#silvergifting #trop #Lotr

“Sometimes,” Celebrimbor said, looking away thoughtfully, “well. Sometimes, I need to find a distraction for what’s going on up here.” 

He touched Annatar’s temple with a finger. 

There was so much that he wanted but that he was still too afraid to ask.

“Shall we test one?” Annatar says, shaking Celebrimbor from his thoughts. His gaze is as intense as ever. His pale hair is brushed back from his face and held out of his eyes by a clasp. Celebrimbor watches as Annatar unlaces his leather apron and drapes it over a stool.

Celebrimbor looks around the forge. “It’s quite late --”

“Sit on the workbench and unlace your robes,” Annatar says authoritatively, clearing his tools from the workbench. “We won’t be interrupted if you can keep quiet.”

Celebrimbor blushes at that, but remembers he had asked for this -- in so many words -- begged for it, even. He can’t back out of it now, even as a blush colors the back of his neck. He unties the collar of his robes so Annatar can unlace him down to the waist. 

The air is cold on his bare chest. Annatar stops to run his thumb over a nipple, almost scientific. Celebrimbor hums appreciatively, excitement and anticipation beginning to build. Annatar takes one of the clamps, opens it, and shuts it around one of his nipples. 

Celebrimbor grits his teeth. He takes a deep breath. With the movement, the clamp pops off and falls to the floor.

Annatar frowns. He picks the clamp from the floor and straightens up, reaching for his pliers. Celebrimbor moves to stand up.

“Don’t,” Annatar says. “Let me adjust it.”

He selects a pair of pliers from his tool role and adjusts the clamp carefully. Setting the pliers down, Annatar snaps the clamp around Celebrimbor’s nipple again. 

Celebrimbor can barely breathe for a moment. He feels a slight pinch. Suddenly, Annatar reaches out and flicks the clamp. When Celebrimbor fails to react, Annatar removes it. He picks up the pliers to tighten it again.

“Annatar,” Celebrimbor says, after several long minutes of this torture. “Please, just --”

Annatar silences him with a look.

They follow the pattern again and again for the next few minutes, the clamp growing slowly tighter, Celebrimbor’s nipple growing more red and more swollen as time goes by. He feels the sharp pressure of the clamp around him, then the tingling feeling of its release, before he grows used to the sensation. It hurts, and then it doesn’t, and then it hurts again, a pain that flirts and teases instead of a growing, building hurt.

Finally, when Annatar flicks the clamp on his chest and Celebrimbor has to fight back a scream, he seems satisfied. He leaves the clamp pinched around one of Celebrimbor’s red, throbbing nipples. 

Then picks up the second clamp.

Celebrimbor’s eyes water. Annatar notices and takes his chin in one hand, looking him straight in the eye.

“This was your own doing,” Annatar murmurs, something tugging at the corner of his mouth that could be a smirk. “You have no one to blame but yourself.”

Annatar picks up the second clamp. It barely registers -- not in comparison to the tight clamp on Celebrimbor’s other nipple. Annatar flicks it away lazily. He picks it up and tightens it with his pliers -- ever so slightly. Celebrimbor groans.

“Shh,” Annatar says sharply. “Or I’ll stop.”

“Don’t stop,” Celebrimbor gasps anxiously, his knuckles tightening on the edge of the workbench. “Don’t -- please, Annatar.”

Celebrimbor sits through the excruciating process again. He watches Annatar tighten and test the clamp until he’s found it is equal to the other. By the time he’s finished, Celebrimbor’s first nipple is numb, and the other is still tingling with pain and tightness. 

He shuts his eyes and lets a wave of pain overtake him. Before it even lets him land, he feels something tugging slightly at a clamp, and a warm hand on his breast. Celebrimbor opens his eyes to see Annatar using his tiniest pliers to attach a chain to one of the clamps. 

“We should have done this step first,” Annatar says tersely as Celebrimbor bites back a cry. The clamp tugs a little, sending shooting bursts of pain around his nipple. “You were remiss to leave it out.”

“Annatar -- please -- oh --”

“It would go faster if you’d hold still,” Annatar says, leaning down on Celebrimbor’s legs to stop his fidgeting. Celebrimbor tries to hold himself stock still, feeling his muscles tense from the effort as Annatar attaches the other end of the chain to the second clamp and connecting them. 

The extra weight pulls and tugs at his sensitive nipples. Annatar’s hands brush up against his chest and occasionally stray into his lap, rubbing circles into his thigh to still him. 

By the time Annatar is done, Celebrimbor’s cock tents his robes and his nipples are numb. Celebrimbor blushes to think of someone walking in on them, seeing the forgemaster on a workbench as though he is the next project, his chest bared, a silver chain swinging between his nipples.

Annatar takes an experimental tug on the chain. Celebrimbor gasps at the pain that rushes through him, the tug on his chest and the illogical pleasure swirling with it. When Annatar pauses, Celebrimbor finds himself longing for more.

Annatar tips his chin up to look at him. He runs a thumb across his lower lip. “Have you had enough yet?” he asks.

“Why?” Celebrimbor gasps, “Are you getting tired?”

Annatar tugs hard on the chain joining the clamps. Celebrimbor nearly doesn’t muffle his shouts in time. 

He sees nothing but stars for a moment, but he can feel familiar hands on him, reaching underneath his robes, rucking up the fabric, pulling him closer to the edge of the workbench, bending one of his legs. Annatar’s hands dig into the flesh of his thighs, scraping his nails over the sensitive skin and making Celebrimbor gasp.

“Have you had enough?” Annatar asks again. “I could stop.”

Celebrimbor keens when he feels a hand on his cock. Annatar holds him still, not stroking, simply holding him in a tight grip.

“Don’t stop,” Celebrimbor whispers. His chest is red, but his nipples feel numb. He can’t think with Annatar on him but not moving, just letting him sit in his lust. “More,” he manages in a gasp. “Please.”

Annatar pulls something from his pocket. A moment later, Celebrimbor feels the hand leave his cock, the fingers tracing and teasing further down. He feels a slick, oiled fingertip and squirms when it thrusts inside him. 

“You asked for more,” Annatar says in a murmur in his ear, “and I am nothing if not giving. Relax.” 

Celebrimbor tries to relax, but he has to hold himself up on his elbows to hold the position. Annatar curls and drags his finger inside him and Celebrimbor tries to thrust down upon him, to feel more. Annatar tsks, reaching with his free hand to take the delicate chain on Celebrimbor’s chest between his fingers. At a slight jolt of pain, Celebrimbor stills. Annatar gently works another finger into him, enough to stretch but not enough to satisfy. When Celebrimbor’s hips stutter, he finds himself caught between the tug on his nipples and the pleasure inside him.

He lets out a great sob, screwing up his eyes in bitter frustration. Annatar continues relentlessly, fucking him slowly and softly without enough pressure to give him real pleasure and holding the chain between his nipples steady so he feels no pain. 

“Please,” Celebrimbor gasps, holding himself as still as he can, unable to choose between the misery of pain or of denial. “Please, Annatar,” he begs.

Annatar does nothing. He watches Celebrimbor’s arms shake as they try to hold him upright. He scissors his fingers slowly against the tight ring of muslce.

“Please,” Celebrimbor repeats again, his voice broken.

“I don’t know what you’re asking for,” Annatar says. “Is this not what you wanted?”

Celebrimbor groans in frustration. He pulls a heel up onto the workbench for leverage and grinds his hips down onto Annatar’s fingers. When he twists his hips, Annatar’s fingers finally rub the sensitive spot inside him -- and the chain catches, tugging sharply on his nipples. Every burst of heat is a spark of pain, and every moment of agony is pure pleasure. He feels himself growing closer to his orgasm, riding the waves of fear and exhilaration towards his peak.

Annatar stills. Celebrimbor nearly begins to sob at the thought of him holding off when he’s so close. Then, he realizes too late, Annatar has dropped the chain and is beginning to release the clamps.

The blood rushes back; with it comes the throbbing, sharp pain. Annatar wraps an arm around his back -- he thrusts his fingers harder -- Celebrimbor’s chest is on fire -- and he’s spilling over his stomach -- his vision goes dark --

Annatar stands over him when he opens his eyes, the lamplight a halo around his golden hair. He looks down at him and raises an eyebrow.

Celebrimbor groans as he slides off the workbench. His open, untied robes flap around his chest. He looks down. His nipples are dark red and swollen, with fresh red bruises beginning to appear on the delicate skin of his chest. Annatar steps close to him and wraps an arm around his waist, pushing his robes aside to survey his handiwork.

He circles one of Celebrimbor’s tortured nipples with a fingertip. “You could have gone a little longer, I think,” Annatar says thoughtfully.

“Longer?” Celebrimbor repeats in disbelief. Annatar tightens the laces on his robes and ties them shut, straightening his wrinkled clothes. He smirks when Celebrimbor gasps from the fabric against his sensitive nipples. 

“It’s a closet,” Halbrand says, unimpressed as he looks over Celebrimbor’s shoulder. 

“Well, we don’t have much need for it,” Celebrimbor says. “I’m not fond of hoarding. Our crafts should be out where they can live, where people can see them.”

He steps inside the closet and sets his candle down on the narrow table to free his hands. He pulls a tiny key from the collection dangling from the chain around his waist and unlocks a drawer set into the back wall. Celebrimbor pulls out a tiny velvet satchel. 

“Come here,” he says, gesturing for Halbrand to join him. “Hold out your hand.”

Halbrand obliges. Celebrimbor gently pours a measure of uncut gems into his palm. 

“I thought of adamant, of starlight on the water, of light and purity,” Celebrimbor says. The adamants are a milky white in odd, ragged shapes, pocked and dirty, yet to be cut and shined to show their depth and beauty. He picks a gem from Halbrand’s palm and holds it over the lamplight so the flame shines through. “It glows so beautifully, rough as it is.”

Halbrand runs a calloused thumb over the uncut gems. “I know little of gems and jewels,” he admits. 

“And I know too much,” Celebrimbor sighs. “No, don’t ask me now,” he replies to Halbrand’s quirked eyebrow, “You’ll have to pry it out of me with wine when this is all over. Let’s gather our materials and get back to the forge. It’s past nightfall. We should have wrapped up hours ago.”

As Celebrimbor busies himself with the gems, his back turning to lock one drawer and unlock the sapphires, he hears an awful creak. 

The vault door clangs shut, almost blowing out the lamp. The flame flickers and smokes, but thankfully, steadies itself and continues burning in the encroaching darkness. 

“I suppose neither of us thought to use the door prop?” Halbrand asks with a sigh. 

Celebrimbor tests the handle in vain, then tries to force the door, but it’s no use. The heavy locks will not budge, not even from the inside. 

“We will have to wait until morning, when they realize the keys to the treasury are missing,” he says with a sigh. 

Halbrand tries the door as well, but cannot even rattle it on its hinges. They shout, but their voices only deafen them in the small space. 

“Well,” Halbrand says, looking at the small candle. “Is there any chance you store lamp oil amongst the valuables?”

They find silver candlesticks (“Dreadfully tarnished, I’ll have to have a word with the caretaker,” says Celebrimbor), mouse-nibbled beeswax, and finally a jug of some type of oil with a heady, fragrant scent. They fill an antique oil lamp with it and the vault smells sweet, like the blossoming trees in spring. 

Halbrand sits on the narrow table, feet swinging, while Celebrimbor tries to make himself comfortable with his back to the door. He found a roll of thin bronze wire and now twists it in his hands, forming an increasingly intricate knot around a rough cut crystal.

Halbrand, apparently annoyed by his silence, has decided to waste away the time by going through each drawer and box. Celebrimbor watches the man pull out necklaces and earrings older than him, test the blades of daggers undulled by age, and scoff at their small collection of pearls. He finally finds a wooden box on the highest shelf and pulls it down to look at the leaf carved into its surface.

Inside, he finds a gold and silver circlet of adamant and ruby: a gleaming crown of vines and leaves that looks as though it were grown, not made.

Halband locks eyes with Celebrimbor. “Your work?” he asks, attention sharp and unwavering. “For your high king?”

“An unfinished project,” Celebrimbor says with a sigh, frowning at a missing gem. 

“Why unfinished?” Halbrand asks. “It’s nearly perfect.”

“Because we had a disagreement about what should be served at the summer solstice feast and I packed it away in annoyance,” Celebrimbor says, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He gets to his feet, sets down his wire wrapping, and takes the crown from Halbrand. He turns the crown of leaves and flower buds over in his hands. “It was a few hundred years ago. It’s not quite what I imagined, but passable, I suppose.”

“Passable? It’s beautiful,” Halbrand says. He slips off the table to stand next to Celebrimbor, encroaching on his space in the tight vault. With nowhere to go, Celebrimbor looks up from his unfinished crown to look him in the eye. 

“You know how projects turn on you. They’re never quite what you think they’ll be when you dream them into being,” Celebrimbor says with a halfhearted smile. Halbrand takes the crown from his hands to look over it once more.

“Believe me, I know that very well,” Halbrand says. “Then, if not for your high king, why not for you?” he asks, settling the crown onto Celebrimbor’s head before he can protest. 

The weight of the crown is a shock on his head. Celebrimbor blinks under it, not realizing until it’s too late that Halbrand has knelt at his feet. 

“Don’t you dream of being hailed as you deserve, my lord?” Halbrand asks, taking his hand. He brushes a kiss over Celebrimbor’s knuckles in a mockery of a pledge. His lips are warm, his beard prickly. Heat rushes under Celebrimbor’s skin the moment Halbrand pulls away, and he suddenly, desperately wants nothing more than to feel those soft lips again.

“Never,” Celebrimbor whispers, a little horrified and a little intoxicated from Halbrand’s insistence at imagining him as a king. He takes the crown from his head and looks down at Halbrand, kneeling before him. “Rather, I think this would be rightfully yours, if you’d take your proper place.”

Something flashes in Halbrand’s eyes as Celebrimbor lowers the unfinished crown onto his head. 

He sets it carefully over his brown hair, his fingers lingering to tuck a loose curl behind his ear. Halbrand swallows, his throat clicking. His gaze is heavy. Celebrimbor can feel his own heart beating in his ears. 

Halbrand rushes to his feet and kisses him -- no, claims him, presses his back against the door of the vault, and pins him there with his hands and his body. Celebrimbor cannot do anything but be kissed and kiss back. He manages to wrap an arm around Halbrand’s waist, as though either of them can escape. 

After a moment, Halbrand pulls back to take his earlobe between his teeth. Celebrimbor hisses. They are moving more quickly than he is used to, Halbrand’s hands wandering over his chest, his thigh pressing between his legs. Celebrimbor feels desire flare up within him at Halbrand’s strong leg rubbing against him. He finds himself harden and he blushes, feeling hot and foolish. 

“I have seen you watching in the forge,” Halbrand says, his thumbs rubbing circles into Celebrimbor’s waist through the fabric of his robes and teasing. “I thought it was curiosity.”

“A type of curiosity,” Celebrimbor manages to mumble, “you are a curious thing. A smith from a land so unlike my own. The last in a long forgotten line. I wondered what you made of it all. If you would be content to fade out of memory, as I am doomed.” He brings a hand up to trace Halbrand’s cheek. Halbrand buries his face in Celebrimbor’s neck. His mouth is hot and wet, sucking kisses underneath his jaw.

“You would refuse a crown if it were offered,” Halbrand murmurs in his ear.

“Well, yes --” Celebrimbor gasps.

“You would humbly refuse all the admiration and glory that you deserve?” Halbrand’s breathy voice whispers. “You would not take a single moment of recognition?” 

Halbrand does not allow him to answer, instead capturing his mouth in kiss after kiss, each more bruising than the last. Finally, when he pulls away, Celebrimbor laughs with joy. 

He murmurs, “I will -- once I’ve done something worthy of admiration.” 

Halbrand kisses down his chest. “Then let me do the admiring,” he says, and falls back down to his knees.

The crown gleams on his head in the lamplight as he pulls up the hem of Celebrimbor’s robes, handing him a fistful of green fabric to cling to and hold out of the way. Celebrimbor’s head is spinning with the quickness and the heat, with no time to think or stop, only feel the desire burning through him. Halbrand pulls away his underclothes and pauses to look at him. 

Celebrimbor feels himself blush as Halbrand traces a hand up and down his thigh, staring at his heavy cock between his legs. His neck curves as he leans forward to take it into his mouth. His mouth feels impossibly hot around him.

Celebrimbor’s eyes clamp shut. He lets his head fall back against the heavy vault door. The heat disappears.

“Look at me,” Halbrand says, voice husky already. Celebrimbor forces himself to open his eyes and look down at him, at the king in his gold and silver crown kneeling at his feet. Halbrand holds his gaze as he sucks the head of his cock. Celebrimbor feels pinned down by it, as though he’s being forced to watch himself being taken apart.

Halbrand calls up more desires than Celebrimbor had ever known he had inside him. Celebrimbor wants to buck his hips and thrust into his mouth. He could shove Halbrand to the ground, tear away his trousers and push his tongue inside him. He wants both to relish the man’s mouth on him like a worshipper and to fuck him and claim him and to be claimed, to be held to some great encompassing pleasure that he cannot escape. 

Halbrand has a hand on his crotch, palming himself over layers of fabric. Celebrimbor whimpers to see him touch himself. Halbrand finally breaks his gaze and closes his eyes, forcing himself to take Celebrimbor until his cock hits the back of his throat. 

Below him, Halbrand’s hand sneaks under the waist of his trousers and he wraps a hand around his cock. Celebrimbor is frustrated he can’t see it, only the telltale signs of movement through the fabric as Halbrand thrusts into his own hand. 

Celebrimbor’s hips flinch forward accidentally. He thrusts into Halbrand’s mouth, crying out at the movement, the pleasure. Halbrand leans his head closer to take him better. 

Celebrimbor watches the frantic movement inside Halbrand’s trousers and the growing wet spot on the brown fabric, hears the groans stifled by his own cock, and comes in Halbrand’s mouth.

A moment later, Celebrimbor slides down the vault door to rest upon the flagstones. He leans over, pulling at Halbrand’s trousers, burning to touch him -- but Halbrand comes before he can. He finishes with a strangled cry, his cock held tight in his fist. 

Celebrimbor cannot stop staring as Halbrand collapses to the floor beside him. The rubies on his crown dance in the lamplight. Halbrand leans back on his elbows and pants, his pulse jumping in his neck, chest heaving, skin glistening with a layer of sweat. The treasury is hot and stuffy, betraying their intimacy.

Halbrand straightens up. He takes the crown from his head and holds it in his hands for a moment, considering. His finger traces a rough line of solder that Celebrimbor had failed to file away before he gave up on finishing the piece. 

“You would not wear it, but I heard no complaints about me kneeling before you,” Halbrand says with a smirk, spinning the crown lazily around his index finger. His voice is hoarse and quiet.

“I have no desire to rule over others,” Celebrimbor sighs, reaching out to take the crown from his careless hands. Halbrand stops toying with the crown and holds it out of Celebrimbor’s reach.

“Yet you have other ambitions,” Halbrand says, leaning closer even as he holds the crown further away. He grasps the collar of Celebrimbor’s robes with his other hand. “So close at hand, yet so frustratingly out of grasp.” He pulls Celebrimbor near enough to kiss.

She raises an eyebrow, as though she’d like to see two elven lords sleeping on the floor amongst the men that had wandered in on a rainy night.

“It would be peaceful in comparison to the hospitality of the dwarves,” Celebrimbor says dryly. Annatar flashes a rare smile at his joke when the innkeeper doesn’t seem to understand. Celebrimbor can’t crush the flip his stomach has done at the sight of that smile.

He exchanges money with the lady, buying their dinner and a room for the night. The two of them eat quickly, ignoring the stares from other travelers, and trudge up the creaking stairs to the tiny attic room. Celebrimbor tries not to look at Annatar. 

The room is unbearably quiet. It has a single bed, two chairs, and a rickety old table. The tiny fire crackles and the shutters shake from the rainstorm outside. The two of them open their saddlebags in search of dry clothes. Celebrimbor checks that the precious pouch of metals and jewels is still tucked into the hidden lining he’d sewn into the bag.

Besides him, Annatar lets out a rare curse. Celebrimbor looks up in surprise.

“My bag has leaked in the rain,” Annatar says, holding up a soaked tunic. 

“We’ll hang them by the fire,” Celebrimbor says. They leave a chair in front of the grate and drape their wet clothes over it. 

Annatar begins to peel out of his shirt. His trousers come next, as though he is undressing alone in his room. Celebrimbor’s mouth goes dry. He looks down, waiting for the moment to end, until he realizes Annatar intends to stay in his underthings until his clothes are dry.

Celebrimbor looks away and tries not to blush at the image before him. Out of his clothes, Annatar is almost too perfect, somehow, too smooth and golden and strong. Celebrimbor is used to watching his arms flex and bulge as he works in the forge. He sneaks another look, catching a glance at his chest, pink nipples and more muscles. 

If he isn’t careful, the tips of his ears will turn pink and give away that he’s looking -- if they haven’t already.

Celebrimbor distracts himself by looking through his bag and pulling out one of his largest shirts. “Try this,” he says hopelessly, already knowing it won’t fit over Annatar’s chiseled chest.

When his clothes prove too small, Celebrimbor gives up -- then realizes it’s his turn to change. He pulls his tunic over his head quickly, then hastily begins untying his trousers. He hears Annatar stretch out on the bed behind him, yawning. 

He feels eyes on him, watching silently like he doesn’t know he shouldn’t. Celebrimbor knows all too well, knows it intimately, how it feels to watch when you should not. He only watches Annatar when he knows he won’t be seen: when he is focused and at work at the anvil, when he translates scrolls in the library, when he stands in the dark courtyard where he thinks no one is watching and watches the skies at dusk between the sunset and the first twinkling stars. 

His fumbling fingers finally untie his trousers and he hangs them before the fire. He changes quickly, finding himself shivering from his cold, wet clothes. The air is chilly in the room, despite the fire.

“We should stay an extra day,” Annatar says thoughtfully. “This storm came down from the mountains and will continue all day tomorrow. It’ll wash out the paths.”

“We’re only a day’s ride away from the next town,” Celebrimbor says, heart in his mouth at the idea of another day in this room with Annatar. “We can stand to survive a little rain.”

“Your teeth are chattering,” Annatar admonishes, as if Celebrimbor has proven his point. “Come. Get into bed.”

Celebrimbor had seriously considered sleeping on the floor, but Annatar’s voice commands him into bed beside him. The straw mattress is lumpy, but comfortable enough. The wool blankets are warm, if unfamiliar. 

There’s just enough room for Annatar beside him, warming him, to close for comfort but too far to bring him relief. His golden hair is dark and stringy from the rain. It falls on his bare shoulders and reminds Celebrimbor that he’s undressed.

Proximity brings a kind of aching, wishing feeling to Celebrimbor’s chest. It holds his heart in a fist, telling him both to reach out and to stay away. He feels an awful need and dread all at once. His head is swimming.

“Annatar --”

“I’ll leave you to sleep,” Annatar says, slipping out of bed and pulling the other chair by the fire. He begins to run his fingers through his hair to dry it. Celebrimbor shuts his eyes to the view and hopes sleep takes him before his desire.