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Manwë giggled in a manner that was entirely unbefitting of his station and importance as the space beyond his chair suddenly darkened into an opaque wall of pure blackness.
“It begins,” he whispered excitedly. “This will be good!”
The game was an old one—so intimate that it played on the fragile threads of decency as on a harp—and Manwë always enjoyed it. Without hesitation, he extended his hand and rent the veil of obscurity to reveal his brother, clad in an utterly ridiculous outfit.
At once, and before Melkor could even make his first sensual move, Manwë clapped his hands enthusiastically at the glorious sight of his wayward brother in the short, skin-tight dress that left little if anything to the imagination.
“He’s even wearing a garter belt and my favourite panties,” he gasped happily, making Tulkas, who’d crept closer, frown in confusion for he could not fathom why or how the Elder King could have a preference regarding the Betrayer’s undergarments.
Manwë however paid his muted grumbling no heed—he was too bewitched by the simple and yet perfectly choreographed dance Melkor had launched into, grimacing expressively to make sure nobody mistakenly believed him to have fun.
Between the bulging flesh and the fluid movements thus displayed solely for his pleasure, Manwë couldn’t control his own visceral reactions; his wings unfolded, and his hair swirled excitedly as if trying to ensnare that vision of unrepentant humiliation before him.
Ever since Melkor had gone “too far” in the pursuit of his vainglorious ambitions, it had become a habit to make him perform acts of contrition for every minor trespass.
This time, he’d been caught pouring questionable ideas into the most gullible of the Children’s ears, and thus, he’d been ordered to show that he was truly sorry for his ill-conceived encouragement of sedition.
As Manwë looked on, mesmerised beyond what mere thoughts or words could express, Melkor bobbed and twisted enticingly, a knowing grin tugging at the corners of his mouth as he bathed in the undeniably desirous attention of his sanctimonious sibling.
“My Kin—” Tulkas tried to intervene once more, only to be slapped aside by Manwë’s thrumming wings.
“Hush,” the Elder King hissed. “I want to enjoy the show.”
The dark, covetous timbre of his usually so light and dispassionate voice startled Tulkas sufficiently to convince him that he was no longer wanted and should retreat lest he witness something he’d rather ignore.
“Everything’s forgiven! You’re free to go, dear!” Manwë then declared, releasing Melkor from his final, almost reverential stance.
“Go where, brother mine?” the mighty detractor asked warily—he knew his brother’s convoluted mind too well to be duped by this alleged pardon.
“To my chambers,” Manwë laughed. “So we might discuss your performance in depth.”
Melkor didn’t move.
“I appreciate the pains you’ve taken with your bodacious outfit, but it looks rather uncomfortable. Let me repay your effort by relieving you of the constraining fabric and massaging your formidable muscles. I insist, brother!”