This story is rated «NC-17», and carries the warnings «Slash, threesome and (mostly) implied twincest».
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23 July 2012 | 2404 words
Summary: Just a moment in time, in which some things seem more important than others but are not, and we come to realise that everything and everyone are actually connected. (Now, how’s that for a summary?)
Rating: NC-17, to be on the safe side
Warnings: Slash, threesome and (mostly) implied twincest
Disclaimer: All characters belong to J.R.R. Tolkien
A/N: Not sure what this is (PWP, anyone?) but I haven’t written a slashy word in ages so I’m happy for any inspiration that comes my way!
Black like wet ink. Slicked with sweat; Elrohir shifts lazily, ghosts his palm over his own hip – as if he had come suddenly to wonder if it had gone somewhere else for the night. Pale skin glistens in the candlelight. Black hair covers the pillow.
Faramir exhales and stretches. Against Elladan. There is not much room but he makes do with what he has succeeded in claiming for himself. His attempt at allowing his back a reprieve draws forth a most unexpected reaction from one of his companions:
Elrohir turns his face to him, but not his eyes – they are distant, dimly shimmering – and says, quite clearly, “Mûmak!”
Faramir stills and blinks. “I’m sorry?” His voice is still somewhat roughened by earlier goings-on.
But Elrohir moves to sit and his long hair falls to shield his face from his companions. He speaks again, though it could not be argued – from Faramir’s point of view – that he makes much more sense this time. “It is too obvious!”
The line of his back is straight. All the way down to the smooth curve of his buttocks and the dark cleft between them. A breath of warmth steals through Faramir as he looks up at the Elf: through his calves it flows, into his knees and up through his thighs. All the way up to his groin and his flaccid member.
Behind him, Elladan grunts, into his hair. And so there is warmth there, too. On his neck. Elladan speaks with a hint of resignation, “Don’t listen to him.”
A hand, heavy and gentle slides up his side and Faramir briefly closes his eyes. Elladan moves. He presses himself to Faramir’s back, his backside, and his thighs. His soft length twitches when it reacquaints itself with Faramir’s skin. “It is a game,” Elladan mumbles into his copper hair. “A word-game.” He lifts his wandering hand off Faramir’s upper arm and brings the palm to his belly instead.
“Oh?” Faramir covers the hand with his own and pushes it downwards, until Elladan’s little finger brushes against the wiry hair that surrounds the base of his cock. “Will you not explain it to me?”
Elladan stretches now. He aligns himself with Faramir’s body so completely that it feels like being dressed. In Elf.
Faramir means to make a remark, a jest perhaps, but just then Elladan angles his head to press a kiss to his pulse point. This time it is Faramir’s length that stirs. But still. “How so?” he manages. “You think I would not understand?”
Elladan laughs softly. But it becomes a rumble in Faramir. “No, love, but because by the time I was finished, you would be fast asleep.”
“Or deep inside me and uncaring of anything else.” This is Elrohir speaking. He has turned around to face them. Now that he has pulled himself out of the muddy waters of deep thinking, his eyes twinkle like raindrops caught in the morning light. “You know how he likes to listen to his own voice,” he says to Faramir, with a nod in his twin’s direction. “Personally, I believe it is because it is identical to mine.”
Faramir smiles up at him. “He adores you.”
Elrohir flips his hair back over his shoulder. Gracefully, muscles move under his skin. He is slim but not effeminate in appearance. As his brother. And Faramir approves. He reaches out and trails fingertips lightly down Elrohir’s wrist. “You adore him.”
Elladan shifts again. He lifts a leg and hooks it over Faramir’s thighs, bringing him even deeper into his embrace. There is a whisper of pain in Faramir’s back but he ignores it; his heart is melting into his stomach and this is enough to know at present. Rough-spun colourless linen is rumpled under their entwined limbs. Then Elrohir moves too. Comes closer, to lean in. His voice is hoarse but soft, “We are one and the same.”
It is so. And yet it is difficult to remember when Elladan is sheathed in Faramir and Faramir in Elrohir. Or when Elrohir swallows around Faramir’s straining length while his twin kneels behind him and thrusts. In such moments, there is always more than there should be, if this were the ultimate truth.
Faramir wonders sometimes if anything would change if he discovered deception here. In the beginning this was his comfort when his qualms overwhelmed him: that the twins are of one soul and one heart, that loving them both is like loving a single unit. But as the days lengthened and the bright summer skies proved a poorer shelter than the confidentiality of winter’s darkness, and he came to understand that the King would not dismiss him for loving his foster-brothers, he began to see – involuntarily – differences between the twins. And yet, he held fast to the concept of their eternal, joint, existence, cleaved, for some reason by the Valar, into two identical halves.
He still does. Even now, when he knows them. He likes it this way. And he is not fooling himself for they are indeed each other. They breathe each other. They love one another as much as they are in love with one another. And Faramir lies between them. Sometimes.
Sometimes Elrohir does so.
But now Elrohir is kissing him. Faramir allows his tongue to sweep deep into his mouth and he counters, chasing the energy of the kiss back into Elrohir’s mouth. Elladan is stroking his thigh and teasing his neck with his lips. His breath fans out over Faramir’s throat and swoops down his collarbones. Elrohir ends the kiss with a smile. The narrow bed creaks when he slides down to lie beside them. His hair is tangled. Faramir reaches for him, quite unnecessarily, for Elrohir is already moving into those human arms.
They love him, Faramir knows. For some reason. And it cannot be solely for the light dusting of hair on his chest, or the freckles on his nose and shoulders. He will not complete the suggestion that arises in his mind every time he thinks of this, but at times he does and he almost blushes then: because he is good enough for them.
The twins absorb him. Flesh is aching hard now and there are muddled patches of light in a hazy tableau of ivory and sleek black; Faramir’s vision blurs as the blunt head of Elladan’s arousal nudges against his already loose opening. Before Elladan melts into him, and before Elrohir has – warm fingers wrapped around his member – given him the first stroke, Faramir has time to think that this must certainly not have been what the innkeeper imagined would take place in one of his upstairs rooms, when he opened his door for three mud-splattered and rain-soaked travellers.
The late winter storms are ravaging the western lands but beyond that bend yonder lies the Valley. This is nothing more than a few nights stolen before representation and diplomacy rush over them in Elrond’s House. Nothing less.
He nearly cries out when Elladan pushes all the way inside. Elrohir’s mouth is hungry. His stroking demanding. Faramir wishes he could touch the Elf’s length that keeps prodding his thigh but he is rendered immobile by Elladan’s embrace. But Elrohir is smiling again, smiling into the kiss, and still smiling when his lips leave Faramir’s to travel over a stubbly jaw and join with Elladan’s. Silky hair falls into Faramir’s face and there is an inevitable twinge of pain as Elladan changes the angle a bit to better be able to kiss his twin.
Faramir must have groaned. In that way, for they both still at once. Elladan’s length is throbbing within him and he wishes he could thrust himself. Preferably into Elrohir. But he must have made a noise.
Elrohir straightens. Silver eyes catch his as Faramir blinks his own eyes open. He spots the worry immediately. Elladan’s hand is burning on his hip but the Elf does not move an inch.
Elrohir scans his face but says nothing. Faramir shakes his head against the lumpy pillow. “‘Tis all right.”
Elladan’s hand moves to cover his heart. His voice is unsteady, “If we ever hurt you…”
“You never could.”
“You are in pain.” The tip of Elrohir’s heated flesh is wet against Faramir’s thigh.
Emotion rushes over Faramir and takes him by surprise. He swallows once. Twice, before he can speak again. “Finish this,” he mumbles. “I need you.”
It is hesitant at first, when they resume their lovemaking. Elladan’s thrusts are gentler, his kisses on Faramir’s neck lighter. Elrohir’s strokes softer.
But eventually they find a rhythm. Faramir sways between them, floats on a smooth tide from one port to the other; Elladan’s arms embrace him from behind and Elrohir’s kisses turn slow and seductive.
The night is far advanced when they give in at last. Elladan shudders into him, every muscle cording and his breath hitching. Faramir joins him in a groan, and Elrohir’s eager hand milks his release from him in a positively brilliant cascade of light. Then this twin comes too, and he presses himself so close to Faramir that not a single finger can come between their bodies. But it does not seem to matter. Elrohir clings to Faramir desperately and bucks against him, and rubs his seed all over Faramir’s groin. Their kiss – gentleness forgotten for a moment – is bruising.
It is addictive. All of it. That is how Faramir came to accept their sympathy and learned to not see pity where there really is only concern. And love. And that is why he gratefully takes Elrohir’s hand now and lets himself be guided to his feet with Elladan alert behind him, kneeling on the bed.
There is pain, he cannot deny it. With Elrohir’s help he loops an arm around the Elf’s shoulders and allows him to share some of his weight.
Thankfully, the room is small and so the washstand is not far away. Faramir stumbles nevertheless, his left leg, his unwilling leg, refusing to make any attempt at all. Still, he has to move or his muscles will curl into knots and cause his joints to stiffen until he is as inflexible as a rusty suit of armour. And then there will be even more pain.
The beeswax candles cast a warm glow about the room and despite the weather and the general look of the place the walls keep the chill out. Faramir casts a glance downwards, past his belly and his once again softened manhood. There, stretching from ankle to mid-thigh run the scars, still slightly red, almost two years after the battle of Osgiliath. It’s ugly. Very ugly.
He looks up. Elrohir’s handsome face is peaceful, his eyes clear. Then his lips twitch, but before the smile has fully blossomed, Elladan has joined them. He comes to stand on Faramir’s other side and drops a kiss to his shoulder. Then he reaches across the mortal and brushes the pad of his thumb over his twin’s lower lip. “My brother means to tell you that you are beautiful,” he says, silver gaze sliding to Faramir’s face.
Faramir blushes, even now. Elladan kisses him. And there is only softness.
They draw apart slowly and Faramir discovers that he is relying quite a bit on Elrohir to support him. But right now it does not seem to matter for there is such a sweet warmth rising between them all.
That is, until Elrohir suddenly starts into tension and gasps, “Fingolfin!” And then groans. “I knew it…!”
Faramir raises a sceptical eyebrow at Elladan who only shakes his head. “You are better off not knowing. Come…” He winds an arm around Faramir’s waist and together they reach the washstand. Elrohir remains behind, muttering to himself.
Faramir tries again, with Elladan, “With whom does he play?”
Elladan drops the wash cloth into the lukewarm water. “With Celeborn.” He sighs. “They have been at it for decades.”
“Only decades?” Faramir grins.
Elladan grunts a reply of sorts and wrings out the wash cloth. A cascade of droplets bounce off the water’s surface. Faramir steadies himself against the Elf, skin to skin, and wishes he could stay here forever. Although they could use a larger bed.
It is only later, when they have settled down again, and Elladan’s fingers are working blood back into Faramir’s muscles that he realises something. He has been watching Elrohir silently fretting over this secret game of his for a while now and suddenly it strikes him.
He reaches round to catch Elladan’s hand. And nods at Elrohir. “Does he not resemble Aragorn, when he paces the council chamber, annoyed with himself for not quickly enough thinking of a solution to some problem?”
Elladan’s laugh is full of surprise. “I do believe you are right! Brother, love, Faramir may have a point. Something of the humans has rubbed off on you.”
But Elrohir does not laugh. He is looking at them from across the room, his expression oddly blank. Then he moves. Still undressed and still silent he crosses the floor and sinks down on the bed beside them. His eyes are both darkened and brightened, and it makes it hard to look away. He studies them long before he reaches out for his twin’s hand. Somewhere atop Faramir’s spine their fingers entwine.
Elrohir speaks quietly. “Aye, indeed it is so.” With his free hand he traces Faramir’s cheekbone. “And I do not mind it.”
Even before he says it, Faramir knows it. And he has never been so aware of his own heart before. It is almost a physical sensation, the way it swells in his breast when he looks up at Elrohir.
The Elf loses his fingers in the copper locks. Elladan’s lips on Faramir’s shoulder are warm.
They are one and the same.
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The following people read the story, enjoyed it, and would like to thank the author: Ria