lord of the rings

She’d come by horseback after nightfall; the whole castle, it seemed, had banqueted victoriously since the mid day and were now dropping off drowsily into rooms throughout the stronghold. As she waited anxiously for the King to return to his rooms, she paced, refusing to let herself picture him in his scarred battle attire, which now stood like an iron and leather statue at the back of the chamber. In the mutable light of the fire, the broken edges of his armor gleamed, beckoning an anxious Arwen to move closer. As she did so, she could see the breastplate lying open, twisted and jagged from some thunderous blow; this realization made her hand stop in mid air, inches away from the broken chest housing.



“But he’s alive, he’s King, I’ve heard a dozen people say so..” she thought….though even as she did so her fingers stretched for the torn edge of the breastplate. Soon, she found herself turning it in her fingers slowly, again and again, as if unable to stop.



The room lurched; images came in and out of focus very quickly as Arwen gripped the twisted metal so tightly her knuckles whitened and blood appeared between them. She fell to her knees, dropping the jagged metal and putting her wounded hands to her eyes to stop the dark images she felt about to overwhelm her …she saw and smelled the bitter rain, coming down in torrents that all but knocked men from the walls…mixing the mud and the blood into rivers which made the battlements slippery, treacherous. Aragorn, soaked to the skin and favoring his left leg heavily, lunged painfully to repel an enemy ladder…he was successful, turning to face, “aaahhh!” Arwen screamed, as a seven foot Uruk Hai warrior with an enormous double handed axe loomed into view over Aragorn’s right shoulder…the beast raised the two-handed weapon, beginning the downward stroke of the massive thing, when .. .”.ooohhhh,” she cried out as .Arwen lost her balance, stumbling forward onto the stone with her hands still over her eyes…



“Aragorn,” she mouthed drowsily, as Arwen felt herself lifted from the cold floor in what seemed like only moments.

“Yes, my love, it is I,” he answered softly, slowly, trying to conceal his anguish.



The sight of her lying crumpled on the floor before his broken mail made his soul ache in a way he’d never felt, though he’d seen many men die. He had rushed to her, forgetting his stiff and aching leg as he collected her to him and rocked her like a child. Feeling his warmth she began to revive.



“Elessar, it is you,” she gasped, breathing him in.



His natural musky scent was almost completely overpowered by the warm earthiness of the local wines, of which he’d had a king’s share to dull the pain; Arwen found herself intoxicated by the mere smell of him. Throwing her arms about his neck, she kissed his face, repeatedly. The feel of her supple lips on his brow eased his concern, or made him forget at the very least.



She lingered longer each time she kissed him; excitement gave way to a deep sense of longing. She buried her face in his neck, crying soft tears of relief, her breath warm and halting on his skin. Aragorn squeezed her shoulders, his fingers sliding slowly down the length of her back, slowly, as if memorizing the very curves of it.



“It’s alright, my lady, I’m alright,” Aragorn tried to gently reassure her, pulling her tighter despite his growing agitation.



The battlefields of the Pelleanor and Helms Deep had left him weary, with a new brutality he’d yet to work out, and a cruel longing for the kind of intimacy with Arwen of which he no longer felt capable. Too much bloodshed–of both friends and enemies alike–had poisoned his body and his soul. Would he ever be able to make love to her again without hurting her? Without releasing the hateful savage that had been awakened within him? that dark part of himself which had taken over–for his own survival–during those last days of Sauron?



She had stopped crying. Aragorn struggled to his feet, where they stood in silence, each with tight grasp on the other. Each– trying to deny the building tension– their need for each other was palpable, yet neither dared speak. She brushed her cheek against his collarbone. He closed his eyes and moved his head back slowly, bending his knees to move even closer to her, savoring a few moments before the parting he felt was inevitable. No, he knew it was inevitable.

He soon felt the warm, wet sensation that was most certainly her tongue, running the length of his collarbone from shoulder to bruised breastbone, now lingering at the softer skin of his throat. She sucked tenderly at the hollow there first, making his breath catch when she began to increase the pressure.



“Arwen,” he murmured almost inaudibly, pressing his lips to the side of her head where her scented Elven skin was still salty and damp from her tears.



She sucked more fervently at the exposed skin on his throat now–her only thought to devour him. Her lips pressed harder and her teeth dragged the length of his exposed neck; the pain made him stiffen unconsciously. Behind Aragorn’s now tightly closed eyelids, the forbidding figure of a wounded Uruk Hai soldier loomed into view, teeth bared and snarling. He could smell the orc’s fetid breath, damp and warm on his bared neck, then, “aaaahh!”he felt the hot sensation of his own flesh, tearing….



In exhausted and drunken confusion, Aragorn had pushed her from him with much more force than he ever would’ve intended. She fell backwards into the bedpost, her shoulder blade colliding painfully with the heavy oaken frame. She stared at Aragorn with her mouth dropped unconsciously open, wounded and disbelieving. He had chased her since he was a lanky boy of seven; she’d let him catch her when he had just turned a bold fourteen. Now he repulsed her, violently. She felt his awful pain, his untempered anger, even through her own hurt; it was the same as in her vision, only immeasurably more intense in the flesh.



As he realized his grievous mistake, Aragorn sank despairingly to his knees before her, burying his head in her skirts.



“Please, please forgive me, Arwen, I’m not myself.” He paused, searching to find the right words.



He looked up at her, finally, with honestly moist eyes and tear-stained cheeks, but could not hide (or dispel) the obvious storm just beneath the surface.



“You see that I…I cannot be with you right now…not like we’ve been,” he said with something close to apologetic tenderness. Flustered by the pained look on her face, he added quickly, “Arwen, being so close to you…the love I feel for you…it makes me do crazy things!” Rage and desperation welled up inside of him. He continued, as calmly as he could, “I’m not sure I could stop myself from…”he paused for another long moment after this word, finding it almost impossible to articulate the feeling that had him around the throat, “from hurting you.”



His voice dropped off for the last two words, as if he could hardly bare to say them. The truth was that he had already hurt her. He looked into the fire, resigned not to meet her gaze.



With tears in her eyes, but with the determination of her people, Arwen reached out a hand to grasp his chin firmly, turning him to face her. She moved her head forward, to within inches of his, still held tightly between her fingers. She closed her eyes, and parted her lips, so that the sweet smell of her Elven breath filled his nostrils.



Tenderly she brushed his lips with her own open mouth, whispering, “No touch of yours will ever cause me anything but pleasure, Ellisar.”



Her breathy words made the hairs bristle excitedly on the back of Aragorn’s neck; his own breathing became quick and ragged; he could not think for the blood pounding in his ears. She let go of his face, turned, and ran her fingers–with feigned playfulness over his exposed chest.



It was too much for him. He caught her by the wrist just as her fingers left his skin; he pulled her down onto the floor, to him, closing his mouth hungrily on hers, lost in the feel of her body and the ache of his.



His arms closed tighter around her waist, lifting Arwen slightly from the floor as Aragorn ravaged her tender neck and shoulders with his mouth and tongue.



Arwen threw her head back to accommodate him, exposing the supple flesh of her breasts; she pulled gently on the back of his neck, though he needed no encouragement. As he sucked the nipple of her left breast between his lips, she could feel the pressure of his hands sliding urgently up the backs of her legs.



He shifted his weight, pulling her now fully off the floor and into a straddle around his torso. She wrapped her legs tightly around his hips, pulling him toward her so that their bodies collided with a force that sent shivers through them both. His hungry mouth sucked at her breast feverishly; she arched her back to give him all of her.



He lowered her slowly back to the floor, still warm from the dying fire; she felt his heavy weight, full of ache and urgency. His breath had grown more ragged still, and she worried that his need might consume him. Arwen must give him everything he needed, anything he needed, and quickly. He was moving his hips slowly between her legs; Arwen could tell he was suppressing a desperate need in order to spare her further pain; he was burning up, his battle-weary limbs shook as he struggled to keep himself in check. The feel of her body wrapped around him slowed Aragorn for a few moments; in the places where their bodies met the ache of pleasure was almost paralyzing.



Taking the lead, Arwen began to pull free of her skirts; the slow realization of what she was doing broke over him in subtle waves. As her warm soft belly began to undulate under his, slapping gently against his stomach, Aragorn’s last bit of remaining self control disappeared. He reached down and cupped her bare ass-cheeks in his hands, squeezing them hard, as with one stroke, he buried himself deep inside her. The low guttural moan that escaped her lips drove Aragorn on, feverishly. He began to move in and out of her with great force, her soft involuntary cries marking each time he filled her.



She slid her arms around his neck, pulling his body heavily down onto hers, bucking her hips against him wildly to express her growing need for him, and to give him the deepest penetration she could–she’d never been able to take quite all of him and wanted desperately to do so now. He lifted her onto his knees, so that she straddled him; she slid forward, easing down upon him farther than she had ever been, impaling herself slowly. She let out a gasp as their eyes locked; he winced silently at her pain but did not move to lift her from him. Moments passed. Arwen breathed deeply, relaxing her body into his. Onto his. Her head sank to his chest and he put his arms around her, pulling her into him tenderly. At this moment, nothing else mattered…slowly she began rocking; squeezing her lower stomach in such a way as to slide up his stiffened manhood, releasing to let herself back down again. This slow agitation drove Aragorn almost beyond his weakening self control. He swallowed hard as his eyes rolled back behind their lids, now only at half mast.

Arwen’s breath caught, she was almost there. Aragorn had to hold on, he thought, despite his own growing desperation; searing jags of pain had begun to emanate from the wound in the center of Aragorn’s chest, and the urge to use his penis as a weapon raged inside him, rising like the fever that made sweat break out on his face and neck. He bit down hard on his lower lip; his teeth tore the already-cracked flesh there, though he hardly noticed; Arwen’s hips had speeded their rocking and his hands–too roughly, he would think later on–kneaded her ass cheeks in rhythmic response. Her perfect little Elvin body went up and down in quick, tense movements until suddenly it went limp on his, as the first waves of her orgasm had begun to break over her. She moaned unintelligible words in ancient Elvish. Aragorn responded that he loved her as he continue to rock her back and forth, slowing as her orgasm subsided. Arwen’s whole being slowly began to soften; she opened her eyes to look at Aragorn.



His eyes were now fully closed, his mind engaged in some far off place; she immediately felt he was in danger. “Aragorn, ” she whispered anxiously, her face near his. His eyes opened, but he looked more like an animal in a trap, desperate and injured. “Aragorn,” she said more softly, longingly.



Blood had clotted at the corners of his mouth. She bent to kiss him, finding it amazingly erotic. She ran her tongue over his lower lip, now swollen as well. The taste of his blood sickened her, yet aroused her too; she began to suck at his injured mouth, wanting more of him, as he surely wanted of her. He jerked his head back suddenly, the pain jarring him back to some semblance of consciousness. He saw the blood on her lips, his blood, and that was it. He lunged forward, taking her face clumsily in his hands. He covered her lips with his own, pushing his hungry tongue as far as it would go down her willing throat.



She sucked his tongue into her mouth as the two fell backwards, toppled by his sudden dive toward her. His body covered hers, pushing, pushing, aching, wanting. She let her body go supple in his arms. His naked penis pushed hard against her thigh while his mouth made ravenous passage over her face, neck, and shoulder. His teeth grazed her more than once; he noticed, but did not care. Could not care. Could not feel, anything but his own need. All at once, he leaned back from her, and, using more force than he had to, pulled her leg over its partner, flipping her as if she were a doll made of rags. Before she’d raised her belly from the now-cold stone floor, Aragorn had reached out and grabbed her by the hips, pulling her recklessly to her knees. The throbbing head of Aragorn’s member passed easy through the elf’s wet outer lips; Arwen’s breath caught as the head pressed against the passage to her womb, equally slick with her scented juices.



As Aragorn eased himself into her warmth, a cracking pain seized his chest, followed by an intense heat: the makeshift stitches he’s used on the battlefield had broken from all his sharp movements. Blood was now soaking the chest of his tunic, but he couldn’t find it in him to care. The irresistible smell of her wetness made him crazed as he arched over her, now in too much pain to remain upright. He pushed hard, feeling the walls of her pussy tighten around him as he passed through. Arwen let out a small gasp. He paused only a moment to let her body relax around him, then plunged in the rest of the way.



She groaned with a horny ache as he pulled out a second later, sliding the head of his penis along on the top of her shaft on his way, slowing to rest teasingly on her clitoris before slamming himself back into her pussy, this time the full length all at once. “Oooohhhh, oohhhh,” Arwen breathed, as Aragorn repeated this motion again and again, slowing down more each time to stop himself from coming. Finally he pulled out completely, until the lips of her pussy made the same sound as a newborn babe giving up the suckle, “pwaat,” as they let go of the now-purple head of his manhood. From over her shoulder Aragorn heard an involuntary murmur of disappointment escape Arwen’s lips; she had been more than half way to her second orgasm. Aragorn now rested gently on her back; she felt the warm stickiness of his chest and ached for him to continue fucking her. She pushed her hips backward to regain him, but he dug his thumbs into her kidneys to stop her; she winced, and cried out softly, still pushing against him. But he had other plans for her, other needs he had to meet before he collapsed.



The pain in his chest had subsided, given over to a numbness in his chest and shoulder. His wound continued to ooze blood; Arwen’s back was now sticky with it. Ignoring everything but his immediate need, he rested his forehead between her shoulder blades, allowing her strong back to support him momentarily as he reached down with both hands and spread her ass cheeks as far as they would go. Without waiting for approval, or even recognition, Aragorn used all his remaining strength to plunge his swollen member deep inside her most private place. Arwen moaned loudly, bordering on a scream. Her arms lost their ability to hold her up; she fell to the cold floor, Aragorn falling hard on top of her. Aragorn winced and cried out almost silently as his chest collided with her shoulder blade; the trickle of blood became a river. Arwen felt his whole body spasm and knew he was hurting. His breathing had once more become ragged, but his grip on her tightened just the same. She felt his message: he would have her no matter what it cost him. It occurred to her that her wet back may be covered by more than Aragorn’s sweat. Her ass hurt, but ached for him at the same time. She knew he wouldn’t stop until he was spent, and would only care for himself after that. At the same time, her desire for him began to grow again: he would risk everything to be with her and it made her want him so much. Arwen began to undulate her hips; inside of her, his stiff member throbbed in response. He began pushing her hips back and forth roughly, rocking her ass on the end of his dick.



Arwen buried her face in her arm to conceal her pained moans; if he knew how much it ached in her soul he would stop and he needed this…he needed it desperately. Aragorn continued to bury himself in her ass, moving in and out or her in a frenzied, lustful trance. Her stifled cries of pain soon softened to rhythmic panting as his strong, chaotic strokes began to unleash her delayed second orgasm. Feeling her tremble, Aragorn pushed even harder; with each stroke his balls slapped on her ass, prolonging her orgasm and bringing on his. The sound of Arwen’s screams filled his ears, making him lose his balance briefly. He felt the strong, repeated spasming of her vagina through the thin wall of her rectum and he exploded, his ample juices gushing out her puckered hole with each successive stroke. He buried himself in her for the last time, draining into her the last bit of himself. But then, Aragorn abruptly pulled out of her, rolling over on his side and pulling his knees into his chest. Only then did Arwen notice that his shirt was covered in blood, stuck to him in places. He was curled tight, in immense pain, murmuring to himself in the fierce words of the Dunedain.



“How did he make love to me when he was in this kind of pain?” she thought. A sex-dazed Arwen made her way across the floor to him, reaching out an arm to him. Her next thought was to go for help, and stood to do so immediately.



He caught her wrist as she made to go, and pulled her down to him. “No one else,” he murmured, “I need the healing only you can give, Arwen.”



When he spoke the syllables of her name, a look came over his eyes, and she got the same haunted feeling again, that Aragorn would rather die in her arms than have to leave her again, ever. In the moments he laid there, the bleeding began to subside.



“Only you,” he breathed, laying back now on the cold floor, without releasing the urgent hold he had on her hand.



She bent down to kiss his lips, cool and wet. She then softly kissed his chin, his neck, lingering to suck gently on the soft tenderness of his throat, one of Aragorn’s few weaknesses. As she did this, he began to revive, to moan and writhe on the dark stone. She put out her tongue and licked his aching chest, the sweet blood staining her lips once more. She rested her head momentarily on his stomach; he ran his fingers through her long hair, getting them tangled and caught absent-mindedly. She freed herself of his restless arms, and gave him a long hard kiss on the mouth, whispering that she would return at once.

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