Going South, Day Eight, Turnabout

by Sasjah Miller
Icon graciously provided by X


He had said she would understand.

But would she understand this?

Would she understand the passion rising within him as he pushed Boromir's body up against the ancient tree trunks, pressing himself against the other man, hot warmth radiating from them both, soft light surrounding them as the pale silver moon shone upon them, filtered through the leaves of the evening forest?

Would she understand Boromir's strong hands pulling the collar of his tunic back against his throat, almost choking him while he still strained forward to feel the skin of Boromir's throat warm against his lips?

Tasting him. Tasting the salt of Boromir's sweat and the grime of the road mingling with the heady scent that was his alone and that had tantalized, mesmerized, lured him inexorably, inescapably closer.

Would she understand their wordless sounds of passion and the need he felt for this man, seeing green eyes closed in almost but not quite surrender, his own hand reaching down to cup soft straining breeches, caressing the hardness there, hidden under the fabric and feeling this touch echo in his very own body?

Aragorn lost count of the kisses he planted on Boromir's soft-skinned neck, of the moans he lured from Boromir's lips as he revered the hollow of his lover's throat, and he would not keep score of the times he almost spent himself because of the heat and the warmth and the feeling of this body against him, and Boromir moaning against his lips before the man knelt down on his knees before him, and pulled down his breeches, freeing him and enslaving him for good.

He did not keep track of his whispered curses before he was captured in the joyful prison that was Boromir's mouth, imprisoning him forever. He did not remember what it felt like, not really, but he remembered the way Boromir's head bowed in reverence beneath him and how the strands of his hair fell softly forward against his bare legs, caressing him, while Boromir's hands found their rightful place on his thighs, encircling him and steadying him as Boromir was serving him, ruling him, pleasing him, claiming what was his to claim.

In later times, he would remember this most vividly, this first time that he lost himself between Boromir's lips, Boromir's beard scratching against his loins the final push, only to find himself again on the other side, whole and sane and loved forever.

He slumped forward then, all strength drawn from him and he let himself sink on his knees, dazedly, leveling his gaze with Boromir, who sat there, a joyous smile lighting his face. He could do nothing but smile back at him and kiss that glorious mouth, tasting himself on those soft strong lips before he gently lowered the other man down onto the mossy forest floor. The filigree pendant dangled between them, catching a ray of moonlight as Boromir touched it softly, wonderingly, and finally, finally, Aragorn knew that she would really understand.


The End