restraint by sariane  

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restraint

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The damned men from Númenor have brought more to their shores than Celebrimbor bargained for.

He pays no mind to the study door as it slams shut behind him. The voices outside quiet at the sound, then rise again in a wave of noise. Celebrimbor is overwhelmed and swallowed in it. His heartbeat grows louder in his ears. He wipes sweat from his forehead. His lips still tingle.

He had been the first to brave the spiced tea the Numenoreans had served, and the only; he surreptitiously poured it into a potted tree when he realized what it was. A whispered word to his seneschal had addressed the remaining tea leaves. They would disappear, and the men of Númenor would be none the wiser to a new poison for elves -- for a little longer, at least.

It would be dangerous if anyone knew, Celebrimbor thinks, remembering the salty smell of their captain’s neck as he leaned in to speak in halting Sindarin. With a chuckle, Celebrimbor assured him no one here in the halls of the Mírdain would begrudge him for speaking the little Quenya he had learned. His lips were thick under his beard, and Celebrimbor stared at them for far too long before he realized desire had made a bonfire in the pit of his stomach.

Celebrimbor had made a quick exit after that.

But not far enough. Celebrimbor feels the first pangs of pain in his stomach as the lust turns to muscle cramps. His heart races faster. He turns to his study cabinets, rummaging desperately through their drawers until he pulls out a pair of forgotten old manacles. He throws the key into a drawer and shuts it. Before he can grow too inflicted, he wraps his arms around the narrow wooden column in the center of his study and fetters his wrists together.

“Celebrimbor?”

Annatar, as ever, has ignored the locked door as though it was a concern that had never occurred to him. Celebrimbor looks up from where he is doubled up on the floor. Panic shoots through him.

“No,” he gasps, as he feels the heat flare up so sharply that it turns to pain. “Not you, anyone but --”

“Celebrimbor?! Who has done this to you?” Annatar says. “Are you well? You are as red as a garnet.”

“I --” Celebrimbor looks around wildly as laughter echoes up from the hall and through the open door. “This is my own doing. Close the door. Please. Do not let anyone in -- or let me out.”

Annatar raises an eyebrow, but he must be curious, for he locks the door again without another word.

Celebrimbor tenses against his manacles, swaying back and forth. He does not know if he can stop himself. Heat runs down his thighs. It will not take much for Annatar to notice his arousal straining against the fabric of his robes, and then what will he think?

Annatar kneels beside Celebrimbor. Celebrimbor flinches away, curling in on himself against the column.

“Celebrimbor, my friend --”

“There was a plant that grew in Aman,” Celebrimbor starts quickly, trying to gather his thoughts, “But you would not remember -- Yavanna gifted it to the Children of Ilúvatar when we were few in number, to aid in coupling --”

“You are making little sense,” Annatar says, pink lips worrying and parting. “I remember everything, of course. I know of the plant of which you speak, yet I have not seen it on these shores in my short time here.”

Of course, Annatar would not know, as one who had only ever felt the blessings of the Valar and not the twist of their curses.

“Because we sowed the seeds here in foul soil,” Celebrimbor manages to gasp, unable to tear himself away from staring at Annatar’s flush lips. “We burn it wherever we find it, for the plant now weakens the heart of the one exposed like a poison. If they do not mate, they might die.”

Annatar pauses to speak, and in the length of his pause Celebrimbor is filled with a horrible fire that burns him from the inside out. He moans from the pain.

“I see,” Annatar says, eyes flickering from Celebrimbor’s face to the hard metal against his chafing wrists. “And some Man of Númenor thought they might use it to seduce the Lord of Eregion for their gain?”

“No, no. It was an innocent mistake! It is merely an intoxicating drink for them,” Celebrimbor protests through gritted teeth. Every word is an effort. “Though now I fear it will mean war. You must not let the city think I was poisoned purposely --”

“You speak nonsense,” Annatar says calmly. “I see no need for you to die, Celebrimbor.”

“You forget. I have no spouse and I do not wish to marry,” Celebrimbor says. “I could not bind my soul, I refuse to curse another with my -- ”

“Can one not sate the poison by...pleasuring oneself?” Annatar asks, pausing as though he is trying to remember how the elves explain their bodily customs.

“It only increases the pulse and worsens one’s fate,” Celebrimbor says. “The only antidote is the...seed or...nectar of another.”

Annatar pauses, as though he is trying to ascertain what Celbrimbor means by ‘nectar.’

“Please,” Celebrimbor moans, “I beg you, leave me, Annatar, before I begin to beg in truth. I do not wish you to know what desire will make of me before long.”

Annatar swallows, his neck moving with the motion, fine and thin beneath the high collar of his grey robes. Celebrimbor wishes he could mark it with his mouth.

“Worry not, I have a solution,” Annatar says, leaning closer. Celebrimbor struggles against the manacles, thinking Annatar has misunderstood, but he is unable to resist as Annatar takes his shoulders and guides him into a kiss.

Celebrimbor lets Annatar take him and consume him, lips strangely cold against his burning fire, moaning as the lust leeches from him. He hopes Annatar will have him here on the floor, lying atop him as he is now, leaving no escape as he is pinned to his desires.

Then, Annatar pulls away, and the feeling is gone.

Celebrimbor feels empty and tired. His hardness is gone, as is the demanding ache, the overactive mind. A cool clarity sets in.

He watches as Annatar sits back on his heels and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. His tongue darts out to taste his lips. His eyes wander back to Celebrimbor.

“Oh,” Annatar says, and leans forward to kiss him again.

Celebrimbor cannot pull away for the manacles, but he would not even if he were free. Annatar presses their lips together with a fervor their first kiss lacked, as though he is enjoying the press and the rush that comes with it. His hand is on Celebrimbor’s jaw to hold him when he flinches from the teeth dragging over his bottom lip. Annatar presses closer. Celebrimbor groans. It is a wild sound to his own ears, even after the embarrassment he has made of himself.

Annatar startles away at the noise. He pulls himself back up, kneeling, staring at Celebrimbor where he sits, still manacled to the column. Annatar presses his slender fingers to his reddened mouth.

“My apologies,” Annatar says in a whisper. “For a moment, I could not think of stopping.”

Celebrimbor tugs his knees to his chest, desperate to hide that he is hard once more.

“What did you do?” Celebrimbor croaks.

“I took it from you,” Annatar says simply. He closes his eyes to take a great breath.

“But you’ll --!”

“I shall be fine,” Annatar interrupts, eyes snapping open. “It will wear away at me for a while, but my body will not die. It will merely be affected by some new desires -- a novelty, at the least. Perhaps a single turn of the seasons will expel the effect entirely.”

Celebrimbor is struck by the terrifying concept that he is now the one trapped and manacled with a victim of the poison and its desperation. He wishes he had simply asked Annatar to take him here and sated his curiosity forever. His life cannot possibly be worth Annatar’s torture.

“What will you do?” Celebrimbor asks, staring as Annatar takes one of his wrists in his hand. He wraps his fingers around it tightly, feeling Celebrimbor’s pulse and where the callouses of his palms turn to the smooth skin of his wrist.

Annatar reaches into his pocket, pulls out a pin, and picks the lock to Celebrimbor’s manacles.

“I can wait it out. Rest easy. I have saved your life, Celebrimbor,” Annatar says, clearing his throat. He does not meet his eyes again. “But we should find some excuse to remove that plant from the Númenorean congregation’s bags. I cannot perform the same again as a party trick.”

*

In the month that passes after he cures Celebrimbor, Annatar begins to understand why so many in Eregion are led to irrational insanity by their lust.

Once he had thought of sex only rarely, tucking the feeling away until he had need of it. Now, it is a persistent, nagging memory that hums beneath his skin: lips beneath his, smooth skin, the bones of a jaw moving in time with his kiss. The image follows him into unexpected places. Annatar finds himself distracted at dinner watching an elf lick clean a spoon, or watching one bite his lip as he works carefully in the forge. He has greater desires than he ever imagined. He cannot push them from his mind. He burns, his body aflame with the need to touch. It is exhausting. He begins to sleep every night just to escape it.

Put another way, it is not going well.

On a warm evening after dinner, one of the Mírdain asks Annatar to consult with her on a work she has done capturing moonlight. Urwen leads him into the garden so they can see the runes on the magnetic dial shining in the full moon.

“Clever use of the ithildin,” Annatar says, turning the device over in his hands, “and an even more clever device.”

There is an arrow in the center of the device. It turns like a dial, stopping when it points at the ivy-covered wall to their left.

“The credit lies with our friends in Númenor, as it does so often these days,” Urwen says. “The arrow points northward. They use it to navigate the seas.”

Annatar places it back in her hands. “It would be a boon to any traveler, but that we did not already know to navigate with the stars at night.”

Urwen’s forehead wrinkles and she opens her mouth to protest his subtle criticism.

“Annatar, I’ve been looking for you,” Celebrimbor interrupts. He steps out from the shadows behind them. Annatar rankles with annoyance at the realization that he’d followed them.

“Then you have found me,” Annatar says tersely.

“I need to speak with Annatar,” Celebrimbor says, patting Urwen on the shoulder and pushing her back towards the house. “Pardon my interruption.”

Urwen leaves with an angry scowl. The moment she turns the corner of the garden, Celebrimbor pushes Annatar up against the stone wall by his chest. He is lucky; if Annatar’s chest did not spike with a rush of arousal, he would be tempted to decapitate him.

“Behave yourself. Stay away from the apprentices,” Celebrimbor hisses through his teeth. “I have seen you looking. My gratitude does not extend that far. A broken marriage bond would devastate one so young and low. If you need relief, I must ask you to find it elsewhere.”

Annatar is speechless. He is also hard against Celebrimbor’s leg.

“The Noldor are a curious people to place so much meaning on a simple exchange,” Annatar murmurs. “A marriage bond from the act of coupling? A ridiculous notion. The race of Men perform like rabbits.”

“Then find your solace with one of them,” Celebrimbor growls, “or an elf who values less the old traditions and who will not expect you to bind your life to theirs, as you never would.”

“How do you know I would not bind myself to another?” Annatar brushes a strand of hair from Celebrimbor’s eyes. “I do not give myself halfheartedly.”

Celebrimbor pushes his wrist away. Little sparks follow his touch. The feeling of fire in Annatar’s gut has turned to aching as he feels how hard he has become. Celebrimbor must feel the cock pressing against his leg. If he were only to step a hair closer --

“I know you too well,” Celebrimbor says. “You are already bound.”

He releases Annatar all at once, so his head thuds back on the garden wall. Celebrimbor turns and stalks from the garden.

Annatar stands there for a long moment, throbbing with arousal, and returns to his rooms to sulk.

Lying in bed, Annatar stares at the ceiling in the darkness. He needs no sleep, just as food and water are unnecessary to him, but it grants him escape from the persistence of his desires. It is dangerous to sleep, tying him into his skin, into the poison, but he finds relief in the darkness.

As Annatar loses himself in the patterns on his ceiling, he hears a soft click. The curtains around his bed part and he finds himself pinned, strong hands holding his wrists down to the bed. In the soft light of a candle, he sees a shadowed figure above him.

“Someone should release you from your misery,” the familiar voice says, low and angry. “Though you truly deserve to suffer.”

His touch skates over Annatar’s skin until it reaches his hips, rolling him over onto his side and pushing him down. Annatar feels a touch between his legs and hears words in his ear that he cannot understand, for his head is filled with pleasure bursting at every stroke. He thrusts desperately into the touch. A firm hand scrabbles on his hip, adjusting the angle and sinking into him.

“Stay where you are while I fuck you,” the voice says to Annatar, breathless but stern, “you aren’t meant to enjoy it. I will give you what you need and nothing else.”

Annatar feels his hips hitched up. He freezes in place. Dull pain shoots through his legs as he is stretched and fucked. His arms shake with effort. He desperately needs to rock his hips backwards, to let the spot deep inside him light up again, but Annatar cannot move, or he will disappoint --

Annatar feels a shuddering thrust that hurts and shakes and fills and bursts, and a wrecked voice whispers, “Good boy” in his ear.

“Celebrimbor,” Annatar moans, startling himself awake at the sound of his own voice in his throat. He stirs from his dream to find himself alone in bed, his sheets stained -- and with a bigger problem than he had bargained for.

*

Celebrimbor knows something is wrong when Annatar begins to make mistakes in the forge.

Little mistakes, of course. His calculations might be off by a hair or a grain. He singes the hem of his sleeve, or he is a minute late to a demonstration. Celebrimbor notices a hesitancy in his limbs that he could only call clumsiness in one as precise as Annatar.

Then, one midnight, Celebrimbor finds a treatise missing from the pile of scrolls that Annatar had returned to him earlier that day. He lights a candle and weaves through the halls to Annatar’s study. Usually, he sits up reading through the night, finding it boring and lonely without sleep, preferring to drink wine and argue with anyone who wishes to discuss forgecraft philosophy in the early hours. (Often, ‘anyone’ is Celebrimbor.)

Celebrimbor unlatches Annatar’s door and steps into his study.

Annatar sits at his desk with one hand to his mouth, his robes open, eyes closed, neck arched back, fisting his cock in his hand. His hips cant, shaking the chair and table.

Celebrimbor steps back in surprise. His candle tips out of its holder and spills hot wax over his hand. He gasps.

Annatar’s eyes snap open at the sound of Celebrimbor’s cry of pain. Celebrimbor stumbles backwards, closing the door.

He would run, but his eyes have not yet adjusted to the dark corridor. He leans up against the wall and clenches his scalded fist angrily. Why had he burst into the study? He knew why Annatar was not acting his normal self.

Well. Perhaps he has wanted to find Annatar like this, to know he was tied to his desires the same as Celebrimbor. Celebrimbor is no stranger to the feeling of his fist slickened with oil or spit. He has muffled his own cries in his pillow or gasped into the palm of another while he writhed silently in secret.

It is shameful to remember how often he had nearly been caught in his youth. His desires were left unspoken by necessity as he thrust into a wet mouth, hidden under the heavy tallow scent of a canvas war-tent. There were no sweet murmurs of anything -- only whispered warnings. Footsteps might uncover them in the encampment and force them to consummate in full.

Celebrimbor had avoided the bonding act carefully in those grueling years of secrecy, pulling himself back at the last moment, denying himself while his partner shook beneath him. Then the war was over. Those that sought him out were interested less in distracting passion, hoping instead for an accidental sharing of minds and souls, a marriage into the House of Fëanor. And so, he has kept himself apart for years.

But it has not prevented him from wanting what he cannot have.

The door opens again with a creak it had sadly neglected to give earlier. “Here,” Annatar says, offering an unlit taper candle to Celebrimbor.

Annatar stands in the doorway with his robes tied and hair unmussed. Yet Celebrimbor stares at the skin of his chest in the v of his neckline. He would swear it is flushed, if such a thing were possible.

Celebrimbor cannot meet Annatar’s eyes. He is grateful for the darkness. All he sees in his mind’s eye is the image of Annatar’s cock, the head peeking out under his thumb as he thrust up into his hand.

Celebrimbor’s fingers brush Annatar’s as he reaches for the candle. He must imagine the dampness there.

“Forgive me for prying,” Celebrimbor says, because he cannot help himself, “But you know that -- that self-pleasure will only make it worse?”

“Not if the end is not achieved,” Annatar says casually. “This is all quite new to me,” he continues, so quickly and smoothly that Celebrimbor realizes he is lying. “It is a curiosity. Nothing more.”

Celebrimbor’s ears prickle with heat.

“Would it not be easier to find someone to...relieve you?” Celebrimbor asks, desperately guilty. “I am sure it would not be hard to find someone in the Númenorean party who would be interested...?”

Annatar frowns. “No,” he says, “I will wait it out.”

“This is my fault,” Celebrimbor sighs, looking down at his slippers. “Would you allow me to -- to help? I would tell no one. It would be no great burden. And I am not entirely innocent, you know; there are ways to sidestep tradition. I am certain it could not even bind us, being between one of the Ainur and --” he looks up and stops, surprised at the rage on Annatar’s face.

“Do not pity me,” Annatar sneers. “I am not some secret for you to disgrace yourself against in the dark.”

“Annatar, that isn’t what I --”

“I see my mistake in taking your shame from you,” Annatar snaps. “You Fëanorians so enjoy being humiliated.”

Annatar shakes his hands out of the sleeves of his robe and reaches out towards Celebrimbor. Celebrimbor flinches away, but Annatar only pinches the wick of his candle.

A flame spurts from the candle, lighting the corridor. Celebrimbor feels his face burning with anger.

“Good night,” Annatar says.

Before Annatar pulls his hand back under his sleeve, Celebrimbor sees the bruises of a bite mark on his wrist.

Celebrimbor looks for the bruises the next morning when he sees Annatar working in the forge, pouring molten metal into a mold, but he has covered his hands with heavy gloves. Heat from some source other than the forge warms Celebrimbor’s face. Though Annatar ignores Celebrimbor’s gaze, his hands almost shake under his gaze, and so Celebrimbor looks away.

*

Frustration becomes a palpable thing in the slow weeks, a gnawing, roiling flame that lives in the pit of his stomach and fills him with its dizzying fumes. Annatar is used to others wanting him desperately, to watch the desire in their gaze grow as he twists them into the shape he needs. He is not used to feeling the same wanting; at least, not to denying himself a simple pleasure for his own good and not another’s.

He has seduced or sacrificed, knelt and worshiped, felt thirst and starved, suffocated or intoxicated or restrained -- but all in Melkor’s name. Now, he cannot be an ascetic for himself alone.

And so Annatar indulges, again and again, bringing himself to the edge until he wonders if it will not hurt to chase true relief, if Celebrimbor is wrong, because his flesh is not tied so tightly to this realm as the Eldar, and this wanting is an infection and not true desire, and so cannot kill him. So he doubles over his fist and shouts with pain as he finally comes, dripping over his knuckles.

When the relief does not come and the pressure only spreads to his thighs, Annatar curses the Valar. He scoops his come into his hands and tries to press it inside himself, to see if he can cure the curse with his own seed. He only ends up thrusting against his own fingers, reveling in the golden sparks he can light up inside himself if he only presses deeper, harder.

It is worth it, he tells himself. Annatar sees Celebrimbor in the forge each day, sleeves rolled up behind his elbows, dark hair standing out on his strong, burn-scarred forearms. His hands are rough and calloused, but so careful. How would he have borne the curse of desire? Would he have begged in the end for Annatar’s cock? Would Annatar have given in?

 

“I would rather die than bind my soul,” Celebrimbor had said. Annatar sees, and he wants, and he tells himself: this is for Celebrimbor’s sake. And so, he endures.

He tries to lose himself in his work. He labors in the forge until he is too distracted by the smiths’ glistening skin in the shimmering heat. He retreats to bathe in the cold riverbank, finding the cool water soothing, but leaves when his arousal reacts to the bare bodies of those who bathe around him. He reads in the library until he finds himself distracted by the persistent ache between his legs. It fades, but appears whenever he is bored or tired, or when his heart races.

Annatar abandons detail work for something more robust: a lamp. If the Mírdain would not protest that the forge was not a smithy, he would craft a sword or a polearm, something as sharp as he feels.

He continues his work in the evenings after dinner, alone and ashamed. In the hot summer night, the Mírdain’s apprentices have left the vented roof open to cool down the forge. The cool air that drifts through the sooty hall smells of rain. It relieves the fever under Annatar’s skin.

“Annatar?”

Copper is soft under his hammer. He pounds a sharp edge into a domed side.

“Annatar.”

Celebrimbor is there. Celebrimbor is always there, staring at him from the corner of his eye with pity or steering smiths away by their elbows. Celebrimbor is here, dressed in red, as if he knows something of fire.

“It is late,” Celebrimbor is saying. Annatar tries to hammer more loudly to drown him out. “Annatar.”

A breeze drifts through the ceiling vents and through the forge. Over the bitter smell of singed metal and burning coals, Annatar can smell the grassy scent of Celebrimbor’s oil soap and the clove perfume in his hair. There is incense and beeswax smoke hanging in his velvet silk robes from dinner. Annatar wants to bury his face in it. He has never felt this way before. He feels he is approaching insanity.

Celebrimbor rests a hand on his wrist. Annatar drops his hammer to the floor with a clatter.

“Rest,” Celebrimbor says. “Even if you need it not, it will strengthen you.”

“When did you begin to worry about me?” Annatar asks wryly.

“Do you not know?” Celebrimbor murmurs. His face is close to Annatar’s. Annatar wishes he would be cruel to him instead, to make this easier to bear.

He kneels to pick up the hammer and hands it to Annatar. The length of the handle slips through his curled fingers. Annatar forces himself to take it and not to move. Celebrimbor turns to leave.

A great gust of wind blows through the vent in the ceiling. They both look up as the clouds finally burst and rain pours into the forge through the vent. Celebrimbor rushes over to the chain and pulley to pull it closed.

The wind only catches the vent, ripping the chain from Celebrimbor’s hands. Annatar runs to his side.

Together they fight the wind. They each take hold of the chain and pull hard to close the vent, pressing chest to chest. As Celebrimbor tugs, his hands slip on the wet chain. He knocks into Annatar.

A painful shock runs through Annatar. He feels himself reddening, warming, heart racing against Celebrimbor’s. Annatar’s cock hardens.

Celebrimbor’s gaze is fixed above at the stuck vent. His braid is coming undone, his hair plastered to his face from the rain. He heaves himself up with his rippling forearms and jumps with all of his weight. His body knocks into Annatar’s. The vent clangs but does not shut. Annatar stifles a moan.

“Together! On three!” Celebrimbor shouts over the wind.

Annatar wants to sink and melt into the summer storm. Instead, he obeys Celebrimbor’s command and pulls the chain. Their bodies crush together. Annatar is pressed against Celebrimbor’s warm body, against the ridge of his hip bone and the muscle of his thigh. He is trembling. He finally hears the vent clang shut.

Annatar moans and shakes as he finds his release against Celebrimbor’s leg.

Annatar pulls back. His chest heaves as he pants, heart racing. Perhaps Celebrimbor did not notice. Perhaps the wind --

“Did you just come?” Celebrimbor asks in shock, staring at the line of his still-hard cock through his sodden robes.

Annatar pushes Celebrimbor against the wall with a low growl in his throat.

He feels like a wild animal, unable to control the scrabbling of his hands as he claws up Celebrimbor’s chest. He presses one knee between Celebrimbor’s and grinds his hips wildly, searching for the precious press of his thigh.

“Stop me,” Annatar hisses. “Tell me you do not want me.” He cannot bear it if he does. He thinks his heart will stop beating if he does not.

“I cannot say that,” Celebrimbor gasps. “I will not.”

“Then, so be it,” Annatar says, kissing him.

He kisses him quickly because he knows Celebrimbor will enjoy it, and because he has imagined the first time they kissed a thousand times over in the long months since. Annatar pulls Celebrimbor’s garnet red tunic over his head and throws it to the ground so he does not need to see the damned thing.

Instead, he loses himself worshiping the round red peaks of his nipples with his tongue, kissing the curves of his soft stomach, and skimming his mouth over the sensitive skin of his hipbones.

“Forgive me, Annatar,” Celebrimbor murmurs nonsensically.

Tugging down Celebrimbor’s trousers, Annatar does not hesitate to wet the head of Celebrimbor’s cock with a swipe of his tongue.

“Annatar,” Celebrimbor whimpers again, fingers threading through the pale gold of his hair to force him back. Annatar moans from the spike of pleasure it gives him. When he looks up and locks eyes, Celebrimbor’s are dark but wavering. “Is this what you want?”

Annatar fights against Celebrimbor’s hand on his hair until he feels his nails digging into his scalp to hold him back from the cock in front of him. He is swimming, drowning in the need for it on his tongue. Every moment away is torture. To be so close but held back is exquisite pain.

“No,” Annatar gasps, “I need this.”

Celebrimbor relents and releases him out of pity more than desire, but Annatar cannot resent him for it any longer. He takes Celebrimbor’s cock into his mouth so quickly he nearly chokes himself. Celebrimbor’s hips flinch back at the sound, but Annatar chases him. He is rough in his desperation, not as careful of his teeth as he should be, drawing out a hiss.

The hand on his hair returns, petting him. It hesitates to push him down. Annatar wants Celebrimbor to fuck his face. He wants him pressed far down his throat so he cannot breathe. He needs Celebrimbor to fill and consume him until there is nothing left of him to feel the coiling desire that strangles.

Annatar grips himself roughly through his robes to try to stave off the need, pushing down on his pleasure to focus on Celebrimbor’s. It does not waver, but rears up at him. He whimpers around Celebrimbor’s cock, swallowing hard around it in his watering mouth.

“Look at me,” Celebrimbor whispers, sensing his desperation. “Look up at me, Annatar. I want to look -- I want to see --”

Annatar locks eyes with him again. Celebrimbor closes his eyes and comes with a slow rolling shake of his hips.

Annatar swallows his cure, throat bobbing.

He pops his mouth off Celebrimbor’s softening cock. Celebrimbor reaches down, swiping a dribble of seed from Annatar’s chin with his thumb. Annatar leans in and sucks it down, the salt and the sour like honey to him.

Celebrimbor closes his eyes with a shudder. He lets his legs collapse underneath him. “It’s over, now,” he whispers, “I’m sorry,” but his eyes are closed, and he is not looking at Annatar.

Annatar rucks up his wet robes. He is still hard and sticky with his last release. He circles the head of his cock with his thumb, humming to himself at the gorgeous pleasure, and grips himself hard. He pumps into his hand once, twice, and loses count, thrusting before he comes.

When Annatar looks up, Celebrimbor is watching him greedily but warily, as though he is unsure if should watch.

Annatar shakes with the spasms of his orgasm. He still feels hot as the forge and scrambles to pull off his wet, heavy robes. The cold air on his skin is no relief. The coals at the pit of his belly are white-hot now. His cock stands hard and painful against the curve of his stomach.

Annatar locks eyes with Celebrimbor. “Why has it not stopped?” he asks, his rough voice a surprise to his ears.

He reaches for his cock, but it is raw and sensitive, and the skin of his hand feels like sandpaper. Annatar drags his tongue over his palm before he takes himself in his fist again. He huffs out a whimper at his own touch. Celebrimbor watches with growing horror.

“Stop,” Celebrimbor says breathily. Annatar closes his eyes to ignore him. “Stop,” Celebrimbor repeats, more loudly.

Ignoring the command only makes Annatar’s blood spike at the promise of retribution. Yet, he reminds himself, this is Celebrimbor. He would not --

A rough hand pulls his wrist from his cock and snaps a manacle shut around it. Celebrimbor pushes him down and straddles him. He holds Annatar with his full weight, fighting for control of his other hand.

“Behave,” Celebrimbor growls in such a tone that Annatar listens automatically, surprising the both of them. “You’ll hurt yourself if you continue like that,” he continues. The second manacle snaps shut. A shiver goes through Annatar as his hips thrust into empty air.

Celebrimbor pulls Annatar up onto his feet by the chain between his manacles. They are forged from mithril and enchanted in a way he cannot break. It should terrify him. It only sharpens his arousal.

“I did not want to use these, but I made them when --” Celebrimbor starts apologetically.

“Don’t ruin it,” Annatar says in a broken voice.

Celebrimbor looks at him strangely, but he is merciful in ways Annatar does not deserve. He pulls Annatar to his feet and leads him naked through the storm puddles on the floor of the forge and towards the doors of his adjoining study. It is dark inside as he locks the door. Wind and rain rattle the glass windowpanes.

“Lie down here.”

Celebrimor pushes Annatar back onto the soft cushions of a wooden bench. Annatar tries to watch as he fastens the chain of the manacles over his head to the slats of the bench. Every brush against him is pleasure and pain. He could break free if he pulled hard enough, but Celebrimbor’s look is stern.

“Be good,” Celebrimbor breathes, visibly steeling himself. “I need time. I’m sure I can find what went wrong.”

“Why?” Annatar whispers hoarsely. “Why did it not work?”

“I do not know,” Celebrimbor says. “Perhaps it is the time you have spent with the poisonous curse. Perhaps it is your Maiar body.”

 “I want to touch you,” Annatar moans, “I want your cock again.”

“I -- oh, Annatar. Of course I will give you what you need. Or, I will try,” Celebrimbor says, strangely shaky. He reaches out to cup Annatar’s cheek. “But you cannot touch yourself. You are only making it worse.”

Annatar cannot control the whine deep in his throat as he stares up at Celebrimbor in the flashes of lightning through the window. He is naked, now, and holding a bottle. When did he undress? When did he pull out the manacles in the forge, or the bottle of oil he is pouring into his hand? Is Annatar losing his sanity?

Celebrimbor’s fingers dig into Annatar’s thighs as he positions him on the sofa, an oiled hand stroking between his cheeks. He needs it desperately. Annatar’s wrists jolt painfully in the manacles as he tries to thrust down into Celebrimbor’s finger.

“Slow,” Celebrimbor chides him. He swallows, throat bobbing. “You must be patient. I am not ready. I cannot take you yet.”

“Take me now, take me soft. I need to come,” Annatar commands nonsensically, but Celebrimbor shakes his head.

“No,” Celebrimbor says reluctantly. “You cannot come, Annatar. It will only make it worse. I will not risk the bonding act --.”

“Damn your Elvish foolishness,” Annatar curses. The chain between Annatar’s manacles clinks as it slides up the wooden slats of the sofa.

“Don’t scratch my sofa,” Celebrimbor reprimands him, voice suddenly sharp. “Hands on the armrest. There, that’s -- that’s good.”

Annatar goes so quiet that he can only hear Celebrimbor’s breath and the pouring rain. His knuckles are white as he grips the armrest. Celebrimbor rewards him by pressing a finger inside him. He watches Annatar roll his hips, thrusting down, until he catches Annatar looking.

Celebrimbor glances away, guilt heavy on his face.

The next finger catches on his rim before it sinks in. Celebrimbor twists his hand deeper. Annatar flinches with the force of the pleasure that builds in him. The fingers press and flicker inside the slick heat of him. Annatar gasps as his cock pulses a dribble of come.

Celebrimbor’s hand stills inside of him. Annatar catches a look of wanting on his face: his blushing cheeks, darkened eyes, biting his lower lip...but Celebrimbor closes his eyes and pulls himself back, as though he is catching himself. He stops.

Annatar writhes in the pain that follows his stillness. The aches have turned sharp, his heart stabbing with each beat. Yet Celebrimbor is still holding back.

“Turn me over,” Annatar rasps.

Celebrimbor blinks. His fingers retreat.

“What? No, I --”

“I need you to forget what you think you are giving me.”

“But --”

“You do not need to give yourself. Just -- just take what you want. Take me,” Annatar whimpers. It hurts him to beg. Celebrimbor’s face is pale. “Please,” Annatar repeats, “Please.”

Celebrimbor swallows. He nods. There is room on the sofa for him to flip Annatar over onto his stomach on the cushions. For a moment, cradled in his strong arms, Annatar feels as though he will shatter and break within them.

Celebrimbor is quick after that. He presses up against Annatar’s back, only sweat and rainwater between their skin. Annatar feels the thick head of something blunt and searing bore into him and cries out, imagining it to be a white-hot brand. It is only Celebrimbor’s cock against his oversensitive skin. When Celebrimbor stops in alarm, Annatar hisses, “Go on.”

He is grateful that Celebrimbor cannot see his eyes brim with tears. With his hands shackled in front of him, forced to his knees, Annatar can only thrust his hips weakly.

“Touch me,” Annatar commands, hoping desperately to feel the encompassing pleasure again and to forget that he is dying. His cock hangs heavy, untouched.

Celebrimbor pauses for so long, Annatar can only hear the crash of thunder and rain outside. “Oh, Annatar,” he says, voice hoarse, “I can’t. Perhaps, after, if you still --”

Rage flares up in Annatar. “I know what you believe,” Annatar hisses. “I do not care. It will not fetter our souls.”

“I would not ensnare you,” Celebrimbor says, “I would not bind you to my fate, forced into exile --”

“I am exiled already,” Annatar gasps, “I need you.”

“Don’t,” Celebrimbor whispers, voice choked, “You know only desire. Let me finish this, or I will have been your doom two-fold. Just -- just take it, Annatar. Please.”

Annatar’s ears are ringing. A harsh voice like grinding rock says inside Annatar’s head, This is what you dreamed of -- did you not truly want it?

It was better in his dream, where Celebrimbor was not kind to him.

Celebrimbor thrusts shallowly. Annatar arches into his touch, chasing the hand on his hip. Annatar does not try to hide his tears now. The urgency inside him has not cooled, nor his heart calmed.

Just take it, Celebrimbor had said, and so Annatar does, as he has taken so much for Celebrimbor’s sake.

Annatar’s heart throbs sharply. The weight of his damned body feels crushing, his chest collapsing in on itself. Celebrimbor’s steady thrusts give way to the beat of the heart that rules him, pounding in his rib cage and his arms and up into his throat. It threatens to spill from his mouth, to gush out of him and over him. Annatar sees bright stars and void and feels the tiniest living pieces of his body suffocated and dying, and wishes he had never come to Eregion only to die from this terrible pleasure.

Celebrimbor muffles his cries in Annatar’s shoulder as he comes.

Annatar’s heart stops beating.

Then Celebrimbor presses a kiss to the back of his neck, drawing Annatar back just to hate the gentle, pitying brush of his lips. Celebrimbor’s heart is loud but steady where it beats pressed up against Annatar’s back. His own heart learns to beat again from it. He can breathe, feel the wood of the armrest under his fingers, hear the rain pattering against the window, taste something bitter on the back of his tongue.

But, before the cure calms his pounding heart, before Celebrimbor can pull out of him and release him with an awful pitying kindness, Annatar rocks his hips three times, feeling the press of the softening cock against the bright spot inside him.

Annatar cries out as he comes.

*

Celebrimbor’s vision fades back into the present darkness of the room. In a flicker of lightning, he sees Annatar beneath him. He is limp in his arms.

Fear seizes his heart.

Celebrimbor gropes underneath the sofa cushions in his search for the key. He fumbles to unlock Annatar’s manacles in the dark. They have rubbed red rings against the bones on the inside of his wrists. For a moment, when Annatar does not move, Celebrimbor half-wishes the poison had done its work and freed him from his body. Better dead than bound eternal.

“I should have done that from the start,” Annatar murmurs. He rolls over sleepily. Celebrimbor is filled with a flush of rage. He grips Annatar’s shoulders sharply.

“Why would you do that?” he asks desperately, searching Annatar’s face. “Do you know what you’ve --?!”

Annatar blinks slowly. Celebrimbor gazes into his cold eyes.

“Oh,” Celebrimbor says angrily. “Damn you.”

“I told you it would not bind us,” Annatar says carelessly, examining his wrists, “souls are not so. But you wanted to play at adultery.”

He must be feeling his normal self to sound so cruel. Celebrimbor rankles with shame. Annatar has toyed with his pride and affection while Celebrimor wrung his hands in penitence and restraint.

“You did not have to play me for a fool,” Celebrimbor says bitterly, leaning back. “I truly thought the marital act would bind us.”

“No. It is much more simple than that,” Annatar says, pulling Celebrimbor down on top of him, now that his hands are free.

Celebrimbor intends to meet his gaze only for a moment, then to push away. He cannot. He is caught by the stare and pinned in place.

Annatar’s eyes flicker over his every thought and desire, his wanting, his thirst for mastery, how he sinks deep into his grief, hiding in guilt from what he longs for above all --

And Annatar, who is nothing but soul, has nothing new to show him but Celebrimbor’s own desires reflected back.

Celebrimbor is lost in the darkness of him.

Then, it is as if he has always known nothing but Annatar. It is a terrible comfort, to be known better than he knows himself. It is everything he longed for. It will be the end of him.

Celebrimbor feels his eyes fill with tears. He buries his face in Annatar’s bare chest and feels the weak heartbeat struggling underneath his cheek, so close to death that it has dragged him closer to mortality with their binding.

“You fool,” Celebrimbor gasps.

“No. Why do you weep? You wanted this -- how have you forgotten?” Annatar says, stroking his hair. “Did you not say you were alone in your fate? Now, you cannot be.”

.

.

.

Fin.

---

Chapter End Notes

OC names from chestnut_pod’s Elvish name list. xposted to AO3.

comments and thoughts appreciated!