Author’s Note: I owe a great debt of gratitude with this chapter to that inestimable author, Elfscribe, who invited me to play with the big kids. If she hadn’t been looking out for me, Chpt. 4 would have fallen completely flat and made no sense whatsoever plot-wise. I also bow to Christine Fireheart and Larien Elengasse, delightful authors and careful betas who graciously lent their sharp eyes to this chapter as well. I’ve been so well looked-out for! Also, special thanks go to Elisa, The Muse. The image of Legolas’ luscious behind was inspired by Elisa’s invaluable visual contribution to the fandom, her A/L manip, “Lover,” at Lassegalen’s Laire. How d’ya like that, Elisa? Your vision of Legolas’ butt is an artistic treasure! *Huggles* Also also, special thanks go to the Aniron archivist, May, for inspiring me to revise the love scene. Because Legolas does not belong on top. Unless he’s riding Aragorn’s member. *ducks as tomatoes are thrown*

Chapter Summary: “This is the night that I will be made - or undone quite.” – Iago in Othello.

After departing from Legolas for a short while to take leave of his lady with his humblest apologies and pleading the dire need of his presence that night at a dying friend’s side, Aragorn wound his way through the many dark corridors of Minas Tirith, back again to Legolas’ chambers. He had not exactly lied, but he was nevertheless certain that a special place was at the moment being prepared for him in hell.

His hand hesitated in the air, but before it could fall, the door swung inward and there stood Legolas – who grabbed Aragorn’s shoulder and pulled him inside quickly. The elf stepped backward then to face the man. It was hard not to notice how the elf was now attired. The cobalt grey leggings molded to his curves as if they’d been painted on, and what the man supposed passed for a tunic rippled and swayed lightly over the contours of his chest and arms as he moved, an airy blue silk. The elf’s nipples were peaked through the flimsy fabric. Legolas quirked an eyebrow at the man.

“I prefer something more comfortable in the evenings,” the elf stated off-handedly.

Right.

Forcing his eyes to settle elsewhere, Aragorn let his gaze wander the room. Dominating the room was a large canopied bed with sheer, chiffon curtains, and sweet-burning oil lamps hung from the ceiling around it. In the middle of the room stood the balcony arch, framed with drapes that fluttered like his heart in the cool evening breeze, and the scent of lilacs wafted through them. A writing desk of rich cherry wood stood next to the window, some parchments scattered on it, gold embossed books stacked neatly on its shelf, a porcelain vase of lilies – so like his friend, their natural beauty standing out amidst their costly surroundings. The light was dim in the room, shed only by a few artfully arranged candles and a crackling fire in the hearth. So many elegant rooms in his castle, he had never taken much note of this one. Simple and elegant like the elf, but it must have been chosen for the view they’d shared earlier.

Aragorn allowed himself to be led by the hand to the rug in front of the fireplace, settling down as comfortably as he could and inhaling deeply to calm his quick, shallow breaths and the thrumming blood in his ears. Legolas left him then to fetch more wine, and he was grateful for it. He would need it.

Glorious as his friend was, he had never before looked upon him with lust. He had studied Legolas with objective admiration in the detached way an artist would a painting- the pleasure of his mind’s eye having already been fixed on the beauteous Evenstar. But then, he had never actually looked with lust on her either, more in worship, lending a chaste quality to their lovemaking. If he had gone to her tonight, she would have welcomed him to her bed in quiet obeisance, just as she had on the first night of their marriage. She would lie still on her back, silently, allowing him to love her as best he could while she waited for his completion. He could not imagine her igniting with the passion he so secretly longed for in a lover as he stroked himself in the dark watches of the night, alone in his chamber as he often slept. He could not imagine her taking his need into her mouth and moaning around it until his whole body quaked with the tension and unbearable need.

No, and he was not sure he wanted that from her.

Legolas, he was certain, would do that. He was impassioned in combat and would likely be so in bed. He thought of the times he had seen his friend disrobe to bathe, the lean, muscular curves of his chest that tapered to a delicate waist, the full, rounded buttocks that enticed one to cup them and taste. Any other man in his place now, who had sense enough and eyes to see, would surely fall on his knees and thank the Valar for his fortune. But the thought of his friend touching him intimately, the elf thrusting those pert buttocks into his entrance while Legolas’ sweat-slicked stomach glided over Aragorn’s back, moving on top of him... Aragorn’s breathing quickened again, beads of moisture forming on his brow. The Valar help him - he had given his word. ‘For no one else would I let this be done,’ thought the man to himself. If there was a chance he could keep Legolas... What else was he to do but submit to the elf’s touch and save his friend from dying of grief or sailing West, leaving him forever? He needed Legolas, would always need him. And what secrets did he not know of himself? His view of the elf was already beginning to blur seductively, confusing him with a challenge to everything he had always thought he had known about their relationship. ‘For no one else,’ he thought again.

Legolas chose this opportune moment to return with the wine.

“Drink,” he said as he eased down next to the man. Aragorn complied with alacrity, downing the glass in one long draught.

“Have another glass and come sit here in front of me,” said Legolas, who was met with a tentative look. “You are too tense,” he replied to the unasked question. “Let me work some of the knots out of your shoulders.

Legolas spread his legs and Aragorn complied, settling between. Panic seized Aragorn’s chest tightly and his breath froze as the archer’s arms enclosed him. The nimble fingers began slowly, slowly unlacing the ties of his tunic. With effort he willed his arms to rise and allowed the shirt to be brought over his head, leaving his upper body exposed to Legolas’ hands and gaze. He could feel the heat radiating from the elf’s chest, so near to his back. He drank more wine.

The fingers danced lightly at first along his shoulders and then kneaded with firm pressure, building into a slow, soothing rhythm. He had to admit, it did feel good. Despite himself, Aragorn felt his shoulders relaxing into the elf’s touch, heard little moaning sighs escaping his lips as those knowing hands worked him. Perhaps it was the wine, perhaps the effect of those practiced hands on his back; whatever it was, the man was surprised by the bold question he heard himself ask.

“What were we like when we were together?”

Aragorn could not help being curious, despite the lingering fear of his current situation that still licked at the corners of the man’s mind. The elf chuckled softly at this, a light silvery sound that was good to hear once again.

“My friend, for that brief moment in time we were like fire meeting ice, our passion sublimating into a whole new state of being uniquely our own.”

“That sounds lovely,” said Aragorn, “but, hard for me to imagine.” Despite his protestation of ignorance, an array of disturbing - yet stirring - possibilities shot unbidden through Aragorn’s mind. He felt the red heat rising in his cheeks, but he just had to know. “What do you mean?” he said.

Legolas leaned in close to the man’s ear, silken hair falling over Aragorn’s chest. “I mean, my friend,” the elf whispered slowly, “that when I found you that day by the waterfall, I loved you on its bank many times, long and languid, and then with increasing need until Ithil rose high in the arc of heaven and I had wrenched fevered screams from your lips again and again.”

Images like the afterglow of a dream, of limbs tangled in moonlight and hands sliding over flesh, flitted through Aragorn’s mind. He tried to clutch at them before they fled like wisps of pipe smoke on an evening breeze. Their whole affair was suddenly becoming very real to him. It was confusing, frightening, but also... intriguing. And he had been the submissive one?

“You make me sound as if I were easily bent to your will,” Aragorn said with a hint of amusement.

“Well, you did bend over easily enough... my little man-slut,” the elf replied, only to be summarily slapped on the thigh in answer.

“Really,” said Legolas, “I could sense your desire for me the moment we met. And as I came upon you that day by the river bank, I know you would have promised on your knees anything I asked for the chance to touch me.”

“Oh, gods,” Aragorn groaned in mock disgust, failing to keep the grin out of his voice.

The elf’s hands smoothed down his back firmly now, then traced a light path up along his sides, coming down the center of his back once more and gliding lower. Aragorn did not know when Legolas had removed his own tunic; all he knew now was that it felt good to lean back into the elf’s warmth and let him work magic with his hands.

“Do you wish to hear more?” the elf whispered into Aragorn’s ear, caressing it with his breath and the barest brush of his lips.

“Yes,” came the trembling, hardly audible reply.

“The forest sang for us, Aragorn, as we kissed deeply and I lay you down, covering you with my body, exploring with hands and mouth all your lithe contours, learning the feel of you, the way you taste, your unique scent, like warm earth after a summer rain.”

Outside, larks sang the fading of evening, and Earendil shone brightly above the horizon in silent agreement with the elf.

“When our bodies joined for the first time and you wrapped your legs around my waist, I was overwhelmed and lost myself completely in you. The world melted around us as we moved together and our gazes locked. Can you imagine the beauty of looking into each other’s eyes the whole time we made love? Your lust-blackened eyes seemed to widen impossibly and your mouth fell open as I stroked your pleasure between us.”

The man’s lungs labored to draw breath. He felt his eyes slowly closing as those lithe hands stroked along his biceps and the warm stream of whisperings kept flooding his mind with images.

“Your lids lowered to half mast when I found that secret place deep in your body... and kept driving into it over and over. And I have never heard any music so sweet as when we climaxed together and my name was born on your lips, proclaiming your undying love for me.”

“But that was long ago.” Sadness had crept back into Legolas’ voice. “Though you do not now, you found me beautiful once.”

“I still find you beautiful. And if I were blind, I would still find you beautiful.”

The words came before Aragorn had a chance to think on them - but yes, they were true. What elvish bewitchment he was under, he cared not. If he turned his head to look, he was sure the elf’s eyes would sear into his soul and pool heat lower in his body.

Those strong hands slid to his biceps and pulled him back flush against Legolas’ chest, warmth in front of him from the fire, and warmth enclosing him from behind. And then, a moist heat replaced the elf’s hands, Legolas' lips pressing into his shoulder and mouthing in a way that sent a sudden bolt of pleasure through every part of the man’s body. All conscious thought fled. There were only soft kisses on that sensitive place, the warmth of Legolas’ chest and arms encircling him. Aragorn was only vaguely aware of his head tilting back to rest on the elf’s shoulder, the now deeper groans that must be coming from him, the hands as they trailed lower down his front, massaging the inside of his thighs before one hand slid slowly upward and caressed his hardened need. The man’s eyes opened wide and he sucked in a gasping breath at the feel of the delicious hand encircling him. He arched into it unconsciously, begging. The hand squeezed again.

His whole body was wrapped in velvety warmth. The man writhed against Legolas’ chest, felt hair like corn silk brushing his cheek as he turned his head into a pillowy shoulder and moaned his pleasure. No one had ever touched him like this. He ground himself back into the elf’s welcoming heat, and something hard pressed into his back. The man snapped upright and leaned forward.

‘How?’ he wondered to himself. He had allowed his friend to suckle his flesh. He moaned for his friend as the elf stroked his desire. ‘How had he lost himself to this elf?’ And it felt so amazing. So easy, so natural, but - Arwen.

“Give in to me, Meleth,” breathed Legolas softly, a firm caress to Aragorn’s shaft emphasizing the command. “Let me give you pleasure.”

Aragorn turned his head then to his new lover, whose eyes had gone a deep shade of indigo. His own eyes closed. There was a soft pressure on his lips as the pad of Legolas’ thumb dragged slowly across them. It was soon replaced by the elf’s mouth moving sweetly against his. Had he ever felt his heart stop like this, and all the world fall away around him? All that he knew centered on the sensation of those silken lips flitting against his, then on the honeyed tongue coaxing him open, stroking him inside even as the elf’s hand moved over the cloth of his breeches, on the vibration of moans passing between them as they devoured each other. He was fast losing all reason as every inch of his mouth was painted with the taste of Legolas.

Then hands and tongue slowed as the elf pulled gently away. Legolas stood and offered his hand to Aragorn, who rose and trailed behind him, moving like one who has just awakened from sleep. Through his daze, he saw what that they had moved toward - the bed. The king’s eyes widened. Knowing full well what was expected, he climbed atop and lay down obediently, trying to keep his eyes from clenching shut against witnessing what a part of his mind still held out from accepting, that he was about to betray his wife, that his best friend, another male, was about to take him. He felt the bed dip, heard those satin sheets sliding, and then there was the warmth of Legolas’ whole length pressed against his side.

“Shh, Meleth,” Legolas murmured into his ear along with other soft Elvish endearments meant to soothe him as the elf would calm a frightened colt he intended to ride. His hand began rubbing circles along the man’s chest before trailing lower to touch Aragorn’s waning arousal. With those long and languorous strokes to his member, that desirous mouth caressing his ear, tasting him... resistance was beyond the bearing of mortal men. The gods forgive him. The part of the king that still held back caved in with a resounding echo that welled up from deep in the man’s chest, parting his lips in an anguished cry.

He was being kissed deeply now as his lover’s deft fingers began working at the laces of his breeches. In moments his shaft sprang free and was stroked again by a masterful hand. Aragorn arched into the touch, then moaned at the loss as Legolas slid his tongue down his body, leaving a wet trail. The elf delved into his navel and swirled around inside it.

“You still like that,” said the elf with an almost smug smile. “I remember well how to give you pleasure.”

“You will drive me mad with your words alone.”

“Oh, I will drive you mad with more than words, Melethron.”

Aragorn quickly acquiesced as Legolas raised the man’s hips and pulled down his leggings. He could not stop himself from rising on his elbows to look at the golden head now poised inches above the tip of his shaft. Gods, it was a maddening sight. How could he ever have wanted anything but that luscious mouth wrapped around his length? The elf looked up with a devilish smile.

“If I remember rightly, I can make you scream with one swift movement.”

The thought alone was nearly enough to undo Aragorn, but it was only a shadow of the reality as the elf bent his head to the tip and took his whole length in a quick swallow, wrenching the desired cry from his throat. Aragorn had thought their kisses inflaming, but they were nothing compared to the all-consuming intimacy of this. The reality of the act was beyond his imagination, the heated mouth working up and down in a steady rhythm, the beautiful head rising and falling between his legs as Legolas’ tongue stroked his flesh. His knuckles clenched around the bed sheets and twisted in frustration as he felt the elf's hands restrain his bucking hips. He was so near to release he could cry with the want of it - but that teasing elf stopped his movements and backed slowly off the man’s weeping arousal.

“Ah,” groaned the elf, “you still taste heady on my tongue.”

The man found out in a moment what Legolas now had in mind. The elf slipped his hands under Aragorn's buttocks, canting his hips upwards until he felt a warm wetness begin lapping at his entrance, swirling around the sensitive flesh as if savoring it.

“When I used to lick you thusly,” said the elf in a low, smoldering voice, “you keened for me wantonly as you are doing now.”

“Oh, yes – I believe it,” breathed the man. “But oh please, for the love of Eru don’t stop!”

The elf chuckled. “Still impatient.”

The golden head bent again to its task, the tongue soothing, circling, teasing for long minutes before finally beginning to push slowly inside him. Aragorn whimpered at the intrusion and felt tears leak from the corners of his eyes, but the tongue stopped abruptly, and after a few moments, he willed himself to relax. Soon, he felt the movement begin again inside him, swirling around in slow, widening arcs and caressing his opening like the seductive movements of Legolas’ tongue inside his own mouth earlier. Yes, he wanted this. He wanted it badly, the warm flesh thrusting in and out of him, giving him a shallow fucking, driving him wild with the need to be filled completely.

“Please, A’mael!” he fairly screamed. “Now!”

Aragorn ached at the absence of the skillful tongue, but it was soon replaced by an oil-slicked finger that slid in and out smoothly, promising greater pleasure to come. The second finger burned a path through Aragorn, but the pleasure-mingled pain only inflamed his desire.

“Ah...” said the elf, “you are so tight for me, Meleth. Just like I remember, like our first time,” he breathed, with a wistful smile overlaying the huskiness of his voice.

Then a strangled cry was torn from Aragorn’s chest. That spot Legolas spoke of - the elf brushed it with his fingers buried so deeply inside him, setting mad sparks of light dancing behind his eyes, soothing away the pain with a cascade of pleasure that sent his fingers clawing into the elf’s shoulders and hair, urging Legolas on.

“That’s it,” said the elf. “Cry for me, Meleth. I want to hear you.”

“Please!” Another brush of fingers, more insistent. “I need!”

Then, the fingers were gone, and something much larger pressed against the man’s entrance.

“Relax, my love,” whispered Legolas as he lowered his chest to Aragorn and claimed his mouth in a searing kiss, thrusting his tongue into the man just as he meant to breach him.

Breaking the kiss, the elf asked, “Are you sure you are ready?”

“Yes. I do want this,” breathed Aragorn. “Have me.”

“Oh, A’mael... I never thought to be blessed twice in my life with a night such as this.”

The sight of the man below him aching with need and finally looking up with complete trust was enough. Legolas wrapped his lover’s legs around his waist, the better to mount the man.

He pushed slowly forward and breached the tight muscle, heard his lover’s sharp intake of breath. Though open now and nearly black with desire, the man’s eyes were also glazed with pain. Legolas sighed. This was not how he wanted it... and there was something more perfect than this.

“No,” said the elf as he withdrew from Aragorn, who was now gripping the elf’s biceps and trying to pull Legolas down upon him.

The elf smoothed his hand across the man’s dismayed brow. “What I mean,” he said as he leaned down, mouthing the words silkily against Aragorn’s ear, “is that it would be far sweeter to give myself to you, for I have not yet done so and would feel you fill me.”

Aragorn shuddered at the words, could only nod as he struggled to draw breath, a most gratifying picture.

Legolas drew himself up and straddled the reclining man, positioning himself above the straining shaft and feeling the tip of the member pressing deliciously against his tight entrance; he hadn’t been prepared, but he needed Aragorn now. The elf’s neck arched, straining as he sunk down upon his lover’s thick flesh and it split him almost unbearably, as if he had never been penetrated before. He looked back down at Aragorn, whose face was the picture of ecstasy, his mouth hanging open in a silent groan, his head thrown back, and then Aragorn’s eyes were upon him again, blazing with lust. The elf’s hips rose and lowered slowly, rising and sinking on the shaft in an indecently wanton rhythm, driven by those burning eyes to take a little more of the man each time until he had ripped a loud grown from Aragorn’s throat as the man was sheathed fully in Legolas. “Perfect,” the elf barely whispered. “I love you.”

Legolas set a steady rhythm, building in intensity and rocking the man towards the bed’s headboard, riding and riding the man’s hardness with increasing abandon as his lover began bucking below him.

Aragorn ran his hands up and down Legolas’ quivering thighs, felt the elf’s hot little channel tighten impossibly around him, milking him desperately and sending a burst of excruciating pleasure throughout his whole body.

And dimly through the silent yet deafening explosion of pleasure, Aragorn felt the elf’s hips move into their final, ecstatic rhythm. He snaked a hand between them to fist Legolas’ arousal in time to his thrusts. The elf’s breath was coming ragged now.

The sculpted hips rising and falling on his organ, sleek chest gleaming with a sheen of sweat, the heady smell of sex so thick on Legolas’ skin Aragorn could taste it as he pulled the elf down and tongued the moist throat, and that tight little mouth of the elf’s entrance throbbing around his swollen length - the elf was a vision of passion in bed. The man was lying with a debauched god.

“Ah Legolas,” Aragorn growled lowly, guttural. “You are unspeakably luscious.”

“And you were meant to fill me,” came the breathless reply, the elf panting, his eyes glazed in delirious rapture.

“Come for me, Meleth!” Legolas desperately pleaded as Aragorn increased his strokes to the elf’s arousal and the elf worked himself harder on the shaft impaling him, forcing maddening friction against his center of pleasure. “I am overwhelmed in you – I cannot last!”

Soon, Aragorn felt the tension building in his core, the imminent release. His back arched nearly off the bed as he climaxed in violent convulsions deep inside his lover, crying the elf’s name in a drawn out howl that died slowly on his lips.

“Ah, yes,” the elf moaned, “to hear you again... glorious... like a dream.”

A few more tight fists of the elf’s member, and Legolas followed the man, throwing back his head and loudly crying to Elbereth as blinding pleasure burst in his loins and shot through every vein in his body.

Passion exhausted, the elf crumpled limply upon Aragorn’s chest, murmuring nonsensically in his own tongue, something about it being even better.

Aragorn groaned at the loss as Legolas raised himself off the man’s sex and rolled next to him on the bed, but he was immediately soothed by limbs draped lazily over his own. A hand came up to tenderly brush a stray lock of hair back behind the man’s ear, and the elf brought their mouths together in a gentle, lingering kiss.

When the elf pulled back, a distinctly smug smile played on his lips.

“Now, it was not so bad to make love to me, was it?”

Outside, on the far horizon, Earendil shone brightly through the balcony arch.

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