Work Text:
Sighing deeply, you strike out yet another flawed design for one of the Nine Rings of Men. It’s too similar to one Lord Celebrimbor has already rejected, but your mind seems to have been drained of all original thought after days on end of tireless labour.
At the very least, you have retired to your own study, away from Lord Celebrimbor’s sour mood. He has grown strange of late, distant at best and ill-tempered at worst. You doubt you would have been able to go on toiling as you do if it weren’t for the Lord of Gifts to lift your spirits with his words of encouragement, kind gaze and—on occasion—his soothing touch. He has a way of cradling your hand in his with such gentleness and warmth that it feels like a balm on your calloused skin, making any amount of strenuous work well worth the sacrifice.
You cannot deny, however much you would like to, that you have begun to harbor some measure of infatuation towards him. You try to put it out of your mind most of the time, but you must admit how much it motivates you in your work—the desire to fulfil his desire, as well as the fear that you might disappoint him.
Now, unfortunately, you feel the latter is a more likely possibility. You hate how utterly uninspired you feel, even though it’s to be expected in your state of exhaustion. You groan, leaning on the desk as you rest your head in your hands when a sound distracts you from your own frustration.
It’s coming from outside, you realize, from within the city. A distant clamour, muffled voices, and a distinct, harsh sound that has you standing from your seat, turning towards the door and—
—and finding yourself nose to nose with Annatar.
“My Lord!” you exclaim, hand flying to your suddenly rampant heart as you stumble backwards, bumping into your worktable. “Forgive me, I—I had not heard you come in.”
“Did you not?” he asks, quite puzzled. “I called your name. I was beginning to fear I had somehow offended you when we last spoke, since you seemed so intent on ignoring me.”
“Oh, no, of course not! I did not mean to—” You shake your head, stumbling on your words. Your cheeks feel as hot as the forge itself. How lost must you have been in your own thoughts that you hadn’t noticed his presence? “I was quite absorbed in the work, I think,” you admit apologetically. You mean to ask him what he needed of you, but then the same noise from before catches your ear, and you remember why you stood in the first place. “Is that the siege alarm?”
Annatar regards you with a slight furrow in his brow.
“You are tired,” he says softly. “Your senses deceive you.”
That may be true, to an extent. You had failed to hear him earlier, after all. But unless your senses have taken full leave of you, you are certain what you’re hearing is true.
“No, I can hear it,” you insist. “Can’t you?”
You don’t wait for his answer as you walk past him—or at least, you mean to. With a step to the side, he is in your way, causing you to halt in your tracks and blink up at him in surprise instead.
“All is well in the city. Your concern lies here.”
He’s smiling as he says it. The same gentle lift of the lips that you’ve come to consider a sweet reward for your efforts in making the Rings, helping you get through the long days. Now, however, it sends a shiver down your spine. And, for the first time, it is not the pleasant kind.
“Still,” you say carefully, “I am tired, as you said. I wish to go outside—for a moment’s respite, if nothing else.”
You try to step past him. This time, it’s his hand around your wrist that stops you.
“Rest, if you must,” he says, leaning ever so slightly closer, “but do so here. Then, focus on your work, as you are meant to.”
He doesn’t raise his voice, yet the order in it is unmistakable. And his grip on your wrist is rigid, nothing like the calming touch you’ve known from him so far. You’ve displeased him, that much is clear, and the thought churns in your stomach—but for some reason, your urge to get out demands to be obeyed.
“I shall return to my work,” you press on, “once I come back inside.”
Again, you mean to walk away. You mean to put distance between you, to pull your hand from his.
He won’t let you. The moment you take your first step, his grip tightens and he pulls you back, bringing your hand between your chests and keeping you trapped against your worktable.
“My Lord, please!” you say in disbelief, frantically searching his eyes for any trace of the warmth that was once there. “You are frightening me.”
“You need not be frightened,” he says, a sharp edge to his tone, “so long as you do as I tell you.”
“I—” You stare at him, dumbfounded. You don’t know what’s come over him, but you want no part of it. “Release me at once.”
You try to wrench your hand away from his, but all that does is worsen the pain in your wrist as he keeps it in his iron grip. And yet he looks so eerily calm as he does so, as his other hand suddenly cups your cheek.
“Shh,” he coos softly, “none of that.” Your heart trembles in your chest, painfully confused as he seems to contemplate you. “I thought you’d have let me in by now,” he muses. “But perhaps I should have done this sooner.”
“Done what—?”
His lips meet yours.
It stops. All of it. The confusion, the alarms—those outside as well as those within you. A wave of calm sweeps through the very core of your being, removing in its wake all traces of distress and leaving nothing but sweet surrender. A sound escapes your throat, something like a yelp that turns into a sigh, and...
How is this happening? What came before? You can’t remember, and you don’t care to. All you know is you have imagined this before, desired it deep within your heart, and that desire is being fulfilled. There’s an ache in your wrist, but the pain is dull and you pay it no mind as he tastes your mouth languidly. Your hands come to rest on his chest, his pulling you to him by the waist. And just as you melt into him, weak with desire, he parts his lips from yours.
“Forgive me,” he says softly as your dazed gaze meets his. “Did you mean to go somewhere?”
Your brow furrows as you try to muster enough coherent thought to speak.
“I... I believe I was coming to find you,” you find yourself murmuring. You don’t quite remember, but the words come as naturally to you as the act of breathing. And they feel true, once you’ve spoken them.
The tiniest smile blooms at the corner of his lips.
“I see,” he says, satisfied. “What did you need from me?”
“I... I needed...”
The answer eludes you. You only know what you need now, and the craving is so great you cannot put it into words.
Sure enough, he knows. His eyes hold a teasing glint, almost mean, as he leans down, pressing his lips to a tender spot beneath your ear before whispering into it, “This, perhaps?” His mouth travels lower still, kissing your neck as you tremble in his arms. “Or this?”
“Annatar,” you breathe out, uncaring of his title. Surely, you are beyond formalities now.
“Yes?” he says, awfully innocent, pulling away to look you in the eye once more. “Name your desire, and you shall have it.”
Your skin sizzles where he has touched it, and the hunger in his eyes leaves you breathless, and you are beyond merely voicing what you desire as you press your lips to his once more. He returns your kiss, matching your greed and swallowing your moan, and you think you might become reduced to ashes if he were to let you go.
It’s painful when he pulls away once more. You find yourself chasing his lips, craning your neck for just one more taste, but he cups your cheek to hold you still.
“Easy,” he says softly, yet the sole word feels like a command. You do settle down, though your heart is still rampant in your chest. He seems pleased by it, and that is enough to hold you still. “Now, I’m afraid there is an urgent matter I must discuss with Lord Celebrimbor. But I shall return to you, and...” he trails off, fixing you with a gaze full of promise which stokes the fire in your belly. “Remain here. Speak to no one. Wait for me. Will you do as I tell you?”
The words hold a strange echo. You can’t place it. You only know what the right answer is.
“Yes,” you agree quietly. And mean it.
“Good.” Annatar smiles, thumb brushing the apple of your cheek. “That pleases me greatly.”
The praise continues to warm your heart long after he is gone. You’re painfully aware, somehow, that you could never live without that feeling, or without him, again.
So you do as he told you.