There was a peculiar beauty
in a man on his knees. Spine curved in uneasy submission,
muscles quivering as though he might yet leap to his feet
and scuttle away. Some measure of courage held him in his
place and Aragorn smiled to see it.
Boromir's skin was paler in the moonlight, a shade of ivory
that was never revealed in the golden daylight and it made
the dark cloth binding his wrists appear stark, the deep red
of an old wound. He had cut the strip of velvet himself,
from the hem of Boromir's tunic. It was long enough that the
scant amount he stole was of no concern. He had sewn the
rough edge as well, with Boromir's eyes watching him thread
neat stitches through the fabric and never once had he
questioned it.
Perhaps Boromir regretted the trust he had given or perhaps
it had not been trust at all, and only wary curiosity had
stayed his tongue.
Aragorn busied his own tongue with other things, licking a
stripe of wetness over the tender skin exposed to him and
delighted as Boromir writhed luxuriously in sweet, silent
protest.
"Where is it that you learned these foul things?" Boromir
gasped, yet his voice was weak and he did not plead with him
to stop.
"Hold your tongue or I shall hold mine." His voice teased
but his words did not, and he waited until the quiet
swearing was finished and Boromir was once again still.
Such charming vulnerability in his resentful compliance and
Aragorn did not allow him to sense his smile as he leaned in
again. He parted the sensitive cleft with his thumbs and
swept his tongue over the pinkish skin hidden in ivory,
pressing his tongue into the muscle until it gave, licking
him open and feeling him quiver beneath his tongue.
He remained utterly silent and Aragorn wondered if he was
biting his lip, teeth pinching delicate skin until it split
and let a tiny ribbon of crimson trail downward. He vowed to
check later and if he had, he would lick that color away to
keep it from tainting the whiteness of Boromir's skin.
Muscles were jumping beneath Aragorn's fingertips, the only
sign of a reaction, and he probed deeper with his tongue,
pressing his face into the cleft and letting his beard
abrade the inflamed skin.
It was enough to gift him with a sound, nearly a sob.
Boromir's hands were clenched into fists and Aragorn lifted
his head enough to watch the knuckles whiten, his tongue
moving in slippery little circles and he wanted to see more,
wanted this man to be helpless, to cast aside his pride and
beg.
It would not take very long, he knew, and then he would take
him, press his flesh into Boromir's freshly eager body and
though he might break this Man's pride, he never would allow
him to lose the courage that kept him here, allowed no shame
or dishonor. It would be in Boromir's eyes in the mornings,
an arrogance that Aragorn would never wish to see broken,
not for so little as one sultry evening of lovemaking.
He plied his tongue over sensitive folds of skin, waiting
for tightly clenched flesh to loosen for him, for soft words
of pleading, and then he would take what was his.
-Finis-
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