Title: Waterfall

Author: warinbabylon

Rating: R

Disclaimer: It all belongs to Tolkien, I only play.

Dedication: To leiasky, she asked for the story.

Summary: Arwen watches Aragorn in a waterfall





Water pours like tiny slivers of pure crystal from the cliff above you, anointing your body like the holiest offering. Maybe it is that simple, blessed image of you naked in the falling rivulets; maybe it is the sound of the splashing water on the rock, on the water, on you skin; maybe it is the way that the moon and I watch over you; in any respects, I find that my legs are weak and I must sit. The grass is cool, almost wet from the dew of the fall, and it bleeds through my dress. Cool, cold, almost icy, the ground contrasts the heat of my skin.

So alone, my dear, so strong and silent. This late night shower in the waterfall is typical of you…alone, aloof and yet so profoundly natural. You do not know that I watch; you could not. I approached from the East. It is only I and the moon that see you thus. Your innate need of privacy has led you here. If you knew I watched, you would order me away, and so I will remain as I am. But oh to behold the beauty that is you; my distance is a slight concession to make to gaze upon you, my love.

And oh to wish myself a water bead. To…

Fall, gracing your hair, running down its amber and chestnut length. The water has made it longer; it ends rest below your shoulder blades. And now, as you tilt your head back, it reaches further, heavy, toward the furrow of your back. But the angle of your face, in the falling crystals, catches the moon's silver beams. It graces your brow: proud and unlined, stress-free as you enjoy the caress of nature. Its loving touch kisses your nose, your cheeks, and your lips. So beautiful, I watch as a lone water drop courses across your brow, down your nose to your lips. You chase it with your tongue. How I wish to feel those lips, tongue on me, chasing my lips, my kiss with equal attention, equal abandon. Oh to feel the touch of your roughened cheek against mine as you kiss me, to feel your tongue pressing against mine…

Your shoulders are lean and sleek, corded with muscle. I can see the definition as you flex to scrub at your body. Your arms as they curl to rub soap at your chest…your arms are like dark whips. I know the power in them; I know the strength that they embody. And the long fingers. Had you not been destined for the seat of a king, you would have been an artist. I have seen your hands leading a horse's reins; I have seen you fight with a sword. You are art, my love. To feel those muscles smoothed and wet by water, like silk over steel…

The soap lathers at your chest. The bubbles course down the furrows, the mounds and cords of your chest. Your clavicle is so sculpted, so ripe for kissing, my dear. I know the feel of that chest against mine as you embrace me; yet the profound strength is to be enjoyed simply by watching it. Sleek…Aragorn, my love, and sleek only serves to describe you in the most basal terms. Wet and glistening, the silver light, the crystalline water, and your very male presence all combine to make you a gift from the gods. I watch the suds as they leave your body, down your flank, over the bunched muscle of your hips and down the flat plane of your stomach. I cannot imagine why they want to leave, and yet they do.

I follow their course. Your stomach contracts under their touch as though they tickle you. You turn to let the water wash them from your front and I am presented your back. I know that what I see is not for comparison, but it is the metaphysical against which all else is compared. So tight and firm, even your buttocks are like sculpted marble. Your body is molded. Your are like my stallion, beautiful from your buttocks to your bulging thighs, to your powerful calves, to your elegant, sculpted feet. I squirm as I sit. There is an energy, a boundless energy in me from seeing you like this, but it is the knowledge that what I see is mine…that you have allowed it to be mine that makes me melt as I sit.

You turn slowly, allowing the soap to rinse off of your flank. And I see your body, awakened in arousal even in the cold water. Your manhood has hardened, lengthened, lying against your thigh. It is thick. I tighten my hands on my knees. My love, how I wish to intrude on your shower, to tease your body more, to allow it to rise against my body, my lips, my mouth. It looks lonely against your wet thighs; how I want to keep it company. You run your hand down over its length; it quivers. Do you imagine my hands touching you, dear?

Do you want my hands on you? Do want me? Are you thinking of me? By the Valar, I want you. Your hand closes over your length, and gods, you are stroking it. You are offering it to me, aren't you? Aragorn… I raise my eyes…you are looking at me. Your eyes are boring into me. You can see me; you know I am here.

Aragorn…

"Arwen," you say your voice deep, barely audible above the falling water. I tremble and stand. And walk the distance, through the water to the waterfall, to you…