The Right Of Kings
Deep in the golden woods of Lothlorien, far from the rest of the Fellowship, Boromir knelt before the man who would be his king. Aragorn's hands threaded through his hair, tightened on his scalp, and Boromir could see the corded muscles of his thighs tense as he held himself back.
Boromir wished to make him lose control, to make him acknowledge that this was more than a meaningless tumble with a tavern wench or stable boy. 'If wishes were horses,' he thought, bitterly amused at his own foolishness. He scraped the underside of Aragorn's cock lightly with his teeth, earning a startled hiss. With one hand, he cupped and squeezed Aragorn's balls; with the other he fisted his own cock, matching the rhythm of Aragorn's body.
He was tired of these secret late-night couplings, of the cold and the mud, and the heavy press of Gondor's fate on his mind. He was tired of being second choice, of playing stand-in for the Elf-maid. He felt a sudden stab of empathy for his brother, finally understanding, after years of puzzlement, the searing disappointment of being found wanting, regardless of what he did.
And he wanted, oh, he did. Wanted to restore Gondor to her former glory, wanted to banish the Enemy to the realm of memory, wanted to prove to Aragorn that the men of Minas Tirith were not weak, and did not need Elves and Half-Elves to save them.
Mostly, he wanted Aragorn to look at him as an equal, a brother-in-arms, a leader of Men worthy of the title.
And a small secret voice in the back of his head reminded him that everything he wanted could be his, if he would only reach out his hand and take it.
As wearing as it might be, to be used in such a way and discarded, ignored in favor of the others during the day, he found he could not say no. Aragorn never demanded, never ordered, but there was always an air of authority about him, and something buried deep in Boromir's soul responded to that with a desire to serve as needed.
He closed his eyes. This was not the moment for such thoughts. The whole point of these encounters with Aragorn was to ease away the burden of thought, of care, and take pleasure in the moment, in the heat and flesh of a fellow warrior.
He slid his hand from Aragorn's balls to the sensitive skin behind, enjoying the way Aragorn responded to his clever touches. Aragorn's hips bucked and Boromir relaxed the muscles in his throat, taking in as much of Aragorn as he could while still keeping up a steady suction. Aragorn grunted and choked back his moans of release, even in his fulfillment refusing Boromir the satisfaction of crying out his name. Boromir swallowed, his own climax coursing through him like the Falls of Rauros, all thought banished for the moment.
When he came back to himself, he rested his head on Aragorn's lap. Aragorn stroked his hair once or twice, the only tenderness he ever showed during these encounters, and Boromir sighed. He wiped his mouth, Aragorn's taste lingering on his tongue, and pressed a kiss to the soft skin of his inner thigh.
Then Aragorn clapped him on the shoulder, and the moment was gone. The Ranger would leave him here to go wander among the Elves, and he would make his way back to the others -- the indifference of the Dwarf, the knowing eyes of the Elf, and the friendly comfort of the Hobbits, for whom he felt a great, unexpected fondness.
He told himself this would be the last time he let Aragorn use him so, but he knew in his heart that was a lie. Aragorn was his king, and he would serve his king, through fire and folly, even unto death.