Author's Notes: This is a (sorely belated) gift fic for the lovely paradife-loft, who requested Annatar/Celebrimbor fic. And I am giving you...this. I hope it works, although I am so unforgivably rusty in Second Age lore, so please forgive me if I've fucked something up, but here it is. It was certainly fun to write. Because you know me: fucked up relationships are my kryptonite.

Enjoy, I hope, and a happy winter holiday to you, somewhat after the fact.

Celebrimbor stared down at his latest attempt for a moment before making a noise of disgust and crumpling the paper savagely, flinging it at the wall. It bounced harmlessly off, of course, settling along with the other three or four similarly discarded sheets on the floor. He stared at the small pile balefully, and then dropped his head into his hands and rubbed at his eyes.

"And what is it troubling you this time?"

He exhaled heavily and grimaced at nothing. "I thought you were going to be out longer."

"Is that a request that I leave?" Annatar's voice was light, but Celebrimbor could hear the faint displeasure in it, and it made him wince. He didn't like…displeasing him. Even when there were no obvious consequences…he knew Annatar didn't forget.

"No," Celebrimbor said, though after a pause. "No, it's not." He chewed on the inside of his cheek. "It's just the design on this…particular project. I can't get it right." And he was so close. So close.

Annatar's hands settled on Celebrimbor's shoulders, light but present enough that he tried almost instinctively to arch his back into them. "Show me."

"No," Celebrimbor said, his voice coming out harsher than he'd expected, and when even the light touch drew away, he scrambled quickly to correct himself. "I don't mean – not yet. It needs work, still."

"I might be able to help, you know."

"You might," Celebrimbor said, neutrally. He left the but I need to do this alone unsaid. The hands came back, and he felt the brush of breath on the top of his head in the moment before he laid a gentle kiss in Celebrimbor's hair.

"Ah, very well. You know how I feel about whole endeavor. You're pouring too much of yourself into this work. If you'd let me help…"

"I know," Celebrimbor said. He closed his eyes and laid his hands flat on the desk. "I know, Annatar. But this is…" he trailed off. "This is my great work." Like my grandfather, he thought, sometimes, lying awake at night or working in the forge. If I do this, my name will be remembered forever, in my own right, not just as Celebrimbor Curufinwion.

All of this, all of the rings were vital, but this…this piece that was his alone, that was what Celebrimbor felt most strongly about. Vilya and Narya were already given away. (Safe, some strange part of his mind whispered.) He felt sometimes as though he'd poured out two-thirds of his soul into the two of them. Perhaps that was why the third was proving so…obstinate.

Or perhaps it was the recipient he intended.

"And it is great," Annatar was murmuring. "Already. What we have done together…" His voice dropped to a purr. "If I may say so, it is splendid." Celebrimbor shivered, his head bowing forward. "This new obsession of yours…is it worth it?" Celebrimbor stayed quiet, taking slow breaths. "Do me a favor. For the moment…rest. Step back. Perhaps with a little distance…all will be clearer."

Celebrimbor bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood. His chest felt tight. He could smell the faint, distinctive scent that hovered around Annatar, vaguely like smoke with a hint of spice. Long fingers brushed his neck and he felt the touch prickle up and down his spine. "Stop that," he made himself say, though it was difficult not to lean back into it.

Annatar laughed softly. "Stop what?"

"You know what I mean." Celebrimbor's voice was little more than a mumble.

"I can hardly be asked to help the way you react to me," Annatar said, voice light, and Celebrimbor felt his lips twitch. "And why would I try, when it is so much to my benefit?" His fingers moved up into Celebrimbor's hair, stroked through it, and Celebrimbor let out a sigh that was part pleasure and part exasperation.

"You are…" he trailed off, unsure how to finish that sentence, but then Annatar leaned over his shoulder, fingers turning Celebrimbor's chin toward him, and kissed the angle of his jaw, too lightly, and he shuddered and gave in, eyes drifting closed.

"Very well," he said, "very well, fine. Let me burn those," he gestured at the scraps of paper on the floor, "and I will do as you ask."

Annatar chuckled. "Burn them? Really? What are you so concerned about?"

"I want it to be a surprise," Celebrimbor said, almost automatically, though he wasn't sure why himself. Some vague notion, an instinct, perhaps. He didn't want Annatar to see this work. Not until it was finished. (Perhaps, some part of him thought, not even then.) He stood up and gathered the scraps of paper up, tossed them in the fire, though he could feel Annatar's gaze on him the whole time, intent and almost…hungry. "You know all of my work."

Annatar's eyes, for a moment seeming almost golden in the light, narrowed. "But for this."

"But for this," Celebrimbor agreed, and let it be a plea.

After a long moment, Annatar inclined his head and smiled indulgently. "Very well, very well. I will let you have your secrets, my love. So long as you will come to bed with me now, and not leave me lonely and cold any longer."

Celebrimbor glanced almost sharply toward the door, feeling his face heat. "If Narvi-"

Annatar laughed. "The dwarf will not come by at this hour of the night." Celebrimbor felt a twinge at that almost callous dismissal. Narvi didn't like Annatar, didn't trust him. It had been the source of one of their arguments, recently, and Narvi had not spoken with him since, had kept his distance and worked their shared forge in surly silence.

"Nonetheless," Celebrimbor protested, but it was weak. He took a step back toward Annatar, and he closed the rest of the distance between them, his hands winding into Celebrimbor's hair and pulling him into a kiss, fierce and lingering, his tongue pushing between Celebrimbor's lips and demanding his mouth. Celebrimbor surrendered to that pressure with a little sigh, felt himself almost melt into Annatar's hands with only a whisper of shame.

Annatar drew back, licked his lips. "Nonetheless what?" he murmured, eyebrows arched. Celebrimbor glared at him, and Annatar laughed again and leaned in to purr on his lips. "Come to bed with me."

"You act like I shall require persuasion," Celebrimbor said, trying to make his voice not weak, not breathy, though he could feel himself rapidly falling into the force that Annatar exuded, the strength of his personality. It reminded him, in a strange way, of his father, in ways he did not like to think about. Charisma, others had always said of him, and Celebrimbor had not understood what that meant, really, until he was dead.

"For the bed? I do not expect so." Annatar leaned in and nipped the shell of Celebrimbor's ear so he jumped, hands sliding down to his neck, thumb stroking over his throat. His head tilted back to offer it, even as he felt his body tense and his heart-rate jump at the implicit threat. "For what I intend to do to you on it? …mmm, perhaps."

Celebrimbor's mouth went dry. He swallowed. "An interesting proposal," he murmured, when he could summon the moisture back. Annatar pulled him close, his grip firm and demanding, insistent.

"I thought you might find it so." He moved his mouth down and breathed on Celebrimbor's neck, his exhale almost surprisingly hot. "Come, silver-smith. Let me…take your mind off your toils." His fingers squeezed lightly around Celebrimbor's throat and he let out a faint gasp, hips jerking forward. "Don't you think you have more…pressing…things to think about?"

Celebrimbor surrendered.

Of course. He always did.

~.~

Later, Annatar sprawled next to him deep in slumber, Celebrimbor's body hummed with exhaustion, aching pleasantly. He rubbed absently at his wrists, working feeling back into them. His throat ached and would probably bruise – something he would have to cover up before going to the forge on the morrow. His muscles felt slack, though, mind pleasantly empty.

Celebrimbor felt his eyelids drag downwards, weariness tugging at him, almost in spite of himself. Perhaps tomorrow…perhaps tomorrow he would finally have the imprint of the last of the three right in his mind. The one for Artanis…Galadriel. Maybe tomorrow…

He sighed, and closed his eyes.

A moment later, he opened them, and he knew. There was a fire in his belly, his blood sang in his veins, and Celebrimbor was on his feet in a moment, groping for a piece of paper, sketching out the design in flowing, thoughtless strokes of his hands. Is this what he felt, he wondered dazedly. My grandfather, when he knew that the Silmarils were to be made, did he feel like this?

It only took minutes, now that he had it. He looked down at the drawing and felt a smile spread across his face. Nenya, he wrote underneath.

He half held up the paper. It was on the tip of his tongue to call out to Annatar and show him the design, explain what he had done alone.

Slowly, he closed his mouth. Some unnamable fear stirred deep in him, flared, and vanished.

He lit the candle and set the paper to the flame, watched fire devour the design. He felt a flicker of anxiety, briefly, but deep within he knew he wouldn't lose it now. Nenya had spoken to him.

The design was only paper. His great work was written in metal.

~.~

"My darling," Annatar – no, Sauron – said, in that voice like velvet and silk. "Please, tell me, and I can end this. Tell me what it was, the last things that you made."

Celebrimbor took a deep, rasping breath. He spat blood on the floor and raised his chin. He could not see anything anymore; his former lover had put out his eyes in rage early on. "I defy you," he choked out. "Foul creature, servant of Morgoth, I defy you. I am Celebrimbor Curufinwion, and I will give nothing to you."

"Oh, Tyelperinquar," Sauron said, and Celebrimbor shuddered through his whole body, because that voice, that voice was even worse than the other, and he wanted to scream and held it in. "Tyelperinquar," said Findaráto's voice. "You've already given me everything."

He did scream, then, as magic returned his eyes, made them whole, and before his face swam a perfect hand and on one finger a plain, gold ring. "Isn't it beautiful?" Findaráto's voice murmured, and Celebrimbor reared back, sensing the malevolent power seething in that gold band, like slime or rotting flesh or-

"You will not triumph," Celebrimbor forced out. "Not over me. And not over – Middle-Earth. They will rise, and fight you, and cut you down."

Sauron leaned in and caressed his chin, and then drew him forward, inexorable strength that Celebrimbor couldn't fight. His lips were soft as ever, his tongue plunging into Celebrimbor's mouth with easy sensuality that made Celebrimbor's whole body quiver. He pulled back just enough to breathe, "I have to thank you, Tyelperinquar." His voice changed again, smooth and rich and dark, and Celebrimbor wanted to whimper. His father, not his father, he could not. "You gave me the means to do this. You taught me so much."

Celebrimbor squeezed his eyes shut. "Kill me," he said, though it hurt his ragged throat to speak. "Or do not, but I will never tell you what you ask."

Sauron sighed. "I believe you," he said, and his disappointment was so familiar Celebrimbor felt tears spill from his eyes. Please please please. "I am only sorry you will not be here to see me win. And none of them will ever know, do you understand me? This is to be your legacy, Tyelperinquar. That you gave all of Middle Earth to me."

Celebrimbor shuddered, and a small sound escaped him, a quiet cry. Eru have mercy, he thought, and heard his father's voice in his mind, Eru has no mercy. The Valar have no mercy. Not for us.

Artanis will know, he told himself. Artanis will know that I made the Three, that they are clean, that their power is safe because of me, that I did not tell him where-

"Just imagine," Sauron said, and it was his voice again, his lover's voice, and his lover's caress on his neck, his thumb pressing at Celebrimbor's throat, and a sick, awful part of him wanted, still. "Would not your father be proud?"