The Finrod Museum

Annatar under Celebrimbor, after so many sweet entreaties and subtle seductions he gives in, facing the sheets so he doesn’t have to see, so he doesn’t have to think about who’s doing it to him. He’s suffered worse torments, he thinks, this will pass soon, he just has to pretend to enjoy it. And pretend he does, for a while, his sighs soft and his urging tender, but his body betrays him, and when he sees silken black hair mingling with his own, a molten kiss pressed to the back of his neck, memories awaken. He closes his eyes, trying to repress them, but he can’t, he can’t, he remembers powerful hands on him, the scent of smoke and the taste of embers, that deep voice making him shudder as he whispered, “Mairon.” And Annatar moans, a low agonised moan born of both pleasure and anguish, and Celebrimbor almost stops, he almost asks him if he's all right, but as Annatar gasps, “Harder, harder please, my Lord, please—” in a strange and unbelievably vulnerable voice it lights a fire in him and he won’t stop now for anything.