Anything, everything, more. (Read on ao3)

Celebrimbor/Annatar (silverfisting/gifting/whatver the cool kids are saying these days)

Tags: NSFW, rough sex, blow jobs, Annatar being a manipulative piece of shit, imagined blood and gore and violence

There is a thrill to this touch, a brilliant, electrifying, certainty of
danger that courses through Annatar’s fingers, burning him where his
hand meets Celebrimbor’s skin.  How simple it would be, he thinks, to
take it all apart.

It is a curious thing, life.

It is fragile, of course.
Annatar knows how tenuously it is held, and how easily it can be
displaced.  A slicing of skin, the
shattering of bone—Annatar lays a hand on the ridge of Celebrimbor’s spine, his
fingers tracing the rise and fall of the bones.
He knows how easily it can be undone.
His fingers splay at the base of Celebrimbor’s neck, and he marvels at
the delicate interplay of bone and sinew hidden just beneath the skin.  Enough pressure, or the right torque, and—

Annatar presses his fingertips into Celebrimbor’s skin,
feeling the muscle tense against him.  Celebrimbor
turns his head, and Annatar feels the sliding of his joints.  There is a thrill to this touch, a brilliant,
electrifying, certainty of danger that courses through Annatar’s fingers,
burning him where his hand meets Celebrimbor’s skin.  How simple it would be, he thinks, to take it
all apart.  How easy to twist the tender,
elegant joints until they were nothing more than their useless, unrecognizable
parts, so much viscera on the stones of the floor.  

Celebrimbor rests his cheek on his hand, his head turned to
the side, his eyes looking up at Annatar.
He smiles, a tender gesture of affectionate familiarity that sends an
incongruous thrill through Annatar.  How
little he knows, Annatar thinks, the danger so close at hand.  Annatar drags his fingers along the curve of
Celebrimbor’s neck, a light and fleeting touch that nonetheless draws
goosebumps to Celebrimbor’s flesh.
Annatar leans down and presses his lips to the hollow between collarbone
and shoulder, and Celebrimbor shivers.
He draws in a breath, and Annatar marvels at the motion of his
lungs.  

They are fickle things, these fragments of fána the Eldar
call organs.  So intricately made, so
simple to disrupt.  Cut the arteries, and
the heart will not pump.  Crush the
throat, and the lungs cannot inflate.
Annatar slides his hand down to the hollow of Celebrimbor’s throat,
curling his fingers gently against the soft skin of his neck.  He can feel the steady pulse of blood as it
rushes unheeded through the arteries, and the gentle push against his palm as
air travels into Celebrimbor’s lungs.  He
imagines pushing against that delicate skin, letting his nails punch through
the taut-stretched flesh to score what lies hidden underneath.  He imagines his fingers twining into the
network of vessels, pulling them free of their moorings, and he can almost see
the way they write and twist, the pumping of Celebrimbor’s heart sending the
blood spilling fruitless onto the sheets.
It would be so easy, he thinks, to bend his head, to let his teeth sink
into the familiar flesh and tear out that pretty throat.

Annatar flexes his fingers, his grip on Celebrimbor’s throat
tightening ever-so-slightly, and Celebrimbor shifts beneath him.  Annatar swallows the smile that seeks to well
upon his lips and thinks that maybe Celebrimbor does know.  Perhaps some part of his mind, some
long-unheeded thought is roused at the touch of Annatar’s hand.  Perhaps the flesh still heeds the danger long
disregarded by the willfulness of the mind.
Then Celebrimbor shifts again, and Annatar realizes he does not shift
away, but rather toward the growing strength of Annatar’s grasp.

This time Annatar cannot hide his smile, a genuine flash of
pleasure that sends Celebrimbor to motion, pushing himself up to roll onto his
back.  He looks up at Annatar, and there
is something hungry in that gaze, something reckless and wild that quickens the
beat of Annatar’s heart.  Celebrimbor
starts to sit up, and Annatar pushes him back down.  Annatar’s fingers curl vice-like around the
bones of Celebrimbor’s wrists, and Celebrimbor sucks in a breath—not pain, so
much as anticipation.

Annatar’s knees are on the bed, one on either side of
Celebrimbor’s hips, and he shifts forward, pressing his weight through the heel
of his hands and into the sensitive skin of Celebrimbor’s forearms.  Celebrimbor’s fingers flex, pushing harder
into Annatar’s grasp, and he rolls his hips, a gentle, useless thrust between
Annatar’s legs.  Annatar’s fingers dig
divots into Celebrimbor’s skin, and Celebrimbor gasps.  Annatar leans forward; he can feel the
sluggish crush of blood through Celebrimbor’s veins, pulsing beneath his
fingers, and still he tightens his grip.
Celebrimbor cries out, a stifled noise halfway between pleasure and
pain.  Annatar drops his head, crowding
close to Celebrimbor’s face.  Celebrimbor
flinches, just slightly, at the invasion, tensing as Annatar draws near.

Whatever savagery Celebrimbor imagines does not come.  Annatar’s lips are gentle on his, a fleeting
touch as soft as it is brief.  Annatar
pulls back, his face an inch from Celebrimbor’s own, and he slackens his grip
on Celebrimbor’s wrists.  Celebrimbor
pushes back against him, sliding free of Annatar’s fingers and reaching for
him.  One hand slides down to the small
of Annatar’s back, the other cups the back of his neck.  Celebrimbor pulls him down, down until the
space between them disintegrates, crumbles into nothing but the press of skin
on skin, the crush of lips and teeth and tongue.  

Annatar trails his lips down Celebrimbor’s neck, laying kiss
after kiss to skin that stretches taut as Celebrimbor’s head falls back.  His hand is pressed to the muscle of
Celebrimbor’s chest, his fingers circling the nipple and he lets his lips ghost
over the hollow of Celebrimbor’s throat.
Celebrimbor arches his back, seeking a touch that is already gone.  Annatar had shifted back, peppering kisses to
Celebrimbor’s skin as he moves lower.
His lips are at Celebrimbor’s navel, at the points of his hips, on the
soft skin of his inner thigh.  His hands
splay over Celebrimbor’s stomach and travel down, fingertips drawing maddening
spirals down the inside of his legs.
Celebrimbor’s cock is heavy, rigid, and he gives a gentle roll of his
hips, begging for Annatar’s touch.
Annatar’s hands are everywhere but where Celebrimbor wants them, fingers
trailing through the hair at the base of Celebrimbor’s cock, which stands
erect, ready, ignored.  

Annatar bares his teeth, sets them to the skin of
Celebrimbor’s thigh.  He sees what this
could be; he feels how easily his teeth could rend the tender Elvish flesh
between them.  But this is not that.  This is a gentle bite, a love bite—the
delicate nip of teeth at skin, the drawing of a bruise to the surface.  Celebrimbor moans, oblivious to the danger he
escapes by sheer force of Annatar’s will.  The thrust of his hips is more insistent
now.  There is a desperation to the
motion, a need that spills from his lips as a whine.  “Please,” he says, his fingers pulling at the
bedclothes in an effort of restraint.
“Annatar, please—ah!”

Annatar lets his fingers trail up Celebrimbor’s length; it
is a fleeting touch, and yet it is enough to pull a wanton cry from
Celebrimbor’s lips.  Annatar lays his
hands along the curve of Celebrimbor’s hips, holding him in place.  He presses the tip of his tongue to the base
of Celebrimbor’s shaft, trailing lazily toward the tip.  Celebrimbor gasps and arches his back,
pushing his hips from the mattress, chasing the touch of Annatar’s tongue, and
yet he cannot move.  Annatar’s hands are
gentle, implacable, and Celebrimbor cannot move against his lover’s grasp.  Annatar reaches the head of Celebrimbor’s
cock, presses a lingering kiss to the tip, and drags his tongue through the
weeping slit.  Celebrimbor whines—he
begs, he pleads—anything, everything, more.

But Annatar will not oblige.
His lips are gentle on Celebrimbor’s aching skin, too gentle for relief,
and Celebrimbor whimpers.  Celebrimbor is
on fire, every nerve attuned to the press of Annatar’s lips and the touch of
his hands.  His hands fist in the blankets,
and he squirms against the mattress.  He
is aching, desperate for a touch that does not come.  Something frantic is building within him; his
voice breaks with the need of it, words spilling frenzied from lips he has
bitten bloody.  “Please,” he begs.  “Please, please, pl—“And then at last.
Annatar relents, letting Celebrimbor push into his mouth.  He relinquishes his grip on Celebrimbor’s
hips, and for a moment, Celebrimbor does not realize his freedom.  Annatar takes him in, takes him down all the
way to the back of his throat, and Celebrimbor rolls his hips, pushing himself
deeper still.

Annatar is warm and pliant around him, his tongue caressing
Celebrimbor’s length as it pushes further into his mouth.  Celebrimbor is lost in the feeling, so long
denied and now so freely given.  He
pushes himself up to his knees and knots the fingers of one hand in Annatar’s
fiery hair, guiding Annatar along the length of his cock.  His other hand takes hold of Annatar’s
throat, fingers digging in with choking, bruising force.  His grip on Annatar is hard, unrelenting, and
he knows his thrusts are rough—too rough, perhaps.  Annatar whimpers against him, his fingers
digging into the skin at the small of Celebrimbor’s back, but Celebrimbor does
not stop.  It is Annatar’s fault, says
the nagging voice of guilt in the back of his mind.  Annatar had pushed him, deprived him, cajoled
him, and Celebrimbor had not wanted this, had not wanted it like this, but it
was too late, too late.

Celebrimbor thrusts hard once more and spills himself down
Annatar’s throat.  Annatar swallows;
Celebrimbor can feel the constriction of the muscles beneath his fingers.  Celebrimbor pulls back at last, releasing his
hold on Annatar, and Annatar falls forward on hands and knees, panting.  “I’m sorry,” Celebrimbor is saying, guilt and
remorse washing over him in waves that dull the hazy glow of satisfaction.  He pulls Annatar toward him, holding that
beautiful face in his hands.  “I’m
sorry,” he says, his thumbs stroking against the sharp bones of Annatar’s cheeks.  “I’m sorry.”

Annatar’s cheeks are flushed, his hair a wild, tangled
mess.  He turns his head and kisses
Celebrimbor’s palm, the gentleness of the touch making Celebrimbor shiver.  “It’s alright, Tyelpe,” he says, his voice
rasping and hoarse, and Celebrimbor winces at the sound of his name.  There are bruises rising dark against the
pale skin of his throat, and Celebrimbor winces at the shape of them, the
outline of his own fingers burned into Annatar’s flesh.  It isn’t, he thinks, and he wants to say it,
to shout it.  The words are on his lips,
a desperate defiance, but he cannot bring them forth.  There is a strange, fey gleam in Annatar’s
eyes, a kind of monstrous approval that sets Celebrimbor’s teeth on edge.  “You were perfect,” Annatar whispers.  Celebrimbor shudders at the praise, repulsed
by the very thing he has so often sought to win.  He takes hold of Annatar’s shoulders, and
there are words forming on his tongue, born of the desperate urge to make
Annatar understand that this isn’t what he wants, this isn’t the way it needs
to be.  But Annatar is pressing himself
forward, and Celebrimbor lets him.  He
relishes the slide of Annatar’s hands against his skin, the press of Annatar’s
lips at his throat, and he hates himself for it.

Hidden in the crook of Celebrimbor’s shoulder, Annatar
smiles.  Perhaps Celebrimbor knows the
danger after all.