Title: Bandage
By Keelywolfe (keelywolfe@aol.com)
Author's webpage: http://www.ravenswing.com/~keelywolfe/
Rating: NC-17
Archive: Sure

Pairing: Legolas/Aragorn

Feedback: Please.

Summary: Oh, gosh...I've read the books, really I have. But, this was 
just supposed to be a little PWP, so I didn't really think of a place 
for it...OK. Set after Moria, in which Legolas and Aragorn have a 
discussion regarding...er...healing techniques. 

Disclaimer: The characters within belong to Tolkien, his estate, and 
whoever else has a finger in the pie that is LOTR. I'm not one of those 
people; otherwise I'd have made sure there were a couple of nude shots 
in 'Fellowship.' So, I'm making no money off this, and don't' intend 
to. 

****

Peace was always to be found in a forest, even one such as this. 
Aragorn sighed deeply, relishing the cool air and the soft noises of 
nighttime while he could, as it was certain not to last. Quiet would be 
broken by the cries of war, the voice of a blade cutting through flesh 
and the song of an arrow as it flew from the string. Silence was a 
precious gift to be had, but not one to be found in a forest. Yet, 
Aragorn would take this quiet peacefulness gratefully. 

If only it could last.

"There is no need for both of us to keep watch. You should rest while 
you can. "

He sighed again, this time in exasperation as the pale vision of an Elf 
came to stand nearby. "I'm not keeping watch, as you well know," he 
snapped, irritated as much by Legolas' obvious falseness as his 
presence. "Even on the quest as we are, can I not have a few minutes 
of time to mourn those we have lost?"

"Yes. But you aren't mourning because to mourn is to eventually allow 
yourself peace. You're...pining, perhaps. Yearning for things to be as 
they were, and grieving that they cannot." Legolas shifted, crouching 
easily next to the ranger. "You haven't been sleeping," he added, 
softly.

"Yes, I..."

"All right, then, sleeping but not resting. You don't allow your mind 
any rest, even in sleep."

"And you know so much about sleeping," he muttered. Legolas continued 
as if he hadn't spoken. 

"I don't need to sleep, but you do. You're exhausting yourself."

Aragorn said nothing. Language did not have the words for what he 
wanted to say, and so he settled instead for silence.

"All that has happened is not your fault, my friend," Legolas said 
softly, switching from the Common Tongue to the melodious words of his 
people.

"No, and neither is it yours, or Gimli's or Frodo's, or the fault of 
any one person in all of Middle Earth," he said sharply. "I do not seek 
nor do I need your counsel. If you are to call me friend, then do as I 
ask and leave me in peace."

Legolas tilted his head slightly, as if in thought but showed no sign 
of 
leaving, much to Aragorn's dismay. "If you do not need my counsel, then 
perhaps it is something else you need of me?"

So quick, graceful and lithesome even in this, too quickly for Aragorn 
to protest as Legolas straddled him easily, using remarkable strength 
for his deceptively slender frame to keep Aragorn from moving. 

His face was close enough that Aragorn could feel the soft warmth of 
his breath, and even the air breathed by an Elf was somehow sweet, as 
if it could not remain untouched by a creature of such beauty. But a 
haughty beauty was the loveliness that was Legolas of Mirkwood, proud 
and strong, without the gentle sweetness that made a lady. Legolas wore 
the face and body of a warrior, and though the scars Aragorn knew were 
on his pale skin might be faint, they were still there. 

And yet, with him so close, why did it seem to matter so little? Dark 
eyes peered into his own, as mesmerizing as...

As...

"My heart belongs to Arwen," he whispered, unable to look away from the 
cool depths of those eyes. 

"Yes, but Arwen is elven, like myself, and she understands that the 
needs of the body and the needs of the heart are not always the same." 
His hands rested on the trunk of the tree Aragorn was leaning against, 
moving as if caressing the rough bark but not touching the man, not 
yet, and Aragorn forced his eyes to close, unwilling to see this. 
Breath, warm and sweet against his lips, and he felt the soft touch of 
Legolas' nose, tracing the line of his own. 

"And yet, it is Arwen's touch I crave," Aragorn murmured, his own hands 
curling into the crisp layer of leaves beneath him. 

"But Arwen is not here, and I am," he countered, lips a feathery touch 
that just brushing Aragorn's own before he kissed him. 

Soft kisses, tasting his skin like it was a rare delicacy, if only an 
Elf would think such of a human. Aragorn said nothing, did nothing, 
fists clenched white as Legolas lightly flicked his tongue against his 
ear before whispering, "If it would please you, you may pretend it is 
otherwise." His lips curved in a rueful smile that Aragorn could hear 
in his voice. "I'm not as soft in some places as she is certain to be, 
but my hair is long and I am certain to be soft somewhere. 

Softly, hardly a breath in his ear, "Imagine that I am your sweet lady, 
dark of eye and hair, skin delicate and perfumed. Would she not do this 
for you? Nay, would not I do this for you, my lord?" And somehow his 
voice was softer, sweeter yet, and he did not smell or feel like a 
lady, but such sweetness of tongue, both as he murmured in his own 
language, tender words as hypnotizing as his touch, and as that same 
silvery tongue traced sweeter paths over his skin. 

Aragorn groaned softly, hardly able to breath as that soft, wicked 
tongue traced a path lower, delicate fingers pulling aside his tunic so 
that mouth could feast on the flesh beneath, and slightly, just the 
barest of touches brushed the chain of the necklace he wore. Arwen's 
gift shifted, prickling his skin and Aragorn's eyes snapped open. 
Legolas didn't notice; his face still buried against the human's neck 
as he explored. 

Pale hair, silvery as starlight instead of the darkness between, and 
before he had considered it, Aragorn captured a handful of it, pulling 
Legolas back none-too-gently to look into wide, dark eyes. 

"You are not Arwen," he gritted out and crushed Legolas' mouth beneath 
his own.

A man's mouth, lips thinner and harder than that of a lady, but a mouth 
that welcomed him nonetheless and Aragorn devoured it, desperately, his 
hands already seeking out the fastenings of Legolas' clothes. Buckles, 
buttons, ties, seemingly far too many for his own suddenly clumsy 
fingers to puzzle out and he sent a silent thank you that Legolas had 
apparently had the foresight to leave his quiver at the camp before 
coming to him, a wise, if incautious, decision. 

The rough fabric of his tunic finally parted to Aragorn's fumbling, the 
silky shirt beneath it pushed easily aside, and as the first pale gleam 
of skin finally emerged from between folds of cloth, Aragorn seized the 
moment, teasing the warm flesh with the tip of his tongue.

A sound escaped Legolas, his fingers digging into Aragorn's shoulders 
as the man traced a path upward with his tongue to find a pert nipple, 
already peaked in the cool night air. He suckled the tiny nub, circling 
it with the tip of his tongue as Legolas arched against him, making 
unabashed pleasure sounds like the sweetest of songs to Aragorn's ears. 

Wrapping his arms around the Elf, Aragorn felt a fall of sleek hair 
over the backs of his hands as Legolas tipped his head back, offering 
the smooth skin of his throat to the man's questing mouth. 

Soft, so soft, clean, firm skin beneath his tongue and Aragorn slid his 
hands from the silken tangle of hair down to Legolas' backside, felt 
the Elf startle at his boldness as he cupped the firm globes through 
the thick cloth of his breeches. 

His touch forced the sudden press of Legolas' hips against his own, and 
Aragorn drew a sharp breath at the feel of a hardened shaft against his 
stomach, even through the layers of their clothing. 

The idea of men with men was not unfamiliar to Aragorn, although not 
something he had done often, and he had lain with no one else, male or 
female, since he had first laid eyes on Arwen and surrendered his 
heart. He had not sought this out, had not asked or even considered it, 
but if it was to be done then he would do it properly. 

Aragorn shifted, moving Legolas off his lap to lie on his back in the 
soft nest of fallen leaves around them. Hands that clutched him in 
swift protest loosened as Legolas realized his intentions, and Aragorn 
looked up through his lashes at the face of the Elf beneath him. 

His skin was luminous in the weak light of the slivered moon above 
them, eyes heavy lidded with passion. Delicate, elven, and yes, there 
was a certain similarity between his features and Arwen's in this dim 
light, and it some ways it would not be all so difficult to close his 
eyes, to pretend. And yet, and yet...

Legolas. 

Ignoring the slight tremor in his hands, Aragorn unlaced the Elf's 
breeches with more urgency than care, and cupped the startlingly hot 
shaft that nearly leapt into his hands. Skin so very soft, more so here 
than he could even have imagine and Aragorn slid his thumbs over the 
fluid-slicked crown, his fingertips delving into the golden thatch of 
hair nestled beneath. 

For all their loftiness, in some ways elves and men were no different, 
Aragorn thought with a touch of grim humor, letting his fingers dance 
over the hardened flesh and watching Legolas shut his eyes helplessly, 
lost to growing sensation.

Sliding lower, Aragorn replaced his rough hands with the softer cushion 
of his mouth, and here was something of the elves that was not sweet, 
the taste poisonously bitter to Aragorn's human tongue, laced with 
smoky fire and he nearly recoiled, would have if not for the sharp, 
strangled cry that escaped Legolas, no music here but the pained sounds 
of need instead, sounds that begged without words for more.

It had been such a long time since he'd done anything like this and he 
wondered how he had ever forgotten how it felt, the start of a burning 
ache in his jaw, the struggle to accommodate the thickness of another 
man's desire, the wonder of a fluttering pulse against the flat of his 
tongue as he suckled and stroked, and even the growing taste of 
bitterness didn't dissuade him. 

He felt Legolas' hands knot into his hair, a low moan escaping the Elf 
as he tried to push upward, resisting the pressure of Aragorn's hands 
holding him down. 

"Oh, that's...ah, Aragorn...ah!" He lapsed into his own language and 
back 
into Common Tongue, a jumble of words escaping him until speech seemed 
to escape him, shifting to nonsensical cries as he again fought against 
Aragorn's restraining hands, arching up as best he could as he came, 
flooding the man's mouth with the bitterness of his seed. 

Aragorn swallowed quickly, nearly gagging at the taste yet he forced 
himself not to spit it out. It burned down his throat, not quite 
unpleasantly, and he closed his eyes to better feel it, gently licking 
the last spatters from Legolas' softening shaft. An experience only to 
be had once was one that needed to be lived to the fullest.
His lips felt swollen and bruised, his tongue still slick with the 
taste of Legolas' seed, and Aragorn moved back up to rest on his elbows 
over Legolas, covering the Elf's nudity with his own still-clothed 
body.

Soft, dazed eyes looked back at him and Aragorn wondered suddenly at 
Legolas' age, wondered if he was young for one of his kind, if not for 
men. Certainly it was nothing that the Elf had mentioned, for all the 
years they had known one another. 

So lost was he in the depths of those eyes and his own thoughts that 
the touch of a fingertip tracing his cheek made Aragorn flinch in 
surprise. A smile quirked Legolas' mouth, and he repeated the gesture, 
his finger dipping lower as his hand joined it, cupping Aragorn's chin 
in his palm. 

"Pleasing as that was, it wasn't quite what I had in mind."

"Oh? And what were you thinking of?"

"Better that I show you."

For all his unsated desire, Aragorn felt himself fill with a sudden 
wariness, 

not at all certain that he still wanted this, and he responded with 
hesitance, 
letting Legolas seize control of the kiss. 

But it was not to be. Legolas was as perceptive as any of his kind, and 
he 
pulled back to look at Aragorn, his brow ceased in a frown. "I would 
leave 
you now, should you ask it," he said softly, and it was an escape, a 
pathway 
for him to follow out of this coming encounter, if he chose 
to take it.  

Laughter rumbled up in his chest from deep within and he tightened his 
arms around the Elf before Legolas could pull back in dismay.

"Oh, and surely you could leave now," Aragorn chuckled. "With your 
pleasure spent and mine still waiting."

Legolas grinned impishly. "Well, I thought it best to offer. And you 
know less of elves than I would have thought, to think I am spent so 
quickly."

His breeches felt suddenly looser, and Aragorn inhaled deeply in 
relief, as they had been getting uncomfortably tight. Legolas' nimble 
fingers quickly finished unlacing them, delving within to wrap a hand 
around the heavy heat of the Man's cock. Aragorn watched the Elf's face
with heavy-lidded eyes as his warm hands fluttered lazily over his 
erection, fingertips callused in a way peculiar to bowmen. 

He could only bear a few moments of such exquisite teasing before he 
was forced to pull away, capturing Legolas' hands with his own and 
pinning them gently to the ground. They stayed obediently still as 
Aragorn made his way as well as he could through the frustrating jumble 
of their clothing, making it abundantly clear, if it was not so 
already, that he was no Elf with tricky fingers. It seemed almost a 
miracle when they were finally disrobed, naked amidst the delicate 
whisper of nighttime around them with Legolas kneeling before him. 

Tracing a path down Legolas' back, Aragorn's fingertips slipped lower 
still, testing, slipping just the tip of a finger inside to be clasped 
tightly. He had nothing to smooth the path; he certainly hadn't 
expected to be doing such things as this on their quest and he 
hesitated uncertainly. 

Well, then, he would do as he had so often done in other circumstances 
during his travels; improvise.

He let his hands take the lead, stroking and petting as he lapped at 
base of Legolas' spine, finding the taste of warm, clean skin waiting 
for him no matter where he pressed his lips. Months of them traveling 
without anything resembling a bath and Legolas was as clean as virgin 
snow. Elves, he thought ruefully, kissing his way lower, down the curve 
of the Elf's hip before flicking his tongue gently against the puckered 
opening, wetting it lavishly. 

Legolas stiffened, with shock, certainly, but Aragorn tightened his 
grip on the Elf's hips, holding him still as he plundered his body 
ruthlessly. Only when Legolas was writhing and whimpering beneath him, 
pleading breathlessly did he finally relent, stretching out over the 
lithe body beneath him to push forward into welcoming heat.

The softest of cries, of pain, perhaps, and Legolas was quivering 
beneath him, the muscles in his back taut and damp with sweat. Aragorn 
paused, gentling him as he would any creature made for riding, even one 
so beautiful as this one.

A brief moment of eternity, waiting for his lover to relax, to push 
back against him hesitantly, and then impatiently when he did nothing. 
Aragorn leaned forward and buried his face into sweetly scented skin, 
clasping Legolas' hips in his hands before finally replying to that 
unspoken plea, thrusting forward, pulling Legolas back so that their 
bodies met in a pleasing rhythm. 

So wonderfully tight, again, soft and sweet as a lady, but Legolas 
again proved that he was no such creature, resisting his tender strokes 
and demanding a fiercer coupling, one that Aragorn was helpless not to 
give.  

Aragorn tasted blood, biting his lip to stifle cries that were certain 
to bring the others searching for them, meeting Legolas' desire as the 
Elf writhed beneath him until he surrendered the battlefield, thrusting 
hard a final time as he groaned out his pleasure between gritted teeth, 
dimly hearing Legolas' own helpless little sounds as his passions found 
their completion. 

Utterly exhausted, Aragorn collapsed against Legolas, trying to find 
the strength in his shaking limbs to pull away, and yet the Elf uttered 
no protest, holding his weight easily even as he trembled himself, his 
breath only just slowing to normal. 

Awkwardly, Aragorn pressed a gentle kiss between Legolas' shoulder 
blades and heard a contented sigh in reply. He shifted to kneel next to 
the Elf, his tremors of pleasure shifting into shivers from the cool
night air and hastily Aragorn began sifting through their tangled 
clothing to find his own. 

Legolas seemed unaware of the chill and he stretched luxuriously, 
turning to look at Aragorn with soft, wry humor in his eyes. "I trust 
you feel better?"

Stung, Aragorn jerked his tunic over his head, fastening his clothing 
with fingers that seemed clumsy and stupid in the aftermath of passion. 
"And you think this is a remedy to heal my wounds?" he asked brusquely, 
feeling insulted for no good reason he could think of. 

A long-fingered hand covered his own, stilling him. "Ah, but you are a 
better healer than that," Legolas chided gently. "A poultice is not to 
heal the wound, but to prevent infection. In the end, the wound must 
heal itself."

He leaned forward enough to press a gentle kiss against Aragorn's 
forehead before he stood, dressing with all the speed and grace 
that Aragorn could not seem to muster. He watched Legolas turn away in 
silence, his own fingers still lax against the ties of his clothes. 

The Elf hesitated a moment and turned back, his face shadowed as he 
said quietly, "Still, there is no harm in dressing a wound, if you 
think it may help." Then he smiled, a flash of warmth and lightness 
before he was gone.

Aragorn knelt a moment longer, considering Legolas' words thoughtfully 
as he finished dressing.

No, he decided suddenly. There was no harm in bandaging a wound, and 
indeed, it often helped it heal more quickly. He fingered the chain 
around his neck. It was Arwen who held his heart, and yet, sweet 
creature that she was, she would never squeeze it so tightly that he 
could not care for another.

His heart suddenly lighter, Aragorn stamped into his boots before 
turning back towards the camp, the company seeming far more inviting 
now than the silence of the forest. Soft Hobbit laughter, rare as it 
was 
in this time, mingled with Dwarven grumblings and the occasional, 
almost absent humming of an Elvish tune. A poultice, of a sort, 
for his aching soul. 

-finis-