Disclaimer: Not mines.  Make no money I.  No sue, please.

Author's Notes: We revere them as gods, but if you think about it, they’re just people. Really cute people, but people with doubts and fears and have to shower and belch and go to the bathroom just like everyone else because if you give them life inside your head then they aren’t gods anymore. Life does that, it makes imperfections. That’s how you can tell its life and not something else. And then they become just like anyone else on the street. Except…A lot cuter.

I read a lot of A/L lemons, and I mean a lot, in preparation for this, looking to see for what worked and what didn’t and what had been done and what hadn’t but mainly to figure out how to write lemons period. This is a bit new to me. Not too terribly new, but still new. Rather. Um.

Kudos, gracias, domo arigatou to Kharessa Bloodrose for her support and tips, especially the bits about smut and a stories true purpose which were referred to quite often really.

The style is a lot like Felix McKadden’s, because I’ve been reading a lot of her stuff lately and am completely addicted and I think it works. I don’t think she writes LotR stuff, but she does write quite well. Very well really, even if she has some weird ideas. It’s also a bit of William Faulkner, but he’s dead. If you check on my account at FF.n, there’s going to be a pretty different story for this chapter, mostly previews for the next chapter.

This isn’t going to have a happy ending.

To Hesitate

Part 11

By Gelfling


“Pardon me, Master Dwarf, but have ye the whereabouts of your companions. My masters desire to know of their welfare.”

“…Be Aragorn asleep?”

“No, milord, we checked his and the Master Elf’s quarters. They are not there, nor can we find them anywhere else in the camp.”

“…Ahhh. Weeell then. I see. Good for ‘em, took ‘em bloody long ‘nough, wouldenna taken anybody else so damn bloody long, for sure, but then ye can only ‘spect so much from an elf. Good fur ‘em, ought ta be happy now, but they coulda picked a better time.”

“…Master Dwarf?”

“Eh? Ah. I, uh, sent the Elf out a-while ago, to—discuss a coupla new problems they might be havin’ if they keep up their roundhouse shenanigins anymore. ‘Course that was a coupla hours, coupla long hours ago…but everyone’s gotta find their own way ‘round things. Fancy they’re havin’ a real shin-dig of a time getting’ ‘round theirs. Just hope that damn elf doesn’t screw it up, I’ll pop him one right iffen he does. The man too, come ta think of it.”

“…Er. Master Dwarf? I didn’t understand any of that.”

“Eh? Ach, weel now laddie, dontcha worry yeself a bit now, they’re just having a bit of a—strategist natter. About positioning and defenses, and whatnot. Away from everyone else. Yep. Just to, ah, see if they can’t get any new ideas, figure some stuff out. They’ll be back though, right as rain. Or I’ll be after them.”



“Shouldn’t the other commanders know about this?”

“Ehh…Not yet. They might not come up with anything. Don’t want to get any hopes up, ye know.”

“Oh. Of course…But in the middle of the night? It’s near morning!”

“Best time fer those types of talks lad.”

“You don’t think they went inside the city, do you?”

“Nah, shouldn’t think so. Even the elf ain’t that stupid….But you never know.”


Love isn’t wonderful. It’s terrifying.

Hands tearing tore his shirt off his own too busy trying to catch his breath catch his heart before it ran away again but it was too late for that already.

He never got a good look at where he had been taken, Aragorn’s tongue in his mouth was too overwhelming and demanding for him too even notice that.

If you didn’t know where you were or how you got there you were already dead.

And he didn’t even care. Maybe it was too late for that too.

It was like bad wine, like oil and bile in his mouth and inside him splattered everywhere then Aragorn had lit the flame and he was on fire, burning his skin the muscle in his arms jerking and contracting.

Only Aragorn could make the flame leave.

Only Aragorn could rescue him.

He vaguely wondered in a displaced clear moment of panic amid the sea of bone-deep fear and desperation what he would do if Aragorn left him there. Just dropped him and walked away.

Aragorn’s fingers were burned silver pressed and massaging under his ribs before he ever found an answer.

His bowels tightened. He tried to relax his grip on Aragorn, could no longer tell if the liquid running between his nails and flesh was water or blood, but he had to let go. Had to let go.

I’ll miss you, when you go. An’ you’re not even mine.

His blood pounded like battle drums over the field, under the mountain, when he opened his eyes he saw red, when he closed them he saw red. Every breath he inhaled was like mortar and leather and rain through his nostrils and lungs and into his blood.

The world tilted.

Aragorn was in his blood. He was in his head. His lips on his neck, his arms under his knees and around his shoulders (when had he fallen? When had he been picked up?), Legolas’ own fingers curled around his neck and the other pair kneading tapping along his spine.

He was furious, in a detached, rational part of his mind. What gave Aragorn the right to carry him? It mattered little though.

He had all but written down on paper in blood his surrender and submission.

He didn’t have to.

He could refuse, rise up—he could kill him if the need arose. But that was just it. He couldn’t. He couldn’t say no. He couldn’t refuse. That was how weak he was. That was how badly he needed this. That was his vulnerability, stripped out and laid out on a table carefully for him to examine and evaluate and pick at.

He could rise up, but what would he do then? What would he change then?

But one thing, perhaps.

He would be dominant, and it would be Aragorn, proud, dark, unyielding Aragorn who whimpered and writhed beneath him. But the agreement would be signed, just the same.

Legolas groaned as his body tightened and relaxed on his frame, tore Aragorn’s mouth from his chest (when had he been laid down? when had they found reprieve from the rain? when had Aragorn opened his shirt?) and smashed their lips together, wrapped their limbs around him so that they rolled and reversed positions.

Legolas expected belligerence, pride, and an upsurge of rebellion and adversity from Aragorn as he was delegated the role of submissive. He did not expect the inside of Aragorn’s thigh to run along his hip while foot and knee pushed his body down and on top of him.

Legolas broke up for air, gasping as a man scrabbles for a ledge, grimacing before his hips lifted and pushed down further than Aragorn could force him, chin tilting up then thrashing down to the side as Aragorn turned his hips upwards and forward and backwards and down and upward again, turned around and inside and outside Legolas’ own body.


Legolas’ ears caught Aragorn’s gasps and choked moans and whimpers, his powerfully built hands threatening to separate his shoulder blades from his back and crush his spine. Aragorn’s body beneath him continued to press and push and pander.

Legolas breathed in, slapped his mind, and opened his eyes, blinking away the red.

Aragorn’s head lay to the side, his eyes closed and neck bobbing in a grotesque and fascinating way with every breath and his lips pulsed with desire.

Legolas’ hair hung in burnt ash streaked with flax over them, on Aragorn’s hair and ear and on the floor like a ragged curtain, protecting them. Encompassing them. Legolas smiled and his eyes darkened to obsidian gray with lust. His lips wandered lightly over the bones prominent in Aragorn’s face, tongue mopping up the taste and smell of mortal skin and fluid.

Sweat tasted better than it sounded, tingled the deep old parts of his mind with something he had not felt in a long time. Base desire and open obsession, close to completion as he gnawed carefully at Aragorn’s jaw.

He liked that image, his hair a fortress invisible, impenetrable, possessive and marking Aragorn as his own, his hair a concept so ridiculous and primal and carnal it had to be human, elves were far to old for that sort of driving passion.

So human, so dirty, so base he wanted to be assimilated into it totally completely and forget everything he had been taught and everything he was for the sake of the dark writhing fire that burned inside that’s sole purpose in life was Aragorn just like this, just like he was now, and his little smiles and his eyes on him like they’d been so long only now they’d be on him forever just on him Aragorn’s eyes would be. Aragorn’s eyes on him until he died. Forever.

He smiled wider and slammed Aragorn’s body to the ground just to see him arch and pressed his mouth tongue-first onto and into Aragorn’s, held his head between his palms while fingers pulled at the back of his neck and shoulders to get his-

-metal pierced his skin (silver), making him rear up while Aragorn swore and pulled at his shirt, bits of blood shining on silver…

Neither did anything for a while except breathe. Legolas said nothing.

The agreement had been signed, just the same. But it wasn’t although it was already too late anyway.

Legolas faltered, and then raged. Aragorn had been making too many agreements of late.

Aragorn gripped the pendant and tore the chain, absently shoving it away from them on the floor, sitting up and Legolas getting up with him, keeping his eyes on Aragorn and on both of his hands the best he could. He recognized that look in Aragorn’s eyes. And as much as he was drawn to Aragorn, he always made him nervous. For several reasons. He could rarely tell what he was thinking.

The times he could weren’t much better.

A rough hand on the back of his neck stopped him from his gradual retreat backwards, pushed him forward, toward those eyes that were far too dark—

Legolas shoved down panic, and kept his face composed, eyes wide and empty.

He wouldn’t hurt him. He wouldn’t hurt him. He wouldn’t hurt him but gods could he, he could so easily with only a few words. Just a few words and Legolas would break. And humans were always reckless. It was their…advantage. Gods. Advantage. No. Not yet. Not yet.

Face still quiet, he leaped backwards and kept his eyes on Aragorn’s hands, which were far away

He forgot about Aragorn’s foot, still curled around and near his knees.

“Damn it, no running, not running-“

Aragorn forced his mouth on Legolas’, who twisted and pushed against the hands that gripped his hair.

“You want me I know you do.”

“We can’t we can’t you know it.”

“We can.”

Legolas mentally kicked himself when he arched up into Aragorn’s mouth and groaned piteously, hands switching from pushing to pulling Aragorn closer, his leg copying Aragorn and rubbing hard against Aragorn’s hip, ankle hooking over the other prominent bone as his eyes rolled back in his head and pulled down-

-and tried to flip them over again.

From there, he planned to run. Speaking sense to Aragorn right now would be useless, and while he knew he could win a fight, he knew his body well enough to know that it wouldn’t let his mind control it now. Then it would be back to square one with some additional bruises and cuts and maybe someone’s pants torn off.

Which wouldn’t be bad, but it wouldn’t be the point.

He got to his feet, ankles elongated to keep his soles on the floor, and would’ve gotten away if Aragorn hadn’t gripped his hair and pulled it hard, enough to throw him off balance and tumble him back to the floor, his mouth harsh and dominating over his, one hand stroking hard at his ear and the other groping at his pants, one of Legolas’ hands trying to push him away and somehow pulling his shirt away while the other was bent under him, making him arch into Aragorn to keep his arm from breaking.

Aragorn kissed him hard under his chin, in the soft and weak hollow under his jaw, his movements frantic and hungry flowing freely into Legolas’ own actions, his eyes glazed and both hands working at the hem of his shirt only to discover that the belt of Aragorn’s pants was far more interesting and worthwhile.

His mind still fought him, objecting for some vague and spiffy reason that he shouldn’t be doing this, drowned out by the little gasps and whimpers dragged out from his throat while another of his legs tried to grab Aragorn’s.

His lips on his ears, making him lose his mind, making matter splatter in a million different directions at once.

Hands fumbling loosed the straps of his knife sheathes, as gradually all the connections of thread and leather and stone where untied or loosed until his tunic and undershirt were off, Aragorn sliding his hands under him to pull it over his head, his naked pale back against the cold floor and straw and dirt. None of that really mattered now.

Aragorn’s lips on his throat, sounds he didn’t believe being pulled from his mouth he had no idea it could feel this good. One of his legs was pulled up and, mindlessly, he opened them to allow more access.

Fingers fumbled at his bootlaces, in the end yanking them off since Aragorn wouldn’t let go of his neck. Of course that meant that his legs had to be pushed up and put Aragorn’s body between the inside of his leg, rubbing absently against the inside of his thigh, even the mental idea making his body jump and jerk and attempt more contact while blushing fervently the whole time.

He breathed his name again, heard an answering vibration as Aragorn’s tongue washed over his skin that was somehow embarrassing. Legolas’ fingers clawed at his cloak, under his tunic. There wasn’t enough skin he could touch. And he couldn’t raise the necessary mental skill or will to get Aragorn’s own clothes off lord and they had only just started.

What happened was his pants came off.

There went his other boot.

There went the hands at his belt again, but this time more businesslike than before. Hurriedly, he pulled Aragorn up by the hair until he could look into the eyes that had watched and hunted and feared him and pressed his mouth to his, felt the eager and bright response.

He pushed up, sat up with Aragorn sitting up precariously on his lap, muttering “Get it off get it off there’s too much of it get it off”, and they had both struggled to remove his shirt which came off clumsily, still hanging on over Aragorn’s wrist even while Legolas pressed them tight chest to chest, missing what he hadn’t ever even had but had dreamed and imagined so long it might’ve been his such a long time ago.

It all felt so vaguely like déjà vu. Like he had taken him before, like this was a ritual a ceremony, something that had happened before but he couldn’t remember he couldn’t place it his mind said no there was no way he could’ve touched him like this before Aragorn’s fingers and palms and chest like burned silver and hot summer rays over the iciness of his skin this couldn’t have happened before. But it felt like it had.

Pale chilled fingers caressed the scars on Aragorn’s back, wet, neat kisses covered his mouth and his neck while he buried and brushed his face against the blond hair. He had missed this. This that he had never had, that he didn’t understand or comprehend but could no longer deny.

And it was of Legolas’ own will.

Legolas’ choice to suck and worry at his shoulders with his cold lips and sharp ivory teeth and chilly hands running along his waistband, ice running along his skin.

His own skin must be burning to the elf.

His hands were tied, literally, with his shirt and he could only pant and whimper as fingers combed through his hair and outlined the muscles in his back, Legolas’ himself choosing to do this.

He felt worshipped. He felt whole. He felt good, not merely satisfied or pleasurable but good. Worthy. He felt loved. And he embraced him.

Hardly sexually stimulating, but a move made whole-heartedly, trying to convene all the affection and wonder and awe he felt in a single embrace, and Legolas responded.


Aragorn smiled.

And realized his boots were off and his pants quickly following. His first impulse to protest was stopped when he realized Legolas’ own pants were off as well. He didn’t bother to ask. He whimpered, grabbed Legolas’ hands stilling them for a moment before his leggings were taken off, muttered nothings, and tried to say what he wanted without saying anything.

Words would bring too many questions. Not right now. Not right now.

Legolas understood, and refrained to light, inconsequential kisses on his neck, interspersed with long periods of stillness and study while Aragorn explored, burning rough human hands down his back, over his thigh, tracing faint scars and muscles under the skin, to his knees, pressing down and stroking up and feeling all the muscle fight him.

Over the bones of his hips, lightly, shyly, slowly, exploring the ridges of his abdomen, fingers burning branding hot against his skin. Legolas tilted back his head. He felt like he was being burned alive.

His heart was pounding at a million miles an hour, this was so slow and real compared to the hurried dream-like groping that had preceded it and his stomach felt a little rebellious with fear and his nerves sang with joy.

Aragorn kissed him shyly, nervously, under his jaw, asking if this was all right. If it was too fast. If Legolas was ok.

Legolas groaned lightly and tilted his head back to look him in the eyes, surprised to see shyness and courtesy in the man that had near had him screaming under him not so very long ago.

But what Legolas was implying now was more than a few, heated, passionate kisses in intimate visible places. Legolas smiled. Aragorn would ask.

That was what made him special. He was confident, arrogant, but he would always ask. He wouldn’t take. Not if he could ask. Not even elves would do that.

Aragorn looked at him, blinked at him, waited, fingers humid warm prints against his stomach.

Legolas smiled, and leaned forward slowly, safely seducing, and kissed him. And placed his hands over Aragorn’s and put them where he wanted, jerking a little on contact while Aragorn simply allowed himself to be kissed and manipulated. And touched.

Aragorn crawled a long, slow stroke with his tongue over the smooth curvature of Legolas’ shoulder, into the dip of his collarbone and tasted sweat and water, trailing delightfully slow and conscientiously up the tendons and muscles of his neck, ignoring the low breathy moan produced from the action, over the hard bone that hinged his jaw and circling and circling and circling around his ear, feeling the spine quiver and restrained arches in the body and fingers clawing at the back of his neck.

Oh, Legolas hated him now, surely. He wasn’t very vocal, but he made his desires and distress known nonetheless.

It felt gratifying though, just to hear the muffled sounds of want, after watching and waiting so long too long not only just to taste him with his eyes but with his hands and body and mouth and tongue as well.

To nearly touch him with his soul.

He could do that with him, could feel it as surely as he could feel his blood call for the Ring, feel the life-blood of the Ring Bearer quiver and struggle against the strain. He trusted his instinct. He trusted the truth of his blood and he sometimes fought against it but it never lied to him.

He could touch Legolas with his soul, he could do it with him, he could feel him like that.

His hands run over the shoulders and down the arms until they capture and caress the archer’s own pale callused hands; rough in some places, smooth in others.

A simple caress, innocent, chaste, yet it was like pouring oil on a match.

Legolas’ moan turned into a frustrated cry, jerking his face and body away from Aragorn’s taunting lips and smug smile and smoky eyes. There was visible anger written on his face, a treasure of genuine and whole emotion on the inscrutable face and Aragorn’s grin grew wider.

Legolas’ back stiffened, (he was being mocked?) and Aragorn was shoved roughly down and his belt hurriedly yanked out with a snap, and his leggings torn off roughly though there were still signs of restraint and control from the elf.

Rough chuckles morphed into heated moans as a tongue stroked and traced the muscles in the side his powerfully built thighs, his body shuddering and yearning and sweating uncontrollably even while his head fell unheeded to the ground, breath hitching as the back of his knees were explored and tasted, right down to the pale ankles that were surprisingly soft, as were the top flats of thighs, different from a woman’s rounded soft ones, instead hard and flat and uniquely human with a warm, earthy-fleshy taste and smell. Uniquely human with the feverish sweltering skin even in this cold weather with the rain pounding on the roof, the pulse of his blood being measured with the cool cleaning tongue.

He completely ignored the arousal, didn’t even bother to look at it.

His control always proved fickle when it came to touching Aragorn, even when it was in the casual touch of a hand on a clothed shoulder, and he had no desire to tempt it further now.

Soft, strangled pleas and prayers made up of his name met his ears, his name ever called and worshipped and begged and damned with. To Legolas’ ears, it was worship and damnation.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Ever. He couldn’t stop it. He wished it hadn’t started. He didn’t want to stop it.

He wouldn’t stop it.

“..uhn, Legolas…please…don’t…Lego…”

His eyes slid open and shifted slowly to look at Aragorn’s, Legolas’ eyes narrowed and sharp and absolutely alien and frightening and no where near human, completely aware how sluttishly feline he had to look with his hair draped tangled around and his position on his knees with his rear in the air and his location between Aragorn’s legs. His head tilted smoothly with mechanical slowness.

Aragorn swallowed.

Damn it.

Damn it but he was good.


Aragorn blinked. He didn’t. He wouldn’t.

Legolas lifted an eyebrow and tilted his head in that inquiring, bland way he had, even though he had Aragorn’s cock not a foot away from his face, and he still looked so goddamned distant.

“Damn you.”

It was the only coherent thing coming out of Aragorn at that place and time. It was the only coherent message that could be formed into language that was running through his mind, everything else a muddle of emotions and biochemistry and memory, of desire and adrenaline and longing, nothing he could put into words, in fact could barely communicate through his eyes and touch.

Legolas merely, barely, actually didn’t, smile.

And then he broke eye contact, bent his head, and lowered his head, his tongue visibly out of his mouth. Aragorn swallowed.

He went down on him.

Aragorn swore vehemently something in Common but he didn’t catch it. He went down on him. He wouldn’t have caught it if it had been in Elvish, if it had been shouted, screamed right in his ear until his head rang, he could only hear his own blood rushing inside his head, even with his species and skill. He went down on him.

He had hesitated at first.

And then the edge of Legolas’ tongue trailed down the side of his arousal, breathed in deep the scent and bitter taste and sought control in his head before rubbing his cheek bone against the stiff and heated skin and purring because it felt natural. It felt right.

Legolas, for the first time in a long, long time, just closed his eyes and did what felt right. The hell with the consequences. The hell with one day and what it would bring.

What if, what if…and you’ll hear that all your life. Yup. Youuu, bugger. And I’ll be dead.

Perhaps the humans were right. Perhaps living for the moment…perhaps he had been wrong all along.

The broad side of his tongue pushed down across the tip before swallowing him whole, the tip nudging the back of his throat. Salt and something bitter. Lime green culture, a hint of something more, something deeper, something solid. Aragorn Aragorn Aragorn in the dark deep cold caverns of his mind that the elves forgot about because it was too cold to accept.

Aragorn was fighting. He fought down the scream and the pulse inside his head and body, fought down the bright darkness behind his eyes that threatened to envelop him.

In his throat and behind his eyes, Legolas chuckled. Cold, composed Aragorn fighting and losing gloriously.

Legolas pushed him back down when his hips rose of their own accord and almost choked him while treasuring the scream that came from Aragorn’s throat, legs on either side of his head trying to trap him there.

Aragorn screamed for him. Aragorn lay flushed, hair disarrayed while Legolas licked and bit at his abdomen and a hand swept and pulled on one of his nipples, making him writhe in agitation and nervous, giddy pleasure, Legolas’ other hand pulling roughly at his arousal.

Aragorn wanted to swear profusely but couldn’t think of the words, wanted to sing but couldn’t find the tune, wanted to scream but he couldn’t find his voice until Legolas bit down on the inside of his raised thigh, making anger swell up and dissolve as his mouth surrounded and sucked at the bite, hair brushing intangible, invisible, unbearable strokes on his erection in the process. His tongue. Gods, he didn’t, couldn’t believe Legolas, the clerk, would do that with his tongue. That was so dirty.

The tempting, the taunting, the torture grew to much, too great, too beautiful in all it’s cruelty and nonsensical chaotic repetiveness and Aragorn questioned deeply whether or not his dignity was really worth it. If it was really worth fighting the feeling for, really worth keeping his control. It wasn’t, so he gave in.

Color so bright it was without name or scale or wavelength boiled in the dark recesses of his mind, then flooded throughout his torso and limbs making every muscle and bone tingle in relief and joy and security.

For the second time in his life, Aragorn of Arathorn had found a little piece of heaven he wasn’t supposed to find. But this time, it was real.

Legolas drank in the scream, then carefully, gently, locked it up where it would be safe in the dark confines of his soul where not even other elves’ eyes or minds could ever see or find or hurt it. It was his to cherish. Selfish, but it was his. And it may be all that he would ever really get to keep.


Aragorn was overly tempted to ask where Legolas had learned such things. That part about the spit on his fingers…where they went…his skin had turned cold while his blood boiled and his body sang and roared and screamed. He writhed; it hurt a little, but mostly it was just bizarre and humiliating. What the hell was going on? But at that point it didn’t matter. The joining could have been stranger, more blatant, and it wouldn’t have mattered.

He’d have Legolas. And he was willing. And he needed gods did he need and the hell with everything else it was here and the time was right and Legolas was his and he was going to get relief, pleasure, sex, joy? No, that wasn’t right, there was more. The pain was going to go away? No. Claim dominance, superiority, justification for his suffering, justification over the elf? No. That wasn’t he wanted, that wasn’t what he was here for. He was going to feel complete…Yes.

Running on blind instinct and burning desire Legolas pushed in, slowly, just slowly at first and then he’d bring down hell fire he’d bring down angel light he’d bring down anything and everything he had make Aragorn scream and that would be the best thing of all.

He gasped, and his muscles spasmed; under him, Aragorn tried to relax the clenched muscles in his thighs while his arms shrugged and squirmed, head rolling side to side slowly and his chest heaved and abdomen tightened. His eyes, those beautiful metallic cold silver azurine orbs that he’d watched in fear and wonder blinked as he tried to assimilate and understand what was being done to him and how he should be reacting to it.

Then Legolas was in. Completely.

Four sets of hands tightened and relaxed in cadence with the jumping pulse of their blood.

Legolas leaned down to lick his chest, ash colored gray hair streaked with flax spilling over his shoulders and onto his chest. Aragorn’s throat bobbed. He was being controlled. He was being captured. He remembered to breath by happenstance.

Then Legolas slid out. And slid back in. Still slowly. Giving him time to relax, to adapt, to relax and try to remember what was happening, what his body was feeling instead of what his mind was screaming.

Still muscles spasmed, choked whimpers and moans.

This…was intimate. Legolas was inside of him. Inside him. This was too intimate. This was too far. It was what he wanted. What he prayed for. And now he had it, and it was so much. It was too much.

Legolas’ arms hard and lukewarm against his body.

The probing at his internal muscles, intimate, grossly blatant, the consequential increase of rhythm the feeling of helplessness and reviling vulnerability that was too much he was defenseless he felt like he was drowning and muscle thrusting in him hard it was hard it was hot it was too hot he screamed he writhed he tried to get away-

And then white hot bright behind his eyes and he did scream then and arch his back off the ground wanting needing more squeezing harder needing wanting that again hearing the grunts and low groans baritone that wasn’t his voice his voice didn’t sound like that his voice never sounded like that going harder and faster and harder and this was too much hit it again hit me again and that place-

Soft, clipped, rushed words in Elvish sterling soprano dark and swift against his ear against his mind.

Legolas found it, pressed in and pulled out and slammed back hard flesh slapping against flesh while Aragorn’s chest heaved and his arms flailed and clutched to Legolas any part (was he pulling his hair?) of Legolas dependent completely dependent on someone else trusting someone else he didn’t have control he’d lost control somewhere but he didn’t care. He didn’t care.

He trusted deeply. Too deeply. But it was too late now.

Keep him close keep it going it feels like everything and anything feel his skin against yours the muscles hard and hot like winter’s wind but the skin smooth and soft so soft with hard muscle and slick from the rain outside and sweat inside burning bubbling bright there bright burning rushing going faster faster rushing breathe breathing can’t I’m going to explode I’m going to burst going too fast too fast go faster harder go go going-



Author’s Note: So. Yeah. Erhm. Yeah….I’m going to hide under my desk now. So long. The next chapter is half done, just putting the finishing touches, final polishing, whatnot. Yeah. Erhm. *cough * Hope you liked it. It was a lemon. Intimate lemon. Tried to be, anyway. Yeah. Uhm. Later. Hope I didn’t lose too many people along the way. I’d appreciate any feedback, a line or word would do just great, and to further tempt the reader I’ve decided on letters to make it easier.

a. Good, but weird, a little confusing.
b. Weird, a little too short at the end, confusing.
c. Good start, could be better.
d. Overall good, challenging, write more.
e. Please send choice to gelfling8604 @ yahoo.com

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