Title: Breakfast is Served (1/1)
Deep asleep, Legolas required but a few seconds to respond to the touch on his shoulder, memorized over ninety or so nights of constant peril. He had started up off his stomach when the luxurious feel of a feather tick reminded him where he was, and he let himself fall back to the bed. A band of morning sun struck across the small of his back, and he judged the hour early yet. No alarms were sounding.
“What, Aragorn,” he said, his mild annoyance soothed by the plump pillow.
“I never knew you slept… on your stomach.”
Legolas snorted. “Indeed, where the ground is cold and hard and enemies are about, I do not.” Slowly, he began to turn over, holding the sheets about himself.
Aragorn did not avert his gaze in the slightest. “To answer your question, today is your day to be served breakfast, by me, in bed. I’ve been taking turns with the fellows.”
Now on his back, comfortably propped, Legolas regarded Aragorn with humor. The eyes that twinkled back were full of mischief, but of what sort was yet to be discerned. His own eyes slid to the covered tray from which rather delicious scents were escaping. A game was on, and Legolas felt sorely in need of diversion, slightly more in need of that than rest. He determined that the first response that had come to mind was best. “Dare I ask in what order I have been selected for this honor?”
“May I sit?” Aragorn asked, dragging a chair over by the bed.
“If you give me a few moments, I could be dressed and entertain you properly.” Legolas smoothed tousled hair back from his face, tucking strands behind his ears.
“Ah, the point is not for you to entertain me, but for me to serve you, as a small demonstration of thanks.”
Legolas gestured at the sheets and then dropped his hand in exasperation. “Very well, if it pleases you.” He turned to plump the pillows behind himself and then drew up his legs beneath the covers.
“I can tell you that the hobbits were far more enthusiastic about this gift than you are,” Aragorn grumbled.
Legolas simply could not help himself as one eyebrow expressed his interest. “And did you catch them sleeping naked as well?” Aragorn’s astonished gape made him laugh. “I suppose you did not consider that far ahead in your planning.”
Aragorn cleared his throat. “It was a full dressing gown and cap experience all round. They made merry work of the meal. I did have to endure some grousing from Gandalf, though, on his morning. You’d think he truly is an old man the way he went on about always having to relief himself very first thing upon awakening and how I would come to understand such things.” Aragorn scratched his beard. “So, I spent several minutes freezing in the hallway.”
Legolas laughed wholeheartedly. “Fortunately, I was up a few hours ago when the moon was so bright. Go on then, are you not here to serve me breakfast?”
Aragorn grinned. “That is more like it.” He reached for the tray cover and whisked it off with a flourish. “This part involved planning, and research, despite what you might think of my otherwise haphazard approach.”
Legolas could see and smell the extent of the research. The whole meal was intended for his lighter appetite. Not only were there items he would commonly be seen eating at table, but the tea was a blend he had loved back home, and nestled amongst the cheeses and buttered oat porridge was a steaming bowl of spiced apple compote. His nostrils flared. Aragorn’s hand went unerringly to that bowl. He spooned a generous helping onto the porridge and presented it. Legolas took it with something approximating reverence. He met Aragorn’s eyes and wondered if it was the favorite food of his adolescence, with all its associations, that took him instantly to hardness.
The first bite flooded his mouth with such pleasure that he actually groaned, then flushed with embarrassment. “Where did you discover this?” he said between greedy mouthfuls, his cheeks slowly fading.
“Rangers are resourceful,” replied Aragorn. He had leaned back in his chair and watched over steepled fingers.
Legolas polished off the bowl and looked hopefully to the tray. Aragorn obliged with another helping, and poured tea. As Legolas tucked in again, he willed himself to both enjoy the food and cool his loins. Just as he was succeeding, Aragorn leaned over and wiped a finger across Legolas’ chest. Legolas looked down to see him sweeping up a bit of compote.
Aragorn slid the finger in his mouth. “Delicious,” he pronounced.
Legolas nearly dropped his bowl. This was not a moment to misunderstand. It would be so simple to look at Aragorn’s lap to determine the lay of the land, but he refused to compromise his own dignity. “It might be a bit late for me to point this out, but among humans, serving breakfast in bed is a ritual usually reserved for a lover,” he said as dryly as he could muster.
“You know, Gandalf himself requested clarification for precisely that reason.” Aragorn shrugged. “I had to remind him that I was not raised among humans. It was the endless Halfling appetite that gave me the idea as to how best to thank them. I just could not seem to let the idea go after they responded so well. After that, it was losing momentum until just now.” He grinned and propped his chin on his hand. “You know, it was many a morning I brought tea or food to your bedroll. You did the same for me.”
Letting out his pent breath quietly, Legolas felt grateful he had not given himself away, since Aragorn had meant a gesture of comradeship and humility; this was a way of not being King with his friends. He nodded and attempted to refocus upon his breakfast. Unwilling to waste a bit of nostalgia, he set his spoon aside and ran his finger around the inside of the bowl, sticking it in his mouth like an elfling. He was so absorbed that it took a few seconds to feel the sheets sliding away. Reaching reflexively to clutch at them, he saw that Aragorn had gathered a handful and was purposefully teasing the fabric into his grasp, down Legolas’ body. The elf froze, mesmerized for a moment by the meaning of the act.
“What you never did, and I never did, we couldn’t do in those circumstances. But now, we may.” The sheet paused in its journey, pooled just below Legolas’ navel. “I thought about it. Perhaps, you did not.”
There was fear in that rough voice, and something else. Longing.
Slowly, with trepidation in facing the perilous unknown, Legolas raised his eyes. Even braced as he was, Aragorn’s expression shocked him. Those lust-dark eyes widened, and Legolas realized that he had let slip his own response. The sheet twitched entirely free of his body and even though Aragorn’s eyes did not leave his, the sharp intake of breath sounded immeasurably pleased. Aragorn’s left hand abandoned the wadded sheet and lighted on Legolas’ ankle, beginning a slow slide upward.
“Are you… free to proceed?” Legolas whispered. He could not seem to find his full voice.
“Arwen knows that I am here.”
“Does she know what you are really serving for breakfast?” Legolas replied, tensely attempting humor. Aragorn’s hand had reached the inside of his knee. Legolas could feel himself pulsing. He wanted Aragorn’s mouth on him, his hard grip, anything the man would give. But he wanted to do the right thing.
Aragorn smiled into his eyes. “If the Queen gave me the jealously guarded recipe for Amorous Apples for your breakfast, what do you suppose she expected I would do with it?”
In a smooth movement, Legolas was out of bed, straddling Aragorn in the chair. He grabbed two handfuls of hair and tipped Aragorn’s head back. Aragorn simply yielded, offering his mouth and throat. Legolas growled and set about devouring both, alternating, until Aragorn’s hips lifted them both, crushing their cocks together. White fingers moved swiftly to unlace, unbutton, unhook.
Aragorn took full opportunity to caress the smoothness of Legolas’ rump and lingered at the small of his back. “This little curve here,” he began, hoarsely, “it slays me. All the times you walked or rode ahead…”
Legolas cut short the words with a deeper kiss. Aragorn stood, arms wrapped around Legolas, unlaced leggings sliding down and off. He did not stand long, flinging them both onto the bed, and wrestling himself into position to take Legolas into his mouth. Eagerly, he licked and sucked until the plaintive noise Legolas had made over the food faded to distant memory in comparison to these, better noises.
Aragorn’s fingers scrabbled at the edge of the serving tray, nearly upending it. Legolas saw them sink into the slab of butter, and he nearly lost himself with the import. Instinctively, his legs shifted wider.
He was already panting with effort to hold on, when Aragorn touched himself behind instead, and then shifted above, holding Legolas’ cock with slippery fingers. Aragorn seated himself without ceremony and moved without mercy. Legolas clung to his thighs and lasted but a minute or so, pouring out his pleasure with a triumphant cry. He had the presence of mind to grasp for Aragorn’s cock, joining their hands and giving the last assist necessary to bring the man’s shuddering, bucking release.
For long minutes, there was only breathing and shifting for more comfortable position.
“That was unexpected,” Legolas ventured.
Aragorn chuckled. “In what respect, exactly?”
Legolas found himself unable to articulate the many ways in which he found the morning so. He shifted topics. “You never answered my question about the order of this gifting.”
Aragorn ran his messy fingers over Legolas’ chest, leaving smudges of compote, butter, and his own essence. “I saved you for last.”
Legolas absorbed this with amusement. “Then, I am dying to know what you fed Gimli.”