My Elf...
My Elf...
by Inwë Sáralondë

It's been a while since I've posted any sort of fic, but I finally managed to complete this one. Hope you enjoy!

Email: (mb2002ldgd AT
Type: FPS
Rating: NC17
Disclaimer: The characters portrayed are the property of J.R.R.
Tolkien. No profit or such is made from this.
Warnings: Apart from sex? Nothing much…
Beta(s): Patricia Pleasant, aka slayer9649. All other mistakes are mine…
Pairing: Legolas/Aragorn
Archive: OEAM; Melethryn; Library of Moria; Elves, Warriors and Scribes Archive; otherwise, please ask…
Author’s Note: I began writing this about eight months ago, but finally found the impetus to finish it. I have not written a story featuring Legolas and Aragorn since ‘Reflections’, but the muse for this particular pairing insisted that I write about them once again, even if this is a little over the top. So here it is.
Spoilers: None
Summary: Aragorn wants to pamper his elf, but Legolas has other ideas…


He stands at the window, his back to me, and the moonlight shines on his alabaster skin. It is flawless.
Clothes are piled neatly on the chair.
My love for him is all-consuming. Every fibre of my being desires this ethereal vision.
I am in awe of this elf. If he asked it of me, I would give everything up for him in a heartbeat.
His cerulean gaze meets mine, and a gentle smile curves his lips. I am constantly amazed at how my touch seems to unravel my normally stoic, unflappable elf. I gently run fingers down his spine, and he gives a slight moan as they travel over his buttocks. I pause for a moment, and then move my fingers to trace lazy patterns on his hip. He turns, and I see he is trembling slightly. I watch in complete fascination as his eyes shut briefly and then reopen to gaze at me with desire and love. I allow my finger to run up his hard sex to the tip, gathering the moisture that is already there. I bring the finger to my lips, savouring the taste of him. It is a taste I never grow tired of.

He watches me hungrily.

I can see the battle warring in his eyes. While on the one hand he wants me to continue with the slow torture, on the other he wants me to throw him on the bed and do to him what I have done to him so many times before – take him, devour him, leaving him moaning, trembling, gasping as I slake my lust and desire upon his more than willing body.

But I do not underestimate my elf. I have watched him in battle, watched as he ruthlessly and efficiently dispatched one enemy after another. I know of his strength, hidden in his seemingly delicate body. He is deceptive, my elf. So I know that he will then turn the tables on me, and have me at his mercy. His strength will keep me pinned to the bed, and I will feel his version of torture as he brings me to the brink again and again, leaving me begging. He is very good at making me beg. And I do it unashamedly, until he takes pity on me and allows me the release so desperately needed, while he sighs in contentment at his own, his beautiful shaft buried deep within me.

I have often wondered what he sees in me – a mortal, once a ranger, now a king. Yet I have never asked him, for the question would be superfluous. I know he would just look at me, raise an eyebrow as if questioning the wisdom of my asking such a thing, making me feel I were a foolish youngling. So I do not ask, but accept that he loves me for who I am. And for me, that is enough. Taking him by the hand, I lead him to our bed. I see that he is puzzled, no doubt sensing my reflective mood, yet he does not speak. He will wait and see what I will say, what I will do. He is patient, my elf.

He lies down, his gaze never leaving my face as I take off my robe. My own shaft is hard and throbbing with need, but I rein myself. There will be no hard and fast coupling this time. This time I shall worship him, bestow upon him gentle kisses and touch him with reverence. I want to hear his voice, singing in the throes of passion. He sings beautifully, my elf.

He watches me with hooded eyes, a slow smile curving his lips. He lies on the bed like an offering upon an altar, and for a brief moment I forget what I want to do to him this night. But only briefly. I focus. This time he will experience the most exquisite pleasure that I can give him.

I watch as he stretches his lithe body, unashamedly displaying himself. He is not shy, my elf.

Suddenly he lunges up from the bed and grabs me before falling back, pulling me down upon him. “I grow tired of waiting, melethen,” he purrs in my ear. I shiver. His tongue swirls in my ear and I groan.

“Stop, seron vell.” I raise myself on my arms. “This night is for you. Let me pleasure you, love you.”

There is a wicked gleam in his eyes, and I have a sense of foreboding. “Indeed…” he whispers sultrily, and before I can respond, he neatly turns us so that I am the one lying on the bed. Strong hands keep me pinned down, and I look into blue eyes that are once more filled with lust and desire.

“It seems things have changed slightly,” he says. He removes his hands, but I do not move. I dare not to. I wait with bated breath to see what he will do. “Do you know what I truly want?” he asks huskily.

I shake my head, though I have a fairly good idea. I like hearing my elf speak his wishes out loud. He reaches over to the small table next to our bed and takes the small flask of oil. Opening it, he pours a generous amount onto his hand. Setting the flask aside, he rubs his hands together before reaching for my aching shaft.

“What I want,” he says as he strokes my eager member, coating it liberally with the oil, “is to feel you deep inside of me. I do not want slow and gentle this night, Aragorn. I have hungered for you this whole day, imagined you thrusting into me, hard, spilling yourself deep within me.” I groan at his words.

His smile was almost feral. “Did you not guess what I was thinking during those long, tedious meetings that we had to endure today?”

I should have known better, I muse, as I look up at him. I had forgotten the heated looks he had given me during those meetings, having forcibly pushed them to one side as I had tried to concentrate on the various trade talks that were taking place. Not easily done, admittedly, but I could not allow myself to be distracted. Now I was going to pay the price. I smile ruefully. No, he was not in the mood for slow or gentle. He can be impatient, my elf.

“I see you did not,” he says, and I hear a note of disappointment in his voice. His hands stop their ministrations. Though I feel their loss, at the same time I am glad he has stopped, for I was perilously close to releasing much earlier than I wanted. He has clever hands, my elf.

“I could not allow myself the luxury, seron vell. It was difficult enough to concentrate as it was,” I say gently.

He tilts his head to one side, as if contemplating my answer. “Very well. I shall forgive you this once.”

I smile. It is a game we play, this. There are no winners or losers. In the end, we both win, for both of us achieve what we desire. He answers my smile with one of his own, almost blinding me with its brilliance.

“Give me what I want, Aragorn.” His words are more of a command than a request, and I do not hesitate to fulfill it.

I flip him onto his back and kneel between his parted legs. I know he wants no further preparation save for the oil on my more than eager shaft. I can feel it twitching, as if it knows it will finally attain what it so desires. And so I push forward, gasping slightly as my elf’s tight heat engulfs me. Fully sheathed, I rest my forehead against his, savouring the feeling of being inside of him.

Pulling away slightly, I look down and, for one mischievous moment, I think of pleasuring him slowly, as had been my intent. But I see the look of almost desperation in his eyes, and the moment passes. He wraps his legs around my waist and I give him what he wants, driving into him again and again, each time harder than the last, till I shout out his name, and I spill deep inside of him. During that time I did not touch him, nor did I allow him to touch himself. Pulling out, I lean down and take his quivering member into my mouth, and a keening wail issues from his throat. It does not take long before I am drinking his essence, and I am careful not to spill a single drop. I raise myself and find him looking at me with hooded eyes, a blissful, sated expression on his face. He looks debauched, my elf.

But the night is still young, and I know this is not the last time this expression will appear on his face. I know, too, that I will wear similar ones before the night is through. We will love each other thoroughly, till the morning finds us bleary-eyed from sleep, unwilling to face the new day.

“Aragorn?” His voice raises me from my musings.

“Hmm?” I gather him in my arms, content to hold him for a little while before the next bout of love-making.

“Let us ride out tomorrow, just the two of us, away from the court and its tedious business.” “We can not. There are still trade talks to be held, plus I have a meeting with my counsellors…”

A finger on my lips hushes me. “All been taken care of, melethen.”

“What? How?” His voice whispers in my ear, and a grin breaks out on my face.

“And, of course, Faramir heartily concurs,” he finishes off by saying. “He fears you are working much too hard, and should take some time to rest. Needless to say, I happen to agree with him.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Do you now,” I say. “And what would happen if I choose not to participate in this scheme of yours?”

Further whispering in my ear elicits a chuckle from me. It seems he has allowed for all contingencies. He is very, very devious, my elf…
And I do not mind in the least.


Elvish translations: melethen – my love seron vell – beloved



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