Wonders never cease, a (ficlet) update!
Dec. 6th, 2003 12:34 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
archetThis is for Boromir, 'cause I miss and love him still, and always. And so does Aragorn.
Title: Charms and Pride (1/?)
Author: Archet
Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir
Rating: R, for sexual situations, though nothing too graphic.
Summary: Aragorn and an Elven charm leads Boromir to wonder how one claiming in the darkness could set him so adrift.
Disclaimer: I claim no ownership in any fashion to J.R.R. Tolkien/Peter Jackson’s works or characters. All I claim to having created is this bit of story.
Warning: angst, possibly a WIP
Archive: no, not as of yet, still subject to edit
Note: as with most all of my scribbles, this was written with the slant toward movieverse. I have something in mind for a continuation, as I’d like to leave the boys in a happier place, and I should probably wait and see if that happens before posting this, but I have a feeling that if I don’t post this now, I never will. This wasn’t beta’ed so any and all badness is all my fault.
Feedback: absolutely, please do.
~*~*~*~
There was no moon, so it must be starlight that edges the mithril jewel and causes it to glow and glint in the darkness above Boromir. That causes it to glimmer like a cold, silver ember in the night where it pendulums on its thread-like chain from around Aragorn’s neck. Boromir does not want to be touched by the charm, the token, yet as Aragorn leans down the cool, shimmering metal brushes against Boromir’s heated, sweating skin and he cannot help but feel it. He cannot help but want it removed, its presence forgotten.
He cannot help but want to escape it, it and so many other things as well.
Aragorn does not take notice of his discomfort as he hides it well, and perhaps it is Aragorn who has forgotten where Boromir has not but even so, Boromir will not ask, remove it, hide it, put it aside.
He will not ask for this favor.
He may lie beneath this man who has become his lover this night, and that might one day become his King, but he will not ask. His pride is precious to him, is nearly all that he has left, and Boromir thinks he will not surrender enough of it to ask for the jewel to be hidden. He thinks he cannot bend that much, that he must keep something of himself intact as tonight he’s learned that Aragorn’s touch carries a power that lifts him up into another place, a place where he forgets himself, where he forgets his caution.
Aragorn moves hard against Boromir, urgently, somehow desperate and commanding all at once, and the callused hands’ heavy caresses scatters Boromir’s thoughts of charms and pride wide where they are consumed by the heat, the beautiful, painful heat.
The slide and thrust of claiming is between them, and at last Boromir lets go, lets the touch of the charm pale in the face of the pleasure Aragorn brings in him. He lets go, and for a time, is lost to it.
~*~*~*~
When Boromir opens his eyes Aragorn is leaning over him, the scent of passion still heavy with them, in the cool night air. Aragorn is brushing sweat damp hair back from Boromir’s face and whispering his name and the sound of it is so soft, so gentle to Boromir’s ears. It is hard to want to move away from such tenderness, and nearly harder yet to accept it. Like a fly in a web, he is caught and bound, and so he stays.
Aragorn slides atop Boromir, presses his heated, bare body against his lovers’ as if he seeks to seal a promise between them, and it is hard for Boromir to want to turn away from such warmth, though he believes that he should. It is hard to want to deny Aragorn’s careful, questing touch, his voice, but the charm slides prettily down across Aragorn’s freshly marked skin, dangles between them as Aragorn leans near, seeking a kiss.
Boromir’s eyes follow the charm and as it brushes the sensitized skin of his chest he stiffens and feels suddenly, every sharp stick of twig and pebble against his back beneath the cushion of their spread cloaks. He feels the prickle of sweat on his scalp and everywhere Aragorn’s skin is pressed flush against his own. He feels weighted in cares and wonders fleetingly as Aragorn’s lips take his, if this is what it feels like to be filled up and drowned.
Suddenly it is too much.
Suddenly too much is being asked of him and Boromir turns his face away, fleeing the kiss. Aragorn pauses, but only to kiss Boromir’s neck instead, his tongue lapping and teasing, teeth nipping, lean body pressing down into Boromir with gentle possessiveness. It is too much and Boromir twists, hands on Aragorn’s biceps, and pushes him away.
He does not wish to be owned, to be possessed through tenderness by this man of all men. A rough tumble, yes, a rough claiming, yes, but to allow this man that wears the promise of an Elven princess around his neck to seduce him with worshipful, needful, owning caresses is too much. It is too much to give, and Boromir’s heart pounds with the realization of it. He belongs to Gondor and his duty to her and to no one else, except perhaps his brother.
He cannot afford what this will cost him, but he can say none of these things, knows not how, and so he drops his eyes, wearied, and says nothing.
At this Aragorn retreats, withdraws his touch just enough to sit back and study Boromir’s face, and when he asks what is wrong it is with such concern in his voice, it is hard for Boromir to remember that he wants to belong only to Gondor. Hard to remember that there is no future in this. That Aragorn can never belong to him, and Boromir doesn’t know what he fears most, that he might need Aragorn in a way he’s never needed any man or woman, or knowing that his need can never be fulfilled.
Still, Boromir can say nothing, cannot look at his new lover, at the man, at the first person in months, other than himself, to lay hands upon him. He wonders how one claiming in the darkness could set him so adrift.
After a moment of waiting and watching, Aragorn moves through the silence and wordlessly gathers Boromir into his arms as if he knows the turmoil that weights his heart. Aragorn holds him close, tightly, too tightly, binding, and Boromir shivers and cannot move away. He does not want to move away, even though the charm is pressed tight against his skin and its worked edges are not kind.
Boromir cannot move away and Aragorn will not let go, so they remain this way, embracing in the darkness and saying nothing, and the cold ember, the charm, like Boromir’s pride that will not free the words in his heart, burns on.
Title: Charms and Pride (1/?)
Author: Archet
Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir
Rating: R, for sexual situations, though nothing too graphic.
Summary: Aragorn and an Elven charm leads Boromir to wonder how one claiming in the darkness could set him so adrift.
Disclaimer: I claim no ownership in any fashion to J.R.R. Tolkien/Peter Jackson’s works or characters. All I claim to having created is this bit of story.
Warning: angst, possibly a WIP
Archive: no, not as of yet, still subject to edit
Note: as with most all of my scribbles, this was written with the slant toward movieverse. I have something in mind for a continuation, as I’d like to leave the boys in a happier place, and I should probably wait and see if that happens before posting this, but I have a feeling that if I don’t post this now, I never will. This wasn’t beta’ed so any and all badness is all my fault.
Feedback: absolutely, please do.
~*~*~*~
There was no moon, so it must be starlight that edges the mithril jewel and causes it to glow and glint in the darkness above Boromir. That causes it to glimmer like a cold, silver ember in the night where it pendulums on its thread-like chain from around Aragorn’s neck. Boromir does not want to be touched by the charm, the token, yet as Aragorn leans down the cool, shimmering metal brushes against Boromir’s heated, sweating skin and he cannot help but feel it. He cannot help but want it removed, its presence forgotten.
He cannot help but want to escape it, it and so many other things as well.
Aragorn does not take notice of his discomfort as he hides it well, and perhaps it is Aragorn who has forgotten where Boromir has not but even so, Boromir will not ask, remove it, hide it, put it aside.
He will not ask for this favor.
He may lie beneath this man who has become his lover this night, and that might one day become his King, but he will not ask. His pride is precious to him, is nearly all that he has left, and Boromir thinks he will not surrender enough of it to ask for the jewel to be hidden. He thinks he cannot bend that much, that he must keep something of himself intact as tonight he’s learned that Aragorn’s touch carries a power that lifts him up into another place, a place where he forgets himself, where he forgets his caution.
Aragorn moves hard against Boromir, urgently, somehow desperate and commanding all at once, and the callused hands’ heavy caresses scatters Boromir’s thoughts of charms and pride wide where they are consumed by the heat, the beautiful, painful heat.
The slide and thrust of claiming is between them, and at last Boromir lets go, lets the touch of the charm pale in the face of the pleasure Aragorn brings in him. He lets go, and for a time, is lost to it.
~*~*~*~
When Boromir opens his eyes Aragorn is leaning over him, the scent of passion still heavy with them, in the cool night air. Aragorn is brushing sweat damp hair back from Boromir’s face and whispering his name and the sound of it is so soft, so gentle to Boromir’s ears. It is hard to want to move away from such tenderness, and nearly harder yet to accept it. Like a fly in a web, he is caught and bound, and so he stays.
Aragorn slides atop Boromir, presses his heated, bare body against his lovers’ as if he seeks to seal a promise between them, and it is hard for Boromir to want to turn away from such warmth, though he believes that he should. It is hard to want to deny Aragorn’s careful, questing touch, his voice, but the charm slides prettily down across Aragorn’s freshly marked skin, dangles between them as Aragorn leans near, seeking a kiss.
Boromir’s eyes follow the charm and as it brushes the sensitized skin of his chest he stiffens and feels suddenly, every sharp stick of twig and pebble against his back beneath the cushion of their spread cloaks. He feels the prickle of sweat on his scalp and everywhere Aragorn’s skin is pressed flush against his own. He feels weighted in cares and wonders fleetingly as Aragorn’s lips take his, if this is what it feels like to be filled up and drowned.
Suddenly it is too much.
Suddenly too much is being asked of him and Boromir turns his face away, fleeing the kiss. Aragorn pauses, but only to kiss Boromir’s neck instead, his tongue lapping and teasing, teeth nipping, lean body pressing down into Boromir with gentle possessiveness. It is too much and Boromir twists, hands on Aragorn’s biceps, and pushes him away.
He does not wish to be owned, to be possessed through tenderness by this man of all men. A rough tumble, yes, a rough claiming, yes, but to allow this man that wears the promise of an Elven princess around his neck to seduce him with worshipful, needful, owning caresses is too much. It is too much to give, and Boromir’s heart pounds with the realization of it. He belongs to Gondor and his duty to her and to no one else, except perhaps his brother.
He cannot afford what this will cost him, but he can say none of these things, knows not how, and so he drops his eyes, wearied, and says nothing.
At this Aragorn retreats, withdraws his touch just enough to sit back and study Boromir’s face, and when he asks what is wrong it is with such concern in his voice, it is hard for Boromir to remember that he wants to belong only to Gondor. Hard to remember that there is no future in this. That Aragorn can never belong to him, and Boromir doesn’t know what he fears most, that he might need Aragorn in a way he’s never needed any man or woman, or knowing that his need can never be fulfilled.
Still, Boromir can say nothing, cannot look at his new lover, at the man, at the first person in months, other than himself, to lay hands upon him. He wonders how one claiming in the darkness could set him so adrift.
After a moment of waiting and watching, Aragorn moves through the silence and wordlessly gathers Boromir into his arms as if he knows the turmoil that weights his heart. Aragorn holds him close, tightly, too tightly, binding, and Boromir shivers and cannot move away. He does not want to move away, even though the charm is pressed tight against his skin and its worked edges are not kind.
Boromir cannot move away and Aragorn will not let go, so they remain this way, embracing in the darkness and saying nothing, and the cold ember, the charm, like Boromir’s pride that will not free the words in his heart, burns on.
