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The rain was coming down in sheets when Mûrazôr pushed his way into Khamûl’s tent, his muddy boots and soaked hair no doubt staining the makeshift rug and tapestries the easterling had laid down to make their long term encampment feel more like home. Khamûl’s nose scrunched at the pungent smell of sweat and earth, turning swiftly to face the man who had entered without his permission.

“The fuck do you want,” he spat, not caring if the Numenorean captain outranked him or not. Yet instead of receiving an answer with words, Khamûl’s loose tunic was grabbed and he was pulled forward into a searing, rough kiss.

Damn him… Damn him to the void.

Mûrazôr bit at the ranger’s lip, tugging at it before breaking away. His large hands grasped thin shoulders, pushing the easterling down onto his knees, smirking when he found no resistance. For all Khamûl’s bark, when it came to these matters, he was no bite. He watched as Khamûl’s nimble fingers worked his belt open, his trousers apart, until at last his cock sprang free. Without needing to coax him, Khamûl parted his lips and Mûrazôr’s hips thrust forward, his length filling the waiting warmth of his mouth.

His hands fisted into the other’s dark waves, holding Khamûl steady so that he might fuck down his throat. It was enjoyable the way Khamûl gagged on his length the first time, not given a chance to adjust, his esophagus constricting as he was deprived of air. Khamûl felt dizzy as the tip of the Numenorean’s cock assaulted his throat, plunging in without any regard, his hands pushing at the captain’s hips to try and get him to ease off.

Each time Khamûl fought him like this, he couldn’t help but groan in pleasure. He drew his length from between those reddened lips, a trail of saliva and precome still connecting them for the time being, his hand smacking hard across Khamûl’s face. The easterling fell onto his side, gritting his teeth as his ears began to ring, his hand cradling his sore cheek.

“Fuck you,” Khamûl snapped, spitting blood a moment later as he glared up at Mûrazôr.

“Other way around actually,” Mûrazôr shrugged, nonchalant and unphased.

Before he could get back onto his feet, Mûrazôr was at his side and pushing his head down toward the ground, his other hand yanking at Khamûl’s harem pants until his ass was revealed. Khamûl heard it before he felt it, the sound of his captain spitting on his backside. A luxury he usually wasn’t afforded. The slickness rolled down the cleft of his cheeks as Mûrazôr lifted his hips up, his fingers spreading each side so that his hole was exposed. His eyes shut tight, knowing what was coming, but when instead of rough fingers he felt hot breath and the warm gentleness of Mûrazôr’s tongue caressing his entrance, the easterling couldn’t help but moan.

Toes curling, his hips pressed up further, trying to feel more of that brilliant sensation. He could hear that bastard Numenorean chuckle from behind him, and stars, he hated himself for it, but it was too good and his body couldn’t stop responding.

“Bring your hands back here,” Mûrazôr murmured against his flesh, his tongue swiping over the tight ring of muscle. “Hold yourself open for me.”

Khamûl obeyed without question, pulling his cheeks apart for the other, panting heavily for his breath. His nails bit into his skin as that bastard’s tongue breached him, moaning louder than he would ever admit to. Shivering with pure pleasure, he gasped and writhed under the attention. It wasn’t fair, not fucking fair in the slightest.

Beside the swirling, sinful tongue, a finger pushed with ease into Khamûl, now pliant and relaxed. He sucked his bloody lip into his mouth, eyes rolling back in his head. These stupid games they played. One of his hands came forward from his ass, swatting at the captain weakly. “Oil,” he managed, breathless, pointing to a box not far away.

“Don’t want me to fuck you raw? What a shame,” Mûrazôr laughed, reaching for the box and the jar of oil inside. He opened it with his teeth and coated his other fingers, a second and third forcing themselves into the easterling’s hole without warning. As Khamûl attempted to jolt away in pain, hissing in his anger, he was held steady by a strong arm instead.

“Fuck! Mûrazôr you bastard!”

Mûrazôr laughed again, the sound bordering on cruel. He didn’t give the other time to adjust, instead fucking him open with his thick, rough fingers even as the easterling scrambled to get away from him. Where Khamûl usually won by speed and agility, Mûrazôr won by strength. It seemed like forever before the smaller man gave up on his struggling, but at last he did and Mûrazôr slowed his hand.

Finally pliant, Khamûl’s hands planted themselves on either side of his head, the ground hard beneath him. His eyes were closed, trying to imagine a lover, any lover, that wasn’t this bastard… someone who cared for him, truly cared for him. Yet none came to mind. Instead, he focused on his breathing, trying to keep it even. As the fingers withdrew from him, he did his best to relax, to not tense up under the other’s weight.

The Numenorean positioned himself over Khamûl, his heavy cock slicked with the remnants of oil from his fingers. The mushroomed tip grazed against Khamûl’s hole, back and forth before pushing past the ring of muscle there. He groaned, low and deep from the back of his throat as he filled the other, savouring the way the easterling stretched around his thick girth.

Despite himself, the smaller man couldn’t suppress a weak moan, stretched and filled to the brim with Mûrazôr’s cock. A hand held down his head as Mûrazôr began to move, thrusting into him again and again and again. His own arousal swung between his thighs as the other plowed him, untouched and steadily dripping precome onto the rug beneath them. Shaking as he tried to keep his hips up, his knees felt unbearably weak each and every time Mûrazôr’s cock slammed deeper into him, the sound of skin slapping against skin audible even over the rain.

Eyes closed, Mûrazôr couldn’t help but picture their Master’s long red hair, his milky white skin. How beautiful Mairon would look under him instead of Khamûl. Each moan the easterling released, he imaged how Mairon would sound instead, a symphony of delight from the Maia’s perfect mouth. What he wouldn’t give to be fucking Mairon instead of Khamûl… Yet instead of burying his cock into his Master, instead he fucked Khamûl harder, earning a desperate cry from the easterling’s lips as he spilled his seed, muscles tightening and tensing, cock untouched.

In a handful of rough pumps of his hips, Mûrazôr’s end came as well. “Fuck, Mairon,” he groaned without thinking, his fantasy bleeding into reality. As he pulled out, his eyes opened and he caught sight of the other’s face in the now darkened tent, tear stains down his cheeks undeniable.

Khamûl made himself sit up, looking away from his captain as he righted his pants once more. “Get. Out.”

And for once, Mûrazôr listened. He fastened his pants and belt and strode out of the tent and into the rain without another word.