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This story contains an explicit scene of sex between consenting adult males of different species. If you are under age or don't care for this, LEAVE NOW. The characters and melieux from The Lord of the Rings are the property of the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien and New Line Cinema (AOL). I only play with them from time to time for my own amusement and without compensation. No harm; no foul; no profit. Anything or anyone new, however, is mine (left-overs again!). Beta-read by Nikki Memmott. Thanks, merci beaucoup, tapadh leibh, gracias, danke, grazie, spazebo, arigato, obrigado. You have been warned. Any errors are mine alone.


THE ROOM OF HOPES AND DREAMS

an Legolas/Faramir story

Minas Tirith, Year 1 of the Fourth Age.

Spring came earlier after a milder winter in Gondor than it did in Rivendell or Mirkwood. One day the skies were grey and damp, the trees bare and the grass brown; the next, it seemed, the sun brightly pushed away the clouds, the trees burst into bloom and the ground was covered with new, soft grass.

Legolas stood alone at the highest parapet he could find, his head thrown back to absorb as much of the welcome sunshine as possible. A gentle breeze stirred his hair, but he paid it no mind, allowing the golden strands to float around his head. His eyes were closed lest the sun blind him, and he sang a wordless hymn to the first day of spring.

He could feel the life coming back to the world, after not only the past winter, but half an age of Sauron’s evil presence. His song complete, he stayed at the parapet, his hands resting gracefully atop the stone, the freshness of the air revitalizing him.

“Ah,” a soft voice came from behind him, but he didn’t respond. “Here you are.”

The Elf-prince took a long, deep breath and held it for a moment, then slowly released it before turning to greet the newcomer.

“You have found my favorite place,” he said. “Nowhere else in all of Middle-earth is there a vista such as this.” He gestured to the panoramic view from their vantage point. All of Minas Tirith was spread below them, the Pelennor Fields beyond the city’s walls, the vale of the Anduin, to the southeast the forests and glens of Ithilien, to the north, in the distance, the rough mountains of the Emyn Muil. With a sigh he turned his back on the view and leaned against the parapet. One long leg bore his weight, the other crossed over it at the ankle.

“Have you been sent for me?” he asked.

“No,” the Man answered. “I was between appointments and thought to take some time for myself.” He stood next to the Elf, facing outward. “I used to come here whenever I could,” he explained. “I am not surprised to find you here.”

They stood shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, the green of the Elf’s tunic contrasting with the Man’s brown clothing.

“Will you be missed?” Legolas hoped the answer would be no, that the Steward could stay.

“Perhaps,” Faramir answered. “But as Steward I must inspect all parts of the Tower and the City. Some of the damage from the war has yet to be repaired.”

The Elf smiled at Faramir’s reasoning. “This parapet seems sound,” he offered. He stretched his arms along the stone ledge, then raised his hand to the bearded face. Lightly he pressed a brief kiss to the Man’s lips, then took a deep breath and kissed him again, this time a hard, demanding kiss that left them both breathless and moaning. At first he held Faramir’s face between his hands, his long fingers tangled in the Man’s hair. As the kiss continued and deepened, his hands slid down the brown-clad back, one arm holding around the shoulders, the other dipping lower to find a home on the firm rear.

Faramir’s hands rested at either side of the Elf’s waist, then circled around the slender body, holding tightly.

“There have been too few moments for us of late,” Legolas mourned, still holding Faramir close as they caught their breath.

“There is time now,” the Man answered. He threaded his fingers through the fine golden hair, and brought the Elf’s soft lips back to his own.

Legolas hummed his pleasure at the suggestion. “But this is hardly the place,” he commented. “Stone walls and floors are...” He paused to kiss Faramir again. “...unforgiving.”

“Then come,” Faramir said, taking the Elf’s hand and leading him away from the parapet. “I know a place nearby that is private — and comfortable.”

Much like a child would lead his mother to his favorite amusement, Faramir led Legolas back into the tower and up a narrow stair, past the darkened room where Denethor once hid the PalantÝr. They emerged into the very top room of the Tower, a nearly circular room with windows in every wall. There were low couches under the windows, leaving the center of the room bare.

“My mother loved this room,” Faramir mused. “She imagined she could see the ocean, and her home.” He took a seat on the nearest of the couches, half reclining against one end his legs extending into the room, and Legolas could see the bulge in the snug trousers.

Gracefully the Elf knelt at the Man’s feet and quickly pulled Faramir’s boots from his feet. He insinuated his body between the man’s knees, his hands ghosting over the lean legs, up over the flanks to the ribs and chest. He deftly unfastened the shirt’s buttons, spreading the fabric apart as he did to reveal Faramir’s chest. His own clothing was becoming uncomfortably tight, though his thigh-long tunic hid his arousal from view.

Faramir sat up to allow his shirt to be removed from his arms, then drew the Elf into an embrace as he lay back.

Legolas had no choice but to climb upon the cushions, his knees straddling Faramir’s hips as the Man held him close, sharing a tender, promising kiss. His position brought their groins together, the heat of their passion building.

Faramir soon divested Legolas of his silken tunic, his hands roaming over the smooth ivory skin as the Elf teased the Man’s dark, sensitive nipples into hardness. The slightest movement of the Elf’s body sent shudders through the Man, and he pulled back from their kiss to gasp for breath. He pulled his hands to the front of the Elf’s body and urgently loosened the leggings.

Legolas stepped back to stand before Faramir and pushed the leggings to the floor, pulling his legs free. The sun lit his body, turning the ivory skin to gold in its rays, and he stood before Faramir unembarrassed. His erection, freed from his clothing, rose proudly, a drop of fluid glistening at the tip.

Faramir’s discomfort was obvious and his breathing ragged. Legolas knelt again and quickly unfastened the snug trousers, easing them over the slim hips and the burgeoning erection. The scent of the Man was heady, the usual aroma of leather and sweat overwhelmed by the musk of his passion.

Legolas regarded the nude form of the man as he reclined on the couch. His chest and shoulders were well-muscled and strong with a light covering of cinnamon-colored hair. Battle scars, old and recent, marked the otherwise unblemished skin. He was lean — perhaps even too thin — his flanks lead to a trim waist, slim hips and long legs. His attention, though, was seized by the fully erect phallus, which rose from a next of short, curly hair at the Man’s groin.

“Are you only going to *look* at me?” Faramir asked, his voice thick and low.

“No,” Legolas replied, meeting Faramir’s green-eyed gaze. “I have much more in mind.”

“You’re torturing me.”

Long fingers grazed over a sensitive inner thigh, slowly approaching the center of the Man’s need. “So this is torture?” Not waiting for an answer Legolas gently kissed the tip of Faramir’s manhood, then swirled his tongue around the velvety crown. “You must tell me when to stop,” he teased, his lips a hair’s breadth from the quivering organ, then covered the darkened tip with his mouth and sucked strongly, pulling the head and shaft deeply into his mouth.

“Don’tů”

Legolas pulled back until only the tip of Faramir’s member remained in his mouth, caressing it with his tongue, then sucked again.

“ůstopů”

Again the Elf pulled back, and with a deep breath to keep from gagging, pulled the full length of the Man into his mouth and throat, and fondled the soft sac in his hand.

“Don’t stop!” Faramir’s plea was repeated over and over as Legolas continued his rhythmic attentions to his manhood, until he shouted as he climaxed strongly, pouring his seed into the Elf’s throat. Shudders wracked the Man’s entire body as Legolas continued to suck on the softening organ and caress the flushed, sweat-slicked skin.

Finally Legolas released the spent flesh and moved his kisses to the still-throbbing testes, licking and mouthing the crinkled skin that held them. He sensed Faramir’s breathing slow, felt his pulse calm, but did not stop his exploration of the Man’s most private regions. His fingers brushed over the tight, puckered opening, followed by a swipe of his tongue.

The trim hips bucked upward, a shout of unexpected pleasure on Faramir’s lips. Legolas repeated his caress, then circled the opening with the pointed tip of his tongue, spiraling from the edges of the rosy ring of muscle to the center, then pushing its way inside. Deeper he probed, taking in the earthy scent and taste of the Man, then used his fingers to further stretch and prepare Faramir for his sex. His own organ, steel hard and ready, leaked pearly fluid that he spread over the head and shaft, then positioned himself to take the Steward.

Faramir lay back, his hands grabbing at the upholstery. His head was flung back, his eyes closed, and he panted heavily. His manhood, so recently spent, lay against his belly, already beginning to stiffen again.

Slowly Legolas eased his organ into the Man’s body, past the rings of tight muscle into the hot channel. Entering further, he brushed against the hidden pleasure spot, sending a series of spasms throughout Faramir’s body.

Legolas found Faramir’s body incredibly hot and tight, each thrust sending jolts of pleasure from his center to the tips of his fingers and toes. He muttered words of endearment as he increased the speed and intensity of his thrusts, switching from the Common tongue to Elvish as he neared the pinnacle of his passion.

Harder and faster he thrust, losing himself in their joining. It seemed not only their bodies were mated, but their spirits as well, and words between them were unnecessary as the Elf filled the Man’s body with his essence.

They lay together in the uppermost room of the Tower of Ecthelion until the sun touched the western mountains and the sky dimmed. Silently they dressed, drawing apart from one another before returning to their respective duties and obligations. They would never separate in other ways, they both knew, and a look between them allowed their spirits to touch once again, like a soft kiss full of promise and longing. They made no promises to each other, for none were needed; they both knew they would find each other from time to time in this room, once and again the home of hope and dreams.


The End


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