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Legolas leaned forward from the windowsill and embraced Aragorn, and foreign hands immediately wound around his body, pressing him back against the wooden frame, yet not allowing him to rest against the cool glass.
"Don't tense up like that, Legolas." Hot palms slid under the elf's linen shirt, and he exhaled raggedly. Aragorn's fingers were tracing his ribs, which stood out from the sharp intake of breath; then he carefully ran his palms along the collarbones, and after — lowered his hands to the thighs, gently squeezing the pale skin.
Legolas was winding his arms around the ranger's neck and, burying himself against the opposite shoulder, was breathing heavily, unevenly.
"Úviel¹..." the archer breathed out, feeling something pulling in the lower part of his belly — those very butterflies from legends that songs are composed about.
Aragorn, with one hand still steadying the elf's waist, was unbuttoning the two top buttons of the shirt, and now the fabric was holding on only three, for Legolas was never fastening the bottom two. The ranger barely shifted the collar off his shoulder and was bending down to his neck, drawing a trail of kisses all the way to the collarbone itself, while his other hand was tracing invisible swirls on his back.
The elf was melting from the gentle touches, like candle wax from fire. He was not tactile by nature, but at times bodily closeness was wanted so desperately that his head was spinning. Even now, when the ranger was barely biting his collarbone, little stars were flashing before his eyes, and an involuntary moan was escaping his lips.
"Nín na vedui?"² — Aragorn was asking quietly, and his whisper was almost burning his skin. He would not cause his tender, light elven prince any discomfort.
Legolas was unable to answer. He was only weakly nodding several times. The pleasure from simple touches was astonishingly clouding the archer's mind.
Aragorn was running his hand up to the shoulder blades, pressing the elf to himself, enclosing him in an embrace, while his palms were still wandering over the long-studied body: his thumbs sometimes were passing somewhere under the belt, while the rest were holding the waist on the outside, gradually cooling.
Legolas's heart was pounding somewhere in his leaf-shaped ears, and all that was left for him — was to tremble from the tenderness that his Aragorn was giving him. Who could have thought that the Heir of Isildur himself, the stern ranger of the North, was capable of such a thing? Legolas could. And he was not mistaken.
When the already cool palms were again penetrating under the shirt and were clasping the lower back, the prince was arching, throwing his head back and drawing in a convulsive breath, while foreign lips were showering his neck with kisses and, perhaps, twice were leaving crimson marks.
Aragorn was laying a chain of kisses along his chest, charting unknown maps where the treasure was a rapidly beating heart, and then was slowly rising to his face. Taking his chin with his palm, he was directing the archer's gaze to himself and was covering his face with kisses as light as a breath of wind.
Each kiss was making the elf's heart beat faster, and his usually sober mind — surrender under the pressure of feelings. When Aragorn was kissing him, Legolas was sensing spiced wine, bitter tobacco and, in that moment, a complete absence of his own strength.
But he knew that now nothing was threatening him.