To: La Princesse

From:

Fandom: Lord of the Rings

Threesome: Elladan/Elrohir/Aragorn

Title: Of Age

Requested Element: innocent Aragorn

This wasn't love, and this wasn't a bed. Matter of fact, Estel didn't think he was even partway across his sleeping roll any more.

He wasn't really Estel, either. Or perhaps he wasn’t only Estel any longer, but was Estel along with being more. He was still becoming accustomed to that fact, though its newness had faded a bit. Merely coming of age had been one very weighty thing, and getting used to not being simply Estel and now instead also knowing that he was Aragorn, descendent of the great kings of men of old and last heir of Isuldur, fostered in secret for his own safety, was rather another.

This wasn't exactly the realm of men, here, but neither was it exactly the realm of the elves… they'd gone beyond the clarion autumn which clung to the mist-swept valleys of Rivendell and into the wilder greenwood, the vines and brambles slightly overgrowing the trees more than they should, crowding out more of the light and breeze of air. Even the plants here had the barest hints of being foul-tempered and twisted in the fashion of the orc clans which seemed to grow bolder each year, encroaching like an inevitable tide.

This wasn't tender, or polite, or courtly. Neither was it brutal… it was simply wild and rough, bits of bark jutting through the loam into his back, a cluttering of fallen leaf fragments tangled into his hair, sweat and dirt and spit mingling across his young skin, hot against the chill of deepening dusk. Hands clutching, legs entangling, mouths fumbling to clash together, lips and tongues and teeth wet with panting breaths and kisses which pressed suckling hard everywhere.

This wasn't love, and he wasn't encumbered by others' expectations, his own worries and fears, or the weight of his flawed bloodline here. The potentials of inheritance could not be squandered or wasted; ideals could not be tarnished or turned from bright goodness into temptation and evil; lessons of the past and details of the wider world at present did not need to be memorized; the wisdom of the ages did not need to be seared into his mind with the inexorable dread weight of tomes and scrolls; and the bright flowerings of love and devotion to a woman's glorious beauty and strength could not cause bitter melancholy to well up suddenly from the grief-filled tragic chasm between the mortal and immortal races. All of those words simply had little or no meaning in the wild.

In the wild… in the wild… he was nearly a different person in the wild, a person he thought he might be content to have been, had he been elsewise born into this existence. That wild elsewise, all immediate possibility and the un-ignorable now was both within and without as the sun set and night fell.

He wondered in one mildly lucid moment if any other men, of any of the ages, had the good fortune of such eager help in their first years of coming of age. It was such a gift to offer, at such a time, to briefly lose all the cares and worries of the sort which could weigh so heavily and so constantly on shoulders unaccustomed to them. The three had stopped in their wandering hunt and woods-lore exploration early this day, and those two had shed their silver-grey cloaks and underlying bright mail while easing him into the idea of sharing relations with them this evening, introducing him to such passion. They'd offered nothing more and nothing less than an unforgettable and brief respite from the weight of his recently-assumed responsibilities, and a fair good riddance to his virginity.

They weren't elves, and they weren't men, and they weren't simply one-part of each. With their dark hair, grey eyes, tall figures and fair features, they were something else, something unique and almost magical, and they were currently making light work of driving him mad. He'd thought they'd managed to do so quite handily before, and again the time before that, when in his enthusiasm he'd found release so startlingly fast at their initial, welcome touches that he'd practically blushed to the roots of his hair, despite Elladan's reasurances that it had been fine, and not wholly unexpected.

Elrohir had simply noted a short while later that his earlier blush would have matched the fiery orange-red of the sunset, and that such a fortuitous concurrence would be worthy of pursuing, just before he'd stolen Aragorn's leggings. Elladan had joined in the mischief by partway removing Aragorn's tunic and leaving his arms entangled into uselessness over his head. That'd been the second time he'd thought his mind was exploding in lightning bursts of madness and the joy of unlooked-for desires fulfilled. He had collapsed on his side to surrender to their hands working him front and back, a near-dry fist tugging and stroking his prick and a cool oiled finger teasing between his arsecheeks to rub circles into spirals into the center point just inside him and then spiraling within. He writhed and pumped and kissed with his open mouth whatever came within reach as his hands clenched uselessly, still snared in the tunic Elrohir had stubbornly continued to hold out taut above his head.

He'd thought that to be madness, and yet he'd been wrong… he was at this instant still unfairly outnumbered by the fair twins although he had finally managed to get his arms free of his tunic, and yet he was right now quite simply, madly, overcome with sensation… his pulse pounding, hips pumping, lungs straining for breath, head thrashing back against the soil again and again. Somehow this time they were holding him at the brink of release without tipping him to brimming, and the feelings just keep growing, new heights upon new heights making his mind spiral in on itself in a many-colored, giddy frenzy.

For their parts, the sons of Elrond Half-elven were greatly enjoying themselves as well. Their hands and mouths wandered freely over their father's fosterling and each other, their dark hair working its way loose of its plaits to curl into damp ringlets across his skin. As the day faded into sunset, sunset into pale dusk, and finally dusk into wild darkness, their fair skin paled to moonshine silver and their hair darkened to silken ink, and the already minute differences in their appearances faded each into an echo of the other.

Aragorn barely caught the glint of the small vial as one tilted it over his abdomen, the other pressing across his torso and holding him down as his tongue lapped hungrily across his chest. He thrashed upward a bit at the cool oil's haphazard drizzling, but the other's weight held him more or less steady. Deft, warm fingertips danced inward from his thighs and belly in a spiral, slicking oil on their way, around and around and around to tightly fist around his prick and glide upwards. Oh! Warmth and wet and slippery and…

Teeth closed on his shoulder, the other's mouth there sucking strongly, hot and sharp and sting, and he surged upward again just as the oiled fist began its downward stroke, and Aragorn’s eyes clenched closed as his hoarse cry rang into the clearing…

Strong hands grasping his hips, pulling him upward from the height of the momentum of his own thrust, turning him and bringing him up unsteadily to his knees…

The other hands taking his shoulders, somehow the weight across his chest and diaphragm gone, raising him and bending him so his hands came crashing down, one to find a pale nape and tangle in the loosening plait of hair he unconsciously found there, the other to clutch at the dry leaves and loam, soft and earthy under his nails, his chest colliding with the back of one pale shoulder…

Those same hands, strong and sure, one sliding along his side, the other vanishing briefly… its absence then explained by another cool splash of oil across the small of his back, trickling down between his cheeks…

Slick cheeks on either side of his prick, strong muscled back beneath his torso, strong shoulder under his hand, strong earth below them all and the night stars glinting silently, unseen overhead…

Firm hands behind him guiding his hips, a hard prick finding its way easily between his cheeks, damp hair cascading over his back and shoulder and more twining between his fingers as he grasps that strong, pale shoulder beneath him…

Entering… tight, yet sliding easily… slightly hesitant…

Being entered… tight, yet slow and steady, not quite painful, really, but tight, and heat, and…

Tight around him, taking him in, haunches pressing back against his belly, one hand reaching back to grasp at his hip…

Pale fingers entwining there, some signal between these wondrous shadows of each other and suddenly, suddenly he was buried to the root, being taken to the root, and then something even more intense was striking deep within him and then they were moving and all thought was lost, he was adrift and afire and wild.

…

He blinked blearily into wakefulness moments later, but was undone one more time by the intensity of their parting, falling sideways across the leaves, still clutching at raven-silk hair and moonlight-dappled skin, both of which slipped through his fingers like water.

…

He awoke again briefly when he was rolled onto a dry, warm bedroll and beautiful, strong bodies embraced him from either side, with two soft grey cloaks among the covers pulled over the three. He wondered if they’d ever tell him which had been which this night, or if he would be left to bemusedly wonder through all of his days.

This was not love, and they were not Arwen, and he was not only Estel. Yet this night, they wrapped their arms around him and murmured softly, their voices mingling with the wind moving gently through the trees above, and gave him his first truly peaceable respite since Rivendell’s sanctuary had yielded up its secrets and familiar safety at his coming of age, and Elrond had delivered to him the shards of Narsil, along with the weight of the mortal world.