Overabundance
Aragorn is glad that the candles are across the room, and he is glad too that they have not been lit, that the waning light of the day provides illumination and their bodies gleam in the light of the rising moon. The risk is too great, with candles nearby, that an errant brush of the hand might set all Imladris ablaze.
Such practical thoughts do not occur to him until later, but he does appreciate the beauty of his lovers in the shroud of dusk. His mind is mostly consumed, of course, with the task at hand; that of willing his hands to keep pace along Arwen's body as Boromir's mouth brings her slowly, inevitably to climax. The lady lies atop Aragorn, her back pressed against his chest, and her legs push his apart as the other human pleasures her.
She is nearly there. Aragorn can tell from the way she holds herself, from the set of her muscles, and he finally allows his hands to settle on her hips, offering himself as a foundation for what builds in her.
Arwen whimpers, and it's a sound that should hang in the air, that should be worshipped, a sound that must be woven into a thousand of Vaire's tapestries. But Aragorn is no godly weaver, and all he can do is bury a kiss in Arwen's dark hair and cling more tightly to her smooth hips. He envies Boromir for that moment, because if to hear that sound is worship, to be the one who created it can only be the greatest honor one could ever know.
Arwen whimpers, Arwen whimpers and finally Arwen moans, and she is tense, tight, she would be shuddering if every muscle were not so tight. One of her strong hands reaches up, grabs a lock of Aragorn's hair as he kisses her head again. She is pressing against him, pressing down against him, and the subtlest dip in her satin-sweaty back, the line of her ass is where his cock is trapped. Her other hand is fumbling -- Arwen fumbling! -- and finally comes to rest on Boromir's, on her own bent knee. She clutches at the man's wrist and suddenly, her voice is silent, and Aragorn can hear his breath and Arwen's, he and his beloved shudder together.
As she comes down, Arwen's voice returns. She pants, and her voice adds an edge to her breath. Boromir, eyes slightly glazed, lifts his head, his hands, and rests his head on Arwen's stomach for a few moments.
This should be a tapestry, too, and Aragorn wishes that Vaire would bless him with even a fraction of skill at her craft, that he had some talent at creating. Because this, as Arwen smiles, her eyes closed, one hand on Aragorn's cheek and the other on Boromir's back, the other man resting, worshipful, on the pale expanse of Arwen's stomach, this ought to be sung. This ought to be a song, a tapestry, a statue, anything that might make it last for longer than this.
And then Arwen pants the barest laugh, and pulls her hand off of Aragorn's cheek, and he gives a low crooning protest. Boromir looks up, and Arwen looks between the two of them and smiles.
"Never let it be said," she murmurs, "that Men are selfish in all matters. I fear, indeed," she adds, and slips out from between them like a trickle of water sliding easily between two rocks, "that I have done my kind a great shame, for the two of you give so generously, and yet -- " her eyes glide along the two human bodies before her. "And yet neither of you has found release."
Aragorn shakes his head, smiling, and Boromir glances over at Arwen. "My lady," the younger man says, "simply to give to you -- "
Arwen laughs again, but not unkindly. "I thank you, Boromir, for your kind words, but both your bodies would say otherwise."
Aragorn and Boromir glance at each other quickly, and look just as quickly away, back to Arwen, who frowns now, though a warm, peaceful mirth still shimmers, lowlit, in her eyes. "Surely," she starts, her voice earnest, then stops, smiles coquettishly, and tries a different tack. "Surely you two do not fear each other's bodies? One would think that more familiar territory would make this even easier -- one human male to another. I wonder how the Fellowship will possibly face the might of Sauron when you two cannot even face each the prospect of pleasuring each other."
The Elf's teasing has something of its intended effect: both Men glare at her, then Boromir moves, cautiously, up the bed. Arwen watches, amused, and Aragorn meets the younger man's sea-gray eyes. Something passes between them then, and Boromir, less cautious, smiles. The same teasing note that was in Arwen's voice is in Boromir's smile, and he ducks his head quickly, too quick for Aragorn to guess at what will happen before it does.
He gasps, for Boromir's lips, which only moments before brought Arwen to her peak, have closed around Aragorn's own cock. Aragorn gasps, low and quick and his breath comes in glissading pants as he grows accustomed to the feel of the younger man's mouth.
Then Boromir's tongue moves a bit, and he sucks briefly, testing. And everything in Aragorn's sight flickers for a moment, and then returns, more hazy sharply than ever, in time for him to see Boromir lift his head from Aragorn's cock and smile up at him wickedly.
Boromir kisses him then, and Aragorn can taste the cool astral moss of Arwen's core and the hot spiced leather of Boromir's mouth and even something of himself is mingled there. The taste alone is enough to make things slide again, slide into focus and smoky haze and back into too-sharp focus. The other man's tongue crashes gracelessly past Aragorn's lips, and had Aragorn resisted, or had he greater sensibilities of poetry and song, he might be offended at the lack of grace and lyric. It may not be graceful, but there is certainly a rhythm to the way that Boromir's hands slink along Aragorn's skin. Aragorn's blood thrums in sheer currents through his veins.
Arwen is a satellite that orbits around them; Aragorn feels her presence without searching for it, but that he can tell, she is not interacting.
That he can tell. He has Ranger senses, honed by years and years alone in wastes, but they are overwhelmed at the moment, overwhelmed because Boromir's tongue has dragged a line up his throat, because Boromir is sucking at a bit of skin, totally vulnerable skin, not reinforced by any muscle, between Aragorn's throat and collarbone. Boromir's mouth provides enough sensation, and Boromir's hands provide still more. One of them traces up Aragorn's arm, pins his wrist as Boromir licks tentatively at a nipple. Aragorn lets a strained groan escape, and Boromir smiles against his chest, the hand moving further up, twining Aragorn's fingers in his own, no longer trapping him but simply persuading.
Aragorn needs no persuading, especially when Boromir's free hand closes around his cock and begins to stroke. He buries his own free hand in the younger man's hair, pulling him down for another kiss. "Stop," he manages to whisper, "and I shall kill you."
Boromir smiles against Aragorn's cheek, kisses him at the corner of his mouth and Aragorn takes the opportunity to shove his own tongue into Boromir's mouth. He pulls his other hand free of Boromir's and slides it up the powerful arm, now serving for Boromir to balance himself. At the sound of a low gasp, a cease of Boromir's hand upon Aragorn's cock, he looks down. Arwen is kneeling beside the bed, spreading some shining substance from a small bowl onto Boromir's length. She stops long enough to smile mischievously at Aragorn, and he kisses Boromir again, moans into his throat as one of Arwen's slick fingers slips within his body.
Boromir's hand begins to work again, and Aragorn thrusts into his fist. Two of Arwen's fingers are in him now, moving with some leisurely purpose, and she hits something inside of him. Aragorn bucks, bucks and everything has a diaphanous glow for a beat. He realizes with in the instantaneous clarity that one hand is still tangled in Boromir's hair -- his grip tightens and Boromir grunts. Aragorn realizes that his mouth is still locked against Boromirs and his teeth clash against Boromir's with a muted sound that echoes through their bones.
Then Arwen's fingers are gone, and Aragorn draws his legs up, knees to his chest, and Boromir has pulled his lips from Aragorn's to suck in breath. Aragorn whispers things, in Elvish and the Common Tongue, whispers demands and threats and then Boromir slips into him, slides in slowly, cautiously, and withdraws just as slowly. The tip of his cock only remains in Aragorn, and Aragorn shudders. Shudders and Boromir's back is buttery-smooth beneath his fingers. Fingers digging into Boromir's skin, strong hard muscle wet and slick with sweat and Aragorn digs his fingers in and fights to hold on.
Boromir is poised, Aragorn can feel the man's charged tension, yet he somehow remains static, still. Aragorn growls out of frustration, and a tremor runs through Boromir, whose eyes are shut, whose lips are parted and trembling themselves. A drop of sweat falls from a lock of the younger man's auburn hair onto Aragorn's chest. As it slides down Aragorn's skin, he manages to lift his head at last, to try to see what holds Boromir so completely in thrall.
Aragorn's eyes widen at the sight that greets him. One of Arwen's long, graceful fingers is within Boromir, and the man is clearly torn between his dark-haired lovers.
"Mercy, Arwen," Aragorn manages. "If not on Boromir," the younger man shoots Aragorn a pained look, and Aragorn smiles, "then on me, at least."
The Elven princess simply smiles, adds another finger, and moves her hand more purposefully this time. Boromir quakes then, grunts and slams into Aragorn, who is just as startled. His head falls back again, and he can only assume that Arwen is continuing.
There's an abundance of sensation here, an overabundance that will kill him, or drive him mad, or at the very least take everything that he can give and leave him weakened and drained. He has learned throughout the years to sense everything around him, and that instinct never really leaves him.
And now, now, there is everything and more to feel, and Aragorn percieves everything, somehow, and it all leads him to one undeniable conclusion, the only clear bit of reason in the midst of heavy passions: Boromir and Arwen conspire to drive him mad.
For Boromir continues to thrust into Aragorn, who catches an occasional glimpse of Arwen's sultry smile before he closes his eyes. There is too much to take in, and the darkness helps keep him sane, or perhaps only drives him further on, for now that much more of his energy can be spent on feeling, feeling, feeling. Feeling Boromir, no longer cautious, pounding into him, driven on in part, no doubt, by Arwen's ministrations.
He shouts, suddenly, for Boromir has hit that same spot that Arwen's nimble fingers found, and there is a burst of heat behind his eyes, in a color that there are no words for. Aragorn shouts, and one hand grabs a lock of Boromir's hair. "Don't stop," he manages to growl, and opens his eyes as Boromir smiles lasciviously.
Perhaps, something inside of him says with a strange calm, he will make a good King after all, for Boromir offers no resistance to his order.
And then that unnameable color overwhelms his vision again, and Aragorn is filled with it, cannot contain it, and screams as he comes. He is vaguely aware of Boromir groaning as Aragorn tightens around his cock, and in moments the other man, too, is gone.
Boromir manages to remove himself from Aragorn before he collapses beside him, and Aragorn lifts a tired arm for Arwen to slide under. This, too, is a blessing, a holy moment, as Boromir, then Arwen fall into sleep's embrace, and Aragorn wishes, sleepily, that he were an artist and might capture it: the two beautiful bodies on either side of his own, the sweat on all three bodies catching the light of the stars, glimmering, even, in the moon.
He regrets, vaguely, never learning any such craft from the Elves he grew up among. But there is little time for him to hold such thoughts, for he is weary, and soon he is asleep as well.