Lathron
Strong thigh muscles, toned arms. All the signs of a proper warrior. Battle
scars shown off like lovers' baubles. This is a man who knows he is
dangerous. This is a man who knows his strengths. This is a man who is pure
sin.
Even now, grasping an elven oar in leather-stained hands, pushing against
the water like it was a battle ax, his beauty is apparent. Hair glimmering
against the water's light, private smile for the young hobbits. Lucky little
ones, to be so close to the famed warrior. The beautiful warrior. Every scar
a perfection, every wound a thing of wonder. Only adding, never detracting.
Only adding.
And I wonder at my chances. To take those roughened hands in mine and show
them the way of passion. Kiss the sun-browned neck, separate those shining
lips, and steal a searing kiss, like a shard of an ancient sword. Take those
tantalizing arms, teases that they are, and lick over the bumps, testing
their strengths and weaknesses. To make love to the crease of an arm with my
teeth and my fingernails and my cock weeping silently. To peel away dress
uniform and travel cloak and see the man for who he is, not what he shows.
To kiss above the heart and smile at the beat, the grand tattoo setting the
pace of this man, his stride, and his hope. His Estel.
And how I want to be his Estel. Hear him call out my name as I worship his
body, the Vala he has hidden from us for so long under Gondor's uniform and
weapons of the elite guards. My guards, if I ever return to the City of my
fathers. Mine. My Boromir. His Estel.
Even watching him feels like being a voyeur, as he makes love to the
Celebrant with strong, even strokes that part her waters like a lover,
taking their due and receiving naught but praise in return. As he smiles at
a small splash and frees a hand to slap a hobbit in gaiety. A lovely day it
is, would be only to more lovely were his smile to be directed towards me.
He did, once. A day much like this one, yet it was not water he loved then
but a sword in his hand and worthy adversaries. Two hobbits, the ones he
ferries now, and a lesson long in coming. A voyeur then, with my pipe
between my lips and wishing it was his cock. Wanting to join in on top of
him, glad when the hobbits gave me the chance. Wanting to wrestle him to the
ground and take him there, crebain be damned. Mine. Only mine. And he does
not know it.
As companions, we have bathed together. As companions, we have slept so
close that I thought I was inside him, and he me. As companions. But never
as lovers. I have stripped him lovingly and tended his wounds. I have
watched him stand afterwards, thank me, and then go about his exercises. I
freely admit to watching him, sweating in only his breeches and jerkin as he
worked to keep the pace as dictated by Sergeants everywhere. And even
watching him felt like being a voyeur.
When we are finished for the day, perhaps, I may seek him out to speak to
him of it. I may take him aside and tell him of my vigil, my wait, my
desire. Secluded in a dark clearing, alone with his river lover, maybe then
we can come to an understanding. Maybe then...
But I know I won't. Condemned to always watch, never touch. Condemned to be
the eternal watchman, guarding an unknowing treasure. Condemned to desire.
Love unrequited. It is not an unknown feeling, yet I curse it all the more,
for I am naught but a coward for not confronting him.
A thousand Orcs could not kill me. I did not blink in the face of a creature
of the Deep, the Balrog of Morgoth. But the mere thought of being thrown
away like an undesired companion, like an unworthy opponent, a spurned
lover, arrests me. I have not the strength. I have not the power. I have not
the audacity to tempt the son of my former rival. I have not the strength.
And so I am condemned to watch.
by Lanna Michaels
ven watching him feels like being a voyeur.
