sweet hours from love’s delight by averytinylizard  

Makalaurë rushed from the people congratulating him after the concert, asking him to play at their weddings, crying at the sweetness of his voice and his skill with the harp. Russandol had taken his hands in hers as soon as he walked offstage, kissed his cheeks and told him she would wait for him at his house, and he had to follow. “The summer heat is too much for me,” she had said, “and I mean to congratulate you properly.” He had watched her as she left, that thin black dress, her dark red hair glinting in its loose braid, and her delicate sandalled feet stepping so softly she could have been walking on air.

As he came into his room, he saw that she had barely changed. She had taken off her jewelry, and her hair was loose, but as she laid on his bed she wore her dress and sandals still. Her clothes were hitched up, baring most of her legs, but even if they had been made of the most delicate gossamer they would still have hidden too much. What a denial it had been, to watch the delicate swaying of her hips as she danced with this lord, and this one, and this one, to his music and know the greatest treasures were not his to see there, in front of everyone. He would be willing to share the sight of her with anyone, if it meant he could see her at all times.

Now he could see, and kiss, and touch wherever he liked. Those soft lips, her blushing cheeks, her brow, her eyelids and those long dark lashes, anywhere, she was his to touch. And he was hers too, just as much.

How long ago had he realized his sister was who he belonged to? In their childhood, when the entire world seemed to be just their parents, and the two of them? Or maybe when they first spent time apart, her absence breaking his heart like nothing else? But most likely it had been during those latter years of youth, when Russandol had first told him that she was in fact a maiden, giving him the courage, nay, the knowledge to be a man. Were they not linked together from then on, as a man and a woman, even more intertwined than husband and wife? What a pleasure it had been, to first kiss her.

"Makalaurë. You have not kissed me yet." She was getting impatient, clearly, slipping her dress off her shoulders to entice him. It worked. Her breasts were bared, and he realized she had worn nothing beneath her gown. Jealousy made him blush. Had they seen those small mounds sway, as he was too far away to see? Had they seen the outline of the delicate buds? Had they touched them? Makalaurë wouldn't blame them, if only he weren't so jealous.

"You temptress! To think you had been wearing so little this whole night." He kissed her breasts, even as he berated her.

"The night was warm, Makalaurë, and I wanted no unnecessary layers."

He didn't argue with her, simply pushed her legs apart and moved his head there. He took a small vial of oil from his pocket and slicked his fingers, and massaged her entrance. He petted it, every touch light and with his other hand he stroked her tip. She was so soft down here, silken and easy to pleasure, to relax enough that any penetration would be easy, and still he took his time. It wouldn't do to bruise her. So he pushed in, a single finger slowly stroking her warm inside, and he kissed and tongued her everywhere he could reach, from the soft shaft, to where he was inside her. She gasped with his strokes, his pushing in, his licks, his kisses, and when he gave her a second finger her gasps turned to those beautiful soft moans. What an experience it was, to know that this was his greatest instrument, her light voice reacting to his touch and to know no one would ever hear or watch him play. But there was a comfort in seeing her spill with his third finger.

She pulled him up then, hair slightly more mussed than before, and drew him down against her mouth. Pleasure made her eyes lidded, and yet there was a light there that told him she would tease him still. Her hand moved between his legs, under his breeches, her thumb at his cock. He was wet for her, as he always was, and pushed his hips up so her fingers could slip into him. He moaned, not shy like her with the sounds he made.

"You sing so prettily, Makalaurë," she said against his lips. "It is a pity, sometimes, when you fuck me that you do not sing as loudly as when my fingers breach you."

"Then I won't, and you will hear me sing all night long." He was good enough at controlling his breath to speak clearly, even as every nerve told him to sob against her. Her fingers were so long and talented.

"Why? You have gone through all the trouble of preparing me."

"Please. How many men did you dance with tonight? How many of them thought that they would be here, with you? And all that, as I could only watch from the stage."

"I did dance with a few, but only because I had to." She sounded regretful enough, ridiculous as it may sound, and her fingers still moved in him. "On nights that I don't make you jealous, you refuse to treat me as if I were anything other than a maiden in one of your songs." And there it was, the lack of regret, the obvious trick to anger him and make him give her what she wanted. It worked, as it always did.

He came on her fingers, pushing his head against her neck and grunting, panting, feeling himself gush. And he pulled back, stood up on shaky legs and walked to where he kept his pack. He took the belt and cock, and pulled his breeches down.

He stumbled as he put them on, asked for help. "No," came the voice of his sister. "I think I enjoy the view too much."

He was putting himself exactly where she wanted him, he knew, but still, as soon as he finished with the belt and cock, he knelt over her, spread her legs open and pushed in.

"Ah! There's a good boy." She sounded so smug, for someone getting the breath fucked out of her. He would blush with humiliation, if pleasure hadn't already turned him red. The base pushed constantly against his cock, made him gasp, but even better was seeing his sister smile, drunk on him and him alone. Still, it would not do to leave her pride intact.

He moved his hand to the top of her dress, felt the fine cloth, delicate and light, and pulled down. The dress ripped, not so far as to fall completely off but enough to bare her stomach and render it unwearable in public, and Russandol gasped in delight. "I ought to make you go to our parents wearing just this," he said, palming her breast and fucking her even harder. "Would that satisfy you? Would it satisfy those who want to steal you?"

"I will, I will, but— ah!— you ought to do more, to prove to them, I, I am not theirs." Her hands were in his hair, pulling, grasping for anything to hold onto.

"Should I mark you, then?" He didn't usually like bruising her, feeling as if he were marring her perfect skin. But he did, when she asked.

Makalaurë pulled one of her legs over his shoulder, knee against her chest, watching her bend while her other leg stayed around his waist. He could see almost all of her now, her legs, her breasts, her stomach, but for the pieces of the dress that covered small parts of her. It was better like that, knowing that he could still uncover her hips, her back, that soft patch of skin where her stomach met the place between her legs. "No, no. But next time— oh, right there! When they flirt, or, or they dance with me, pull me onstage. Fuck me there, Makalaurë."

Oh, may Irmo help him. He kissed her thin ankle over his shoulder, fucked her as had as he could, and thanked the Valar that this cock would stay hard no matter how many times he came. He was proud of how little his rhythm faltered as the pressure against his cock became too much. He needed to see her finish. 

"I ought to make you come on my cock alone, shouldn't I? Put you on all fours and prove to them nobody else can fuck you like me. I should do that any time they try to get close to you."

"Yes!" She sounded close, that exclamation louder than she usually got.

"Even if you got married? On your wedding night, should I interrupt your dances with your husband-to-be to put you on your knees?"

"Who would I marry, if not you?" An absurd dream, almost childlike if not for when she said it.

A dream worthy of a kiss all the same, and he only pulled back when he felt her gasps get the way they did when she came. Now came the sweet melody, her gasps and moans, her high little noises that felt punched out of her lungs. 

He fucked her for a minute afterwards, less in the chase for more pleasure and more to see her blush more deeply, see her shake with overstimulation. He pulled out of her, and pushed in a single finger. She kissed him, a slight whine trapped against his mouth, but he needed to feel her loose, and warm, and soft. He did not stroke, kept his touch as light as he could, but he needed to touch her skin to skin here the way his cock could not. Satisfied, he pulled his finger out, and felt her drop to the mattress. 

“I am sorry about the dancing, for what little it’s worth.” Any teasing in her voice was gone. Their play was over, and she was letting him leave her web.

“There’s no need to be sorry. If dancing with a few dull men is what it takes to get people to stop asking why you're still unmarried, then I'll be happy to play on.”

“Oh, I wish it was only calling me a spinster! The other day I overheard Nambandur calling me frigid.” She rolled her eyes. “If you must use such an insult, couldn't you at least be funny? He didn't make a single joke with our father's name.”

“Didn’t you dance with him tonight? You really shouldn't reward that behavior. At least dance with people who respect you.” 

“I don't dance with him to reward him, I dance to shut him up!” She started to comb out the knots she had made in his hair. “Our father really cannot afford to have his daughter look inaccessible, and I cannot marry. So, dancing and flirting  it is.”

He grabbed her hand and kissed her palm. “If I married you it would shut them up quite effectively. Or at the very least give them something else to talk about.”

She smiled. “Replace a candle flame with an inferno. Quite the plan you got there.”

“I know. And imagine how it would add to my image! The libertine who finally managed to find a wife, and it is the worst possible match. Every single one of my songs would be reappraised.”

“And meanwhile I retire from politics forever, hounded by scandal, forced to languish in our home. I dare say I would grow to resent you.” There was the edge to her voice that said to him, I am going to take you to bed again, and you will service me most ardently. “Why, I will be forced to wonder if somewhere among your fanatics you have found a replacement.”

“Never.”

“How will you reassure me?” And she didn't give him a chance to answer, because she kissed him, taking his lip between her teeth and bruising it, uncaring of how he would look on stage tomorrow night.

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