Underhanded by polutropos

Underhanded

For SilmSmutWeek Day 6, Prompts: Public sex, Casual sex, word: bloom, and Writer Challenge #6, "Kink or trope you've never written before."

Read Underhanded

Plates heaped high with colourful offerings filled Nargothrond’s long feast table to its very edges. Burgundy venison with a crust of wild herbs, steaming meat pies bursting with red and yellow roots, garnishes of ripple-edged greens and white radishes, many bowls of pickled beans and olives from the slopes below the Faroth. Attendants topped off crystal goblets with golden wine, flitting among the courtiers pressed nearly shoulder-to-shoulder.

Finrod had been absent on his tour of the villages downriver no more than a season, but Nargothrond loved its king, and his return was heralded with an explosion of light and laughter.

Celegorm lifted his cup to eye-level, observing the play of light in the liquid, the bubbles rising in a constant stream from the base of the glass. But he was more interested in that which he watched through it: Finrod seated at the head of the table on his high-backed chair of dark wood, draped in pearly silks; the fabrics captured the glow of the chandeliers and cast them back in shifting hues. The veneer of gold and glass allowed Celegorm to admire the broad strokes of the King’s beauty, the totality of his grace rather than the singular motions of hand or neck or mouth.

Though those were lovely too, he thought, setting the rim of his glass to his lips and sipping from it. It was cool against the thin layer of skin, awakening a longing for contact of another kind: warm, living, hungry. Such had Finrod’s lips felt against his the night before he set out, when he had relented at last to years of denied desire.

Celegorm had cultivated it from the first months of their coming to Nargothrond, when he had caught the furtive glances Finrod stole of him in councils, or felt eyes raking over him in the training yards, burning too fiercely to be the politic interest of a king in his general. No — Finrod’s desire had been as carnal as Celegorm’s own, but for once Celegorm had waited. Waited for the king to claim him. The prize of Finrod Felagund inspired patience.

But now Celegorm had tasted of him: as supple and sweet as his outward show suggested, but with a centre as hard and bright and sharp as adamant which, once exposed, blazed so hot it might have hurt a lesser man. Not Celegorm. Celegorm received him willingly, eagerly, boldly. His tongue thickened with longing to taste him again.

The evening wore on. Celegorm made no effort to dull the lust blooming between his thighs, rather letting one hand slide beneath the table to tend it. The effort of maintaining the proud yet relaxed set of his shoulders, the innocuous charm of voice and countenance, served only to fuel his desire.

Finrod caught his eyes, and then, for a moment, Celegorm let his mask slip, granting the King a glimpse of the hunger beneath it. But if this brought a blush to Finrod’s cheeks, the rosy dust already brushed over them concealed it. Finrod steepled his arms on the table, his long sleeves gaping to show the soft underside of his arms ringed with bracelets — the right one bearing a tattoo of a snake, shimmering emerald — and knit his fingers together before him with all the elegant pomp of a peacock fanning his tail. He let his golden eyelashes, studded with tiny diamonds, drop heavily to his cheekbones. Only when he’d fully opened them again did he slide his gaze away from Celegorm.

The invitation was clear.

When Edrahil (benign and devoted Edrahil, the companion of his lord’s journeys) rose from his seat beside the King, bidding him goodnight, Celegorm needed no further excuse. He took his place at Finrod’s left; he chose to ignore the angling of Curufin’s head in his direction. Let his brother suspect.

“Clever of you,” Celegorm said, idly slotting the stem of Finrod’s wine glass between his fingers, “to wander.” He swirled the glass, sending the clear liquid sloshing towards the rim.

“Oh?” Finrod reclaimed his glass. The brush of fingers, his mithril-tipped nails, over Celegorm’s own was not subtle. He’d indulged, Celegorm noted by the slight droop of his brows. Good.

“To periodically absent yourself,” Celegorm clarified, “that the people might perceive the gaping space none but yourself can fill.”

Finrod laughed, flashing bright white teeth and the soft skin of his throat as he tipped his chin back. “On the contrary!” he said, loud enough for those around them to hear. “I ought to be chided for my wanderings. A king should stay among his people.”

The surrounding elves laughed and denied the assertion, but Finrod leaned in now close to Celegorm. “Lest some other win their hearts in his absence,” he whispered, affecting roughness in the honey of his voice.

Heat crawled over the side of Celegorm’s body where Finrod’s shoulder brushed it, but he smirked. He had no wish to wrest the crown of Nargothrond from his cousin, not yet. Finrod was a competent leader, and beloved. Better to leave the Kingdom in his hands — and for Celegorm to hold Finrod in his.

Fortunately, it was no burden at all to do so.

Without further preamble he clutched Finrod’s thigh just above the knee. The muscle flexed beneath his fingers, but nothing on Finrod’s face suggested a change of mood.

“’Twould not be possible to sway any heart from yours,” Celegorm said, as he slid his hand firmly up Finrod’s thigh — ah. “And if one were fool enough to try,” he cast a glance at Curufin, “they would have your fearsome guard to contend with.” He cupped the warm bulge of Finrod’s cock. It jumped in answer.

Finrod’s throat bobbed beneath his easy smile. “Alas, I have not your faith in my guard, who have failed this very night to protect me from a bold advance.”

A growl rose from deep in Celegorm’s throat, barely audible. “I meant myself, king.” He splayed his hand over Finrod’s groin, shaping his fingers around the growing evidence of his arousal.

“Mm,” said Finrod. He sipped his wine, and a dribble gleamed on his red lips. He took his time brushing it away with a long finger. “I see. I was not aware your devotion ran so deep. Do you intend to swear fealty then, cousin?”

“I would not go so far as that.” Celegorm palmed him forcefully.

“Ah!” Finrod diverted his enthusiasm in the direction of a passing lord. “Lord Gelennil, are you retiring already? How do you find your new quarters? I hope the light is adequate — you know, I have just the piece that I believe would fit in the lintels — a glass mosaic, it captures light beautifully — I will have it sent.”

The flighty cadence of Finrod’s speech was nothing unusual. The King often spoke thus when moved to excitement. There was no reason to suspect that Celegorm was stroking him hard beneath the table.

Gelennil thanked him, then looked at Celegorm.

Taking note, Finrod smiled. “Do you know, now I think of it, some of the glass was the work of Fëanor.”

“Oh, king,” said Gelennil, eyes widening and mouth gaping open, “you mustn’t honour me with such a gift.”

Celegorm rolled his thumb over the head of Finrod’s shaft.

“Nonsense,” Finrod said, and fluttered his hands apart, “you are well-deserving of it, and it ought to be displayed.” He turned to Celegorm. His pupils were blown so wide with lust that Celegorm’s breath caught with yearning. “Do you not concur, cousin?”

“Yes,” said Celegorm, and cleared his throat, “it would please me to know my father’s work adorns your quarters, lord.”

“There, you see!” Finrod struck the table with the flat of his palm. No one could have known that the gesture came just as Celegorm unclasped the hook over his waist, and that out of sight Finrod had obligingly spread his legs so that Celegorm could plunge his hand beneath the garment.

“I will have it sent tomorrow, then,” said Finrod, as Celegorm tugged at an unnecessarily elaborate system of laces. Yet the project provided opportunity for dozens of glancing touches, and when Finrod hitched his hips Celegorm deliberately slowed his progress. With the laces loose enough that he might have easily reached beneath and taken him in hand, he instead lingered over the straight, stiff shape of Finrod’s erection, feeling the pulse and heat of it through the fabric.

“You are most generous,” Gelennil said, at the same time as Celegorm’s ministrations pushed the tiniest of squeaks from Finrod’s throat. Celegorm exhaled, only the hint of chuckle behind it.

A minor slip, said Finrod’s thought, it will not happen again, so do not try.

A mistake, opening his mind: Celegorm slipped in, pressing at its corners with the throb and heat of his own arousal. Finrod breathed out sharply, slamming the doors of his thought shut even as his hand flew beneath the table to pull out his own cock for Celegorm to take.

Celegorm let his fingers run over the shape of him, feeling out the veins and ridges as he had not had the luxury of doing during their last hurried coupling. Then he winced: the heel of Finrod’s boot had struck his shin.

Above the table, Finrod extended his hand — the one that had only just emerged from between his thighs, Celegorm noted with amusement — and squeezed Gelennil’s forearm. “You’ll forgive me if I do not rise to bid you good night, the day’s journey and the evening’s festivities have made me feel as though I were composed of iron ore. I envy you your bed.”

Celegorm pumped once, and Finrod bucked, ever so slightly, into his hand. His fingers tightened around the other elf’s arm.

Gelennil smiled. “Surely the King can turn into bed whenever he likes?”

“Yes,” said Celegorm, “surely, a bed would be most commodious.” He quickened the pace of his stroking. Finrod’s chest rose and sank, a silent sigh.

“Commodious, lord?” Gelennil looked puzzled.

“Advantageous,” said Celegorm. Gelennil’s expression remained blank. “Convenient? Useful?” Celegorm huffed, for a moment forgetting his task in his impatience with this up-jumped Sindarin peasant.

Finrod’s elbow rammed his ribs, and the pain caused his hand to tighten around Finrod’s cock — which, by the fluttering of his smile, pleased Finrod greatly. Very well, thought Celegorm: if it was roughness he craved, Celegorm would provide it. With a deft turn of the wrist, he tugged and twisted. He was rewarded with a trickle of liquid leaking from the head of Finrod’s shaft.

“A bed would be most commodious indeed,” Finrod lingered luxuriously around the round vowels of the word, as Celegorm spread the slick fluid down the length of him. “But, truth be told, I have a terrible fear of leaving early, lest I miss the climax of the evening,” — Celegorm moved down to knead his sack — “nor is my vanity immune to being stroked—” his thighs clenched around Celegorm’s hand, urging it upwards “—by the love of my people.”

Celegorm jerked insistently, coaxing another spill of fluid from him. His own lips parted, imagining how it might taste. Finrod, for his part, abruptly withdrew his hand from Gelennil’s arm and clutched the edge of the table.

“Good night, then!” he said. Without even a hint of recognition, Lord Gelennil (the witless clod) bowed his head and bid them both a good evening.

Finrod released a sigh, as if in idle contentment, which seemed to be how those nearby took it: they smiled in his direction as he fiddled with his bracelets and knit his fingers back together in front of him. He was furiously kneading his palms.

“A bed would be commodious,” Celegorm said, not letting up on the rhythm of his strokes. Though there was little to show for it on his face, by the steady pulse of blood beneath his firm grip he was sure Finrod was very near to spilling. He was himself scarcely able to resist bucking against the constraint of his breeches, or relenting to the overwhelming urge to plunge his other hand under the table. He was certain he could bring himself off with no more than a few quick strokes.

“It would,” Finrod slanted his eyes to meet him and hells, Celegorm nearly spilled from that alone, “but is it not more stimulating sitting here among friends?” Then he gasped. “Friends!” he cried, and his cock twitched and pulsed and twitched again in Celegorm’s hand. With not a second to spare, Celegorm moved to cover his head, and was immediately coated with a forceful spurt of Finrod’s spend.

Finrod had thrown his arms arm wide, drawing all eyes to him, and smiled, dauntless as he surrendered to waves of pleasure beneath the table.

“I must thank you all for your warm reception!” Cheers, as the last of Finrod’s seed trickled between Celegorm's fingers. “I have already expressed by deepest gratitude to my brother Orodreth for holding the Kingdom in my stead,” he lowered his arms to the table. “However—” he brought a hand to Celegorm’s shoulder, nudging him away from his groin. “I neglected to praise my dear cousins Lords Celegorm and Curufin.”

Another round of cheers. Celegorm held his palm, dripping sticky fluid, beneath the table, and returned his brother’s sidelong glance with an insouciant smile. “Their coming has swelled the strength of Nargothrond. We stand now firmer than ever against our foes. But now,” he pushed himself several inches back from the table, “I am spent from my travels and my bed calls me.” His hands fell to his lap. Celegorm glanced down and watched him tuck himself away and clasp his robes over his softening cock. He rose. “I will leave the conclusion of the evening's festivities in the capable hands of my cousins.”

With a swirl of fabrics and jangle of bracelets, he turned a strode from the hall. Celegorm wiped his hand on the cushion of Finrod’s vacated seat and lifted his glass to the remaining guests.

“Let the revels resume,” he said, and took a leisurely sip of wine.

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Chapter End Notes

Thanks to Chestnut_pod's brilliant Elvish Name List for the name Gelennil (tree lover).