Blasted Elves!

Disclaimer: Not mine, Tolkien's. Written for fun, not money.
A/N: Not beta read. Canon whores might want to stay away. What I don't know about the elves could fill a book (the Silmarillion to be exact)


Before arriving in Imaldris, Boromir of Gondor had never seen an elf. Now, after nearly a month among the glorious Firstborns he wished he would never set eyes on an elf ever again.

Why had he been his usual stubborn self and had insisted upon being the one to seek the answer to the riddle that had plagued both him and his brother? Faramir would be in his stead now, probably joining in all the singing, the clever plays on words, the casual discussion of events that had transpired several millennia ago. At least, unlike Boromir, he would remember from his history lessons what those smooth-cheeked, long-haired, deceptively frail looking warriors were talking about. Although Boromir had quite enjoyed learning about wars, the bloodier the better, he was not blessed with Faramir’s excellent memory and had now found himself quite incapable oftribtributing to the conversation around him in any way.

The warrior surveyed the Hall and gave out a sigh. The halflings had retired. They would always retire after helping clear the food and drink from the table. No halflings meant that everyone on the table would slip into elvish. Boromir’s knowledge of the language had never gotten beyond “Good morning”, “Good night” and, interestingly “To who belongs this horse?” Mithrandir had despaired with him after a while and had concentrated fully on young Faramir’s education. Which brought Boromir’s thoughts full circle. Faramir should be in Imaldris instead of him.

He emptied his goblet and refilled it with wine for what must have been the tenth time that night. He got up abruptly and was forced to fall back on his chair. He had underestimated the mild-seeming, elven wine or perhaps he ought not have drunk so much on a nearly empty stomach. He had been unable to identify most of the food at the table and loathed to ask.

His attempt at getting up had not gone unnoticed as he’d hoped. He felt a hand on his shoulder.

“You are leaving us, Boromir?”

The warrior turned to look at the owner of the voice, his eyes unfocusing at the other male’s proximity.

Elrond Half-Elven stared hard at the man, who had turned a rather charming shade of pink under his scrutiny. In the course of the banquet the elf’s attention had been drawn by the Gondorian. His Southern guest had appeared the picture of misery whenever he’d obviously thought himself unobserved. To his credit, the man would fix an amiable expression on his face whenever his gaze would meet Elrond’s.

“I should retire, yes,” Boromir said, the tiniest hint of a slur in his tone. “I suspect us mere mortals need more sleep than you do.”

Elrond gazed around the Hall. It had seen far better days, much grander feasts, yet it still seemed to overwhelm the Godnorian. It had been long since Elrond had last walked among men but from what he remembered, those who could afford it, and Boromir certainly was no pauper, enjoyed their short life to the hilt, indulging in debauchery unheard of in the realm of the elves. He said as much to Boromir who looked up to him in surprise.

“In Gondor we have very few reasons to celebrate,” he said gruffly, his tone laced with bitterness.

Elrond wanted to avoid the jade gaze but refused to give in to the ridiculous impulse. He had no reason to accept the man’s unvoiced accusation.

“Let me walk you to your rooms,” the elf said, taking Boromir’s arm.

Boromir backed away from the touch.

“There is no need,” he murmured, then promptly stumbled at the foot of the table. He held onto the arm he had just rejected and just barely managed to avoid meeting the floor.

“No more objections, Boromir,” Elrond admonished the man gently and held tighter on him.

“You could call for a servant,” Boromir murmured. “I don’t see why you have to leave your own feast…”

Elrond dragged Boromir outside heedless of the tall man’s half-hearted protests. He did however let go of the man’s arm. Boromir nearly toppled forward when that happened. He reached to the wall and a particularly inventive curse informed the elf that instead of touching the even stone to keep himself upright, the poor man had somehow managed to hold on to one of the torches which were lighting the winding hallway.

Boromir was standing still, pressing his burned hand against his chest. Elrond took his arm again, discreetly directing him to his room. Boromir accepted the elf’s steadying hold with a gruff exclamation that might have been meant to thank Elrond.

The elf was surprised to find himself quite enjoying the man’s closeness. Boromir’s body was warm, radiating heat even through the warrior’s heavy clothes. Men need to cover their bodies with so much clothing! Elrond remembered a certain pleasure associated witat vat very fact. Removing layer after layer of clothing to reach lightly furred skin, sometimes scarred or otherwise marked… Keeping his touch light for they bruised so easily… It had been entirely too long. His body echoed the sentiment with a pleasant tingle which quickly gathered in his belly. He was not easily aroused. In fact he found the act of mating somewhat distasteful, a feeling shared by many elves that had lived as long as he had. Yet the thought of being with a man again appealed to him, that he could not deny.

Elrond walked rather stiffly, very much aware of the fact that the bulge in his breeches was only getting bigger as the soft cloth rubbed against it with his movement. He looked at the man carefully. Was he likely to accept his advances? Was he in a position to consent to them? Or would the proud elf be forced toieveieve his tension with his hand after depositing the drunk man to his room? It was most embarrassing.

Before Elrond had decided on a course of action regarding his strange attraction to the Gondorian, they had already reached the rooms allotted to the man. Boromir fumbled with the door handle mumbling something about “blasted elves” and “ornaments everywhere”. Elrond would defend his chosen race under normal circumstances but those were most certainly not normal circumstances.

He covered Boromir’s hand with his own and helped him open the door. There was bewilderment in the man’s eyes when they met his and he was quick to take his hand from under Elrond’s.

Boromir could not understand why the feeling of the elf’s soft hand on top of his should upset him so much. If there was something that he had noticed about Elrond it was that the elf, although by no means unattractive, did not quite posses the overwhelming fairness of others of his race. It had been difficult for the man to tell apart male from female elf from the moment he had arrived at Imaldris. He would admire silky-looking hair, regular features, soulful eyes, long, graceful necks to be met by flat chests and lean, just barely masculine figures. Aesthetically, the sight pleased him. He admired them the way he would admire a wild flower. Not enough to write a poem, like Faramir would, but enough to sit and notice. The matter of ascertaining their sex could be solved easily enough but it still left the matter of what Boromir wanted. And, if he was to be honest with himself, it was not a female of any kind.

Boromir stumbled on several pieces of furniture on his way to the bed. He reached back to keep the door open. The light from the hallway was faint but it was better than total darkness.

“I apologise,” Elrond said as he was quickly lighting a lamp. “I forgot that you cannot see in the dark.” Once the lamp was lit he reached and shut the door.

“I believe you can leave me now”.

Elrond looked back and he was obviously at the wrong end of the shut door if any consideration was to be given to propriety.

Boromir chuckled softly. It was dark but he could read embarrassment in the elf’s features. It was an interesting development that had a certain appeal to him. He kept his escapades out of the public light back in Minas Tirith. Laying with soldiers was not uncommon in the battlefield but frowned upon in different situations. He was quite certain that his father remained blissfully ignorant as he continued searching the land to find the perfect bride for his firstborn. Quite a few of the rejected beauties had found comfort in Faramir’s arms but Denethor did not seem willing to marry off his younger son until Boromir had finally chosen a wife. Faramir, aware of the real reasons behind his brother’s reluctance to comply with their father’s wishes, often said in jest that he would die a bachelor.

Again that thought. If Faramir were here… If Faramir were here would he not find a graceful way of refusing his host’s attentions? Though given his brother’s curious nature he would perhaps succumb only for a chance to know more about the Elves. In that case would it not be nice of Boromir to gather as much knowledge as he could in the matter?

Having justified his surrender Boromir decided to hasten it. He bent forward a little, purposefully losing his balance and stumbled a few steps back, dragging a startled Elrond with him. They both landed on the bed. The unmistakable hardness pressagaiagainst Boromir’s middle reassured him that he had not misread the elf’s intentions. Elrond was surprisingly heavy, despite his slender build. Boromir’s breath was knocked out and he did not get a chance to recover it as the elf’s lips captured his own.

Boromir tried to pull back but the Firstborn was persistent, kissing as much with his sharp teeth as with his tongue, until the taste of blood mingled with alcohol in the man’s mouth, intoxicating him even further. He took a deep breath when Elrond finally let him. Sometime during his sweet suffocation blood had rushed to his groin and now he too was stabbing Elrond’s stomach.

“Have you been with one of us before?” Elrond’s voice was hoarse with desire.

Both your sons, thought Boromir. It took me a while to realise there were two of them, I thought that with my luck I’d fallen on the most insatiable elf in existence. He shook his head. The thought of being his first seemed to please Elrond not to mention that there are some things a father need never know about his children be he man or elf.

Elrond leaned for another kiss, rubbing his arousal against the man’s taut stomach. He had found the Gondorian unexpectedly receptive and intended to take advantage of the situation fully. He quickly untied the man’s tunic then moved lower to his breeches. Boromir aided him, raising his body under him, purposefully pressing his arousal against his own. Elrond wondered whether it was only the man’s obvious drunkenness at work. He seemed content to be undressed, not making any move to even the situation. Not that Elrond had reason to complain. He doubted that the man’s clumsy fingers would succeed in unfastening the intricate elven garments were he even sober.

All thoughts of his clothes left his mind as he was finally able to look at the creature under him. Downy skin, toverover bulging muscle, adorned with pale lines, speaking of past battles. Carrying his history with him, his short-lived glory. They were not repulsive, quite the contrary. One, low on the man’s stomach, in particular, about as long as Elrond’s index finger, caught his gaze and held it. He reached to trace it with his thumb, feeling the skin contract under his touch. The man gave out a moan. Elrond decided that further exploration was in order and replaced his finger with his tongue.

The man squirmed under him and gave out a low chuckle. Elrond looked up to him.

“No, don’t stop… please…” the man arched shamelessly, his hot arousal pressing against Elrond.

Lust shot through the elf, an urgency he couldn’t ignore nor control. He caught the blood heavy erection in his mouth and pushed down until he had fully sheathed it in his throat. He swallowed hard. Boromir gave out a keening cry, his fists tightening in Elrond’s hair.

Boromir had to admire the elf’s skill. Wet and tight around him, moving up and down on his length with a rhythm that exhibited a remarkable ability to go without air. Elrond had put aside his own pleasure, it appeared, intending to have Boromir fully at his mercy.

The man looked down. The silky black hair was hardly ruffled as the elven lord suckled with fervour, his noble features strained with the effort. Boromir buried his hands in the dark strands, stroking and guiding.

It took more willpower than Boromir knew himself to possess not to hold onto the soft hair and force Elrond to continue as the Firstborn pulled up. The man’s whine of protest became a moan as Elrond quickly ran his tongue down the underside of his erection, making the stiff flesh jump and leak. Boromir had to stifle a laugh as he looked at himself, the rest of his body had sunk boneless on the soft bed but his little warrior was standing proud, giving him an angry one-eyed stare.

“Finish what you started,” Boromir grumbled.

Elrond had straightened and was quickly undressing, staring down at the man. “Patience,” he said quietly.

“I’m not immortal, you know.” The man’s hand went to his wet erection. Elrond’s iron grip stopped it.

The elf brought the large hand to his lips. “I said patience. I will tend to you.”

Boromir huffed impatiently but said no more.

No more until he looked at Elrond naked before him, that was. Flawless white skin covering lean muscle… He was as beautiful as his sons… perhaps more. For while they had sought to impress Boromir with slow, seductive movements and softly whispered words… while they had been staring at each other, touching over him, kissing over him in an erotic display meant to arouse him - as if he had needed assistance - Elrond had undressed swiftly, staring at Boromir all the while, with a hunger that almost scared the man. A murmur of appreciation left Boromir’s lips. It became a gasp of surprise as the elf fell on top of him again, his lean erection digging into Boromir’s thigh as Boromir’s own pressed against the elf’s flat stomach.

Elrond made his intentions perfectly clear by harshly pushing back Boromir’s legs, exposing the man’s entrance. Boromir mumbled a protest yet simply let his knees rest on Elrond’s shoulders. The elf seemed surprised to have found him so compliant. Boromir could feel the head of the lean, leaking erection against him. He looked up in alarm, thinking the elf would simply breach him without any preparation. There was fire in Elrond’s eyes. He rubbed against the puckered hole slowly, not seeking entrance. He just made circular movements, making Boromir press back to him, working his muscles to take him in.

Boromir made a strangled sound as a finger was pushed into his mouth. He suckled obediently, staring into the elf’s glazed eyes.

Such a warm mouth, such warmth there, between Boromir’s spread legs and Elrond could not help pushing inside, ever so slightly. He leaned to kiss Boromir’s mouth his tongue and Boromir’s skirting around his fingers. He gently removed them, wet and warm and pressed on the dusky opening. Boromir pushed down, impaling himself on the elf’s fingers.

Elrond had to wonder who had broken in the proud Gondorian. He was not passive, far from it, wild and demanding under him, urging him to get on with it, no more fingers, he was ready.

Warm and tight, he was indeed ready, as Elrond discovered finding himself suddenly buried in to the hilt. He moved slowly, in part afraid of hurting the man but mostly afraid of embarrassing himself by releasing just as he had entered him. Boromir would have none of it, in equal measure begging and cursing him to go faster. The long deep strokes inevitably became short hard jabs then nothing but white light as Elrond shoved inside one last time and simply let himself go. Boromir had himself in hand and was stroking his length, following Elrond’s frantic rhythm.

Boromir under him complained that he could not feel his legs. Elrond pulled back slowly cringing upon realising that Boromir’s release had temporarily stuck them together.

The man laughed at him then cursed loudly, rubbing his legs, apparently trying to get the blood flow back.

“Will that be all?”

The man sounded morose, as though he had regretted his surrender. Elrond nodded.

“Fine then. Either settle down or leave,” Boromir said gruffly. “I want to get some sleep.”

With a sigh of relief, Elrond draped himself on the warm body and was asleep within seconds.

Boromir was not as fortunate. He had heard about how the elves sleep with their eyes open but the reality of it was simply too gruesome. Whenever he closed his eyes he would feel Elrond’s unseeing gaze and wake up with a start. He silently promised himself to never sleep with an elf again. Not in the literal sense of the words, at least.