Chapter Text
The hall of High King Finarfin was filled beyond capacity, every seat occupied by the lords of the Noldor. The air was thick with expectation, with tension that seemed to press against the very walls. At the center of the chamber, Turgon former King of Gondolin stood, stood rigid and his eyes fixed ahead. Before him, escorted by the guards was Maeglin.
When Turgon spoke, his voice carried across the hall without faltering. He said Maeglin’s name, plain and absolute. He said that it was Maeglin, son of Aredhel, who had betrayed Gondolin to Morgoth. The words struck the assembly like a hammer. There was no softening, no attempt to shield the Noldor from the truth. All present could hear, and all understood: the young elf standing before them was a traitor and Turgon demanded that Maeglin be placed into his custody to repay the debt owed for the fall of Gondolin.
The reaction was immediate. Some of the lords from Gondolin rose from their seats, anger sharp in their eyes, and shouted the name, cursing it, cursing the treachery it represented. Others whispered with grim determination that death alone was too light, that mercy would be a crime against memory and justice alike. Words rose and fell, clashing against the pillars of the hall, until Finarfin stood, and at once the noise ceased. The assembly fell silent, as if the air itself had been drawn into stillness.
Finarfin’s gaze moved from Turgon to the lords assembled, weighing the fury and outrage that hung in the air. He asked Turgon plainly if he was certain, if he understood the full weight of what he demanded. What he asked was unprecedented: a living, reborn Maeglin, bound under the authority of the very king whose city he had betrayed, accountable for deeds that had happened in another life.
Turgon’s expression was unwavering. His voice was steady, deliberate. He spoke of the years that had passed since Gondolin fell, of the blood spilled, the dreams destroyed, the people lost. He said the betrayal had left a debt that could not be measured by death alone, that only living under his authority could allow Maeglin to answer for what he had done.
Murmurs rose from the assembly. Some called the demand extreme and strange. Some questioned whether justice could be measured in such a way while others still demanded harsher punishment. But Finarfin’s decision was firm. Turgon carried the grief of thousands and that grief demanded some form of response.
The decree was pronounced without further argument: Maeglin would be delivered into Turgon’s house. He would remain under Turgon’s authority, bound to answer for his betrayal. The bond would hold until the Turgon himself judged the debt repaid.
Maeglin stood at the edge of the hall when the words fell upon him, and his body felt hollow, emptied of breath. He had known dread before, but never this—never the terror of being claimed before all eyes, not as a prisoner but as something worse. He could feel the weight of every gaze, the disgust, the hatred, and at the center of it all stood Turgon.
There was no trial, no defense, no mercy. Only the certainty of chains, dressed in the name of justice.
And in the murmurs that followed, Maeglin heard the truth with agonizing clarity. To the family around him, he was no longer kin, he was disowned and no longer part of Finwë’s descendants. He was just a tribute, a living coin pressed into Turgon’s hand to ease the grief of a city that had perished.
Turgon’s eyes rested on him with a focus that made Maeglin shiver—not the measured gaze of a judge delivering justice, but the intent, possessive look of a man who had finally claimed what he had long desired and would never again allow it to slip from his grasp.
Maeglin’s legs carried him unwillingly. Each step felt hollow, as though the ground itself had shifted beneath him. He could feel the weight of the assembly’s gazes pressing against his back, their whispers sharp and cutting, yet none came near. None offered comfort. None offered pity. To the Noldor, this was not cruelty—it was justice, balance restored for a life that had once wrought ruin.
Through the tall doors they led him, out of the bright, echoing hall and into the long shadows of the valley. There, Turgon’s castle rose, tall and cold and immense. The air was cooler here, damp with the scent of stone and flowing water. The silence pressed upon him more tightly than the watchful eyes of the assembly, and every step toward the castle felt as if it were drawing him deeper into a fate he could neither escape nor understand.
At last, they reached the wing set aside for Turgon’s household. The doors swung open, carved with the white emblem of Gondolin, and a chill seeped into Maeglin’s bones. He was not being taken to a prison, but to a chamber—and somehow that was worse. The emptiness of the place, the expectation in the air, made him shiver.
Inside, Turgon dismissed all others. The guards did not follow; it would not be the hands of soldiers that restrained Maeglin. The doors closed with a measured finality behind them, sealing the chamber in silence. Only the steady breathing of Glorfindel, Turgon, and Maeglin himself filled the space.
Turgon’s gaze lingered on him, unwavering, sharp, and yet intimate, as though he were finally gazing upon a prize long sought. Glorfindel released his hold only when he was certain Maeglin would not flee, but the memory of that grip burned against Maeglin’s skin like iron.
“You are under my house,” Turgon said, his voice smooth, almost gentle, but threaded with command. “From this hour forth, you will not leave these walls without my word. You are bound to me—not by chains, but by a debt that you shall repay with your very being.”
Turgon exhaled, turning toward the door.
“Prepare him.”
The chamber was warm from the press of so many candles, yet Maeglin shivered. The silk clothes at his hips was too thin to shield him from the air, and where the fabric brushed against his skin it felt more like a caress than clothing, sliding when he moved, slipping with the faintest shift of breath. Flowers lay scattered across the bed, cold against his legs where he knelt. Every sensation was heightened by the silence, sharpened by the weight of blue eyes fixed upon him.
“Raise your arms higher,” Turgon said, his voice hard and stripped of warmth. He sat back then with his captain, who whispered that this was what should have been long ago— that if only he had controlled his traitorous nephew, his kingdom might have been saved.
Maeglin obeyed, lifting until his shoulders ached, until the muscles trembled with strain. The oil brushed over his skin caught the candlelight and turned the lines of his arms into gleaming curves, every flaw erased, every weakness masked in sheen. But the effort burned; he could feel the pull deep in his joints, the prickle of sweat breaking at the small of his back where the air was hottest.
Turgon’s voice followed, softer but no less commanding. “Tilt your head back. Let the light fall against your throat.”
The silk veil had already slipped from his face, but still Maeglin obeyed. He leaned back, exposing the pale column of his throat, and the heat of the candles seemed to press more tightly against him. His hair slid down, heavy and damp against his back, strands sticking where oil and sweat mingled. The position was unnatural, baring him in a way that left his chest rising shallow and strained, yet he did not lower it.
And so he held. His lungs protested, the arch of his back trembled, and still he held. The weight of their eyes was heavier than the ache in his muscles, heavier than the cold sting of jewels against his knees, heavier than the shame that smothered him until even thought was scarce. His world narrowed to the burn of his body, the scrape of silk shifting each time he drew breath, the faint clink of a chain Turgon had draped around his wrist that now swung loosely with each tremor.
Turgon turned to Glorfindel, voice low, sharp with amusement. “Tell me, Glorfindel… do you think he ever truly understood what he was doing? Or was he always just a boy pretending to be innocent?”
Glorfindel’s lips curved in a thin, mocking smile. “A boy, indeed,” he said quietly. “He fancied himself clever, yet blind to the consequences”.
The silence between commands was worse than the words themselves. In it, Maeglin could hear the soft drag of Glorfindel’s wine cup against the armrest, the faint rustle of Turgon’s robes as he moved closer, the steady sound of his own breathing, too loud, too raw in his ears. Each noise was magnified in the stillness, pressing upon him as though the chamber itself bent to witness his humiliation.
Glorfindel rose slowly from the armrest, stretching with deliberate care. His gaze lingered on Maeglin, sharp and appraising, every motion measured to accentuate the young elf’s discomfort. Maeglin’s chest tightened, muscles coiling instinctively as though he could shrink away from the attention. The chains across his wrists kept him firmly tethered to the bed, a constant reminder that flight was impossible.
Turgon’s voice broke the silence, low and cutting. “Do you not wish to take revenge, Glorfindel? After all he has done, do you not feel the urge to repay him fully?”
Glorfindel’s lips curved faintly, a cold smile that held no warmth. “Later,” he said softly, deliberately. “Tonight, the prize is yours, Turgon. I will leave him to you for now. My interest tonight is served.”
Glorfindel straightened and stepped back, leaving the chamber. His gaze lingered on Maeglin one last time.
Once the door closed, Turgon stayed, watching Maeglin closely. His eyes swept over him slowly, taking in every detail, like a hunter examining his prey. There was a hunger in Turgon’s gaze, heavy and intense, as if he wanted to make Maeglin understand completely who held control.
“Turn your face toward me,” Turgon ordered, stepping into the circle of light.
Maeglin’s neck ached as he obeyed, the motion sending a sharper sting down his strained muscles. His eyes flickered up only once, long enough to glimpse the shadowed figure of his uncle— tall, stern, unyielding. He dropped them again quickly, but the shame lingered, scalding his chest more harshly than the candle flames.
His steps were soundless over the carpet, but Maeglin felt him nonetheless—the heat of Turgon’s presence, the faint scent of wine and crushed flowers that clung to his garments. Turgon stopped close enough for Maeglin to feel the weight of him, and then his voice, low and deliberate, broke the silence.
“I am separated from my wife,” Turgon murmured, his fingers brushing lightly against Maeglin’s chin, tilting his head back so that his throat was exposed. The motion was deliberate, possessive, and Maeglin’s breath broke in a sharp gasp. “Even when i reborn, the shadow of fire still haunted me. She said i'm changed and she never wanted to be part of my world anymore because of that shadow. And my daughter still carries resentment. Because I once trusted your counsel over hers, because of what you made me see, what you made me do.”
The hand lingered a moment longer, warm and firm, pressing Maeglin’s chin up, forcing the arch of his neck. The contact sent a shiver down Maeglin’s spine, chest tightening, stomach knotting. Turgon’s other hand moved slightly closer, hovering over him in a way that was both threatening and intimate, every motion measured, every gesture deliberate.
“And you,” Turgon continued, voice low, smooth, almost a purr, “you will pay. You will pay for the ruin you caused, for the city you betrayed, for every life crushed beneath your choices.”
Maeglin’s throat tightened, and despite the fear and shame coiling in his chest, he tried to speak. “I—I am sorry—”
Before the words could escape, Turgon’s hand shot up and clamped over Maeglin’s cheek, tilting his head sharply. The grip was firm, controlling, and Maeglin’s breath caught in a startled gasp. His lips pressed against the palm of Turgon’s hand, and for a moment he could only feel the weight of the former king's control.
“Sorry?” Turgon hissed, his breath hot, the word spat like venom. His gaze dropped to Maeglin’s lips, lingering there with a hunger that made the younger elf’s stomach churn. “You think that one pathetic word will undo what you’ve cost me?”
Maeglin’s breath hitched, and he tried to shake his head, tried to stammer something, but the grip on his cheek held him frozen.
“You destroyed what cannot be mended,” Turgon continued, voice low and sharp as a blade. “My family is scattered, broken beyond repair.”
Maeglin shivered beneath the intensity of the gaze, stomach twisting, chest tight. The chains around his wrists bit faintly into his skin, holding him in place as Turgon’s hand remained firm against his cheek.
Turgon’s thumb dragged against Maeglin’s lower lip, forcing it down just enough to bare his teeth. Turgon’s eyes darkened, hungry, cruel. “Look at you, so pathetic.” he whispered, lips grazing the air above Maeglin’s mouth. “If I cannot have back what was stolen from me, I will take from you until nothing is left. You will be my recompense.”
Maeglin shook his head, a garbled sound breaking in his throat, but Turgon was already bending close. His eyes burned, fixed on the helpless mouth he held pinned open. “You will serve the purpose my wife denied me, the loyalty my daughter refused me. Do you understand?”
Maeglin’s lips trembled under the harsh grip, a muffled sound breaking free. He tried, despite the pressure on his jaw, to form words. “Uncle, I never meant—”
The attempt died in a pained whimper as Turgon’s hand clenched tighter, forcing his cheek inward until his teeth dug into the soft flesh of his mouth. His head was shoved back against the pillows, the pressure making his breath stutter.
“Don’t you dare to call me that,” Turgon spat, his face close enough that Maeglin felt the heat of his breath. “You have no right.”
And before Maeglin could recoil, Turgon bent and seized him, his mouth crashing down in a kiss that was no kiss at all but conquest. His lips were hot, bruising, crushing the air from Maeglin’s lungs. He devoured him greedily, teeth catching, tongue forcing past clenched lips until Maeglin’s muffled protest broke against him.
Turgon's free hand gripped his jaw tighter, holding him in place, forcing the angle deeper as though swallowing every trace of resistance. The scent of wine, heavy and bitter, filled Maeglin’s senses until he thought he would choke on it.
Turgon groaned against him, not with tenderness but with hunger sharpened by years of resentment. The sound vibrated into Maeglin’s chest as the kiss dragged on, punishing, suffocating. Every desperate twitch beneath him was consumed as if Turgon meant to erase his apology, his voice, his very self.
When at last he pulled back, a thin line of saliva broke between them, and Turgon’s eyes burned with satisfaction and fury alike. His thumb smeared Maeglin’s lips again, swollen and wet from the assault.
Maeglin tried again to speak, a broken plea scraping out between gasps, but Turgon cut him off with a brutal twist of his face, fingers digging deep into the bone. “No. You don’t get to explain. You don’t get to soften this with pretty words.” Turgon growled against his lips, teeth scraping as he bit down hard enough to draw a gasp of pain. “No more words, your mouth is good for something else.”
He devoured him again, open-mouthed and brutal, his breath hot and heavy, tasting of bitterness and longing twisted together. The force of it pressed Maeglin back until his body bent awkwardly against the pillow, pinned under the king’s weight and will. His chest heaved, but every breath was stolen taken into Turgon’s mouth, leaving him desperate and lightheaded. His tongue invading until Maeglin gagged against it. Chains rattled as Maeglin twisted, wrists tearing against iron, but there was no escape, only the weight of Turgon’s body pressing harder.
The kiss broke only so Turgon could drag his mouth lower, down the sharp line of Maeglin’s jaw, teeth scraping skin, tongue marking every inch as though he would brand him with possession. His lips fastened hard at the hollow of his throat, sucking until the skin burned. Maeglin shuddered, trapped between dread and humiliation, the sound of his own broken gasps filling the chamber.
He yanked at Maeglin’s robes, fabric tearing under his fists, baring the trembling body beneath. Hunger flared in his face, not the hunger of love but of something darker, the need to take and break. He bent low, licking and biting at Maeglin’s nipples, dragging his tongue down and sucked hard, savoring the sound of his captive’s gasp.
He shoved Maeglin’s thighs apart with ruthless force, pressing his own body down until there was no room, no space, only the crushing weight of him. And then Turgon whispered, “That’s it. Spread your legs. Show yourself as you showed the enemy when you sold my city to fire.”
Maeglin’s legs trembled, straining against the pressure of Turgon body on his cock, and Turgon ground against him with deliberate cruelty. Turgon's hand slid down, three knuckles shoved inside his hole as Turgon's mouth returned to devour his chest, sucking hard, biting harder, leaving him littered with dark, angry marks.
Maeglin whined—a sound that should have been protest, but carried too much of a broken moan.
"Nghh ahh!"
Turgon heard it. He stilled for only a heartbeat, lifting his head to look at Maeglin with cruel triumph, he said in low voice dark with satisfaction. “So that’s how you sounds when Morgoth fucked you, right?”
Maeglin shook his head violently, tears streaking his face, but his chest rose too fast, too unsteady. When Turgon’s hand dragged higher, rough fingers gripping his aching cock, Maeglin cried out in humiliation only for the sound to be swallowed by the press of a hand over his lips. The chains above rattled wildly as he tried to twist away, but the touch set fire through him, shame and pleasure colliding until his whole body shook.
Maeglin sobbed against the gag of Turgon’s hand, choking on the sound, but his hips betrayed him, jerking despite himself and seeking the very torment he wished to deny. The sound of his slick and wet cock while Turgon stroke it hard made him ached his back, hips moving to free him from Turgon's grip. The shame was unbearable, and yet the pleasure only deepened, winding him tighter with every merciless stroke.
“Look at you,” Turgon sneered, watching his lips part and his face flush red. “All dread in your eyes, and all hunger in your body. Hyprocrite, Just like your cursed father.”
That broke something in Maeglin. A sob burst out but it tangled with the next moan, “Nghhh–stop–i can’t–”. His hips jolted, his whole frame shuddered against the chains. And then it happened. A convulsive, shuddering wave tore through him, dragging out every moan, chains rattling violently as his body jerked and writhed, shaking from the full force of release. Heat, pleasure, humiliation, and dread collided, leaving him gasping.
Turgon leaned back between Maeglin’s parted thighs, watching with satisfaction at every quiver, every shudder as Maeglin ride out his first release, his fingers trailing just enough to remind Maeglin that the night was far from over. The faint clink of the chains echoed through the chamber each time Maeglin twitched, each small movement a reminder of his helplessness.
Maeglin knew something was about to happen as Turgon positioned his arousal to his hole; he began to struggle against the shackles, writhe and kick, and fight with all his power, but it was in vain
Maeglin turned his head and tears fell on his cheek but Turgon grip his jaw, “Open your eyes and look at me.”
Maeglin's breath caught when something hard and hot was thrust into him. A surge of heat enters him and slowly but relentlessly rips apart his flesh as the slick, pulsating cockhead slides further and deeper with slow, rolling pushes, causing his eyes to water and his mouth to open silently.
Turgon slid his cock deeper with guttural sound, eyes never leaving Maeglin’s expression as he entered.
And Turgon started thrusting brutally. Thousand years of guilt, resentment and hurt poured in the intimate way.
Turgon’s rhythm deepened, his body driving with heavy inevitability, each thrust echoing like a hammer against the stone and Maeglin’s back arched, chains rattling above his head. Turgon's breath grew harsher, spilling ragged against Maeglin’s ear. His moans came between gritted teeth, rough and low. His hips snapped harder, faster, chasing the end he had held back too long. Maeglin gasped with each thrust, jaw clenching, the small sharp sounds spilling past his bitten lip.
Turgon forced his face up with one hand, fingers bruising Maeglin’s jaw. “Look at me. Don’t close your eyes. I want you to see who is inside you when I finish.” The command cut through the haze and though Maeglin trembled his gaze—wet, wide, unwilling—was dragged to lock with the burning hunger of Turgon’s.
The moment tightened unbearably, Turgon’s movements growing erratic, each drive deeper than the last. His groan broke low and guttural, vibrating against Maeglin’s throat as he finally buried himself to the hilt, clutching his nephew tight enough to leave marks.
“Take it,” he hissed, voice cracking as his climax tore through him. His body shuddered violently, spilling his seed deep inside Maeglin with each ragged pulse.
Maeglin was beyond speech. His throat ached with swallowed cries, his breath broken into gasps. Each thrust jolted his body against the mess already spilled, every shift drawing out a gush of fluid that smeared the sheets and streaked his thighs.
His body shook with every new shudder of Turgon’s release, hips buckled when Turgon pressed his cock too hard into his sensitivity. His toes digging at the bed and shivers flooding his skin as he's bred
His belly felt heavy, stretched, aching with fullness, every muscle shuddering from overuse. Sometimes he thought he might break apart entirely, yet each time Turgon forced deeper, the body endured. That endurance became its own torment.
Turgon shifted him again, pressing him on his stomach, spreading him open with both hands as he drove in, hard, the sound a wet shlup followed by his ragged groan.
“No,” Maeglin gasped hoarsely, voice cracking, his body flinching at the first drag of flesh within him. “Enough—please—” But his plea broke into a whimper as Turgon moved again, unrelenting.
Turgon’s voice was low, hungry, the tone of a man unwilling to stop. “Feel how you’re clenching even when you say no, your body won’t let me go.” His pace quickened, hips smacking against Maeglin’s with wet, obscene slap slap slap, filling the chamber with sounds that made Maeglin’s ears burn.
Maeglin shook his head desperately, yet his body betrayed him, trembling harder as another wave of unwanted pleasure began to build. His own voice rose against his will, strangled moans spilling free. “N-no, I can’t—I can’t again—”
“Yes, you can,” Turgon growled, teeth sinking into the curve of his shoulder. “You’ll take me until you forget where you end and I begin.”
Maeglin’s back arched violently as his body spasmed around the relentless intrusion, pleasure stabbing through him like lightning—too much, far too much—yet it tore a broken cry from his throat as his release was forced from him a second time, leaving his body wrung out and shivering.
Turgon’s pace stuttered then, his voice rougher, lower, breaking apart with hunger. “Yes…gods…yes, you take me so well…so tight…ah…” His hands bruised Maeglin’s hips as he drove in hard, frantic, his composure crumbling as the edge claimed him. With a final, guttural snarl, he buried himself deep and broke apart inside him, his climax tearing through with violent shudders, his breath ragged and sharp in Maeglin’s ear.
Maeglin sagged in the chains, the last of his strength gone, body trembling with overstimulation, every muscle twitching from the torment of being forced past his limits. He hung there, boneless, unable to move, unable to think as he feels the hot rush of Turgon’s seed inside him.
Turgon’s weight pressed hard to his back, his breath still unsteady, lips dragging across Maeglin’s sweat-soaked skin. yet even as his cock softened, his hips rocked and rolled, coaxing his own flesh back to hardness while the thick white seed poured from Maeglin in heavy streams. He moaned at the sight of it, at the sensation of pushing it back inside, grinding until Maeglin whimpered beneath him.
Turgon did not let the haze of his climax settle. Even as his breathing slowed, a different hunger sparked behind his eyes, one darker, curious, and edged with something like obsession. He slid free with a wet sound, Maeglin’s body shuddering violently at the sudden emptiness, a broken whimper escaping his raw throat. But Turgon was already moving, hands rough as he unlocked the chains, pulling Maeglin down just enough to drag him to his knees on the bed. And before the Maeglin could react, Turgon hauled him up from the bed.
Turgon shifted his hold with startling ease, one arm braced beneath Maeglin’s chest, the other tightening around his thighs until his knees bent, his legs spread wide and helpless. Maeglin’s back arched, his head falling against Turgon’s shoulder, hair clinging damp to flushed skin. Suspended like that, half-lifted, half-pinned, he had no ground beneath him—only Turgon’s body holding him from behind.
When Turgon thrust back inside, the sound tore from Maeglin’s throat, high and broken, his whole frame shuddering in midair. His toes curled uselessly, unable to touch the ground.
Turgon groaned deep in his chest, eyes nearly rolling shut. His hips snapped forward, the movement jarring Maeglin each time, the boy’s body folding helplessly against him, held open, taken without mercy.
Every thrust forced Maeglin’s breath into ragged cries, the air punched from his lungs. Yet underneath the torment, pleasure sparked in dizzying waves, cruel and undeniable. His body tightened around his uncle, shaking with every merciless push, the stimulation so intense it blurred into unbearable sweetness.
The sound of it was obscene, flesh slapping and Maeglin’s strangled cries mingled with Turgon’s guttural groans. Turgon’s grip only grew harsher, one hand sliding up to squeeze at Maeglin’s throat.
Maeglin’s voice cracked in response, a cry half-sob, half-moan, echoing through the chamber. His body convulsed in his uncle’s arms, hands clawing at Turgon’s grip on his throat, his betraying him with pleasure that left his vision white at the edges.
Turgon held him there, rocking him as though he were weightless, head lolling against Turgon’s shoulder as though he were a doll.
Then Turgon turned Maeglin’s limp body. He adjusted the grip. one broad hand sliding beneath Maeglin’s thigh, the other cradling his back, until the boy was angled upward, hips tilted and open. Maeglin’s legs clung instinctively about his uncle’s hips, his body trembling with the effort to keep balance, though Turgon bore his weight without strain. The angle left him terribly exposed, tilted back, helpless in the man’s embrace.
It was a posture he had never dared with his wife—one he had seen among mortal camps in Beleriand, bodies joined at strange, desperate angles. He had longed to know why mortal did such thing, and now he would.
Maeglin’s breath hitched, half-whimper, half-moan, as Turgon entered him in one single thrust, the new angle wrenching a sharp cry from his throat. His arms, though freed, only clutched weakly at his uncle’s shoulders, the strength gone from his limbs. Suspended in Turgon’s arms, he could do nothing but take each thrust, his body jolting violently with the force.
The shift made every sensation harsher—deeper, sharper, overwhelming. His head tipped back, hair spilling as he cried out again, the sound echoing through the chamber.
Turgon’s breath grew ragged, his chest pressing hard to Maeglin’s own, his lips finding the line of his jaw, his ear, his throat—devouring with a hunger long starved. He groaned low, almost reverent, as the boy writhed in his arms, the new position granting him dominion so complete it made his vision blur with need.
“Perfect,” he muttered against damp skin, voice hoarse, as if speaking only to himself. “Perfect like this.”
Turgon drove Maeglin higher against him, his back bowing under the force of it, his every thrust pounding deeper at that merciless angle until Maeglin’s body quaked and twisted in his arms. The boy’s nails raked against his shoulders, desperate to anchor himself, his legs dangling in the air with every brutal thrust, his cries torn raw with the double edge of pleasure and pain.
The sounds grew louder, wet, relentless, the slap of flesh echoing in the vast chamber until even Turgon’s composure faltered. His breath grew ragged, his rhythm savage, and his voice broke through his teeth in a hoarse growl.
Maeglin’s body betrayed him first. The tightening grip of his legs, the shudder that wracked through him, the broken cry that escaped his throat—all gave him away as his orgasm overtook him, sudden and uncontrollable, spilling across both their skin. His head fell against Turgon’s shoulder, gasping, helpless, as the sensation of his hole clenching hard consumed him.
That was enough to unravel his uncle. With a guttural roar, Turgon slammed forward one final time, holding Maeglin crushed against his chest as release tore through him. His body convulsed, hot and violent, spilling deep within as his grip crushed the boy to him like he would never let go.
The two of them trembled together, shuddering, still locked in that tight embrace. The air hung heavy with the scent of sweat and skin, the chamber echoing with the last fading cries that bled into silence. Turgon’s breath heaved against Maeglin’s ear, his arms still firm, unwilling to set him down, unwilling to loosen even a fraction of what he had claimed.
And Maeglin, spent and dazed, sagged in his hold—his body undone, his legs hanging limp, yet his heart still hammering, caught between humiliation and the undeniable trace of pleasure that lingered, staining the very shame he could not escape. He sobs between whimpers as the wave of his orgasms recedes, leaving him devastated. "P-please..No more..."
The chamber reeked of heat and sweat, air thick with the cloying scent of sex. The sheets were soaked, the mattress beneath them ruined. Maeglin’s body trembled violently with every touch, his eyes glazed, lips parted, hair plastered to his skin. His stomach gave little spasms, cramped and sore from being made to hold so much, and every new release forced a groan from him, not of pleasure but of helplessness. Yet Turgon only moaned above him, praising the endless tightness, praising the way he was filled again and again.
He rolled Maeglin onto his lap once more, clutching his waist, lifting and lowering him in a steady rhythm. Each drop of seed spilled with a hot seeds inside, overflowing past the tight seal of flesh and dribbling down in thick streams. Turgon guided his hips mercilessly, his jaw clenched, groans echoing in the chamber. His release came again, sudden and shaking, his back arching as he cried out. And as soon as the tremor ended, his body stirred once more, unwilling to rest.
Through the night he kept on, uncounted times, rutting with the rhythm of obsession. The chamber never knew silence; the slap of skin, the wetness of their joining, the ragged groans of the former king, and the low whimpers of the nephew made a symphony of possession that stretched hour upon hour. Maeglin’s body sagged, heavy and near-lifeless, yet always pulled upright, always held open for more. His dread deepened with every surge inside him, dread at the truth he now understood—that his uncle’s hunger was endless, and his own body had become the vessel to bear it.
By the time dawn crept in, Maeglin’s body had long since crossed the line between exhaustion and collapse. Every inch of him ached, every muscle spasmed uncontrollably from the relentless strain. His belly, distended with the weight of what had been forced into him, cramped and churned with sluggish protests; each new release pushed past the tight walls and seeped out in hot rivulets, yet still more was driven inside. He felt stretched from within, skin tender to the touch, his gut heavy and unsettled as if it no longer knew what it could hold.
The wet noises grew louder as his body gave way. No longer did it resist so tightly; the ring of muscle quivered, overused, loosened by endless hours of violation. When Turgon thrust, the sound was a sloppy slick slick, fluid spilling freely, smearing their thighs and pooling beneath them. Maeglin’s stomach gave a sudden twist, forcing him to gag faintly, a deep wave of nausea rolling through him. The air reeked of seed, sharp and musky, clinging to his throat until he could hardly breathe without tasting it.
His body overwhelmed, began to push out what could no longer be contained. Each thrust of Turgon forced a spill, hot liquid pouring down in thick streams, staining the sheets anew. The mess was so heavy it sloshed beneath them, soaking into the ruined bedding until every movement was accompanied by a wet squelch. His belly clenched again, spasming, and a gush escaped him even as Turgon groaned and forced still more inside.
Tears stung Maeglin’s eyes, not from pain alone but from the humiliation of his body’s helplessness. His thighs trembled with small twitches, nerves firing without command, his lips parted as only broken sounds escaped him. His chest rose and fell in ragged gulps, each breath shallow, each exhale trembling. He wanted to curl away, to hide his face, but Turgon held him firmly, rutting steadily with low, satisfied moans.
Turgon shuddered with ecstasy at the sight of the overflow, at the proof that his seed had conquered and filled so completely that the body could not contain it. Every spasm of Maeglin’s belly, every gush of hot liquid spilling out, drove him further almost feral. For each tremor of release felt like a burden torn from his soul, and the more he spilled his seed, the lighter he became.
The morning did not bring him relief. When at last Turgon’s body eased into sleep, Maeglin remained awake, staring at the pale line of dawn seeping through the shutters. His body ached everywhere, his muscles heavy and spent, his throat raw from holding back sound through the long night. But worse was the weight inside him—thick and pressing, a reminder of how many times Turgon had emptied himself into him without pause.
He shifted slightly, drawing his knees up as if to curl away from the feeling, but the motion made it worse. The heat pooled low in his belly, and the fullness pressed outward, a heaviness that made his stomach feel taut. When he moved, he felt the slow leak of it, warm and humiliating, seeping against his thighs before being trapped by the sheets. A sticky wetness clung to him, the biological truth of what had been done unable to be denied.
His body reacted despite him. His abdomen cramped faintly, muscles contracting as if trying to push out his uncle's seed, but the sheer volume made the effort futile. Every time the pressure shifted inside, it sent a strange shiver up his spine—half pain, half numb surrender. His legs trembled weakly at the memory of how many times Turgon had forced him open, how the rhythm had grown more desperate each time, how the release had spilled into him with groans of gratitude, again and again until Maeglin could no longer count.
He pressed a hand against his stomach. The skin felt warmer there, and the faint swell under his palm made the reality more unbearable. He thought of how Turgon had sighed after each release, how he had whispered thanks to the Valar as though Maeglin’s humiliation were a divine gift. Turgon had held him close, breathing deep as though centuries of grief had finally been lifted, and Maeglin had been nothing more than the vessel to carry it away.
The sheets beneath him were damp, sticky where the leaks had spread, and the faint soursweet scent of it clung to the air, mixing with the musk of sweat and the weight of Turgon’s satisfied breath. His own body betrayed him further—raw and swollen from the night, every shift of his hips making him wince, every small movement pressing the burden inside him deeper. His belly felt wrong, as though it were carrying not just the release of one night but the endless burden of Turgon’s need, as though it would never be empty again.
And still, Turgon slept beside him, face calm, the faintest smile on his lips, his hand resting on Maeglin’s hip like a man who had found his peace at last.
To be continue...