The long, echoing corridors of Aulë's halls, usually a source of endless fascination for Mairon, felt utterly oppressive, the air thick with the ceaseless hum of creation and the subtle, cloying scent of raw ore and heated stone.

He moved with a restless, almost frantic energy, his usual measured, confident strides replaced by a quick, impatient pace that bordered on a desperate flight. The day had been a torment of tedious instructions from the older Maiar, the suffocating presence of countless other spirits bustling about, and the sheer, overwhelming, incessant sound of countless hammers on metal, grinding stone, and roaring furnaces. It had grated on his very nerves, building an unbearable tension that now hummed violently beneath his skin, far more potent than the residual heat of the forges.

His mind, usually so sharp, so analytical, felt utterly frayed at the edges, a constant, shrill buzz of sensory overload threatening to unravel his meticulous control. The lingering scent of sulfur and sweat clung to him, the dull ache behind his eyes throbbed from staring at endless, intricate diagrams of dwarven mechanisms, and the ceaseless drone of activity had pushed him to his absolute limit. He felt a primal unease, a deep, restless thrumming that began in his core and spread rapidly, setting every nerve alight with a furious, building pressure. It was a sensation he knew well, one that spoke of a release desperately needed, a primal hunger building that demanded swift, immediate attention.

His hands, usually so steady and precise, flexed almost convulsively at his sides, his breath coming a little quicker, a little shallower, a little harsher than was normal for him. The rigid control he typically maintained over his form felt thin, almost transparent. He burst through the heavy, ornate doors of his private chambers, the sanctuary he shared with you, the sudden rush of cool, quiet air within a sharp, welcome contrast to the oppressive, clamoring heat he'd carried with him from the depths of Aulë's domain. He didn't speak, not immediately, the words caught in a throat suddenly tight with unspent energy.

His golden fiery eyes, usually sharp and keen with intellect, were wide, almost wild, as they swept the familiar room, frantically seeking you out. The subtle, unnatural flush across his high cheekbones, the slight, almost imperceptible tremble in his powerful frame, and the raw, unmasked hunger that flared in his golden gaze were utterly undeniable. He was utterly freaked out, yes, the day's overstimulation having pushed him to a precipice, but beneath that, a deeper, more elemental need had taken fierce, undeniable hold. The long, grueling day had stripped away the meticulously constructed layers of his usual composure, leaving him vulnerable, restless, and completely consumed by the sudden, overwhelming heat that coursed through his veins, demanding solace, demanding you, demanding release.