Happy Valentine's Day!
Thank you so much to my MB for the lovely chocolates! I have a pretty good idea of who you are, and I also have this small token of my appreciation...
Title: Reprieve
Fandom: LOTR
Characters: Boromir/Théodred
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Tolkien = genius. Simbelmynë = not so much.
Summary: No plot here, folks. Just fluff with a hint of angst. Double-drabble.
Reprieve
It is very late now and the stables are empty; they are at last alone. The easy laughter between them fades suddenly into breathless silence. Each tries to speak and fails, but it matters little because in the next heartbeat they are stepping into a kiss that speaks far more eloquently than words. Théodred closes his eyes, leaning into sturdy warmth, and feels eager arms folding him closer still.
In the morning he will face again the old white man in the shadowed hall with the serpent lurking at his side, the doubt of a people besieged and the haunted gaze of a woman caged by empty duty. Then he must be at once prince and marshal, diplomat, soldier, cousin, and son. But for now he is simply Théodred, and tonight there will be only Boromir, who knows him like no other can. Boromir who needs him, who understands him, whose strong hands are fisted in his tunic as if they will never let go.
Théodred smiles against Boromir’s mouth, twisting his own hands into heavy sable silk so that he may also grasp the same eternity. In this moment, at least, he can believe that it might be so.
Title: Reprieve
Fandom: LOTR
Characters: Boromir/Théodred
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Tolkien = genius. Simbelmynë = not so much.
Summary: No plot here, folks. Just fluff with a hint of angst. Double-drabble.
Reprieve
It is very late now and the stables are empty; they are at last alone. The easy laughter between them fades suddenly into breathless silence. Each tries to speak and fails, but it matters little because in the next heartbeat they are stepping into a kiss that speaks far more eloquently than words. Théodred closes his eyes, leaning into sturdy warmth, and feels eager arms folding him closer still.
In the morning he will face again the old white man in the shadowed hall with the serpent lurking at his side, the doubt of a people besieged and the haunted gaze of a woman caged by empty duty. Then he must be at once prince and marshal, diplomat, soldier, cousin, and son. But for now he is simply Théodred, and tonight there will be only Boromir, who knows him like no other can. Boromir who needs him, who understands him, whose strong hands are fisted in his tunic as if they will never let go.
Théodred smiles against Boromir’s mouth, twisting his own hands into heavy sable silk so that he may also grasp the same eternity. In this moment, at least, he can believe that it might be so.