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“Morifinwë,” Angrod grits out. Even on the most pleasant of days, he has little desire to see his cousins- this cousin, in particular. “I did not think to find you here in Dorthonion.” Least of all in our halls, he thinks, but does not say.
“It is a wonder you think at all, Angaráto,” he snips back. There is bite behind it, of course, but less than he might have expected. “I had business with your brother.”
Angrod, newly-named as such, and he is still trying to see it as a gift, to have the translation bestowed upon him by the Sinda king, does not let himself relax. He does not know what business Carnistir could have had with his brother, only that he is sure to find him in a foul mood.
“What business?” he asks regardless. Politeness has been drilled into him since he was young; he is not Findaráto, to be so easily forgiven his missteps, nor proud Artanis, who has only just learned courtesy as well as magic at the hand of a Maia. He loves his siblings dearly, of course, but that is not to say that they are particularly well-mannered to those they dislike- they simply have the charisma to avoid any consequences. Angrod has not been quite so lucky, and nor has the brother he is closest too, though he has more patience of the two of them.
“Nothing that you would need me to tell you of, I’m sure. If he thinks it is important enough for you to know, he’ll inform you of his part in the tale,” his cousin says, dismissive. “Now tell me, where were you?”
He presses his lips together to suppress unkind words. “It almost sounds as if my presence were missed,” he says instead. “In which case, I apologize for not being here to greet you. I had urgent business to attend to in Doriath.”
This, Angrod hopes, will be enough to dissuade further questions. But of course it is not, and his black mood grows blacker as Carnistir’s eyes narrow to suspicious slits.
“Doriath,” he says, slow. “I recall what happened when last you visited, those years ago. You bore empty threats from a king who would hide behind the skirts of his Maia wife, as if that is not the tyranny we decried before we came here. Ah, but we did not all come for freedom and vengeance. Some of us have far less noble aims.”
“So you would say, but they had not the armies to keep off Morgoth’s advance as we do,” Angrod tells him evenly. This is a rehearsed argument, and he ought to have expected it, but the barb of less noble aims hits where it ought not to. At least we did not slay our kin, he does not say. It will do nothing.
“So you would say,” Carnistir returns, dismissive to the point of rude. Angrod can see that he is still waiting for a reaction, though, and he refuses to give it. He will not lower himself to his cousin’s level. “But go on. What came of the visit that you, my golden cousin, are in such a foul mood?”
There is mockery there, to be sure, and Angrod fights the urge to glare at him.
“Come now, Angamaitë,” he says, and there is a strange note in the syllables of Angrod’s epessë there. But he will not fool himself into thinking it admiring, nor truly pleading.
“Do not call me that,” Angrod answers instead. He keeps his tone clipped. “I had intended to speak to my brother of this news first, but I suppose it is better you hear of this from me, rather than a poor herald of Elu Thingol’s.”
“Oh?”
“Quenya is banned upon these shores, for the crime of kin slaying kin across the sea,” he says. He wishes he did not have to. He wishes he could let this task fall upon the shoulder of some messenger of Thingol’s, and they could see the lightning flash in Carnistir’s eyes. It is not fearsome, not quite, but he has always been the most mercurial of his siblings. Not even the younger Curufinwë comes close, and Angrod suspects that outside of those siblings, he is the one who has weathered Carnistir’s moods the most.
“I see,” Carnistir says, damningly. “Was it your or your sister, then, who told them? Did you plead innocence, that you did not take part in it?”
“It is not a plea if it is true,” Angrod snaps, before he means to, and a smile cuts across Carnistir’s face for a second before it vanishes again. He is angry now, Angrod knows, dangerously so- but very little of his cousins is not dangerous, he has learned. They left, and they murdered, and when Angrod met them once more on these shores, they were all the sharper for it. But of course, the Ice has not left him unscathed either.
Neither of them are what they were in Valinor all those years ago, and the tension that bubbles between them already, dark as tar, is proof of that
“And,” he continues, “what I say to him is little of your business, is it not? You would benefit from a lesson in diplomacy from your elder brothers.”
“’Tis a miracle only Quenya was banned, with your too-pretty mouth as our spokespiece,” Carnistir says. Angrod pities Aikanáro- no, it is Aegnor now, as he was named when they last visited Doriath together-, for having to put up with this while he was away.
“You ought to be thanking me that Elu Thingol is not demanding your heads mounted on pikes,” Angrod finally hisses back. He sees Carnistir’s- and no, he does not know what his name would sound like in Sindarin, only that it would doubtless sour in his mouth- eyes widen. Something close to satisfaction crosses his face, and that won’t do at all.
He has never gotten along with the fourth son of Fëanor, not since they were younglings. Findaráto- Finrod, it is Finrod now- and Curufinwë the second (Curufin?) are the only two of Arafinwë and Fëanaro’s line that truly got along. The rest were all Nolofinwë’s: Maitimo and Findekáno, Irissë and Tyelkormo; even Turukáno and the younger Curufinwë had some common ground.
But even by the standards of their family, Angrod has never quite gotten along with Carnistir. He dislikes how the other makes annoyance seethe in his gut, makes him itch to drag him closer, one hand fisted in his shirt so he could not escape, the other raised to break the neat slope of his nose. He has his father’s nose, not his mother’s, though there is Nerdanel scrawled across almost all the rest of him but his hair. And, of course, his temper.
“As if you would deign to lower yourself to be kinslayers to provide them,” Carnistir drawls out. “In any event, should I be calling myself ‘Morfin’ now? I doubt it suits me. Or ought it to be Carnithir- no, Caranthir scans better, does it not? I am no poet, but Makalaurë- and good luck to the poor bastard who thinks to translate that into Þindarin.” That, Angrod knows, is a slight directed at him. The red flush creeping up Carnistir’s cheeks does little to assuage the sting.
“A thank you would suffice,” Angrod bites out. There’s no one quite as good at getting under his skin as Morifinwë is; they had nearly come to blows, at the last meeting he had attended with his cousins. Only intervention by Maitimo and Findaráto had kept cooler heads prevailing. The eldest Fëanorian is the only one with any sense, Angrod thinks, but that is uncharitable. But then, he hardly needs to be charitable to this Fëanorian, especially without the threat of war between them breaking out.
“Oh, of course,” he sneers, his face reddening further. “I must bend the knee and grovel before Arafinwë’s get, noble and kind as they are, because of course they are selfless and near as good as the Valar themselves-,”
“There’s no need to blaspheme,” Angrod hisses out, but Caranthir continues on as if he’d never spoken.
“And of course, let us not forget that they are pure as the freshly fallen snows, or the hallowed innards of one of Námo’s temples.” A laugh, bitter as ice. “And why should I not blaspheme? What were the words spoken- ‘not even an echo of your lamentation shall pass over the mountains’? And even if they did, even if the Valar on their mountain high with their eyes so blind cared to listen to me, what blasphemy is worse than what we have already done?”
Angrod has no answer to that, and Caranthir smiles, vicious. He is a different creature entirely from his brothers, though, for as soon as it appears, it vanishes, and there is an ache between them, in this silence.
“You regret it,” he says. He does not mean to. But it is not a question, either. And the smile is gone, but his cousin sneers at him, now.
“Of all my brothers, and my father too,” the fourth son of Fëanor says, “I know best what it is to speak in the heat of the moment and regret it later, and I have never pretended to be a diplomat. I am only what I am, and more fool those who refuse to acknowledge it.”
It is, Angrod suspects, the closest thing to a confirmation that he will get, even if there is a barb directed at him, too.
“Of course, you were a fool in any event, running off to Elu Thingol not once, but twice. You ought to have followed your fair sister’s example and said nothing.” And it is gone, that vulnerability, so quickly that Angrod thinks he must have imagined it.
“You would have had me lie?” he asks. “I have honor still, even if you do not, kinslayer.” It is a low blow, perhaps; it is more than Angrod had said when last they disagreed, and without either of their brothers around to pull them back, the words hang heavy as a blade in the air. He wishes he wanted to take them back, to subdue this strange, terrible urge to hurt. It isn’t like him; it isn’t who he wants to be, and it is not the person his father raised, nor one he would be proud of.
(Some days, Angrod wonders if he is fooling himself, that Arafinwë would be proud of him at all, for his disobedience, for coming here at all. Most days, he knows better than to allow himself to think of this.)
“They were your kin, not mine,” Carnistir says, but there is a shadow in his eyes. His face is all-too expressive; even Angrod who does not know him well can tell that he does not mean it. Not entirely. “And honor was left behind, it bled out with my grandfather on the steps of Formenos. Or perhaps it had died earlier, when the Black Foe was loosed to mingle among us without care as to what he might do? Oh, but how could I forget, it must of course be nourished as a babe in the arms of the gentle, brave children of Arafinwë, who was too much of a coward to follow his brothers-,”
Before Angrod quite knows what he’s doing, he has Carnistir- well, it is Caranthir now, he was right, it scans better- smeared up against the wall. His eyes are darker than that of his father’s, and rather than sparking with fell fire, rather than looking at a flame so bright it hurts, they glint darkly like a knife’s blade at night.
“I do not talk about your father,” he says, soft. “I do not say that he was prideful, and a fool, that he was bitter when he shouldn’t have been, that all he knew was strife and discord, that he could not find it in himself to share his father’s love, and if he had, none of this would have happened. I do not say that he knew nothing of kindness, nor that his passing was not mourned across the sea. So you do not talk about mine.”
“Unhand me,” is all that Caranthir says in response. It isn’t a suggestion. But who is he, this cousin, to come here and speak to him like that, to make demands in Angrod’s own halls?
“Not until you apologize,” Angrod tells him, and pushes him harder against the wall. He goes a darker red, now.
He shoves him against the wall, harder.
Caranthir smiles. It is not particularly nice; it is a snarl not even bothering to masquerade behind politeness. But, after so long in Doriath, Angrod can admire its honesty, if nothing else.
“No,” he says. “But unless you wish to be caught in a compromising position with a kinslayer, you ought to unhand me. We’re still in public, Angaráto, and whatever the Doriathrim custom may be, I can assure you that my ideas of courtship are very different.”
Angrod resists the urge to sputter- he has to remain composed; it would not do to be so taken aback by just the most ridiculous of propositions.
“My rooms, then,” Angrod says, and steps back. “We’ll have privacy there.”
That might be worse. He is not the most eloquent of his siblings either- that would fall to Findaráto, or even Artanis, but he can speak prettily enough. He’d thought he had long outgrown his childhood propensity to bluntness, and his inability to temper it with charm and manners. Then again, he reminds himself, he had managed Doriath. No longer is he in the springtime of Valinor, a child who knew nothing of the world, where words and politics had consequences that never touched him, in that seaside palace. No, now Angrod is a lord in his own right, he has lands with his brother, he has people he is responsible for, and he must do what he can for them.
He is not certain that sinking to Caranthir’s level is encompassed in any of these duties, but apparently he can still be as impulsive as a child, when there is a Fëanorian deliberately provoking him.
There is no disaster that comes of this, though. Instead, the outcome is far better than he might have expected. Caranthir’s eyes widen for a second, and a true flush steals across his cheeks- not from rage, not from indignation, or any number of things, but this is embarrassment. This is him flustered, and Angrod is- perhaps more interested in this than he ought to be.
“Surprisingly bold of you,” is all that the other comments, before gesturing for Angrod to lead the way. He nearly does not, for a moment; he forgets that there is no reason for Caranthir to know where his quarters are at all. Perhaps some of his brothers might have- Curvo, simply because he would make it his business to find out whatever secrets may be there; Makalaurë, simply by asking politely, the most silver-tongued of the lot; Maitimo, by remembering the scant directions that may have been provided upon first touring the keep. But Caranthir is not the type to know nor to care, not unless there was something of particular interest to him there.
Angrod realizes that he is the item of particular interest in this case. It ought not to set a low flame burning in his gut, a possibility that was not there before.
No, he thinks. That is not right. The flame has always been there, but never in this form. It would simmer in the air between them, linger in angry looks and glares, and catch alight whenever they spoke. Even as younglings, they had not gotten along, with the scant few words that passed between them. Angrod had thought Caranthir too sullen and his moods tiresome, and he suspects Caranthir had followed in his father’s footsteps there and mistrusted all his cousins. It made little sense to see him there when his opinion was scrawled across his face, especially when Curvo and Findaráto had been close, but with age comes wisdom, and now Angrod suspects he was simply being protective when wild Tyelko could not be bothered.
It does not come with wisdom enough, though, as he’s still rising to the bait even after so much time has passed.
“Your halls here are surprisingly tasteful, dare I say that was Aikanáro’s decision rather than yours?” Caranthir continues, as he must be on a crusade to erode every bit of goodwill and diplomacy that Angrod is attempting to muster up. After Doriath, there is not much to speak of. No, that is unfair- the Sindar there are his kin, too, and their king has treated him and his family well.
(Caranthir, he thinks, would not mince words in front of Elu Thingol. No, he would simply declare his distaste and move on, regardless of whether it spurred a war, and most certainly to provoke some sort of response from the king. Angrod does not admire him for it, but he does envy him for never having the opportunity to ruin their efforts so. His sister may adore Doriath, but Angrod chafes in its confines, at times.)
(He would never say this, of course.)
“I’ll not take insult from someone weighted down in more jewellery than Findekáno and my brother combined,” Angrod warns. He does not snap, of course. That would not become him. But it is very close to it, and he does not miss the flash of teeth as Caranthir adjusts one of the bracelets on his arms, deliberate. Metal clicks against metal.
“My lands are rich, and the Khazad are willing to trade,” he says simply, and- that is shocking enough, to think that Caranthir would be able to negotiate that. “They are remarkably straight-forward in their own way, and they have repaid my generosity in kind. I’m sure the news of my poor cousin’s diplomatic failings with Elu Thingol would prove most amusing to them, when next we meet.”
Or, perhaps they had simply found common ground in dislike.“Diplomatic failings, he says,” Angrod shakes his head. “You know nothing, Caranthir. You would start a war simply to spit in his eye, when he controls much of the land.”
“And you are blinded by your time under his roof. If he controls so much of the land, why does he not leave his city? Certainly, if I were half the king he claims to be, I would do far more than linger in Doriath and let kinslayers’ swords protect me from Morgoth,” he sneers. “You hold him in too much reverence, and he has done nothing to deserve it.”
“He was the only king here, holder of the only land that was safe,” Angrod retorts. He feels the anger rising in him again, and he pushes the doors to his rooms open with more force than necessary. It is too late to claim that he will not be provoked so, but it is not too late to prevent it from happening again.
“And what did he do with it?” Caranthir demands. His voice is entirely too close, murmured near the shell of Angrod’s ear, and he startles at the nearness. “Nothing, that is what. He remained there, behind the walls of his kingdom, and let others die outside of it. He cares for nothing but the grandeur of the throne, but how could I expect otherwise from someone who was swayed from the calling to Valinor by a pair of pretty eyes?”
“A pair of pretty eyes, you say, of one of the Powers? You have the arrogance of your entire family, that is certain.” He is discomfited by the closeness, the heat of the other at his back. They have barely entered the rooms, the door remains open behind them. He does not move to make himself close it.
“And yet mine is better earned, and better placed,” Caranthir retorts. “And I’m not fool enough to stand here defending someone I despise.”
“I do not hate him,” Angrod says, automatically. “Simply because you wish to slit his throat and be done with it-,”
“I never said anything about slitting his-,”
“You imply it often enough-,”
“I’ll imply what I please, regardless of what you tell me to, you golden-haired idiot-,” and now that is entirely too far, and Angrod bursts out:
“How am I an idiot for telling him the truth that he would have found out anyway? Better he hear it from me, better for one of us to control the consequences and soothe his rage.”
Silence hangs between them for a moment, precarious. Angrod had not realized that they had turned to face each other. They’re close, close enough that he can make out the dark spots flecked across the other’s skin, the faint smudge of purple under his eyes. Unthinkable, in Valinor, but all too common here in Beleriand.
He thinks he may have won this argument. He is not sure it matters, not with Caranthir’s face twisted in anger.
His mouth is very red, expressive. Angrod watches his lips part as he speaks.“You,” Caranthir snarls out, “are an idiot for not kissing me already.”
A strong hand reaches up and clasps his chin to yank him down for the kiss. Angrod can only gape- he could pull away, he knows; he is the taller of the two of them, and in this position, it would be easy to simply shove the other, close the door behind him and be done with it.
He does not even consider this as a course of action. Instead, Caranthir huffs impatiently against him, and it breaks the spell of inaction. Angrod settles one hand on his waist, unsure of if this is a liberty he is allowed, and when Caranthir’s own rests over it, fingers a vice around his wrist to keep it there, he considers that permission.
The kiss itself did not start hungry; rather, awkwardly, and Angrod refuses to let it become a point of mockery between them. It does not stay chaste, either, not as he pushes closer and lets his tongue slide past those parted lips. Caranthir tastes tart, like the last of the berries that are clinging to life on the trees here. And, unsurprisingly, he is all fervor when he returns it. His hand is still cupping Angrod’s jaw, the grip almost harsh, rings threatening to bite into his skin. He does not bother to move it, and Angrod does not try to make him. Instead, he’s all too preoccupied with the press of a tongue against his, too pleasurable to be so sharp otherwise.
Teeth catch at his lower lip and pull, a starburst of pain that makes Angrod grip his hip tighter.“Will you stop biting? I feel as if I’m kissing your brother’s dog,” he mutters against Caranthir’s mouth. The hand on his jaw tightens in response.
“I’d rather kiss him than you,” comes the retort. “He’s cleverer by far and would have caught on sooner.”“Sooner?” Angrod repeats. His cousin flushes, and that, he knows, is all from embarrassment. It is difficult not to gloat, over having the upper hand twice in one day. “Are you implying that I’ve missed several hints in the past?”
“Putting words in my mouth, Angamaitë?” Angrod should not react so to his epessë being said, but he cannot help the want that surges through him at it. He kisses Caranthir again, and this time there is no disguising the hunger in it. “Or,” Caranthir murmurs, sly, “is there something you’d rather put there?”
It is Angrod’s turn to flush and recoil now, because he had not thought about it, but now he cannot stop thinking about it. Caranthir’s insufferably smug look is worse than anything he might say about it; not even the redness to his face can take away from that. It only worsens as he steps back, and Angrod nearly reaches out to keep him where he is, before he thinks better of it. He is not so desperate, and he has already shown more of his hand than he meant to. More than he had even suspected was there, when it came to Caranthir.
“What are you doing?” he asks instead, an acceptable compromise. Or perhaps not, as Caranthir looks at him as if he truly is less intelligent than a dog.
“What does it look like I am doing? You have eyes, use them,” Caranthir remarks acidly. Angrod opens his mouth to retort, but whatever he was going to say dies in his throat as the other begins to strip down. Layer by layer, his dark clothes are removed and left to pool on the floor, until he is left in naught but his dignity and the jewels that decorate his fingers, arms, and ears.
He is being too obvious by far now, in how greedily he stares. He knows that Caranthir sees it, and responds; his length is stirring against his thigh, and Angrod notices the new tension in his frame now that comes with being watched.
It isn’t that he has never seen his cousin unclothed; he has vague memories of when they were far younger, before things had soured irreparably between their fathers, of trips to the beaches, all of Finwë’s family gathered together. And of course, the war camps of Beleriand, even just before his uncle had been crowned High King, were no place for true modesty. There too, Angrod had caught glimpses, and glimpses of himself had no doubt in turn been caught. But he had not been thinking about this, then.
He is certainly thinking about it, now.
Caranthir is shorter than him, his hair a dark curtain that falls down against his skin; he only had an odd braid in it, of a kind that Angrod had not see before, and it does little to keep it out of his face. But he is lean where Angrod is broader, his thighs thick with muscle, with little softness to his middle or hips. There are scars too, and he traces the notch of one in his shoulder for a moment.
“An arrow,” Caranthir says, succinctly. “Do you intend to continue staring, or are you going to remove your ridiculous robes? You’re wearing entirely too much fabric- and that isn’t solely a comment on the current situation. It’s a wonder you were able to ride here at all; a stiff breeze and you’d have been a most peculiar bird. We’d be mourning the loss of Angaráto, here in Dorthonion, and I would rather not have to sit through whatever bore of a funeral your brother would doubtlessly put together. He might even ask me to speak at it, as some complicated game of honor.”
“You would rather spit on my grave,” Angrod says, instead. It feels odd to voice this so directly, but Caranthir offers him a darkly amused look.
“Not in public, unless I despised the rest of the eulogizing,” he answers. “Now, undress.”
“I shudder to think of how you would lead a speech of remembrance,” Angrod tells him, amused by the thought. No doubt one for him would consist of much cursing of his name, his mother’s, and especially his father’s, and list out all the slights that Caranthir has against him. It would take hours.
“As do I,” he says shortly. “But I have had enough practice to be a fair hand at it.”
The answer is cold, clinical, and it shatters the warm amusement that Angrod had gained from his musings. “This is not so gentle a land as to spare you that,” he says.
“Indeed,” Caranthir tells him. “But there is softness to be found, if you know where to look for it, and those that dwell here, their edges are sharp.” There is something wistful in his voice, a note that he has often heard in his brother’s, though Aegnor refuses to tell him of what it is. Strange, to hear it from his wrathful cousin. Stranger still to hear it while he’s been ordered to undress.
But there is no reason to press the matter- none that Angrod can find, not when Caranthir’s eyes are on him again, avarice heavy in his gaze. It takes him a moment to parse out what this is; it is not so dissimilar to how the other has looked at him before, a sneer curling at his mouth. It is heavy as a touch on his skin. He has not felt so coveted, before. Something in him enjoys it; he does not know how what to make of that.
Instead, he moves to press himself close once more, their bare bodies aligning. He still must bend to kiss the other, but Caranthir’s hands are hot on his skin, and greedy as they slide over his hip and to his rear to draw him even closer. The kiss too, is hungrier; Angrod now knows that there was restraint, in the past, even for him. That is not so this time. His flesh quickens, and it is graceless how they fall into the lavish width of his bed, Angrod tumbling on top of him.
“Mind your elbows, you’ll blacken my eye and then I’ll be forced to dump you out of your own bed,” Caranthir bites out, but his hand is sliding up the long length of Angrod’s back to fist in his hair, and their hips are rocking together slightly. His length is a searing heat against Angrod’s thigh, and he shifts so they are more comfortably positioned.
When he rolls his hips, it draws a moan from the both of them. Angrod supports himself on one elbow and drinks in the sight beneath him. Caranthir is earning his mother-name well, for he is red down to his chest, his full lips parted and his hair mussed. Angrod’s free hand slides down his chest to tweak at a nipple, and he squirms. He does it again, and then dips his head to kiss down the flushed skin to lave his tongue over the bud there, providing only the barest scrape of teeth.
He does not know what the other likes, but if there is anything he can be confident in, it is that he will receive scathing critique should he make a mistake. It ought not to be so comforting a thought now, he thinks to himself, but it is.
“What are you looking at?” Is the inevitable question, but rather than his tone being cutting and furious, it’s breathy, tremulous. Angrod is struck by the fact that he must hate sounding like that in front of him. All it does is make him want to draw out more of those reactions, pick away the anger and acid to see what is underneath- it is a luxury he wouldn’t be allowed otherwise, but here, why should he not press his advantage? Especially one so freely given?
“You,” he answers, too-honest. It earns him a contemptuous curl of Caranthir’s lips, one he leans in to kiss away. “Do not make that face, I’m very much allowed to look, I think.”
“I should have told you to keep some of your clothes on, that way it could function as both a gag and a blindfoh -old. Stop that,” Caranthir hisses, and Angrod’s hand stills where it lies between them.
“What? If you’d rather I not touch you,” he begins, oddly stung. Of course, Caranthir would be so prickly even now, dishevelled and unclothed, sprawled out beneath him with marks blooming on his neck and chest.
“Forget it,” he mutters. But he’s quick to swat Angrod’s hand away and replace it with his own, fingers curling loosely around them both. Angrod’s breath catches in his throat, his hips cant up without much thought. The movement sends a delicious frisson of pleasure right down his spine, and his companion is not unaffected either, his lips parting around a muttered curse in Quenya. Angrod bites down on the urge to correct him, and as Caranthir’s hand starts to move properly, it’s easy enough to ignore that and pay attention to more carnal pleasures.
It is too dry, he realizes, but he can’t bring himself to protest just yet, with the friction only making him want to move faster. But Caranthir doesn’t require his input to stop, and Angrod’s protests turn into a moue of disgust as he watches the other lick his palm, before his now-wet hand grasps them again.
“No need to be so fussy, Ango,” he says, smugness curling the corners of his mouth. Angrod’s hand slides into his hair, and pulls this time. To his surprise, it elicits a moan, a twitch against his length. Angrod grinds down harder and does it again, this time to kiss the moan from his lips. It tastes sweet, desperate.His hand moves faster, smoother now, in response. Angrod sighs out his pleasure into the scant space between their lips.
“Caranthir,” he says, soft. Want builds with more urgency in his gut; he needs more, his body feels afire with it.
“Hm?” There is nothing but that idle noise, notable only for the tremor in it- and Angrod thinks, I did that, he is like this because of me, and he marvels at it.
“Caranthir,” he says again, to spur him on. There is no finesse to this, as there should be, but he finds he does not care. It ought to be shameful, rutting against one another, barely having made it to his rooms here.
“Do not call me that,” Caranthir hisses out. He does something with his hand, his fingers, that makes it very difficult for Angrod to retort.
“The ban,” he says, entirely inadequate.
“If Elu Thingol manifests himself in this very room, I suspect he will have more to condemn than you saying my name properly.” A smile, the flash of white teeth against dark skin. Angrod finds it very difficult to argue with that particular line of reasoning.
“If you are to call his name so often, it’s a wonder he doesn’t appear,” he replies instead. His voice shakes- how could it not, when the hand on him is moving faster?- but the tremor is slight. “Tell me, Carnistir-,”
“Better,” comes the answer, but Caranthir is not as composed as he might like to seem. Angrod can see it in the darker hue to his cheeks, feel it in how his movements quicken, hear it in the catch of his breath. It suits him, to be so discomposed by pleasure.
“You could interrupt me less, you know,” Angrod tells him, but there is no tooth behind it. “But tell me, what would you have me call you?”
“Moryo,” he says, and there is a hush that follows it, only broken by their breathing. His eyes are dark with want, but Angrod can tell that this admission costs him.
“Call me Angamaitë again,” Angrod demands in turn. It would not do to have him uncertain now, and if there is a kernel of selfishness in wanting to hear his name whispered as praise drawn out from the mouth of one who would curse him, so be it.
“Ah- Angamaitë is a mouthful,” Carnistir says, and Angrod offers him a grin that is far too lascivious, even for the circumstances. “And hypocritical, too.”
“Enough of that- as you said, he isn’t here. And, my name is not the only thing that is a mouthful,” he teases. Carnistir groans, and it is not from arousal.
“This is just punishment for bedding you, I suppose,” he mutters. “Very well, Angamaitë.”
Angrod shudders to hear the name, each syllable pronounced with such care.
“Yes,” he says. And then, “Moryo, yes,” and Carnistir’s gasp is pronounced, a sharp inhale. His hips roll up against Angrod’s, his hand squeezes them just so. Angrod sinks his teeth into that full lower lip, lets his tongue soothe the hurt after, and when he says his name again, breathes it against the other’s skin, it’s reverent.
It does not last much longer, for all that Angrod might want it to. It has been too long since he’s felt the touch of another like this, and he wonders the same of Carnistir, here, but knows better than to ask. Instead, he breathes out his name like a chant, like a song to the sea, and Moryo’s moans of his own name are even sweeter to hear. Angrod spills with a particularly deft twist of his fingers, his nails digging into the other’s scalp, his back arched.
He misses the wide-eyed look he gets from his cousin, for it only lasts a second, and then Carnistir is rutting against him in truth, chasing his own pleasure now that Angrod has found his.
Angrod is boneless, loose-limbed with it, but he manages to rock his hips even if it begins to ache, too, makes his legs shaky and tears a ragged moan from his throat. He barely has the energy to speak, but he does his best, a litany of murmured nonsense that he is sure to be mocked for later, but in the moment will serve them will. And it does, because Moryo comes soon after with a bitten-off cry, face buried in the crook of Angrod’s neck, adding to the mess already smeared along their stomachs.
The deed is done, and there is quiet between them. Carnistir- no, Caranthir, Angrod thinks with a flash of lazy indignation, for regardless of if Elu Thingol is monitoring his very thoughts from so far away, the Sindarin name bothers his cousin enough that Angrod is quite satisfied to continue using it when he is not otherwise distracted (or asked very nicely not to)- makes to stand. Angrod reaches out and stops him with a hand clasped to his wrist before he can.
“Stay,” he says instead. “I doubt there is anything so urgent that requires your attention- at least, nothing that would not also require mine, as lord of the land.”
His teeth flash; it is a wonder he does not have fangs. “So self-important, cousin. Though I already knew you were a pompous ass at best.”
There is still bite to the words, and Angrod’s neck and shoulders ache to prove there was bite elsewhere, too. But the set of his shoulders is different, and there is a lassitude in his posture as he sprawls out on Angrod’s jewel-toned turquoise sheets that was not there before. Angrod suspects very few have seen him this way, and he decides that he likes it.
“Your room is far too bright,” he complains, but draws Angrod in nevertheless. “You ought to redecorate, it is worse here than the statuary your brother has installed in the gardens.”
This side of him, Angrod can deal with. At least until he uses the sheets- the sheets- to wipe them both off, careless, and leaves the filthy corner flicked over Angrod’s chest with a contemptuous huff.