“Ah, Fëanáro.”
The words hung like embers in the air of the smithy, barely audible above the persistent hiss of metal cooling in water. Mahtan stood at the threshold, his auburn hair gleaming copper in the forge-light, beard neatly braided against the heat. His grey eyes, keen as polished silver, took in the scene before him—the scattered tools, the abandoned crucible, the half-formed creation lying twisted upon the anvil.
Fëanáro did not turn at the sound of his name. His shoulders, taut as bowstrings, remained hunched over his workbench, fingers gripping the edge until his knuckles blanched white as Telperion's light. The workshop, usually a sanctuary of ordered chaos, now reflected the turmoil within its occupant — gemstones scattered like frozen tears across the floor, sketches crumpled and cast aside, the air thick with the acrid scent of frustration.
"Leave me," Fëanáro whispered, though his voice betrayed him with its tremor.
Mahtan stepped fully into the workshop, closing the door behind him with a gentle click that echoed like thunder in the tense silence. He moved with the deliberate grace of one who had navigated both the delicate art of craftsmanship and the treacherous terrain of Fëanáro's moods for centuries.
"I think not," he replied, his voice as steady as the anvil that stood between them. "Not when I find my finest student destroying what promised to be his greatest work."
Fëanáro's laugh was sharp as obsidian, cutting through the air. "Greatest work? This... this abomination?" He gestured towards the misshapen lump of metal that once held such promise. "I cannot capture it, Mahtan. The light eludes me."
Mahtan crossed the distance between them, his footfalls deliberate upon the stone floor. He did not touch Fëanáro — not yet—but stood close enough that the younger elf could feel the warmth radiating from him, steady as the forge itself.
"The light of the Trees has been studied by our kind since first we awakened beneath their glow," Mahtan said softly. "None have captured it perfectly. Perhaps none are meant to."
Fëanáro turned then, his eyes ablaze with a fire that made even the forge seem dim by comparison. "And yet I must. I must hold it, contain it, preserve it." His voice dropped to a whisper. "I feel it slipping away, Aulendur.”
Mahtan's expression softened, the lines around his eyes deepening not with age — for the Eldar did not wither — but with understanding. He reached forward, calloused fingers hovering just above Fëanáro's shoulder before settling there with gentle weight.
"Nothing that burns so brightly can be contained forever," he murmured, his thumb tracing small circles against the tense muscle beneath. "Not even by hands as skilled as yours."
Fëanáro's breath caught, a sound like the first crack in glass before it shatters. He leaned imperceptibly into the touch, his resistance melting like ore in the crucible's embrace.
"I see it in my dreams," he confessed, voice raw. "The light dancing between my fingers, captured in crystal and yet living still. When I wake..." His hand clenched into a fist. "It dissolves.”
Mahtan moved closer, his presence enveloping Fëanáro like a cloak woven from steadiness and strength. His beard brushed against Fëanáro's cheek as he leaned in, breathing in the scent of smoke and ambition that clung to his apprentice.
"Dreams are smoke, Fëanáro. Beautiful, yes, but impossible to grasp. It is in the waking world that we must create."
With gentle authority, Mahtan's hands covered Fëanáro's clenched fist. The contrast between them was stark — one weathered by millennia of craft, scattered with burns and scars that told stories of triumph and failure; the other pale and perfect, yet trembling with unspent fury.
"Look at me," Mahtan commanded softly.
Fëanáro raised his gaze, reluctance warring with need in his eyes. When their gazes locked, the younger elf felt the familiar pull—that dangerous current that flowed between them, forbidden yet irresistible as the tide.
"Your hands seek perfection too swiftly," Mahtan said, his voice deepening to a timbre that resonated in the hollow spaces of the workshop. "Creation is not conquest, Fëanáro. It is conversation."
Slowly, deliberately, Mahtan uncurled Fëanáro's fingers, exposing the palm beneath — reddened from work, scored with minor burns that the younger elf had been too absorbed to notice. He traced the lifeline with his thumb, and a shiver passed through Fëanáro's frame.
"These hands," Mahtan murmured, "have shaped wonders. But even wonders must be coaxed, not commanded."
The forge crackled in the silence between them, a counterpoint to the rapid beating of Fëanáro's heart. He could feel each callus on Mahtan's fingers as they traced the lines of his palm, reading him like a text in an ancient tongue. The touch left trails of heat that had nothing to do with the nearby flames.
"You speak as though I lack patience," Fëanáro said, his voice softer now, the sharp edges worn smooth by Mahtan's proximity. "I have spent three cycles of the Trees on this single piece."
Mahtan's laugh was warm as mulled wine, rich with affection. "Patience in craft is not the same as patience with yourself." His thumb pressed gently into the center of Fëanáro's palm. "Here — you feel this tension.”
It radiated upward into Fëanáro's wrist, his arm, settling like a stone in his chest. Beneath Mahtan's touch, something uncoiled within him — a serpent of doubt and desire that had lain dormant too long.
"I cannot afford weakness," Fëanáro whispered, though he made no move to withdraw his hand from Mahtan's grasp. "My father watches. The court whispers. They expect either greatness or failure, with nothing between."
Mahtan's other hand rose to cup Fëanáro's cheek, his thumb brushing across the high cheekbone with a tenderness that belied the strength in his smith's hands. The unusual texture of his beard — that marker of his difference among the Eldar — brushed against Fëanáro's skin as he leaned closer.
"And what do I expect?" Mahtan asked, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the very air between them. "I who have taught you, watched you, known you in ways that neither king nor courtier ever could?"
Fëanáro's breath came quicker now, shallow and uncertain. "You expect..." he began, then faltered. "You expect me to transcend."
Mahtan's thumb traced the curve of Fëanáro's lower lip, a touch so light it might have been imagined, yet it sent tremors through the younger elf's frame.
"I expect you to accept that perfection is not the absence of flaw, but the harmony of opposing forces." His voice dropped lower still, meant for Fëanáro's ears alone. "Like fire and metal. Like duty and desire. Balance in all things."
The words hung between them, laden with meaning. Fëanáro's breath caught, his defenses crumbling like ash beneath Mahtan's steady gaze. The workshop seemed to contract around them, the world beyond its walls fading into insignificance.
"They would not understand," Fëanáro said, even as he leaned imperceptibly closer. "My father, the Valar — they speak of propriety, of customs unchanged since the Great Journey."
Mahtan's fingers tightened fractionally around Fëanáro's, a subtle pressure that anchored them both in the moment.
"And yet the very essence of creation is change," he replied, his beard brushing against Fëanáro's cheek as he spoke. "Would you have us craft the same ornaments that adorned our ancestors at Cuiviénen? Would you have us sing only the melodies that echoed through the starlit darkness before the Trees?"
Fëanáro's free hand rose of its own accord, fingers tentatively threading through Mahtan's auburn beard. Among the Eldar, such adornment was rare — a mark of Mahtan's individuality, his willingness to stand apart. It had fascinated Fëanáro from their first meeting, this small rebellion against convention.
"You have always walked your own path," Fëanáro whispered, voice rough with emotion. "Always, you stand apart."
Mahtan's eyes darkened, the grey deepening to the color of storm clouds heavy with unspent rain. His hand slid from Fëanáro's cheek to the nape of his neck, fingers tangling in the raven strands that hung loose from their bindings.
"As do you," he said, "Spirit of Fire. Too bright to be contained by convention, too fierce to be tamed by expectation." His thumb traced the sensitive skin behind Fëanáro's ear. "Perhaps that is why Aulë guided you to my forge rather than keeping you among his other disciples."
The air between them grew thick, charged like the sky before lightning strikes. Fëanáro's resistance wavered, then fractured, pieces falling away like the shell of a gem revealing its crystalline heart. His fingers tightened in Mahtan's beard, not to push away but to draw closer, to anchor himself against the tide of emotion threatening to overwhelm him.
"Aulë has no dominion over my heart," Fëanáro whispered, the words emerging unbidden. "Nor does my father, nor the customs that bind lesser minds."
Mahtan's eyes flashed, approval mingling with warning. "Take care, Fëanáro. Pride has been the downfall of greater beings than even you."
"Is it pride to recognize what burns between us?" Fëanáro challenged, his voice gaining strength. "To name this thing that has smoldered since first I crossed your threshold?"
Mahtan's hand tightened in Fëanáro's hair, not painfully but with enough pressure to command attention. The younger elf's breath hitched.
"No," Mahtan answered, his voice deepening to a timbre that resonated within Fëanáro's chest. "It is courage. But courage without wisdom is merely recklessness."
His fingers loosened their grip in Fëanáro's hair, trailing down to rest at the juncture of neck and shoulder, thumb pressed gently against the pulse that fluttered there like a captured bird. The touch was possessive yet tentative—a contradiction that embodied everything between them.
"And is this wise, Aulendur?" Fëanáro asked, the formal name both challenge and supplication on his lips. "This... conversation between us?"
Mahtan's laugh was soft, a warm breath against Fëanáro's cheek. "I have never claimed wisdom in matters of the heart. My craft is metal and stone, not the intricate lattice of desire and duty that you and I have woven between us."
His thumb traced the pulse at Fëanáro's throat, feeling its quickening rhythm. The workshop grew still around them, as if the very tools had paused to witness this moment of precipice.
"Yet I know this," Mahtan continued, his voice dropping to a whisper that seemed to bypass Fëanáro's ears and speak directly to the fire within him. "Some alloys can only be formed in secret, away from judging eyes. Some flames burn too hot for public forges."
Fëanáro's breath caught, a small sound of surrender that echoed in the space between them.
"Then let us forge in darkness," Fëanáro whispered, the last of his resistance crumbling like sand sculptures before the tide. “A dark passion.”
Mahtan's eyes searched his, seeking certainty amidst desire. Finding it, he closed the infinitesimal distance between them, his lips meeting Fëanáro's with a gentleness that belied the fire in his gaze. The kiss was tentative at first—a question asked in the language of breath and touch — before deepening into something ancient and inevitable as the turning of the stars.
Fëanáro gasped against Mahtan's mouth, his inexperience evident in the trembling of his lips, the uncertain placement of his hands. Yet what he lacked in technique, he made up for in fervor, responding with the same intensity that characterized his approach to crafting — whole-hearted, consuming, relentless in its passion.
The moment hung suspended between them, fragile as glass newly drawn from the flame. Fëanáro's eyes fluttered closed, a silent acquiescence that spoke louder than any words could. Mahtan studied him — the proud arch of his neck, the slight parting of lips that had moments ago spoken of defiance, now softened with anticipation.
"Look at me," Mahtan commanded softly. "If we cross this threshold, I would have you present, not hidden behind closed lids."
Fëanáro's eyes opened, and Mahtan's hand slid to cup his face, thumb tracing the high curve of his cheekbone with reverence.
"There," Mahtan whispered. "There you are."
Fëanáro's breath caught in his throat as their gazes locked, the intensity between them palpable as heat from the forge. In Mahtan's eyes, he saw not just desire but something more profound — recognition, acceptance of all that he was, not merely what others wished him to be.
"I have always been here," Fëanáro whispered. "Waiting for someone to truly see."
Mahtan's thumb traced the contour of Fëanáro's lower lip, his touch both reverent and possessive. "I saw you from the first moment you entered my forge, fire barely contained within elven form. You burned too brightly for ordinary eyes to behold."
The confession hung between them, heavy with years of unspoken longing. Fëanáro leaned into the touch, his customary defenses dissolving.
"And yet you waited," Fëanáro said, the accusation gentle on his tongue. "All these years."
Mahtan's hand slid to cradle the nape of Fëanáro's neck, fingers threading through the silken strands of midnight hair. "Because some metals must be tempered slowly, lest they shatter." His voice deepened, resonating in the hollow spaces between them. "And you, Fëanáro, are the most precious alloy ever to cross my threshold."
A shudder passed through Fëanáro's frame — not of cold, but of recognition. In the language of craft that they shared, Mahtan had offered the most intimate of confessions. His eyes, silver-bright and fierce, searched the older elf's face.
"I would not have shattered," he insisted, though the tremor in his voice betrayed uncertainty beneath the pride.
Mahtan's smile was gentle, knowing. "Perhaps not. But I would not risk even the finest hairline fracture in something so precious." His thumb traced the curve where Fëanáro's neck met his shoulder, feeling the pulse that raced beneath the skin. "Some treasures are worth the wait."
The forge hissed and popped in the silence that followed, a counterpoint to their quickened breaths. Shadows danced across the walls as the flames shifted, painting them in amber. The words hung between them, weighted with possibility. Fëanáro's hand rose to trace the contours of Mahtan's beard, fascinated by its unusual texture, the way it caught the forge-light like copper wire.
"You speak of waiting," Fëanáro said, "yet I feel as though I have been burning since the moment I first stepped into your forge. A slow immolation that consumes me from within."
Mahtan captured Fëanáro's exploring hand, bringing the fingers to his lips. He pressed a kiss to each fingertip, honoring the instruments of the younger elf's craft.
"The most enduring flames are those that burn steadily," he said, his breath warm against Fëanáro's skin. "Not the quick conflagration that leaves only ash in its wake."
Fëanáro's breath hitched.
Mahtan's lips brushed against Fëanáro's knuckles, a reverence in the gesture that made the younger elf's heart constrict within his chest. The workshop seemed to narrow to this single point of contact — the warm press of mouth against skin, the gentle scratch of beard, the silent promise in every exhalation.
"Is that what you fear from me?" Fëanáro asked, his voice barely audible above the murmur of the forge. "That I would burn too quickly, leaving nothing but cinders?"
Mahtan's grey eyes lifted, meeting Fëanáro's with an intensity that seemed to pierce through all pretense. His hand still cradled Fëanáro's, a lifeline in the tumult of emotions that threatened to overwhelm them both.
"What I fear," Mahtan said, each word measured as precisely as the alloys he crafted, "is not that you would burn too quickly, but that once ignited between us, neither of us could control the blaze."
His thumb traced the delicate veins visible beneath the pale skin of Fëanáro's wrist, feeling the life that pulsed there, swift as a hummingbird's wings. The touch sent shivers racing up Fëanáro's arm, across his shoulders, down his spine.
"And would that be so terrible?" Fëanáro challenged, though his voice betrayed him with its tremor. "To be consumed by something of our own making?"
Mahtan's expression softened, the lines around his eyes deepening not with concern but with a tenderness that made Fëanáro's chest ache. The older elf released Fëanáro's hand only to step closer, eliminating the last breath of space between them. His palms came to rest on either side of Fëanáro's face, cradling it with a craftsman's precision and a lover's reverence.
"The most magnificent creations," Mahtan said softly, "are those that transform their creators in turn." His thumbs traced the high arches of Fëanáro's cheekbones, mapping the contours as if committing them to memory. "I do not fear being changed by this fire between us. I fear only that the world outside these walls would seek to extinguish it."
Fëanáro's hands rose to grip Mahtan's wrists, not to pull away but to anchor himself against the tide of emotion threatening to sweep him under. The calluses on Mahtan's palms rasped gently against his skin, a tactile reminder of the years of labor, of creation, that had shaped those hands into instruments of both strength and subtlety.
"Let them try," Fëanáro whispered, defiance kindling in his eyes like sparks struck from flint. "I have never bowed to the expectations of others. I will not begin now."
Mahtan's laugh was soft, a warm exhalation that brushed against Fëanáro's lips. "Such certainty. Such pride." The words held no censure, only a fond acknowledgment of Fëanáro's nature. "It is what first drew me to you, even as it gave me pause."
His thumbs traced the corners of Fëanáro's mouth, feeling the tension there, the slight tremble that betrayed the younger elf's composure. The workshop around them seemed to fade, the persistent ring of metal on metal, the hiss of steam, all falling away until there was nothing but the two of them, suspended in a moment of their own creation.
"Mahtan," Fëanáro breathed, his voice breaking on the name, a plea and invitation woven into those two syllables.
It was all the permission Mahtan needed. He closed the infinitesimal distance between them, his lips meeting Fëanáro's with gentle pressure that quickly transformed into something far more urgent. The kiss deepened, Mahtan's beard a novel sensation against Fëanáro's smooth skin, the contrast sending ripples of pleasure through him. The older elf's hands slid from Fëanáro's face to his shoulders, then lower still, tracing the contours of his body through the thin fabric of his workshop tunic.
"I have imagined this," Mahtan confessed against Fëanáro's mouth, his voice rough with desire. "More times than the stars in Varda's heavens."
Fëanáro trembled beneath the touch, his inexperience rendering him vulnerable in a way that his pride had never allowed before. His hands moved uncertainly to Mahtan's chest, feeling the solid warmth beneath the leather.
Mahtan sensed the hesitation in Fëanáro's touch and captured his hands, guiding them with gentle authority. "Let me show you," he said, voice honeyed with promise as he pressed Fëanáro back against the workbench.
The kiss deepened, transcending gentleness into something primal and consuming. Mahtan's beard brushed against Fëanáro's skin, the unfamiliar sensation sending waves of pleasure through him. Their tongues met, tentative at first, then with growing urgency—a dance of exploration that left Fëanáro gasping against Mahtan's mouth.
"I have never —" Fëanáro began, the confession catching in his throat.
"I know," Mahtan whispered, his breath hot against the sensitive shell of Fëanáro's ear. "Trust your instincts.”
Mahtan's words melted into Fëanáro's very being, kindling a flame that had long smoldered beneath the surface of propriety. Their lips met again, no longer tentative but hungry, desperate with the release of years of unspoken longing. Mahtan's beard brushed against Fëanáro's chin and throat, the unfamiliar texture igniting nerve endings the younger elf hadn't known existed.
Fëanáro gasped as Mahtan's mouth traveled from his lips to the sensitive hollow beneath his ear, teeth grazing the tender skin there. His head fell back, exposing the elegant column of his throat in unconscious surrender. Mahtan took full advantage, trailing kisses down the pale expanse, each press of lips drawing soft, startled sounds from Fëanáro that echoed in the workshop like the most exquisite of music.
Mahtan's hands found the laces of Fëanáro's tunic, deftly loosening them with the same precision he applied to his craft. The garment fell open, revealing Fëanáro's chest, luminous as if carved from the purest marble yet flushed with living heat. Mahtan's breath caught, his eyes darkening with appreciation and hunger.
"You are a masterpiece," he said, voice rough as unpolished stone. "More perfect than any gem I have ever set."
Fëanáro shivered under the intensity of that gaze, vulnerable in his partial undress yet emboldened by the naked desire in Mahtan's eyes. He reached for the older elf's clothing, fingers fumbling with the unfamiliar fastenings.
"Let me," Mahtan said softly.
Mahtan's hands closed over Fëanáro's, guiding them through the intricate clasps of his leather workshop garment. The heavy material fell away, revealing a tapestry of muscle and scattered scars — testament to millennia of craft and creation. Unlike the unblemished perfection of Fëanáro's form, Mahtan's body told stories of experience, of risks taken and lessons learned through fire and metal.
"Beautiful," Fëanáro whispered, hands hovering uncertainly before pressing against the warm skin of Mahtan's chest, fingers tracing a silvered scar that curved like a crescent moon beneath his collarbone.
Mahtan's response was to claim Fëanáro's mouth again, this time with an urgency that left no room for hesitation. His kiss was consuming, a demonstration of mastery that made Fëanáro yield without thought, his body arching into the contact like metal drawn to a lodestone.
The older elf's hands swept down Fëanáro's sides, calloused palms creating friction against sensitive skin that drew a gasp from the younger elf's throat. When their bare chests pressed together, the sensation was electric—a completion of a circuit long left open, sparking energy that coursed between them like lightning seeking ground.
"I have dreamed," Fëanáro confessed against Mahtan's mouth, the words tumbling out unbidden, "of your hands upon me. Of your beard against my skin."
Mahtan's laugh was rich and deep, vibrating through the narrow space between their bodies. He drew back just enough to study Fëanáro's face, his eyes tracing the flush that had spread across those high cheekbones, the parted lips still glistening from their kiss.
"Such dreams," Mahtan said, trailing his fingers down the column of Fëanáro's throat. "And here I thought your imagination was consumed entirely by gems and metals."
Fëanáro's eyes flashed, that familiar pride kindling even as he trembled beneath Mahtan's touch. "My mind contains multitudes that would astonish even you, Aulendur."
"Show me," Mahtan challenged softly, his hand sliding to cup the nape of Fëanáro's neck. "Show me these multitudes."
Something shifted in Fëanáro's eyes, a flash of vulnerability quickly replaced by determination. With newfound boldness, he slid his hands up Mahtan's chest, fingers threading through the auburn hair there before continuing upward to tangle in his beard. The sensation was unlike anything he had experienced—coarser than elven hair yet somehow softer than he had imagined during countless nights of forbidden contemplation.
"I have watched you," Fëanáro confessed, voice low and intimate in the heated space between them. "When you bend over the forge, the way your muscles move beneath your tunic. How your hands shape metal as though coaxing it rather than commanding it." His fingers tightened in Mahtan's beard, using it to draw the older elf closer. "I have imagined those hands shaping me."
A sound escaped Mahtan's throat — half growl, half groan. Mahtan's control, carefully maintained over centuries of longing, fractured like heated glass plunged into cold water. His hands moved with purpose now, sliding down Fëanáro's back to grasp his hips, lifting him effortlessly onto the workbench. Tools scattered, clattering to the stone floor unheeded as Mahtan stepped between Fëanáro's parted thighs, reclaiming his mouth in a kiss that contained no trace of hesitation.
"These hands," Mahtan breathed against Fëanáro's lips, "have ached to shape you since first you crossed my threshold." His palms slid up Fëanáro's sides, thumbs tracing the contours of his ribs, mapping each dip and curve as meticulously as he would a new design. "Not to command, but to worship."
Fëanáro shuddered beneath the touch, his head falling back as Mahtan's lips traced a path down his throat, auburn beard creating a delicious friction against his skin. The sensation was so unlike anything he had experienced before—both foreign and achingly familiar, as though his body had been crafted specifically for this moment, this touch.
"Then worship," Fëanáro whispered, his voice stripped of its customary arrogance, revealing the raw need beneath. "Show me what these hands can create between us."
Mahtan's fingers splayed across Fëanáro's lower back, drawing him closer to the edge of the workbench until their bodies pressed together with nothing but the thin fabric of their leggings between them. The evidence of their mutual desire was unmistakable. Mahtan's hands, so deft at shaping the most reluctant metals, trembled slightly as they moved to the laces of Fëanáro's leggings.
"Are you certain?" he asked, his voice rough as unpolished stone. "Once forged, some bonds cannot be unmade."
Fëanáro answered by capturing Mahtan's face between his palms, fingers threading through the auburn beard that had fascinated him for so long. The kiss he pressed to Mahtan's lips contained all the fire of his spirit — demanding, consuming, brooking no hesitation.
"I have never been more certain of anything," he breathed against Mahtan's mouth. "Not metal, not gem, not even the light I seek to capture."
Mahtan's restraint shattered like glass beneath a smith's hammer. With a fluid movement that belied his substantial frame, he swept Fëanáro from the workbench, strong arms supporting him as if he weighed no more than gossamer. Their mouths never parted as Mahtan carried him toward the small alcove at the back of the workshop where a narrow cot stood—a place for rest during long hours of creation, now transformed into an altar for a different kind of making.
"I have imagined this," Mahtan confessed against the hollow of Fëanáro's throat, "in dreams I dared not acknowledge upon waking."
He laid Fëanáro down with reverent care, the rough woolen blanket a stark contrast to the smoothness of the younger elf's skin. Mahtan paused, hovering above him, auburn hair falling like a curtain around their faces, creating a private world where only they existed.
"You are so beautiful," Mahtan whispered, one hand moving to trace the contour of Fëanáro's jaw. "More precious than gold, more radiant than the purest gem."
Fëanáro's breath caught at the words, unaccustomed to being the object of such open admiration. His hands rose tentatively to Mahtan's shoulders, feeling the strength there, the solidness that had been his anchor through years of apprenticeship.
"Show me.”
Mahtan's response was not in words but in touch. His hands moved with deliberate slowness, unlacing Fëanáro's leggings with the same methodical precision he applied to his most delicate craftsmanship. Each revealed inch of skin received the worship of his gaze, his fingertips, the brush of his beard as he bent to taste what his hands had uncovered.
Fëanáro trembled beneath the onslaught of sensation, overwhelmed by the contrast between Mahtan's calloused palms and the soft press of his lips. When the last of his clothing fell away, leaving him bare beneath Mahtan's reverent gaze, a flush spread across his skin—not of shame but of vulnerability so profound it bordered on transcendence.
"Perfection." Mahtan rasped, and tried to say more but the other words dissolved into a reverent silence as he beheld Fëanáro fully unclothed before him. The younger elf lay against the rough blanket, his alabaster skin luminous in the amber forge-light, dark hair spilling like liquid obsidian across the pillow. For a moment, Mahtan could only stare, overcome by the sight revealed to him.
"You have gone silent, Aulendur," Fëanáro whispered, a hint of uncertainty threading through his customary confidence. His fingers twisted in the coarse fabric beneath him, betraying his nervousness despite the bold arch of his eyebrow.
Mahtan's expression softened, the lines around his eyes deepening with tenderness. "Some visions render even the most eloquent speechless," he said, his voice a low rumble.
Mahtan lowered himself beside Fëanáro on the narrow cot, the rough wool blanket catching on the calluses of his palms. His auburn hair fell forward as he leaned over the younger elf, studying him with the intense focus of a craftsman examining his most precious materials.
"I would memorize you," Mahtan said, tracing a finger along the sharp edge of Fëanáro's collarbone. "Every valley and peak of your form, every texture beneath my hands."
Fëanáro shivered, the light touch igniting nerves he hadn't known existed. "You have had centuries to memorize me," he whispered, arching subtly into the contact. "I would have you do more than look."
Mahtan's laugh was low and rich, vibrating through the scant space between them.
"Patience," Mahtan whispered, the word a caress against Fëanáro's heated skin. "Even the finest metals must be heated slowly, lest they warp under too sudden a flame."
His hands, instruments of creation that had shaped countless wonders, now traced the contours of Fëanáro's body with exquisite deliberation. Each touch was precise, intentional—the pressure varying from feather-light to firmly possessive as he mapped the terrain of muscle and bone beneath flawless skin. When his palm flattened against Fëanáro's chest, he paused to feel the rapid heartbeat there, a smile curving his lips at this tangible evidence of desire.
"Your heart races like a smith's hammer," he observed, lowering his head to press his lips to the spot.
Fëanáro's breath hitched, fingers tangling in Mahtan's auburn hair as the older elf's lips pressed against his thundering heart. The sensation of beard against his sensitive skin sent waves of pleasure coursing through him, unlike anything he had experienced before.
"You torment me with your patience," Fëanáro gasped, arching beneath Mahtan's deliberate touch.
Mahtan lifted his head, eyes dark with desire yet still maintaining that masterful control that had always defined him. "What is creation without anticipation?" he asked, his voice a velvet rumble that Fëanáro felt more than heard. "The finest works emerge from tension held at breaking point."
His mouth descended again, this time finding the sensitive peak of Fëanáro's nipple. The contrast between soft lips and coarse beard created a sensation so exquisite that Fëanáro gasped, a sound torn from deep within his chest. His fingers tightened in Mahtan's hair, no longer hesitant but demanding as pleasure coursed through him like molten metal.
"Aulendur," he breathed, the formal title transforming into an endearment on his lips.
Mahtan's mouth moved with deliberate slowness across Fëanáro's chest, leaving a trail of heat and sensation that made the younger elf tremble beneath him. Each place his lips touched seemed to ignite, as if Mahtan were kindling fire directly beneath his skin. When his teeth grazed the sensitive hollow between Fëanáro's ribs, the younger elf arched off the cot with a cry that echoed through the workshop.
"So responsive," Mahtan whispered against the heated skin.
Mahtan's hands, calloused from millennia of craft, traced lower, following the elegant line where Fëanáro's hip bone created a valley perfect for the press of thumbs. The younger elf's skin gleamed like polished marble in the forge-light, yet radiated heat that no stone could possess. Mahtan savored each shudder, each hitched breath his touch elicited, committing them to memory like the most precious of designs.
"I would learn every sound you make," Mahtan whispered, his beard brushing the sensitive skin of Fëanáro's inner thigh as he moved lower, "every gasp, every plea."
Fëanáro's thighs parted further, a silent invitation that made Mahtan's breath catch. The younger elf's arousal stood proud against his abdomen, flushed and glistening.
"Please," Fëanáro whispered, his voice stripped of its customary pride, revealing only raw need. "I can bear no more teasing."
Mahtan's eyes darkened at the plea, something primal flaring in their silver depths. "Then I shall tease no longer," he promised, his voice a low growl that sent shivers down Fëanáro's spine.
With deliberate purpose, Mahtan lowered his head, his breath ghosting over Fëanáro's arousal for one exquisite moment before his lips parted to take him in. The wet heat of his mouth engulfed Fëanáro's length, drawing a startled cry from the younger elf that echoed through the workshop like the ring of hammer on anvil.
Fëanáro's hands flew to Mahtan's hair, fingers tangling in the auburn strands as pleasure unlike anything he had known coursed through him. The wet heat of Mahtan's mouth was exquisite torment, the skilled tongue tracing patterns that left him gasping, coherent thought dissolving.
"Mahtan," he moaned, the name torn from his throat as the older elf took him deeper. The contrast between the silken heat of mouth and the textured rasp of beard against his most sensitive flesh was overwhelming. Each sensation built upon the last, creating a symphony of pleasure that threatened to unmake him entirely.
Mahtan's hands gripped Fëanáro's hips, strong fingers pressing into the pale flesh with enough force to leave marks—a claiming that sent a fresh wave of arousal through the younger elf. The thought of bearing Mahtan's marks upon his skin, hidden beneath his clothing yet known to them both, was intoxicating. Fëanáro arched into the touch, silently begging for more as Mahtan's mouth worked him with masterful precision.
"I cannot —" Fëanáro gasped, his control fracturing like heated glass plunged into cold water. "I will not last —"
Mahtan pulled away, his lips glistening in the forge-light as he looked up the length of Fëanáro's trembling body. The loss of that exquisite heat drew a whimper of protest from the younger elf, his hips lifting involuntarily, seeking to reclaim the pleasure.
"Not yet," Mahtan said, his voice rough with desire. "I would have all of you, Fëanáro."
With a fluid movement, Mahtan rose above Fëanáro, his own leggings finally cast aside to reveal the full glory of his form. Fëanáro gazed up at him with undisguised wonder, hands reaching to trace the landscape of this body he had admired from afar for so long.
"You are magnificent," Fëanáro breathed, fingers trailing over a scar across Mahtan's ribs. "Like a sculpture carved from living flame."
Mahtan captured Fëanáro's exploring hand, bringing it to his lips before guiding it lower, wrapping those elegant fingers around his own arousal. Fëanáro's breath caught at the feel of him—hot velvet over hardened steel, the pulse of life beneath his fingertips. Mahtan's eyes closed briefly, pleasure etched in every line of his face as Fëanáro's hand moved experimentally, learning the shape and weight of him.
"Like this?" Fëanáro whispered, tightening his grip slightly, drawing a groan from deep within Mahtan's chest.
"Yes," Mahtan breathed, his voice strained with the effort of maintaining control. "Just so."
For a moment, they remained thus — Fëanáro exploring the unfamiliar terrain of another's body, Mahtan trembling beneath his touch. Then the older elf reached toward a small shelf beside the cot, retrieving a glass vial that caught the forge-light like trapped flame. With practiced ease, he unstoppered it, the scent of sandalwood and something deeper, more primal, filling the heated air between them. The oil glistened as he poured it into his palm, warming it between his hands before reaching between Fëanáro's parted thighs.
"This will ease the way," he said, his voice a low rumble that Fëanáro felt in his very bones.
The first touch of slick fingers against his entrance drew a sharp gasp from Fëanáro, his body tensing instinctively before Mahtan's steady gaze anchored him. The older elf's free hand stroked soothingly down his flank, thumb tracing circles against the jut of his hip bone.
"Trust me," Mahtan whispered, his voice a balm that eased Fëanáro's tension. "I would never harm you."
The reassurance flowed through Fëanáro like molten silver, his body yielding beneath Mahtan's touch. The first finger breached him slowly, the sensation foreign yet not unwelcome as Mahtan worked him open with the same meticulous care he devoted to his most delicate crafts. When Fëanáro's breathing steadied, a second finger joined the first, stretching him with gentle insistence that soon transformed discomfort into pleasure so acute it bordered on pain.
"Mahtan," Fëanáro gasped as those knowing fingers curled within him, finding a place that sent white-hot pleasure arcing through his body like lightning. His back bowed off the cot, a cry torn from his throat as Mahtan repeated the movement with deliberate precision.
"There," Mahtan said, satisfaction coloring his voice as he watched pleasure transform Fëanáro's features. "There you are."
A third finger joined the others, the stretch and burn melting into a pleasure so profound that Fëanáro could scarcely breathe through it. His hips moved of their own accord, pressing down against Mahtan's hand, silently demanding more. Sweat gleamed on his brow, dark hair clinging to his temples as he writhed beneath the older elf's ministrations.
"Please," Fëanáro gasped, pride forgotten in the face of overwhelming need. "I would have all of you. Now."
Mahtan withdrew his fingers slowly, drawing a whimper from Fëanáro at the sudden emptiness.
"Please — I need —"
"What do you need?" Mahtan whispered, his voice dark with desire as his fingers continued their exquisite torment, pressing against that spot that made Fëanáro see stars behind his eyelids. "Tell me, Spirit of Fire."
"You," Fëanáro gasped, arching into the touch. "Inside me. Now."
Mahtan withdrew his fingers, drawing a whimper of loss from Fëanáro that transformed into a moan of anticipation as the older elf positioned himself between his spread thighs. The blunt head of Mahtan's arousal pressed against his entrance, slick with oil and burning hot.
"Look at me," Mahtan commanded softly, one hand cupping Fëanáro's face, forcing their gazes to lock.
Fëanáro's eyes flew open, silver-grey meeting storm-cloud as their gazes locked. The vulnerability in that gaze struck Mahtan to his core—here was the proud spirit stripped of all artifice, all the carefully constructed walls that kept the world at bay. In this moment, Fëanáro was utterly exposed, not merely in body but in soul.
"I would have you see me," Mahtan said, his thumb tracing the high arch of Fëanáro's cheekbone, "as I enter you for the first time."
With exquisite slowness, Mahtan pressed forward, breaching the tight ring of muscle with careful restraint. The stretch and burn drew a gasp from Fëanáro, his fingers digging into Mahtan's shoulders hard enough to leave marks. Yet his eyes never wavered, holding Mahtan's gaze as the older elf pressed deeper with exquisite care. The initial discomfort melted into a pleasure so profound it bordered on pain, each incremental advance filling him in ways he had never imagined possible. His breath came in short, sharp gasps, his body adjusting to this most intimate of intrusions.
"You are..." Mahtan's voice faltered, the carefully maintained control fracturing as he fully seated himself within Fëanáro's heat. "Perfect. Utterly perfect."
The moment hung suspended between them—Mahtan trembling with the effort of remaining still, Fëanáro overwhelmed by the fullness, the completeness of their joining. Then Fëanáro shifted, a subtle movement of his hips that drew a groan from deep within Mahtan's chest.
"Move," Fëanáro commanded, his voice stripped of its usual arrogance, revealing only raw need. His fingers dug deeper into Mahtan's shoulders, urging him closer. "Please."
Mahtan needed no further encouragement. With deliberate control, he withdrew almost completely before pressing forward again, establishing a rhythm that soon had Fëanáro gasping beneath him. Each thrust was measured, precise—the movements of a master craftsman who knew exactly how to coax response from his materials.
"Like this?" Mahtan growled, adjusting his angle slightly, searching for that spot that would —
"Yes!" Fëanáro cried out, his body arching like a bow drawn taut, head thrown back as pleasure coursed through him. "There — just there —"
Mahtan smiled, satisfaction curving his lips as he repeated the movement. Mahtan's arms braced on either side of Fëanáro's head, creating an intimate space where only they existed. Each thrust sent waves of pleasure through Fëanáro's body, building like heat in a crucible, threatening to overflow. The friction of their bodies, the slick slide of skin against skin, the mingled scents of sandalwood oil and forge-smoke — all combined to create a symphony of sensation that overwhelmed his keen senses.
"You are exquisite," Mahtan breathed, his voice strained with the effort of maintaining control as Fëanáro tightened around him. "So responsive beneath my hands."
Fëanáro could only gasp in response. His legs wrapped around Mahtan's waist, drawing him deeper.
Mahtan's rhythm faltered momentarily at the change in angle, a groan escaping his lips as he sank impossibly deeper into Fëanáro's willing body. His hands slid beneath the younger elf, lifting his hips to meet each thrust with increasing urgency.
"Look at me," Mahtan commanded again, his voice rough with desire. "I would see your face when you give in to me."
Fëanáro's eyes, which had fallen closed in ecstasy, opened once more, as he trembled on the precipice of completion.
"I cannot —" Fëanáro gasped, his control slipping as Mahtan's thrusts grew more insistent. "I cannot hold back the tide —"
"Then don't," Mahtan whispered, his voice a velvet caress against Fëanáro's heated skin. "Let go. Let me see you undone."
One of Mahtan's hands slipped between their bodies, wrapping around Fëanáro's neglected arousal. The dual sensation —Mahtan within him and the calloused hand stroking him in perfect counterpoint to each thrust — was too much to bear. With a cry that echoed through the workshop like the ring of metal on anvil, Fëanáro shattered, his release spilling hot between them as pleasure coursed through him like molten gold.
Mahtan watched, transfixed, as ecstasy transformed Fëanáro's features. The proud face, usually so guarded, now lay open in abandonment — lips parted in silent cry, eyes wide yet unseeing as pleasure claimed him completely. The sight alone might have been enough to undo Mahtan, but coupled with the exquisite pressure of Fëanáro tightening around him, it proved his undoing.
With a groan that seemed torn from the very depths of his being, Mahtan followed Fëanáro into bliss. His rhythm faltered, then broke entirely as he buried himself to the hilt, his own release pulsing and spilling deep within Fëanáro's willing body. For a moment, time itself seemed suspended—the workshop fading to insignificance around them as they trembled together in shared ecstasy.
Mahtan's eyes met Fëanáro's as the tremors of their shared pleasure slowly subsided. For a moment, neither spoke, the only sound their ragged breathing mingling with the distant hiss of the cooling forge. The amber light bathed their entwined forms, casting long shadows across the small alcove that had become their sanctuary from the world beyond.
With infinite tenderness, Mahtan brushed a strand of raven hair from Fëanáro's damp forehead. The younger elf's eyes were half-lidded now, the fierce intensity that usually burned within them temporarily banked to glowing embers... transforming pride into something approaching wonder.
"You are trembling," Mahtan husked.
Fëanáro's laugh was breathless, lacking its usual sharp edge. "As are you, Aulendur." His fingers traced patterns on Mahtan's sweat-slicked shoulders, mapping the constellation of freckles there as if committing them to memory. "I did not know it could be thus."
With careful movements, Mahtan withdrew from Fëanáro's body, drawing a soft sound from the younger elf—part protest, part contentment. He shifted to lie beside Fëanáro on the narrow cot, gathering him close against the cooling air of the workshop. The scent of their union mingled with the familiar smells of metal and fire, creating something new and sacred between them.
"What did you imagine, then?" Mahtan asked, his beard brushing against Fëanáro's temple as he pressed a kiss there. His hand moved in slow circles across Fëanáro's back, tracing the elegant line of his spine. The skin beneath his fingers was like heated silk, still flushed with the afterglow of their coupling. Fëanáro's breathing had steadied, but Mahtan could feel the rapid flutter of his heart where their chests pressed together.
"I imagined..." Fëanáro began, his voice uncharacteristically hesitant. He paused, seeming to search for words—a rarity for one whose eloquence was as legendary as his craft. "I imagined release. Satisfaction. But not this... undoing."
Mahtan's fingers stilled momentarily before resuming their gentle exploration. "Undoing?" he prompted softly.
Fëanáro shifted, propping himself on one elbow to gaze down at Mahtan; his eyes searched Mahtan's face with uncharacteristic uncertainty. In the amber glow of the forge-light, his features seemed softer, the sharp edges of pride and ambition temporarily smoothed away.
"I have never..." he began, then paused, frustration flickering across his face at his own inability to articulate what he felt. "I have never been unmade so completely, only to be reformed into something new."
Mahtan's hand rose to cup Fëanáro's cheek, his thumb tracing the high arch of his cheekbone with reverent precision. The younger elf leaned into the touch, eyes half-closing like a cat savoring a caress.
"That is the nature of true joining," Mahtan murmured, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through Fëanáro's very being. "We are unmade and remade, like metal in the crucible. The elements remain the same, yet they emerge transformed."
Fëanáro's eyes opened fully at that, a spark of the familiar intellectual fire kindling within their silver depths. "An apt metaphor, coming from you," he said, a hint of his customary sharpness returning to his voice, though softened by the lingering intimacy between them. "Is that how you see me?”
Mahtan's lips curved into a smile, his fingers threading through Fëanáro's raven hair, still damp with the evidence of their passion. "As metal in my hands? At times." His voice deepened, rich with meaning. "But more often as fire itself —untamable, essential, capable of both creation and destruction."
Fëanáro's breath caught at the assessment, so close to his own perception of himself yet somehow transformed through Mahtan's gaze. The older elf's eyes held no judgment, only understanding that cut through Fëanáro's defenses more effectively than any blade.
"And yet you sought to tame me," Fëanáro murmured, his fingers tracing the contours of Mahtan's beard, fascinated anew by its texture. "To shape me into a proper apprentice."
Mahtan's laugh rumbled deep in his chest, a sound that Fëanáro felt rather than merely heard. "Tame you? No more than one could tame the flame itself." His fingers traced the elegant line of Fëanáro's jaw, coming to rest at the point of his chin. "I sought only to guide you, to help you channel that brilliance rather than be consumed by it."
Fëanáro's eyes darkened at those words, a flicker of his customary intensity returning. "And now? Having seen me thus —undone, unmade beneath your hands — what do you seek?"
Mahtan studied him for a long moment, his grey eyes reflecting the amber glow of the distant forge. In the half-light, his face was a landscape of shadow and illumination, the lines around his eyes deepening.
"What do I seek?" Mahtan echoed, his voice thoughtful as his fingers continued their gentle exploration of Fëanáro's face. "Perhaps what I have always sought — to witness beauty in its purest form."
He leaned forward, pressing his lips to Fëanáro's brow in a gesture so tender it made the younger elf's breath catch. The kiss held none of the urgent passion of their earlier coupling, yet contained a depth of feeling that resonated through Fëanáro like the perfect note struck from crystal.
"There is a splendor in you," Mahtan continued, his words a warm murmur against Fëanáro's skin, "that transcends mere physical form. I have watched it burning within you since first you crossed my threshold — a fire that both illuminates and consumes."
Fëanáro's eyes fluttered. Mahtan's words settled between them like a benediction, causing Fëanáro to shift beneath the weight of such naked admiration. The younger elf was accustomed to praise for his craft, his intellect, even his beauty—but this recognition of something deeper, more essential in his nature, left him momentarily speechless.
"You speak as though I am one of your creations," Fëanáro finally murmured, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "Something to be admired from a distance."
Mahtan's eyes darkened, his hand sliding from Fëanáro's face to the nape of his neck, fingers tangling in the silken strands of midnight hair. With gentle pressure, he drew Fëanáro closer until their foreheads touched, breaths mingling in the narrow space between them.
"No creation of mine could ever match you.”
return to Just Fëanor Things | return to Fic | return to index