Trinity by Urloth

Chapter 1

Warnings for: Polyamory/Ménage á trois, Slash and Het. 

And badly written porn.

I can't write it well.

Sorry.

Read Chapter 1

They decide Ingwion needs a brother and Finwë will be the father this time.

“A Ingwion and a Finwion,” Míriel points out in delight, her point being one she used frequently during their debates over their next child (well besides the fact that it is her womb thank-you-very-much, she gets the final vote.).

Finwë had wanted their next child to be Ingwë’s again, so as to appease the Valar who do nothing but stare disapprovingly at the three rulers of Tirion whenever they meet.

 Finwë argued that surely proof that Manwë’s precious, golden king’s line was not being impinged upon by Finwë’s darkness might sooth some ruffled feathers.

The wealth of hurt in that one argument was all Ingwë needed to take Míriel’s side, wishing he could do something to halt the slow assassination of Finwë’s self-worth and the marginalisation of the Noldor since their arrival in Valinor.

Míriel kisses Ingwion’s thatch of bright curls goodnight and lays him down in his cradle with a last look at his slumbering sweet face. Then she creeps away from the mother-of-pearl construct and closes the door to Ingwion’s little side chamber. Now she can join her husbands in their bed.

“Gold and raven, just like their fathers; two little boys made out of  Laurelin’s light and the dark space that cradles the stars,” she paints the picture for them in amongst wriggling out of her skirts and her dress, ducking and diving away from their grasping, greedy hands with a grin. Not a bad metaphor, thinks Ingwë, from someone who used to think poetry was the worst waste of time she could think of.

“Not a silver haired child then?” Finwë asks her, catching a strand of her Telperion-shaded hair.

“No,” Míriel lets Ingwë catch her as her breast band drops onto the sheets and becomes a lost scrap of gold embroidery on black silk swimming in their sea of white sheets.

“At least not yet” she mumbles distractedly as she settles into the cage created by their arms with one arm around Ingwë’s neck as he kisses her smile and shares it, the other reaching back to grasp Finwë’s hand.

“And no daughters?” Finwë teases, mouth laying love-bites down her spine while his spare hand slithers under her stomach so he can take Ingwë in hand.

“One day,” Míriel promises then latches onto Ingwë’s neck as their golden love arches beneath them both. She leaves a nice big stain on his skin that no neckline will be able to cover, nuzzling at the darkening bruise possessively before Finwë tugs her away with a rumbling chuckle.

“One day there will be daughters… later… but for now I want my sons,” she demands between kisses, attacking Finwë’s mouth with as much passion as he has.

Ingwë watches them with some awe for a moment, their bodies glowing in Telperion’s light which bathes the room completely. Here in Valinor the weather is mild and the rain is never violent. With such placid weather, architecture in Tirion is nothing like the heavily battened down huts they used to live in. Here in the palace their bedroom opens out onto a balcony through a door so large it takes up a whole wall. That door is folded open now and there is so much silver light that Ingwë has no problem making out details.

Finwë’s hair is a river of shadow down his back and across the sheets. His eyes are closed and his back slightly arched. Muscles play under imperfect skin and Ingwë takes the time to trace each scar with his eyes, recalling the origins of those he knows about. Finwë’s skin tells no lies and neither does that skin’s owner. Finwë was a trapper and a hunter. One that occasionally sang love songs in the evening where Ingwë could hear, then leave and let Ingwe lie restless through the night as he composed a response for the morning. Finwë lived all his life relying on his body not to let him down as he stalked and ran down his prey, right up until the Valar came and for some reason his people chose him to go into the west.

Perhaps because they felt that a man as capable as he could handle the journey and any strangeness from the Valar without being too concerned.

Perhaps because they felt a loner such as he would not be missed.

Míriel and Ingwë would have missed him if Ingwë had been left behind along with Míriel.

As it was, Míriel missed them both so much she was a barely there wisp by the time they returned from Valinor.

There is a long curving scar over Finwë’s broad shoulders that Ingwë knows nothing about. The scar leads an observer’s eyes down the pathway of Finwë’s spine before almost deliberately halting above tight, buttocks.

The high king of all eldar in Valinor is very well acquainted with those buttocks. He’s also very well acquainted with the thick cock that Finwë is grinding against Míriel’s thigh.

Ingwë moans and his hands clench for a moment as he tries not to touch himself but just enjoy the view.

Míriel cups Finwë’s face, pressing against him and the advantage of her height to control the wet dance of their mouths. Her breasts are pressed against his warm chest and her hips are held in Finwë’s large, capable hands.

Ingwë watches her control the kiss and admires the soft roundness of her stomach, left over from Ingwion’s birth, her rounded backside and then her miles of legs.

Míriel is tall. It is the first thing any who meet her think. Taller than any man she has ever met and without a care for how this makes her ‘unwomanly’ in the eyes of some. When Ingwë first met her he thought her ridiculously tall but now that he knows her; now that he loves her, he knows her height is not ridiculous at all. Míriel towers above them like Mindon Eldaliéva towers over Tirion and Ingwë spares a hope for a future, that perhaps their sons or failing that, when the time comes for their sons to have sons (and daughters) that Míriel will have grandchildren that can look her in the eye.

“Sweet song that is enough,” Ingwë breaths at last with need pulsing through his voice like a heartbeat and his cock hard and dripping across his stomach. He rises up enough to capture Míriel’s arm and drag her down against his chest, Finwë following her down and seemingly not upset that he the kiss is over. Not when he can attack Ingwë’s mouth now, hot lips and sharp teeth raising the tempo of Ingwë’s heart to a fever pitch.

They wind up with Míriel’s back to Ingwë’s chest and her head resting on the pillow beside his own and with Finwë between Míriel’s legs. She is a warm comforting weight against Ingwë, right up until she begins to rock her hips deliberately to grind his need up against the tempting flesh of her buttocks.

Ingwe retaliates and finds the ticklish spot against her ribs and Míriel squirms and bucks when he worries at it with his fingers, laughter filling their room.

He loves this laugh. It is the first thing he knew of her; her laugh as it wound through the trees on a breeze, interrupting the length ballad that Ingwe was enduring from his brother.

Finwë meanwhile pulls back from their kiss with an annoyed bite to Ingwë’s lip since he just got kicked in the hip by Míriel’s flailing legs. Ingwë chases after Finwë’s mouth and kisses him once more, this time apologetically while his hands slide up to cup Míriel’s breasts.

The proud bow of Finwë’s mouth relaxes beneath his after a moment and the kiss is returned with a smouldering affection that makes Ingwë’s head spin. Between them Míriel is gently sighing as Ingwë’s fingers trace serat across her skin, writing uninhibited poems for her to deduce later.

“Come along now,” Míriel arches into a metaphor that Ingwë is composing, hooking her knees over his and it seems Finwë barely has to move before he is inside her. He bites lightly at her shoulder, taking his time to adjust to wet heat and tight silk.

Ingwë thinks back on a scene like this, not half a yeni ago, but with Finwë’s body bracing Míriel’s as Ingwë drove into her. How they felt the fluttering formation of Ingwion’s fëa in the night and that there was no doubt, never any doubt that this was their son; the son of Finwë, Ingwë and Míriel.

How right this is, the three of them.

Manwë and Mandos might scowl with their disapproval radiating so fiercely that plants wither around them. Varda might continue to hint so unsubtly that Ingwë should find himself a ‘noble maiden’ to be his Queen. They can continue to do so until Eru unmakes his own creations and if they choose to do so, it will be in vain.

Ingwë will never give this up.

His thoughts scatter abruptly, for Finwë has started to thrust in that firm, decisive manner of his. The movement rocks Míriel between his legs and grinds her against the aching piece of flesh there.

“Sweet Eru!” Míriel praises, mouth parted to gasp and her cheeks flushed brilliantly. She reaches her arms up and back, twining them about Ingwë’s neck so she can bury her hands in his hair. She pulls some of it forward, letting the rich gold spill over his shoulders to mingle with the silver and black that drapes across her skin.

“Oh sweet Eru!” Ingwë catches her repeated praise in his mouth and arches his hips up to grind against her. He closes his eyes loosing himself in the rhythmic surging of their bodies and their mixing moans and sighs. His world spirals down to nothing more than hot skin and silk hair rubbing against his body and when his orgasm catches him, it is by surprise. He gasps against Míriel’s mouth, or is it Finwë’s mouth? Perhaps it is both. His orgasm is messy, hot and sweet on his tongue and he feels the corresponding crest of his lover’s pleasure. Míriel cries out and Finwë hides his moan between her breasts, fingers tightening and leaving bruises on Ingwë’s arms.

Is it really any surprise that they fall asleep after that?

Ingwë barely has the energy to roll to the side, keeping Míriel sandwiched between Finwë and himself. He drapes an arm over her side and rests a hand on her stomach though he knows he wont feel anything just yet. Finwë’s hand finds his there, the skin of it almost scorching hot as it covers Ingwë’s. Wrapped together they drift together, breathing evening out and their hearts slowing in synch.

Sometime in the night Ingwë becomes aware of a spark beneath his hand, gaze flitting up to meet Finwe’s as they wait patiently, feeling the little spark find the tinder it needs to blaze into life. Míriel stirs for just a moment, hand joining theirs for just a moment.

“There he is,” she murmurs and then buries her face against Finwë’s neck again, relaxing back into sleep.

“Yes indeed,” Finwë agrees, still holding Ingwë’s gaze and leaning in to kiss him lightly, his smile meeting Ingwë’s.

One day Eru will take all he has given. The song will be sung. The music will end. But lingering in the silence will be a note, the whisper of a memory of an aubade all about silver, shadow and gold.

---

Chapter End Notes

So yeah... and this is like the least kinky bit of porn that I've written lately. Its also the first one to get finished because of that since I'm not stopping to do research every ten seconds.

For a smut fic I came up with far too detailed a universe for this fic but in short:

They got their issues over how their relationship was going to work over and done with by the time of the migration.

The Vanyar don't migrate away from Tirion because no way is Ingwe moving three days away from his husband and wife. 

And yes they are married. Well they consider themselves married. Of course Manwe and Varda wouldn't witness it but vows were said and rings are worn.

I did deal with Indis but I cut it out because it didn't fit. In short she doesn't understand and thinks Ingwe and Finwe are being taken advantage of. Was going to try and fit in hints of Indis eventually joining them but couldn't make it work. Oh well. 

Meadhros inherits his height from grandma Miriel in this universe. I know Miriel is described as a small woman (I think) in the shibboleth but that is spoonful of salt terratory. I like mixing things up.

If you think Miriel's height sounds unrealistic, I work with a girl who is 6'3 and still growing. Super tall women are possible if rare.

I have a new ot3 now.

I write too much Miriel.

Too many babies in my writing. 

I can't write porn.

I will probably come back and edit this a little. I tried to catch all the typos and grammar fail.

Oh god I'm posting porn.