Title: The Spice of Life Author: Razzle (hungryhungryhippo1@hotmail.com) Summary: Fluffy PWP, after ROTK. Aragorn tries to get Legolas to expand his victual horizons, with somewhat unexpected results. Disclaimer: My name is, my name is, my name is, not Tolkien. Warnings: Light bondage, and a serious threat of fluff- related vomit grow near. Forgive me; I was in the mood for love. And then, insanity descended. Archive: stick it where you like. Feedback: is even sexier than Sean Bean Legolas was starving. It was odd for an elf to feel hungry at all, but Aragorn had insisted he not eat for several days. It had better be worth it, he considered, as his stomach gave an undignified grumble. The elf leaned his head back against the tree behind him, and closed his eyes. After a while, the air changed, and the elf gave a sigh. “Hello, Aragorn.” Aragorn cursed under his breath. Damn that elf’s excellent hearing, he never missed a trick. He watched, transfixed, as Legolas’ thick eyelashes fluttered open, and his face swept into a warm smile as he looked on the face of his lover. Legolas’ eyes finally flickered down from the handsome kings intense eyes and full, inviting lips, full of promise and pressed into an involuntary and rather naughty pout that made the elf’s body heat. His bright blue eyes fell to the basket Aragorn had brought with him, and placed gently down by his side. He raised an elegant eyebrow, forcing the man into a wicked grin. “Dear, sweet, stupid, stupid Arwen. I told her I was going hunting, and she made me a picnic fit for a king,” he said by way of explanation. His eyes narrowed predatorily, “or a prince.” He dropped to his knees beside the lovely elf. “I’m sick of seeing you eat next to nothing. Today I will see you gorge your gorgeous self.” Legolas smiled coyly, and ducked his head at the endearment. It never ceased to amaze Aragorn how the modest the elf remained, after 3,000 years of endearments, mostly far more elaborate than that. Or perhaps, he thought with a swell of pride, it was only he who had the ability to affect him this way. He’d be lying if he said it wasn’t extremely flattering, to have two beautiful elves in love with him. Even if one of them was quite excessively stupid, and the other he had to love in secret, to capture as many precious moments as he could. Like this one. The luxury of time was with them, this time at least, and he decided to take advantage, before he took advantage. Leaning forward, he took the beautiful face in his hands, pressing his eager lips against tender, unresisting ones, not betraying the fervour of his ardour. A minute later, when each was suitably light-headed with the outpouring of emotions, they broke apart, more than a little reluctantly, and Aragorn leant his head down to rest against the elf’s lean chest, his face buried in the warm curve of his neck. Aragorn breathed deeply, nuzzling into the smooth pale skin, intoxicated with his loves singular scent. Legolas wrapped his arms possessively around the man, sighing out in a frustrated wish never to relinquish his hold. They could have stayed there forever, neither with any particular wish to loose their grip on the other, until Legolas’ stomach broke their reverie. Aragorn turned on the slightly manic toothy smile that never failed to educe Legolas’ horny face, darted his tongue out to taste the elf’s sinuous neck, and was rewarded with a gasp of pleasure. He stretched out a foot, shifting slightly against his living pillow, to kick open the lid of the basket. Legolas eyed the contents a little sceptically. “You intend to make me fat, my Aragorn?” “King tubby Eomer has the monopoly on that,” the king mumbled into his neck, “You will be a stick forever. Literally.” Legolas leaned forwards, forcing his charge to bend with him, and give a forlorn little whine when made to shift in his embrace. Aragorn felt the vibrations, rather than hearing the elf’s mastication, as he settled back against he tree and bit through the flesh of an apple. Thoughts of staying enveloped in the warm affection of his lover’s arms flew from his mind as he bolted upright, indignation scoring lines upon his handsome face. “What are you doing?” he spat in accusation. The elf paused mid-chew, his eyes wide and adorable, as if he’d been caught scrumping. Aragorn paused too to take in the amusing sight of an elf so unsettled, before elaborating. “I go to all the trouble of getting my blind wench to make up a basket of all my favourite foods, and you’re eating an apple?” Legolas’ expression relaxed, and he very deliberately finished chewing, enjoying the way Aragorn was riveted to the movement of his jaw. He swallowed slowly, and licked his lips. To his amusement, Aragorn unconsciously mimicked the action. “I don’t know what it all is,” he said, narrowing his eyes in mock defence, “I was waiting until you were ready to show me.” “Right then.” The next few minutes passed pleasantly enough, Legolas reacting with suitably positive noises as Aragorn fed him herbed breads, foreign cheeses and cold meats. Aragorn was certain he’d never see a sausage again without blushing. He stubbornly refused to let Legolas move, maintaining his culinary experiment at his speed. Entirely failing in any attempt at subtlety, Aragorn made as if to drink, and lost his balance, tipping red wine down Legolas’ white tunic. The elf scowled. “You only had to ask, my lord,” he said reproachfully, but without malice, as he stripped the shirt from his body, leaving Aragorn lost for words in the presence of his toned chest, a blush rivulet snaking down between effortless muscles. Breaking his gaze, Aragorn dipped his finger into a jar of honey, and held the dripping digit over the elf’s open mouth. Legolas, tilted his head back, eyes closed in pleasure. Honey crept over the boundaries of his lips when Aragorn was unable to keep his hand still, and the sight was too tempting a treat to resist. Aragorn maintained a relatively impressive level of restraint, running a shivering finger down the elf’s pale chest, leaning forwards to chase the shining trail with his tongue. His eyes fluttered shut at the sound of Legolas’ moan, and, with incredible self-control, he leaned back to pour more wine, distracting himself by sucking on a sweet. “You like that, then?” The elf nodded, and arched against the tree with suppressed desire. The man had trouble concentrating as he watched the gentle rise and fall of his ivory chest, muscles glistening from the honey and his lover’s mouth. When Legolas pressed a lazy tongue between his lips to catch the traces of honey from their surface, Aragorn leaned in at last to claim a kiss from his semi-naked and thoroughly debauched lover. Their lips touched and, as usual, the stresses of the kingdom were washed away by his love’s gentle caress. He deepened the kiss, and was rewarded with a honey-flavoured tongue wrapping around his own, dancing over the back of his teeth, confidently flirtatious. Suddenly, the elf paused, and pulled back. Before Aragorn had chance to question why, he was slammed on his back, and the air was knocked out of him. A lively Elven tongue was exploring his mouth as if he’d never tasted him before. Legolas broke off once more with a gasp, to hover inches above Aragorn's mouth, his hot breath still playing across the surface of the king’s lips. “What,” he panted, “the hell is that?” Again, no space was left for an answer before he was assaulted again, the strong elf pressed upon him, plundering his mouth, all the time mumbling against him, exclamations of delight, unintelligible whimpers of pleasure. Aragorn tried to move the elf, lift him slightly to aid his own breathing, as Legolas was pressed so firmly down upon him. But without breaking stride the elf had his wrists firmly in his grasp, and slammed them back into the earth behind his head. Ironically enough, this lifted the elf sufficiently so that he could now breathe properly, as winding as his unexpected actions were in themselves. Not displeasing, however, he decided, with Legolas’ thigh now grinding against his groin in time with the thrusts his tongue was making into his mouth. Aragorn could feel himself growing very hard with each brutal caress. A single set of the elf’s slender fingers wrapped easily around both wrists, and the other hand crept down Aragorn’s tense body, mapping the contours, no less defined for a few years of royal banquets. His muscular tone was due, at least in part, to the marathon fucking sessions he and the elfboy still managed to find time for. The elf deftly pulled his tunic from his chest, and swept down swiftly to bite a nipple, already tightening with sudden contact with the air. His manic brutality, while alarming, was causing Aragorn’s need to strain against the fabric of his breeches, and he lifted his hips irresistibly to Legolas’ thigh, gasping at the contact, and the pain in his arms. “Legolas,” he gasped, “my wrists, please?” Legolas released his hands, and the king didn’t miss his chance to re-exert control. He moved too slowly though, and although he managed to get the elf onto his back, he found his partner a step ahead of him, and his wrists bound behind his back, with a leather thong he had lifted from Aragorn’s own tunic. He sighed in defeat as Legolas grinned widely, and straddled him once more. “Tricksy human,” he hissed, “we shall have to teach the tease a lesson, precious,” Legolas moved up his body, so he was no longer leaning on his groin, and the king positively ached for contact. The elf leaned down, running his tongue rhythmically past the man’s lips, back and forth, with each pass deepening the contact. He reached a hand behind him, and traced a line over the man’s restrained flesh. Ducking down his body, Legolas came very close to killing Aragorn as he finally defeated his breeches and released the Royal dick, only to encase it instantly in his own wet heat. Aragorn’s head swam, but his joy at being honoured with Legolas’ sweet talented mouth around his pulsing flesh was short-lived, as the elf released him only to claim his lips once more. And so it continued, a few moments sheathed in the delightful channel of Legolas’ throat, as he hollowed out his cheeks to grip him so tightly, followed by the same ruthless treatment of his mouth, as he was devoured by the frenzied elf. Tears threatened to spring from the king’s eyes as he was abused thus, and every time his lips were released, he pleaded with his lover for mercy, for release. His fevered gasps finally reached Elven ears, and the rhythm faltered. He raised his eyes to look at his friend through thick, sexy lashes, levelling Aragorn with a wicked smile before burying two fingers in him to the knuckle. Aragorn lost his precarious grip on his control, and screamed out an Elvish curse, causing a flock of previously fascinated birds to take to the wing with a sound like a gunshot. Still the elf would not let his lips alone long, but if the man could have seen his other hand, he would have cried out in joy to know that the elf would not maintain his torture too much longer. Legolas had made defeat of his own leggings, pushing them as far as his knees, and now he had his own fingers in the honey pot. He coated his own member with the slick golden fluid, and removed his fingers from where they had been stroking his lover into a frenzy. Positioning himself ready to enter his friend, he went to kiss him again, to taste the taste that had been making his head swim, and leaving him little of rational thought to recognise. But as he saw his lover beneath him, the proud king so debauched and undone by his assault, taking great gasping breaths, his face slick with tears of frustration and beads of sweat, a little clarity permeated his insanity. He approached the mauled king somewhat more carefully, unable to hold back a small smile at the fearful look on the kings face as he anticipated another attack, and kissed him as gently as he could manage. Aragorn sighed with relief, and relaxed beneath him, which made his ingress much easier, even as Aragorn instinctively tightened around him. He leaned back, and offered the king his honey-slicked fingers to suck on. Aragorn took them gratefully, the sweet liquid coating and soothing the divine hurt of his ravaged mouth, as his lover rocked in and out of his tight passage, swearing his love in his own tongue, and slicking Aragorn’s own aching desire with more honey as he swept his fingers repeatedly along his length. Aragorn found the seeming remission of Legolas’ inexplicable fever as arousing as its onset, and Aragorn came shortly, as if his lover’s return to tenderness was as like to permission to release. He cried out his lover’s name, spilling himself between their bodies, his own protestations of devotion pushing Legolas, too, over the edge. Aragorn bit down on Legolas’ fingers as he felt him stiffen and pulse inside him, a gentle reprimand for his rough treatment. Legolas reached beneath him to strip the chord form his wrists, before the weightless elf collapsed on him, his breathing more ragged than Aragorn had ever heard it, and he listened anxiously for a return to its familiar cadence. “I’m sorry, Aragorn.” “Do not apologise, my love,” the truly knackered king replied, “I have never seen that side of you. It is not to say I don’t like it.” “I don’t know what came over me.” “That would have been me, then.” Aragorn kissed the elf’s soft hair as he chuckled against his chest. For all his assurance, Aragorn shied away from Legolas’ offered kiss, causing the elf to turn a look on him so forlorn it was wont to break his heart. He could only return it with an apologetic one. “Do not shy away, Aragorn.” The elf whispered, “I assure you, I am quite spent. And besides,” he continued, completing the tender kiss he had made to bestow, “you taste only of honey now. Whatever that tang was, it has passed. I think I may have been somewhat allergic to something.” Legolas settled against his chest, and both lovers sighed into a comforting embrace. As they lay, Aragorn’s mind drifted, to food yet to be sampled, their next stolen moment, where perhaps he would make the elf pay for his dominance, and finally to a bag of sweets that Eomer had given him, claiming they were good for the constitution. He had thought them rather fiery at the time, although not unpleasant, and had thought to share them with Arwen. But on second thoughts, he decided, hugging the exhausted Legolas closer still, he’d rather keep them for this elf. Just every once in a while. To give him aniseed balls.