keelywolfe (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
keelywolfe) wrote2003-04-18 01:55 pm
keelywolfe) wrote2003-04-18 01:55 pm
Kink Ficlet #12: Intrusion
Intrusion
by keely
~~*~~
It did not come to him every night, though it was near enough. The rest of the Fellowship would be curled in their blankets, no sound but soft breaths and the faint rustle of blankets and perhaps there would be a coil of moonlight, filling their haphazard camp with shadowy radiance.
The first time it had woken him, the soft touch on his shoulder. One cool finger resting lightly on the skin of his neck, and he had been startled, bewildered, and very quickly shocked at the reasoning behind it. Revulsion had melted like sugar in the rain, carrying his prejudices with it, and what remained was a shameful, sordid passion that he was unable to resist. Almost absurd to believe it was even true and if not for telling bruises, stark and reproachful in the golden light of day, he might have thought it all a dream.
He waited for the touch each night, listening to the others breathe and wrapped in suspenseful agony as his imaginings tried idly to speculate the events of the coming night.
Worse was the nights it didn't come, the single moment of knowing that he would be remaining in his bedroll throughout this darkness was worse than his shame at what he did under the cover of shadows, and left him with nothing but his thoughts, wavering images of his father's face, the disgust that would be in his eyes. For whatever reasons Aragorn did not crouch next to him and ask his questions with a single touch, it was those nights he had no rest, wretched in his own dishonor.
Never had he thought an evening could have been worse spent and it shamed him further to learn he was wrong.
Kneeling in a cool puddle of moonlight the Elf was easily the loveliest thing Boromir had ever beheld, his eyes half closed and his movements as sinuous as a river, liquid-smooth. That Aragorn was on his knees before him poisoned whatever beauty existed in their tableau and where there was never a droplet of moisture to mar the skin of an Elf, the Man fairly gleamed with perspiration, wickedly seductive in his own right.
It was not the first time he had seen these two together, and indeed, the sight often hardened him to stone, smooth limbs twined together and the shine of ecstasy in two sets of eyes. He had never had the Elf, not in that manner and neither had the Elf had him; only Aragorn was free to move between them in such a manner, as ever a bridge between Elves and Men.
But never before had it been like this.
Burning with some emotion deep in his chest, he watched them couple. There was no urgency within the Elf; he moved as though time were eternal and his lovemaking might be just as endless, infinite as the crashing of the sea. The cruelty of his tenderness was visible only in the Man and his agonized trembling, being neither infinite nor as serene as the one taking him.
Yet Boromir could only watch them, with bitter, hungry eyes as the Elf took what he had been powerless to claim, unable to name that which ached within him. Humiliation and dishonor he had tasted before, the yellowed bitterness of each had been his from the beginning. This cold fire was like nothing he had felt, even as he watched their growing abandon.
Aragorn tossed his head restlessly, his hands clenching in the thick loam beneath him and his eyes opened, catching at once on Boromir's. Not a single crease to his face but the light of amusement was in his eyes and that wound was the most grievous that Boromir had even received. He nearly looked away, ready to bury himself within his blankets and let this dream die away like a diseased flower on the vine. Yet even as he began to move, settling back on the ground, he could not look away and when the graceful dance before him stilled, he saw the sweep of Aragorn's hand as he gestured to where Boromir might be placed.
Beneath him.
Such impossibilities Aragorn always asked of him and still he found himself twisting lithely beneath them, catching his breath at the first intrusion and drowning his moans in the slick pool of Aragorn's mouth as they drew him into their lovemaking, lips and touches adoring him, and he forgot all thoughts of honor as he cried out softly, the name of his King.
-finis-
by keely
~~*~~
It did not come to him every night, though it was near enough. The rest of the Fellowship would be curled in their blankets, no sound but soft breaths and the faint rustle of blankets and perhaps there would be a coil of moonlight, filling their haphazard camp with shadowy radiance.
The first time it had woken him, the soft touch on his shoulder. One cool finger resting lightly on the skin of his neck, and he had been startled, bewildered, and very quickly shocked at the reasoning behind it. Revulsion had melted like sugar in the rain, carrying his prejudices with it, and what remained was a shameful, sordid passion that he was unable to resist. Almost absurd to believe it was even true and if not for telling bruises, stark and reproachful in the golden light of day, he might have thought it all a dream.
He waited for the touch each night, listening to the others breathe and wrapped in suspenseful agony as his imaginings tried idly to speculate the events of the coming night.
Worse was the nights it didn't come, the single moment of knowing that he would be remaining in his bedroll throughout this darkness was worse than his shame at what he did under the cover of shadows, and left him with nothing but his thoughts, wavering images of his father's face, the disgust that would be in his eyes. For whatever reasons Aragorn did not crouch next to him and ask his questions with a single touch, it was those nights he had no rest, wretched in his own dishonor.
Never had he thought an evening could have been worse spent and it shamed him further to learn he was wrong.
Kneeling in a cool puddle of moonlight the Elf was easily the loveliest thing Boromir had ever beheld, his eyes half closed and his movements as sinuous as a river, liquid-smooth. That Aragorn was on his knees before him poisoned whatever beauty existed in their tableau and where there was never a droplet of moisture to mar the skin of an Elf, the Man fairly gleamed with perspiration, wickedly seductive in his own right.
It was not the first time he had seen these two together, and indeed, the sight often hardened him to stone, smooth limbs twined together and the shine of ecstasy in two sets of eyes. He had never had the Elf, not in that manner and neither had the Elf had him; only Aragorn was free to move between them in such a manner, as ever a bridge between Elves and Men.
But never before had it been like this.
Burning with some emotion deep in his chest, he watched them couple. There was no urgency within the Elf; he moved as though time were eternal and his lovemaking might be just as endless, infinite as the crashing of the sea. The cruelty of his tenderness was visible only in the Man and his agonized trembling, being neither infinite nor as serene as the one taking him.
Yet Boromir could only watch them, with bitter, hungry eyes as the Elf took what he had been powerless to claim, unable to name that which ached within him. Humiliation and dishonor he had tasted before, the yellowed bitterness of each had been his from the beginning. This cold fire was like nothing he had felt, even as he watched their growing abandon.
Aragorn tossed his head restlessly, his hands clenching in the thick loam beneath him and his eyes opened, catching at once on Boromir's. Not a single crease to his face but the light of amusement was in his eyes and that wound was the most grievous that Boromir had even received. He nearly looked away, ready to bury himself within his blankets and let this dream die away like a diseased flower on the vine. Yet even as he began to move, settling back on the ground, he could not look away and when the graceful dance before him stilled, he saw the sweep of Aragorn's hand as he gestured to where Boromir might be placed.
Beneath him.
Such impossibilities Aragorn always asked of him and still he found himself twisting lithely beneath them, catching his breath at the first intrusion and drowning his moans in the slick pool of Aragorn's mouth as they drew him into their lovemaking, lips and touches adoring him, and he forgot all thoughts of honor as he cried out softly, the name of his King.
-finis-
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*purrs contentedly*
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And yes, I know what you mean. Thank you so much! I've had a lot of fun with these. *G*
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you're welcome! and thank you!
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Oh, that was lovely.
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Think everyone could overlook it if your replies were delayed because of this. Pantingly good.
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And I have to do the dishes now.
::pant pant::
I'll just let you know that I'm holding you responsible for broken plates.
;)
Very hot. I like your Legolas. He comes across as very elven.
::applause::
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Thank you!
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oh..ow, I think I hurt myself. Wow, this is just completely immersed in such vivid, seductive imagery. I really felt Boromir's shame, his undeniable longing, and was both glad and sad that he joined Aragorn and Legolas. Glad that Aragorn didn't reject him, but sad because I'm afraid Boroimr's pride is going to suffer even more afterwords.
Outstanding! Thanks for sharing, :)
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Yeah. Poor Boromir and his pride, it always gets him in trouble!
Glad you liked it. :)
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Beneath him.
To paraphrase a well-known quote:
Its amazing that I should suffer so much lust and drooling over such a little sentence.
That is all.
*mops up puddle my brain has melted into*
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Its amazing that I should suffer so much lust and drooling over such a little sentence.
Heee! Thank you so much!
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*re-reads*
Pardon me, that should have been: *MEEP!*
God, the torture you put poor Boromir through...I love it! *wicked grin*
And yeah, that last line...*sighs contentedly*
*meep*
~Kris
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It's his own fault for suffering so prettily. ;)
Thank you!