Aragorn watches entranced as Boromir strips for him, lays himself bare to the gaze of his king.
There are marks, yes, but they can hardly be called scars. Aragorn touches them wonderingly, kisses them, still terrified that this might not be true.
Boromir steadies himself against the wall, remembers his sailing days in Dol Amroth when the newly-greeted shore would rise up and tilt beneath his feet. This is landfall he never thought to make.
Aragorn’s lips are tender against his flesh, the course they thread leading inevitably downward. He does not hide his gasp as they reach their goal.
Boromir sways again, almost staggers from the intensity of it all, and Aragorn pulls away, concerned.
‘Come!’ he whispers, offering both hands as he stands, moving towards the large chair. Boromir is grateful both for the seat and the care being taken of him.
But before he can sit he is held close once more, a nervous whispered plea, one place more that would be tasted… There is no hesitation in granting the request.
A pillow filched from the bed and Aragorn kneels cushioned from the hard floor, worshipping the glorious vision before him, strokes his warrior’s strong buttocks, marvelling at their strength, the ripple of muscle beneath taut skin. He kisses, licks, adores every inch, first left, then right, takes his time.
Takes his time because he can hardly dare to believe that Boromir is gladly offering him what he so desires, to explore the deepest secret of Gondor’s finest. Finally he can resist no longer, reveals to himself the object of his lust.
It is more beautiful than he ever dreamed possible.
So tiny, dusky pink, sweetly puckered, so very, very tempting…
One tiny touch of tongue-tip is all he allows himself, for anticipation is everything.
He continues to kiss, slowly gently, covering every inch of soft skin, then retraces his ground with long licks that memorise the territory. Tiny skin tags, a flush of freckles, fine hairs that he persuades to lay wet and straight and dark against the pale.
Finally he allows the flat of his tongue to rest, to press against the place where it belongs. Finally he savours the taste he has so longed for. Flesh quickens beneath his touch and he laps tenderly against its quivering. The first of Boromir’s moans is the sweetest music, and he times his ministrations in counterpoint to their rhythm.
Aragorn draws back to view again for he cannot help but stare. A moistened fingertip against the opening and it shudders, pulses, craves his control. To feel that movement beneath his tongue, to know that Boromir is his, his own, a willing subject to his lust…
‘Perfect’ he murmurs.
Fingers trace the outline before his tongue attempts a firmer assault. Slowly he pushes its wet tip inwards, tiny thrusts coaxing reluctant muscles to relax and relent.
The tongue works its way inwards, laving and loosening. Aragorn breaks to bite its tip with his back teeth to make his mouth water, offers moisture to hot velvet, and at that he savours at last the full taste of his warrior.
Boromir shudders and moans loudly.
‘No! Please!’
Dismayed, Aragorn pulls back, soothing the trembling body with swift hands.
‘My love? Do I hurt you?’
‘My knees…’
Aragorn cannot help but smile at the realisation that Boromir’s knees are now firmly – and quite uncomfortably – wedged into the sides of the chair. The predicament brings a surprisingly welcome respite from the growing intensity of their situation, and Aragorn presses a laughing face against Boromir’s solid back.
‘Time to find somewhere more comfortable’ he suggests, easing Boromir from his prison and guiding him towards the bed. He slips out of his own remaining clothing, rescues the pillow to snuggle it under Boromir’s hips before laying his beloved down prostrate and massages cramped legs.
He wishes he had some oil to smooth over the warm skin. And over other places too. He wonders whether Boromir will let him resume, yet cannot find the words to ask. Hands wander up thighs, thighs that willingly part, and Aragorn knows the answer to his unspoken question has been given.
They shuffle and shift until a fitting rightness is found, and Aragorn slowly yet determinedly goes back to work. Thighs offer a fresh and inviting route to his goal. He nips and licks his way, teasing himself as much as his victim.
Boromir is so much more relaxed now, his breathing deepening into the regularity of a one who has dropped into a place where few can reach him. This trust is amazing. Aragorn learns of himself anew as he explores Boromir for the first time.
Again the agile tongue works its way inwards. The dark, dangerous musk is addictive, intoxicating, and Aragorn is overcome. He grasps at Boromir’s buttocks, pushes him upwards, feasts upon his flesh. He cannot get enough and must ravish, must ravage, to get his fill. Carnal, animal, totally depraved.
He is moaning himself now, his mouth passionate in ever way, crazed by Boromir’s thrusting back to meet him. Never could he have imagined such ecstasy. He is drugged and delirious and unable to stop and it is glory beyond reckoning.
His tongue is buried to the root, he’s searching for that spot, that spot… He feels the juddering spasm rip through Boromir a split-second before he hears his cry, tongue reaching as far as it can into the tight heat, searches again, finds again.
‘Take me!’
It’s little more than a groan.
‘By the Valar, Aragorn! Take me!’
Ultimate temptation, ultimate pleasure.
‘Gods! You’re so open and so wet, but still I would hurt you …’
‘Need to feel the burn, the pain, to know that I’m alive again and that you’re inside me. Do it.’
His cock is leaking copious fluids and that will have to do, along with all the spittle he can summon. Still he fears that it will not suffice, but Boromir’s pleading is growing ragged and his demands send bolts of lust straight to Aragorn’s groin, completely bypassing his brain.
He rubs the head of his cock against the pulsing opening then guides it into place and begins to thrust. Once, twice… He knows Boromir’s pain from the cries that ring around the room but does not – cannot - stop.
‘Take it.’ he growls, grasping Boromir’s hips roughly, forcing himself deep within. ‘Take it. All of it.’
Muscles constrict around his hardness and he sneaks a hand around to claim Boromir’s own cock, working at it in time with his thrusts, balls and belly slapping against that beautiful arse.
Head thrown back now, Aragorn sobs his shuddering release as Boromir’s orgasm grips him tight and they collapse together back down upon the bed. The clutch upon hips loosens but does not leave. He cannot bear not to be touching this amazing, wonderful, living, man.
‘I’m alive…’ Boromir’s shuddering whisper echoes Aragorn’s own rambling thoughts.
Heated skin begins to cool and slowly they rescue covers and pillows, wriggle themselves into a much-needed nest, and the last thing Boromir knows before sleep takes him is the gentle brush of Aragorn’s lips upon his brow.
Summary: The working title for this was 'Raggy's Rimfest', so you can assume that involves lots of rimming.
Rated: NC-17
Categories: LOTR FPS Pairing: None
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 1217 Read: 712
Published: 02 Aug 2009 Updated: 02 Aug 2009