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Idril sits in front of the vanity in her room in naught but her sleeping gown; the moon’s silver light steams in, though distorted and colored by the stained glass used for the window of her room. She sets her brush down, her golden hair freed from the elegant hairstyle it had been pinned in for her wedding ceremony, loose and flowing behind her. She stares at herself in the mirror, her cheeks flushed as she waits nervously for what is to come, the simple gown nearly see-through and showing off her figure.
She doesn’t look at the door as it opens. Not even as she hears them enter - both her father and her new husband. It isn’t until Turgon stands behind her, his hands on her shoulders, pushing the thin fabric down her arms slowly, that she meets his gaze in the mirror. The same uncomfortable feeling - lust mixed with shame - pools in her core as she sees the hunger hidden in his eyes. The same look he has leveled her with during every illicit tryst, every time he has come to her room and touched her in ways that only a lover should.
Turgon bends down behind her, brushing the hair away from her neck and over one shoulder; his lips press to the tip of one ear and send a bolt of pleasure through her. He moves slowly, lips a hot brand against her flesh wherever they touch. Along her ear, down her neck, over her shoulder. Her father doesn’t even try to pretend that it an innocent gesture, not as he tugs at the laces of her gown, loosening it enough for it to slip and pool around her waist, only stopped from falling to the ground by the chair she sits in.
Idril’s gaze drifts, landing on the reflection of Tuor in the mirror. Her breath catches in her throat as she takes him in, the formal wear discarded and replaced with simple linens much like her own. Covering his body, fully, but revealing more than they hide. Her attention is drawn back to her father as Turgon’s hands slip around her body, cup her breasts and caress them almost reverently, his thumbs circling her areolae, brushing over the already pebbling nubs. Her back arches, chest pressing into the touch of his hands, eyes fluttering closed. A moan spills past her parted lips as Turgon’s close around the tip of her ear once more, sucking teasingly, letting his teeth graze over the most sensitive parts.
“Atar,” she moans out, panting as her arousal grows, as it has so many times before. Her father knows her body in a way that even she doesn’t; he can bring it to life in a way no one else has ever been able to with even the simplest touches. In ways it will take her husband years to learn; and, even then, Tuor may be unable to rouse her body quite the way her father does.
Turgon’s lips and hands withdraw, much to his daughter’s displeasure. “Patience, dearest,” he murmurs against the top of her head, lifting her easily from the chair, allowing the gown to finally fall to the floor and leave her bare. “The bed is far more comfortable, after all.” His hands linger, even as he sets her on the bed, kneeling before her. He makes quick work of removing the silver prosthetics, hands lingering over scarred flesh, over the stump left behind when they had to remove not only her feet but a part of her leg as well.
Idril looks over her father, to her husband; she can see anger and lust warring on his face. But she knows he simply has yet to understand. She closes her eyes as his lips trail up her leg, as kisses are pressed to her thighs, her hips. Up and up, over her belly, her breasts, along her shoulders. Until finally, they press to her lips. She melts into the kiss, lets herself be pressed down into the bed as her father deepens in.
And then it is over nearly as quickly as it began, Turgon drawing back and staring down at his daughter. At her flushed cheeks, her heaving chest. He follows her gaze as it drifts to her husband, who still stands near the door, fists clenched at his side. “It is your wedding night,” he states into the silence of the room. “Do you not intend to come and claim your bride?” His words hit the mark, his mocking tone enough to make Tuor close the distance, to make the Man strip down before him. A challenge, of sorts. His own clothing, simple though not as revealing, are removed easily enough.
Idril doesn’t argue as her father settles onto the bed and pulls her into his lap, lets her feel his erection pressing against her. Her head falls back against his shoulder, legs parted so her husband can see his prize. The only part of her that her father has not fully claimed, that is Tuor’s to claim - by virtue of being her husband.
“She is beautiful, is she not?” Turgon’s hand slips between his daughter’s thighs, fingers teasing their way down through golden curls, disappearing between the folds of her sex. They move slowly, circling her entrance without ever pressing inside, coming away slick as he draws them back. He teases her in this way, over and over, her hips bucking and chasing his touch every time he pulls away. His smile turns sharp as his free hand tangles in her flaxen locks, tugging roughly and earning himself a moan. “Shameless, too. Are you sure you wish to consummate your marriage with someone so wanton? Someone so impure that they enjoy rutting against their own father’s hand?”
Tuor watches - in horror or fascination, he isn’t entirely certain himself - as Turgon’s hand draws back only to come down sharply on Idril’s cunt. Watches with the same mix of emotions as her body arches and his wife moans. He should be disgusted, he thinks, to watch his wife reacting to her father’s touch in such ways, but it does little to kill his arousal to know they are related. And even the anger that simmers inside him as he watches another touch his wife in such a manner, is not enough to make him demand that Turgon stop.
“She is, of course, a virgin. Though I have had her many ways, she remains unclaimed in the way that would matter to her husband.” Turgon smirks, fingers dipping back between her folds, spreading them and holding them apart so Tuor can get a good look at his daughter’s cunt. “I will not deny that the desire has been there, especially with how alike she is to her mother. But, per her wishes, I have not taken her virginity, though she is not entirely untouched.”
Idril meets Tuor’s eyes, seemingly unbothered to have her father display her as he is. “Will you not take me, husband? I have saved myself for you, as a Ñoldorin maiden should. Will you not marry me in the way of my kin, as we’ve married in the way of yours?” She gasps as Tuor lunges forward, his mouth coming down hard on hers, as if staking a claim on her as he deepens it, tongue delving in to explore, to taste. His fingers join her father’s, rubbing teasingly between slick folds before two press inside her. She arches against Tuor, body trembling as he slides his fingers in and out of her tight channel.
Turgon’s hand draws back, both traveling over expanses of sensitive flesh to grasp her breasts once more. He fondles them, teases slowly at first, gently; and then he takes her nipples between thumb and forefinger and pinches. He twists and tugs sharply, feeling the way she gasps under his ministrations, the sound devoured by Tuor’s eager mouth. He angles his hips, lets his cock slide against her ass, between her cheeks to press against the ring of tight muscle there. Smirks at the shiver that wracks Idril’s body.
A third finger presses inside Idril, stretching her wider than she has ever been before - her father has used his fingers to tease her, after all, but never more than two. They press deep, scissor inside her slowly to work her open. Tuor’s mouth leaves hers, trails down her neck and leaves bruises blooming it its wake. His teeth graze over her collarbone before they dig in; the bite makes stars explode in her vision, her body arching and trembling as her orgasm tears through her. Her walls clamp down on the fingers pressed deep within her, release squirting from her onto his hand, dripping down his wrist.
Tuor’s fingers continue their brutal thrusting even through her orgasm, the sounds his wife makes as he fucks them into her urging him on. He aches with the need to fill her, to pin her to the bed and thrust into her and fuck her thoroughly; a base, animalistic instinct that he is barely keeping at bay. Something that Turgon seems to realize, he thinks, as the king of Gondolin slips out from underneath Idril, lying her down on the bed. Withdrawing his fingers, he presses them to his wife’s lips; watches as she licks her own juices from them almost eagerly. He presses the head of his cock to her folds, runs it between them teasingly, presses it against her entrance, though not yet inside. Instead, he does it again. And again. Allows himself to enjoy the side, needy whines that spill from Idril’s lips.
Before Tuor can press forward, Turgon’s hand tangles in his hair. Tugs his head back. “I will not stop you from marrying her fully, in the way of our people. But know this: just because you are wed and bonded does not mean that I will give her up. She belongs to me, first and foremost. I will continue take my pleasure from her, and I will give her the same pleasure I always have. This is not something you will be able to prevent. Do I make myself clear?”
“If it is what Idril wants, I will allow it.”
“You will allow nothing. What she and I have will continue, even if you do not agree.” Turgon releases Tuor, drawing back enough to watch as the Man enters his daughter, as Idril’s body tenses at the intrusion, her fingers clenching the silken bedsheets. As if to teach her husband a lesson, he settles himself beside her head; guides his cock to her parted lips and moans as they willingly - eagerly, even - close around the tip. He runs his hand gently through her hair, guiding her slowly to take more of him into her mouth. “That’s right. You’re a good girl for atya, aren’t you, my princess?”
Idril whines softly at the praise, at the feel - and taste - of her father’s cock in her mouth, at the feeling of Tuor inside her, stretching her wide as he fills her. Her eyelids flutter closed as her husband begins moving, pulling back and thrusting deep within her once more. Slowly at first, but gaining speed, becoming more forceful, as her cunt flutters around him. Her fingers stay tangled in the sheets as her father’s cock presses deeper and deeper, as well, until he is fucking her throat. Her throat spasms around it, her body trying to gag, to cough, even as she tries to will it to relax. And then he is moving as well.
Tuor’s fingers dig roughly into her hips as he begins to move in earnest, all worries thrown to the wind as he fucks her with abandon. As she enjoys the rough treatment of him pounding into her, of him claiming her virgin cunt. Her muffled moans, interspersed between the sounds of her gagging, half choking on her father’s cock, spur him - and Turgon - onwards. He leans over her, captures one bouncing breast, lips closing around the nipple. He suckles it like a babe, runs his tongue over the over-sensitized nub, grazes it with his teeth before tugging at it roughly.
Every touch, every movement, sends bolts of pleasure through Idril. Tuor’s hand coming to rest at her throat, not quite squeezing, but exerting just enough pressure, tips her over the edge once more. Her vision goes dark, and later, she may wonder if she passed out entirely as Tuor keeps his hand there, thrusting deep into her.
Tuor’s fingers on her hip tighten to a painful level, will likely leave bruises, as his hips snap forward, his release spilling into his wife. He’s only vaguely aware of Turgon’s climax, the king pulling back from his daughter’s mouth and spilling his seed over her face and chest - some of it spilling onto Tuor, as well. He lies atop his wife, chest heaving and spent - content - until Turgon begins to move them, to rearrange them on the bed.
Turgon rolls Idril’s new husband off of her, settling him on the other side of the bed, before he draws her close, kissing her forehead tenderly. His daughter is already in a reverie state, as she often is after one of their sessions, so he simply holds her, not even complaining when Tuor settles in against her back, burying his face in her golden hair. He has made his point, he thinks, and Tuor will not attempt to steal his daughter from him entirely. Holding Idril close, her head resting atop his chest, he allows himself to relax and slip into a light reverie, as well.