Chapter Text
He did not notice her right away. Only when the door to his chambers fell shut behind him, and Maeglin had already crossed half the room he caught the flash of bright gold out of the corner of his eye. The lord of the House of the Mole gave a startled hiss and spun around.
She was sitting on the edge of his bed, hands folded demurely in her white-clad lap, and her legs stretched out before her, crossed at the ankles. Her pretty lips were pressed together in an angry line, and her eyes were dark and blazing. Maeglin rejoiced inwardly, but quickly suppressed the triumphant smile that nearly stole across his face.
“You should not be here. It is late. Your father will be wondering where you are.” He kept his voice deliberately cool and impassive, as he resumed his path and strode towards the chest of drawers at the far end of the room.
“I told him I would have my lute lesson with Gwinethil tonight because she has other duties tomorrow morning.” Idril said smoothly.
She looked at ease, but Maeglin had heard the faint tremor in her voice. He now huffed a quiet laugh, while divesting himself of the light armour he usually wore during training and stowing everything in the drawers. He took his time; there was no rush, after all. She was here. She was his. She would never admit it, not to him and probably even less to herself, but they both knew it.
“Lying through your teeth, and to the king no less,” he now drawled with blatant relish. “How unseemly, princess.”
“And since when do you care about seemliness?” came the elleth’s waspish retort.
“I do not.”
Maeglin untied the upper fastenings of his tunic, smiling broadly when he heard a soft hiss as he unbuckled his belt and dropped it onto the chest as well. He stopped there; Idril did not scare easily, but it would not do to push his luck.
“It was, however, my impression that you care,” he continued silkily as he walked towards his desk, where he picked up the half-empty decanter with wine and poured himself a generous amount of the strong drink. He then turned around to face the maid sitting on his bed and raised his goblet in a mock salute.
“I would offer you some, but you would no doubt just accuse me of corrupt intentions.”
“Would I be mistaken?” Idril snapped.
She was getting more nervous, Maeglin noted with some satisfaction. He tilted his head as if pondering her question.
“I suppose that depends on what you deem corrupt?”
He smiled coldly at her frown, raising an arrogant eyebrow.
“Then again — it is you who came to my quarters. It is you who is on my bed.”
Maeglin breathed out the last three words on a husky purr.
Idril’s eyes narrowed dangerously, but Maeglin could see her pulse flutter at the base of her neck, could see her heartbeat vibrate beneath the soft skin of her breast, just above the remarkably low neckline of her gown. Vaguely wondering how deliberate her choice of dress had been, Maeglin made no attempt to hide his hungry stare. He wanted nothing more than to press his lips to the smooth, white flesh.
Not yet, though. Their dance had only just begun.
“You should not have done that,” Idril now hissed.
His slow smile turned into a dry, dismissive chuckle as he pulled the leather tie from the nape of his neck, before taking a deep draught of wine while stalking slowly towards her.
“It was only a kiss, Idril. Stop fretting.”
He took care to pull his hair across his shoulder, letting the heavy, dark tresses cascade down his chest. Idril liked his hair, Maeglin knew. She had told him so once, during more innocent days.
“It was not only…”
She swallowed, eyeing him warily as he approached her.
“You touched me!”
Maeglin’s gaze trailed from her face back down towards her silk-covered breasts. He could almost feel their softness beneath his palm. Of course, Idril noticed. Her cheeks turned a delicious shade of pink, but rolled her lips into a defiant pout.
“You touched me without…”
Maeglin didn’t listen to the rest of her perfunctory complaint, thinking of all the nice things he could teach that flippant, little mouth.
Idril glared at him, presumably sensing his wandering attention. She straightened slightly, pushing out her chest. Again, Maeglin could not help wondering at the purpose behind her actions.
“I do not remember you complaining,” he muttered.
His voice had turned slightly hoarse; he was now imagining grazing his teeth over one of those hardening rose buds — then suckling on it until she whimpered his name, begging him to fill her. Carelessly, he reached towards the growing, sweet ache in his loins, and gleefully watched his cousin’s eyes widen when gripped himself through the fabric of his leggings.
Nothing soft beneath his palm now, he could not help thinking immaturely, while giving Idril the sweetest smile he could muster.
“You are shameless,” she muttered, sounding almost impressed.
“’Shameless?’” He exhaled on a short laugh, the sound quiet and wicked. “I am merely feeling comfortable within the privacy of my own room.”
He stroked himself once, twice, shuddering lightly at the sensation, and never taking his eyes off hers. His heartbeat sped up when he saw her large, blue-grey gaze dip to his groin and then back up at his face. Maeglin could hear her breath quickening.
When he stepped in front of her, she uncrossed her outstretched legs and drew them back — just as he had hoped she would. Before Idril could stop him, Maeglin had lowered himself between her knees and reached under her skirt with his free hand, his fingers easily closing around one slender ankle.
When she squealed and tried to wrestle herself free, he gave her leg a firm tug that nearly had her slide off the edge of the bed. Maeglin leaned forward; kneeling as he was, their faces were now mere inches apart.
“What are you so afraid of?” he murmured, his lips twisting into a sneer as he inhaled her lovely scent. “That you might be unable to resist me?”
“Laughable!” she snarled at him.
And Maeglin knew he had her now. Her pride would never allow her to back down. He slowly, deliberately let his hand trail up her leg underneath the gown — he could feel her muscles tense as he reached the soft, smooth inside of her upper thigh. He let his fingers draw a slow, languid circle against the trembling flesh.
“Give me that,” Idril muttered, her breathing uneven, indicating the wine cup he was still holding with a jerk of her chin.
Maeglin snorted with mirth, reminded why exactly she was so delectable, and handed her the goblet. His chortle turned into soft laughter when she downed the content in one gulp and then grimaced slightly. Swiftly, before she could do something disagreeable, like shoving him off, he let his hand complete its intended path.
Idril hissed sharply when his fingers first brushed over the soft folds between her thighs and tried to squirm backwards — the only way she could go, onto his bed. But even though this was what Maeglin had intended, he suddenly wasn’t in such a rush anymore.
His unoccupied hand flew up and grabbed her firmly round the back of her neck, holding her in place. The golden-haired elleth stared at him, panting, eyes wide and darker than he had ever seen them before.
Holding her gaze, he let his fingers softly trail against the tender skin between her quivering thighs once more — then he let them dip deeper. Idril whimpered almost inaudibly and Maeglin could barely suppress a moan himself at discovering the wet heat between her lips. Wet for him.
Staring at each other, they were both breathing hard and fast as he let two fingers slowly slide upwards, down, then up again, along the slick stretch of her centre. Reaching the small, swollen, mound at the top, Maeglin instinctively pressed down and was rewarded with a gasp as the elleth arched her back and then leaned further into him.
“Feels good, yes?” he breathed, as he slowly circled her nub, revelling in the way the sensitive tissue pulsed beneath his touch.
The elleth’s flush had spread to her lovely neck, and Maeglin knew she was listening, like him, to the soft lapping noises of her flesh against his fingertips. His shaft swelled and grew harder, straining against linen and leather. Idril made a sound like a kitten, then bit down on her lip and grasped his arm.
“Want me to use my tongue instead?” Maeglin rasped, feeling his throbbing erection twitch at the thought. Idril’s eyes widened in response, but she remained silent, merely dug her fingers harder into his bicep, and panted heavily through the nose. So stubborn.
He withdrew his hand and — after ensuring that Idril, her face flushed prettily, was watching his every move — slowly raised it to his mouth to lick her wetness from the glistening tips of his fingers. He saw her blush deepen, but she stoutly held his heated stare; Maeglin could hear her heart racing now.
“You are sweeter than any wine,” he breathed.
She swallowed and her cheeks were scarlet now, but where most maidens would have been too abashed to return his gaze, she held her ground.
“I am?” she whispered.
His smile turned feral as he brought his fingers to her mouth and let them slip between her lips. She seemed startled for a moment as she could taste herself on him, but then her lips closed around his fingertip, engulfing it in heat and moisture, and her eyes drooped half-shut. When Maeglin felt the warm, velvety touch of her tongue and then a slight tugging sensation as she sucked, he thought he might lose his senses.
“Nás maxa ar néna mitye.”
His words came out as a strained whisper, and the fingers of the hand that was still on her neck tightened convulsively. He drew her head closer towards him and gently drew back his finger, dragging a wet trail down her lower lip.
“At least it is up here,” he murmured. “I shall have to explore further…” — Maeglin brushed his mouth against hers, before drawing back slightly to let his gaze suggestively meander down her body — “...to find out if it is the same in other places. Yet, perhaps…”
He managed a smirk, before leaning in and finding her sweet mouth again, gently nipping, suckling, licking, his next words breathed against her lips in-between kisses, “Perhaps by other means.”
“What other means?” she panted as her hands trailed down his front, slipping underneath his tunic to explore his chest.
In response, Maeglin quickly grasped one of her slender wrists and guided her hand even further down, between his thighs and to his bonehard, throbbing arousal, half expecting her to shy away. He groaned softly when Idril, instead of flinching, showed her courage once more and gripped him firmly, her small fingers closing around his hot, twitching length.
“You will like it, I promise,” he whispered against the quiet moan escaping her lips. “It goes in deeper.”
To be continued...
Nás maxa ar néna mitye — (Quenya) It is soft and wet inside you