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“I could do it, you know.” Curufin sits astride Celegorm’s lap, a dagger held to his throat.
Fury smoulders as a fell fire within him, growing hotter still in the face of the amusement dancing in his brother’s eyes. He tightens his jaw and pushes the keen edge of the blade harder against Celegorm’s throat, drawing forth the smallest bead of scarlet.
“And what would you have left?” Celegorm asks in a whisper. A cruel smile twists his handsome features, warping them into something vile, monstrous. “A dead wife, a whore, and a child who cannot stand you.”
Curufin lowers the blade and slashes it across his chest. It tears easily through his tunic, through skin, blooms red and hot through white linen. Celegorm snarls with the pain and presses a hand there as if to staunch the flow, though he needn’t do so; it is deep, but it will not kill him.
“Crazy bitch,” he hisses, and Curufin fists a hand in his hair and yanks his head back ruthlessly. The dagger he raises to the base of Celegorm’s throat, sets its point just there against the hollow of it.
“Ware your tongue,” he says softly, “or I shall cut it out.”
Celegorm bares his teeth. His chest rises and falls— slow, shallow, hardly daring to breathe. He keeps his head angled back even when Curufin relinquishes his hair, his eyes shut, yet unable to move for the press of cold steel to delicate, vulnerable skin.
Curufin lays his palm over the wound on his brother's chest. Hot blood seeps through his fingers; dark and sickly, sharply metallic.
He presses down.
A grunt forces itself through Celegorm’s clenched teeth, his expression contorting itself into one of pain. Curufin presses harder. He digs two of his fingertips into the deep gash and succeeds in forcing out a pathetic whimper as his brother flinches violently against him, the movement only serving to push his throat further into the fell tip of the dagger.
His skin nicks. A drop of stark crimson beads, falls, trickles sluggishly downwards.
Curufin’s eyes track its path. He can feel his brother against the inside of his thigh, hard and straining, and when he looks up he finds Celegorm already watching him back; all cold steel, defiant with fury.
Curufin withdraws the blade, dips in, and closes his mouth over the fresh wound. He laves his tongue up the rivulet of blood and groans at its sharpness, sucks there in search of more until at last, free to move, Celegorm snarls and grabs hold of his jaw to haul him up and slam their mouths together.
It is not so much kiss as punishment. Another weapon to be wielded; less precise, perhaps, than a dagger, though its capacity for hurt not lessened.
Celegorm bites at his lips until they throb and bleed. Smears his bloodied hand over Curufin’s cheek, his neck, drags it through his hair. Staining him. Marring him, as one claimed.
Who else could have you now? he seems to say. Covered in me. Ruined by me. My lifeblood coursing through your veins. Inextricable.
Curufin wrenches himself back, breathing hard. Raises his own wrist and slices the dagger across it.
The pain is sharp and searing but he does not flinch, not even when hot blood spills in branching rivers down his forearm, not even when it drips onto their laps. He grips the back of Celegorm’s head and forces his wrist to his mouth. Thinks,
See? You are marred by me in turn. You are filled with me and I with you. You will never get me out from beneath your fingernails.
Blood stains Celegorm’s lips, his chin, smears messily across his cheeks. He does not resist but still Curufin tightens his grip on his skull, forces his wrist harder against his lips. Leaves him no room for escape, even should he wish it.
Celegorm holds him to his mouth with fingers curled tight around his forearm, tongue laving hot over the throbbing wound. Keeps Curufin's gaze as he sucks hard, drinking him in.
Fill me, then.
Curufin wants to wring the life from him. He wants to split him open from throat to navel and climb inside his skin. Or maybe it is himself he longs to split open; maybe there is nothing he wants more than to bleed out in his brother’s arms, cover him in the whole rotten mess of himself, blood and viscera, too much to ever be washed clean.
Instead, he rocks their hips together.
His own sharp intake of breath is identical to his brother’s; the two sounds interwoven, threaded together so intricately they would be impossible to tease apart save by slicing the noose in two.
He wrenches his wrist away. Celegorm looks at him; stained by him, dark crimson smeared across his face and neck.
“See?” Celegorm whispers. “I am all that you have. You are as much me as I am you.” And then a feral grin stretches his lips, all bloodstained teeth. “Like it or not, brother, we two are bound together unto death.”
And he kisses Curufin again, wretchedly.
When they tangle together it is in a jumble of violence— a collision of vicious fury, of hurt, of raw, sickening need. Desperate to stain and be stained, to mar and be marred; the softness of lips inextricable from the sharp bite of teeth.