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It's indeed quite fortunate that the mithril doesn't break under a stray blow of the hammer. Celebrimbor knows the piece on his anvil would have already shattered if that was the case.
"My lord," Norfewing says. "Are you alright?"
Celebrimbor huffs. "Of course I am. Why wouldn't I?"
"Pardon me, my lord, but you almost toppled over the furnace and, well." Norfewing clears his throat in that annoying way he has when he's about to point out something entirely sensible and rational. Drives Celebrimbor up a wall. "You seem quite distracted. Maybe you should retire as everyone has done."
"This is my last piece," Celebrimbor answers, between two hits of the hammer. "I'll finish here soon."
Norfewing bows. "As you wish." He pauses, before adding, "perhaps you could suggest lord Annatar to do the same. He hasn't stopped working since dawn."
The heat of the forge seems to grow unbearable around Celebrimbor and he thanks Eru for his hand remains steady. "I'll see what I can do."
He watches Norfewing leave the forge with the last of the Mírdain, the door closing behind them in a smooth swing.
He tries to draw his focus back to the armor held on his anvil but once alone, he can't stop the pull of his eyes to a drift of fair hair, to the pale sweep of a neck, to the fitted stretch of leather over the long lines of a torso.
Three months. Three long, unbearable months and Galadriel's warnings have ebbed away like smoke of a smothered candle. But in his defense, she hasn't had to endure the constant sight of the curve of that red mouth, the sound of that voice, the beautiful lines of that face. Celebrimbor wonders still, when nights run calm, how much of Annatar is true, if he has to expect the sting of a blade on his back. No matter the Maia hasn't pushed words, advice or anything in his direction.
Which makes this infatuation of his absolutely pathetic. And the forced distance, even more so.
Celebrimbor tilts his head, catches sight of Annatar bent over his own anvil, bare arms tensed in the strain of the blow of his hammer, the flex of muscles clear under the flames of the furnace. The skin of his neck glistens and Celebrimbor's fingers prick with the desire to run over the slope of it.
It's agonizing how stunning he finds him.
A distracted second is all it takes. Celebrimbor touches the burning edge of the mithril and hisses. His tools clatter to the floor in a loud clunk.
"My lord, are you alright?" Annatar rushes to his side with evident concern.
"Yes, yes I am. You need not to worry, Annatar." The nearness is always unbearable. Annatar is standing so close, Celebrimbor can smell the tang of sweat of him, the underpinned scent of hyacinths under the smoke and he catches himself before falling into the need to sink his nose in the hot space of Annatar's neck to breathe him in.
It's a clash of wants. Push closer, pull back.
"I believe that's not entirely true," Annatar says, quietly reproachful. He takes Celebrimbor's hand in his to examine it closer. The touch of skin on skin thrums all over Celebrimbor, the soft squeeze and curl of Annatar's fingers over the heel of his hand reminding him they've never touched before. Not like this. Not entirely. It seems like the bridge of a gulf. "Yes, I'm afraid the skin is quite inflamed, if you just let me…"
Annatar treads back to his station, while Celebrimbor stares stupidly at his own hand as if it had offended him.
"What are you doing?" He manages to ask once Annatar is back, holding a clay pot and some bandages.
"Patching you up." Annatar pauses then. Levers his gaze with Celebrimbor's. "If my lord allows, of course."
There's care in those amber eyes. And the cautious shyness of knowing his help might not be wanted. Celebrimbor knows Annatar is quite aware of the distrust that still ripples among the Mírdain. That's why he's almost never present in their gatherings, tucking himself away in his chambers except when he's in the forge.
But Celebrimbor can't judge him by things he hasn't done. He can't keep pulling away only because it's terrible to admit how much he wants to let Annatar touch him. How much he wants to feel him in turn.
"It's alright," he says. Tries a smile. "Thank you."
Annatar's lips curl into a smile of his own. "It'll take no time."
His fingers move deftly, applying the salve and wrapping the bandages around Celebrimbor's hands with an expertise Celebrimbor hadn't expected.
"I didn't know you had any experience in tending wounds," he says. "I thought Maiar were beyond harm."
"We are, yes. We're not prone to getting hurt, not like elves in any case," Annatar explains softly. "Yet we do feel. That, I can assure you." The words rattle out of him sure, slightly strained before he pulls back. "All set."
Celebrimbor stamps down the twist on his stomach at the loss of Annatar's closeness. It's ridiculous to feel as affected.
"Thank you, Annatar."
Annatar bows, levers himself up and moves as if to turn around.
"You've been working ceaselessly," Celebrimbor says, trying to stretch the moment. "Why don't you take a break? You're always the last to leave the forge."
"It's not a hardship. I've managed to improve the resistance of the hinges of the outer doors and I'm trying to improve my methods in some designs I want to show you." He lets out a tired sigh. "I think that if I prove how useful they can be, perhaps you'd trust me enough to try for yourself."
It's a boot-trodden path of an argument.
"Annatar, is not that I don't trust you."
"Only that you don't trust the outcome," Annatar says with a rueful smile. "I understand."
It's clear the conversation is over and in the impulse of a moment Celebrimbor reaches forward, places a palm on the turn of Annatar's forearm. It's an outrageously bold move, but he decides he doesn't care anymore.
"Why don't you join us at the dinner for Durin's visit?"
"Join?" Annatar's eyes widen. "I- I wouldn't like to impose. I know many are still not-"
"You'll be there as my guest," Celebrimbor says. With effort, he pulls his hand away. "Will you come?"
He feels a wash of heat flush his face when he catches the almost pleading lilt in his question, but Annatar doesn't seem to notice.
"I-" He blushes in turn, sinking teeth on the delightful plumpness of his bottom lip as if considering, making Celebrimbor wonder not for the first time how Annatar's mouth might taste. "I'll be delighted to attend," Annatar says finally with a small smile. "Tomorrow, isn't it?"
"Tomorrow."
**
As it's usual when Durin visits Eregion, the whole place is filled with noise. Clinking of glasses, raucous laughter, the plucked chords of lutes in dwarven tunes that would make Elrond and Gil-Galad blush as maidens.
Wine and beer run plentiful and the shimmering heat of the summer night buzzes around. Celebrimbor can't stop looking at the door of the dining Hall.
"It might be silver, but you're going to bore a hole in the door if you keep staring at it, lad." It's Narvi, who has sidled to him without Celebrimbor even noticing. "Are you waiting for someone?" His smile turns sly. "You old warg, you got yourself a date?"
"Ah…" Celebrimbor swallows. Narvi's eyes are as keen as the ones of an eagle. "What?"
"My dear Tyelpë," Narvi laughs. "I think I know you well enough to know your attention is elsewhere at the moment. Not that I blame you with the way Dovli is shredding that song-"
Narvi's voice trails off in the rustle of noise that rises all around the hall. When Celebrimbor turns to the doors his breath sears his mouth.
Annatar is there. Standing on the threshold. If Celebrimbor had been standing, he knows his knees would've failed him. As it is, he feels his heart beat quick-bright.
"Tyelpë, my friend, be careful," Narvi says at his side, all playfulness gone from his voice. "Maiar and Valar are not like you and me. And we know so little about Annatar that I'm worried-"
But Celebrimbor isn't listening. "If you excuse me, my friend."
He parts his way to where Annatar is waiting, a faint flush on his cheeks, as if he was embarrassed to have cut the celebration short. Dressed in white silk and gold, he looks regal. Unmatched. Beautiful beyond measure.
Sunshine breaking through clouds after a storm.
That thing that wants, gnaws and slithers beneath Celebrimbor's ribs.
"I'm afraid I've managed to muck up the moment," Annatar whispers, apologetically yet slightly amused, when Celebrimbor draws close. "Durin doesn't seem pleased."
"That's Durin's regular face, don't worry." The strain of the night seems to melt in the air. Celebrimbor smiles, turns to the Hall. "I personally invited Lord Annatar to join us as emissary of the Valar, to remind us all we're blessed in our endeavors. Eregion will thrive and prosper!"
There's a beat of silence and then Durin sets his tankard over the table with a loud thud. "And Khazad-dûm with it!"
"Dovli! Keep singing!" Someone roars at the back.
"Pass the beer!"
Quickly, everyone's swooped again in the heat of the songs, the meal and drinks. Celebrimbor finds himself jostled together with Annatar in the ruckus, ignoring the spilled wine on his clothes when Annatar places a hand on his arm to steady himself in the flow of people. He laughs when Annatar tries to join the chorus of A Last Blow, Oh Lord , before flushing to his hairline when he realizes the song has nothing to do with a hammer.
When the tumult grows unwieldy, dwarves and elves flood the terraces and Celebrimbor guides Annatar out of the Hall and away from the noise.
"You're terrible, my lord," Annatar says, slightly out of breath. "You should've told me!"
Celebrimbor can't contain the froth of joy the night has brought. The smiles that fall easily from his lips. "But you seemed determined to mingle, it was hardly fair of me to stop you."
They meander to one of the hidden gardens, the wind rustling their clothes.
"I had no idea this was what I was missing. Not even Aulë can claim to have gatherings such as these," Annatar laughs, sitting on a bench. There's almost no one around in this small space. He pats the space at his side, as if encouraging Celebrimbor to sit next to him.
"Yes, well," he says, sitting down, pulse thudding in his throat at the unexpected closeness. "You haven't seen the drinking contests yet."
Annatar's voice is slightly teasing when he asks, "Have you ever won one?"
"Of course I have! What do you take me for?" Celebrimbor scoffs in mock affront. "I have to set an example."
"That's very dutiful of you," Annatar laughs.
The breeze that comes from the bank of the Sirannon is thick with heat, but it's not oppressive. The summer will be kind, as has been the autumn and even the winter.
"You should be proud, my lord. Eregion is everything a kingdom should be," Annatar says, then. "The perfect meld of races as metals in the crucible."
"Except for men," Celebrimbor points out, "and we can't leave them out, they're also Ilúvatar's children."
"They'll come around," Annatar says, eyes fixed on the grass. "Perhaps if they're shown what they're missing being so far away. If we can teach them things they still don't know." A beat of silence. "Perhaps if you let me try some of the designs I brought from Valinor. There are valuable pieces that could help the Land to heal and would make Eregion flourish in the eyes of all races."
"I know what you're referring to, Gift Bearer, and Galadriel and Elrond think it unwise." Truth is, Celebrimbor has considered the possibility they might be wrong, but he doesn't dare say it.
"And what do you think, my lord?" Even if Annatar's questions are sure, his voice is a quiet lilt. "Aren't you the one that knows best regarding your people?"
Celebrimbor has seen the designs, an odd similarity in the mix of technology and magic with that of the Silmarils. And yet different enough to nudge into Celebrimbor the idea of trying. If the outside apprehension wasn't as steep.
"I would like to think that's the case," he answers instead, "but it's not that simple."
At his side, Annatar gives a soft nod.
"Yes, I understand and forgive me for speaking so brashly." He hums, considering. "I know change, even for good, is not always encouraged or understood."
That, Celebrimbor knows too. He knows not everyone understands his ways of doing things. That his desire to surpass his grandfather seems reckless for many.
The night has fallen silently, glittering in its darkness, and in this almost liminal space Celebrimbor is keenly aware of the press of Annatar's arm, the warmth of that thigh against his, even through the layers of cloth. His heart beats madly, in his fingers, in his temples, and he considers that whatever it is that shudders through him when Annatar is close isn't only a matter of flesh.
Which is an unexpected, dangerous realization. To know his heart hangs in the balance of this shifting, nascent thing.
Celebrimbor cranes his neck to see Annatar staring at the stars and the sight knocks all the air from his lungs.
The wine that had seemed light on the Hall, runs now heady in his veins and Celebrimbor can't help but set eyes on the delicate swath of skin of Annatar's collarbone that the tunic leaves exposed, on the bow of his mouth, the sharp angle of his jaw. It's a tug at the base of his stomach. He finds himself raising questing fingers and tracing the curve of Annatar's neck, feeling him shiver.
"My lord?" It's a wobbly sort of question, but Annatar doesn't pull back.
" Mercy , Annatar, you enthrall me," Celebrimbor rasps out, horrified at his admission, but his hand smooths up Annatar's throat of its own accord, fingers curling around his nape, thumb pulling at the pink swell of his bottom lip. " Eru , I've never, I've never-"
Celebrimbor has no time to consider how ill-fitting this is, high on the scent of Annatar. Hyacinth and spring, the fresh smell of starting anew. Those amber eyes look at him through the weight of millenia, and Celebrimbor fixes their mouths together, kissing Annatar with a damp, slow slide of lips, relishing the soft moan he gives in their shared breath. It alights Celebrimbor's body entirely. He can't think with the weight of Annatar's body pressed up against his, with the way Annatar's hands fist folds of his tunic, pulling him closer.
He's dreamt of this many times in the solitary space of his room. Of having Annatar just like this under the solid weight of his hands, the fire of his kisses. He's hoped for more, cock hard in his trousers, almost ashamed of admitting to himself the desire that runs rampant inside him, imagining the beautiful splay of Annatar squirming beneath him. Pure heat and unbridled lust.
Celebrimbor can't help the soft push of his tongue against Annatar's lips, asking permission to take more, to taste more. To drown in all Annatar is. "I never imagined I would be able to kiss you like this," he breathes. "Far more than I deserve."
" Tyelpë ," Annatar gasps, before letting his mouth fall open in such generous an offering Celebrimbor can do nothing but take.
The hold of Annatar's hands is sure and steady, almost as if speaking of a need long subdued and finally released. Celebrimbor groans at the thought, at knowing Annatar wants him too, out of his mind when he feels the wet slide of that tongue against his own. He threads fingers through the silky-soft strands of that hair he's been dying to touch, his other hand falling to the curve of Annatar's waist.
He kisses Annatar fully, kisses him with an urgency that's far too telling and singes across his skin, ripping Celebrimbor apart from the delicious give of Annatar's lips against his own, knowing that as the Lord of Eregion, he shouldn't let his senses be so easily clouded.
This moment is the slide over a knife's edge, should he fall into Annatar's arms in quiet surrender, he fears he'll blind himself to the warnings of Lindon. Even if they seem outlandish. Even if Celebrimbor knows they have no root to grow.
He pulls back from the kiss, breaks them apart over the crack of his heart.
"I'm sorry," he says. "I shouldn't have. Annatar, I'm sorry."
There's a brief flash of pain in Annatar's beautiful eyes before he blinks it away, a swift wound now closed. He draws a breath, slides his tongue over his swollen, bitten-red lips.
"There's nothing to forgive, my lord," he says, quietly. "You took what I was willing to give. It's not a transaction and I ask for nothing more."
Words crowd high in Celebrimbor's throat. "Annatar, I-"
"It's late. I should go back to my chambers. Thank you for such a lovely evening."
The smile he gives Celebrimbor is infinitely wistful.
He turns around and ambles into the building with nary a glance back.
**
Avoiding him seems the only logical course of action, but despite of it, Annatar refuses to leave Celebrimbor's mind. That kiss, his scent. The memory of heat-stained breaths rushing across his own lips. More than anything, the carefree way in which he feels himself unraveling when they're together.
Annatar has proven himself useful, has proven himself reliable. Has proven himself honest. From the sidelines, Celebrimbor has seen him opening up to the rest of the Mírdain that now, encouraged by Celebrimbor's acceptance, seek him to teach them things only known by Aulë himself.
Worst of all, he's had to swallow the poisonous sting of jealousy when he sees the way many of his own smiths' gazes fall weighty on the unaware Maia. Knowing fully well that if any of them would dare to ask Annatar for more and he agreed, there would be nothing Celebrimbor could do to stop it.
A letter from Lindon comes one afternoon. From Elrond if the penmanship is anything to go by. Celebrimbor isn't eager to open it. To swallow more scared assumptions over rumors from far away.
Beware. Beware, always.
It's late that night when, tired of considering the situation from several angles, Celebrimbor draws himself to the hot baths. All of Ost-in-Edhil is asleep, night sprawled over the city.
It had seemed a magnificent idea to use the massive scale of the furnaces to heat water for when winter came and then Narvi had suggested the baths as a communal place of relaxation.
They were rarely used in the summer, but when Celebrimbor steps inside, he sees a white tunic hanging in one of the holders. No matter. It's not the first time he's shared the space. He divests swiftly, leaving his nightgown safely hanged.
His feet edge forward silently when he approaches the baths, but the thread of his thoughts cuts short, his throat squeezing tightly in a sound that won't come out. Heat coils at the base of Celebrimbor's spine when his eyes fall on the naked spread of the figure standing outside the tub, unaware of his presence.
It's Annatar there.
Celebrimbor can't deny how deeply affecting the sight is. Tries as he must, he can't stop himself from letting his eyes coast the exquisite, slender flow of those thighs, the round curve of the buttocks, the line of the shoulders, the dip of that waist. It's a sudden, intimate knowledge given to him in a second and he doesn't know what to do with it. How to force his body, neglected for so long, to not react to any of it.
How can he resist him?
Distantly, Celebrimbor considers how deeply wrong this is, hiding himself like a thief to rob sight of something so beautiful, but he can't seem to make his presence known.
Before he can react, Annatar finishes pinning his hair up, and turns on his heels to grab a towel he had left on a stool.
When his eyes fall on Celebrimbor's shocked gaze, he falters.
" Tyelpë ." His voice is a soft brush of air and his cheeks tint crimson when he realizes it's not Celebrimbor's title that has escaped him. "My lord," he corrects, looking down. "I did not know you made the habit of coming here."
"I don't," Celebrimbor answers. He forces the words out through a parched throat, focuses on Annatar's lovely face. If he wavers, he knows he'll do something horrifying like let his eyes fall and roam all over Annatar's chest, the apex of his thighs.
"I can leave if you desire," Annatar offers, unsure. "I wouldn't want to make you uncomfortable."
"No!" He takes a step closer, close enough that if he reached up he would be able to feel the smooth spread of Annatar's skin under his fingers. "No, please," he repeats, softer. "You were here first."
He knows he should leave. Staying will be torture but then Annatar asks, "perhaps we could share?"
And, "of course," Celebrimbor answers.
He watches Annatar dip into the tub with a soft slosh of the water, and Celebrimbor follows him, considering if sitting as far as possible, deciding it would probably be a too clear statement of rejection. He sits, instead, next to Annatar.
As if the proximity unbridged wasn't glass ground under skin.
"I've seen you've made great progress in several projects," Celebrimbor says. It feels empty. Stupid even. Threadbare words that mean nothing.
"Yes. The Mírdain seem eager to learn now." Annatar's voice is a sad thing. "Even if it pains me I can't share all that I know with you."
" Annatar ." It's his name but it's also a wounded plea. "You can."
"Not when you've been avoiding me," Annatar says, small. "If you don't trust me, or the knowledge I bring, why not be forthright? I could go elsewhere."
"It's not that I don't trust you," Celebrimbor pleads. "You must know that I-."
"I know. It's only that you don't trust the outcome of anything that you deem to be far more than you deserve," he says, making Celebrimbor ache at the blow. "As ludicrous as that thought is." The water sways when he grabs a damp cloth and lifts the line of one slender arm, rubbing it softly, sliding it over the bend of his elbow. "Still, their reception of me has changed and I take it's thanks to you. So, thank you."
The steam curls in the air, and Celebrimbor's eyes are caught by drops of water sliding down the ball of Annatar's shoulder. Suddenly, he wants nothing but to rub his mouth on the skin, taste the sweetness of him, set his hands on Annatar's waist and dig fingers. Leave marks of his own as he's done with the sign of his trade on the metal.
"You talk as if it's easy for me to-" A curl of hair sets loose and spills down Annatar's neck. The need to feel it between Celebrimbor's fingers is maddening. It snaps his will like twigs underfoot. " Stars , Annatar." Celebrimbor's hand folds round the trim curve of Annatar's waist in a swift movement, and tugs him closer, watching the way Annatar goes delightfully pink, pliant and soft. It costs him nothing to pull Annatar until he's straddling his lap, long legs eased open. "You have no idea what you do to me," he says, feverish, dizzy in the closeness. He kisses the hollow of Annatar's throat, tongues at it, hearing Annatar moan, his cock a hot, plump weight pushing against Celebrimbor's stomach. "It's my ruin not to be able to think of anything but you."
Annatar gives a shuddery moan. "Show me then." He presses his ass down against the stiff length of Celebrimbor's cock that falls in the cleft. Tight and hot. Dripping already. "Tyelpë, please ."
Celebrimbor groans, kisses Annatar unreserved, mouths a wet slide, relishing the spread of those bare, tender thighs at the sides of his hips.
There's so much skin, smooth and inviting to the touch, muscle taut over bone, and all the delightful softness in between. Not even in late-night fantasies Celebrimbor had imagined he would get to feel Annatar like this. Have him so desperate, so eager for him. His hands sweep down Annatar's back, palms finding the curve of his ass, kneading at the meat of it while his own cock jerks, throbs and aches in unmet want.
"Oh, please ." Annatar's fingers push into Celebrimbor's hair, drawing the shaking press of Celebrimbor's mouth closer to the warmth of his neck while his breath drifts down in flaring heat.
"You wonderful, beautiful thing." Celebrimbor slides hot lips over every bit of skin he can reach, nips at the tender flesh, while feeling his fingers fall into the tight space of the crease of Annatar's buttocks. Finding the tight clench of his rim. It's such an intimate touch, that he's breathless at the subtle rawness of what they're doing.
He's thrumming with the desire to see Annatar spread on the thick breach of his fingers, to relish that first push to feel him stretched, slick and tight, on his cock. To do as he's dreamt so many times and push inside him, fill him to aching.
But the letter on his desk pulls at his attention. He can't launch himself head on in this desire when there are so many doubts still. When there's still so much unknown in the Land. Warnings, so many warnings he can't disregard.
As far-fetched as they seem.
His hands fall at his sides. "I- I'm sorry, Annatar, I can't do this."
There's a brief, so very brief moment when Celebrimbor feels the unnatural heat of Annatar's skin before it subdues.
A swell of emotion in a fire Maia.
He doesn't know if it's anger or pain, but when Annatar lifts his head there's a damp weight on his lashes. He slides off Celebrimbor's lap as gracefully as a lick of flame dancing over metal.
"Shame on me, I suppose," Annatar says, quietly. He rises from the water and wraps himself in the towel at hand. "My lord has been clear in his wishes and I apologize for having forced this closeness when it's evident you don't desire it so."
Celebrimbor doesn't know how his face looks, but he feels the way it pulls in evident anguish. "No, Annatar it isn't like that-"
" Please ." For the first time, Celebrimbor feels a sliver of command seep into Annatar's voice. "You need to say no further."
He's left alone and wanting, miserable in the rippling water, wondering if fulfilling his duty will always feel as carving his heart out.
**
Two weeks pass before he hears the news tumbling from mouth to mouth.
"Lord Annatar is leaving," one of the Mírdain says.
"It pains me to see him go," another adds.
"I've never had such a talented master."
"Or far more generous with the secrets he shares."
The blows of the hammers drown the riot in Celebrimbor's head. Annatar is leaving. And it's probably- no, scratch that. It's certainly because of him.
His whole body tenses with the desire to go to Annatar's room and stop him, ask him to stay. But this kingdom, his kingdom has always been a place where everyone's will is kept in high regard.
The day is a long stretch of despair, Celebrimbor's pulse hopping madly every time he remembers this strange emptiness will be a fixed point when Annatar leaves. The forge brings him no comfort, there's no relief to be had in the familiar mold of the metal, the heat of the fire.
A different sort of warmth lacks all around, and the freezing ice of being left behind is what Celebrimbor feels cutting under his skin.
He won't plead.
The resolve lasts him until the last lamps die.
Just once more, he tells himself. One final time to be able to grasp Annatar's face, see him smile. Sear the memory of the feel of Annatar's skin in the pad of his fingers.
Celebrimbor slides through the corridors in a frenzy, until he's standing at the doors of Annatar's chambers.
He raps softly before listening to the call from the inside, "It's open."
When the door swings open, Annatar's face twists in surprise. "My lord!" Then a frown. "What are you doing here?"
Celebrimbor makes his way in as if in a trance, toeing the door closed. One, two steps closer. Under the silver, slanting light of the moon, he can clearly see the hinted lines of Annatar's body under the sheer robe he's wearing. Celebrimbor's blood boils in his veins.
"Don't go. Annatar, please." He crowds Annatar against the wall, hands falling to the narrow spread of his hips. Every single shred of coherent thought melts in the wisps of that maddening scent when Celebrimbor breathes him in.
Annatar gives a sighing moan, tilting his head back. "And what- what would be of me if I stay, oh Lord of Eregion?" Celebrimbor can feel the nudge of his own thigh between the easy spread of Annatar's bare legs, the sure grasp of those fingers on his arms. His cock twitches, feeling Annatar hard against him. "Would you keep me at arm's length? Would you keep teasing me mercilessly only to push me away when you're sated?"
It does seem brutish what he's done when spoken so clearly. He watches the inviting softness of Annatar's mouth curl downwards in clear dejection.
Celebrimbor's heart squeezes. "No, it is not as you say."
"I never thought you cruel, Tyelpërinquar," Annatar rasps out, wounded. "But you must certainly know how deeply it pains me every time you reject me so."
"Not by my will, that I assure you." Which sounds entirely villainous once he says it out loud. Disingenuous, at best. Is he claiming to be any better than, say, Gorthaur , long gone? Staying away is certainly not his will, and he's tired of pretending it is. Annatar is fire in his arms, and despite himself, the closeness, the night, are unearthing things he's deprived himself for ages.
"You certainly must know that I would never force you to accept anything you don't wish for." Annatar's hands press against Celebrimbor's chest, pushing slightly. Their eyes lock together. "And so I ask you, my lord, what is it that you want?"
The thread of Celebrimbor's patience snaps in the edge of the question.
He presses his lips to Annatar's in a kiss that's heady and demanding, mouths open right from the start. Slightly possessive. His hands find the well-turned stretch of Annatar's wrists pinning them to the wall and he's rewarded with a moaning hum. Celebrimbor gets lost in the shocked noises of pleasure coming from Annatar when he slides the wet heat of his tongue into Annatar's mouth, when he presses the bulge of his erection into the furrow of Annatar's hip.
He pulls back.
"You," he says, watching the messy blur of Annatar's mouth, red and ruined. "I want you. As little or as much as you deem to give me."
Annatar's eyes flash bright, before his lips open up in a smile that's scorching in its honesty. "You do drive a hard bargain, my lord," he says. Ardent. With intent. "Everything then. Everything shall be."
There's a riot of hands while Celebrimbor pushes the robe of Annatar's shoulders and feels the Maia tear apart at his clothes. He doesn't care about the clinking of the buttons that fly open, about the state of the silk of his own nightgown.
Celebrimbor wants to feel them close, the press of skin on skin and it isn't long until Annatar is sliding fire-warm hands along his stomach, the plane of his chest, amidst kisses that taste sweet and deliciously heated.
"I've driving myself mad with the need to have you," Celebrimbor says, pushing warm lips to the whisper-soft skin of Annatar's neck, mouthing at it. Leaving marks. "Tempter. All of you."
Annatar gasps when Celebrimbor sweeps his hand down to the curve of his ass and turns him around. Pushes him against the wall, and presses the solid heat of his body to Annatar's back, face tucked down in the side of Annatar's throat.
"Tyelpë?" The question is a reedy thing. Celebrimbor can feel the way Annatar pushes back, the tight curve of his buttocks grinding against the hardness of Celebrimbor's erection. It's an obscene thing, to watch the fat head of his cock smear wet over the roundness of an ass cheek. Soiling the skin.
"I want to taste you all over," Celebrimbor says, in the tender space of his ear.
Annatar gives a shaky sigh. "I'm yours. Yours entirely."
He's drunk in lust, in the beautiful reality of letting this shimmering, bright thing finally happen.
Celebrimbor mouths at the delicate spread of Annatar's neck, sliding down over the smooth play of skin of his back. He can feel the flexible splay of muscle when he tongues at the dip of Annatar's spine, opens his lips on the skin, leaving it glistening, shiny, deliciously lewd.
He kneels at Annatar's feet, nipping at the muscle of a buttock, coaxing him to open those enticingly long legs wider.
"Tyelpë, you'll be the death of me," Annatar moans, arching his spine in a bend that feels like an offering.
It's such a gift of a sight. Such terrible, wondrous power contained in beautiful skin.
He spreads Annatar's buttocks apart, watching the furled little rim of his asshole clenching on air, as if desperate for the fill of a cock. Celebrimbor can barely stand it, soaking himself with precome. He breathes, letting the heat of the air flare across that twitching hole, before dipping his head and sliding the flat spread of his tongue along the crease in one wet glide, hearing Annatar's half-choked groans.
A hand flails back, to sink into his hair. "Tyelpë, please ."
Annatar is impossibly warm here, and he cries out, clenching a little, when Celebrimbor pushes into that tight ring of muscle. It's impossible not to think how he might feel around his cock, how he might squeeze him, as tight as he is and Celebrimbor pulls back only to thumb at that pink, wet hole as if encouraging it to open, to relish the filthy way in which he's left it soaked with his spit. His own cock is an aching throb he decides to ignore at the moment. The give of Annatar's cheeks press obscenely against his face when Celebrimbor sucks the rim with open lips, before licking in, pushing in fast and steady, trying to find out how Annatar likes it better.
"You menace," Annatar whines.
Celebrimbor pulls back. "How about a bit of experimentation," he says, hoarse, before changing the pace, his tongue pressing in long and slow, hard pushes that have Annatar cursing into a bitten fist, thighs shaking.
His Maia likes it rough.
"Fuck me, already," Annatar moans. "I swear to Eru, Tyelpë if you don't take me to bed right now-"
Celebrimbor pushes up and kisses Annatar hard. "I had no idea you would be so demanding."
Annatar's eyes flash gold. "And I didn't know you'd be such an impossible tease."
They fall on the spread of the bed and quickly, Annatar is pressing a vial of oil into Celebrimbor's open hands, while he writhes underneath him.
"And you happened to have this lying around?" Celebrimbor asks, setting between the gorgeous splay of Annatar's legs. He's breathless, words coming ragged and a little stiff, as he slides his hands over Annatar's tight, small nipples, the cliff of his hips, the heavy hang of his balls. A passing tug to the slick shaft of his hard cock.
"What do you want me to say?" Annatar slips his hands between his legs, stretching his own buttocks open, showing Celebrimbor the glistening redness of his rim. "That I spent several nights fingering myself to madness imagining it was you who came here and fucked me? What did you want me to do after all you put me through?"
" Eru , Annatar." Celebrimbor rushes to slick his fingers, his cock an angry thud of heat and want. He nudges closer, presses his fingers against Annatar's clenching entrance. "May I?"
Annatar gives a shaky nod and Celebrimbor rubs his wet fingers over the soft give of that hole he's coaxed open already. He watches the way it stretches, how his digits push in until he has them in to the knuckle.
"More, give me more." Annatar is bunching the bedspread, hips rolling, bearing down on Celebrimbor's fingers, as if trying to take more, to take him deeper, bossy streak shining through. "Don't be cruel."
Three fingers slide in easily, while Celebrimbor grinds his teeth at how tight it feels, how exquisitely warm. There's a moment when he has to stop, his cock a heavy sway of throbbing discomfort, and he has to bite his own lip or he'll come all over the sheets. Which shoves a lewd idea into his mind, because after all of this he doesn't want to come on the bed like an artless youngster, but inside Annatar. Leave him full and wet with his spend.
It's fortunate that Annatar forcibly tugs Celebrimbor's hand away and forces him closer, wrapping long legs around his waist. "Fuck me. Fuck me, please, I'm ready."
The sound of Annatar's voice, so desperate, is what tears down Celebrimbor's slow, indulgent rhythm and makes him move.
He slicks his cock and curls a shaky hand around Annatar's narrow waist, guiding his cock until the head is butting against that warm hole that still looks impossibly small. Setting teeth on his lip he presses in, feeling his cockhead catch on the resistance of Annatar's body before sliding inside in one long, slick push.
Annatar moans, and Celebrimbor answers with a pained groan. It's exquisite. The delicious heat of it, the squeezing grip of Annatar's tight ass around every inch of him.
"Is it- is it alright?" He has to ask, he needs to ask because this might be the most important thing he's done to this day.
"Yes." Annatar's head thrashes on the pillow, hair tipped up in a messy tangle all over. "Move, please move."
And knowing he has permission to enjoy this, that there's no barriers but the ones others - less informed, less brave - are enforcing, is what makes Celebrimbor loose, finally.
He fucks into Annatar with sure, driving pushes, falling on him to kiss his lips, to suck those pink, stiff nipples into his mouth. There's a filthy, wet slap of skin on skin, every time he ruts and crams himself tight between the welcoming spread of Annatar's legs, the force of his thrusts making the bed clack against the wall. Swiftly, he considers they're not being subtle and the whole city will know tomorrow what has happened in these chambers. He finds that he doesn't care. Not at all.
"Everyone will know," he says, heated, all air. "Everyone will know you gave yourself to me."
Annatar cups his face. "And that you accepted me in turn."
It's true. There's no other way of saying it.
Celebrimbor whimpers, overwhelmed in pleasure, hearing Annatar's keening whines with every slippery, stretching push that drives Celebrimbor all the way inside him. He holds Annatar still by the hips, his heart beating in the roof of his mouth, in his throat every time he slides in and pulls back. It's a fight with himself trying not to let his eyes fix too long on the way his cock breaches Annatar, on how that wet, stretched hole sucks him in over and over, or else he'll come embarrassingly fast.
He focuses instead on the way Annatar's long fingers are wrapped around his own cock, pulling in messy movements, arm jumping in tight tugs until he's crying out, thighs tensing. Celebrimbor sees the moment Annatar comes all over the soft hollow of his stomach and feels the brutally tight clench of his ass around his cock. He manages two deep, full thrusts and then he's coming. And he doesn't seem to stop, a rush of semen filling Annatar, until Celebrimbor can feel the spill of liquid pushed out in his aborted, dying rocks of hips.
He heaves a lungful and falls forward, spent, in Annatar's arms, still inside him.
"That was exquisite," Annatar says, kissing his temple.
In the aftermath, Celebrimbor is desperate to touch him still, to hold him close. He kisses his mouth before pulling out, feeling the trickle of his spend falling on the sheets, before he slides beside Annatar.
"It was. Thank you for giving me this gift." Celebrimbor wraps his arms around him, nuzzles at his neck. "Will you stay then?" A raw pause. "With me?"
"I will," Annatar whispers. "I'll not part from you, my lord."
Celebrimbor hears Annatar's even breaths, sees the soft rise and fall of his chest. He's fallen asleep far easier than Celebrimbor would have imagined.
To think he was ready to renounce this bright, wonderful opportunity out of a misplaced sense of duty. Truly, there's no worse poison than fear.
"Tomorrow," he whispers into Annatar's ear, "you'll show me everything you've been wanting to show me and together," he kisses Annatar's cheek, "we'll find a way to bring all your designs to life."
Celebrimbor drifts into sleep, but with the last shred of his consciousness he thinks he sees a secretive smile on Annatar's lips.
He smiles in turn.