Work Text:
"One day, our paths will lead us there," Boromir promised, unable to keep a smile from his face at the thought of showing his king home. "And the tower guard shall take up the call—that the lords of Gondor have returned." He clapped Aragorn's shoulder and squeezed, and then he gave a disbelieving huff of laughter. "The return of the king was a byword in my father's house," he said. "He led the Standing Silence at every meal and then he spoke of the coming of the blood of Númenor as a disaster to be feared like famine or uprising." Boromir's hand fell back to his lap as his smile faded and he looked to Aragorn. "But my father did not know that king would be you." Neither had Boromir. It changed everything. "My people could not be in better hands." It was strangely comforting to think that Boromir was the worst Gondor could do.
Aragorn, however, did not look comforted.
"But you seem at home here. And you seemed at home in Imladris. The Elves have been kinder to you than your own people," Boromir guessed. Belatedly he grimaced. "I am sorry to count myself among the Men who have caused you grief."
Aragorn's eyes flicked away from the forest and the look he gave Boromir was not unkind, but he didn't contradict him. "I was raised in Rivendell. The Elves are as much my people as Men are. Men are… quick. To everything. Violence, friendship, betrayal. Love." He fell quiet for a moment. "But then, I never understood the Elves either," he admitted, his voice soft. "Not entirely. Perhaps they are too slow. What reason is there to hurry when death and decay do not dog your steps?"
Boromir could not say; it was Faramir who had paid tireless attention to the endless tales of Elves and Men alike that Mithrandir had told them as children. Boromir always wanted to hear tales of bloodshed and sacrifice, and Gandalf had indulged him, but the wizard clearly delighted in Faramir's fascination with the mythology of the Elves.
"There are times," Aragorn admitted, "that I selfishly wish their lives were measured in decades or even centuries rather than millennia. Their confidence is so slowly won, and their faith in Men so frail, that sometimes I fear I will not manage it before my body and mind fail." He cleared his throat to dislodge the burr in his voice. "Nearly a century I have walked among them, and still I am as a child to most of them."
Boromir tried not to look too visibly shocked, but Aragorn was staring off into the forest like some part of him had vanished into the trees and he longed to follow it. Aragorn didn't look any older than he did. Boromir had not known how thickly the blood of Númenor still ran in the Dúnedain of the North. In the rumors of Gondor the Rangers were little more than glorified bandits.
"Even those I consider dearest friends hold me at arm's length. Although," he chuckled ruefully, "there are Men as well as Elves who think I hold friends too close." His face softened in fond memory. "But there are some who have taken comfort in it."
Boromir had not heard the Ranger speak half so long unprompted, and never so intimately. He himself had spoken as one gropes about in the darkness, out of disorientation, fear, and choking isolation, and he had found Aragorn a solid and comforting wall to lean against. It seemed Aragorn had taken his vulnerability as a gift and meant to reciprocate. Boromir could only hope his company was comforting in itself, for he did not know what reassuring words he could offer.
He realized Aragorn was looking sidelong at him, and only belatedly heard the note of innuendo in his voice. Before Boromir could do more than blink, Aragorn's gaze returned to the forest, seemingly satisfied by Boromir's reaction, or lack thereof.
"Elves are not ruled by their bodies as Men are. Their passion is brilliant, but so exceedingly rare that my heart breaks. Those I love, I love deeply, and I would love them with all of me."
He looked over at Boromir again, who was as startled by the tears in his eyes as by his words. "There are elves I have known for decades, friends who are very dear to me—and I cannot give of myself to any of them. We do not speak the same language of closeness."
Aragorn raised his eyes to the trees around them, and Boromir wondered how many of those elves could hear them right now. He thought of Legolas, who never spoke a truly harsh word to any, but (until recently) looked only upon Aragorn with anything approaching warmth. He thought too of the marchwarden, with his haughty nose and noble brow, who had spent much of the previous night speaking with Aragorn.
"Gandalf understood," Aragorn said softly, and Boromir realized with a jolt why this, of all things, was on Aragorn's mind now. "He was as long-lived as the elves, older even than Elrond. We… commiserated," he chuckled bleakly, "on more than one occasion." He wiped welling tears out of his eyes before they could stop his nose. "Grief is a potent binding agent."
Boromir was shocked anew by Aragorn's frankness. They were closer now than ever before—even now, as the lament of the elves echoed throughout Caras Galadhon, the whole of the fellowship was bound more tightly by grief. But there was something else, a new respect between them. Boromir did not think it was simply that they had finally fought alongside each other, though he had seen thicker feuds die in such a way.
Boromir knew much of war and command. He had taken many orders and then in turn come of age and rank to give them. Many men had died beside him, and before him. He knew what it was to have men's lives in the palm of one's hand, to crush or to spare. He knew what it was for men to put themselves forward, to victory or death, for love of their people and trust of their commander.
But never before had Boromir found himself on either end of a lead fashioned only of trust and regard. For that was how it seemed to Boromir that Aragorn led, even in the brief time since the fall of Gandalf. He made no demands, delivered no ultimatums. He did not threaten or intimidate, yet not one of the fellowship save Boromir had raised their voice in opposition. And even Boromir had yet to regret ultimately falling into line behind him.
"I have shocked you," Aragorn said, sounding faintly embarrassed. "I know it is not only Elfkind whose customs I offend."
"I am caught off guard," Boromir admitted, "by your… confidence. But I am glad of it."
Aragorn opened his mouth, but could not seem to find the words. His eyes were red, from tears shed and unshed, but the look in them right now was not grief, but longing. He stood and faced Boromir, and after a moment's hesitation, leaned in and grasped his shoulder. "I speak not as to an outsider," he said softly, and Boromir's eyes widened. "I would know you." His hand moved from his shoulder to the nape of his neck. Boromir fought back a shiver at the heat of his palm. "You have seen death and come back from it on my account. I have seen my end rebuked by your hand. You have kept our people in safety and prosperity at the risk of your own life. I have seen you turn from the temptations of the enemy countless times. You speak honor and love with your actions, son of Gondor. I would respond in kind."
Boromir studied his face in open-mouthed shock, searching for anything in his expression other than hopeful candor. He found nothing.
It was with no little shock that Boromir found himself under the same spell as the rest of the party, and quite nearly overwhelmed by it. If he were called upon here and now to stand in battle beside or before Aragorn, Boromir would not have hesitated a moment. Indeed, he found he longed for such an opportunity to prove his devotion, not least because he had gone out of his way to do the opposite for so much of their journey.
When he did not respond, Aragorn's grip on his shoulder loosened, and he slumped back onto the ledge beside him. "I do not ask anything of you; I only wish to speak my heart."
This was such an opportunity. Boromir touched the back of Aragorn's downcast head. "You ask nothing of me," he said hoarsely. "You offer me a great honor." Indeed, what greater honor was there than to kneel before one's king? (And by the Valar, how he wanted to kneel.)
He had only drawn the slightest bit closer before Aragorn surged forward to close the gap between them, meeting him in a fierce kiss. And yet for all the ferocity of it, his hands held Boromir's face as if it were precious, and his mouth was gentle. This was no battle, or even a contest, but a communion, an exchange. Aragorn simply wanted to give.
For a moment, Boromir just let him. The gentle pressure of his mouth, the wet breath mixing with his, finally toppled his last doubts that he was awake and present, and he was shocked to stillness.
Aragorn retreated too soon. Boromir covered Aragorn's hand on his cheek with his own and pressed the soft heat into his skin. Aragorn's face relaxed into a small smile and he buried his other hand in Boromir's hair and leaned in to kiss him again. He was bolder this time, the drag of his lips looser so that his tongue might catch some of Boromir's taste. Boromir made a hungry noise and matched him, and the kisses quickly grew so careless and messy that Boromir could not help but laugh softly. Aragorn smiled even as he tasted him even more deeply.
Gimli's sudden snore shook them apart, and after a hasty look around, Aragorn chuckled. Boromir leaned back in, but Aragorn withdrew and pulled him to his feet. "I know a place where we will not be disturbed," he murmured. "Come."
Boromir obeyed, trailing after Aragorn in a daze. He could scarcely believe Aragorn had kissed him, and to all appearances intended to do more. It wasn't as if he hadn't noticed the Ranger's lethal grace. An undeniable air of nobility clung to him—something about the steely glint in his eyes, the way he moved—that no amount of dirt and grime could hide from a discerning eye. Now that the dirt and grime was gone, however, Boromir could see it better than ever, and he wanted.
Aragorn led them to a silver trunk wrapped in stairs, and Boromir found that he had had quite enough of stairs for the rest of his days—Boromir of the White City, who had climbed before he could walk! He began to curse them under his breath to distract himself from the burn in his thighs. Aragorn's quiet chuckle drifted back to him, but they did not slow. They crossed wooden bridges that sighed rather than creaked, weaving between the trees at a dizzying height with an ease Boromir had never dreamed of. Just being in this place made him feel more Elfin, swifter and stealthier and less mortal.
Before long, Boromir was hopelessly lost. Every trunk looked the same, and most of the Galadhrim were cast in the same willowy, blond mold; man and woman alike looked so similar that he would not know if he passed the same elf twice. The stars were hidden, and the moonlight so diffuse that he could not tell how the night advanced, to say nothing of direction. And yet still Aragorn's quiet footfalls never lost their surety.
"Are we lost?" Boromir finally asked, only half in jest.
Aragorn cast a curious glance over his shoulder. "Of course not."
"So said Gandalf," he grumbled, and nearly stumbled under the sudden weight of the memory of the Grey Wizard. He stopped in his tracks. "I'm—" he started, but when Aragorn looked back at him it was with most of a grin on his face. Boromir was shocked silent.
"The old man never liked to admit he was wrong," Aragorn said with a wry fondness. He turned back to collect Boromir. "I try to leave decisions to ones better suited to make them, for fear I shall be held to them."
Boromir raised his eyebrows. "Indeed? That was not my first impression of you."
Aragorn tilted his head back thoughtfully and looked down his nose at Boromir with an air of reproach, but a smile fought its way to the surface. All at once, gentle but genuine laughter overwhelmed their solemnity, and somehow the humor seemed part of the grief, rather than at odds with it.
"And what was your first impression of me?" Aragorn asked, his voice and eyes soft.
Boromir looked surreptitiously around them, and seeing no one, backed Aragorn up against the vast trunk they were circling on their seemingly endless journey. "I thought you as cold as your Elves." He stepped closer still. "When Legolas told me who you were, I wanted to shake some sense into you."
"And now?" Aragorn asked, utterly unintimidated and indeed looking rather endeared by Boromir's looming.
"Sometimes I still want to shake some sense into you," Boromir chuckled, and kissed him, pressing him against the tree. The heat of Aragorn's body against his awoke a long-neglected need in Boromir, not only physical. Aragorn pushed him back, but his heart was not in it, and Boromir ignored it, leaning into the kiss with not a little of his considerable bulk.
A light cough that seemed to come from the tree itself made Boromir jump nearly out of his skin, and Aragorn was chuckling even before Boromir turned to see an elf breeze past them on silent feet, looking pointedly away.
"We are almost there," Aragorn promised, smiling. Boromir was too busy blushing to protest, and could only trail after him, chastened. And indeed, within minutes they reached the place Aragorn sought.
Boromir's first impression was of some kind of garden, but it was no simple array of pots, or even a neat arrangement of trees. It was a seashore in the canopy, a liminal space that was neither earth nor sky, where the line between ordinary wood and living bark seemed blurred. The place was drenched in moonlight, but every green and red and yellow of the leaves stood out as if in full sunlight. It was breathtaking, notable even within Lórien for its ethereal beauty, but Boromir found himself distracted, worried that each ear of foliage hid empty air all the way to the ground, which he had not seen in many minutes.
"You will not fall," Aragorn promised him, and this time it was Boromir who found himself with his back to one of the majestic white trunks. He felt more exposed now, with their bodies pressed together knee to chest with no room to hide anything, than the plenty of times he had actually been undressed in front of Aragorn. Boromir could feel his every breath, could feel his cock hot and solid against his hip, and he knew Aragorn could likewise feel his every pulse and shudder.
Aragorn gripped a handful of Boromir's hair and pulled to expose his throat. He nosed at Boromir's neck like a predator sniffing out an artery. "I've wanted to do this since the council," he murmured, and before Boromir could ask what he meant, Aragorn's teeth closed on his neck. Boromir bit his own lip viciously in an attempt not to moan at the hot suction and the scrape of teeth, and knotted a hand in the back of Aragorn's tunic.
"This place is sealed," Aragorn murmured against his skin. "No one will hear."
"Sealed?" Boromir repeated. "No one may follow us here?"
Aragorn straightened and thoughtfully touched the mark he had surely left there. He licked his lips as he looked back up, and Boromir felt as if a fire was starting to kindle between his ribs. "Oh, anyone may follow us." Aragorn let out a huff of laughter at Boromir's stricken expression. "But no one will. The elves rarely use this place, and if they were to come here while we linger, well…" His nose brushed Boromir's cheek. "They can spend another hour or two of their immortal lives indulging their coldness."
As if to spite that coldness, Aragorn kissed Boromir with a new intensity. Each of them could hardly get enough of the other, grasping at hair and sucking on lips and tongues. Boromir chanced a bite, and Aragorn growled and bit back harder. Boromir gave a loud groan, surprising himself.
Aragorn broke the kiss slowly, the heat of his mouth lingering. "I want," he whispered, stroking his thumb over Boromir's wet, swollen lower lip. "I would take my time with you."
Boromir chuckled weakly even as arousal screamed through his veins at the heat in his eyes. "I cannot make any promises."
Aragorn grinned, the tension cut between them. He pressed their foreheads together. "I expect nothing," he said quietly. "I would know you as you wish to be known."
Boromir drew himself up proudly. "If you think I will back down now, you have misjudged me."
"Boromir," Aragorn said fondly, squeezing the back of his neck. "I do not challenge you."
Boromir subsided somewhat sheepishly. He knotted his fingers in Aragorn's hair and pulled him back into a deep, unhurried kiss. It was so great a comfort that suddenly Boromir understood why one would turn to the literal pleasure of company in times of grief. "I would know you… as deeply as you would know me," he murmured, his voice hoarse with unpracticed vulnerability.
There was something like relief and something like agony in Aragorn's expression in the brief second before he surged forward to press his mouth to Boromir's. This kiss was like a gasp, short and abrupt and harsh, and like a gasp it carried a singular concentration of emotion. Almost before Boromir could reciprocate, Aragorn withdrew, frantically working his tunic open. His fingers were clumsy, unfamiliar with the Elven tunic that he had exchanged for his filthy, travel-worn leather armor.
Before he could get very far, Boromir took Aragorn by the shoulders and turned him so that their places were reversed, pressing him firmly against the tree. Aragorn raised his eyebrows at his authoritative air, smirking without smiling like only he could do. But when Boromir dropped to his knees, his eyes widened with something like panic. Boromir froze, but Aragorn seized his shoulder and squeezed. "Please," he said. "I will tell you... quite clearly if I want you to stop."
Boromir released a bated breath and impatiently yanked Aragorn's belt open. He worked Aragorn's trousers down his thighs, and his prick swung free, hard and flushed and so close. There was a proud upward curve to it, and his foreskin still hid his crown, framing a tempting glint of moisture. Kneeling, Boromir thought as he caught the bead of precum on his tongue, was the only act of subservience that had never rankled. In fact, he liked it rather too much to befit a steward-prince. He curled one hand around Aragorn's thigh and began to stroke him off with the other. His movements were too purposeful to be teasing, but it was clearly not enough for Aragorn, who grabbed a handful of the back of Boromir's tunic and bit his lip.
"No one will hear," Boromir echoed, smirking up at him.
Aragorn finally let out a whimper at that, an almost shockingly vulnerable noise after all his composure. "Boromir, please," he hissed.
Boromir could do nothing but obey. He licked Aragorn into his mouth without hesitation. The saline-sweet taste of precum and the weight of Aragorn cock on his tongue set Boromir's own cock throbbing, and he took Aragorn deeper, teasing his gag reflex. His prick fit perfectly in his mouth, longer than Boromir's but not as thick, and he tasted so good, like musk and pine and salt, all overlaid by the lingering scent of the baths of Caras Galadhon. Boromir could not help but be grateful that they had just properly bathed for the first time in weeks. It was also thanks to the hospitality of the Elves that the two of them did not now have to wrestle each other out of full armor.
When Boromir opened his watering eyes, Aragorn was flushed and panting, and looking down at him with dazed surprise.
"You are not the only one used to offending customs," Boromir said smugly. He held Aragorn's gaze this time as he fit his mouth over the tip of his cock and sucked hard. Aragorn let out a cry and his hips kicked forward of their own volition, but just as he was trying to apologize for it, Boromir went down on him to the root. Aragorn stiffened.
As long as Boromir could remember, there had always been an element of shame to sex, and this act in particular. It was probably a large part of the reason Boromir found it so erotic. But no embarrassment or fear slithered through the debris of his mind now. There was no one who could find them like this and reprimand him, no one at whom Boromir would not laugh outright should they try to berate him. Aragorn was his king. And that thought, for whatever reason, more than made up for the lack of shame. There was a new freedom to his passion, like he no longer had to hide some part of himself, and the exhilaration of it hastened his heartbeat.
He was starting to get lightheaded when Aragorn yanked him off by the hair. "Boromir," he hissed, and Boromir realized it was not the first time Aragorn had said his name. "We have time," he reminded him with an unsteady chuckle.
Boromir fought Aragorn's grip on his hair to lick unrepentantly at his prick, which jerked noticeably at his touch. "An orgasm does not have to be the end of it," he grumbled.
Aragorn brushed his fingers through Boromir's hair. "No, but it would be more of an intermission than I would like."
Boromir grinned up at him. "I forgot, you're an old man."
Aragorn yanked him up by the back of his tunic. "Indeed," he agreed shortly. He squeezed Boromir through his trousers and smirked when Boromir swore. "I've had a good deal more practice than you."
"I care not," Boromir said unconvincingly, and picked up where Aragorn had left off halfway down the front of his tunic.
Aragorn smiled, tangled his fingers in Boromir's hair, and kissed him to distraction. Eventually Boromir wrested himself free, laughing, and finally pushed Aragorn's tunic over his shoulders. His laughter died in his throat.
"I confess, I did not quite believe you," Boromir said softly, staring. "But that is a lifetime of scars."
Aragorn was more or less covered in them. He was not a careful man—this Boromir knew well—but more than a few of them looked mortal. Pale scratches that looked almost silvery in the moonlight drew lines in negative space through the hair on his chest. Boromir could barely feel them when his fingers brushed over them. There were more than a few thick, ropy scars, an angry pink one on his side and one over his shoulder that looked older. There were patches of skin that looked bleached or stained, and may have been burns, and scars that sunk into his skin like the flesh had been eaten away. Boromir found he didn't want to see his other side.
Aragorn said nothing, but gave a gentle half-smile and began to work Boromir's tunic open. His hands were quicker about it the second time around, for Boromir wore the same light elf tunic. Boromir looked back up at his face, and saw the thin scar on his lip as if for the first time. He raised his hand to trace it with his finger. "I doubt you are unmarked, Captain of Gondor," Aragorn said softly.
Boromir shivered as his tunic let in the cool night air. He let Aragorn tug it off, and Aragorn turned and picked up his own tunic from the wood floor. He ventured deeper into the little garden, and laid them carefully on what Boromir realized was a small table. Something in his mind shifted, and he stared around in wonder, suddenly able to see a whole array of furniture, so masterfully woven from the forest that he hadn't noticed any of it. Tables, beds, chairs, even a kind of shelf.
Aragorn took a small glass bottle of oil off this shelf, and Boromir could feel his heartbeat start to pick up. All at once, he knew exactly what he wanted, but not how to ask for it. Aragorn saw his anxiety, and pulled Boromir into his arms, dropping a kiss on the slope of one shoulder. His fingers skimmed lightly down Boromir's sides, up his back, along his shoulder blades. The naked touch stoked the fire in Boromir's gut momentarily banked by the shocking evidence of violence all over Aragorn's body. His hands curled around Aragorn's triceps to keep him there and squeezed.
Aragorn's breath was hot as it moved up his neck. "I want to fuck you," he murmured softly, and Boromir groaned at the casual obscenity, as relieved as he was aroused by the unabashed hunger in his tone.
"By Númenor, please," Boromir agreed. Even before the words had left his mouth, Aragorn was gently pushing him back into one of the beds and crawling between his legs. He stilled only to lay an incredibly gentle kiss on Boromir's panting open mouth, and smirk down at him. "Yes, yes, the irony is not lost on me, Ranger," he said breathlessly, and shoved him in the chest. Aragorn pulled back to unlace Boromir's trousers. Boromir pushed his hips up into the touch, seeking friction, and Aragorn shoved them back down with a chuckle.
"Bastard," Boromir bit out, and Aragorn grinned. Finally his prick was free, only for Aragorn to withdraw again. He pulled Boromir's boots off, but he did not seem to be in any hurry. Boromir yanked at his distracted grip, and Aragorn's gaze flitted back up to Boromir's face. His traitorous cock bucked up from his belly, and Aragorn's eyes darted back down, transfixed. "You enjoy my suffering," Boromir accused.
Aragorn grinned. "You are quite a sight to behold, suffering or not," he admitted. He clambered onto the bed, his own trousers still caught halfway down his thighs. He straddled Boromir and gathered their cocks together in one hand.
Boromir gasped at the intensity of it, of having the most sensitive part of him pressed tight up against Aragorn's. Aragorn seemed brought back to his senses by the noise, and sat back to wet his fingers with the oil. Boromir swore explosively when Aragorn took them both in hand again. His hot, slippery cock against Boromir's under Aragorn's strong fingers was almost too much.
"Aragorn, my—" he panted. "Please, I need…" Boromir faltered, flustered by his own need. He thrust his hips up into the circle of Aragorn's fist and choked out a moan.
Aragorn grunted and bit his lip, but didn't tighten or speed up his hand. "Tell me," he prompted gently. His chest and neck were flushed a silvery pink in the moonlight. He was so beautiful, and Boromir had thought so since the moment he had seen him. His surprise at finding a Man so obviously at home in Imladris should have been greater, except that this Man matched his surroundings in grace and beauty; it was only a different kind of loveliness than Boromir had come to expect of elves. He let himself look now as if for the first time, admiring the undeniably harsh but perfectly formed lines of his face and his careful eyes.
"Boromir," Aragorn said softly, his free hand idly sweeping along his inner thigh. "Tell me what it is you need."
Boromir's composure broke under the desire that dashed against it. He reached for Aragorn's neck and reigned him in closer. He stroked Aragorn's lip, though he wasn't thinking of the scar now. "I need you inside me," he said hoarsely. He pulled Aragorn down for a kiss, and Aragorn licked hungrily into his mouth. His fist tightened around their cocks, convulsive and frenzied, and Boromir moaned.
The sound of it was still loud and harsh in his ears when Aragorn pulled back. He finally yanked off his own boots and shoved his trousers down around his ankles. As with every time he saw the Ranger exposed, Boromir was surprised by how lean he was. The leather armor, if it could even be called armor, added much to his silhouette. But while there was less of him in bulk, Boromir knew himself at least evenly matched in strength, and he was no coddled lordling but a soldier well accustomed to hard use. Sure enough, Aragorn worked an elbow under Boromir's knee, and hoisted it up out of his way with little effort. He spilled more oil into his palm and rubbed it between his fingers. A few of his nails had been blackened in the combat in Moria, but his hands were, for once, free of dirt and grime.
All thought was banished from Boromir's mind when Aragorn stroked his slick finger in a circle around Boromir's entrance. "Oh, for the love of everything good," he pleaded, his voice a fragile, unwieldy thing in his throat. "Please, go on." When Aragorn didn't immediately comply, Boromir tried to chase the pressure, and instead of withdrawing, like he had half expected, Aragorn let him impale himself on the tip of his finger. Boromir gasped at the intensity of it, and squirmed desperately to hit the spot that made him yell.
It took him a moment to realize, understandably distracted as he was, that he was doing all the work, and Aragorn just watching with a look that grew greedier by the second. Boromir let his head fall back against the bed, panting slightly. "Fuck me, you coward," he demanded.
Aragorn raised his eyebrows in what Boromir realized only too late was a challenge. Boromir cried out and kicked when Aragorn crooked his finger and hit that electric spot not at all gently. Then he withdrew, and Boromir went limp like his strings had been cut. "Alright, Aragor—"
He arched back up off the bed when Aragorn pressed two fingers into him, slick enough but too much, too good. Boromir let out an agonized noise, his arms flung wide and braced against the bed as his whole body hummed like a taut bowstring. "Aragorn, I can't—" He bit his tongue, pride and pleasure both stopping his protest in his throat.
Aragorn leaned in close, and Boromir tried to relax, tried to let his spine straighten out. Aragorn's mouth was quirked in a small, victorious smile, but he was gentler for a few moments, fucking Boromir shallowly and slowly to acclimate his body to the intrusion. "Sometimes it's easier," Aragorn murmured, and then kissed him. They were simple kisses, imprecise dragging of mouths, for Boromir could hardly stop gasping for the breath that Aragorn drove from him with every touch. "If you've come." Boromir took a second to open his eyes and parse the words.
Just as he understood, Aragorn's free hand closed on his cock, slick and tight and perfect. "Ngh, yes," he moaned. "Please, Aragorn."
And already he could feel it coming, feel his body winding tighter and tighter, but then Aragorn began to massage the perfect spot, and Boromir's whole body stiffened. He came undone. Hot cum dripped down onto his chest, and he just kept coming, shuddering and twitching with a tortured grimace of pleasure until Aragorn eased off.
Boromir collapsed, melting back into the bed as the devastating wave of pleasure finally receded. A fresh layer of sweat was cooling on him, welling up in the back of his bent knee and collecting at the small of his back. Sure enough, his body accepted Aragorn's fingers more easily now. He still felt full, but no longer like he might tear at the seams. He blinked away sweat and noticed Aragorn staring down at him without any of the earlier challenge or even most of the hunger. All Boromir saw was affection, and the evident enjoyment of another's pleasure.
"It is well that we are not on the road," Aragorn chuckled. "Or in the Mines. You would have brought three Balrogs down upon us."
Boromir narrowed his eyes. "What?"
Aragorn leaned down over him, smiling. "I may as well have blown the Horn of Gondor," he murmured against Boromir's mouth, laughter in his voice, and kissed him before he could do more than splutter.
Despite the insult, Boromir welcomed the kiss, sucking Aragorn's tongue into his mouth and pulling his hair to angle their heads so he could kiss deeper, wetter, harder. He reached for Aragorn's cock and found it harder than ever, twitching at his touch. Aragorn's breath hitched when Boromir took him in hand, and all at once he seemed to remember what they were doing.
Aragorn eyed the mess on Boromir's stomach and swiped it up with his fingers as he moved back down Boromir's body. He looked slyly up at Boromir, who groaned when he used it to ease the passage of another finger.
"Filthy," Boromir admonished, his voice wrecked.
Aragorn pressed three fingers deep into him, and Boromir's thighs shuddered with the effort of keeping still. Belatedly, his own moans registered in his ears, and Boromir covered his face with his arm, as much to hide his reddening face as to muffle his cries.
Aragorn only laced his fingers between Boromir's and gently uncovered his face. "Do not hide your pleasure from me," he murmured before pressing a soft kiss to his mouth. "I take equal pleasure in it."
Boromir's breath caught in his chest, and he thought for a moment that he might cry. Never had any of his partners behaved thus, and he had not known that he wanted them to. Boromir knew that he was a man quick and strong to anger, but also to joy and despair and every emotion in between, and he was often overwhelmed by them. He was well accustomed to hiding his true feelings, or the strength of them, in the throes of intimacy.
"Boromir," Aragorn said in gentle surprise. "Surely you have shared a bed with someone who wished to see you satisfied."
"Satisfied? Yes," Boromir said. "You are trying to drive me mad with pleasure."
"Are you so quick to madness?" Aragorn teased, rubbing that sweet spot inside Boromir so that he twitched and swore.
Aragorn abruptly withdrew his fingers, and Boromir gasped at the sudden emptiness. Aragorn slicked his cock and swiped it down the cleft of Boromir's arse.
Boromir reached for Aragorn's arm. "Will you—could we—" Here he faltered. He rolled over towards the center of the bed and looked back over his shoulder.
Aragorn's face softened, and he climbed into the bed to fit himself among the lines of Boromir's body, both of them slick with sweat. Aragorn snaked an arm around his chest to pull him back against his chest. His knee nudged Boromir's legs open and his prick smacked against Boromir's thigh. Aragorn reached down to guide his cock, and they both gasped raggedly as the head of his cock finally disappeared into him.
Boromir let out a shuddering groan, drunk on the intensity of it even before Aragorn had fully seated himself. He arched into it, trying to take more of him, but Aragorn would hear nothing of hurrying. He hoisted Boromir's leg up to keep him from moving his hips, and Boromir whined in ecstatic protest.
Aragorn gave Boromir's shoulder a warning bite, but slowly started to push deeper. Boromir began swearing, something more like poetry than abuse, although he would have vehemently denied that characterization. Aragorn stilled, shaking, when he had buried himself to the hilt, and Boromir let out a shattered breath of a moan.
Aragorn slipped his free hand under Boromir's neck and across his chest and pulled him close, nosing at his cheek. "Boromir," he murmured, and he sounded almost as wrecked as Boromir felt.
After a moment Boromir reached back and dug his fingers into his arse. "Move, damn you," he pleaded. Aragorn left one more kiss on his shoulder, and Boromir thought he could feel a smile, before hoisting Boromir's leg even higher and starting to fuck him in earnest.
Oh, by all the Valar, it had been so long. Boromir had not given his body the satisfaction of any but its most basic needs in long enough, and it was even longer since he had felt the touch of another. The last several times he had found himself in intimate company, the affair had been a hurried, furtive thing, and there had been neither time nor privacy enough for more than a quick, mostly clothed fumble.
In short, Boromir had not been properly fucked in well over a year, and Aragorn seemed able to read the wordless signs of mortal bodies as well as those of the earth. Every time he hit that secret place inside Boromir, he seemed to know by his body's reaction alone, and he chased it until his every plunge into Boromir's body made him curse and plead and moan.
Boromir didn't realize he was hard again until Aragorn took his cock in hand. He barely had to do anything for Boromir to thrash, an ecstatic struggle to free himself from Aragorn's limbs that he did not want to win.
"Aragorn," he gasped, his voice breaking. "Aragorn, please."
Aragorn pulled Boromir close with the arm slung under his neck. His fingers dug into Boromir's shoulder, and there was just the slightest pressure on his neck. Boromir moaned and arched into the pressure at both ends, and Aragorn's hand loosened on his cock.
"No," Boromir sobbed. "Please, Aragorn, please, my king."
Aragorn shuddered noticeably against his back at the title, which was the only reason Boromir realized he had spoken it. The furtive thrill of something secret spied upon by another spiked his blood, and he reached back to grasp a handful of Aragorn's hair. "Please, I am so close," he pleaded, his voice shaking. "Aragorn."
Aragorn huffed out a groan and bit down on Boromir's shoulder as if to stifle the noise. His fist tightened around Boromir once more, and Boromir arched and shattered, assaulted on every side by safety and pleasure and warmth. He felt Aragorn's hips stop thrusting so much as shaking, and Boromir's wrecked throat tried to moan again at the rush of heat deep inside him. He fucked himself slowly back on Aragorn's pulsing cock, and Aragorn could do little more than hiss as it wrung yet more pleasure from his body.
They both sagged all at once, sinking back into the soft bed. Aragorn pulled Boromir tightly against him, nothing but sweat separating their bodies. Aragorn laid his face against Boromir's neck, and his slowing breath clung to his skin like a wet blanket.
It was more than just condensation, Boromir realized as wetness trickled down his neck, making him shiver. "Aragorn?" he asked softly. It came out barely a whisper, for he had shouted himself hoarse.
Aragorn just pressed a kiss to his neck. "Thank you," he said softly. His voice was heavy with sadness, but not unspent. It was the peaceful kind of grief that followed tears.
Boromir turned in his arms. Aragorn's wet eyes met his without a hint of shame, and Boromir, rather than flounder for clumsy words, took his face in his hands and kissed him softly. Aragorn knotted his fingers in Boromir's sweat-curled hair, but returned the kiss as gently as it was given.
Aragorn pressed their foreheads together when exhaustion finally dragged the kiss to a stop. He traced Boromir's lip with his thumb.
"You are worth knowing," he said softly, and he did not have to explain that he spoke of more than just this night.