Not So Easy

Not So Easy


A mean little slashfic about a desire that went wrong. VERY hard R… or not too sexual NC-17.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to JRR Tolkien. Plot is mine. No profit is made on this story.

Warning… this isn’t Boromir friendly. I like him in the movie, but it’s so easy to make him a baddie, I had to do this one. My bunnies are on overdrive.

Technical Warnings: non-con, slight BDSM. Brutality, and a bit of blood.


Boromir liked to watch him. He smiled to himself as the fellowship headed out of Lorien, three boats in the great River. Legolas and Gimli boated together, as friends who had just come to see each other as such. The blond elf, young-seeming despite his close to three millennia of life, was smiling tranquilly, now and then stopping his paddling to finger the bow that the lady Galadriel had given to him. Aragorn, Sam and Frodo were up ahead, he and the younger hobbits brought up the rear.

Boromir had to admit to himself, he was very strongly attracted to the Elf. Since their first meeting, at the Council of Elrond, when he had publicly defamed Aragorn and Mirkwood’s prince had stood up, colouring just so, and had told him exactly who Aragorn was, and what he thought of him.

The Heir to the Stewardship of Gondor felt a shiver up his spine, and the hairs rising on his neck every time the Elf’s cool blue eyes glanced over him. The look of faint dislike that flickered in Legolas’ eyes when they met his made his insides quiver. It was as if the Elf was challenging him to come closer, to push the unspoken barrier that he held between himself and his mortal companions. Boromir liked challenges. For some time since this attraction--it began to verge on obsession--began, Boromir was keenly aware that Legolas was not a maiden, his his maleness scared him. In Minas Tirith, anything closer than friendship between men would be frowned upon. Boromir had only ever felt lust like this towards women before; he could recall many hasty kisses in the halls of the White Tower, and many nights in his quarters with anyone he saw fit. Why was this Elf getting to him like this? This male Elf!? Legolas was a fierce fighter, deadly and skilled with both bow and knife, and while very beautiful, was also very masculine.

But as time drew on, the nattering voices in Boromir’s mind were smothered, leaving only his naked, raw, and very real desire for Legolas Thranduilion. All his mind, all his waking thought was bent on possessing and caressing, and making the Elf scream his name.

That brought him to the present. Rowing a boat containing two very chatty young hobbits, staring, unwavering, at Legolas’ back. Wanting so much he thought he might burst from need.

That night, he saw his chance. Legolas walked off to scout in the woods, and, feigning some lame excuse to the rest of the Company, he followed. Like a skulking animal, he prowled the woods, slavering at the thought of what could be his, what should be his.

***

Legolas was standing at the top of the ridge, moonlight silvering his wheat-coloured hair. A pale outline mottled by the shadows of the moon was all that could be seen of him. His body was perfectly still, oh so perfect, gazing due east, never flinching.

Boromir crept up the incline, need and desire racing through him and addling his sensibilities. As he came within ten feet of the lissome body, his body began to flood with adrenaline and a darker, hotter energy. He exhaled heavily.

Legolas spun around. Knowing that the surprise was lost, Boromir hurled himself from concealment, slamming bodily into the Greenleaf, and earning him a grunt of pain from the immortal as they crashed as one into a rocky side of cliff.
The Elf was pinned under him, breathing quickly in his surprise. “Boromir?” Legolas demanded in shock.

The Man clamped a large, heavy hand on Legolas’ mouth. “Hush, lovely one. Have you any idea how long I have waited to do this?” He planted a wet, vile kiss on the Elf’s neck, and felt the body beneath him, trapped between the rock and his hungering body, tremble with what he thought was fear. Or, dared he hope, anticipation?
He ground his rising erection, still confined to his breeches, into Legolas’ crotch, hoping to get a further reaction from the slender Elf.

What he got was quite different.

Suddenly, quick as lightning, Legolas’ hands burst from where they were held behind his back by Boromir. Suddenly caught in a vice-like grip at the front of his tunic, the Man of Gondor found himself flying through midair, and slamming into the mossy ground. He looked up in alarm, only to be confronted with harsh, mocking laughter.

Legolas walked towards him; face all but shadowed in the moonlight. His eyes glinted brightly against the darkness around him. That laugh continued.

“What,” Legolas hissed, “Did you think you were going to do, Boromir? Did you think that you would hold me here against my will, pin me to this rock face, and ravish me like a whore? Did you think I would moan for you? That I would lie down and play the naïve maid for you?” Another ruthless chuckle.

Boromir, still in shock, could not bring himself to look at Legolas. He ached fiercely where he had fallen.

“In case you have been blind and stupid since the Council, though I doubt it not, I am the Prince of Mirkwood. I am a lord in my realm. Look at me! I am a warrior. I lie down for no one.” Legolas seemed to get even taller at these words, and the Man felt like he was shrinking.

Boromir tried to lift himself off of the ground, and he opened his mouth to protest. Legolas’ fist collided with his jaw.

“Silence!” the Elf snapped. “How dare you come to me, like a thief in the night, craven and slinking?! I heard you since you left the camp. I knew your mind since we left Imladris! I am not some nissi* to be overwhelmed. I am your better, Man,” he spat the last word like a curse.

Denethor’s firstborn began to rise to his feet, but, in an instant, he felt the cold of Elven steel at his throat. “Stop,” Legolas commanded coldly. “Remove your garments.” Boromir stared at him in confusion. The blades bit deeper. “Now!”

He glared at his would-be quarry sullenly, but did as he was told. Once all were removed, he sat back down, reddening in shame. Despite all the brutality, his arousal remained. Legolas laughed again, this time more mocking. “And you would pillage my fragile body with that?! Hah! It is no wonder that you failed.” Boromir’s cheeks burned.

“You wanted me, Man of Gondor, and it is me you shall have.” Boromir brightened, thinking this a surprisingly pleasant turn of events. “Yea indeed, you shall feel the pain of having those vile thoughts about a Lord of the Moriquendi. I am no one’s toy, let alone yours.” Legolas spat at Boromir, a sickening smile on his pale lips. “On your knees.”

Cowering, Boromir obliged.

“Face to the ground.” Still bent by humiliation, he complied again. There was a pause, a long eternity of a pause. Boromir began to wonder if perhaps the Elf had left him here as punishment, not to move for fear that those cruel Elven blades would find his throat, or worse, an arrow from the bow of the best archer in Mirkwood. In an instant, he knew he was wrong.

Pain lanced trough him suddenly, making him feel as if he’d been split up the middle. It was more pain than he had ever known, coupled by a sense of violation, and a horrible, tearing agony inside. His eyes watered, and a hoarse, tortured howl tore from his throat. That earned him a vicious slap that connected at a bad angle with his nose, breaking it. Blood gushed over his lip. Legolas was there, behind him, and in him.

“I told you to be quiet.”

Boromir began to tremble. Legolas fisted a clump of his hair, and pulled, cutting off any escape. The blade of the Elven knife remained at his throat. The Elf began to move, thrusting at a brutal pace. Now and again, Legolas’ length would collide with a place inside Boromir that would make the Man moan in sudden pleasure. However, that pleasure was fleeting and short-lived, for the vicious rhythm of pain and torture continued, quickening as the Elf neared his peak. Legolas was silent, but his breathing came quicker and more ragged as the moment approached. With one last thrust, and a slight grunt, the elven Prince came, collapsing for a moment onto Boromir’s back. He then pulled his blood-soaked member out of Boromir, and walked around to face the once-proud man who, with leaves and dirt in his face and beard was trying to relieve the pressure in his own cock.

“You pitiful wretch,” Legolas said, his clean, sweat-sheened face glistening in the moonlight as a sharp contrast to Boromir’s face which was coated with blood, leaves, and dirt. The Man’s broken nose oozed blood over his face, and tears poured from his shamed eyes. “Let this be a lesson to you, little Man. Think again before you ever try to possess something that will not be owned. Think again before you attempt to take a Dark Elf against his will.”

Legolas refastened his breeches, spun on his heel and stalked off down the forest hill towards the camp, leaving Boromir on his own. The Man curled into a fetal position on the damp ground near the rock face, blubbering and crying through the thick blood that poured from his ruined nose. The same blood that coursed from between his legs in tiny rivulets. He reached a hand down to his still-wanting cock, and brought himself to completion like a whipped cur in the forest, all alone.

***

Legolas returned to the camp a few minutes later and sat down on a nearby log, close to the fire. Aragorn turned to him and gave him a searching look that did not need to be put into words. Legolas returned the Dùnadan’s glance with a reply of his own, and nodded grimly.

Later that night, Boromir came stumbling back. He had cleaned himself off in a stream, so the blood and dirt was gone. His nose was horribly swollen, though. Gimli started. “Boromir? What on earth happened?”

The Hobbits turned around. “Mr. Boromir?” Sam inquired.

Boromir did not reply. His puffy eyes remained trained on the ground.

Pippin turned to Legolas. “Your pardon, Master Elf?” he asked.

“Yes, Pippin?”

“You were out there with Boromir a while ago… did you see what happened to him?”

Legolas smiled blandly. “I was not there when Boromir was injured. I think I know what may have befallen him, though.” The man in question looked up, startled at this lie. “There was a beehive hanging from a branch of a tree. That branch lay far over a depression in the ground. As I recall, Boromir wanted to get the honey from the hive, and he purposed to climb the tree. That is where my knowledge of the situation ends, as we went our separate ways just then. I surmise that Boromir slipped while trying to grasp something so out of reach, and fell, to the ruin of his nose. Am I correct, Lord Boromir?” Legolas’ eyes flashed imperceptibly, as if daring Boromir to gainsay his lie.

Boromir flinched and nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

“Well then,” Merry quipped, “Let’s hope that he’s learned his lesson!”

Legolas smirked. “Indeed.”


~FIN~

* Nissi means ‘female elf’. (Neri is the masculine term)

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