"Then show me how real you are."
Eomer captured the elf's lips with an urgency that blossomed in his blood like the first fire of the world. His fear started to melt away as though he were being cleansed of it by some mystical elixir. Eomer reached out an spilled himself into the burning and intoxicating whirlpool that was the taste of the elf's flesh. There was the magic of ages wreathed into the texture and taste of Legolas's mouth. But stitched in with the ethereal mists were golden threads of solid, tangible reality. It was as though the light of a star had been captured in a cut glass vial.
The elven prince responded with a tentativeness that was utterly captivating. There was most certainly experience and knowledge in the manner of Legolas's reaction; it was not akin to kissing a blushing, virginal maiden, nor to delivering a hesitant young man his first fire of masculine passion. But nor was it like embracing a practised and worldly lover.
Eomer's passion-misted mind could not draw to thought anything remotely comparable to this sensation. Legolas opened himself slowly to Eomer's ministrations although he were a green leaf uncurling for the sun after many varied summers, still slightly wary of burning. Eomer drank all this in with increasingly heated enthusiasm but still with the tender reassurance of a mother encouraging her child into deeper water for him to truly experience the river.
Eomer was beginning to feel himself being drawn out into unexplored depths. He started to see without his eyes. He was seeing with his breath and with his blood. He was realising the elf through the taste of him, through the feel of his lips, through the sounds of his hitched breathing.
Eomer was suddenly very aware of the manner of Legolas's breathing; deep and sharp, sudden gasps almost, irregular and uneven. It was the breathing of a body being coaxed into the realms of passion. The Prince of Rohan clasped slight frame to him and let his embrace explore the shifts and ebbs of movement in elven prince's muscles, each frictional interchange sending a charge through his own bloodstream. Without his eyes he saw the elf unfolding as a living, breathing and passionate creature.
The thought that it was he that was impelling this creature into these albeit hesitant preliminary ripples of heat was almost enough to drive him off an edge he never realised existed. Emboldened, he deepened his kiss, inhaling intensely the delicate, complex and magical scents of Legolas's hair and skin. Legolas's lithe and potentially lethal arms wrapped around his neck and he felt the cool and subtle tendrils of the elf's fingers weaving themselves into his unruly hair. He allowed his own fingertips to glide up the compelling curve of the elf's back and to brush the secret and tender skin across the back of his neck. He started to feel the mounting insistency of his own body being mirrored in tighter clasp of the elf's arms and the more fervent manner of his kiss.
So sudden that it was paralysing, the ice of doubt cruelly gripped Eomer's gut. He froze, opening his eyes, causing the visual world to suddenly slam concrete reality around him with a crash. Legolas felt the stillness and pulled away. His eyes were awash with conflict, the depths ebbing and flowing with confusion, their keenness dulled with the unruly paths of the neglected fervour.
Eomer looked deep into the sea-like eddies of the elf's eyes and was daunted by their depth. Perhaps this was too deep for him, even after all that had happened. He felt Legolas's embrace loosen and saw pain prickling darkly at the edges of his eyes. The elf drew a breath to speak.
No, he had come too far, Eomer decided. He already felt as if the ineffective organs of his eyes had been far outstripped in their purpose by his heart. He could now see and feel so much more. Mayhap he was capable of embracing this experience without acquiring wounds.
Either way, the sight of their mingled saliva gleaming on the elf's lips in the moonlight was enough to drive any red-blooded person to distraction. He silenced Legolas's utterance before it was formed with such a powerful and communicative kiss that it drew the smallest of sounds from deep within the elf's throat. It was as powerful a call to Eomer's instincts as were the ivory horns of battle. He pulled his mouth from Legolas's in order to investigate the tastes of the elf's jaw. The skin was smooth and cool though with a heat pulsing far within, like a drum beating in the heart of an airy forest. He found the smooth well of flesh in Legolas's neck that swelled with his breath and rang with his pulse. The elf tipped his head back as Eomer caressed the sensitive area with his lips and tongue. He murmured something in his lilting elvish tongue, his voice husky and breathy and although Eomer did not know the words, he felt he understood the manner of the sounds.
His own urgency was deepening redly. One hand still cradled the back of Legolas's neck, lost in a web of golden silk. With his other hand he pressed him closer, his body seeking and bleeding heat. His determined mouth explored further, hungry for all it could get. His teeth grazed along the prince's jaw and then his lips brushed against the enticing contours of Legolas's ear. The elf's breath was warm against his own neck, rapid and insistent. Legolas dug the fingers of one hand deeper into the tangle of Eomer's hair and Eomer felt the prince's other hand sliding fluidly into the collar of his shirt, simultaneously cooling and heating his skin.
His ministrations to the elf's delicately pointed ear was producing the most delightful reactions from the elf's body.
"Eomer,"
The sound of his name whispered in such a manner almost stripped him of all semblance of rationality. The resulting renewal of attention to the elf's skin rendered the fey prince speechless for a moment but for the breathy catch in his throat.
"Eomer," he managed to continue, but with pauses and seemingly much concentration. "Rider of Rohan, I must have your word…your word of honour that you shall not abandon me now."
Eomer brought up a hand and gently fingered the edges of the elf's face with his roughened fingertips, gently brushing his other ear. "Abandon you, my prince?"
Legolas's breath shuddered at Eomer's fingertips tentative exploration. His own fingers on Eomer's skin grasped tighter. He felt the ancient being draw upon crumbling strengths in order to master his voice. "I am still half afraid that you will once again grapple with the edges of doubt and flee from me, leaving me cold in the dark."
Eomer captured the elf's lips with an urgency that blossomed in his blood like the first fire of the world. His fear started to melt away as though he were being cleansed of it by some mystical elixir. Eomer reached out an spilled himself into the burning and intoxicating whirlpool that was the taste of the elf's flesh. There was the magic of ages wreathed into the texture and taste of Legolas's mouth. But stitched in with the ethereal mists were golden threads of solid, tangible reality. It was as though the light of a star had been captured in a cut glass vial.
The elven prince responded with a tentativeness that was utterly captivating. There was most certainly experience and knowledge in the manner of Legolas's reaction; it was not akin to kissing a blushing, virginal maiden, nor to delivering a hesitant young man his first fire of masculine passion. But nor was it like embracing a practised and worldly lover.
Eomer's passion-misted mind could not draw to thought anything remotely comparable to this sensation. Legolas opened himself slowly to Eomer's ministrations although he were a green leaf uncurling for the sun after many varied summers, still slightly wary of burning. Eomer drank all this in with increasingly heated enthusiasm but still with the tender reassurance of a mother encouraging her child into deeper water for him to truly experience the river.
Eomer was beginning to feel himself being drawn out into unexplored depths. He started to see without his eyes. He was seeing with his breath and with his blood. He was realising the elf through the taste of him, through the feel of his lips, through the sounds of his hitched breathing.
Eomer was suddenly very aware of the manner of Legolas's breathing; deep and sharp, sudden gasps almost, irregular and uneven. It was the breathing of a body being coaxed into the realms of passion. The Prince of Rohan clasped slight frame to him and let his embrace explore the shifts and ebbs of movement in elven prince's muscles, each frictional interchange sending a charge through his own bloodstream. Without his eyes he saw the elf unfolding as a living, breathing and passionate creature.
The thought that it was he that was impelling this creature into these albeit hesitant preliminary ripples of heat was almost enough to drive him off an edge he never realised existed. Emboldened, he deepened his kiss, inhaling intensely the delicate, complex and magical scents of Legolas's hair and skin. Legolas's lithe and potentially lethal arms wrapped around his neck and he felt the cool and subtle tendrils of the elf's fingers weaving themselves into his unruly hair. He allowed his own fingertips to glide up the compelling curve of the elf's back and to brush the secret and tender skin across the back of his neck. He started to feel the mounting insistency of his own body being mirrored in tighter clasp of the elf's arms and the more fervent manner of his kiss.
So sudden that it was paralysing, the ice of doubt cruelly gripped Eomer's gut. He froze, opening his eyes, causing the visual world to suddenly slam concrete reality around him with a crash. Legolas felt the stillness and pulled away. His eyes were awash with conflict, the depths ebbing and flowing with confusion, their keenness dulled with the unruly paths of the neglected fervour.
Eomer looked deep into the sea-like eddies of the elf's eyes and was daunted by their depth. Perhaps this was too deep for him, even after all that had happened. He felt Legolas's embrace loosen and saw pain prickling darkly at the edges of his eyes. The elf drew a breath to speak.
No, he had come too far, Eomer decided. He already felt as if the ineffective organs of his eyes had been far outstripped in their purpose by his heart. He could now see and feel so much more. Mayhap he was capable of embracing this experience without acquiring wounds.
Either way, the sight of their mingled saliva gleaming on the elf's lips in the moonlight was enough to drive any red-blooded person to distraction. He silenced Legolas's utterance before it was formed with such a powerful and communicative kiss that it drew the smallest of sounds from deep within the elf's throat. It was as powerful a call to Eomer's instincts as were the ivory horns of battle. He pulled his mouth from Legolas's in order to investigate the tastes of the elf's jaw. The skin was smooth and cool though with a heat pulsing far within, like a drum beating in the heart of an airy forest. He found the smooth well of flesh in Legolas's neck that swelled with his breath and rang with his pulse. The elf tipped his head back as Eomer caressed the sensitive area with his lips and tongue. He murmured something in his lilting elvish tongue, his voice husky and breathy and although Eomer did not know the words, he felt he understood the manner of the sounds.
His own urgency was deepening redly. One hand still cradled the back of Legolas's neck, lost in a web of golden silk. With his other hand he pressed him closer, his body seeking and bleeding heat. His determined mouth explored further, hungry for all it could get. His teeth grazed along the prince's jaw and then his lips brushed against the enticing contours of Legolas's ear. The elf's breath was warm against his own neck, rapid and insistent. Legolas dug the fingers of one hand deeper into the tangle of Eomer's hair and Eomer felt the prince's other hand sliding fluidly into the collar of his shirt, simultaneously cooling and heating his skin.
His ministrations to the elf's delicately pointed ear was producing the most delightful reactions from the elf's body.
"Eomer,"
The sound of his name whispered in such a manner almost stripped him of all semblance of rationality. The resulting renewal of attention to the elf's skin rendered the fey prince speechless for a moment but for the breathy catch in his throat.
"Eomer," he managed to continue, but with pauses and seemingly much concentration. "Rider of Rohan, I must have your word…your word of honour that you shall not abandon me now."
Eomer brought up a hand and gently fingered the edges of the elf's face with his roughened fingertips, gently brushing his other ear. "Abandon you, my prince?"
Legolas's breath shuddered at Eomer's fingertips tentative exploration. His own fingers on Eomer's skin grasped tighter. He felt the ancient being draw upon crumbling strengths in order to master his voice. "I am still half afraid that you will once again grapple with the edges of doubt and flee from me, leaving me cold in the dark."