Title: Pleasure 
Author: Lady E (el_miriel@yahoo.co.uk) 
Pairing: Aragorn/Legolas (also: Aragorn/Arwen, but no het scenes) 
Rating: NC-17 for graphic sex 
Warnings: Mild BDSM (consensual), voyeurism, PWP-ish. 
Summary: Gondor, year 4 of the Fourth Age. Arwen is fascinated by the  
relationship of Aragorn and Legolas. And she has her own way of  
finding pleasure... 
Archive: ALSlash, Melethryn, Library of Moria, and where posted.  
Others please ask. 
Feedback: Would be dearly cherished. 
A/N: 
1) Basically, this is an exercise in writing a lengthy sex scene.  
Expect no more, no less. :) 
2) Eryn Lasgalen, or the Wood of Greenleaves, is the name given to  
Mirkwood after the War of the Ring. 
3) Thanks to Eruantale for betaing! 
 
 
 
 
~¨~¨~¨~¨~¨~¨~¨~¨~¨~¨~¨~  
 
 
'There was an Evenstar that shone dim and distant on the path of a  
Ranger. She waited, for she had been given all the time there was.  
And she made a bitter parting from her kin beyond the end of the  
world, and chose a life by the side of a mortal, for thus had been  
decreed. But she did not fight with him, she did not protect his life  
with her own, she was not there to comfort him with her body when all  
lights had gone out and the night was black and starless. And it was  
to be that a lot fell to her that was different from what she had  
foreseen. 
 
There was an Evenstar and a Ranger, and yet there was another.' 
 
Thus would my story begin, were I ever to write it. But now I see I  
can no longer recount everything, the time as it was, as I used to  
know and see it. I can only tell of moments – of a moment – of what  
is now at hand. 
 
For something is changed. 
 
My body is already more human than Elven. Mortality is taking it over  
day by day, and time itself has become different: whimsical, elusive.  
Stories are running away from me, vanishing into the unknown. Perhaps  
faint and distorted echoes of them shall be imagined up by some that  
come afterwards, when the old world is no more. Such is the way of  
mortal life as it flows away: few stories will be carved down in  
stone and the rest will be forgotten, and only in dreams and  
fantasies may something of them be attained. 
 
Many a thing is changed. 
 
Where once was an open infinity is now an end, unknown but definite.  
Sensations familiar from days long gone travel in my body new and  
lucid, and the diminishing of time makes them brighter, uncovers what  
is most important. The tang of chilly air as it surrounds my skin in  
the morning light, the sharp prick of a needle as it slips in my  
fingers, the full aroma of old wine on my tongue – I cherish it all  
as the essence of life unlike before. My gaze is turned into two  
directions: outwards to what I see and touch, inwards to things that  
sink through my skin and are absorbed into my blood, my life. 
 
I am changed. 
 
~ ~ ~  
 
When I first encountered their pleasure, it took my breath away. 
 
I was passing through the quiet arcades of the castle when I suddenly  
saw them. Two figures, dark and light, moving against the wall,  
wrapped in a blinding heat. Columns of radiant daylight were  
splitting the air and dust was dancing around them like flakes of  
fire. And on my husband's face adoration, a devotion that fused him  
into the other being, a companion, friend, lover. 
 
I had not seen his face like that before. 
 
They had no perception of being watched, but I stole away behind the  
corner anyway, listening to the pounding in my chest and fighting the  
weakness that had suddenly taken me over. I would have thought I  
should have felt shocked, angry, even disgusted, for it is not common  
for Men neither for Elves to give their bodies to another of their  
own sex. It has hardly been heard of, and those who succumb to such a  
habit are looked upon with scorn and contempt, as if they are lesser  
creatures, undeserving of the approval of their kin. 
 
But instead, my body was contaminated by their mutual fever. I took  
my pleasure in watching. 
 
The following morning Legolas Greenleaf took to Eryn Lasgalen to see  
his father and kin, and the goodbyes he exchanged with Estel were no  
more and no less than those of two old friends and brothers-in-arms.  
I was almost ready to believe my eyes had been cheated by some spell  
and I had seen but a delirium driven by the stirs in my body. 
 
But as time floated by, thin and translucent and ever more difficult  
to grasp as it is for mortals, it was as if fog on mountains  
dispelled and revealed a landscape that had ever lingered there,  
unchanging, filled with colours and layers. What I had seen was a  
true, persistent and ceaseless song that always rose again. Theirs  
was not a passing fancy. It was not a senseless rush of desire once  
sated and then forgotten. 
 
It was a lush vine covering their whole life, growing new saplings as  
others faded away, reaching to unknown heights, entwining their each  
and every heartbeat, breath, thought and word. 
 
Legolas would come from the woods of Ithilien to stay, sometimes only  
for hours, sometimes for weeks. Estel would be gentle and attentive  
towards me, take command of the duties of the King with the same  
smoothness and ease he always had. But in the still shadows of the  
castle they would find a chamber, a bed, a floor or a wall for their  
play. 
 
And I would watch. I do watch. 
 
How they love. How they burn for each other. 
 
Sometimes they couple fiercely and with abandon, forcing a swift and  
racking pleasure. Sometimes they take long, slow hours to tease one  
another's bodies to the peak, tormenting their own want with such  
strength of will that it amazes me every time. It is a mesmerising  
play of rejection and response, escape and surrender. Each one of  
them is beautiful alone, but when their different qualities are  
merged together, they forge in their carnal white glow a bright and  
merciless chain that binds me to the spot. 
 
I'm not taken by surprise that their feeling for each other is  
insatiable. So is my fascination for watching them. 
 
Once Legolas turned his eyes on me as Estel was moving inside him and  
my heart was a butterfly in my chest, I thought, does he see, does he  
know? I pressed my mouth to the back of my hand, tight, and tried to  
hold my quickened breath. I only dared to breath out slowly when the  
sounds of their release filled the space. Legolas never looked again,  
never spoke a word of it. In the halls of the castle his calm face  
greeted me with a faint smile, as it always had. I smiled back,  
thinking of the soft, restless movements inside me and their pleasure  
as it penetrated me. 
 
Many a secret inhabits this castle. 
 
~ ~ ~  
 
I know their hiding-places well, and I have my own ones. My back  
remembers every unevenly cut stone in the walls covered by thick  
curtains, my eyes know the shape of every peek-hole, my limbs recall  
the space in every secret niche. 
 
Tonight I wish I've interpreted their intentions rightly. I'm settled  
in a large room where the King holds his council around a long table.  
I'm sitting in a narrow niche in the corner of the room, and through  
the gap between the stone wall and the tapestry covering the niche I  
can see most of the room: the table and the seats surrounding it, the  
walls covered by curtains, a strip of the floor stretching towards  
the entrance. My space to move is minor, but if they don't keep close  
to the walls, I may see sufficiently well. 
 
I wait. 
 
And they enter. Their choice is intentionally careless, for this room  
is not secret or hidden. It is a daring choice, and I admire their  
courage, the risk-taking I know will add to their heat. 
 
Legolas leads Estel into the room by hand. I can only see my  
husband's backside, the dark hair flowing down to his shoulder- 
blades, the simple, informal linen shirt he's wearing, and the  
leather breeches – as if he's not the King of Men, but still the  
mortal foster child of Imladris. Legolas lets go of his hand and  
springs quickly a few quiet steps away, eluding the touch of his  
lover as the man reaches for him. Estel turns slightly and traces the  
edge of the long table with his fingers, using it as a guideline as  
he feels his way toward the blonde Elf. I only see now he is  
blindfolded: another game they sometimes turn to. 
 
Estel walks in slow, hesitant steps, his right arm stretched out in  
front of him. His touch sends Legolas moving further away, letting  
Estel merely brush him lightly before drawing from him. My husband  
flutters like a moth towards the glorious brightness of the Elf he  
loves, burning, falling. And Legolas, he shines, he lures. He stops  
and lets Estel bring his hands to his face. The man's fingertips  
press onto the Elf's lips, the fingers slide inside Legolas's soft  
mouth and he tastes them, sucks them. Their hips touch in an  
unhurried movement, a wake-up dance from a silent dream that will  
give way to sighs and pleas and cries, but not yet, not quite yet. 
 
Estel's breath is falling heavy with want. He pulls his fingers away  
and leans in very close to Legolas, the tip of his tongue searching  
to taste his lover's mouth. Legolas plays along, his lips barely  
touching the man's. His smile is curving and trembling feather-like  
against Estel's face, the tension between them hangs dark and tight  
in the still air. Without a warning Legolas pulls away and in a  
sudden movement has captured Estel's wrists, his hold twining onto  
the man's skin like a rope. Estel struggles and twitches, but  
Legolas's strength keeps him at place. The Elf forces him slowly down  
to his knees, bends him to his will like wind wears away stone and  
gives it another shape. Legolas's quiet order cuts the air. 
 
"You know my wish, King of Men." 
 
And Elfstone sighs his own desire that rises visible and demanding as  
his body reaches out for his lover. Yet his wrists remain captured,  
and he cannot move. He draws in deep gasps, he waits. The grip of  
Legolas's fingers loosens, the Elf undoes the laces of his trousers  
and draws out his stiffened length, which he guides to the parted  
lips of Estel. The man takes him in his mouth willingly, receiving  
his scent, his taste, his sensuous hardness of flesh. Legolas's  
fingers dig into Estel's dark, wavy hair, his eyes are half-closed  
and their gaze fixed upon Estel's face as he drowns his want into it  
in deep, slow thrusts. The Elf lets out hushed, long and wailing  
sounds that fall upon the man like a thick net that isolates them  
from the rest of the world. 
 
I wish I could pin their sensations down somehow. I'd weave that  
clutch of fingers curled around the hair in a tapestry, or paint a  
picture of that face flushed with lust in a fabric with careful  
stitches of needle, or spin those words of fever in a song. But how  
could the Queen of Men tell such stories of their King? How could the  
Evenstar of the Elf-folk reveal what would certainly seem a betrayal  
to those of her kin that love her? 
 
Legolas slows down his thrusts, tense and quivering, evading his  
release, and draws his arousal from Estel's mouth. Estel licks the  
tip of his manhood, savouring the taste of his lover, tormenting the  
sensitive flesh. Legolas's face wavers and changes as will works to  
displace want on it. His hand pulls Estel's head back with a tug,  
forcing it away from himself. 
 
"To your feet, Aragorn." 
 
And the King rises, his knees give in a little, sore from the  
hardness of the stone floor, but he rises tall and firm. Legolas  
stirs and is upon him, around him, pure wind and light surrounding  
the man, my husband. Their kiss is hungry as they claim each other's  
taste, melting, merging. They murmur their passion into each other,  
moaning and sighing, flesh reaching for flesh. Legolas slips his  
hands under Estel's shirt, caresses the bare chest, the forms of the  
muscles, drawing images of what has been and what is yet to come. He  
seeks and finds. Estel's mouth opens in a restrained cry as his  
erection is freed from the coarseness of the breeches into the  
softness of the living skin. Garments are burning off them as they're  
bending, winding, sliding in each other's embrace. 
 
And I'm burning. I'm bending and winding and sliding and arching, my  
eyes are arrows aimed at them, impaling the sight like a beautiful  
and doomed animal of prey that is not to find its escape. 
 
Legolas pushes Estel onto the table, holding a strip of leather in  
his hand, the belt he carries on his waist. He twists it around the  
man's wrists and tightens it into a knot, pushes Estel on his back –  
I can no longer see my husband's face. Legolas climbs astride on top  
of his lover and forces his arms behind his head, ties the loose end  
of the leather strap around the table leg. Then he draws back,  
spreads the legs of his lover and takes his place between them. He's  
standing firmly on the stone floor, back half-turned to me, partly  
blocking my sight of the King who is lying on the table captured and  
blinded, a slave to his Elf. 
 
Legolas bends to the pile of clothes on the floor to find a bottle of  
oil he always carries with him. I can sense the familiar, spicy scent  
of the oil when he rubs some of it on himself. He gives a few strokes  
to Estel's manhood that is rising hard and lifts the man's feet on  
his shoulders, opening him to the full. He places himself to the  
man's entrance, moves lightly, carefully, feeling, teasing. The  
leather belt holding Estel's wrists tightens as the man's arms tense,  
his muscles move and scream for a pleasure that loiters, keeps him  
waiting. My husband speaks, he pleads, he begs. 
 
"Undo the blindfold." 
 
Legolas doesn't lift a finger to fulfil this wish, he keeps stroking  
Estel painfully slowly, up towards the moist tip of the shaft and  
down towards the fluff-covered testicles. 
 
"Legolas, please. I wish to see your face as you take me." 
 
The movement of Legolas's hand stops. Then he reaches towards his  
lover's face, slides his fingers under the blindfold and edges away  
with it, frees the eyes to look at him. I see his body shiver, and he  
will wait no longer, no longer at all. Flesh bites into flesh, and  
they both make a sound as Legolas sheathes his length deep into  
Estel, his oiled fingers still around the man. He's taking Estel  
forcefully, completely, driving cries and whispers out of him,  
pushing ever deeper into the muscular body that closes around him  
receptive, possessive. 
 
Their movement is a blood-red and living heart in the dusk of the  
room, it pulsates and wavers, and even though I cannot see their  
faces, I know they're looking at each other, looking at the life  
they've chosen, looking at the love they keep from the world, looking  
at the desire that ties them together and wrings all their nights and  
days. They forge in their carnal white glow a bright and merciless  
chain they use to bind each other --  
 
And me, my glow, the soft and dark and restless stirs of my body, as  
they slow down and settle little by little, and my breathing calms  
down --  
 
And their peak is over, Legolas has collapsed on top of Estel and is  
opening the knot of the leather belt with trembling hands for his  
lover to wrap his arms around him and wield his fingers on his skin,  
fair and warm, for them both to rest, to tire. 
 
I move away quiet and Elf-like, leaving them there, in the tangle of  
their spent lust. 
 
~ ~ ~  
 
Time passes elusive, imperceptible. 
 
When Estel returns to our marital bed later in the night, the scent  
of his lover's touch fading slowly on his skin, he pulls me to him  
and looks at me. I do not turn my eyes away, but read everything in  
his. I see my part in the story is no lesser for their love, it is  
merely different from what I believed I had chosen. I listen to the  
stirs in my body, and he listens to them too, and our bond is  
unbroken. 
 
I have his tenderness, his presence, and these mortal shores. And I  
have my pleasure that grows from theirs. 
 
Since time is no longer without an end to me, it shall suffice. 
 
It must suffice.