Resolution.

by Jay Tryfanstone (tryfanstone)

Summary:

Book continuity, film imagery. Resolution.

'What news from the South, O sighing wind, do you bring to me at eve?
Where now is Boromir the Fair? He tarries and I grieve.'

 

It was late. Lanterns still hung in Rivendell’s halls, but few now paced beneath the spreading trees. One man walked there, long-legged and limber in the darkness. In his hands he carried a bottle: two glasses held in one elegant and scarred hand. It was not far, from Elrond’s chambers to the tall door where he paused and knocked. Received no answer, but the door yielded to his raised hand. Inside, one candle burnt low beside the great bed.

"What?" said the bed’s occupant, rising startled from the twisted bedcovers.

"It seemed to me," said Aragorn, walking to the side of the bed and setting his burden on the table. "That it was an entirely different kind of wrestling you had in mind, this morning."

Silence.

Aragorn laid one hand on the fastening of his green cloak.

"Was I wrong?"

The grey eyes meeting his had widened, the dark pupils expanding. So. He was not wrong. Long fingers undid his cloak, unfurled it. His hands were steady still: the belt came next, and then the tunic over his head and he stood in the light of single candle, torso bared. The bed’s occupant found his voice.

"Is this...what I think it is?"

Aragorn smiled, very slowly. "Didn’t you realise all you had to do..was ask?"

"Ahh." Momentarily discomposed, Boromir had regained his poise. The muscular, bare body relaxed, and the man of Gondor moved back to lean back against the piled cushions at the bed head.

Aragorn sat, neatly, in the vacated space and reached for his boots. "Are you sure?" he asked, amusement quirking one corner of his mouth. "There is still time to stop with your dignity intact."

"Fuck my dignity," Boromir said. His voice had roughened his eyes intent on Aragorn’s slow and deliberate hands.

He got a smile for that. "And yourself?" Aragorn’s tone was light.

Boromir’s answering smile was spiced with a definite challenge. "Now that...let’s see how this goes, ranger."

"Ahh." Aragorn had placed the boots carefully to one side. He stood, his hands on the fastening of his leggings, aware of Boromir’s heating gaze. "So it’s not beneath your dignity to play with commoners, Son of Gondor?"

"Not commoners as..pretty..as yourself, ranger."

"Hmm." One deft movement and the leggings were on the floor. Aragorn stretched, candlelight outlining every honed muscle. "Pretty...is not the word I would have chosen."

"No? Come here, ranger, let me show you what I mean."

"Not quite yet." One swift movement and Aragorn stripped back the covering, revealing a definitely aroused body. The ranger hummed in appreciation: gilded muscle stretching over a broad frame, skin dusted with golden hair, a broad and hard cock rising from a dusky tangle of hair. Between his spread legs, Boromir’s ballsac hung heavy and inviting.

"Like what you see?"

"I can live with it. For tonight."

Boromir laughed. "You don’t pull your punches, ranger, in any combat?"

Aragorn moved to kneel between Boromir’s spread legs.

"It was more of a dance that I was considering," he said, running his nails lightly up the inside of the muscular thighs. Boromir tensed under his touch, his eyes intent.

"I never classed you as a soldier’s mate."

Aragorn ran one leisurely finger across the soft skin of Boromir’s scrotum, feeling the flesh wrinkle and tighten under his touch.

"It was a rough wooing, Gondor mine."

Boromir grinned, a smile that was as much wolf as man. "You’re a hard man to get close to, ranger."

"Not here and now," Aragorn ran the rough edge of his thumb nail along the risen seam of Boromir’s cock, was rewarded with a sharp indrawn breath.

"You’ve done this before."

Aragorn slid one hand under Boromir’s weighted, warm scrotum, rolling the two soft balls in his hand with just enough pressure. Ran the fingers of his other hand around the crowning head of Boromir’s cock, spreading pre-cum across the crimson flesh.

"Aiee, Ranger."

Aragorn, smiled, slowly, meeting the grey eyes that opened into his own. "You should have considered this further, Gondor. I mean to be liege-lord before I’m done."

"Never." The Westerner’s answering smile was feral. He shifted, moving towards the man kneeling between his thighs, but as he moved Aragorn bent his head and took the full length of the soldier’s weighty cock into his mouth. Boromir gasped. Heat. Devastating heat. Moisture. Steady, enveloping heat, moisture, pressure, blackness. Still. He opened his eyes. Candlelight glinted across the taut muscles of Aragorn’s back, his black, tangled hair falling across Boromir’s own golden-furred thighs. His head was lowered, eyelashes short and dark across the pale skin of his face. Still. Boromir’s body demanded friction: his lungs demanded air, and he took one gasping breath, tightening his muscles, trying to move up into that welcoming heat. Fingernails twisted into his balls. Pain, this time, and he gasped again, watching through narrowed, blurred eyes as Aragorn’s head rose, his rough tongue steady on the raised vein as he released Boromir’s aching cock.

"I warned you," The ranger said. "Hush, now." He lowered his head again, licked fire across the tip of Boromir’s cock, teased at the tight, straining folds of foreskin. He took his time. The warning hand on Boromir’s balls held the bigger man steady, but sweat rose on the golden skin: he was panting, hands tightening on the sheets, tension running through his body.

"Just do it again." His voice was harsh.

"What, this?" Aragorn ran a slow, branding caress around the head of Boromir’s cock, teased the little slit that opened for him, oozing salty liquid.

"Yes. No. Shit, just stick it in your mouth."

"Like this?" Aragorn enclosed the weeping, swollen head of Boromir’s cock in his mouth for a brief second, flicking the open slit. And released.

"More."

Aragorn swept his tongue across the swollen skin. "More what?"

"Fuck’s sake, ranger."

Aragorn laughed, swirled the westerner’s cock with his tongue. "More what?"

"More please. You bastard."

"I’ll take that for now," Aragorn dipped his head again, taking the long length of Boromir’s hard erection into his mouth, keeping a steadying pressure on the westerner’s balls. Boromir was not going to be coming any time soon. Not something the westerner had worked out, by the sudden pressure of the man’s hands on his head, tangling in his hair.

"That’s so good, ranger." Speech came slowly: glancing up, Aragorn could see Boromir’s face flushing, the heave of his chest: the man’s eyes watching as Aragorn took the full length of cock into his throat. Boromir groaned, his hands tightening as Aragorn began to move his mouth, slowly, up and down that hard shaft, tongue caressing as he went. Careless, Boromir tried another thrust into that tormenting warmth and was stilled by a vicious twist to his balls.

‘Not yet, my beauty,’ thought Aragorn. ‘We’ve plenty of time.’ Oh yes, he wanted Boromir all right: wanted him spread and helpless and begging. Some things have to be paid for.

Boromir’s muscles were tightening unconsciously now, sweat lying slick on his skin. He groaned, rising again against that restraining hand. Aragorn settled into his own, slow, pacing, took a firm hold at the base of the westerner’s cock.

"Ah, ranger, so good."

Aragorn smiled around the swollen flesh, allowing his teeth to scrape, very lightly, at the ring of crown and foreskin. Above him, he heard Boromir’s suppressed gasp, soothed the flesh with his tongue, lowered his head again, a long, slow tormenting friction, just not enough pressure, holding the westerner on the edge of arousal.

"More." Boromir’s voice came harsh through gritted teeth.

"Hmm?" Vibration that shuddered through Boromir’s body.

"More. Please."

For one second Aragorn released his restraining hands, took one more slow stroke of Boromir’s cock with his mouth, letting the bigger man rise to that pressure, his hands grasping painfully at Aragorn’s head. Enough. With Boromir’s hips off the bed, it was an easy matter to slip his hands under the other man’s back, beneath his legs. Releasing the swollen cock, Aragorn flipped the big man over, ducking under one powerful and suddenly flailing thigh, holding Boromir in place with the strength of his arms and upper body. Startled, Boromir grabbed for purchase on the bed, trying to throw Aragorn off, but the ranger held him steady.

"Shh," Aragorn soothed. "Shh." His weight rested on his arms, holding Boromir’s outstretched: as the westerner stilled beneath him, he lowered his chest to lie on Boromir’s back, running a mobile tongue across the back of Boromir’s neck. "Come, warrior, you wanted to play." He blew on the dampened skin, and was rewarded with Boromir’s shudder beneath him.

"Don’t get any ideas, ranger," Boromir growled beneath him.

Unseen, Aragorn smiled again. Set his teeth into the tough muscle of Boromir’s shoulder, sucked. Boromir groaned, his body softening in surrender. "See," Aragorn chided. "Trust me."

"Really."

But Boromir lay still as Aragorn followed the long, muscular line of his spine, freeing Boromir’s hands and using fingers and nails on the skin of the westerner’s broad back. His breath was still coming harshly, his skin shivering under Aragorn’s attentions. He liked..ah yes, he liked having the small of his back licked, he liked nails light across the fine hair of his buttocks, sighing into the rhythm, his body starting to move again. He tensed again when Aragorn shifted to kneel between his thighs, nudging them apart.

"Ranger.."

"Sh."

Nails again, on that sensitive skin, exploring, a quick caress of the compressed ballsac, pressure on that sensitive strip of skin between balls and anus..yes, he liked that, his body moving with the caress, a groan forced out between clenched teeth. Carefully, Aragorn spread the tight buttocks, blew on the crinkled ass-hole that, shortly, he was going to own. Boromir shivered under his hands. Well, if he reacted like that...Aragorn lowered his head, swept his tongue across the raised skin. Boromir nearly leapt out of his restraining grasp.

"What the- "

Aragorn took a firm grip of the hips that had obligingly risen into his face, licked again, probing delicately at the tight hole. Boromir groaned, his body tight.

"Fuck, that’s good."

Aragorn slipped one hand around Boromir’s raised thighs, ran a gentle finger the length of his cock: the westerner arching into the caress, groaning again: sliding back, his hips met Aragorn’s probing tongue.

"Aiee- "

Closing his hand firmly around Boromir’s straining cock, Aragorn took the opportunity to soften the ring of muscle with his tongue, letting as much spit as he could cover the taut flesh. Boromir was rocking slowly into the grasp of Aragorn’s long fingers on his cock, groaning with each thrust. A rocking that took his arse back onto Aragorn’s questing tongue with every movement. Yes. Boromir’s body was telling Aragorn exactly what it wanted: the trick was to keep mind and body separate... A moment’s pause, and Aragorn pressed the flesh of his thumb into that softened anus, surrounding the pressure with the heat of his mouth: if he were lucky, Boromir would not even notice the difference. He didn’t, his body dancing under Aragorn’s, the long, slow, stroking hand on his cock as, unseen; Aragorn’s thumb opened his arse.

"Ranger..."

"Yes?"

Boromir’s voice was tight, strained.

"What..what..."

"Shhh," Aragorn soothed. "Shush, brave one.." Under his hands sweat had started on Boromir’s golden body, ripples of tension he could feel.

"I’m not your fucking.."

Stretched out, fast, his skin against Boromir’s, front to back, his hands on the westerner’s shoulders, gripping through the sweat, turning both of them so the big man lay on top of him, slipping hands down his body so that Boromir’s arch away turned into an arch of pain and pleasure, Aragorn’s fingers hard on his nipples, Aragorn’s own cock cradled and pressed by the light fur and muscle of Boromir’s buttocks. Boromir’s head pressed back into the pillows beside his, his neck arched over Aragorn’s shoulder, a lovely, strained line of unwilling surrender, a curve of shoulder that asked to be bitten and scraped while his hands tormented the bigger man’s nipples, hard for him, and he drove his erection into the hot, warm cleft against Boromir’s weight as Boromir’s own hands, questing, found and caught only empty sheets. The westerner was scrabbling for purchase, his thighs heavy and shifting across Aragorn’s..no, no. Aragorn slipped one hand down and one up: sliding that exploring hand across the sleek sweat of smooth, rippled stomach muscles, down, up across the curve of chest and the hollows of shoulder, fierce, down onto the living, hard erection that belied any argument Boromir might make, up into the fine strands of damped hair. And as Boromir arched again into the pressure of that tormenting pressure on his cock, Aragorn twisted one hand into his hair and turned the westerner’s face to his.

The man’s eyes were closed, strain in the little, jumping muscles of cheek and mouth: oh, he wanted this, he didn’t want it... "Look at me," Aragorn said. His voice sounded harsh to his own ears, a crack of power and command that was his by right.

Boromir’s eyes opened into his, bemused grey, caught and bewildered and mazed with lust that had seized him with claws of steel and would not let go...oh, how he knew how that felt. "I’m going to kiss you now." Aragorn said, and drove his mouth down on that twisted, thin mouth, those compressed, controlled lips that he wanted open and soft under his: too much force, surely, he could taste blood, feel Boromir’s agonised resistance. This was no longer a sweaty, soldierly coupling, this was something else, and Boromir was out of his depth. But, ha, the taste of Boromir’s mouth, metal and wine, opening under his tongue, the sudden softness of tongue and the hardness of teeth and bone, opening to him, desperate, a claiming that drew Aragorn in, a power of blood and darkness...too much, now, and he drew back, opened his eyes: two inches, Boromir’s mouth wet, open, surrendered, irresistible. And again, the power and force of it, a claiming: sliding his free hand down and under the heavy, muscled thigh to probe again at that asshole, pulsing now against his fingers, a pulse that Aragorn’s tongue and body and questing fingers took and rode: open to me, Boromir, push against me, I need to feel you..and realised he was saying it into Boromir’s mouth, the westerner’s eyes open and agonised under his own blurring gaze. Something had happened: Boromir’s body was suddenly hotter against his own, heavy, shaking, almost lax, rising and meeting the thrust of two fingers into his body, tears of sweat gathering and dripping from his skin..

"Want me to fuck you?" Aragorn said, into that plundered mouth that was his. "Want my cock in you, westerner? You can feel it, can’t you? I’m hard for you, Gondor, my sweet, my soldier, my beloved." It was almost true, in this moment.

Boromir said nothing, his eyes closed, body arching into Aragorn’s intimate caress as the ranger found and stroked the velvet softness in the westerner’s body.

"You’ll have to ask me," Aragorn said. "Want me, Gondor?"

A groan, an acknowledgement, at least, that Boromir knew he was there. Not enough.

"Beg me," Aragorn said, and withdrew sundering fingers and mouth and sensation, leaving the body on his bereft.

"Ranger.." Boromir groaned, his body shifting on Aragorn’s, flexing and shifting on his skin, his sweat, his cock. Not enough, even as Boromir’s hand reached for his own cock and Aragorn grasped the westerner’s wrist and held it immobile.

"Ranger.."

"Beg me," Aragorn said, command and surety and promise.

"Please," Boromir said. He opened his eyes into the Ranger’s intent gaze, hurting and shamed and pushed behind both.

"Please what?" Aragorn’s hand on Boromir’s cock, one fleeting caress across the swollen crown that drove the westerner’s body up and pulled a agonised groan from his mouth.

"Please.." Boromir, shaking, caught. "Please, lord, please."

Boromir caught and impaled: grasped and turned and spread and impaled, hot damp velvet, screaming, the agonised rise of his body pushing him further into pain, onto Aragorn’s cock, the ranger hard and sure, so sure, now. One hard stroke, not fast, but an absolute ownership and possession that drove through Boromir’s cramping muscles and the strangled, second scream. The heat of it, the want of it: a kingdom spread between his knees, sundered and half-broken to rein.

"Mine," Aragorn said, into the flushed skin of the westerner’s shoulder where his teeth had nearly drawn blood, into the frantic, twisting rejection of Boromir’s blonde head and the spread arms that tried to reach for him that he confined and held, riding, effortless, not moving, this absolute invasion. Ah, he needed to move, to stake his claim, but not yet, not until Boromir quietened beneath him. He could feel the triumphant humour now, the urge to laugh as he shifted, slightly, in Boromir and felt the bigger man tremble under him: gently, now, gently, steel in velvet, so soft, look, here is ease, look, I am giving you what you wanted, look, this slow, steady, drugging slide into your body, look, so soft, isn’t this what you wanted? Not so hard, is it? Forget the pain, there is no pain, there is only this, gentle, slow, even, my body in yours, pleasure, my hands on your skin and my hair across your shoulders...look, I can be gentle if you want me to be...And Boromir was relaxing, a little, under him, smoothing, riding with the long, slow thrusts.

"Ah, beautiful," Aragorn said into that soft skin, just a little harder, just a little faster, just a little adjustment in Boromir’s body as the westerner’s rose to meet his. "So beautiful." His own control was splintering, the heat and pressure of Boromir’s body, the man spread beneath him, absolutely his for this moment, his to own and rule: ah, just a little faster, just a little deeper.. "Feel that, Gondor?" Aragorn said, his voice harsh now, air shorter. "Feel me in you, my skin on yours, my cock in your arse?" Boromir’s head, hidden by the shock of sweaty blonde hair, was moving in denial, but his body was open and soft and wanting under Aragorn. "You should see yourself." Aragorn said, moving again, a little deeper, a promise, a presaugement.

"Are you ready?" Aragorn asked, drawing back, his body tied to his will by the lightest of threads. He slid one hand under the heat of Boromir’s body, found his cock swollen and weeping, pressed under the weight of two bodies: ran a nail across the weeping tip and felt the westerner buck up and into his possession. "Ready, Gondor?"

It was too late now for denials. Aragorn’s intent had already started to unravel, frayed by that possession, tormented by that slow, controlled slide, betrayed and called by the power and heat and need of the body under his: he meant, oh he meant to be slower, but it was all a thing of want and blood and skin now, his body absolutely sure, a fierce surge of pride and possession that sent him into the westerner’s body again and again, harder, faster, deeper, aware of the other man under him but incapable of compromise in this, heat, power, his own power, body and muscle and skin and mind all caught in this rush, eyes closed, hand fast in Boromir’s hair, only aware at the last of who and what he was fucking so hard and so fast, aware that Boromir was screaming and coming, arched helplessly onto his cock, the velvet muscle of his arse contracting as hot sperm covered the hand on his cock before he came himself, a black and speeding ride home.

 

It left him, as it always did, in a space of no belonging, limp and thoughtless and tired. Sweat was cooling on his skin, and he was aware that the sheets were lying rumpled under his back. The smell of sex, sweat and blood and come heavy in air.

 

He opened his eyes, and found them met by Boromir’s grey gaze, so carefully blank, with just a trace of fear behind a resentful defiance that showed in the tense muscles and the careful space between them. So. Enough.

"Think, next time you want to play games with your liege-lord," Aragorn said. "I don’t take kindly to being pushed."

Boromir said nothing.

It was two weeks before he found out who Aragorn was, two weeks of avoidance and stalled communication. Aragorn had no regrets, then.

Those would come later.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 3 of Reconnnaisance