The night before his wedding, Fëanor slips away from the palace like a thief, hood drawn against recognition. Behind him, the celebration continues without its guest of honor—wine flowing freely, musicians playing, well-wishers offering congratulations to empty air before they realize he's vanished. Tomorrow he will stand before the assembled court and pledge himself to Nerdanel, a commitment he's come to welcome with surprising warmth. But tonight—this last night of his unmarried life—belongs to the man he can never publicly claim, the man whose daughter he will wed at dawn.
The city streets grow quieter as Fëanor moves away from the palace district, though bonfires burn at major intersections in celebration of the royal wedding. He avoids the main thoroughfares, choosing instead the narrow alleys and forgotten passages that honeycomb the ancient city. The route is longer but safer from prying eyes.
His destination is not the forge where they typically meet—too obvious, too easily observed. Instead, he makes his way to a small stone cottage on the city's outskirts, a property Mahtan maintains for storing valuable materials and occasional privacy. Few know of its existence, fewer still connect it to the master smith.
The cottage sits dark and silent as Fëanor approaches, but he knows Mahtan awaits him inside. They arranged this meeting in whispers during the formal dinner where Finwë—still cool but publicly reconciled to the match—had welcomed Mahtan as the father of the bride-to-be. Their fingers had brushed during the passing of a wine cup, and they felt a spark – static from the dry air, but it jolted them nonetheless. In that moment of contact, everything had been communicated without words.
Fëanor taps lightly on the door in a pattern only Mahtan would recognize. It opens immediately, as if Mahtan has been standing just on the other side, waiting. Perhaps he has.
"You came," Mahtan says simply, stepping aside to allow Fëanor entry.
"Did you doubt I would?" Fëanor pushes back his hood as the door closes behind him.
The cottage interior is sparsely furnished but comfortable—a table and chairs, a small kitchen area, a hearth with a low fire providing the only light, and through an open doorway, the edge of a bed is visible. A single lamp burns on the table, its flame steady in the still air.
Mahtan looks different here, away from the forge. His formal attire for the pre-wedding festivities has been exchanged for simpler clothes, but they're still finer than his typical work garments. His copper beard is neatly trimmed, his auburn hair freshly washed and hanging loose around his shoulders. He looks both familiar and strange to Fëanor's eyes—the man he knows intimately, yet transformed by the context of what tomorrow brings.
"Would you like wine?" Mahtan asks, gesturing to a bottle and cups on the table.
"No." Fëanor remains standing just inside the door, suddenly uncertain. Now that they're alone, the weight of tomorrow presses between them like an unwelcome guest. "I've had enough at the celebration."
Mahtan nods, understanding. He doesn't move closer, maintaining a careful distance as if approaching a nervous animal. "How is Nerdanel?"
The question stings, though Fëanor knows it shouldn't. "Well. Calm. More prepared for tomorrow than I am, I think."
"She has always faced challenges directly," Mahtan says, a hint of pride in his voice. "Even as a child."
The mention of Nerdanel as a child—Mahtan's child—sends an uncomfortable ripple through Fëanor. Tomorrow this man will become his father-in-law. The roles they've inhabited in private will be further complicated by this new, public connection.
"The arrangements are complete?" Mahtan asks, moving to pour himself a cup of wine. His hands, Fëanor notices, are not entirely steady.
"Yes. The ceremony will begin at dawn, as tradition dictates. Finwë has arranged everything according to protocol, though he's still not entirely pleased with my choice." Fëanor finally steps further into the room, removing his cloak and draping it over a chair. "He thinks I could have made a more advantageous match."
"Politically, he's right." Mahtan takes a sip of wine, watching Fëanor over the rim of his cup.
"Politics be damned," Fëanor says without heat. "I've found more understanding with Nerdanel in these months than I expected. She... sees me. Not the prince, not the craftsman, just... me."
Mahtan's expression softens. "That is her gift. Seeing what lies beneath surfaces."
A silence falls between them, heavy with unspoken thoughts. Fëanor moves to the hearth, staring into the flames as if they might offer answers to questions he cannot articulate.
"Are you happy, cub?" Mahtan asks finally, using the endearment that belongs only to their private moments.
Fëanor doesn't turn. "I don't know what I am," he admits. "Grateful for the solution we've found. Fond of Nerdanel in ways I didn't anticipate. Guilty for the deception. Afraid of what comes next." He pauses, his hands clenching at his sides. "Wishing things were different."
Mahtan sets down his wine and crosses to stand behind Fëanor, close but not touching. "Different how?"
"You know how." Fëanor's voice drops to barely above a whisper. "If the world were different. If the Laws were different. If we could..." He trails off, unable to complete the thought.
"If we could what?" Mahtan presses gently.
Fëanor turns then, meeting Mahtan's grey eyes directly. "If I could marry you instead," he says, the words tumbling out in a rush of long-suppressed truth. "If I could stand before the assembled court and pledge myself to you, openly, honestly. If I could wear your ring and call you husband instead of master or father-in-law."
The confession hangs between them, raw and vulnerable. Fëanor's heart pounds in his chest, though the words aren't truly a revelation—they've both known the depth of his feelings, even if they've rarely been stated so plainly.
Mahtan's expression shifts through several emotions—surprise, tenderness, sorrow, and finally a profound acceptance. He reaches out slowly, cupping Fëanor's face between his broad palms.
"In another world, perhaps," he says softly. "A better world than this one."
"I will honor my vows to her," Fëanor says, leaning slightly into Mahtan's touch. "I will be a good husband to Nerdanel. I already care for her more than I expected to."
"I know you will," Mahtan assures him. "That's part of why I suggested her. You are both deserving of happiness, even if it must come in unconventional forms."
"And what of your happiness?" Fëanor asks, reaching up to cover Mahtan's hands with his own.
A sad smile crosses Mahtan's features. "I find my joy where I can, as we all must. In my work. In my daughter's success. In moments like this," he brushes his thumb across Fëanor's cheekbone, "stolen from a world that would deny them to us."
The tenderness of the gesture undoes something in Fëanor. He steps forward, eliminating the remaining distance between them, and presses his forehead against Mahtan's chest. Strong arms encircle him immediately, holding him with the perfect pressure—firm enough to ground him, gentle enough to soothe.
"I'm afraid," Fëanor confesses into the fabric of Mahtan's tunic. "Not of tomorrow itself, but of what comes after. How we navigate this new complexity. How we find our way back to each other through the maze we've created."
Mahtan's hand moves to the nape of Fëanor's neck, fingers threading through the black hair there in a familiar gesture of comfort. "We will find a way," he says, the rumble of his voice vibrating through Fëanor's body. "We always have."
They stand like that for long moments, breathing together, hearts gradually synchronizing. When Fëanor finally lifts his head, Mahtan's eyes are waiting for his, full of things that need no words between them.
The kiss when it comes is gentle—not the desperate passion of forbidden lovers snatching moments, but something deeper, more deliberate. A reaffirmation of what lies between them, unchanged despite the shifting circumstances around them.
"I have something to ask of you," Mahtan says when they part, his voice lower, rougher.
"Anything." The response is immediate, unthinking in its sincerity.
Mahtan takes Fëanor's hand and leads him toward the bedroom, his movements unhurried but purposeful. Inside, the room is simple—a large bed with clean linens, a washstand, a single chair with Mahtan's formal jacket draped over it. A small window allows moonlight to spill across the floor in a silver rectangle.
"Tonight," Mahtan says, turning to face Fëanor, "I want you to take me."
Fëanor stares at him, certain he's misunderstood. In all their time together, their roles have been clearly defined—Mahtan the guide, the protector, the one who takes the active role in their lovemaking. Fëanor has never questioned this arrangement, has found pleasure and comfort in surrendering control to the older elf.
"You mean...?" he begins, unable to form the question fully.
"Yes." Mahtan's gaze is steady, certain. "Before you become my daughter's husband, before you become my son by law, I want to give you this. I want to be yours, completely, as you have been mine."
The offer steals Fëanor's breath. Not merely a physical reconfiguration, but a profound gesture of trust and equality. Of acknowledgment that whatever their public roles must become, in this room they meet as equals, as lovers who choose each other freely.
"Are you certain?" Fëanor asks, echoing the question Mahtan has asked him countless times before their intimate encounters.
Mahtan smiles, recognition of the role reversal flickering in his eyes. "Yes," he says simply. "I am certain."
He begins to undress then, movements deliberate and unhurried. Fëanor watches, momentarily frozen, as Mahtan's broad shoulders emerge from his tunic, as the firelight plays across the planes of his chest, highlighting the constellation of freckles that cover his skin—so similar to his daughter's, yet distinctly his own.
The thought of Nerdanel sends a pang of guilt through Fëanor, but it dissipates as Mahtan approaches him again, now wearing only his undergarment. This night was agreed upon, understood. Tomorrow belongs to Nerdanel, to their new beginning. But tonight is theirs—his and Mahtan's—a farewell to one chapter and a bridge to the next.
Fëanor reaches out, his hands tracing the familiar contours of Mahtan's body—shoulders he's gripped in passion, arms that have held him through both triumph and sorrow, the broad chest against which he's rested his head countless times. But tonight he touches with new intent, with the knowledge that he will be the one to give rather than receive.
"I don't want to hurt you," he says softly.
Mahtan's laugh is gentle. "You won't," he assures Fëanor. "I trust you."
Those simple words—I trust you—fill Fëanor with both humility and determination. He begins removing his own clothes then, letting them fall to the floor until he stands as bare as Mahtan before him.
They move to the bed together, hands never leaving each other's bodies, as if separation even for a moment might break the spell they've woven around themselves. Mahtan lies back against the pillows, his copper hair spreading across the white linen like rivulets of fire.
"Come here," he says, extending his hand to Fëanor.
Fëanor joins him on the bed, their bodies aligning with practiced familiarity despite the new configuration they're moving toward. Their kisses deepen, hands exploring with increasing urgency, breath quickening as desire builds between them.
When Mahtan reaches for a small vial on the bedside table and presses it into Fëanor's hand, the significance of the moment crashes over Fëanor anew. This is Mahtan's gift to him—complete vulnerability, absolute trust, a reversal of their usual dynamic that speaks volumes about the depth of their connection.
"Show me how," Fëanor whispers against Mahtan's lips, humbled by the responsibility being placed in his hands.
"I'll guide you," Mahtan promises, his voice thick with emotion and desire. "We'll find our way together. We always do."
The oil gleams on Fëanor's fingers as he hovers above Mahtan, uncertainty written across his features despite the desire evident in his silver eyes. He has watched this preparation countless times from the receiving end, has felt these sensations on his own body, but performing them is entirely different. Mahtan lies before him, copper hair spread across the pillows, grey eyes steady with trust and patience. "Go slowly," he murmurs, reaching up to brush a strand of black hair from Fëanor's face. "There's no hurry."
Fëanor nods, swallowing against the tightness in his throat. This gesture of trust overwhelms him—Mahtan offering this final intimacy on the eve of Fëanor's marriage to his daughter. The contradictions should feel wrong, yet somehow they don't. In this room, with this man, they have created their own truth, their own morality.
"I don't want to hurt you," Fëanor says, echoing his earlier concern.
Mahtan's smile is gentle, reassuring. "Some discomfort is inevitable," he admits. "But pain isn't the goal. Listen to my body as you would listen to metal in the forge—it will tell you what it needs."
The analogy steadies Fëanor, giving him a familiar framework for this unfamiliar task. He nods again, more confidently, and lowers his hand between Mahtan's thighs.
The first touch is exploratory, a gentle press of slick fingers against sensitive flesh. Mahtan's breath catches slightly, but he keeps his eyes on Fëanor's face, offering encouragement through his steady gaze. Fëanor circles slowly, feeling the tight ring of muscle beneath his fingertips, applying gentle pressure without demanding entry.
"That's good," Mahtan murmurs. "Just like that."
Fëanor watches Mahtan's face intently, searching for any sign of discomfort as he gradually increases the pressure. When his finger finally slips inside, they both gasp—Mahtan at the intrusion, Fëanor at the tight heat enveloping his digit.
"Alright?" Fëanor asks, holding perfectly still.
"Yes." Mahtan's voice is rougher now, deeper. "Continue."
Fëanor obeys, moving his finger with careful deliberation. He recalls what brings him pleasure when their positions are reversed—the slow drag, the careful curl, the gradual building of sensation. He attempts to replicate these, watching Mahtan's reactions to guide him.
When Mahtan's breathing deepens and his body relaxes around the intrusion, Fëanor introduces a second finger, adding more oil to ease the way. The process is intimate beyond anything they've shared before—not because of the physical act itself, but because of the vulnerability Mahtan displays in allowing it.
"You've done this before," Fëanor observes, noticing how Mahtan's body accepts the intrusion with practiced ease.
A small smile plays across Mahtan's lips. "I was young once too," he says. "Before you, there were others."
The admission shouldn't surprise Fëanor, yet somehow it does. He's always seen Mahtan as entirely his own, despite knowing logically that the older elf's life extends far beyond their relationship.
"Jealous, cub?" Mahtan asks, reading Fëanor's expression with his usual accuracy.
"Perhaps," Fëanor admits, curling his fingers in a way that makes Mahtan's breath catch. "Though I have little right to be."
"The past is past," Mahtan says, reaching to touch Fëanor's face again. "This moment belongs only to us."
Fëanor turns his head to press a kiss into Mahtan's palm, then returns his focus to his task. His fingers move more confidently now, stretching and preparing with careful attention. When he introduces a third finger, Mahtan's hips lift slightly from the bed, pressing down against the intrusion.
"Enough," Mahtan says after several minutes of this careful preparation. "I'm ready."
"Are you certain?" Fëanor asks, even as his body throbs with readiness.
"Yes." Mahtan's eyes are dark with desire, his chest rising and falling with quickened breath. "I want to feel you."
The words send a surge of heat through Fëanor's body. He withdraws his fingers and reaches for the oil again, coating himself liberally. The slick sensation combined with his own touch nearly undoes him—it has been so long since they've been together, with the wedding preparations keeping them apart.
He positions himself between Mahtan's thighs, guided by the older elf's hands on his hips. The head of his erection presses against Mahtan's entrance, the initial resistance a reminder to proceed with care.
"Look at me," Mahtan instructs softly.
Fëanor raises his eyes to meet Mahtan's gaze, finding steady reassurance there. Slowly, with the utmost care, he begins to press forward. The resistance gives way gradually, Mahtan's body opening to him in increments. Fëanor watches Mahtan's face intently, ready to stop at the slightest sign of pain.
But Mahtan's expression shows only concentration and gradually increasing pleasure as Fëanor sinks deeper. His hands grip Fëanor's hips, neither pulling nor pushing, simply anchoring them both in the moment.
When Fëanor is fully seated within him, they both pause, breathing heavily. The sensation is overwhelming—Mahtan tight and hot around him, their bodies joined in this new configuration that somehow feels both foreign and inevitable.
"You feel..." Fëanor begins, lacking words to describe the physical sensation intertwined with the emotional significance.
"I know," Mahtan says simply. His hand comes up to cup Fëanor's cheek. "Move when you're ready. Find your rhythm."
Fëanor withdraws slightly, then pushes forward again, watching Mahtan's face for guidance. The first few thrusts are tentative, experimental, as he learns the nuances of this new dance. Gradually, confidence builds. He adjusts his angle, searching for the spot he knows brings the greatest pleasure.
He knows he's found it when Mahtan's eyes widen slightly, a soft gasp escaping his lips. Fëanor focuses on that angle, establishing a steady rhythm that has Mahtan's fingers digging into his shoulders.
"That's it," Mahtan encourages, voice strained with pleasure. "Just like that."
Fëanor loses himself in the act, in the giving of pleasure rather than the receiving of it. There's power in this position, yes, but also profound responsibility—Mahtan has placed his trust and his body in Fëanor's hands, a gift beyond measure.
His strokes deepen, gain confidence. Mahtan's legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, changing the angle slightly to increase the depth of penetration. They move together as if they've done this countless times, finding synchronicity despite the newness of their configuration.
"Perfect," Mahtan murmurs, one hand threading through Fëanor's hair. "You're perfect, cub."
The endearment, so familiar yet now spoken from this new position, sends a shiver down Fëanor's spine. He's still "cub" even in this role, still belongs to Mahtan even as Mahtan gives himself to him. The complexity of their relationship has never been more apparent, nor more precious.
Fëanor braces himself on one arm, using his free hand to stroke Mahtan's erection in time with his thrusts. The dual stimulation draws a deeper groan from Mahtan, his head pressing back into the pillows as pleasure builds.
"Look at me," Fëanor echoes Mahtan's earlier command, needing to see his eyes, to maintain that connection as their bodies move together.
Mahtan's gaze locks with his, grey eyes darkened with desire but clear with complete presence. No masks, no pretense—just the raw truth of what lies between them. It's this, even more than the physical pleasure, that threatens to overwhelm Fëanor.
"I love you," he says, the words escaping without conscious thought. They've rarely spoken them aloud, as if doing so might make their impossible situation more painful. But tonight, joined as they are, the truth demands voice.
"And I you," Mahtan responds, his voice thick with emotion. "Always."
The simple affirmation breaks something open in Fëanor. His movements become more urgent, deeper, his hand working Mahtan's length with increasing pressure. He wants to bring Mahtan pleasure beyond anything he's experienced before, wants this night to be etched in both their memories forever.
Mahtan's breathing grows ragged, his body tightening around Fëanor as he approaches his peak. His hands grip Fëanor's shoulders hard enough to leave marks, anchoring himself as pleasure builds beyond containment.
"You're mine," Mahtan says, the words strained as his control frays. "My cub. Mine."
The possessive declaration pushes Fëanor closer to the edge, his rhythm faltering as his own release builds. He manages to hold back, determined that Mahtan should reach completion first. His hand moves faster, his angle shifts to strike that perfect spot with each thrust.
Mahtan's release, when it comes, is beautiful to witness—his head thrown back, copper hair splayed across the pillows, muscles tensing as pleasure courses through him, seed spending over his own stomach. His body tightens rhythmically around Fëanor, the sensation triggering Fëanor's own climax.
Fëanor cries out, unable to contain the sound as pleasure crashes through him. He drives deep one final time, holding there as his body pulses within Mahtan's. For a moment, the world narrows to just this—their joined bodies, their shared breath, the perfect union of physical and emotional connection.
As the intensity ebbs, Fëanor collapses forward, careful to brace his weight on his forearms to avoid crushing Mahtan beneath him. Their foreheads press together, breath mingling in the small space between their lips. Neither speaks immediately, the moment too profound for words.
Mahtan's hands move soothingly along Fëanor's back, tracing patterns that might be random or might hold meaning beyond Fëanor's understanding. The tenderness of the gesture, coming after such intensity, brings a sting of tears to Fëanor's eyes.
"Thank you," he whispers, the words entirely inadequate for what he feels.
Mahtan understands nonetheless. His hand comes up to cradle the back of Fëanor's head, fingers threading through the sweat-dampened hair. "No thanks needed between us," he murmurs. "What's mine is yours."
They remain joined for long moments, neither willing to break the connection. Eventually, physical necessity demands separation. Fëanor withdraws carefully, both of them gasping softly at the loss of contact. He moves to lie beside Mahtan, their bodies still touching along their sides, unwilling to be completely parted.
Mahtan turns his head to study Fëanor's profile in the dim light. His expression holds something Fëanor can't quite identify—satisfaction, certainly, but also a contemplative quality, as if he's committing this moment to memory with particular care.
"The night isn't over yet," Mahtan says softly, his hand finding Fëanor's between their bodies. "Rest a moment, and then..."
The promise in his voice makes Fëanor's pulse quicken despite his recent release. He turns to face Mahtan fully, searching his eyes. "And then?"
Mahtan's smile holds both tenderness and heat. "And then I remind you of all the ways you belong to me, before you become hers."
They lie together in comfortable silence, sweat cooling on their skin, breathing gradually slowing to normal rhythms. Mahtan's fingers trace idle patterns on Fëanor's chest, circles and spirals that might be ancient symbols or might be nothing more than the instinctive movements of an artist's hand. Fëanor watches those fingers move, mesmerized by their grace and strength—the same hands that have guided him in craftsmanship and pleasure with equal expertise. Tomorrow, these hands will formally place his daughter's hand in Fëanor's as part of the wedding ceremony. The thought should dampen desire, but somehow it does the opposite, creating an urgent need to claim this last night fully.
"What are you thinking?" Mahtan asks, his voice still rough from their earlier exertions.
Fëanor hesitates, unwilling to mention Nerdanel directly in this moment. "Tomorrow," he says simply.
Mahtan nods, understanding the unspoken complexities in that single word. His fingers don't pause in their wandering, drifting lower now, tracing the ridges of Fëanor's abdomen. "And now? What are you thinking of now?"
The touch sends small shivers across Fëanor's skin. Despite having reached completion not long ago, he feels desire stirring again, his body responding to Mahtan's proximity with familiar eagerness.
"I'm thinking," Fëanor says, his breath catching as Mahtan's hand dips even lower, "that the night is passing too quickly."
Mahtan shifts beside him, rising onto one elbow to look down at Fëanor's face. The copper of his beard gleams in the dim light, his grey eyes dark with renewed purpose. "Then we shouldn't waste it," he murmurs.
His mouth finds Fëanor's with practiced ease, the kiss deeper and more demanding than those they shared earlier. There's a shift in energy between them—where before there was careful exploration of new territory, now there's the confidence of returning to familiar ground. Mahtan's hand cups Fëanor's jaw, tilting his head to deepen the kiss further, taking control with natural authority.
Fëanor yields willingly to this guidance, his body relaxing into the mattress as Mahtan moves over him. There's comfort in this surrender, in returning to the dynamic they've established over years of secret encounters. For all the pleasure and significance of taking Mahtan earlier, this feels like coming home—Mahtan's weight pressing him down, Mahtan's hands guiding his movements, Mahtan's voice murmuring instructions and endearments against his skin.
"I want to remember you like this," Mahtan says, his mouth trailing down Fëanor's neck. "Beneath me, wanting me, mine completely."
The possessiveness in his voice sends heat coursing through Fëanor's body. "I am yours," he affirms, hands sliding up Mahtan's broad back, feeling the muscles shift beneath his palms. "No matter what tomorrow brings."
Mahtan makes a sound low in his throat, something between a growl and a hum of satisfaction. His teeth graze Fëanor's collarbone, not quite biting but promising greater intensity to come. One hand slides beneath Fëanor, cupping his lower back and lifting him slightly, bringing their bodies into closer alignment.
Their arousal builds quickly, fed by the knowledge that this night stands on the precipice of change. Tomorrow will bring new complications, new boundaries. Tonight is their last chance to love each other with the uncomplicated passion they've always shared, before the shadow of Fëanor's marriage falls across even these private moments.
Mahtan's hands grow more demanding, more possessive. They grip Fëanor's hips hard enough to leave marks, guide his legs apart with confident authority, claim every inch of his body with touches that range from tender to almost rough. Fëanor welcomes it all, meeting each escalation with his own increasing need.
Their kisses turn hungry, almost desperate. Teeth nip at sensitive flesh, tongues battle for dominance though they both know who will ultimately claim victory. Mahtan's beard scrapes against Fëanor's skin, a familiar sensation that has always marked their encounters—the subtle abrasions that Fëanor sometimes traces with his fingers the next day, private reminders of their time together.
"Turn over," Mahtan instructs, his voice rough with desire.
Fëanor complies without hesitation, rolling onto his stomach. Mahtan's hands immediately move to his shoulders, kneading the muscles there before sliding down his spine in a long, possessive stroke. Fëanor arches into the touch, a soft sound of pleasure escaping him when Mahtan's hands reach the small of his back.
"Up," Mahtan says, tapping Fëanor's hip. "On your knees."
Again, Fëanor follows the instruction, raising his hips while keeping his chest pressed to the mattress. The position is vulnerable, submissive, yet he feels no shame in it. With Mahtan, such surrender has always felt like strength rather than weakness—a gift freely given rather than something taken.
The oil is cool against his heated skin as Mahtan prepares him with practiced efficiency. Unlike the careful, exploratory preparation Fëanor had performed earlier, Mahtan's movements are confident and familiar. He knows Fëanor's body intimately, knows exactly how to touch him to produce the most pleasure, knows how far he can push before discomfort becomes unwelcome.
One finger becomes two, then three, stretching and preparing with experienced precision. Fëanor presses back against the intrusion, his body opening more readily than it had their first time together, when nervousness and inexperience had made him tense. Now his body recognizes Mahtan's touch, welcomes it, craves the fullness that will follow this preparation.
"So eager," Mahtan observes, his free hand stroking Fëanor's flank as if gentling a spirited horse. "Always so responsive for me."
"Only for you," Fëanor says, the words muffled against the bedding but clear enough in their meaning.
Mahtan's fingers withdraw, leaving Fëanor feeling empty, anticipatory. There's a moment of adjustment as Mahtan positions himself, the blunt pressure against Fëanor's entrance both familiar and always new. Then he's pushing forward, the initial resistance giving way to a slow, inexorable filling that makes Fëanor gasp into the pillow.
"Breathe," Mahtan reminds him, one hand stroking soothingly down Fëanor's back. "That's it. Take me in. You know how."
The encouragement helps Fëanor relax further, his body accepting Mahtan's length until they're fully joined. The fullness is overwhelming at first, as it always is—a pleasant intrusion that borders on too much before settling into perfect rightness.
Mahtan remains still for a moment, allowing them both to adjust to the connection. His hands continue their soothing movements along Fëanor's sides, his back, his shoulders. When he finally begins to move, it's with slow, deep thrusts that seem designed to claim every part of Fëanor from the inside out.
"You feel perfect," Mahtan murmurs, his voice thick with pleasure. "You've always felt perfect to me."
The praise warms Fëanor as much as the physical sensations. He pushes back to meet each thrust, creating a rhythm between them that builds steadily in intensity. The angle allows Mahtan to strike that perfect spot inside him with each movement, sending sparks of pleasure up Fëanor's spine.
Mahtan's hand slides beneath Fëanor, finding his erection and stroking in time with his thrusts. The dual stimulation draws a moan from deep in Fëanor's chest, his fingers clutching at the bedsheets as pleasure builds.
"That's it," Mahtan encourages, his rhythm never faltering. "Let me hear you, cub. Let me know what I do to you."
Fëanor abandons restraint, allowing his sounds of pleasure to fill the room. There's no one to hear them in this isolated cottage, no need for the careful silence they must maintain in more public settings. Here, they can be entirely themselves, entirely honest in their passion.
Mahtan's free hand tangles in Fëanor's hair, gripping firmly but not painfully, using the hold to guide Fëanor's movements. It's a possessive gesture, a reminder of who leads in this dance. Fëanor welcomes it, yielding to Mahtan's control with complete trust.
"Look at you," Mahtan says, his voice a rough caress. "So beautiful like this. Taking me so perfectly."
The praise sends another surge of heat through Fëanor's body. He's never needed validation from others, has often scorned those who seek it, but from Mahtan, such words are precious beyond measure.
"Yours," Fëanor manages, the word broken by a particularly deep thrust. "Completely yours."
"Yes," Mahtan agrees, his movements growing more forceful. "Mine. No matter what happens tomorrow. No matter who claims your name or your time. This—" he drives deep, emphasizing his point, "—this belongs to me."
Their pace increases, urgency building between them. Mahtan's hand works Fëanor's length with expert precision, bringing him closer to the edge with each stroke. His thrusts grow less measured, more primal, driven by instinct rather than conscious control.
Fëanor feels his release building, coiling tight at the base of his spine. He fights to hold it back, wanting this moment to last as long as possible, knowing what it represents—their last time together before everything changes.
"Don't hold back," Mahtan tells him, somehow reading his intention as he always does. "Give me everything. Now."
The command, coupled with a particularly precise stroke, pushes Fëanor to the brink. He teeters there, suspended on the edge of pleasure so intense it borders on pain. Mahtan's rhythm falters slightly, his own control fraying as he approaches his peak.
In a swift movement, Mahtan pulls Fëanor upright, his back pressed against Mahtan's chest, both of them kneeling on the bed. The new angle drives Mahtan even deeper, while his hand continues its relentless stimulation of Fëanor's erection. His other arm wraps around Fëanor's chest, holding him firmly in place.
"You're mine," Mahtan growls against Fëanor's ear, his hips still moving in powerful thrusts. "My cub. Mine."
Fëanor's head falls back against Mahtan's shoulder, completely surrendered to the overwhelming sensations. He's close, so close, every muscle in his body tensing as release hovers just out of reach.
Mahtan's mouth moves to the juncture of Fëanor's neck and shoulder. His teeth graze the sensitive skin there, then bite down—not hard enough to break the skin, but firmly enough to mark, to claim.
The sharp sensation, combined with everything else, pushes Fëanor over the edge. His release tears through him with staggering intensity, pulse after pulse of pleasure that leaves him trembling in Mahtan's embrace. Through the haze of his climax, he hears Mahtan's final declaration:
"Mine. She may have your hand, but I have your soul."
The words trigger Mahtan's own release. He drives deep one last time, holding there as his body pulses within Fëanor's. His teeth maintain their pressure on Fëanor's shoulder, marking him even as his seed marks him internally—dual claims that Fëanor accepts with complete submission.
As the intensity ebbs, Mahtan's bite gentles to a kiss. His arms remain wrapped around Fëanor, supporting him as aftershocks of pleasure leave him weak. They breathe together, heartbeats gradually slowing from their frantic pace.
When Mahtan finally withdraws, it's with careful gentleness. He guides Fëanor down to the bed, then stretches out beside him, gathering him close against his chest. His hand strokes Fëanor's hair, soothing, comforting.
"Did I hurt you?" he asks, fingers ghosting over the bite mark that's already darkening on Fëanor's pale skin.
"No," Fëanor assures him, voice hoarse from his cries of pleasure. "It was perfect."
They lie entwined, bodies cooling but still pressed together from shoulder to ankle. Mahtan's beard tickles Fëanor's forehead as he presses a kiss there, the gesture tender after the intensity of their coupling.
"I meant what I said," Mahtan murmurs. "About having your soul."
Fëanor's hand finds Mahtan's, their fingers interlacing against his chest. "I know," he says simply. "It's the truth."
A comfortable silence falls between them, filled with all they don't need to say aloud. Tomorrow will come with its ceremony and vows, with Fëanor pledging himself to Nerdanel before the assembled court. He will honor those vows as best he can, will be a good husband to her, will try to build something genuine from an arrangement begun in necessary deception.
But here, in this moment, in this bed, the deeper truth remains. His hand may belong to Nerdanel, but his soul—the essence of who he is—that belongs to Mahtan. Has since the day they met, will until the unmaking of the world.
Fëanor's hand feels strangely numb where it's pressed against Mahtan's, but he feels a warmth in his chest, an uncomfortable heat that he recognizes as a complex mixture of guilt and love and acceptance. Tomorrow's complications can wait. Tonight, in these final hours of darkness before dawn brings his wedding day, he belongs completely to the man whose arms encircle him, whose heart beats against his back, whose claim on him transcends all laws and conventions.
"Sleep, cub," Mahtan murmurs, sensing Fëanor's thoughts drifting toward tomorrow's realities. "We still have hours before dawn."
Fëanor closes his eyes, allowing himself to sink into the comfort of Mahtan's embrace. The future with all its complexities waits beyond this night, but for now, there is...only this—two bodies joined in exhausted satisfaction, two hearts beating in synchrony, two souls irrevocably intertwined despite all that would separate them.
As sleep claims him, Fëanor's last conscious thought is a silent vow: to honor what lies between them, to protect it through whatever changes come, to never let the world's constraints truly sever what has been forged in these private moments of perfect understanding.
For some bonds transcend the laws of elves and the expectations of kings. Some connections, once formed, can never truly be broken—not by marriage vows, not by public roles, not even by the passage of time itself.
Mahtan's arms tighten around him in sleep, a unconscious affirmation of possession that follows Fëanor into dreams where they need hide from no one, where what they share can exist in the light rather than the shadows.
Tomorrow will come, with all its ceremony and change.
But tonight belongs to them alone.
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