the first time he lay with arwen, aragorn was a virgin.

oh, there had been offers--innkeepers' daughters (innkeepers' wives), a gondorian noblewoman or two, more than a few of of his brothers on the battlefield, and very notably an umbar princess, who had stayed his execution out of great affection--but for aragorn there had only ever been arwen, the memory of her on the banks of the bruinen, dark as oncoming night and with eyes of the first starlight.

(he learned to keep his own counsel, to leave quietly, to spare heartbreak.)

but it means that when arwen tugs at the stays of his trousers, he is suddenly twenty again, rawboned and helpless, uncertain how to catch the evenstar in his hands. I haven't--he breathes, and arwen goes still. none--none of them were you, I could not...le annon pân veleth nín, nín bereth.

but arwen smiles, tilts her face up to his and kisses the place where his jaw meets his throat. slow, then, that we might have love enough come morning.

it is a fumbling, over-eager thing--every move he makes seems clumsy, inelegant; his knees and elbows make nuisances of themselves; he finishes too quickly--but she is patient, invites him to touch and guides his hands, his mouth--

and when arwen evenstar gasps, nearly wrenching his hair from his head as her thighs press hot against his ears, aragorn thinks he may prove a quick study.