Title: Stress Relief Author: Razzle (hungryhungryhippo1@hotmail.com) Pairing: Legolas/Aragorn Rating: NC17 Summary: More from The Spice Of Life vein, after ROTK. Legolas and Aragorn roll around without a plot. Disclaimer: I slashed the bunnies! But I did not write no trilogy. I slashed the bunnies! Don’t sue ‘cos I ain’t got nothin’ Warnings: Can’t imagine you’ll find much to be offended by. Unless you’re particularly fond of Arwen. Authors note: Dedicated, as always, to Louise, who loves Aragorn being the bitch. Apologies to TMEB for the fluff, but there’s manly stuff on the way. Archive: Yippee kaye-ay motherfucker. Just welcome me to the party, pal. Feedback: is the Slash equivalent of Ambrosia. (The original, although I am also partial to a spot of custard.) Strong fingers dig deep into aching flesh. Pressing, mercilessly pushing past deep-seeded and long maintained resistance, the complete lack of compassion or tenderness pierces the victim to a depth hitherto never penetrated. His face is buried in contemptuously comfortable cushions, and he stretches to lift his head enough to breathe easily. As the assault continues, ever more wounding, the recipient strains futilely against his restraints. His legs will not move, being so firmly secured between strong thighs, his body caught beneath another’s, so formidable, and yet so light. As for his arms, well they haven’t worked for some time. A sharp jab, and his tentative grip on the last of his self-control slips into a great moan, long and low and so plaintive it brings and abrupt halt to the molestation. *********** Legolas laid his hands gently on Aragorn's shoulders, his voice nothing but concern. “Did I hurt you?” “Oh, yes. Don’t stop, please.” Aragorn’s breathless reply brought a wicked smile to the elf’s lovely mouth. His hands slid back down the man’s shoulder blades, and his smile widened as Aragorn groaned again, arching his back into the touch. He spread his hands wide over strong, well-defined back muscles, his thumbs tracing each section of the man’s spine, skilful digits searching out areas of tension, and kneading the tissue until the strain was released. Each time he eased a knot, he was rewarded with a cry of agonizing pleasure so delightful to his ears it was as a siren’s song. Legolas ran his fingers down the sides of the man’s lean waist, delighting in the way he wriggled against the gentler sensation. He squeezed Aragorn’s shoulders, and, pressing as hard as he dared, drove his palms into the firm muscles of his upper arms. With each forward drive he reached a little further, until he finally laid full length upon his prey, holding his wrists high above his head. With every thrust ahead, the fond brutality of Legolas’ strokes was contrasted beautifully by the excruciatingly gentle tickle of long soft hair over Aragorn’s naked skin. Aragorn moaned, a feral rumble deep in his chest. Now the elf stretched over the man, and pressed his own slender frame firmly against the one below, he brought his face close enough to Aragorn to whisper directly into his ear. “You like that, my king?” he purred, feeling the man stretch and tighten beneath him, “is that not bliss?” “Not quite,” the man replied, “but it’s getting close, *oh god*,” his voice was lost as the mischievous elf ground his hips down against his backside. He had serious suspicions that the man was already dangerously hard beneath him, but he wasn’t ready to relinquish his command so soon. So he leaned back, nonchalantly turning his attention to a gentle neck massage as if nothing had passed between them but ordinary banter. “Legolas,” the man positively whined. As skilled as the elf was with his hands, Aragorn could think of other areas that could benefit from their skill, the most pressing of which was increasingly pressing into the mattress below him. Legolas grinned, and there was laughter in his voice. “Now, Aragorn, what kind of therapist would I be if I didn’t do a thorough job?” A normally strong voice was muted by the pillow that still covered his face. “Oh, I expect you to be thorough.” Legolas smiled to himself once more, but stubbornly refused to grant the man his desires. It was a game well established, the ever-impatient man in competition with the elf, for who time was something that happened to other people. “What *is* all this tension all about? You’ve got more knots than Mirkwood.” “I have a stupid wife, a difficult destiny, a very large and at times annoying kingdom, and *someone* hasn’t been to see me in several weeks.” Satisfied with his work, he moved his hands down the man’s somewhat more relaxed back, until he reached the top of the towel wrapped loosely around Aragorn’s lower half. “Aw, poor baby,” the elf said with sarcastic sympathy, sliding his thumbs around the inner edge of the towel and causing Aragorn to suck in a breath. He let his hands travel lower, and massaged the tops of his backside. His fingers brushed lightly over the dip below his tailbone, a place the elf knew to be one of the man’s most sensitive erogenous zones, ever watching he man as he tensed and relaxed, over and over. He released the man sufficiently for him to move, and as Aragorn stretched out with cat-like languor, the towel slipped entirely out of the way. Legolas couldn’t resist the sight, and leaned down to fetch him a playful bite on the ass. He ignored the whine and the baleful glare he received, instead patting him gently where his previous action had left a pale red mark. “Over you go, your majesty.” The glare turned to slight confusion, an eyebrow raised before compliance. Legolas gaze fell to Aragorn’s groin, and it was his turn to raise an eyebrow, one corner of his mouth twitching in amusement. Aragorn merely shrugged. “I make no apology. You’re well aware of your talents.” “I am now.” The elf, who could be remarkably cruel on occasion, ran his fingers up Aragorn’s hard length once, before moving onwards and upwards. Maliciously slow, his fingers skirted compact muscles, dancing over hardened nipples and playing with the chest hair that never failed to fascinate him. He brushed smooth collarbones, and completed his journey by treating his friend to the most divine of kisses. The elf’s primary mission in his offer of massage had been to relax the overwrought king, so with this kiss he tried to maintain the same kind of relaxing tenderness. But the king was having none of it, and leaned up into the kiss, reaching behind the elf’s head to secure him against his mouth. Legolas allowed this, the poor man had been horribly passion deprived in his absence. He no longer gleaned any real thrill from the woman he called wife, whereas Legolas could always do things to him with a single look what Arwen had ever failed to accomplish. Fortunately, she lacked the wisdom and insight of her forebears, and understood her husband’s need for ‘boys only’ weekends to be exactly what they claimed. Legolas permitted the invasion, but restrained him in pace, maintaining a leisurely speed as their tongues danced around one another. In his heart, Legolas was ever the hopeless romantic, and he found just kissing the man he loved to be easily as arousing as any foreplay either could devise. Aragorn felt his lover’s arousal rise up to meet his own, straining against the fabric of his leggings, and allowed himself a smile at Legolas’ expense. The elf sucked hard on his tongue in response, stealing his breath in the midst of his desire. Abruptly, he loosed Aragorn’s mouth, and kissed a path down his neck as the king dropped his head back into the pillows and sighed. “I wonder how I should seek to relax you now, my hassled love.” “I sincerely doubt,” the panting king replied as Legolas’ tongue circled his nipple, “that you need my help.” “Oh,” Legolas corrected from around his navel, “but I do need you to do something,” “Mmm?” “I need you to moan for me.” With that, Legolas took him into his mouth. Aragorn’s back arched, and he had no choice but to comply with Legolas’ request, moaning loudly in relief. It has been well documented that Legolas had as much skill with his tongue as he did with his weapons (although, to my knowledge, he has never tried to suck an orc to death, I could not imagine a better way to go), which is, of course, an immense quantity. Aragorn was not thinking about orcs. In fact, he was having some difficulty thinking of anything but the incredible wet heat surrounding him. Legolas hollowed his cheeks and squeezed, taking every inch of him deep into the canyon of his throat, then allowing him to slide out entirely, flicking his tongue over the end, then sucking him back in again. Aragorn’s body began to release tension he didn’t know he had been holding. But Legolas wasn’t done. He sat back once more, stripping himself of his leggings, and Aragorn petulantly pushed himself onto his elbows. “Are you trying to do me permanent damage, Elf?” “Far from it,” the elf replied, his face a picture of innocence. “I promise to be very gentle with you.” He was pouring more massage oil into his hand, but as he went to slick his own erection with it he became aware of a sudden movement. With alarming speed, Aragorn had sat up, and stilled his hand with his own. “Allow me, my prince.” Legolas shuddered at the touch he had missed so much, and closed his eyes as his lover tenderly stroked his length. Aragorn was too often taken aback by the blonde angel as he came undone in his touch. He never forgot how beautiful he looked, but he could never quite believe that such a lovely creature belonged to him, loved him, shared himself with no one else. At length, the elf regained his composure enough to seize his hand and stop him, the elf’s heavy breaths calming as the man ceased his movements. Tenderly but quickly, he lifted the king onto his lap and sat back so Aragorn could brace his knees upon the ground. He held the king’s gaze casually. “How do you do, Your Majesty?” Aragorn tilted his head. “Well enough, Highness, you?” Legolas brought him down flush onto his lap, sheathing himself fully inside. Aragorn barely flinched, his eyes fluttering shut only briefly when Legolas entered him, and the blonde was very impressed. “Better, My lord. Much better.” As he paused momentarily, savouring the divine closeness, he considered the beautiful man in his arms. It had often been claimed that elves got wiser and ‘more beautiful’ as they aged. He wondered on what they had based that observation. Arwen was actually getting more stupid by the year, (granted, possibly a side-effect of choosing a mortal life) and there was nothing that beautiful about remaining the same. Elves didn’t get more beautiful; they just got better at it. Every time he saw Aragorn, the man had a new wrinkle he could love, his hair was longer, or the colour of his skin had changed in the sun. He was lovely, and became more beautiful with every passing day. Although, he thought with a wicked smile, flexing his hips to make the king gasp, he could be biased. Aragorn smiled in return, and leaned back as Legolas thrust into him, bracing his hands on pale shoulders to provide him with a good angle. With every inward stroke, Legolas struck the source of his lover’s pleasure, and he could not long stand to have the man so far away, so he leaned forwards to kiss him again. Aragorn’s breath hitched. Pulling him close had renewed the stimulation of his cock, which had been more or less ignored for some time now. The elf reached in between them, and wrapped a strong hand around the column of flesh, the other hand still supporting Aragorn’s back, now slick with sweat and oil. He began to stroke him in time with his thrusts, and Aragorn was forced to break away from the kiss. “Something wrong?” the elf asked, looking up at him thorough gorgeously thick eyelashes. “Not unless you you’d like me to pass out, elf.” Came the man’s gasping reply. Legolas thought it might be quite interesting, actually, and cruelly upped the pace of his strokes. Aragorn’s head canted back, and the elf kissed his neck, tasting the sweat he had caused to flow. Such was his position, when Aragorn reached his orgasm a few moments later, his excessively loud moan vibrated through the elf’s lips, and he seemed to swallow it into himself, through his throat and down into his heart. Sensing his lover could barely hold himself up any longer, he lowered the man gently onto the bed, kissing him gently as he thrust at his own pace, until he, too, spilled his seed inside his love, returning the experience by crying out into his mouth. Legolas lay panting for a moment, his forehead pressed against Aragorn’s, as the man stroked his hair, whispering love and devotion to his gasping beloved. A few moments later, he pulled his softening cock from Aragorn’s body, an action he ever lamented, and allowed his own drained body to fall next to his. Legolas gathered up the blanket that had been pushed to the end of the bed, and swung it out wide so it came to rest neatly over both of them. “That’s a good trick, my dearest,” the king said sleepily, and as Legolas leaned back he rested his head on the elf’s strong chest, wrapping his arms around him. “Stay for a while, won’t you Love?” he murmured, giving the elf a possessive squeeze. “Of course,” he never could refuse the man, no matter the request, and this was an easy one to grant. A moment later, as he held the man closer, he noticed how quickly his breathing had changed. The elf smiled leant down to kiss the dark hair of the man he loved. He was glad that he needed no sleep, for ranger, king or man, he had his arms full of his sleeping lover, and he would never find a dream as sweet.