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The Mingling Hour by Urloth

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Story notes:

unashamed PWP after the call went out for more smut in the fandom. I answered with my OTP.

The mingling of the trees casts a most curious light. Depending on which tree is waxing and which is waning, the light can be opalescent, shimmering where it touches surfaces. Such light slides into the royal bedroom, catching on the many bright glass lamps that fall from the ceiling on chains, unlit for there is no need for flames with the curtains wide open.

The royal couple do not care about being seen. This is the time for rest for most, and the chance of someone coming into the vast gardens their rooms look out onto through massive glass-door that are flung open is nil. The gardens are private after all.

Míriel tosses her head, biting her lip as she watches the brilliant glittering lamps above her head shimmer in the mingling light, whilst her entire body shivers with pleasure.

A muffled chuckle against her thigh draws “do not tease” from her as she glances down to where black hair, in patterns like spilled ink, spreads over her thighs and rounding stomach, one of Finwë’s hands resting possessively on the swell whilst the other holds her thighs apart. His tattooed fingers are dark crimson on the pale gold of her skin, an aesthetic pleasure to add to the rest of the stimulus. There is another chuckle, hot breath against her belly as Finwë draws himself up and peers at her with smug knowledge in his pitch-black eyes, tongue licking away the gleam of her on his lips.

“And how are you going to stop me teasing?” he asks her, the low rumble of his voice sinking into her bones and stoking the heat that is winding in a impatient serpentine fashion from her breasts, the nipples red from his earlier favours, down to her quim, which his fingers slide against, pressing two in just to the first knuckles. The teasing penetration causes her kick at the stroking touch. She grunts, trying to tilt her hips to push him deeper but he evades, withdrawing to stroke across her folds and then circle her clitoris.

Míriel glares at her husband, then tosses her hair back out of her eyes as much as possible, much of the thick weight of it caught beneath her body and tickling against her knees as she squirms. Her arms, lax above her head, strain again but Finwë ties a tricky knot, and a strong one at that. Her own craftsmanship works against her also, the brilliant marigold hair-ribbon her husband adorns his hair with, when he is not using it to tie his spouse in bondage, her own design and making. She would not make her husband a hair-ribbon that could rip at one good tug.

“That’s what I thought,” Finwë kisses between her breasts, then catches a nipple between his teeth, tugging lightly. His touch between her legs lowers again, and he pushes his fingers deeper then before, three of them now and to the second knuckle. The stretch is an ache she’s been longing for, more then she’s been given so far but not enough and not the amount she truly wants. Not what she wants. Finwë catches her eyes again and smiles at her, mouth trailing to her other breast. He rocks his hand and with each withdrawl her back arches a little more, hot friction and the drawing of his mouth hotly on her breast making the heat inside her twist until her thighs begin to shake on either side of his body.

Her husband is in no hurry today, sliding up her body with attention paid to every inch of skin he traverses. He takes the time to kiss her earlobe, then trail the touch up to the tip of her ear, with special, gentle attention to the ladder of piercings through the cartilage. She swears and his thumb, slowly sliding up and down, pushes up against her clitoris in answer.

“Finwë!” she gasps then groans when he scrapes his teeth against her neck, down to her collarbones where he bites. Every kiss and every touch, even the slide of his body over hers, drives her to a higher, frantic state of arousal but the bite is like being pushed over the edge of a cliff. Her head falls back and Finwë’s mouth is over hers, capturing her howl. Between her thighs his hand is rocking to meet the frantic thrusts of her hips, giving her the rest of his fingers, just enough to draw out the pleasure till it reaches a second peak and over she falls again, sobbing his name.