Mahtan's private quarters lie tucked behind the main forge, a sanctuary few have ever entered. The door closes behind them with a soft click that feels somehow momentous, like the sound of one life ending and another beginning. Fëanor stands just inside the threshold, taking in this new space—Mahtan's personal domain—with the keen observation he brings to everything. The room breathes with Mahtan's essence: sturdy furniture built by his own hands, sketches of designs pinned to walls, shelves lined with small sculptures and experimental pieces. A stone fireplace houses embers that cast the room in amber light, gentler than the forge's blaze but no less warm.
The air here carries different scents than the workshop—burning coal and metal still present but layered with others: cedar from the chest at the foot of the broad bed, subtle incense smoldering in a copper dish, the clean tang of soap, and beneath it all, the indefinable scent that is uniquely Mahtan. The space is neither lavish nor austere, but comfortable in the way of a place that serves its purpose without pretension.
A pair of copper lamps hang from ceiling beams, their light filtered through translucent stone, casting pools of soft illumination that leave corners in shadow. The effect is intimate, enveloping, as if the room itself conspires to create privacy.
Fëanor's heart beats an irregular rhythm against his ribs. For all his earlier certainty, he finds himself hesitating now, overcome by the reality of what is unfolding between them. This crossing of boundaries feels significant, weighty with meaning beyond the physical act itself.
Mahtan moves behind him, close enough that Fëanor feels the heat of his body but not quite touching. "We need not rush," he says, his voice a low rumble near Fëanor's ear. "We have the night before us, and all the nights that may follow."
The promise in those words—not just of tonight but of a continuing connection—eases something tight in Fëanor's chest. He turns to face Mahtan, finding comfort in the familiar contours of that beloved face now seen in this new context.
"I am not afraid," Fëanor says, though they both recognize the partial truth in this statement. He is not afraid of the physical act, but the vulnerability it requires—that gives him pause.
"I know," Mahtan says, the ghost of a smile playing across his lips. He reaches out, not to pull Fëanor closer but to touch his face, fingers tracing the high curve of a cheekbone with reverent precision. "You have never been one to fear a new experience. But there is no shame in feeling the weight of a moment that matters."
Fëanor leans into the touch, allowing himself the luxury of being handled with such care. "Show me," he says simply, two words that contain volumes—trust, surrender, anticipation.
Mahtan nods once, understanding all that remains unspoken. He steps closer, bringing their bodies into alignment without pressing together. His hands move to the leather belt at Fëanor's waist—not the heavy work belt with pouches for tools, but the simpler one he had changed into after finishing in the forge. The buckle releases with a soft metallic sigh, and Mahtan slides the leather free with deliberate slowness, each movement measured and purposeful.
He sets the belt aside on a nearby table, the action oddly ceremonial. Next, his fingers find the laces of Fëanor's tunic, loosening them with the same methodical patience. The garment hangs open at the throat, revealing the hollow there where pulse beats visibly beneath pale skin.
Mahtan's fingers brush against that pulse point, a feather-light touch that nonetheless sends electricity racing through Fëanor's veins. "Your heart runs fast as a stag in flight," Mahtan observes, his eyes meeting Fëanor's with warmth and understanding.
"It knows we enter uncharted territory," Fëanor responds, aiming for lightness but achieving only breathless honesty.
Mahtan smiles at that, a smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes and softens the strong lines of his face. "Then let us make a careful survey," he says, "and map every inch."
With that promise hanging in the air between them, Mahtan returns to his task. He draws the tunic upward, forcing Fëanor to raise his arms in cooperation. The fabric whispers against skin as it lifts away, leaving Fëanor's torso bare to the warm air and warmer gaze of his soon-to-be lover.
Fëanor wears his nakedness as a badge rather than a vulnerability. He stands straight, shoulders back, neither flaunting nor hiding what is revealed. His body tells its own story: lean and strong from years of work, marked here and there with the small scars and burns that are the craftsman's inevitable souvenirs, skin pale where Laurelin's light never touches and slightly golden where it does.
Mahtan takes his time looking, his gaze a physical presence moving over Fëanor's exposed skin. "Beautiful," he says finally, the word weighted with genuine appreciation rather than casual flattery.
The compliment warms Fëanor more than he expects. He has been called many things—brilliant, difficult, talented, intense—but rarely simply beautiful. There is something disarming about being seen and appreciated in such basic, physical terms.
Mahtan's hands return to their task, finding the fastenings of Fëanor's leggings. Here, his movements remain methodical but take on a new deliberateness, acknowledging the increasing intimacy of each barrier removed. The leggings loosen and Mahtan kneels to help Fëanor step free of them, an unexpectedly humble posture from one so respected.
Looking down at Mahtan's bent head, at the auburn hair burnished to copper in the firelight, Fëanor feels a surge of emotion so complex he cannot name it—tenderness and desire and wonder all tangled together into something that makes his throat tighten and his eyes burn.
Mahtan rises again, and now only the thin fabric of Fëanor's undergarment remains. Rather than removing it immediately, Mahtan takes a small step back, creating space between them. "Your turn," he says, his voice rougher now, betraying the effect of their slow undressing on his own composure.
The tables turn, and Fëanor approaches the task of undressing Mahtan with a different energy than Mahtan brought to undressing him. Where Mahtan was methodical and patient, Fëanor is intent and focused, his movements efficient without being hurried. He unlaces Mahtan's tunic with nimble fingers, pulling the garment free and dropping it carelessly aside, his attention already moving to the strong column of neck now exposed, the broad expanse of chest dusted with hair a shade darker than that on Mahtan's head.
Mahtan wears a simple silver pendant on a leather cord—a stylized anvil that rests against his sternum. Fëanor touches it briefly, recognizing it as his own work from years earlier, a gift given to mark a milestone in their professional relationship. That it rests against Mahtan's skin even in private moments feels significant, a sign that Fëanor has long held a place close to Mahtan's heart.
Fëanor continues his mission, unfastening Mahtan's belt and helping him step out of his leggings. Each new revelation of skin is a discovery, a canvas waiting to be explored. Mahtan's body tells a different story than Fëanor's: broader, more solidly built, marked with the evidence of longer years at the forge. The hair on his chest narrows to a line that disappears beneath his undergarment, drawing Fëanor's eye downward.
They stand facing each other in the fire-warmed space, both down to their final layers, the moment balanced on the edge of a blade between anticipation and fulfillment. By unspoken agreement, they each remove their own final garment, a last act of agency before complete surrender to vulnerability.
And then they are bare before one another, nothing hidden, nothing held back. Fëanor's gaze travels the length of Mahtan's body, absorbing details with the precision of an artist memorizing a subject: the breadth of shoulder tapering to narrow waist, the strong thighs dusted with copper hair, the evident arousal that speaks of desire more eloquently than words could.
"You wear no artifice," Mahtan says, breaking the silence that has settled around them, "not even the mask of clothing. You are as you are—perfect in your wholeness."
The words touch something deep within Fëanor, a place starved for this kind of simple acceptance. He has spent his life striving to prove himself worthy—to his distant father, to society, to himself. To be seen as already whole, already worthy, simply as he is—it is a gift he had not known to ask for.
"As are you," Fëanor responds, finding his voice. "Perfect in your weathered strength, in the stories written on your skin, in the steadiness that anchors me when I would fly apart."
Mahtan steps forward, closing the small distance between them. The first touch of skin against skin—chest to chest, thigh to thigh—draws a sharp intake of breath from both. The contact is electric, a completion of the circuit that began with their first kiss in the forge.
Mahtan's hands settle at Fëanor's waist, large and warm and slightly rough from years of work. Fëanor's own hands rise to Mahtan's shoulders, feeling the solid muscle beneath skin, the tangible reality of him.
"May I?" Mahtan asks, the question encompassing more than its simple words.
Fëanor nods, not trusting his voice. Mahtan's hands begin to move, sliding up Fëanor's sides, mapping ribs and muscle with attentive fingers. Each touch is deliberate, appreciative, learning the terrain of Fëanor's body with the same care he would apply to examining a rare material or an unfamiliar technique.
Fëanor's own explorations grow bolder. His fingers trace the line of Mahtan's collarbone, the slope of his shoulders, the texture of his beard. He leans forward to press his lips to the hollow of Mahtan's throat, tasting salt and skin and something indefinably unique.
Mahtan's hands continue their journey, moving across Fëanor's back, down the knobs of his spine, learning the geography of bone and muscle. His touch is reverent yet possessive, claiming each inch as territory now known.
They move together toward the bed that dominates one side of the room—a wide platform covered in soft fabrics of deep reds and browns. The sheets welcome them as they sink down together, still exploring, still discovering.
Mahtan guides Fëanor onto his back, then begins a new exploration—this time with lips and tongue joining the work of hands. He starts at Fëanor's throat, pressing kisses to the sensitive skin there, then moving downward to the sharp jut of collarbone, the flat plane of chest.
Fëanor's breath quickens as Mahtan's mouth travels lower, across the taut muscles of his abdomen. Each kiss, each touch of tongue to skin, is a revelation—a new sensation to catalog, a new pleasure to experience. His hands find Mahtan's hair, fingers threading through the thick auburn strands, alternately gripping and releasing as sensation washes over him.
Mahtan takes his time, thorough in this as in all things. He pays homage to Fëanor's body with lips and hands and whispered words of appreciation—for the strength in lean muscles, for the responsiveness of sensitive skin, for the beauty he finds in every line and plane.
Not to be outdone, Fëanor urges Mahtan upward again, reversing their positions so he can conduct his own explorations. He kisses the line of Mahtan's jaw, the lobe of his ear, the sensitive skin of his neck. His tongue traces patterns on warm skin, tasting salt and smoke and the unique flavor that is Mahtan himself.
He moves lower, learning the different texture of skin covered with the soft hair of Mahtan's chest, discovering the small sounds Mahtan makes when lips brush across a nipple or teeth gently scrape along the crest of a hip bone. The exploration is mutual, reciprocal—a conversation conducted without words, in the language of touch and taste and shared breath.
Their bodies press together, separate, realign in new configurations as they learn one another. Legs entangle, hands grasp and release, mouths seek and find. The amber light from fireplace and lamps plays across their skin, turning it to gold where it touches, leaving shadow in the hollows and curves.
In this secluded corner of the smithy's private quarters, away from the world's judgments and expectations, they create a sacred space between them—a haven where vulnerability becomes strength, where desire becomes worship, where two bodies learn to speak a single language of pleasure and connection.
Mahtan's hands chart a deliberate course down Fëanor's body, each touch a declaration of intent. The calluses on his palms catch slightly against smooth skin, creating friction that sends shivers racing along nerve endings. Fëanor watches through half-lidded eyes as Mahtan moves lower, his broad shoulders parting Fëanor's thighs with gentle insistence. The firelight catches in Mahtan's auburn hair, transforming it to a crown of living flame that matches the heat building in Fëanor's core. There is something both vulnerable and powerful in watching Mahtan position himself this way—a master craftsman preparing to apply his skill to Fëanor's pleasure.
"I have imagined this," Mahtan confesses, his voice a low rumble that Fëanor feels as much as hears. "In moments of weakness, in the quiet dark when I should have been thinking of more virtuous things." His hands settle on Fëanor's thighs, thumbs tracing small circles against sensitive skin.
The admission sends a thrill through Fëanor's body—the thought of Mahtan lying alone, desire keeping him from sleep, imagination filled with visions of this very scenario. "Tell me," Fëanor urges, his own voice strained with anticipation. "Tell me what you imagined."
Mahtan smiles, the expression both tender and predatory. "I imagined you just like this," he says, "spread before me like a feast. I imagined the sounds you might make when pleasure takes you. I imagined the taste of your skin, the weight of you on my tongue." His gaze is steady, holding Fëanor's even as his hands continue their maddening circles, moving incrementally higher with each revolution.
Fëanor's arousal twitches visibly at these words, a reaction he cannot control. His body responds to Mahtan's voice, to his touch, to the mere promise of what is to come with an eagerness that would be embarrassing if it weren't so perfectly matched in Mahtan's own evident desire.
"And now?" Fëanor asks, the question almost a challenge. "Now that imagination becomes reality?"
"Now," Mahtan says, dipping his head to press a kiss to the inside of Fëanor's knee, "I find reality far exceeds my most vivid dreams."
Mahtan's mouth begins a slow journey up the inside of Fëanor's thigh, leaving a trail of kisses, each one lingering longer than the last. His beard creates a novel sensation against the sensitive skin there—slightly rough, slightly ticklish, wholly arousing. Fëanor's hands fist in the sheets beneath him, seeking anchorage as sensation threatens to unmoor him completely.
The anticipation builds with each upward inch, a crescendo of expectation that has Fëanor's heart racing and his breath coming in shorter gasps. Mahtan takes his time, thorough in this as in all his pursuits, allowing no territory to go unexplored, no patch of skin to go untasted.
When he finally reaches the juncture of thigh and hip, Mahtan pauses, his breath warm against Fëanor's most sensitive flesh. The moment stretches, taut with possibility, as Mahtan simply looks, appreciating the visual evidence of Fëanor's desire, the flush of arousal that spreads across pale skin.
"Please," Fëanor says, the word escaping without conscious thought, pride surrendering to need.
Mahtan's eyes flick upward, meeting Fëanor's gaze with an intensity that nearly undoes him. "Yes," he says simply, and then his mouth is there, warm and wet and perfectly, exquisitely right.
The first contact draws a sound from Fëanor that he scarcely recognizes as his own—part gasp, part moan, wholly honest. Mahtan takes his cock in slowly, with deliberate care, as if savoring a rare delicacy. The heat of his mouth envelops Fëanor, sending waves of pleasure rippling outward from this single point of connection.
Fëanor's hands move of their own accord, finding Mahtan's hair, fingers threading through the thick auburn strands. He does not guide or push, merely holds on, seeking connection, grounding himself in the physical reality of Mahtan even as sensation threatens to sweep him away.
Mahtan's technique is exquisite—not hurried or aggressive, but measured and attentive. He pays close attention to Fëanor's responses, noting what draws a sharper intake of breath, what causes fingers to tighten in his hair, what elicits those broken sounds that Fëanor cannot seem to contain. He uses this information like the master craftsman he is, building pleasure with precision and care.
Fëanor feels himself unraveling beneath this dedicated attention. His usual sharp focus fragments, shattered by wave after wave of sensation. He is aware of his body in a new way—not as the vehicle for his mind and will, but as an instrument of pleasure, responsive to Mahtan's every touch. His skin feels hypersensitive, nerve endings singing with each brush of fingers, each sweep of tongue, each gentle scrape of beard against tender flesh.
The physical pleasure is overwhelming, but equally powerful is the emotional impact of this act. There is intimacy in Mahtan's willingness to kneel before him, to use his mouth—that same mouth that has spoken wisdom and guidance for years—for Fëanor's pleasure. There is vulnerability in allowing himself to be seen this way, undone by sensation, defenses stripped away along with clothing.
Mahtan's hands maintain their exploration even as his mouth continues its devoted work. One slides beneath Fëanor to cup the small of his back, supporting and guiding, while the other traces patterns on his hip, his abdomen, the sensitive crease where thigh meets torso. Each touch adds another layer to the building pleasure, another note to the symphony of sensation that plays through Fëanor's body.
Time loses meaning, stretching and contracting around them like heated metal under the hammer. Fëanor cannot say how long this continues—minutes or hours, both seem equally possible in this space outside normal existence. All he knows is the relentless building of pleasure, the coiling tension that begins in his core and spreads outward, the approach of something vast and overwhelming.
His breathing grows more ragged, his sounds less controlled. As Mahtan sucks, Fëanor feels himself approaching the edge of something magnificent and terrifying—a surrender more complete than any he has known before. His body tightens, muscles tensing in anticipation of release.
Sensing this approach, Mahtan adjusts his technique. His movements become more deliberate, more focused, sucking harder, driving Fëanor ever closer to the precipice. The dual sensation of Mahtan's mouth and the occasional brush of his beard creates a contrast that heightens every feeling, makes each movement more intense than the last.
Fëanor feels balanced on a knife's edge of pleasure so acute it borders on pain. His hands grip Mahtan's hair tighter, his back arches slightly off the bed, his thighs tremble with the effort of remaining open rather than clenching tight around the source of such exquisite sensation.
"Mahtan," he gasps, the name both warning and plea. "I cannot—I will—"
Understanding perfectly, Mahtan responds not by withdrawing but by doubling his efforts, his clear intention to guide Fëanor through to completion rather than deny him at the crucial moment. His hands grip Fëanor's hips more firmly, holding him steady as pleasure threatens to make him writhe beyond control.
Fëanor hovers at the threshold, suspended in that perfect moment before release where pleasure gathers itself for its final, most powerful expression. He feels simultaneously utterly vulnerable and completely safe, exposed to Mahtan's gaze yet accepted in his most unguarded state.
And just as he feels himself about to tip over that edge, Mahtan slows. The change is subtle but unmistakable—the rhythm shifts, the pressure decreases slightly, the approach to climax gentling from a headlong rush to a more measured ascent. It is not a denial but an extension, a mastery of pleasure that speaks to Mahtan's experience and his desire to prolong this connection between them.
Fëanor makes a sound of mingled frustration and appreciation. The sensation remains exquisite, but the immediacy of release recedes slightly, like a wave that draws back before building again with greater force. His hands loosen their grip in Mahtan's hair, one sliding down to touch his face, to feel the movement of jaw and cheek as Mahtan continues his attentions.
This touch—this moment of tenderness amid such intense pleasure—seems to affect Mahtan deeply. He looks up, meeting Fëanor's gaze without interrupting his work. The eye contact adds another dimension to their connection, making the physical act more intimate, more meaningful. In Mahtan's eyes, Fëanor sees not just desire but something deeper, something that makes his chest tight with emotion even as his body thrums with physical need.
Mahtan's rhythm changes again, finding a middle ground between the intensity that had brought Fëanor to the edge and the gentleness that had drawn him back. His skill is evident in the precision of his movements, in his ability to read Fëanor's responses and adjust accordingly. He is both giving pleasure and conducting it, like a musician coaxing the perfect notes from a rare instrument.
Under this renewed attention, Fëanor feels himself approaching the peak again, but differently this time—less frantic, more measured, a controlled ascent rather than a desperate scramble. The pleasure builds in waves, each one carrying him higher than the last, approaching a crest that promises to be all the more powerful for its careful cultivation.
His hands are numb with the intensity of his grip, but he feels a warmth in his chest, an overwhelming heat that he recognizes not as guilt but as its opposite—a profound rightness, a sense that this connection with Mahtan has been written in the stars since before either of them drew breath. The physical pleasure is transcendent, but this emotional certainty is equally powerful, equally transformative.
Between them, they create something beautiful—a moment of perfect communion where boundaries blur and separate selves seem to merge into a single experience of giving and receiving, of pleasure both offered and accepted. In this sacred space they have carved out together, there is no shame, no hesitation, only the pure expression of desire and affection given physical form.
Mahtan's eyes never leave Fëanor's face as he brings him to the very edge once more, watchful for every flicker of expression, every sign of mounting pleasure. He is both the creator of this experience and its witness, both the cause of Fëanor's unraveling and the safe harbor that will catch him when he falls.
Then Mahtan rises above Fëanor like a tide, his body casting shadows that dance across Fëanor's skin in the flickering firelight. There is a moment of breathless anticipation as they shift positions, rearranging limbs and adjusting their bodies to align in this new configuration. Fëanor feels simultaneously vulnerable and empowered—exposed in his desire yet strengthened by Mahtan's unwavering regard. His body trembles not with fear but with anticipation, with the knowledge that they are about to cross another threshold together, to forge a connection that will forever alter the landscape between them.
"Are you certain?" Mahtan asks, his voice rough-edged with desire yet gentle with concern. He hovers above Fëanor, supporting his weight on strong arms that bracket Fëanor's shoulders like columns.
Fëanor reaches up to trace the contours of Mahtan's face—the proud jut of cheekbone, the curve of beard-roughened jaw, the fullness of lips now swollen from their earlier activities. "I have never been more certain of anything," he says, and means it. In a life filled with questions and seeking, this moment stands out in its clarity, its rightness.
Mahtan nods, accepting the truth he sees in Fëanor's eyes. He leans to the side, reaching for a small vial that sits among other personal items on a table beside the bed. The glass catches the firelight, its contents amber and viscous.
"Oil of olives, infused with herbs," Mahtan explains, uncorking the vial with practiced fingers. "It will ease the way."
The care in this simple preparation touches Fëanor deeply. Mahtan approaches this act not as conquest but as collaboration, each step considered for mutual comfort and pleasure. The oil pools in Mahtan's palm, warm and fragrant—notes of rosemary and something sweeter beneath, perhaps lavender or thyme.
Mahtan shifts his position, kneeling now between Fëanor's spread thighs. His free hand strokes Fëanor's leg from knee to hip in a soothing gesture that nonetheless leaves trails of fire in its wake. "Try to relax," he murmurs, though his eyes convey more—an understanding that relaxation might prove difficult in the face of such intense anticipation.
The first touch of oil-slick fingers against intimate flesh draws a sharp intake of breath from Fëanor. The sensation is foreign yet instinctively right—a gentle pressure that asks rather than demands. Mahtan moves with deliberate slowness, massaging the sensitive area with circular motions, allowing Fëanor's body time to accept this new intimacy.
"Breathe," Mahtan reminds him when Fëanor realizes he's been holding his breath. He inhales deeply, consciously relaxing muscles tensed with anticipation, trusting Mahtan's guidance as he has trusted it in the forge for years.
The first finger enters him with careful precision, the intrusion both strange and welcome. Fëanor's body tenses momentarily around this invasion before surrendering to it, accepting Mahtan's gentle persistence. The sensation is complex—not quite pleasure yet, but the promise of it, like the first strike of hammer on hot metal that begins to shape what will eventually become something beautiful.
"You are magnificent," Mahtan says, his voice reverent as he watches Fëanor's reactions. "So responsive, so open to this experience."
The praise warms Fëanor as much as the physical touch, feeding something in him that has always hungered for recognition. He moves his hips slightly, testing the sensation, adjusting to this new fullness.
Mahtan reads his body's signals perfectly, beginning a slow rhythm with his finger, drawing out and pressing in with gentle insistence. When Fëanor's breathing steadies, when his hips begin to move in subtle counterpoint, Mahtan adds a second finger, stretching him further, preparing him with patient thoroughness.
The initial discomfort gives way to something more complex—not quite pleasure in the direct way of Mahtan's mouth upon him, but a building pressure, a fullness that resonates deep within. When Mahtan's fingers curl slightly, they brush against a spot inside him that sends a jolt of unexpected pleasure racing up his spine, making him gasp and arch.
"There," Mahtan murmurs, his voice tight with controlled desire. "There you are." He repeats the motion deliberately, watching Fëanor's face as pleasure transforms his features, as his head presses back into the pillow and his lips part on a soundless cry.
Time stretches around them as Mahtan continues this careful preparation. A third finger joins the others, the stretch now walking the delicious edge between discomfort and pleasure. Fëanor finds himself moving into these ministrations rather than away from them, his body learning a new language of desire, of receptivity.
"Please," Fëanor finally says, the word distilled from need and impatience and a hunger to know Mahtan completely. "I would have all of you."
Mahtan's eyes darken at these words, pupils expanding until only a thin ring of grey remains. He withdraws his fingers with careful slowness, leaving Fëanor feeling oddly empty, bereft of this connection they had established.
The emptiness is temporary. Mahtan pours more oil into his palm, then applies it to himself with slow, deliberate strokes. The sight of him touching himself this way, preparing himself for their joining, sends a fresh wave of desire through Fëanor's body.
"How would you...?" Mahtan begins, then rephrases. "What position would be most comfortable for you?"
The question—so practical, so considerate—makes Fëanor smile despite the intensity of the moment. Even now, Mahtan thinks of his comfort, his preferences. "Like this," Fëanor says, remaining on his back. "I would see your face as we join."
Mahtan nods, something softening in his expression. He positions himself carefully, the blunt pressure of his arousal replacing fingers at Fëanor's entrance. Their eyes lock as Mahtan begins to press forward with exquisite control, advancing by increments so small they're almost imperceptible.
The initial breach draws a sound from Fëanor that is neither pain nor pleasure but some complex amalgam of the two. His body resists momentarily, then yields to Mahtan's gentle insistence. The stretch is more intense than fingers prepared him for, a burning fullness that borders on too much.
Mahtan stills immediately, attuned to every nuance of Fëanor's reaction. "Breathe," he reminds again, one hand stroking Fëanor's flank in soothing patterns. "Your body will adapt. There is no hurry."
Fëanor does as instructed, drawing deep breaths that gradually ease the tension in his muscles. The burning sensation recedes, replaced by an awareness of incredible fullness, of connection more profound than he had anticipated. He nods once, a silent signal to continue.
Mahtan advances further, still maintaining that careful control, watching Fëanor's face for any sign of discomfort. When he is fully seated within him, they both pause, adjusting to this new reality of complete physical union. Mahtan trembles slightly with the effort of restraint, the visible tension in his shoulders and arms betraying his desire to move, to seek the primal rhythm their bodies crave.
"You feel..." Mahtan begins, then shakes his head, words failing him. "There are no words adequate to this feeling."
Fëanor understands perfectly. This connection transcends language, exists in a realm of pure sensation and emotion. He reaches up to touch Mahtan's face, to anchor himself in this moment that feels simultaneously so present and somehow eternal, outside of normal time.
"Move," Fëanor whispers, his body having adjusted to the intrusion, curiosity and desire overtaking initial discomfort. "Show me."
Permission granted, Mahtan begins to move—a careful withdrawal followed by an equally careful return. The sensation pulls a gasp from Fëanor's throat, not of pain but of discovery, of experiencing something entirely new yet somehow deeply familiar, as if his body has always known this was possible.
Mahtan establishes a gentle rhythm, each stroke measured and deliberate. His gaze never leaves Fëanor's face, reading every flicker of expression, adjusting angle and pace in response to what he sees there. One hand braces his weight beside Fëanor's shoulder while the other explores his body—tracing the line of collarbone, the curve of chest, the flat plane of abdomen.
"Beautiful," Mahtan murmurs, the word a caress. "My fierce, brilliant cub. So perfect in your surrender."
The words flow over Fëanor like warm honey, sweet and sustaining. He has never thought of surrender as something desirable, has fought against it in every other context, yet here, with Mahtan, it feels like strength rather than weakness, like a gift freely given rather than something taken.
Gradually, Mahtan increases the pace and force of his thrusts, responding to Fëanor's increasingly vocal encouragement, to the way his body rises to meet each downward movement. The initial strangeness gives way entirely to pleasure—a deep, resonant sensation unlike anything Fëanor has experienced before. When Mahtan shifts slightly, angling his movements to brush against that sensitive spot inside him, the pleasure sharpens, becomes almost too intense to bear.
"There," Fëanor gasps, hands clutching at Mahtan's shoulders. "Please, there."
Mahtan obliges, maintaining the angle that brings such pleasure, establishing a rhythm that builds steadily in intensity. The bed creaks beneath them, the sound joining their mingled breathing and occasional words of encouragement or praise to create a symphony of shared passion.
"You take me so beautifully," Mahtan says, his voice strained with the effort of maintaining control. "As if you were made for this, for me."
The possessive nature of these words sends a thrill through Fëanor's body. He has never wanted to belong to anyone, has guarded his independence fiercely, yet there is something profoundly satisfying in being claimed this way—not as property but as perfect complement, as missing piece finally found.
"Yours," Fëanor affirms, the admission easier in this moment of vulnerability than it would be in any other context. "As you are mine."
This mutual claiming seems to affect Mahtan deeply. His rhythm falters momentarily, his expression one of awe mingled with intense pleasure. When he resumes his movements, there is a new quality to them—something more abandoned, less restrained.
The atmosphere between them shifts, the careful consideration giving way to more primal need. Their bodies find a natural rhythm, moving together with increasing urgency. Sweat sheens their skin, catching the firelight, turning flesh to burnished gold.
Mahtan's hand moves between them, finding Fëanor's arousal, stroking in counterpoint to the rhythm of their joining. The dual stimulation is overwhelming, sending waves of pleasure crashing through Fëanor's body. He arches upward, seeking more contact, more friction, more of everything Mahtan offers.
Words fail them both now, replaced by the more honest language of gasps and moans, of bodies communicating in the oldest dialect known to their kind. Fëanor feels himself approaching that precipice again, that exquisite moment of surrender to sensation. His muscles tighten, his breath comes in short, sharp pants, his focus narrows to the points where their bodies connect.
"Together," Mahtan urges, his own control clearly fraying, his movements becoming less measured and more urgent. "Let me see you come undone, my beautiful cub. Let me witness your pleasure."
The command—for it is a command, despite its gentle phrasing—pushes Fëanor over that final edge. Release crashes through him like a wave breaking against cliffs, powerful and unstoppable. His body clenches around Mahtan, his back arches off the bed, a cry tears from his throat—raw and honest and utterly unguarded.
Mahtan follows him into that ecstasy, his own climax triggered by the sight and sensation of Fëanor's pleasure. His movements stutter, then drive deep one final time as he finds his release, his face transformed by pleasure into something almost reverent, almost pained in its intensity.
For a moment that stretches into eternity, they remain joined in this perfect communion of flesh and spirit, suspended in the aftermath of shared pleasure. Then Mahtan collapses forward, careful even in this moment of abandonment to brace most of his weight on his forearms, not crushing Fëanor beneath him.
Their foreheads press together, breath mingling in the small space between their mouths. Neither speaks immediately, both understanding that words would be inadequate to the moment, would diminish rather than enhance the profound connection they have established.
Instead, they communicate through touch—Mahtan's fingers brushing damp hair from Fëanor's brow, Fëanor's hands tracing patterns on Mahtan's sweat-slick back. Their bodies remain connected, neither willing yet to surrender this most intimate union.
"Are you...?" Mahtan finally begins, concern threading through the satisfaction in his voice.
"I am well," Fëanor assures him, a smile touching his lips. "More than well." The simple words cannot possibly convey the complex tangle of emotions within him—fulfillment and wonder and a deep, profound contentment he has rarely experienced.
With careful tenderness, Mahtan eventually withdraws, both of them wincing slightly at the separation. He moves to Fëanor's side rather than away from him, gathering him close with an arm around his waist, unwilling to surrender physical contact entirely.
Fëanor feels transformed—not just physically but in some deeper, more essential way. What has passed between them is more than physical pleasure, more than the satisfaction of long-denied desire. It is recognition, acceptance, a coming home to a place he hadn't known existed but now cannot imagine living without.
Mahtan presses a kiss to his temple, the gesture achingly tender after the intensity of their passion. "Rest now," he murmurs, though both know sleep is still distant, the night young around them.
Fëanor turns in Mahtan's embrace, facing him, unwilling to surrender the sight of him even for the comfort of being held. "Thank you," he says simply, the words encompassing far more than gratitude for physical pleasure.
Mahtan's eyes, soft now with satiation and affection, search his face. "For what do you thank me?"
"For seeing me," Fëanor replies. "For knowing me. For accepting all that I am without trying to change or diminish any part."
The words hang between them, weighted with meaning beyond their simple syllables. Mahtan's hand rises to cup Fëanor's cheek, thumb tracing the high arch of cheekbone with reverent precision.
"How could I do otherwise?" he asks. "You are perfect exactly as you are—fierce and brilliant and occasionally maddening." His smile softens these last words, makes them a compliment rather than criticism. "I would not change a single aspect of you, not one hair on your head or one flame in your spirit."
This complete acceptance—so rarely experienced, so deeply craved—fills something within Fëanor that has been empty for too long. He leans into Mahtan's touch, allowing himself to be vulnerable in a way he permits with no one else, allowing himself to receive this gift of understanding without reflexive defense or deflection.
Their bodies cool, their breathing steadies, but the connection between them remains—a bridge built of shared pleasure and mutual recognition, strong enough to bear whatever weight the future might place upon it.
In the hushed aftermath of passion, they lie tangled together like precious metals alloyed in the crucible, their limbs intertwined in patterns too complex to discern where one ends and the other begins. Mahtan's larger frame curves protectively around Fëanor's leaner one, his broad chest a pillow for Fëanor's head, rising and falling with each steady breath. The fire has burned lower now, casting the room in soft amber shadows that soften edges and blend colors into a harmonious whole. Outside, night has fully claimed the world, but here in this private sanctuary, they exist in a realm of their own making, governed by no laws but those of their mutual desire and newfound tenderness.
A comfortable silence envelops them, punctuated only by the occasional pop from the cooling forge beyond the walls and their synchronized breathing. Mahtan's fingers trace idle patterns along Fëanor's shoulder and arm, each touch feather-light yet resonant with meaning. The sweat has dried on their skin, leaving behind a pleasant saltiness that mingles with the lingering scents of oil and intimacy.
The room itself seems to have absorbed the energy of their union, the very air charged with a subtle resonance that vibrates in harmony with their contentment. The copper lamps have dimmed, their oil running low, adding to the cocoon-like quality of the space. Shadows dance along the walls in hypnotic patterns, mimicking the languid movements of Mahtan's fingers across Fëanor's skin.
"What are you thinking?" Mahtan asks eventually, his voice a low rumble that Fëanor feels through the chest beneath his cheek before he hears it with his ears.
Fëanor considers the question, sifting through the kaleidoscope of emotions that swirl within him. "I am thinking that I have spent years seeking perfection in my craft," he says finally, "while the perfect connection I truly needed was here all along, waiting to be acknowledged."
Mahtan's arm tightens around him, a silent affirmation. "Fear makes us blind to what is before us," he says. "Fear of rejection, of vulnerability. Fear of disrupting what is known for the uncertainty of what might be."
"I have never considered myself fearful," Fëanor admits, a hint of his usual pride coloring the words.
"Nor have I," Mahtan says, amusement warming his tone. "Yet here we are, having danced around this truth for how long? Years, perhaps decades, when we might have been sharing this closeness."
Fëanor shifts, propping himself up on one elbow to look directly into Mahtan's face. The movement causes their bodies to slide against each other in ways that send pleasant aftershocks through still-sensitive flesh. "Do you regret the time lost?"
Mahtan considers this, his grey eyes thoughtful in the dim light. "No," he says finally. "I do not believe we were ready before now. Some metals must be heated repeatedly, worked and reworked, before they take their ideal form. Perhaps we needed that time, that preparation, to appreciate what we have found together."
The metaphor, drawn from their shared craft, resonates deeply with Fëanor. "And what have we found, exactly?" he asks, the question both earnest and vulnerable. "What would you name this thing between us?"
Mahtan's hand rises to cup Fëanor's cheek, his thumb brushing across the high curve of cheekbone with tender precision. "Does it require naming to be real?" he counters gently. "Must we cage it within the confines of language when it spans so much more?"
"Perhaps not," Fëanor concedes. "But the world beyond this room will demand definitions, categories. They will seek to understand what we are to each other."
"And what shall we tell them?" Mahtan asks, his expression open, leaving space for Fëanor to define the boundaries of their relationship.
Fëanor feels a swell of emotion rise within him—gratitude for this freedom, this respect for his agency even in matters that affect them both. "We will tell them nothing," he says with sudden certainty. "What exists between us is ours alone, not subject to their judgment or understanding."
A smile curves Mahtan's lips, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "So fierce in your privacy," he says, the words fond rather than critical. "But I agree. What we share belongs to us, not to idle gossips or societal expectations."
He draws Fëanor back down to rest against him, rearranging their limbs into a more comfortable configuration. One large hand settles at the small of Fëanor's back, a warm, steadying presence. "Though I would not have you think I am ashamed of what we have found together," he adds. "If circumstances required acknowledgment, I would stand proudly beside you, consequences be damned."
The declaration warms Fëanor more than the physical contact, more than the lingering heat of the forge. His hands were numb from their earlier grip on Mahtan's shoulders, but he feels a warmth in his chest, a comfortable heat that he recognizes as belonging—as having found, at last, a place where he is wholly accepted, wholly understood.
"As would I," Fëanor affirms. "Though my father might have much to say on the matter."
"Finwë loves you," Mahtan says gently. "He might struggle to understand, but he would not wish your unhappiness."
"Perhaps," Fëanor says, unwilling to pursue that particular complexity in this moment of peace. "But that is a bridge we need not cross tonight."
"Indeed," Mahtan agrees, his hand resuming its gentle exploration of Fëanor's back, tracing the knobs of his spine, the curve of his shoulder blade. "Tonight is ours alone."
They lapse back into comfortable silence, each lost in private thoughts yet connected by touch, by shared breath, by the lingering resonance of physical union. Fëanor finds himself cataloging sensations with the precision he brings to his craft—the texture of Mahtan's skin beneath his cheek, the rhythm of his heartbeat, the subtle shifts of muscle as he breathes or moves. He stores these details like precious gems, to be retrieved and examined in future moments of solitude.
"I have a confession," Mahtan says after a time, his voice soft in the quiet room.
Fëanor tilts his head up, curious. "Yes?"
"I have watched you work for years," Mahtan continues, "observed the passion you bring to your craft, the fire that drives you to seek perfection in each creation. And I have envied the materials you touch—the metals that feel your hands upon them, the gems that receive your complete attention. I have wished, in moments of weakness, to be the focus of such passionate regard."
The admission steals Fëanor's breath, not for its content but for the raw honesty it represents. Mahtan—his teacher, his mentor, so accomplished in his own right—envying the attention Fëanor gives to lifeless materials. The revelation shifts something in Fëanor's understanding of their shared history, casts their years of interaction in a new light.
"You have it now," Fëanor says, reaching up to trace the line of Mahtan's jaw, feeling the contrast between smooth skin and coarse beard. "And unlike metal or stone, you can return that regard in kind."
Mahtan captures Fëanor's hand, turning it to press a kiss to the palm—a gesture of such tender intimacy that it nearly undoes Fëanor's composure. "I intend to," Mahtan promises, the words simple yet laden with meaning. "For as long as you will allow it."
Their eyes meet in the dim light, a silent conversation passing between them. In Mahtan's steady gaze, Fëanor reads patience, understanding, a depth of feeling that has clearly existed long before this night's physical expression. In his own reflection in those grey eyes, Fëanor sees himself as Mahtan sees him—not just the brilliant craftsman or the proud prince, but the complex whole of his being, valued and desired for exactly who he is.
Words seem superfluous in the face of such complete understanding. Instead, Fëanor leans forward, pressing his lips to Mahtan's in a kiss unlike their earlier ones—not driven by urgent desire or passionate need, but soft with affection, with the promise of continued connection. Mahtan responds in kind, his mouth gentle against Fëanor's, his hand cradling the back of Fëanor's head as if holding something infinitely precious.
When they part, it is only slightly, their foreheads touching, breath mingling in the narrow space between them. No declaration is needed, no formal commitment beyond this silent acknowledgment of what has grown between them—a bond forged in shared passion for their craft that has transformed into a passion for each other, no less powerful for having been so long unacknowledged.
The night deepens around them, but neither suggests sleep. This moment feels too precious to surrender to unconsciousness, too perfect to willingly bring to an end. Instead, they remain entwined, exchanging occasional words but mostly communicating through touch, through glances heavy with meaning, through the simple comfort of presence.
In this quiet afterglow, Fëanor finds a peace that has eluded him in his relentless pursuit of creative perfection. The frustration that drove him to destroy his work earlier seems distant now, a storm passed to reveal clearer skies. He knows the challenges of his craft will remain, that the light of the Trees will continue to call to him, demanding to be captured and preserved. But he also knows that he no longer faces these challenges alone—that in Mahtan, he has found not just a lover but a true partner, someone who understands both his creative fire and the vulnerabilities it sometimes conceals.
As the last of the lamps flickers and dims, leaving only the glow of banked coals to illuminate their sanctuary, Fëanor feels something settle within him—a certainty, a foundation upon which future days can be built. Whatever comes, whatever challenges they face from society or circumstance, this connection they have forged will endure, strong as well-worked metal, precious as the rarest gem.
In Mahtan's arms, wrapped in the quiet of the night and the warmth of newfound intimacy, Fëanor finds himself looking forward to tomorrow not just for the creative challenges it will bring, but for the simple joy of waking beside this man who sees him so completely. And in that anticipation, that quiet contentment, he recognizes the true light he has been seeking to capture—not the distant brilliance of the Trees, but the steady glow of connection, of being known and loved exactly as he is.
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