Power Corrupts - Legolas/Boromir - PG-13
Title: Power Corrupts
Pairing: Legolas/Boromir
Rating: Between PG-13 and R, I guess.
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Disclaimer: The Tolkien Estate has caused me much stress over the years, but nonetheless, they do own these characters and since I don't want to get sued, I relinquish all responsibility over said characters.
Warnings: Implications of sex
Author's Notes: This is my first LOTR fic EVER. I know you don't believe me, but it's true. I have never ever written a LOTR fic before, even though I've been in the fandom for nigh on a decade at this point. So, yeah. I've been told by lovely liars that this isn't terrible, but we'll see how I like it after I've taken a break from it for a little while.
It is not so much an urge as an obsession. He feels it eating away at him slowly; day by day, he is becoming less himself. He remembers when it wasn’t this way, remembers the light and the radiance of his existence. But these are only memories.
His life has become a long, miserable trek through long, miserable days and nights. In moments of respite, he wonders if the pain is worth the hope of a free world. Because he wants a free world, really. He is just unsure if destroying the Ring will bring that about. Why can’t they hide it? Erestor had mentioned it at the Council. He is a wise elf; surely there is credit to his reasoning?
He would hide it, gladly. He would take the burden of the precious Ring upon himself and would flee to the caves of his father’s kingdom. There are many in the sides of the mountains and few apart from himself know their secrets. He has always liked caves.
He knows better than to speak his thoughts aloud. Aragorn, ever noble, would not understand. The hobbits are so naïve in their ignorance of the World; they would side with Frodo. The dwarf would disagree on principle, the obstinate thing. Gandalf had already made it clear that would accept no other option.
But there was one other, one who may sympathize. Of course, he can see the pull of the Ring glinting in Boromir’s eyes, making them shine with corruption. He would be a tempting ally, so easy to manipulate. But the man was also strong - in body, if not in mind. If the Ring had taken too far a hold, Boromir would not listen to reason; he would only overpower.
Perhaps it is the unnatural line between ally and enemy that draws Legolas to the man. They are two of a kind, he sees. He knows they share more than the others may think. And who would suspect? Boromir already has Aragorn at his back, watching, but no one knows the way the Ring calls to the elf in his dreams. Not even Gandalf, so sure of himself, can see his cold hard stare when the Ring, on its confining chain, peaks out the front of Frodo’s shirt. The glimmer of gold on pale skin, irresistible.
So, naturally, he is defensive when Boromir first approaches him. It’s a chilly night, the dark falling the earliest it has on their journey. His turn at watch is over, he taps Boromir to wake him for his shift, and walks a dozen yards away, preferring to sleep alone under the stars than under the cover of haunted trees. He can still see the glow of the low fire, but the branches and trunks of the forest obscure the Company, much to his relief. A moment of silence, and he feels a hand at his shoulder. He turns to see Boromir, clearly awake, with a stare so determined as to match his own.
“You shouldn’t wander off, Master Elf,” he says, not removing his hand. Legolas glares.
“I prefer to sleep separate,” he tells his companion, who nods in acknowledgement.
“I’ve noticed,” Boromir responds. “I’ve wondered why.”
Legolas does not take his eyes off of Boromir. “The trees,” he says slowly, quietly, “they make me uncomfortable. They say discomfiting things.”
Boromir nods again and moves closer, leaning in until their faces almost touch. “And are the trees the reason you stare so intently at Frodo?” He presses forward, “Do the trees tell you to run?”
Legolas jerks away, furious.
“You cross a boundary, ignorant one,” he spits condescendingly. “You see treachery where there is only concern.”
“We both know that you’re lying,” Boromir whispers harshly. He grabs Legolas’ collar and shoves him against the black tree beside them. Legolas tenses in defense, but remains still, curious.
“I know the way it sings to you, the Ring. It has such a sweet voice, doesn’t it, elf? Doesn’t it say such pretty lies?”
Legolas keeps quiet, neither confirming nor denying the traitorously sultry voice that haunts his thoughts.
Boromir smirks. “You think you are stoic, but you’re just stubborn.” Legolas narrows his eyes but does not respond. Boromir studies him for a moment, then leans in and ever so barely nips at Legolas’ bottom lip.
“That voice… it makes one lonely,” he whispers. Legolas can feel the breath of his words against his lips. “The rest of the Company huddle together for hope, but you and I… we have no hope. We have naught but each other.”
“You do not have me,” Legolas says. He gives Boromir the harshest glare he can conjure, a skill well learned from his father.
Boromir chuckles. “I have you.” And without another word, he crashes against Legolas, body, mind, and soul and Legolas knows he’s right. There is no love in their kiss, not affection in their touch, but there is a rough satisfaction in the way they crush together. In the back of their minds, a hunger grows; the haunting lust for domination powers their actions until the greed for pain is appeased. The tug of the Ring weighs heavily upon their hearts, leaving only black pleasure in the wake of their destruction. They destroy each other with their mouths, hate each other with their hands; every muffled moan a curse, every sigh, a cruelty.
The nights after spin by like paranoid pipe dreams, their unstable alliance slipping between hurried movements through the watching shadows and the haunting clouds of daytime. With the knowledge of a companion in their corruption, each is on comforted tenterhooks, unsure whether the relief of not being alone in weakness stands up to the jealous rivalry that springs up. And as every step brings them all closer to doom, their hunger grows and manifests itself in deceit.
The days grow shorter, the nights quieter, and Legolas looks up at the stars he once treasured and remembers when his life was not this way. And with a final glance at the fellowship that has brought him so far from home, he falls into fitful dreams of domination.
Pairing: Legolas/Boromir
Rating: Between PG-13 and R, I guess.
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Disclaimer: The Tolkien Estate has caused me much stress over the years, but nonetheless, they do own these characters and since I don't want to get sued, I relinquish all responsibility over said characters.
Warnings: Implications of sex
Author's Notes: This is my first LOTR fic EVER. I know you don't believe me, but it's true. I have never ever written a LOTR fic before, even though I've been in the fandom for nigh on a decade at this point. So, yeah. I've been told by lovely liars that this isn't terrible, but we'll see how I like it after I've taken a break from it for a little while.
It is not so much an urge as an obsession. He feels it eating away at him slowly; day by day, he is becoming less himself. He remembers when it wasn’t this way, remembers the light and the radiance of his existence. But these are only memories.
His life has become a long, miserable trek through long, miserable days and nights. In moments of respite, he wonders if the pain is worth the hope of a free world. Because he wants a free world, really. He is just unsure if destroying the Ring will bring that about. Why can’t they hide it? Erestor had mentioned it at the Council. He is a wise elf; surely there is credit to his reasoning?
He would hide it, gladly. He would take the burden of the precious Ring upon himself and would flee to the caves of his father’s kingdom. There are many in the sides of the mountains and few apart from himself know their secrets. He has always liked caves.
He knows better than to speak his thoughts aloud. Aragorn, ever noble, would not understand. The hobbits are so naïve in their ignorance of the World; they would side with Frodo. The dwarf would disagree on principle, the obstinate thing. Gandalf had already made it clear that would accept no other option.
But there was one other, one who may sympathize. Of course, he can see the pull of the Ring glinting in Boromir’s eyes, making them shine with corruption. He would be a tempting ally, so easy to manipulate. But the man was also strong - in body, if not in mind. If the Ring had taken too far a hold, Boromir would not listen to reason; he would only overpower.
Perhaps it is the unnatural line between ally and enemy that draws Legolas to the man. They are two of a kind, he sees. He knows they share more than the others may think. And who would suspect? Boromir already has Aragorn at his back, watching, but no one knows the way the Ring calls to the elf in his dreams. Not even Gandalf, so sure of himself, can see his cold hard stare when the Ring, on its confining chain, peaks out the front of Frodo’s shirt. The glimmer of gold on pale skin, irresistible.
So, naturally, he is defensive when Boromir first approaches him. It’s a chilly night, the dark falling the earliest it has on their journey. His turn at watch is over, he taps Boromir to wake him for his shift, and walks a dozen yards away, preferring to sleep alone under the stars than under the cover of haunted trees. He can still see the glow of the low fire, but the branches and trunks of the forest obscure the Company, much to his relief. A moment of silence, and he feels a hand at his shoulder. He turns to see Boromir, clearly awake, with a stare so determined as to match his own.
“You shouldn’t wander off, Master Elf,” he says, not removing his hand. Legolas glares.
“I prefer to sleep separate,” he tells his companion, who nods in acknowledgement.
“I’ve noticed,” Boromir responds. “I’ve wondered why.”
Legolas does not take his eyes off of Boromir. “The trees,” he says slowly, quietly, “they make me uncomfortable. They say discomfiting things.”
Boromir nods again and moves closer, leaning in until their faces almost touch. “And are the trees the reason you stare so intently at Frodo?” He presses forward, “Do the trees tell you to run?”
Legolas jerks away, furious.
“You cross a boundary, ignorant one,” he spits condescendingly. “You see treachery where there is only concern.”
“We both know that you’re lying,” Boromir whispers harshly. He grabs Legolas’ collar and shoves him against the black tree beside them. Legolas tenses in defense, but remains still, curious.
“I know the way it sings to you, the Ring. It has such a sweet voice, doesn’t it, elf? Doesn’t it say such pretty lies?”
Legolas keeps quiet, neither confirming nor denying the traitorously sultry voice that haunts his thoughts.
Boromir smirks. “You think you are stoic, but you’re just stubborn.” Legolas narrows his eyes but does not respond. Boromir studies him for a moment, then leans in and ever so barely nips at Legolas’ bottom lip.
“That voice… it makes one lonely,” he whispers. Legolas can feel the breath of his words against his lips. “The rest of the Company huddle together for hope, but you and I… we have no hope. We have naught but each other.”
“You do not have me,” Legolas says. He gives Boromir the harshest glare he can conjure, a skill well learned from his father.
Boromir chuckles. “I have you.” And without another word, he crashes against Legolas, body, mind, and soul and Legolas knows he’s right. There is no love in their kiss, not affection in their touch, but there is a rough satisfaction in the way they crush together. In the back of their minds, a hunger grows; the haunting lust for domination powers their actions until the greed for pain is appeased. The tug of the Ring weighs heavily upon their hearts, leaving only black pleasure in the wake of their destruction. They destroy each other with their mouths, hate each other with their hands; every muffled moan a curse, every sigh, a cruelty.
The nights after spin by like paranoid pipe dreams, their unstable alliance slipping between hurried movements through the watching shadows and the haunting clouds of daytime. With the knowledge of a companion in their corruption, each is on comforted tenterhooks, unsure whether the relief of not being alone in weakness stands up to the jealous rivalry that springs up. And as every step brings them all closer to doom, their hunger grows and manifests itself in deceit.
The days grow shorter, the nights quieter, and Legolas looks up at the stars he once treasured and remembers when his life was not this way. And with a final glance at the fellowship that has brought him so far from home, he falls into fitful dreams of domination.