It was rough and chill and desperate when Boromir lost his patience and
darted forwards, nudging his mouth against Aragorn's, and it was rough and
salty when Aragorn kissed him back, like the unbridled flicker of flames.
Aragorn's mouth opened like it was natural and appropriate and good to put
their differences aside on a sleepless night.
At last, he thought: this is who you are, and then he pushed all
that aside because Aragorn's hands were fevered in his hair, clenching and
trembling, and this felt too valuable to risk wasting on deliberation. Just
too exquisitely delicate, the sleek feeling of Aragorn easing his whole body
closer, their mouths fitting together, working in a silent eloquence. This
man knew it, knew their discreet isolation without needing to be
warned. They had a shared knowledge, it felt like; that of temperance and
hopeless need and no corner of Middle Earth to escape to except inside their
own heads. Sometimes, not even there.
Between them, then. They could forge a new space, one where blood flowed
frantic through delight rather than rage. The taste of Aragorn's mouth was
addictive, but there was no crime in that, not tonight.
He wondered if he should worry that a curious hobbit might see them, but
they had been asleep when Aragorn had said, "We should scout the road
ahead, before dawn," and slept on while Boromir gazed for three long
heartbeats before ducking his head, accepting to everything that lay between
them. Legolas had been watching when he looked up again, but any judgement
his eyes was eclipsed by backlight from the fire, and he merely nodded when
the men got to their feet. He'd wake Gimli if there was any trouble, he'd
assured them. Take as much time as they needed.
"We won't be long," Aragorn had said softly, making the warmth
rising in Boromir's stomach dash cold again, and then Aragorn had steered
him away from the fire with an unnecessary hand, and Boromir had relaxed
again. No pain to accept, tonight.
They'd found the road, but there was little to apply themselves to, and
Aragorn's words had echoed in his head more empty than ever. Entirely an
excuse, Boromir had realised, the undeniable sweetness of it making his
muscles clench uneasily. Even suspecting it didn't prepare him for
knowing it, and even now, with Aragorn humming breathless against his
tongue, he still couldn't swear it was real.
That cold panic sliced back into his stomach when Aragorn's mouth tensed
against his lips, when the hands in his hair seemed to want him to retreat
rather than encroach, and then Aragorn was murmuring, "no, sir, brother,
brother," and his mouth was merely working along Boromir's jaw, coaxing him
to tip his head back, restless flashes of tongue and teeth igniting bright
in Boromir's skin.
Dangerous, a man's teeth at your throat.
Dangerous, and other things.
The folds of Aragorn's cloak were rich and damp beneath Boromir's hands,
the strength of the hithlain familiar now that it had kept him dry three
nights. He could have kissed Galadriel, dressing them in that fine cloth.
Not least, it was easier to imagine they shared.
It had kept him comfortable, too - substantially warmer than a man lying
alone ought to be, sleeping on the ground with thoughts that could chill him
right through. Tonight would be better, with memories of this warm flesh
settled in his mind, dull coals needing the faintest breath to glow again.
Lord, he thought, wrenching Aragorn as close as their armour would let
him, my lord, hearing Aragorn panting in his ear, licking his neck,
the heat of his mouth springing a dark joy in Boromir's stomach. It was
time, was good; Aragorn's hips fitted into his hands when he found them
beneath the cloak; Aragorn's fists tightened at the nape of Boromir's neck
as Aragorn exhaled a tremor that slid a snaketrail down Boromir's spine.
"My lord," Boromir heard himself whisper, lifting his hips to press them
into Aragorn's, and Aragorn ground back and murmured something against the
neck of Boromir's tunic, teeth pressing like a warm blade of bone.
He thought about asking him to repeat it, but stayed quiet, because
Aragorn's fingers were moving at his neck, and the heat of his mouth was
faltering. Don't stop, Boromir thought, breathing hard, ashamed with his own
vehemence. Not now.
Their sword-belts made a muted thud in the grass, and Boromir realised
Aragorn had done that, had dropped that weight from their shoulders,
disarming them. Freedom, Boromir thought wryly, but it was chased by
the strangest suspicion that Aragorn was putting distortion between this
moment and the rest of their lives.
He shuddered, tightening his grip on Aragorn's waist, wanting it
material, solid, real - and then Aragorn was sinking, his torso
sliding through Boromir's desperate hands, his fists unfolding to curve
against the flat of Boromir's hipbones instead.
Inhaling shivers, Boromir looked down, saw a king on his knees on the
dirty moss and rock, the lank scrawl of Aragorn's hair caught damp in his
Aragorn's face tilted up, well-shadowed under this cloud-swaddled sky,
and his lips moved, a plea that Boromir could not hear. It was enough,
enough to spur one hand to push open buttons as the other palmed helplessly
at the back of Aragorn's head, but Boromir still wished he could have heard
it, been able to secrete another fragment of good memory away.
"Lord," he said again, instead, almost a prayer although there were no
higher powers left to adore. An even light caught in Aragorn's eyes as his
lips parted reverently, and Boromir leaned forwards, his breath gliding out
of him as Aragorn took him into his mouth. Then those lashes folded closed
and it was a different moment altogether.
Boromir almost swayed, his heel sinking into thick sedge to anchor him.
His fingertips brushed each other in their clutch of Aragorn's hair. He
pushed forwards, inside, and felt the grateful acquiescence of Aragorn's
mouth, like a slippery piece of magic that bound his brain to his crotch and
sewed heat endlessly through his skin.
At last, his brain chanted. My lord, at last. He did not want to
say it but it was hard to keep quiet, impossible to control his hips and his
voice at the same time. He started whispering helplessly, invoking, relieved
to hear himself only using Aragorn's name as a curse and then, over and
over, a plea. In his silence, Aragorn would have more memories to secret
away, Boromir realised, more tiny jewels to brighten dark caves, but he
couldn't resent him that, not when his blood was pounding so sweetly through
It started raining, a steady slick chill against his face and neck,
against his knuckles as they knotted Aragorn's hair. The wind picked up and
pushed Boromir's own hair back from his cheeks, causing a different caste of
shivers to scurry over his skin.
The cold on his face made him feel naked in a way that Aragorn's mouth,
even like this, would not. The cold on damp, exposed collarbones sent
thrills through him, and he wanted to throw his hands wide, to shout
defiance to the sky, and then Aragorn was letting him in deeper, and he
needed his hands there, and the moment passed because this was good and
warm, good and warm and infused with human corruption.
It was opulent, almost, the slide of it - opulent and luxuriant, and
sleek, getting sleeker the more he submitted his control, until he
was pushing insistently and feeling Aragorn's hands scrabble and grasp in
response, those broken fingernails leaving bright rivers of silver across
the curve of his back. No protest, though, not tonight. His breath stuttered
into a low hiss as the edge reared close, and then Aragorn was pulling him
in deep as Boromir started to twitch and shudder - serviced by a king, my
king - swallowing him and nuzzling the base of his stomach with his
nose, making Boromir gasp and groan as loud as he dared.
A staggered flash of it, ah. Molten mythril raced through his veins,
splendid and beautiful and devastating like dark sorcery, and then he was
sinking boneless to his knees, tipping Aragorn's face back with both hands,
kissing his hot mouth with dreamlike exhilaration.
He wanted to proclaim something, to tell this man - something,
something about allegiance or faith, or love, if all else failed. The salt
lingering on Aragorn's tongue burnt through Boromir's mouth, firing his own
desire somewhere deeper, sacred now. "Let me," he said, breathlessly, "let
me, something for you," his hands roaming helplessly across Aragorn's broad
shoulders, feeling the urgent strength of him, "anything. Choose. I want you
His palm closed around something hard against the warm silk of Aragorn's
throat, something like diamonds densely packed, warm from being worn ever
against the skin, as Aragorn muttered, "just, your hand," and then, like a
moan, into his mouth, "Boromir."
"Just my hand," Boromir said, fear rising from the satiation in his
stomach, a fear he hadn't noticed gathering. Aragorn tensed at his words,
and his kiss turned uncertain. Boromir bit his lower lip sharply in passing,
ignoring the sparkle that shimmered in him when Aragorn gasped.
He nudged Aragorn's chin up roughly with his thumb, a soft ache behind
his ribs bursting bright and acid as he saw the unmistakable ice-white
jewels of the elves, the curves denoting immortality around this
"A pretty trinket," he said distinctly, and it sounded like a curse.
Aragorn twisted free of the hand at his jaw and faced him neutrally. Boromir
couldn't stand that, couldn't stand that he'd almost professed a soul's
truth to a man who used him for favours while his elf bride rode other
paths. "Beautiful." He tightened his fist, pulling until the fine chain must
have been biting into Aragorn's skin, a searing score across the nape of his
neck. "And it won't snap, will it? Forged by elves."
"Boromir," Aragorn whispered, and that was the plea of earlier, in the
eyes and now the voice. It was fiercely distressing that he couldn't take
comfort in hearing it now, couldn't store it away unsoured.
"I must sleep now," he said, and then, "it is a pity," relentlessly,
"that these fine antics couldn't continue," and then reached down cruelly
and cupped the firm heat at Aragorn's crotch, "but I'm sure that memories of
your beloved will aid you with this. Or will she come if you summon her,
your Tinuviel, ride to rescue you from yourself?"
Aragorn knocked his hand away, his eyes flashing fury. "Don't speak of
her like that."
"But she has bound herself to you," Boromir said, recklessly sweet. The
ache of it was pounding, a messy agony playing in his chest. "I wonder that
you are ever parted from her. I would have thought that you would
want to make use of that body while it was still fresh to the touch."
Aragorn's hand rose sharply, and Boromir saw the flicker through his eyes
as his fingers closed around the space that used to hold the hilt of his
sword. No, Boromir thought. You removed that when you were
dropping to your knees.
"I do not see her in the manner you suggest," Aragorn said curtly,
settling his hand with undue diligence back on his thigh, "and I'd never
treat her so--"
"Forgive my mistake," Boromir murmured. "You save that treatment for me."
Aragorn flinched, then held still. "She is my beloved," he said,
eventually. "But you--"
Boromir got to his feet. His chest ached - probably from the japes with
the hobbits yesterday he decided, he decided, improving their swing. "I have
to sleep." The words tasted of dirt.
Aragorn looked up at him, silver-tongued pain in his eyes. Boromir looked
away. An incubus is useless if you don't gaze upon them long enough to be
ensnared. "Boromir," Aragorn said, and then, lower, "brother."
"Brother-in-arms," Boromir corrected, taking a step back, then slowly,
like he'd trained himself, turning away.
"It's different love, but love nonetheless," Aragorn said quietly, behind
The incubus' talent is to find a weakness and mine it, Boromir told
himself. A dwarf of the finer emotions, and detestable with it. Yes.
He waited until he heard Aragorn get to his feet behind him, then walked
forwards carefully, subtle in the silent landscape. When he heard Aragorn's
tread behind him, he picked up the pace. The rain was still sheeting down.
He wanted to get back to the warmth of the fire.