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Dec. 31st, 2003 08:54 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
claudia603Written with ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
azhriaz Round Robin style... HEED THE WARNINGS. This is dark and hurt/no comfort (not my usual fare) and kink!fic and some of you sensitive folk on my list won't want to get anywhere near this!!
Title: Splinter
Authors: Azrhiaz and Claudia
Rating: NC17
Pairing: Frodo/Boromir
Warning: Non-consensual sex. Blood. Hurt no comfort. You know if you want to read it, you know if it squicks you.
Disclaimer (written by Az): These characters are the creation of J.R.R. Tolkien and are copyrighted to his estate. No money is being made from this and no disrespect is intended.
Az’s notes on the story: Shameless kink porn. Yup, that about covers it. Well, except for the heaping helping of angst at the end. Sunshine and puppies! Except…not.
Boromir took in several deep breaths, clutching the arched doorway to Frodo’s chamber until his knuckles paled. The halfling was intent on his task yet again, his slender hand sliding up and down his slick arousal. Not that Boromir had touched it—he had no way of knowing the actual texture. He only saw how fast and effortless that hand moved with no sound other than the gentle grunts which Boromir knew from experience would soon turn to brazen moans.
The light from the Elven braziers cast an unearthly sheen over Frodo’s skin, already finer than any Boromir had thought could exist. He wanted to tear his eyes away—wished that he had not been so weak as to wander by Frodo’s chamber at this time of evening, yet again. Ever since he had first caught sight of the halfling, his stay in Rivendell had been anything but peaceful.
Especially after the first night he’d heard the soft moans coming from behind the gauzy arras, and had looked on this scene for the first time.
Boromir turned to slip away, prepared to return to his own chamber and relieve his own need, but his toe snagged against the bottom of the doorway. The muffled thump was enough to tear Frodo’s eyes open. Breath held, Boromir watched as the halfling’s hand froze and he looked around the room with wary vigilance.
Boromir’s heart thudded; he was certain he was safe in the shadows. Then, for just a moment, those luminous eyes met his own, and he felt a sinking in his stomach and the single thought-- What will this mean later?-- fluttered through him. Boromir’s dismay faded as Frodo’s eyes turned away, toward the ceiling again, and the hand began to move once again with a slow caressing.
He knows I watch, Boromir thought in amazement, and that sent another pulse of blood to his already engorged cock. He shifted, the sight of Frodo’s hand wrapped around his own member—surprisingly large—utterly maddening.
His cheeks heated and he realized he was aware of naught else but Frodo’s loud groans and the sight of that hand. His skin tingled as he imagined those softly parted lips closing over his hardness.
Frodo knew. He wanted Boromir to rip off his shirt and conquer him—to jam his unbearably hard cock inside him until the itch was satisfied while the halfling begged for more.
This was too much to be borne.
Just then Frodo’s mouth curled up in a languid, knowing smile as he spread his legs a little wider, affording Boromir a better view.
He thinks to tease me, Boromir thought, the realization coming like an unpleasant dash of icy water in his face. The looks—the brushes, always a few seconds overlong—of the past days clicked into place. “You shall not,” Boromir muttered under his breath seconds before he pulled the gauze back so forcefully it gave beneath his grip, ephemeral as spider-silk.
Startled blue eyes locked with his once more, but Frodo did not have time to protest before Boromir had crossed the chamber in three deliberate strides. Another movement, swift as the hawk diving upon the mouse, and Frodo’s hands were yanked away from their task and pinned roughly above his head.
“Enjoying yourself, little hobbit?” Boromir growled, a small measure of dark satisfaction curling down his spine at the look of fear now in Frodo’s eyes.
“Boromir…” Frodo whispered. His jaw trembled, and Boromir’s arousal was on fire, pressed too tightly into his leggings. Boromir swooped down and nipped at Frodo’s neck. He looked up and smiled when he heard Frodo’s breathing coming in harsh gasps.
“What did you imagine you were doing? Did you think I would stand aside and be silently tortured?”
“What…what…” Frodo’s lips had paled. “What are you doing?”
Boromir cut off his question with a sloppy, rough kiss on Frodo’s mouth. The more Frodo struggled to pull his mouth away, the more weight Boromir put on him. The hobbit struggled, flailing limbs bumping against Boromir’s hardness, sending delicious shivers through him.
These lips are too lush. If he dares to tease, they shall be put to good use.
A ripping pain in his own lip tore Boromir back to reality and he pulled back in fury, meeting blue eyes dark with triumph. The hobbit had bitten him—had drawn blood.
“You will regret that,” Boromir hissed, licking away the metallic welling. A thin veil of red seemed to be descending over his eyes, dull anger mixed with something else that swelled and pulsed into every corner of his brain, leaving no room for thought or honor. He transferred Frodo’s wrists to one hand and undid his own breeches with the other. Frodo whimpered, his eyes growing impossibly larger as he looked down between their bodies to see the thick length of Boromir’s cock, swollen and red.
“You…you can’t, Boromir, it won’t—“
“It will,” Boromir cut him off. “I find a little wetness works very well.” He licked the palm of his free hand, delighting in drawing out the motion with languorous swipes of his tongue, each pass eliciting another tiny noise from Frodo. With a deft motion Boromir transferred the slick damp to his straining hardness, not lingering there, but grasping Frodo’s wrists once more in his full grip.
Something seemed to click in Frodo then. He seemed to realize that this was indeed serious.
“No!” He flung himself from side to side, kicking frantically, though his feet did not hit their target. Frodo drew in a deep breath, but before he could cry out, Boromir clamped one hand over his mouth. “Keep quiet.”
Frodo moaned, and his wide eyes grew damp. Boromir’s lip throbbed, and the fury filled his chest again that this little imp from the rustic Shire dared to tease Boromir, son of Denethor, and then pull back. He angered further as he remembered the triumph on Frodo’s face after he had bitten him.
Straddling Frodo fully now he rose up just enough to position his cock. When it touched Frodo, it sent a new panic into the hobbit. Frodo cried out, his voice muffled by Boromir’s hand, and bucked against his unyielding chest.
“You’ll get what you wished for now, halfling,” Boromir said, his scorn heavy on the last word.
Boromir pushed forward blindly, unwilling to release his hold on either Frodo’s wrist or his mouth. He bumped and slipped, cursing; Frodo was thoroughly pinned, but was still managing to shift his hips back and forth a little in a futile attempt to avoid the inevitable. Boromir tightened his grip on Frodo’s wrist, felt the fine bones grind together, and Frodo suddenly stilled with a muffled cry of pain.
Another push and Boromir felt yielding softness, knew he was aligned properly, and thrust at once, hard, sheathing himself to the hilt in painfully tight heat.
The scream that leaked out around Boromir’s clamped fingers richocheted off the white-hot sparks that were igniting behind his eyelids, and he dropped his head to bite at Frodo’s shoulder as he pulled back and drove forward again.
So hot. So small. Helpless. For all that the hobbit was surprisingly strong, he was no match for a man. Boromir was possessed by a strange primal urge to completely crush Frodo, and he gave himself up to that urge, pounding into Frodo mercilessly.
It came too quickly—the fire in his groin at last burst, sending sprinkles of black dots before his eyes. He thrust hard into Frodo several more times, reluctant for it to end. So caught up was he in glorious sensation that he could barely feel just how hard he was thrusting. Frodo had gone utterly limp, the fight gone.
Still holding the hobbit’s wrists and mouth, Boromir collapsed on Frodo, a limp weight, and only the give of the mattress prevented Frodo from being thoroughly crushed under his weight.
When he felt he had the strength again, he slowly climbed off Frodo. He released Frodo’s mouth first—slowly—watching carefully to see if Frodo would dare cry out now. The hobbit’s eyes were glazed and far away. His wrists would bruise later, of course, but the halfling would hide it from the others. He would say nothing—this much Boromir was sure of.
Boromir put his breeches back on, lacing them again, keeping his eyes on the hobbit. Frodo still did not move, and if Boromir did not see the hobbit’s chest moving up and down, he might wonder if he were dead, so vacant was his gaze.
“Roll over,” Boromir said shortly, and Frodo obeyed immediately, allowing Boromir to strip the bloodied sheet from beneath him. As he walked out of the room, he glanced back one last time. Frodo had curled into a tight, shuddering ball.
Now that the madness of commingled lust and anger had left him, Boromir felt a sharp stab of guilt like a dagger in his chest. He knew he had hurt Frodo—the red-spattered cloth in his hands was damning evidence of that. He would burn it later.
Boromir turned his eyes away and began to walk quickly back towards his own chamber, the sheet bundled up tightly and tucked beneath his arm. One last little sound reached his ears, so soft that in another circumstance he might have doubted that he heard it at all.
A half-smothered sob, utterly broken—the sound of a bird fallen from the nest, onto cold, unyielding ground. The knife of guilt twisted, but Boromir kept walking.
He would burn the sheet, but he knew he would never be able to consign that sound to the flames. It would lodge under his skin like a broken bit of wood.
Festering.
End.
azhriaz Round Robin style... HEED THE WARNINGS. This is dark and hurt/no comfort (not my usual fare) and kink!fic and some of you sensitive folk on my list won't want to get anywhere near this!!Title: Splinter
Authors: Azrhiaz and Claudia
Rating: NC17
Pairing: Frodo/Boromir
Warning: Non-consensual sex. Blood. Hurt no comfort. You know if you want to read it, you know if it squicks you.
Disclaimer (written by Az): These characters are the creation of J.R.R. Tolkien and are copyrighted to his estate. No money is being made from this and no disrespect is intended.
Az’s notes on the story: Shameless kink porn. Yup, that about covers it. Well, except for the heaping helping of angst at the end. Sunshine and puppies! Except…not.
Boromir took in several deep breaths, clutching the arched doorway to Frodo’s chamber until his knuckles paled. The halfling was intent on his task yet again, his slender hand sliding up and down his slick arousal. Not that Boromir had touched it—he had no way of knowing the actual texture. He only saw how fast and effortless that hand moved with no sound other than the gentle grunts which Boromir knew from experience would soon turn to brazen moans.
The light from the Elven braziers cast an unearthly sheen over Frodo’s skin, already finer than any Boromir had thought could exist. He wanted to tear his eyes away—wished that he had not been so weak as to wander by Frodo’s chamber at this time of evening, yet again. Ever since he had first caught sight of the halfling, his stay in Rivendell had been anything but peaceful.
Especially after the first night he’d heard the soft moans coming from behind the gauzy arras, and had looked on this scene for the first time.
Boromir turned to slip away, prepared to return to his own chamber and relieve his own need, but his toe snagged against the bottom of the doorway. The muffled thump was enough to tear Frodo’s eyes open. Breath held, Boromir watched as the halfling’s hand froze and he looked around the room with wary vigilance.
Boromir’s heart thudded; he was certain he was safe in the shadows. Then, for just a moment, those luminous eyes met his own, and he felt a sinking in his stomach and the single thought-- What will this mean later?-- fluttered through him. Boromir’s dismay faded as Frodo’s eyes turned away, toward the ceiling again, and the hand began to move once again with a slow caressing.
He knows I watch, Boromir thought in amazement, and that sent another pulse of blood to his already engorged cock. He shifted, the sight of Frodo’s hand wrapped around his own member—surprisingly large—utterly maddening.
His cheeks heated and he realized he was aware of naught else but Frodo’s loud groans and the sight of that hand. His skin tingled as he imagined those softly parted lips closing over his hardness.
Frodo knew. He wanted Boromir to rip off his shirt and conquer him—to jam his unbearably hard cock inside him until the itch was satisfied while the halfling begged for more.
This was too much to be borne.
Just then Frodo’s mouth curled up in a languid, knowing smile as he spread his legs a little wider, affording Boromir a better view.
He thinks to tease me, Boromir thought, the realization coming like an unpleasant dash of icy water in his face. The looks—the brushes, always a few seconds overlong—of the past days clicked into place. “You shall not,” Boromir muttered under his breath seconds before he pulled the gauze back so forcefully it gave beneath his grip, ephemeral as spider-silk.
Startled blue eyes locked with his once more, but Frodo did not have time to protest before Boromir had crossed the chamber in three deliberate strides. Another movement, swift as the hawk diving upon the mouse, and Frodo’s hands were yanked away from their task and pinned roughly above his head.
“Enjoying yourself, little hobbit?” Boromir growled, a small measure of dark satisfaction curling down his spine at the look of fear now in Frodo’s eyes.
“Boromir…” Frodo whispered. His jaw trembled, and Boromir’s arousal was on fire, pressed too tightly into his leggings. Boromir swooped down and nipped at Frodo’s neck. He looked up and smiled when he heard Frodo’s breathing coming in harsh gasps.
“What did you imagine you were doing? Did you think I would stand aside and be silently tortured?”
“What…what…” Frodo’s lips had paled. “What are you doing?”
Boromir cut off his question with a sloppy, rough kiss on Frodo’s mouth. The more Frodo struggled to pull his mouth away, the more weight Boromir put on him. The hobbit struggled, flailing limbs bumping against Boromir’s hardness, sending delicious shivers through him.
These lips are too lush. If he dares to tease, they shall be put to good use.
A ripping pain in his own lip tore Boromir back to reality and he pulled back in fury, meeting blue eyes dark with triumph. The hobbit had bitten him—had drawn blood.
“You will regret that,” Boromir hissed, licking away the metallic welling. A thin veil of red seemed to be descending over his eyes, dull anger mixed with something else that swelled and pulsed into every corner of his brain, leaving no room for thought or honor. He transferred Frodo’s wrists to one hand and undid his own breeches with the other. Frodo whimpered, his eyes growing impossibly larger as he looked down between their bodies to see the thick length of Boromir’s cock, swollen and red.
“You…you can’t, Boromir, it won’t—“
“It will,” Boromir cut him off. “I find a little wetness works very well.” He licked the palm of his free hand, delighting in drawing out the motion with languorous swipes of his tongue, each pass eliciting another tiny noise from Frodo. With a deft motion Boromir transferred the slick damp to his straining hardness, not lingering there, but grasping Frodo’s wrists once more in his full grip.
Something seemed to click in Frodo then. He seemed to realize that this was indeed serious.
“No!” He flung himself from side to side, kicking frantically, though his feet did not hit their target. Frodo drew in a deep breath, but before he could cry out, Boromir clamped one hand over his mouth. “Keep quiet.”
Frodo moaned, and his wide eyes grew damp. Boromir’s lip throbbed, and the fury filled his chest again that this little imp from the rustic Shire dared to tease Boromir, son of Denethor, and then pull back. He angered further as he remembered the triumph on Frodo’s face after he had bitten him.
Straddling Frodo fully now he rose up just enough to position his cock. When it touched Frodo, it sent a new panic into the hobbit. Frodo cried out, his voice muffled by Boromir’s hand, and bucked against his unyielding chest.
“You’ll get what you wished for now, halfling,” Boromir said, his scorn heavy on the last word.
Boromir pushed forward blindly, unwilling to release his hold on either Frodo’s wrist or his mouth. He bumped and slipped, cursing; Frodo was thoroughly pinned, but was still managing to shift his hips back and forth a little in a futile attempt to avoid the inevitable. Boromir tightened his grip on Frodo’s wrist, felt the fine bones grind together, and Frodo suddenly stilled with a muffled cry of pain.
Another push and Boromir felt yielding softness, knew he was aligned properly, and thrust at once, hard, sheathing himself to the hilt in painfully tight heat.
The scream that leaked out around Boromir’s clamped fingers richocheted off the white-hot sparks that were igniting behind his eyelids, and he dropped his head to bite at Frodo’s shoulder as he pulled back and drove forward again.
So hot. So small. Helpless. For all that the hobbit was surprisingly strong, he was no match for a man. Boromir was possessed by a strange primal urge to completely crush Frodo, and he gave himself up to that urge, pounding into Frodo mercilessly.
It came too quickly—the fire in his groin at last burst, sending sprinkles of black dots before his eyes. He thrust hard into Frodo several more times, reluctant for it to end. So caught up was he in glorious sensation that he could barely feel just how hard he was thrusting. Frodo had gone utterly limp, the fight gone.
Still holding the hobbit’s wrists and mouth, Boromir collapsed on Frodo, a limp weight, and only the give of the mattress prevented Frodo from being thoroughly crushed under his weight.
When he felt he had the strength again, he slowly climbed off Frodo. He released Frodo’s mouth first—slowly—watching carefully to see if Frodo would dare cry out now. The hobbit’s eyes were glazed and far away. His wrists would bruise later, of course, but the halfling would hide it from the others. He would say nothing—this much Boromir was sure of.
Boromir put his breeches back on, lacing them again, keeping his eyes on the hobbit. Frodo still did not move, and if Boromir did not see the hobbit’s chest moving up and down, he might wonder if he were dead, so vacant was his gaze.
“Roll over,” Boromir said shortly, and Frodo obeyed immediately, allowing Boromir to strip the bloodied sheet from beneath him. As he walked out of the room, he glanced back one last time. Frodo had curled into a tight, shuddering ball.
Now that the madness of commingled lust and anger had left him, Boromir felt a sharp stab of guilt like a dagger in his chest. He knew he had hurt Frodo—the red-spattered cloth in his hands was damning evidence of that. He would burn it later.
Boromir turned his eyes away and began to walk quickly back towards his own chamber, the sheet bundled up tightly and tucked beneath his arm. One last little sound reached his ears, so soft that in another circumstance he might have doubted that he heard it at all.
A half-smothered sob, utterly broken—the sound of a bird fallen from the nest, onto cold, unyielding ground. The knife of guilt twisted, but Boromir kept walking.
He would burn the sheet, but he knew he would never be able to consign that sound to the flames. It would lodge under his skin like a broken bit of wood.
Festering.
End.
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