The day after their first time on their second date, Mark took Sören grocery shopping and to the laundromat, and they worked out particulars for the promised bondage and teasing, including negotiating a safeword and Sören expressing the sentiment that for their first bondage adventure he was more comfortable being tied up in his own home, so their next date would be at Sören's place.
That Sunday night Mark felt just as nervous and giddy as he did on their first date, if not moreso, as he got himself ready. While they'd talked about Mark bringing his guitar for their art-and-music session, Mark decided to surprise Sören and bring his harp - thankful that Sören lived next door and he wasn't having to lug his harp long distances.
And Sören was indeed surprised. Once Mark carried his harp inside and put it down for a moment in the living room, Sören said, "You know, I'm going to sound like an idiot because it's your profile pic on FetLife, but I didn't realize you actually played harp. I didn't see it in your room, either -"
"We have three bedrooms on our side of the duplex and Russ lets me use the spare room as my studio. All my instruments are in there."
"And I feel like a bigger idiot because I've never asked you what instruments you play. I take it there's more than harp and guitar?"
Mark nodded. "I have keyboards, a drum set, and a violin." Mark didn't mention that the violin was an authentic Stradivarius from when they were newly being made, and he'd held onto it all this time even though he knew he and Russ wouldn't have to worry about money for at least another century if he sold it. The violin sounded too beautiful to part with, though Mark played it only very, very rarely.
Sören's jaw dropped. "Wow, you're a multi-instrumentalist, holy shit!"
"Multi-instrumentalist" sounded delightful in Sören's accent, and Mark smiled. Sören grinned back and added, "Like Prince."
Mark laughed at that, pleased with the comparison - he thought Prince was brilliant - and he pulled Sören into his arms and gave him a little kiss. "You sexy motherfucker."
Sören's laughter rang out and his face lit up. They rubbed noses and then Sören kissed him back, a deep, hungry kiss that gave Mark that thrust in his loins. "Well, I use my spare bedroom as an art studio, so if you want to put your harp in there while I start dinner... that way we won't get too tempted by dessert." Sören gave a wink that came out more as a clumsy blink, and Mark found that adorable.
Mark carried his harp to the studio room and spent a moment to admire the paintings on the walls - the Dimmuborgir in winter, a fiery sunset reflected in the snow; the Goðafoss waterfall shining with rainbows.
And then, an oak tree made of silver light, next to an oak tree made of pale gold light, their light mingling together in an iridescent silver-gold sky.
Mark reflexively took a step back, heart beating faster, a frisson down his spine. It was as if Sören had been there and was painting Telperion and Laurelin from memory.
Mark couldn't stop staring at the painting, mouth open, feeling a sense of mingled wonder and terror. Mark didn't like magical thinking - magic was dying in the world - and he was leery of the concept of fate especially as it pertained to relationships, as Daeron had weaponized this against him, claiming they were "soulmates" and "twin flames", long before those words entered New Age vocabulary. Nonetheless, he couldn't shake the feeling that there was too much coincidence happening - Sören's handle on FetLife being SpiritOfFire42069, after all - and they were meant to meet, somehow.
Mark went to the kitchen to see if Sören needed help with anything - he'd offered to spring for takeout but Sören wanted to make him a home-cooked meal, something Mark deeply appreciated since it had been a very, very long time since someone other than Russ had cooked for him. Sören was putting together a casserole with potatoes, mushrooms, zucchini, peppers and onions, and Mark was briefly grateful for the smell of onions being chopped, an excuse to hide the tears brought on by the painting of the Trees.
"That's some amazing work you have in the studio," Mark said. "I'm really surprised it's not out in the living room where it's more visible."
Sören shrugged. "Before you, I didn't really have guests over. My best friend lives in Canada, and I only see her once every couple years because I don't drive and getting there is a pain. Besides... those paintings are some of the most personal ones to me, so that's a way of enjoying them while keeping them private."
Mark nodded. That made sense... but Mark was still curious, especially as to why the painting of the Trees was so personal. "You're a big Tolkien fan, I take it?"
"Huh?" Sören gave Mark a confused look.
Mark cocked his head to one side. "The painting of the trees. That was in the Silm -"
"Oh, I've only ever read Lord of the Rings, and I saw those movies and the Hobbit movies, but I'm not really, like, a big fan. I didn't realize those trees were in his work. I kept having dreams about them." Sören nervously laughed and put a hand behind his head, then he rubbed his beard.
"I see." Mark felt that frisson again. There was definitely something going on with Sören, but he didn't know what. "So... what about your username on FetLife? That wasn't -"
"I'm a Sagittarius and I have a temper." Sören raised an eyebrow and resumed chopping onions. "And the 42069 was for the memes. Why, is Spirit Of Fire some kind of Tolkien thing?"
"...Yeah."
"You can sit down, you know," Sören said. "You're a guest, you don't need to work in the kitchen."
Mark felt a little guilty, but he sat down anyway, and fussed over Sören's tuxedo cat Snúður. Once the casserole was in the oven, Sören came out with a Pepsi for each of them. "I think it would be better to do the thing after we eat," Sören said, and Mark nodded. Sören sat next to Mark on the couch, and turned on the TV. After some flipping around with the remote, Amazon Prime was on the screen and Sören said, "You mentioned Tolkien... you want to watch that new Rings of Power show?"
Mark considered saying no - he hadn't been impressed with the movies, while he did think the set design was excellent - but out of morbid curiosity, he said yes. He was then treated to a version of his cousins, Galadriel and Finrod... and Finrod had short hair.
Mark cringed, remembering how long Finrod's hair had been - how vain Finrod had been of his hair, and rightly so - and he only half-paid attention to the rest of the episode, remembering Finrod and Galadriel... resisting the urge to scream "THAT'S NOT HOW THEY REALLY WERE, THEY GOT IT WRONG." Not only would that make him sound like an insane freak, but he didn't want Sören to be put off and decide not to see him again.
When dinner was ready they sat through the second episode - the one with Celebrimbor, his nephew. Who not only also had short hair - short blond hair - but also looked middle-aged. Not merely middle-aged, but older than Hugo Weaving when he played Elrond, and though Mark thought Hugo Weaving was a brilliant actor, he was far too old to play an immortal elf. Mark tried very, very hard to keep neutral and not give any indicator he was extremely uncomfortable with the depictions of Finrod and Celebrimbor, but once they were done eating Sören said, "You OK? You seem kind of..."
"Oh, it's." Mark made a vague hand gesture. "They get some canonical things wrong." Canon got some things wrong too, but Mark wasn't about to tell Sören that. "I know I sound like one of those fans -"
"No, it's OK. I'm not really feeling it, either. You want to smoke a bowl, and then we can go in the studio?"
Mark nodded enthusiastically. He needed to get high, after all of that.
That was what they did, and the marijuana helped to ease Mark's performance anxiety. It had been years since he'd played harp for someone who wasn't Russ - he had been in the habit of occasionally busking or performing with his guitar at cafes prior to the move to Florida, but the harp, his first love, was much more intimate... moreso for how ancient his harp was, a relic from the Years of the Trees.
Sören set up his easel and paints, and Mark sat down at his harp. Mark started with a few covers - he warmed up with an instrumental of "Hotline Bling" by Drake, which made Sören gigglesnort, and then he played "One" by Metallica, "Thunderstruck" by AC/DC, and "Watermark" by Enya.
Then Mark decided to let Sören hear an original instrumental composition - something that had come to him after seeing the sunrise for the first time, as the Noldor left the always-twilight of the Helcaraxë and crossed into Middle-Earth, arriving in boreal forest. Mark still remembered that bitter ache of melancholy for the lost light of the Trees, and yet still finding beauty - and hope - in the colors of the sky. It had also been one of the last times Finarfin had connected with him across distances via ósanwe, the very last being when Finarfin died in the War of Wrath, a story that never made its way into canon.
It was one of Mark's longer songs - though not as long as the Noldolantë - and Mark found himself making it even longer, adding new improvisational parts, as if the song was taking on a new life of its own in the presence of Sören, burning with intensity as he painted. Sören's intensity with his painting reminded Mark of Fëanor in the forge, and that sent chills through Mark, once again wondering at the too-many-coincidences.
At last the song was spent, and Sören put down his brush and leaned back, quietly examining his canvas. The easel was turned away from Mark, so he couldn't see what Sören was painting, but a moment later Sören made the "come here" gesture and Mark pulled over the stool. Then he almost fell out of it.
It was as if Sören had seen into Mark's mind and painted a picture of the memory of that first sunrise in the boreal forest. Another frisson went down Mark's spine and his mouth went dry. He swallowed hard, his eyes blurring with tears, feeling a surge of hysteria. There was no way Sören could have known what that instrumental song was about, and somehow, he knew. It was as if Sören had been there.
"That's beautiful," Mark said softly, meaning it.
Sören's face lit up. "You can have it if you want."
"Oh." As much as Mark was touched by that - and excited to hang it somewhere in his home - he also felt a twinge of guilt. "I would feel like I'm taking money away from you -"
Sören waved his hand dismissively. "It's a gift." Then Sören took Mark's chin in his hand and turned his face. "You're a gift. Your music is incredible."
Mark smiled. "And your art is magnificent."
"Well, your music inspired it. A lot of times when I make art, I listen to instrumental music because I have. Ah. What's it called. Synaesthesia? I see colors, sometimes I see things - like fractals, or landscapes, little worlds."
Mark nodded. That made a lot of sense to him. "I'd be happy to do this again with you sometime." He felt another frisson - a giddy rush at the possibility of creating together, his music inspiring Sören's art, Sören's creative energy inspiring his music. Like two halves of a greater whole. But first...
Mark touched Sören's face, then his thumb lovingly traced the full lips, the greying beard, and he stroked Sören's hair. "I want to make love to you."
Mark grabbed Sören and crushed their mouths together. Their tongues played and teased, and Sören's hands ran over his chest, then rested on his heart. That simple gesture felt powerful - Mark could feel the affection in Sören's touch, and he gave it right back, kissing the hands that had made such beautiful work. As much as he was reluctant to fall for someone again, after all he'd been through, he was like a moth to Sören's flame, glorying in the light.
They got up and kissed again, and kept kissing as they walked across the hall to Sören's bedroom. Sören's room was painted black, and he had a black gauzy canopy curtain over his bed, done up in blue-and-black Viking knotwork tapestry over black bedding. Sören turned on fairy lights that glowed blue. "My favorite color," Sören said with a sheepish little smile.
That had been Fëanor's favorite color too. Mark took a quick look around at Sören's lava lamps and a fiberoptic flower lamp, and then his eyes caught a painting. A fire phoenix, and a water phoenix, tails entwined, over a background of a nebula in space with a hazy layer of flames and ocean waves. Mark looked at Sören's arms, where the fire and ocean tattoos peeked out from his long sleeves.
"Is that..."
Sören nodded solemnly.
"Can I see your ink?"
Sören looked away.
Mark came closer - not wanting to pressure him, but wanting to give him reassurance. "Please?"
"It's the scars from my top surgery. Ehlers-Danlos gives me weird scarring, so my top surgery scars look new even though it was years ago -"
Mark touched Sören's face with his burned hand - Sören leaned into his touch like a cat being pet - and then Mark took Sören's hand in his. "I promise I won't judge you."
"OK."
Mark began to undress, and Sören did too. Once they were completely naked, Sören turned around and Mark saw the fire and water phoenix on his back, much like the painting, with his sleeve tattoos all the way up to his shoulders, the phoenixes seeming to emerge from the flames and waves. Mark admired Sören's bubble butt and gave it a playful squeeze and a slap, making Sören giggle, and then his fingers lovingly traced the phoenix feathers. "It sounds like there's a story behind this."
"Jæja." Sören exhaled, still with his back to Mark, as Mark continued to stroke the phoenixes on his back as if they were real. "When I was four, I started having recurring nightmares about burning to death. I have no idea where it came from - don't remember seeing anything on TV, none of our neighbors had a fire. But I told my mamma, 'This is how I died.' And then when I was a teenager, the dreams got more elaborate. There was a pack of fire demons and they had flaming whips and they ambushed me. I always felt like that dream was symbolic, since I was getting abused at home and bullied in school, and there was the dysphoria, and I felt suicidal at a young age. So after my first suicide attempt, this piece of art was like... taming the fire before it could consume me, before I could..." Sören turned around, his eyes too bright. He couldn't finish the sentence.
He didn't need to. Mark's heart hammered in his ears. His own eyes stung with tears. He pulled Sören close and held him tight, and closed his eyes as the silent tears spilled down his cheeks. Atya. There was a reason for all these coincidences. He was holding his father again. Reborn into a mortal body - into a time that very much did seem like the Dagor Dagorath was nigh. The weight of the Doom was heavy upon Sören with all he'd had to endure - he almost hadn't made it - but he was here, and the Doom had not kept them from finding each other, once again.
Mark hoped he could tell Sören that someday, or that Sören would figure it out himself. Mark was even willing to sit through more episodes of that godawful Rings of Power show if it would help Sören dream or paint more of his memories, until he had to start asking the right questions.
Here, now, Mark was caught up in emotion. He kissed Sören hard, and they kissed and ran their hands over each other all the way to the bed.
Once Sören was on the bed, Mark got a good look at him. He had pierced nipples, and there was indeed a set of two thick hypertrophic scars under where his breasts used to be. But that made him no less beautiful to Mark.
Mark looked down at the curly bush, the hard little cock that was already jutting out at him like a thumb, the meaty labia dangling like a small set of balls. Mark wanted to suck on all of it... wanted to give Sören ecstasy. His cock stiffened and throbbed urgently at the mental images of Sören undone, writhing, gasping for breath as he shuddered with orgasm. But he knew it would be all the more powerful if he took his time, teasing.
He knew just the thing.
"Silk scarves are in the nightstand," Sören said.
Mark got them out and tied Sören's right wrist to one bedpost, then his left wrist to the other. He had Sören try to move his arms to see whether the bonds were too loose or too tight. When they agreed the knots were fine, Mark gave Sören a wicked grin.
"Wait here," Mark said, as if Sören could actually go anywhere tied up like that.
Sören stuck his tongue out, then he whimpered with protest - but didn't safeword - and Mark dashed across the hall, feeling a bit ludicrous as he watched his hard cock bobbing with each step. He went over to Sören's collection of paintbrushes, grabbed a clean one, and came back with it, holding the paintbrush behind his back.
"Close your eyes," Mark said.
Sören did as he was told. Mark began to brush Sören's lips with the paintbrush, and Sören giggled, then Mark kissed Sören and ran the brush over his eyebrows, his cheeks, his nose, down to his chin.
Mark slid the brush down Sören's neck, and his lips and tongue followed the trail, kissing and licking. Sören's breath hitched and he let out a soft moan.
The brush stroked the sweet hollow where neck and shoulder met on the right side, and Mark kissed there. Then the brush traced the flames from Sören's shoulder down to his wrist, and back up, and Mark kissed and licked in the wake of the brush. He did the same with Sören's left arm and the ocean waves.
Mark didn't know if Sören was dysphoric about having his nipples touched or not - he assumed not, since he'd had top surgery and the nipples were pierced. Mark still decided to test the waters first. The brush slid down from Sören's left arm, to Sören's left pec, tracing a circle inches away from Sören's nipple. Then Mark took the end of the paintbrush, fit it through the loop of Sören's left nipple ring, and gave a tug. Sören moaned.
"Like that, Daddy?" Mark asked.
Sören nodded.
"Mmmmm, Daddy." Mark leaned in closer. "You're so hot." Mark began to swirl the paintbrush around and around Sören's nipples in circles, then the brush stroked it. Sören let out a broken little cry and his hips bucked. Mark moved the paintbrush to Sören's right nipple and did the same, tracing around it, stroking it, as his lips latched on the left nipple, sucking hard. Sören cried out louder.
Mark's tongue rubbed Sören's left nipple and then he moved over to suckle to right nipple as the paintbrush teased the left once more. Back and forth he went, paintbrush caressing one nipple as he lapped and sucked the other, Sören's nipples looking delicious as they got longer and thicker, glistening wet. Mark could smell how aroused Sören was, and his own cock was almost painfully hard, slick with precum. He began to grind against Sören's thigh, letting Sören feel how hard he was.
"Oh, shit." Sören's face lit up and he gave a throaty chuckle. Then he frowned. "I'm surprised you're not turned off by my scars -"
Mark put a finger to Sören's lips and he shook his head vehemently. "You said you make pottery, right? Are you familiar with kintsugi, Japanese pottery that's broken and the cracks are filled in with gold? That's you." Then Mark began to trace Sören's top surgery scars with the paintbrush, and followed the brush with his tongue. "I honor your battle scars. I honor your survival, your strength. I honor you." Mark placed a tender little kiss over Sören's heart. "I'm falling in love with you." It felt cheesy to say, but there it was -
Sören grinned. "Hi Falling In Love With You, I'm -"
Mark silenced Sören with a kiss, then he bit Sören's neck with a growl, and nibbled his way down Sören's neck, down his chest. He bit each of Sören's nipples, and Sören squeaked and writhed, breathing harder. "Oh, fuck..." Sören bit his lower lip and pleaded with his eyes. "Please..."
"Oh, do you need to come? Poor Daddy. It sets a bad example to be such a brat, you know." Mark kissed the tip of Sören's nose, then the paintbrush stroked down Sören's neck and throat again and Mark followed it with his tongue, his cock pulsing at Sören's breathy moan.
The brush slid in swirls and shapes over Sören's stomach, sides, hips and thighs, with Mark kissing here, licking there, sometimes nibbling, knowing Sören would be covered in love bites tomorrow, the evidence of what they'd done. A sort of claiming. It felt right, after everything.
At last Sören found his words to beg. "Please. Please, Mark, I need to come. Please, please..."
Mark couldn't resist teasing Sören just a little longer... just a bit worse. He rose up on his knees, and scooted up to straddle Sören's chest, his hard cock in Sören's face. "You want to come, you better earn it. You taught us the value of hard work, Daddy."
Sören restrained a smile, and then he took the head of Mark's cock in his mouth. Mark grunted and pushed more of it in Sören's mouth, and gently rolled his hips as Sören bobbed his head up and down, making filthy slurping sounds as he sucked hungrily, truly earning it. Mark reached behind himself and with the paintbrush in his hand, he began stroking Sören's cock with the paintbrush, until Sören was whimpering around the cock in his mouth, eyes wide, desperate. Mark gave a satisfied groan and fucked Sören's mouth harder, rubbing Sören's cock faster with the paintbrush.
"That's it, Daddy. You're such a slut for this, aren't you?"
Sören nodded, moaning with his mouth full, and sucked even more eagerly.
Mark got closer, closer, his body thrilling to Sören's sweet mouth, those little noises, and knowing he was driving Sören wild by teasing his cock with the paintbrush. Just before he could come in Sören's mouth, he moved down, straddling Sören's thighs, the head of his cock lined up with Sören's cock. Thick cream was pooling from Sören's hole, making a big wet spot on the sheet, and Mark sighed with appreciation at the erotic sight. Then he started rubbing the head of his cock against Sören's hard little nub, teasing them both, making streamers between his precum and Sören's juices.
They were both so worked up that it didn't take long, Sören's moans louder and louder until he let out a sob and Mark felt Sören's cock twitching, and watched Sören's cunt pulsing, cream gushing. That set off Mark's own release, painting Sören's body with his cum. Sören let out a deep sigh, and the look of bliss on his face melted Mark's heart.
Mark untied Sören's wrists and they held each other, coming down from the storm of their climax into a moment of peace. As Mark stroked Sören's hair and rubbed his back, he worried for a moment that he'd come on too strong - that he'd caught feelings too hard, too fast, that it might scare Sören away with his issues.
But to his relief, after a little while Sören looked up at him and said, "I think I'm falling for you, too."
Mark grinned. He didn't want to break down crying, so he went with laughter instead. "Hi Falling For You Too, I'm Mark."
Sören facepalmed. "That apple doesn't fall far from the tree, does it."
Mark chuckled. "You have no idea." He kissed Sören's brow, then slid his lips down to kiss the tip of Sören's nose, and his arms tightened around Sören, who snuggled into him with a murmur of contentment.
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