Kink Ficlet #15
May. 18th, 2003 12:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
keelywolfeWhen did this start growing a plot? Damn you, Boromir, can't you ever be quiet? Bastard. Ah, well...
Ownership
by keely
~~*~~
He had a dream about his father, as he often had had before. The same figure who was his father but also not, a husk with hollow eyes and skin like dry, cracked soil and though it was his father, it was also somehow Gondor, all the splendor of his city trapped in this corpse. As he watched the figure sank before him, crumbling away and though he tried to piece it back together it simply crumbled into dust and yet this time it was different, this time the dust turned to blood and ran from his hands in rivers, an ocean of blood staining him and he could hear his father's voice, calling him traitor.
The taste of his own tears was fresh in his mouth as he woke, and he startled to see the figure crouched above him, a hand resting lightly on his shoulder. For the first time since this began he was tempted to ignore the unspoken request, yet if he did, he had no doubt Aragorn would take his comfort in the arms of the Elf and he was shamed at the bitter taste of jealousy on his tongue.
Better to rise and follow him a short distance, to allow Aragorn to strip him of his clothing and press him to his knees, his fingers slick and cool as they prepared him, and he accepted it, accepted everything Aragorn offered until suddenly, oddly, he stilled.
"Where are you?" Aragorn breathed into his ear and Boromir tried to twist away, annoyed by the foolish question because where else could he be but where he was? Such an idea was an Elvish foolishness like that Aragorn was prone to, foreign to his people and was this creature supposed to be a Man they could call King? He should be relieved that Aragorn had no intention of going to his city, that his purpose was elsewhere even if it meant the destruction of the Ring.
A brief image of it, as compelling and golden as fire, flashed before his eyes before it was lost, splintered by Aragorn's fingers in his hair as they shook him painfully.
"Where are you?" Again, harshly this time. "Because you are not here with me, where you belong."
Where he belonged, like a possession, a sword or a horse or perhaps a piece of jewelry and it sparked something within him, molten fury, and he was so tired of belonging to anyone, to anything.
"You do not own me," he hissed, trying to pull away and these matters should have ended ages ago when he realized what it was doing to him. How it was changing him. Yet Aragorn was strong and had the leverage to hold him down, and though Boromir could still free himself, he could not do it without hurting Aragorn and it was his burning shame, his weakness that he could not bear to do it.
"You are so very certain?" Softly, a breath against his ear and he could feel it when Aragorn smiled. "Very well, I do not."
Just as his grip was starting to turn painful, Aragorn released him and Boromir felt suddenly too-light without his weight. Uncertainly, he turned to see Aragorn sprawled easily next to him, brazenly stroking himself. He looked at Boromir through half closed eyes and gestured idly back to the camp. "Feel free to leave. As you said, I do not own you."
Boromir sat as though frozen, unable to tear his eyes from Aragorn thrusting into the channel of his own fist and even looking away gave him no peace, his soft sighs and murmurs of pleasure were inescapable. It was with a humiliated cry that he threw himself gracelessly forward, collapsing on his knees, tearing Aragorn's hand away so that he might lap at the bead of moisture glistening at the head of the shaft and savor the sour taste of it. Aragorn's startled gasp was nearly as satisfying and he thrilled to hear it.
He needed this, more than he ever wished to admit and when Aragorn moved beneath him, fighting his way out of Boromir's grasp, he nearly snarled his frustration to the night sky, scrabbling to hold him down with an uncertain grip. Yet Aragorn persisted until the sudden heat of his mouth surrounding him had Boromir choking on a gasp of his own, struggling to mimic the sweet rhythm of Aragorn's tongue. That anyone could have such a skilled mouth and Boromir could only attempt to give back a portion of the bliss Aragorn visited upon him.
There should have been shame in enjoying this, though Boromir could not feel it, for how could there be shame at the feel of this Man trembling beneath his fingertips, the sudden, slick, heavy taste in his mouth that came with his pleasure and Boromir shuddered in his own ecstasy, felt Aragorn swallowing greedily around him and how could he feel shame if Aragorn did not?
Shaken, moreso than he would ever say, Boromir collapsed back on the blankets beneath them and when Aragorn shifted to lean over him, he met his eyes without words.
"I do not own you, Boromir of Gondor. No more than you own me." Cryptic, so like the Elves who raised him yet it relieved him to hear, even as it sent a shaft of crystal-sharp pain into his heart. A lie, but a sweet one and he would accept it as the comfort it was meant to be.
They did not linger too long, dressing in careful silence before making their way back to the camp, and if Aragorn's bedroll was nearer to his than any other, none of the others in the Fellowship would make mention of it.
There were still many hours of darkness for sleep, and before he sought it, Boromir closed his eyes and sent a silent apology to his father, one he knew would be rejected in disgust were it spoken to him and when he dreamed again of his father, of Gondor, the dream found itself changed yet again, the withered appearance of both made radiant by a flash of gold and Boromir smiled in his sleep and did not let himself see the crimson flow beneath it.
-finis-
Ownership
by keely
~~*~~
He had a dream about his father, as he often had had before. The same figure who was his father but also not, a husk with hollow eyes and skin like dry, cracked soil and though it was his father, it was also somehow Gondor, all the splendor of his city trapped in this corpse. As he watched the figure sank before him, crumbling away and though he tried to piece it back together it simply crumbled into dust and yet this time it was different, this time the dust turned to blood and ran from his hands in rivers, an ocean of blood staining him and he could hear his father's voice, calling him traitor.
The taste of his own tears was fresh in his mouth as he woke, and he startled to see the figure crouched above him, a hand resting lightly on his shoulder. For the first time since this began he was tempted to ignore the unspoken request, yet if he did, he had no doubt Aragorn would take his comfort in the arms of the Elf and he was shamed at the bitter taste of jealousy on his tongue.
Better to rise and follow him a short distance, to allow Aragorn to strip him of his clothing and press him to his knees, his fingers slick and cool as they prepared him, and he accepted it, accepted everything Aragorn offered until suddenly, oddly, he stilled.
"Where are you?" Aragorn breathed into his ear and Boromir tried to twist away, annoyed by the foolish question because where else could he be but where he was? Such an idea was an Elvish foolishness like that Aragorn was prone to, foreign to his people and was this creature supposed to be a Man they could call King? He should be relieved that Aragorn had no intention of going to his city, that his purpose was elsewhere even if it meant the destruction of the Ring.
A brief image of it, as compelling and golden as fire, flashed before his eyes before it was lost, splintered by Aragorn's fingers in his hair as they shook him painfully.
"Where are you?" Again, harshly this time. "Because you are not here with me, where you belong."
Where he belonged, like a possession, a sword or a horse or perhaps a piece of jewelry and it sparked something within him, molten fury, and he was so tired of belonging to anyone, to anything.
"You do not own me," he hissed, trying to pull away and these matters should have ended ages ago when he realized what it was doing to him. How it was changing him. Yet Aragorn was strong and had the leverage to hold him down, and though Boromir could still free himself, he could not do it without hurting Aragorn and it was his burning shame, his weakness that he could not bear to do it.
"You are so very certain?" Softly, a breath against his ear and he could feel it when Aragorn smiled. "Very well, I do not."
Just as his grip was starting to turn painful, Aragorn released him and Boromir felt suddenly too-light without his weight. Uncertainly, he turned to see Aragorn sprawled easily next to him, brazenly stroking himself. He looked at Boromir through half closed eyes and gestured idly back to the camp. "Feel free to leave. As you said, I do not own you."
Boromir sat as though frozen, unable to tear his eyes from Aragorn thrusting into the channel of his own fist and even looking away gave him no peace, his soft sighs and murmurs of pleasure were inescapable. It was with a humiliated cry that he threw himself gracelessly forward, collapsing on his knees, tearing Aragorn's hand away so that he might lap at the bead of moisture glistening at the head of the shaft and savor the sour taste of it. Aragorn's startled gasp was nearly as satisfying and he thrilled to hear it.
He needed this, more than he ever wished to admit and when Aragorn moved beneath him, fighting his way out of Boromir's grasp, he nearly snarled his frustration to the night sky, scrabbling to hold him down with an uncertain grip. Yet Aragorn persisted until the sudden heat of his mouth surrounding him had Boromir choking on a gasp of his own, struggling to mimic the sweet rhythm of Aragorn's tongue. That anyone could have such a skilled mouth and Boromir could only attempt to give back a portion of the bliss Aragorn visited upon him.
There should have been shame in enjoying this, though Boromir could not feel it, for how could there be shame at the feel of this Man trembling beneath his fingertips, the sudden, slick, heavy taste in his mouth that came with his pleasure and Boromir shuddered in his own ecstasy, felt Aragorn swallowing greedily around him and how could he feel shame if Aragorn did not?
Shaken, moreso than he would ever say, Boromir collapsed back on the blankets beneath them and when Aragorn shifted to lean over him, he met his eyes without words.
"I do not own you, Boromir of Gondor. No more than you own me." Cryptic, so like the Elves who raised him yet it relieved him to hear, even as it sent a shaft of crystal-sharp pain into his heart. A lie, but a sweet one and he would accept it as the comfort it was meant to be.
They did not linger too long, dressing in careful silence before making their way back to the camp, and if Aragorn's bedroll was nearer to his than any other, none of the others in the Fellowship would make mention of it.
There were still many hours of darkness for sleep, and before he sought it, Boromir closed his eyes and sent a silent apology to his father, one he knew would be rejected in disgust were it spoken to him and when he dreamed again of his father, of Gondor, the dream found itself changed yet again, the withered appearance of both made radiant by a flash of gold and Boromir smiled in his sleep and did not let himself see the crimson flow beneath it.
-finis-
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no subject
Date: 2003-05-20 05:21 am (UTC)Now, if only Boromir or even, dare I say, certain British men would stop being so angsty and just have sex! Darn men...