Author’s Notes: If you think this is too sentimental, I have one thing to say and that’s---BITE ME! Thank you. Oh, and Miss Cam would like recognition for bringing up arrows and getting me started on that idea...;) (And html converting)

Feedback: YESSSSSS! I am on my knees, people, on my KNEES! Criticism, praise, what ever you think.

Spoilers: Not really. This takes place somewhere during the fellowship. Boromir is not a phantom...

Of Elves and Men

By Lyle

       

(Legolas)

It is almost gentle, the knife that strokes across his back and raises rose-red, perfect round drops of blood. The pale skin shivers against the metal, glorying in the sharp bite that dug. I smile. It pained me at first that he asked for this, but the reality is more pleasant than the imagination. The first cut made me wince harder than him in the pure shock of his request. Being a man, I do not think he noticed.

I thought it heinous and cruel to cut my companion, though now I begin to see the beauty, so alive and warm. If he does not cry out in pain, is it really so heartless of me? No, the knife loves his side and in turn, he loves the knife. He sighs and moans deeply, thoroughly enjoying my touch. It is enough that I am touching him---it matters not how.

Boromir is a beautiful man, despite his weakness for power. Long days---for they are long to men---he struggles against his attraction to the ring, yet he sticks to the quest and travels with us to rid the world of this vile temptation. I see pain in his eyes, a constant uneasy self-consciousness, but in him there is strength as well---much strength.

My fingers reach into the hair. It feels so coarse compared to elfish hair, so short, so different. The stubble on his chin brushes against my fingers and tickles roughly. What is it I am trying to do? Perhaps my intention was to hold him steady, but he never flinches.

Lines on his back curl around artistically; the gouges are deep enough to bleed profusely, though I know when to stop. It can go just so deep before things become dangerous. Then I really would be cruel, and I could never forgive myself.

“Legolas...” The word that he utters comes out as almost a sigh. I feel him begin to turn towards me and I pull back the blade, hands careful and steady. Leaning forward, I pull him to my chest. The body against me is broader than my own, with more hair. It does not fail to escape me that he is human. Mind, that will not stop me from lying with him tonight, if just to pacify a curious urge.

He clears his throat, coughing low, licking at his upper lip. “Legolas, I offered to be a sheathe to your knives. Now that you have buried two knives in my back, I would be fulfilled that your arrow would meet its mark at my backside.”

“But the arrows I carry would be deadly to your flesh. Will not those two daggers suffice?”

“You have yet another arrow that does not rest in your quiver, elf, but between your supple thighs.”

I sit for a moment, in awe and trembling. One can think Men are simple, and then yet they surprise. He rolls over slowly to face me and plunges is face between my legs, nuzzling, rubbing against my groin. Suddenly I find my mouth open and gasping, hands knotting in the hair at the base of his broad neck.

Yes, I believe I will do what he asks. Perhaps in doing so I will learn to better understand the race of Man. Long have they confused me. In doing this, I may sooth his troubled soul. Blood still runs fresh down his back. Is it normal for men to enjoy this? Do they feel purged by the flow of the clean red blood?

I lay him down against the verdant ground, straddling him swiftly. I see the pain as his back presses down; it is coupled with a glimmer of delight such that I hesitate not to answer the silent pleas. The knife slices carefully over his shoulder as I lean to kiss him, pushing my hair over my shoulder and out of the way.

Such verve in lips I don’t often see. This man lifts his head off of the ground, straining his neck to press them intently to mine. I shift my hands to under his head, nip at his mouth, draw him closer to me. He has bared himself before me, and I carefully look him over from his heavily muscled thighs to his taut stomach, arms stretched out, shoulders thrown back and arching, face demanding with sharp gray eyes. Such a gorgeous body laying prostrate before me.

He drops his head back to the ground, panting. A hand lifts to my mouth and the coppery smell of blood grows stronger. This is a smell familiar to me only in battle; it feels strange elsewhere. Fingers slip into my mouth, offering a taste---warm and salty, clinging to my tongue. It has a pleasant edge to it, strangely. I take his hand in mine and slowly lick off the spreading blood. My tongue elicits such desperately wanton groans, a writhing under my legs, a hard heat pressed against one thigh.

His muscles shudder against my fingers; as I move them down suddenly to his thigh, I feel him twitch. I must have surprised him, and he likes it. Mmm... This is priceless. Instead of losing its interest over the years, I find myself enjoying it more. Each feeling seems refreshing and new when lavished on a different partner, or on a different day, in a different situation. And I could not get any more different than with a man.

I make no attempt to quell my soft gasps, nor the low growls of appreciation. My hands methodically stroke over his muscled body, reveling in his reactions. An old ritual that will never lose its appeal. A bonding of sorts. Do I understand men better now? Will I? Or perhaps I will never understand men.

       

(Boromir)

I would not say that he is not beautiful, but a beauty so marmoreal as this I cannot touch. He is golden and unreal, thus making himself impossible to love. He feels like he is only within my head, something only I can see, a hallucination, a delirious dream. The starry hair never even falls out of place, swinging gently like imagined angels. So synthetic beside me. I do not understand him; I do not like things I cannot understand. He sleeps with his eyes open. He is impossible to understand. Such maddening grace, and that smooth face that angers me so.

Yet it goes deeper than anger. Unceasing vexation, but filled with fascination, wanting. That is, wanting to see him lose his calm. I want to see that loose hanging hair flying, the frosted-pink lips open, crying out in dismay, excruciating pleasure.

So I asked him. I expected him to panic; I expected him to run away; I expected to have to force him. I expected to see him cry out. And after planning everything, he agreed. Oh, there was flicker of shock in his eyes, but then he acquiesced. Somehow he makes it into a gentle game, these cruel red slices. The knives are almost soft in his hands. He murmurs in that confounded Elfish as he strokes them across flesh. Gentle, pretty, sexy. What is he doing to me?

I meant this to be less careful—a blade singing across my backside, sweetly biting, spreading tingling heat. I wanted to throw caution to the four winds and purge my guilt through seeping blood-loss. Alive! Full of pulse points and tender skin and soft sweet blood. To cut is not to kill, but now, to live. What is meant by these somnolent knives? Too careful. I shall ask for him to lie with me, and that should be enough to shock him.

I meant this to be difficult for him, for it to show me his more human side—to see if he is real after all. But now I know he is not. He is elfish and therefore inhuman. And still, I want to touch him, to feel him, to love him. Impossible.

So again I ask him for a favor. He frowns, clearly not understanding, asks me back. I explain, sultry voice carefully measured, low and growling.

Silence. I roll slowly to face him and lean forward, probing with my mouth against his elven breeches. My faces is nearly smothered underneath the flap of his tunic. Surrounded by soft fabric, nosing through folds, rubbing wantonly up against his groin when I find it. He emits a series of gasps and clutches the back of my neck.

My back is lit on fire, almost, with multiple thin seams of blood, the lines cut through the skin and burning. He pauses. Then he pushes me back against the grasses and straddles my hips without a second pause. The fire screams---I grimace, though at the same time I savor it. My eyes could almost be glowing with its heat and sensuality, I feel.

His mouth drops and hits mine smoothly, tugging at me, wet and buoyant. At the same time, another line works its way across my shoulder, burning. I equal the touch. It is a duel, I think. But I am raw and undressed beneath him, while he is fully clothed. Wrong, that is. My head falls back down and I listen to myself breathe.

I want him to taste this. I dip my fingers into the sticky warmth at my shoulder and press them into his mouth. His eyes widen. Frightened? Wigged out? No, he grasps at my hand, beginning to lick it himself. His quick little tongue laves at the digits, igniting me, sending shivers through my body. A hot tightening in my groin.

Hands appear on my thigh. Ai! So sudden and with such a surety. Ardent touch hurries across my body, accompanied by gasping, growling, occasional lapses into Elfish. He massages my chest, shoulders, neck, hips, leaving no spot un-touched. His fingers skip away to undo clasps on his tunic; he peels away the garment and piles it under my head, propping my neck up. The breeches disappear with speed I would admire in a man. But he, of course, is not a man.

The elf mounts me faster than I can call to him. The words break off in my mouth and come out as inarticulate groans. Oh—my—

“Ai!”

“Are you yet in pain from your back?” He draws his eyebrows together, confused.

“N-no—oil—at all—”

“Tch! You request that I knife you in the back and yet you cannot stand a lack of preparation. I fear I shall never understand the human mind.”

“I—please—”

He backs away more gently and reaches into a small pocket in his tunic, about where Frodo keeps the Ring in his. Nimble fingers flip out a thin tube of dark oil. Pouring it on, feeling deliberately between my legs, rubbing, spreading, stroking.

The left over oil puddles in the grass and mingles with the scents I draw in with each ragged breath. Grass—earth—blood—crisp night air—elven aromatics. He presses himself into me again, this time more careful, pressing a conciliatory kiss to my forehead. Palms rush across my cheeks smoothly.

He fills me with a snug slickness. Lips smile demurely. “Is your pain adequately soothed?”

“Yes—oh, yes—” Words cut off with a loud moan. The elf never loses his poise. He perches atop me, thrusting his hips, muttering words I cannot understand. Sultry Elfish breezing by my ears. He sits with his knees on the earth and his erection buried deeply in me. Fingers grasp me, softly stroking, constricting carefully. The pad of his thumb rubs incessantly just under the head of my arousal, those elegant aristocrat fingers curling around the shaft.

Pain spirals through my eyes as my back pushes into the ground, yet insane fascination and pleasure dance with each thrust. Legolas... why Legolas? I do not know. At the moment, it is not important. It matters not. What matters is the building pressure in my head, the desperation, the pure want.

Oh, that—confounded—elf! I find myself stiffening suddenly and coming in his hands. Shuddering. Loose and released, more than a little light-headed. He takes a minute or so longer, dipping down and pulling back, long hot strokes. Full and tight around his sleek erection.

He cries out, soft and choked. The exquisite face hides itself in a curtain of hair, pillowed against his shoulder. He almost sounds quiet. I fear I will never understand elves. His climax rushes into me, pulsing hotly.

Legolas stands, brushing leaves off his legs. That irksome elf. I always knew he was chimerical—he doesn’t even lose his head after that. One cannot be real and keep one’s head so clearly. I stare dazedly up at the trees, inchoate shapes shivering in the darkness around me.

I wonder for the first time how we could possibly hide the smell of sex. It is too distinctive to easily cover up. A quick swim, perhaps, could clean it off. Legolas steps towards the river and motions for me to follow. He, of course, thought of the solution first. Why cannot I destroy his composure? Elves are too perfect for me. They will forever leave me confused.

~FINIS~

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