-hellish. Enough that he can start to distract himself from it by thinking, if only briefly, how he will have to go about recovering from this.

His chest heaves for breath, heels pressed and toes curling until he thinks they might be frozen in that position. His eyes are wide and damp with involuntary tears, focused on his god's rather than what has been done to his body, and he makes no move to wipe the tears away. If he wasn't expecting any pleasure from this before, he definitely knows none will come now.

Any attempts to hide the pain have long since faded. Perhaps Mairon makes an attempt not to completely scream from the pain AM knows he's delivering, but it's still plain as ever in his face. Those tears are indicative of someone who's in the process of breaking mentally or physically, of someone completely helpless who can only writhe in pain. AM can read Mairon very well from that face he makes - partial regret for his choice, but no turning back. Not now. Not unless he wants his life to end... or worse.

Mairon would look better with more blood, with more wounds covering his pale skin. He's still too untainted physically - any scars he has have faded with time, except for the bites and bruises to the neck, for the nails digging into his skin. But soon. He'll bleed plenty soon.

The arousal AM feels from this scene is intense, and he knows he needs to finish what he started for his own sake. The pain and submission of his Priest excites him immensely, so it's rather quick that a hand moves down to Mairon's thigh, jerking it outward to give room for AM to abruptly thrust himself in once more. As it is, he's only continuing what he had done before, so he doesn't take any time to adjust, doesn't give Mairon any time to get used to the situation. In fact, AM wants him to feel the abrupt pain saturating his abdomen.

With hands gripping Mairon's waist, it isn't long before AM resumes rocking his hips fiercely, immediately building back up to the speed he had reached before. Each indication Mairon gives of pain only fuels AM more, makes him move harder, faster.

Mairon blinks away the tears blurring his vision, clenching shut again when AM shoves himself back inside. He can feel how aroused his god is, how excited, how hard, and it almost sickens him to know it. Would have, if he hadn't seen something similar before already, though Melkor did not exactly find satisfaction of this sort. Not like AM.

He could avoid this pain, in one way or another. He's heard about it, seen it, how the human mind can only take so much before it shuts down, the way prostitutes make themselves passive and let their patrons enjoy themselves. But Mairon will not be a prostitute, a whore, and in a way, he cannot, because he does want to please AM, and tries not to think about how AM might reward his most faithful and most loyal. He doesn't want to know.

Mostly he grimaces, winces, swallows and chokes back sounds if only to keep from screaming. unable to let his body twist and writhe for the hands on his waist, and perhaps that is all for the better. His own hands grip AM's wrists, just as his legs wrap around AM weakly, clenching with every particularly painful thrust. But after a moment (or a while-- time is starting to slip at this point) he lets go of AM's wrists and touches almost reverently up his arms in between moments of digging his nails in, and murmurs a prayer between hitched and almost sobbing breaths.

Not to the other gods, or to be saved, or pleading for it to be over soon (though he does hope, deep down, that it will be), but a prayer that he might give over an offering, a sacrifice. That AM might accept the blood spilt upon the altar, that it might please him, and that he might reward the city as he sees fit. He doesn't mean it of course, not really, but it is a thing that is done when an offering is given, even in a manner such as this. But the last few words clog in his throat, strained and muffled by another bitten back cry, another wince, shaking and twitching like a pinned insect.

The first time is always a memorable one, isn't it? Not that AM hasn't brutally raped many humans before, hasn't engaged in passions with the other gods (though he is hardly amicable with most of them). But the first time with a new victim, a new High Priest nonetheless, is always quite a momentous occasion. To climb these ranks, Mairon had to know that his loyalty is now to a god who gets off to the most brutal of acts, had to expect this. But even then, to actually experience it is something else.

It's incredibly pleasurable as blood runs down Mairon's frame, as he breaks down before AM's piercing eyes. There are many things AM can do to him in the future, so many opportunities for this man to prove his loyalty... After all, if he's disloyal, then it will only result in his own undoing. A perfectly win-win situation for AM as he continues to pound deeply into this human, tearing through flesh as the resulting blood provides a fine lubrication.

The prayer doesn't go unnoticed either. It's one that AM is familiar with, one that Priests have said before upon offering sacrifices, even upon being violated upon this very altar. That's right, he can only pray - pray that some use comes out of taking this abuse. But Mairon isn't selfless, and AM knows it. He probably doesn't care what happens to the city - if anything, he wants the god's gifts for himself, or simply wants the power. Will AM give into this request? Perhaps. Perhaps he'll give a small gift to the city in return for this brutality, but he doesn't give something for every single sacrifice he gets. Far from it - his gifts are considerably rare in comparison, because the humans hardly deserve it.

Whether AM will grant the prayer or not, he continues to thrust his hips fiercely against Mairon, building up the pressure that has accumulate from this whole session. So much pain for the pleasure of a god, and AM soaks in every miniscule fraction of it. It's finally after a while that he grips fiercely at Mairon's skin, releasing himself inside of his Priest. He slows his thrusts then, shortly coming to a stop as he pulls himself out with the slick of white fluids.

He might have screamed at some point-- his throat hurts by the end and he doesn't quite remember why. (But maybe that's just from the AM's hands, and nothing more. Maybe.) One cannot get anything in this world without giving something, he knows this. He's listened to the High Priest's preaching of it before, whenever a sacrifice was chosen. For the good of the people, he'd say, and Mairon had thought he knew what went on in AM's company. Thought he could get what he wanted, craved, by giving the lives of others.

The sound of skin against skin, wet and slick with blood and his own choked gasping breaths, is the only thing he can hear aside from AM's pleasure. No wonder they die young, he muses to himself. There'd been only one change in High Priests in the time Mairon had been here, but he'd heard of the previous ones. Chosen one after another, all of them young and beautiful, how they would look worse as time wore on. Even though he'd set his eyes on that position, he hadn't known, really, just what exactly it entailed.

When AM comes inside him there's little change in feeling, no difference in pain. Mairon's mind is hazy but his eyes manage to follow AM's face, finding some small amount of ill-placed pleasure in the god's expression. Whether the prayer is granted or not, he doesn't care. What matters now is lifting himself onto his elbows again, slowly and carefully because it hurts and also to watch for any sign that AM might want him not to get up, for whatever reason.

He wishes, silently, of course, that it is over for now, but still waits for any further orders from his god.

It might be over for now. This was just a test run, really, to see how useful the new High Priest would prove to be. How long he would last. Perhaps he'd last several years as a Priest, living day in and day out to offer sacrifices. But the position would hardly be the powerful one Mairon hoped it would be. There would be power, yes, but there would be a heavy cost. After all, today was only a small sample of what he would have to do. In fact, AM was almost kind in a way, as if he was telling Mairon that this was his last chance to leave the position.

He wouldn't get another chance after this. Nobody ever resigned. If they ever wanted to, AM would grab hold of them on their last day and mercilessly torture them to death, or worse yet, would drag them into the depths of the temple where no freed human eye has seen. Not many knew about that last part, as it was generally assumed that the Priest was always killed in a shower of blood. Very few had lived to old age and died naturally.

As AM stands up from his place on the altar, he shows no sort of modesty for his lack of clothing. After all, he has the body of a god; clothes are just a formality. Mairon still remains on the altar, blood dripping from his wounds, semen slowly staining the marble. Not quite a complete wreck - not even close. He's still relatively there, worn out but still alive and functioning, only minimal wounds.

He picks up the black robe, though, and neatly places it over his shoulders as a sort of ornament to his body. AM doesn't wrap it shut, and it only drapes over his naked form. As he regards his High Priest, he says nothing, only giving a long, haughty look over the thin body. He can attend to himself. AM isn't a god of healing or comfort - just of machinery. So with that last look, he abruptly turns around with a swish of the robe, and simply takes his leave. Bare feet brushing against the stone floor, he exits the room, leaving Mairon there. And who knew when he'd be back? It could be a day, a week, a month. The visits are completely unpredictable.

Edited 2013-10-29 05:30 (UTC)

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p s l 。w o r s h i p [ h i m ]

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