Kink Ficlet #11: Triumph
Apr. 14th, 2003 07:01 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
keelywolfeAragorn got what he wanted in 'Gleam'. Now Boromir can have what he wants. ;)
Triumph
By keely
~~*~~
This was not a battle he could win.
It was not that he was inexperienced in this. He had had women, countless women, their bodies pale with dusky nipples that pouted for kisses. And he had had boys, their skin silky and their chins smooth, eyes dark and lustful. There was no shortage of willing bedwarmers for the Captain of the Guard, pretty creatures that writhed happily beneath him. He had heard rumors of his own prowess on occasion, listened with smug, well-deserved arrogance of his skills as a lover.
None of it had prepared him for this moment, for the sight of this Man on his knees, his head pillowed submissively on his arms. Surrender was written clearly in every line of his body; no boyish charms here, only harsh masculine strength, shameless desire in the arch of his hips, shadowed in his eyes. Waiting for him to do as he wished, to accept whatever indignities Boromir yearned to visit upon his tender skin.
It had been a bargain. Boromir had met the challenge and now here was his reward. He could order Aragorn to take him into the liquid heat of his mouth, tangle his fingers into the damp strands of dark hair and force him to accept more, to feel him gag and struggle beneath his touch.
Or he could take him as he was, catch the slim curve of Aragorn's hips in his hands and sheath his flesh within, merciless friction between them and listen to the soft, bitten-off whimpers of Aragorn finally, finally, bending beneath him.
Aragorn would do anything he asked in this moment, in sweet, silent compliance. And Boromir despised it.
Instead, he leaned away, waiting until Aragorn turned towards him, brow creased, his eyes alight with confusion, and only then did Boromir speak, softly, their first words of the evening and he savored the taste of his own shame.
"Force me."
It was only when he was on his back, his wrists painfully caught and held that he thought he saw a gleam of triumph in Aragorn's eyes. Yet he was beyond caring, beyond anything but his own desperate need, his delightful humiliation. Aragorn moved above him in harsh, aching rhythm, possessing him, each shift and withdrawal an exquisite torture of its own as his body accepted his treachery with decadent relish, and when the moment came for him to beg, he did so, words spilling from his lips like wine from a dropped goblet. He writhed beneath his possessor, wishing only to be taken, to be owned, an eager participant in his willing degradation.
-finis-
Triumph
By keely
~~*~~
This was not a battle he could win.
It was not that he was inexperienced in this. He had had women, countless women, their bodies pale with dusky nipples that pouted for kisses. And he had had boys, their skin silky and their chins smooth, eyes dark and lustful. There was no shortage of willing bedwarmers for the Captain of the Guard, pretty creatures that writhed happily beneath him. He had heard rumors of his own prowess on occasion, listened with smug, well-deserved arrogance of his skills as a lover.
None of it had prepared him for this moment, for the sight of this Man on his knees, his head pillowed submissively on his arms. Surrender was written clearly in every line of his body; no boyish charms here, only harsh masculine strength, shameless desire in the arch of his hips, shadowed in his eyes. Waiting for him to do as he wished, to accept whatever indignities Boromir yearned to visit upon his tender skin.
It had been a bargain. Boromir had met the challenge and now here was his reward. He could order Aragorn to take him into the liquid heat of his mouth, tangle his fingers into the damp strands of dark hair and force him to accept more, to feel him gag and struggle beneath his touch.
Or he could take him as he was, catch the slim curve of Aragorn's hips in his hands and sheath his flesh within, merciless friction between them and listen to the soft, bitten-off whimpers of Aragorn finally, finally, bending beneath him.
Aragorn would do anything he asked in this moment, in sweet, silent compliance. And Boromir despised it.
Instead, he leaned away, waiting until Aragorn turned towards him, brow creased, his eyes alight with confusion, and only then did Boromir speak, softly, their first words of the evening and he savored the taste of his own shame.
"Force me."
It was only when he was on his back, his wrists painfully caught and held that he thought he saw a gleam of triumph in Aragorn's eyes. Yet he was beyond caring, beyond anything but his own desperate need, his delightful humiliation. Aragorn moved above him in harsh, aching rhythm, possessing him, each shift and withdrawal an exquisite torture of its own as his body accepted his treachery with decadent relish, and when the moment came for him to beg, he did so, words spilling from his lips like wine from a dropped goblet. He writhed beneath his possessor, wishing only to be taken, to be owned, an eager participant in his willing degradation.
-finis-
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no subject
Date: 2003-04-25 08:36 am (UTC)I'm just in love with the way that you convey an entire emotional state, an entire relationship between them in such brief, almost incidental ways. In a few sentences you convey what takes others books, and you do it so that it doesn't even seem as though it's your driving point. You don't drive to the point like a hammer to a chisel; instead, you show us the asthetic value of the scene, and, as we're caught up, somehow the point finds its way through, sliding through cracks like gentle mist through the bottom of a door, seeping in until the room is filled with it before you even noticed it was there.
It's remarkable, really. I'm in awe.
no subject
Date: 2003-05-01 06:50 am (UTC)