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
After Images V: Turn About
by Sasjah Miller
Going South, Day Eight
e had said she would understand.
