A Civil Manner

TITLE: A Civil Manner
AUTHOR: Ezra’s Persian Kitty
E-MAIL: ezraspersiankitty@yahoo.com
PAIRING: Legolas/Boromir
RATING: NC-17
SUMMARY: Legolas and Boromire a e a bit of a disagreement. In the mud.
WARNING: Mud, blood, sweat, and cum
DATE WRITTEN: ?/?/2002

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A CIVIL MANNER


Boromir did not know what to expect of the elves. Of Rivendell.

No, that was not true; he thought he knew what to expect. He was wrong.

Legends of the elves vary so from myth to myth, that Gondor’s son had woven them all together into a picture, a picture of cold immortality, ruthless beauty, and unemotional detachment. Thus he expected to find the legendary creatures of the forest.

He should have heeded his own rules of battle. Never assume.

He should not have assumed the architectural wonderments would be beyond comprehension, though they were. He should not have assumed that elves would treat all their guests with great hospitality and unbroken respect, though they did. He should not have assumed them to be intelligent beyond their years and wise beyond any mortal’s reckoning, th thh they easily were. He should not have assumed all elves to be made of the same heavenly light, for though they each shared that spark of the unnatural, they certainly were not. And he should not have assumed Legolas to be a creature of silence, respect, and untouchable beauty. He was not.

***

“Move your ass… you damned dirty human,” Legolas ordered, the last words muttered almost unintelligibly, but not quite. And Aragorn on the other side of the fire shot a warning look.

Boromir growled and shifted his ass from where he lay sprawled over the elf’s bedroll back onto his own. “Perhaps if you didn’t throw your garbage about theund,und, I’d not have to move.”

Aragorn stood tall, a hand placed readily on Anduril’s hilt.

“Perhaps if you didn’t loll about like a drunken dog, I’d not have to ask you to.”

Aragorn stepped forward.

“A drunken dog?!” the Steward’s eldest son shouted, ignoring a warning look from Gimli and shushing motions from Pippin. “This from the preening elf prince? You should have been a PRINCESS!” Boromir accused, “Not even the fish bathe so often as you, and not even my mother took such pretentious care of her locks!”

“Bathe! I’m surprised you know the word, and as for your mother—” Legolas began, but was interrupted before the disagreement could turn ugly.

“ENOUGH!! Would you two STOP THAT!?” Aragorn shouted with great exasperation. Having dealt with these two at each others’ throats since the outset, his patience was failing, and for the first time he let the hol his his emotions slip to berate the bickering members of their Fellowship.

Seven pairs of shocked eyes turned to the sight of the man, normally so composed and reserved, as he unleashed his frustrations.

“NO MORE! I’ve had enough of you two, insulting your appearance, character, ancestry, and mannerisms! It’s enough to drive a sane man mad! Or a sober one to drink! I’ll not have this anymore. Both of you get out of my sight.”

The pair rose and turned to the king in shock, words of protest already on their lips.

“Not a word!” Aragorn warned. “Go. And do not return until you can treat one another in a civil manner. You know well enough the merits of this quest. Now we’ve lost Gandalf, and Mordor looms closer than e’er before. One more word, from either of you, and I’ll turn you out. Back you can go to your homes, for I’ll not have this threat upon us, the Ringbearer, or his burden. Be gone! Come back when you’ve sense enough to behave as the princes you are.”

Boromir could see it. He could see it. He clamped his hand over the elf’s mouth before the “but” could escape, and with a wary look toward the enraged ranger, backed out of camp, forcibly dragging Legolas with him.

***

Legolas stomped furiously through the undergrowth, but for all his anger, stirred barely a leaf or blade or bush at his passing, and hardly a sound could Boromir hear of his movements as the elf huffed along.

This made the slightly more composed man ever more aware, ever more angry at the sound of his own footfalls, crunching quite audibly in the forest, no matter the care he took with his steps. For all his accomplishments, for all he’d learned in the course of his life, he needed only to look at The Elf to find himself lacking. The Elf never faltered, in step, word, or deed. He did not disturb the earth as he walked, nor the air when he spoke, nor wasted any energy or thought when stringing his bow or notching an arrow. The creature seemed perfection itself, forever unsullied, no matter the land they traveled in, his clothes aligned in perfection, his hair… oh, his hair. That damn flaxen waterfall of locks that carried both the light of the sun and the shimmer of the moon in their glorious lengths… never even the slightest *hair* out of place.

Boromir stepped up his pace, quickly coming up behind Legolas, to neatly kick the elf’s instep as he trod, a nifty trick he’d picked up from his brother. For the fifth time throughout their ney,ney, Legolas was distracted enough not to adjust for the attack and found himself stumbling in the underbrush. Boromir ducked a hasty fist aimed his way, but though the elf missed, Legolas simply growled and kept on his path, determined to find his revenge when he was more focused.

Damn the irritating human! Legolas had never known anyone, man or woman, human or elf, who could so easily upset his certain detachment! Never had he so quickly found offense in not only a man’s words, but in his simplest actions and most innocent of looks! Boromir had come along and swept away whatever faith Legolas had in that race, with the possible exception of Elessar and his good intentions. Boromir, on the other hand, had been nothing but a hindrance on the whole journey, touting his seemingly religious doctrines on the uses of the One Ring, on the rights of his family, and on the indecencies of elves. Indecencies! The man knew not of what he spoke!

And yet—and yet… the man bore a grace, a strength, a sense of power and inherent beauty that Legolas had yet to glimpse in one of that race. Of course, Aragorn surpassed many men in his elven ways and roguish though kingly looks, but Boromir… Boromir was something altogether different. He was the epitome of man’s weakness, but also a model of perfection among men. Battle-hardened, he bore the quest well; intelligent, he was not easily stumped or vexed; and though his was a far from elfin beauty… Legolas did not find him unpleasant to look upon.

Thus the two tramped in silence, further and further from camp, further from the river, further from friends and allies in this ever more dangerous time, but found no civil words to say, nor even a tolerance that Aragorn would approve of, and so they walked, eventually coming to a most unhopeful place where the forest petered out into the nearly uninhabitable Brown Lands, covered with a few straggling brownish clumps of grass among the dry dirt—settled and packed hard—to make an unforgiving shell for the earth.

Having reached the border to this desolate place, they finally halted their march, looking about in wonder for a moment in how far they had come in their blind fury, when their attention was suddenly stolen by the skies, which rumbled threateningly in the distance, dark clouds blanketing the earth and casting a shadowy pall on all the land for miles.

Both man and elf, having left their cloaks on the ground when run out by Aragorn, suddenly turned to each other in vengeful ferocity. Legolas was the first to speak. “Why did you follow me?” he demanded, like any common child berating a younger and much despised sibling. The elf internally winced, yet again, at his own words. What WAS it about this man that turned his reason to folly, his composure to passion? “What POSSIBLE reason could you have for tagging along—”

Boromir swiftly cut off this flow of words, not desiring in the least to listen once more to Legolas’ insults, rants, and orders. “Follow?! You LED me!” Boromir protested. “We’re supposed to come to some sort of AGREEMENT! Even if that be to say naught to one another till the end of the journey…” And Boromir suddenly trebled off, realizing that such a vow would be futile and… undesirable.

Thrown by the man’s sudden and unexplainable confusion, Legolas’ brows frowned in worry, wondering what the man could possibly be plotting. “After the many insults you’ve thrown so happily in my face,” he finally retorted, not envisioning any sort of peace with this man, “I see NO WAY in which I could EVER tolerate your company, much less approve of it. And for that, I should add as well, I see no reason to. You’ve nothing I wish, not your companionship, not your sword, and certainly not your friendship!”

As Legolas’ voice rose, overcoming the rush and rage of a sudden stormy wind as well as his own frustration, Boromir bellowed to match. “Friendship?! That would indeed be the last thing I’d wish of you, my ‘fair’ elf! Why, your race stinks with the rot of the ages and your loyalty can only have grown sour with the years; why indeed should I desire anything from you but to never see you again?!” Boromir shuddered at his language. How vile, irreverent, and completely idiotic must he sound? He couldn’t imagine it, but the damn elf drove him to the very limits of sanity, and the approaching storm and their temporary banishment certainly had not improved his wit or lengthened his patience.

As a matter of fact, the whisperings of the storm had grown to a terrible roar, the untamed wind tearing at their clothes and whipping their hair about in wild tangles and tails as the first rain drops spattered the dry earth, charging down upon it as if to vie for ownership of the land with the very earth itself.

Legolas seemed to ignore the sudden weather, standing as a firm tree planted in the ground, unaffected by the air rushing by him, save for the hair of silver flax that danced wildly in the wind and the ruffling clothes battered by the growing storm. Boromir frowned at the elf’s strength, as he felt his own body leaning into the wind and swaying in its pull, hoping against hope that he would not be overcome by the sudden gales and knocked off his feet like the most graceless human toddler. No, he could do without that particular humiliation in the elf’s ever-remoreseresence.

Not that Legolas retained such aloofness in Boromir’s company. The man had been incessantly irked at the elf’s detachment since the outset from Rivendell and had done his utmost to provoke a response, just to be sure the creature was indeed alive in that slinking body that moved with an immortal grace. To the warrior’s surprise, Legolas had been easily pushed to a point where he willingly pushed back. And so their competition had begun, from the very first meeting of their eyes they had set their debates, their arguments, their cruelty in motion, and had not yet ceased.

They had been driven to this point, standing alone in the wilderness, shouting crude insults above the wind and staring one another down as though their gaze alone could send the other running. But from long months on the trail, they both knew such a thing would not come to be. Aragorn had always been there to break their arguments, or they would do so of their own accord when faced with the hobbits’ fearful looks or Gimli’s disapproving ones, but none of those shields was here to guard them now.

“Never see you again,” the elf echoed, now shouting to be heard above the great wind, and blinking at the suddenly powerful stabs of water as they fell from such a great height from the heavens, driven down upon the two warriors with strength rarely felt in nature’s touch. “T’would be a far greater pleasure than you know! I’d rather leave the mission in your hands alone than deal with the sight of your dog-like hide and the sound of your hideous barking forever at my heels!”

With that final insult, Boromir let loose a war-whoop the likes of which had not been heard in that land for many an age. His small eyes darkened with fury as his face twisted into a grimace. He clenched his fists and roared his anger. The storm seemed to approve and backed Boromir’s wrath with a resounding punch of thunder that echoed continuously over the plains and was punctuated by a sudden wave of water as the clouds opened relentlessly upon them. Filled to overflowing with all the passionate hatred, loathing, and pure hair-wrenching aggravation instilled by Legolas and his constant rebuttals, Boromir charged, all his emotion poured into pure physical strength, powering an attack so furious, even Legolas had no hope of evading.

For one brilliant, all-encompassing moment, Boromir saw the pure fear in his prey’s eyes as he rushed the elf, Legolas’ features darkening with a rarely known terror as the man put all his weight into the furious attack. Boromir plowed full-force into the elf, his shoulder knocking the immortal backward to land with a great THWACK on the dampening ground.

Boromir held back enough to remain standing after the initial attack, and sent a booted foot into the elf’s exposed stomach.

Now himself enraged, Legolas rolled away from the assailing foot and spun straight up into a fighting stance, his own brown eyes now black with thoughts of revenge, his thin mouth curving into an evil smirk and Boromir was momentarily cowed before the sight of the elf, the backdrop of the storm a gray and brown mantel behind him, occasionally lit by the flare of ever-approaching lightening. Legolas took advantage of this sudden falter on the part of his enemy to jump within range and pull his fist back. His hand struck out with the power of a snapping bowstring to strike Boromir in the center of his face, sending the man reeling, clutching his nose, now gushing viscous red out and over his cupped hands. His wail of pain and fury nearly drowned out Legolas own howl of triumph.

And still the storm grew about them, heedless or perhaps feeding upon their antics, an eye-less watcher and unknowing witness to the tiny battle beneath on the ball of the earth that slowly churned into a black mud beneath the two combatants’ feet.

Boromir trembled with rage at the pain flaring out from his face, heating to an intense ache and firing his ambition. The elf was going down.

Legolas saw the change in his companion and doubt once more flitted across his fair face, but the man would not best him—

Legolas found himself falling backwards, barely cognizant of the blow Boromir had landed to his temple. Once more, the elf rose from the earth, this time grimacing at the mud smeared on his back. He held his head gingerly for a moment before again meeting his enemy’s eyes.

Their fierce stares met in comprehension. Double smiles curved their features, one smooth and fair, the other bearded and weather-beaten, but the expressions were equal in purpose, burning with hatred and vengeance, twin ferocity and maniacal intent matching in the evil gleaming of their eyes.

Without ceremony, Boromir unbuckled his sword belt and tossed the weapon aside and then peeled off his brown gloves, discarding them as well, as Legolas slipped the bow and quiver from his shoulders and pitched them out of range, along with his elven blades. All the while, their gazes never broke, and now they took fighting stances, slowly turning about and practically growling their sense of victory as Boromir’s heavy steps tracked the mud in a stamping caper with his fists raised before him and Legolas leapt about, lithe as a cat in some mysterious ballet, his hands held flat but rigid; the two circled one another in a deadly dance.

Immediately, Boromir struck out, but the elf anticipated the attack and swiftly sidestepped the attempted blow, shifting to send Boromir face-first into the now oozing mud with a slight shove.

Outraged, Boromir lunged to his feet, trying to tackle the elf, but once more, Legolas merely evaded the warrior and laughed as Boromir twisted in mid-flight, landing on his backside with a squish. He sat there for a moment, eyeing the elf with severe distaste before slowly smiling, though it was more of a grimace, and nodding to acknowledge the hit. He took his time gaining his feet and assuming his stance once more.

The weaving gait began again and the fighters each threw a few punches, a few test blows, their target always evading them at the last moment.

Soon, the dance became more cadenced, as the partners learned the others’ rhythm and anticipated the others’ actions. They dared to get closer, their fists flying ever nearer the mark until Legolas managed a blow to his opponents’ chin. Boromir recovered quickly and took the elf’s small opening afforded by his small victory to land a hit on Legolas’ cheekbone, jarring the elf, who took several faltering steps backward. Boromir followed, aiming blow after blow to the elf: stomach, breastbone, back, kidney, jaw. And the elf’s defense became weaker and more pathetic, barely blocking the raging human, now confident in his victory, and could not manage an offense at all.

Still, Boromir and Legolas traded smirks and grimaces as well as blocks and blows amid blinding bursts of lightening, illuminating the battle in turns, bright flashes sending their shadows across the patch of muddy land, torn from their war.

Boromir’s grin turned especially feral as he advanced and landed a perfect blow to Legolas’ mouth. The elf’s head snapped back as a whip, red blood flaring out in an arc from his lower lip caught between his teeth as the fist met his body. Boromir’s eyes glimmered coldly and his smile grew. Legolas reeled from the attack, flying backward, but staying on his feet. Suddenly, he spun around, ending up behind his opponent and with a mighty two-handed blow to the man’s back, sent Boromir once more sprawling to the muddy ground, now soaked through with rain; there remained no traces of the dusty, arid land they had trod upon minutes before.

Legolas grinned through a bloody smile, but his small victory did not last as Boromir kicked out with his powerful legs, twining the elf’s about his own and felling the other body to the earth alongside him.

For a moment, the opponents scrambled for dominance, squirming almost futilely in the slippery mud. The substance had eagerly covered their boots and hands early on, but both warriors were soon caked with the stuff, squishing between their heated bodies and itching along their arms and backs. Legolas’ formerly pristine hair now wore black mud in its braids and the elf shook his head, throwing the substance away from where it had trickled into a delicately pointed ear, thusly encouraging his hair to twist into mats and tangles even more than the wind and rain had together.

Boromir was no better, half his face covered in the mud like a gruesome war paint, slowly washing off in the rain; his own shorter locks hung in wet rat-tails, the black earth adorning the knots thickly, and blood still trickling from his nose. As for the rest, his clothes were equally stained and wet with the earth, but neither took heed of the hindrance, focusing only on the battle at hand. Indeed, they carelessly let the storm rage about them, and all thoughts of rings or fellowships or dark lords was far buried; they knew only the will to fight, to overcome the other maddening force that twined about them and stifled their light.

Together, they rolled in the mud and growled meaninglessly, with the occasional profanity identifiable amongst the guttural grunts and howls. For a moment, Legolas managed to gain the upper hand, reversing their positions so that he lay above the man. He viciously grabbed Boromir’s head in two hands and banged it back on the ground. The audible squish-squash of the double blow was far from satisfying and the act only served to further annoy his combatant, who threw Legolas off him only to shove the elf further into the mud. Boromir straddled him and threw another punch to the elf’s apparently fragile and oh-so-fair features, once more hitting Legolas’ lip and aggravating the already flowing wound. The fresh surge of blood spurred the man on and Boromir clasped his large hands about the elf’s throat, choking the poor creature.

Legolas gasped for air, but found himself short and for the first time that day, perhaps in fear for his immortal life. Coming to a last resort, he managed to shift beneath his assaulter and bring his leg up to Boromir’s groin. The man’s armor blocked the blow, but it threw him off enough to lose his grip on Legolas’ neck, and the prince soon took the advantage, slithering out from his predicament to quickly gain his feet and launch himself at the man. Boromir took the blow in stride, allowing himself to be pushed. Legolas did not account for this weakness, and Boromir used their momentum to roll them all the way over so that he once more gained dominance over his companion.

Again, Boromir’s lips curved in a malicious smile, silently thanking his brother for those lessons in tussling. Once more, the man straddled the elf, this time using his weight and the strength of his powerful thighs and flanks to secure the elf’s sinewy legs beneath him. After a quick struggle, he had the elf’s arms pinned to either side and man and elf breathed heavily, taking in great gasps of air, even as the rain poured down, running off Boromir’s hulking form to drip remorselessly on the muddy elf. Lightening again flashed from the clouds, striking close by. Both heard the great clap and groan and fall of a nearby tree, but took no heed, not breaking the fierce gaze between them. The creaking and crash and final collapse of the tree broke the air with a scream, deafening any who heard; the skies again shrieked their white lightening, which flickered in eyes, dark hazel and earthy brown meeting with intense passion in the midst of the sudden and ferocious storm.

Legolas stared up at the man, but the fear was gone, and only his bright pride and content anger shone forth from dark eyes, despite the splatter of mud across his cheek and forehead as well as the blood still trickling from the wound on his lip. He was unaware of anything but the man atop him, breathing the breath of the impassioned and brutal, staring with small eyes suddenly deep with feeling and severe longing or loneliness; the elf wasn’t sure which, but in that moment he found Boromir uncommonly, exotically, breath-robbingly beautiful.

And Boromir could not catch his breath as his eyes bored into the elf that had been such a nuisance. Breathing just as hard as he, showing the same weaknesses, the same the errors overcome by all men, but still retaining the hard edge of elven kind that they would forever carry. Still, Boromir thought he saw something that he just might understand: a being, in the end, not so very different from him after all, but containing more splendor, more wonder, more magnificence than any single vessel should be able to hold.

Then, Legolas did something that would change the course of their lives forever. Without realizing he’d made any move at all, the fair elf parted his lips just the slightest bit, and flecked out the tip of his pink tongue to catch the blood that gathered on his lower lip, flushed from battle and bruised from fighting.

Legolas could not at all comprehend the sudden transformation in the man above him. Boromir went absolutely still, his breath caught, his eyes fixed, fixed on that splotch of red marring the beauty of the face beneath him. And the man of Gondor was overcome by an urge stronger than any he’d known in his short, hard life to take that blood away.

The elf saw the intention only just before the action and had no time to prepare for the sudden assault of a hot tongue winding its way along the crease of parted lips to lick at the blood pooling at the corner of his mouth. Suddenly, Boromir’s whole mouth was there, sucking on the wound and drawing the immortal blood into his own body, clearing away the red imperfection. The unexpected prick of citrus and cinnamon stung his taste buds with over-whelming fire.

Then, as if only just realizing what he had done, Boromir halted and withdrew several inches from Legolas’ surprised features. To say that the man felt “the familiar stirrings of arousal” would not only be an understatement, but an outright lie. The force of lust and sexual need overcame him in a tidal wave, sweeping across his entire body, enlivening every inch of him to sudden over-sensitivity and hot, broiling passion unlike any simple arousal he’d ever known. Beneath layers of clothes and armor, he stiffened unrelentingly and wherever his body met the elf’s, even through the clothes that separated them, he felt ten times more sensitized, his body feeding off that touch of hot flesh. But none of this equaled the intense eroticism of the soul-deep penetration of their eyes, never wavering, communicating needs no words could ever hope to con

Legolas saw this, the abrupt, over-whelming lust, the passion, the need, and he felt it reverberate through his own body with a sudden lurch in his belly, an uncomfortable coiling and tensing akin to a horde of snakes slithering about within his abdomen or perhaps more like a thousand tiny, fluttering songbirds beating their wings inexorably against his insides to burst free. This vibrating, earth-shattering rush flooded his entire body without warning, driving up to encompass his heart and increase it’s hammering three-fold to pound within him as though trying to work itself free through his ribs and flesh and skin, and then thrusting downward to his groin, sending blood pulsing hotly through his hard length, coursing a thick desire throughout his entire elvish body.

But Boromir remained unmoving above, a dark silhouette before the stormy clouds, not halting their deluge for an instant. And Legolas saw none of this, only those fearsome stony eyes boring through him with a spike of pure lust, and still, Boromir hovered motionless above him.

Legolas, too, remained frozen with indecision and the two stared unflinchingly at each other, blind to all else, deaf to the storm, knowing sensation only where their bodies met. Thus they remaiuntiuntil Legolas’ eyes tracked a drop of blood from Boromir’s bloodied nose as it wound its way down his cheek, into the corner of his mouth, pooling to spill over and along his bearded chin until it collected in a perfect, shimmering drop that hung precariously in the air for an endless moment until a fresh stream of rainwater washed into it, sending the red in a perfect drop to land on Legolas’ high cheek, barely missing his eye. The elf felt the trickle as the blood and water slowly rolled down toward his ear, but he paid it no mind, and as soon as it landed, Legolas arched up, as far as Boros hos hold on him allowed, reaching forth his cat-like tongue to trace the flow of blood along the rough stubble to the warrior’s mouth.

Legolas shivered and drew back, the hot tang of copper and iron spreading along his tongue. His mouth remained parted in disbelief and he watched as Boromir hesitantly moved, like to a dream image, slowly releasing the hold to bring up an only slightly muddied hand and use his strong thumb to wipe away the blood from Legolas’ flushed face, leaving behind a smear of black and red along the elf’s right cheekbone.

Suddenly, the grip of Boromir’s other hand on the elf’s left arm tightened without restraint and Legolas cried out in pain, quickly silenced as Boromir descended upon him. His hot lips claimed the elf’s and las las found himself responding with furious need. Their mouths mashed together hungrily, their teeth clinking violently, their tongues warring madly for dominance over the other. And as Boromir gave into his lust, he fell fully upon the elf, their bodies readily aligning.

Legolas took advan of of the sudden shift, and reversed their positions, throwing Boromir to the ground beside him and swiftly jumping atop him, attacking the man’s mouth with his own and then elf and man rocked their groins together, the friction steadily growing, but clothes and armor and all that paraphernalia were, at least, a hindrance, and at worst, a great obstacle. Battle-rough hands sought the elven ties of Legolas’ jerkin while smooth, white hands tore at the belts and the closings of Boromir’s pants.

Gauntlets, chain-mail, studded leather armor, belts, pouches, and other such items went flying, falling to lay untouched in the mud about the beings twining together in the black mud under the storm.

Boromir smoothly rolled them over, again claiming his position above the elf, who swiftly drew off the man’s robe-like tunic, leaving him only in breeches and gray shirt—and boots, as they were both loathe to remove them in the black mud, not that their thoughts long lingered on such practical thought—as their hands turned to rough claws, pawing to find pale skin flushed pink with fierce arousal and rough, sweaty curls springing from heated flesh. Rough hands fiercely wandered long stretches of muscled flesh, forceful and bruising as they clutched with lustful need and pinched with the sudden, uncaring desire to claim.

Boromir all but tore the elf’s fine, velour undershirt as he drew it over the elf’s body and head, off pale, muscled arms, stretching above the elf’s head in sinuous indolence and precise control. The clothing was thrown to the wind, and the heavy rains spattering the ground soon threw up the mud to land on Legolas’ white arms and chest in tiny spots of black.

The man ignored this impurity and dipped his head to, well, not so much ‘lick’ as *D-R-A-G* his wet tongue along the elf’s flesh from navel to sternum, not faltering as Legolas arched his body like his strong bow, a guttural groan forced from his bruised lips as his hands clawed the muddy earth and he heaved in great breaths of moist air to feed parched lungs.

Boromir deviated from his path to, at first, deftly caress a peaked nipple with his talented tongue before turning the touch to a brutal assault with lips and teeth, pulling and twisting until Legolas was constantly calling out his pleasure in confused, elvish words. rougrought up a mud-encrusted hand to tangle in Boromir’s sandy hair as the man turned to give equal treatment to the other raised bud of needing flesh.

Soon, these attentions over-whelmed the over-sensitized elf, and Legolas harshly jerked Boromir’s head away and up, to once more meet lips with lips, simultaneously shoving the man aside to lay atop him. Legolas raised himself to a sitting position and shrieked a victory howl as he ripped Boromir’s gray shirt asunder, silver buttons flying to lose themselves forever in the wet and worn earth. The elf barely allowed himself time to quickly swipe dirty hands across the thighs of his gray leggings before running skillful fingertips along the man’s belly and chest, leaving the faintest trail of earth along the tan, muscled skin.

Boromir’s whole body tightened at the tickling, tingling sensation from the patterns Legolas traced along his upper body. He opened fluttering eyes and drew up his head from where he’d thrown it back in pleasure to gaze hotly at the elf, now pulsing with life, a face fired with passion, talented hands, strong from centuries of wielding a bow, running possessively through the slight hair curling tightly at his chest and then carding it, almost painfully pulling before Boromir growled and rose, kicking out to entwine their long legs and swing the other about, taking his place above the elf.

Then, Boromir smirked, an evil expression tainted with crazed, obsessive desire. Legolas never knew how he managed it, for it seemed the man never moved from above him, but soon, his lower half was nearly naked as the upper, gray leggings somehow draw over black boots to rest far away, forgotten in the mud. He still wore the elfin underclothes, a natural weaving of cotton clinging with cruel, tight restriction to his ass and now incredibly rigid arousal. But Legolas only returned the leer, reaching down to release the man’s own hardness and take it in hand, tugging insistently, pulling a forced groan from the man who quickly pushed his lithe hands away, once more pinning them to the elf’s sides as he drew his tongue along Legolas’ muscled chest, seeming to derive a heavenly satisfaction from the taste of the sweat-sweetn.
n.

Legolas again shuddered at the erotic touch, his skin flaming wherever Boromir met it with his own, and he found himself doing something he could never recall doing in his entire existence of twenty-nine-hundred-something years. He was begging, pleading, screaming for release, for control, for anything other than this delicious torment. His words broke forth unconstrained, sometimes elvish words of supplication, others in common tongue curses and Boromir reveled in the elf’s state and soon his beard dragged downward, scratching along a sensitive white abdomen, leaving their mark in the form of faint red welts. The man gripped the cotton cloth of Legolas’ under-breeches between determined teeth, not wishing to relinquish his hold on the elf’s arms, and with a great tug, tore the material away, allowing Legolas’ considerable elf-hood to spring forth in wonton eagerness.

Legolas called out in pain and pleasure at the sudden release and writhed in the mud as Boromir took to masterful torture, pleasuring with lips, teeth, and tongue in little nips, bites, and licks along the elf’s straining cock, hard and colored nearly crimson in his impassioned desire.

Boromir reveled in the effects of his attentions, but his own need could not be ignored and he suddenly drew himself up to lie upon the elf. He clutched at Legolas’ shoulders and the elf grasped his hips and their eyes met in untempered passion as they drove madly against one another. Shouts and growls accompanied their brutal coupling, primal want and primitive anger overshadowing any affection or love that may have bound them.

It took every ounce of will within his troubled heart for Boromir to cease his actions and lift himself away from the elf, who voiced his displeasure in a keening wail that soared into the approaching night and drowned itself in the terrible storm, still unleashing its unprovoked fury upon the two wrestling in the mud.

With a firm grip on his slender hips, Boromir flipped the elf, who landed on hands and knees, his brown eyes suddenly wide as he realized the man’s intent. He growled and turned to his back once more, surprising Boromir, and turning the warrior to his stomach so that Legolas lay across his back, a mud-stained white hand running down to clutch at Boromir’s ass, but the indignity was not to be borne.

Boromir grunted as he bucked, sending the elf back into the mud. Legolas’ eyes darkened with anger, and the warriors snarled as they clashed together in a final battle for control, punching and grabbing and kicking and biting in their rage. They wrestled in vicious cruelty, each determined to overcome the other, but Legolas soon fell back, Boromir with one great hand squeezing his throat, certainly hard enough to bruise and forcing the elf to struggle for breath, but the grip was not life-threatening as before, and with his other hand, Boromir tightly encircled the elf’s still engorged organ. Gray-green eyes intent on dominion and confident with strength and anger glared unfalteringly into Legolas’ fearful brown ones, so wide with fright that white shone all round the dark irises.

There was no hint of play or smile in Boromir’s victory as he commanded in a hissing whisper, still heard above the howling wind and persistent rain, “You’re mine, elf.” No more need be said. The elf made no move, but Boromir saw the assent, the surrender in Legolas’ eyes, the fear and anger and vengeance gone from his countenance, now graced only with a lust and passion equal to Boromir’s own.

And this time, when Boromir roughly grabbed the elf and turned him onto hands and knees, Legolas mewled with desire and arched his back in a catlike stretch, thrusting his ass back toward the man, wild with passion, suddenly overwhelmed with the knowledge that Boromir would soon take him, claim, ow, own him and conquer him.

Boromir shuddered at the sight, Legolas ready and waiting before him, practically begging to be taken. Boromir laid his hands on the elf’s shoulders and slowly drew them down, relishing the feel of the smooth skin, quickly cleansed of the mud by the harsh rain crashing down upon them, until he reached the tight elf ass.

Boromir roughly shoved the elf’s thighs apart, and Legolas started, but bit back his howl of pain and surprise, the moan of dismay choking in his throat as he growled instead, determined not to show pain or fear or weakness, even after willfully submitting to the man’s passions.

Boromir ran a callused finger down the small of Legolas’ back and further, parting the curve of his ass until reaching his final goal, that tiny opening, furrowed and pulsing and Legolas’ breath heaved in eagerness and his head rolled on his shoulders and he panted and moaned until finally, Boromir got what he wanted. “Do it!” the elf demanded, no longer capable of bearing that void between anticipation and action, and Boromir thrust his thick finger into the elf.

Legolas cried out in pain, but bit back the hyperventilating sobs, pulling at his already torn lip with even, white teeth as Boromir probed and plundered his most sensitive, private area. All too quickly the digit was suddenly withdrawn, eliciting another pain-filled cry, but if these touching sounds moved the warrior, he heeded tnot not and shoved two fingers into the elf. Legolas lurched forward at the penetration; his eyes grown round determinedly squeezed shut even as he unconsciously clenched his whole body against the never-before known invader.

This time, Boromir stayed himself, taking time to massage Legolas from within and almost gently stretch and flex those inner walls, preparing for the ultimate claim on his elf. He eventually added a finger, twisting and spreading them within the elf’s body.

Legolas gritted his teeth and tried to encourage his body to accept the invaders, relaxing his muscles. Boromir felt far from comfortable within him, but Legolas’ arousal was persistent and soon enough a certain acceptance grew within him and he slowly, almost imperceptibly, began moving, pushing back and then forth against the fingers.

Boromir grinned and nodded to himself. Hthdrthdrew his hand from the elf’s opening, and then, slick only with the rain graced them from the heavens, placed his throbbing cock at the readied entrance.

Legolas stiffened with fright, and Boromir would not take him thusly, so the warrior gently moved his hand along Legolas’ back, soothing and caressing, before the hand slid around to the elf’s belly. Boromir took Legolas’ own hardness into his great hand and slowly pumped back and forth. The elf moved instinctively with the stimulation, his eyelids fluttering closed and his breathing harsher.

While the elf was so distracted, Boromir took himself in hand and quickly thrust the head of his cock into the elf. Even as he thrust further into the impossible hot tightness, Legolas roared in pain at the shocking invasion, never having known such violation. But though Boromir heard these screams, and though they pierced his very heart, he could not deny the need of his body, and so thrust until he was fully sheathed within Legolas’ incredible heat, the internal muscles squeezing sghtlghtly, they brought Boromir to the verge of orgasmic pleasure without any more stimulation.

Legolas bowed his head, and water dripped down his face, marred with blood and dirt, to land in the earth amid the rainwater pooling there, though the salt of the water betrayed their origin. In all his immortal years, Legolas could not recall such pain and remained motionless, tense, his arousal gone, but did nothing to still the incomparable feeling as Boromir’s growls and grunts sounded somewhere above and behind him.

Boromir frowned at the elf, after reaching around to feel for the cock that had been hard and dripping not moments before. The human gently pulled back until all but the crown remained within, and he tightly gripped the elf’s hips and oh-so-carefully did he angle his own before he once more T – H – R – U – S – T, as slowly as his body allowed.

Legolas suddenly let forth a piercing scream that echoed over the open ground and through the storm and rains as he reflexively mashed his hips back against Boromir, their bodies crushing together where they joined.

Fearful he’d hurt the elf beyond comprehension, Boromir went still, tilting his upper body and straining his neck, attempting in vain to find the elf’s face.

Legolas finally realized that Boromir had stopped. He raised his head, but did not turn as he slowly ordered, above the call of the wind, “Do. That. Again.”

A rumbling chuckle sailed out from Boromir’s wide, smiling mouth. A lustful light filled his eyes as he reached around to find Legolas’ renewed interest, throbbing impatiently. Certain he’d succeeded in his intent, Boromir again grasped those slender, white hips and then moved, drawing the other’s body toward him as he moved his own hips in contrary direction. Legolas could not hold back the moan that sprung forth as Boromir hit that enticing sweet spot he’d never known existed within his body, threading together Boromir’s pleasure with his own.

Together, they move rhy rhythmic, driving force, alike to their earlier struggles, but this one far more delightful. The wicked smiles that graced their handsome features soon twisted into grimaces of intense pleasure, their whole bodies tensing with the rolling waves of harsh bliss and gentle ecstasy.

The rhythmic driving force that bound them soon turned to one of frenzied, impassioned lunging; their once almost graceful movements became hurried, frantic thrusting. No more did thought control their bodies; they were dominated by the will to achieve that ultimate climax; they knew only the pleasurable ecstasy bordering on the depths of pain as their jack-hammering motion increased, as Boromir clutched with bruising strength, as Legolas’ whimpers turned to wordless shouts and he thrust forcefully back, fully impaling himself on Boromir’s thick shaft.

Their stamina in battle seemed to extend to bedtime encounters, and man and elf retained this wearisome, tumultuous, impassioned pace, coming together again and again, their shouts grown hoarse, their rhythm almost slower, their passion nearing its peak.

Legolas felt the blood rushing through his veins, pumping through his heart, racing to his very extremities and he could feel with intense clarity every motion Boromir made within him or against. T. That earlier coiling of arousal had overtaken his very being, flooding him with sensation and passion and suddenly it all broke, pouring over him in wave after wave of release, of pleasure, of pain. He crowed his relief to the storm, a howl of glory and victory as his entire body pulled in on itself and his seed spilled forth to the tormented earth.

Boromir felt that tightness squeeze impossibly tighter about him and using all his strength, all his power, he thrust himself into the elf, his own seed streaming into the hot body that had already found its own release, and Boromir called out his passion, the elf’s name screamed across the vast wasteland before them, finally overcoming the clouds and both man and elf fell together back to earth.

***

Aragorn sat fidgeting in front of the fire. Frodo frowned. That wasn’t right. Aragorn did NOT fidget.

“I’m sure they’re fine,” the hobbit attempted a reassurance, but Aragorn jumped at the words breaking the sudden silence, and when he finally registered their meaning, the Heir only shook his head and prodded the morning fire with a stick.

“Sure was some storm last night,” Sam offered as he put a small pot of water over the fire and began digging in his packs for a few salted goods from the Elves of Lothlorien.

Frodo nodded. “Yes, quite. I’m sure Boromir and Legolas simply found some shelter to wait it out, and decided not to try returning under cover of dark.”

“Besides, it’s not as if they’d really hurt each other,” chorused in, in, starling the others, who hadn’t realized the youngest hobbit was awake. Pippin only smiled sleepily at them all before he crawled from his bedroll, scratched at himself thoughtfully, and then wondered off into the thick of the trees.

Merry also popped his curly head out from the covers and at the sight of breakfast, smiled and hopped out of bed, for nothing short of food could persuade him from his bed so early.

Gimli snored on lightly at the edge of camp, though Frodo was sure to wake him before his cousins devoured the whole of the first meal.

***

Boromir stared thoughtfully at the sky, pinks and purples coloring the east as the sun rose that morning, and pondered on the strange occurrence the previous night. He had many an internal battle, but in the end could only come to one conclusion. He’d enjoyed it. Besides the best sex of his life, he’d thrilled at the entire experience, never having known anything like it. Though he worried, that somewhere deep within, his heart had taken an uncommon interest in the elf that had formerly been nothing but an annoyance. Although now that he looked back, he saw all that arguing for what it had truly been, and knew that it could only have ended as it did.

Or was it a beginning?

Boromir shrugged, waking the elf—nude but for his black leather boots—that lay half-sprawled across his own bare chest, both of them caked in mud and sweat. And semen.

Legolas’ eyes drifted open. He, too, gazed toward the rising sun and for long moments, neither spoke. Finally, Legolas sighed and voiced his thoughts. “Morning.”

“Morning.”

“Um… Boromir?”

“…Yes?”

“I…we…last night was…”

“It was.”

“I was wondering…”

“Yes?”

“Well… what…?”

But Legolas could not finish and so, sighed out a disturbed breath, the heated air whispering across Boromir’s exposed chest.

Boromir sighed before turning his eyes to the elf, who appeared starkly vulnerable and suddenly shy, almost frightened in the morning light. The man smiled to himself before lifting a hand to Legolas’ chin. He tipped the head upward and covered the elf’s bruised lips with his own. Their tongues gracefully entwined for many happy minutes before Boromir withdrew.

“Oh…” said Legolas. With nothing more said or done, Legolas once more bowed his slender neck to fit his head at the junction of neck and shoulder, a perfect pillow in the man’s body for him. And he snuggled ever nearer, his hand tightening on Boromir’s as they had gripped each other throughout the cold night.

Together they watched the sunrise in silence until the air was split by a sudden rumbling chuckle.

“What?” asked Legolas, curious.

Boromir smiled down at him. “I never expected elves to purr.”

***

The sun had risen in the deep blue sky and had reached the tops of the furthest trees when camp was packed up and the six companions were ready to head out, but still they’d no sign of the two gone missing. Aragorn had found no tracks in the leaf-covered forest after the brief storm the previous night, and despite searching the nearby area, neither hide nor hair could be seen of them.

Gimli sharpened his axe and Sam rechecked his bags, while Aragorn fidgeted nervously, perched precariously on a nearby stone, and Frodo listened gaily as Pippin and Merry recalled one of their many exploits from back home.

They waited for some time, attempting to entertain themselves, when the morning’s natural silence was broken by mirthful laughter echoing through the trees. The company recognized the sound of their missing companions, but shared glances of wonderment that those two should find such amusement together. Their confusion did not nearly match the ultimate mystification they felt, however, upon sight of the warriors.

The pair strode happily through the brush, arms about one another’s waists, laughing and talking in conspiratorial whispers. Their clothes were torn and muddied, as was their skin. Their hair was not fit to be seen, matted and caked with mud and dry dirt. Though the worst was certainly the marks they bore: bruises, scratches… and… were those bites…? …decorated every inch of their bodies. Legolas sported a split lip, and Boromir, a black eye.

And for some reason, Legolas had considerable difficulty walking. The two smiled and greeted their companions, who stood and stared in shock. All but Aragorn, who fell off his perch to land with a thud on the dusty ground. He looked up and hissed, “What is this?”

Legolas did not smile as he replied, “A civil manner.”

“Prince-like behavior,” Boromir added, also maintaining a straight face.

Without any ado, the two shouldered their packs beside their weapons and set off toward the river.

Gimli and Sam shrugged their shoulders at one another and wordlessly followed, content to finally begin the journey anew. Pippin and Merry clasped hands, running through the forest, Pippin’s question ringing out, “Boromir!at hat happened to your buttons?”

Frodo stayed beside Aragorn, who eventually raised stone-gray eyes to meet the hobbit’s. “What…what was that…?” he voiced haltingly, his eye twitching uncontrollably. “Tell me I didn’t see that…”

Frodo’s wistful gaze followed the rest of the fellowship a moment before he turned to the man. “You didn’t see that,” he replied obediently before skipping off after the rest.

Aragorn sat, cold and alone on the forest floor, staring in wonderment about the deserted camp. “I didn’t see that…”

The end.