The fire was burning
low in the early morning hour, hardly more than a glimmer of
red coals in the darkness. Snow was still falling, a
scattering of tiny flakes settling on the blanket-draped
mounds that surrounded what was left of the fire. The
largest mound was closest, a pile of Hobbits buried together
with only tufts of hair visible. Next was Gandalf, and he
too was buried in his blankets, his hat pulled low on his
head to offer whatever protection it could.
Furthest from the fire were the Men, who slept warily and
with their swords close at hand. Or sometimes, like now, not
at all.
Still wrapped in a shell of blankets, Boromir was leaning
against an outcropping of rock and trying very hard to
remain silent, a difficult task with Aragorn beneath the
blankets, doing things with his tongue that Boromir had
never before imagined.
Biting his own tongue, Boromir clutched at Aragorn's
shoulder, resisting the urge to grab the back of his head
and simply push him down, to force him to stop this
merciless teasing. A soft flicker of tongue, of fingertips,
over the crown of his shaft had him hissing for breath and
he arched up hard, once, Aragorn riding out his movements
easily before pressing him insistently back down.
Such a wicked mouth, he thought hazily, incredibly hot, and
he had been with courtesans who were not so skilled as this.
His hands had found their way into Aragorn's hair, clenching
tightly, and he forced himself to relax, petting gently
instead.
It was not uncommon for soldiers to seek a little relief in
the arms of their comrades; indeed, Boromir had done it
before a time or two. But that was hardly more than a rough
hand slipped inside the others breeches and a few minutes of
earnest stroking, certainly nothing like this. He would have
been appalled at the very suggestion of more...was it only a
week ago?
This was not something he would have ever considered doing
with one of the men of the guard, but Aragorn had proven to
be very...persuasive... when he wanted something. And he did
want this; that was obvious. Never
did he ask for the favor to be returned, never had he
insisted on more than the touch of Boromir's hand and yet
Boromir was finding he was tempted...though perhaps not this
morning. The Hobbits would be stirring soon, as would
Gandalf, and Boromir would as soon they finish this before
that rather than after.
A single flake of snow fell on the tip of his nose and
Boromir tried to shake it away, reluctant the release his
hold on Aragorn. There was a heady power in this, in knowing
exactly whom this was on his knees before him, sucking
gently, and then stronger, varied pressure that had Boromir
sweating even in this chill, struggling to remain silent.
Legolas was sitting across from them, far enough away to be
little more than a shadow. The Elf did not sleep, Boromir
knew, and it had taken him some time to grow accustomed to
that. A creature that did not sleep seemed terribly
unnatural to him; it had made him wary and falling asleep
himself had been difficult, knowing he was being watched.
After a time it had become almost a comfort, though
certainly not at this moment.
The sharp edge of teeth against his skin drew a muffled cry
from Boromir even as Aragorn lapped softly at the abused
skin, easing the tiny pain. It was too much, too close, need
almost a pulse within him and Boromir could stand it no
longer.
"Please, do not draw it out," he whispered, uncaring whether
Legolas heard him or not, and suddenly he knew why Aragorn
enjoyed this so. Any power he had thought to have was only
deception, an illusion of dominance; it was Aragorn who
truly held the reins in this ride, and finally Boromir let
go, gasping and pushing upward as he spent himself into
Aragorn's greedy mouth.
Aragorn's touch gentled, soothing him as he shook with the
aftermath of release, and after a moment he shifted upward
until he was straddling Boromir. Hardly visible in the
dimness, but Boromir raised a hand to Aragorn's cheek
regardless, finding his lips by touch alone. His own mouth
followed the path of his fingertips and he met Aragorn's
lips with his own, the taste hot and bitter against his own
cold lips. He felt Aragorn smile and knew without sight that
there was triumph within it.
So he would master me like this, Boromir thought, already
reaching for the ties of Aragorn's breeches. Or perhaps not,
and it was not long before Aragorn was choking on tiny
sounds of his own, eager and nearly too loud in the soft
hush caused by the snow.
-Finis-
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