Title: Last Night
Author: Riley- Witt444@aol.com- website: rileyfic.diaryland.com
Pairing(s): Aragorn/Boromir
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Your average last-night-in-Rivendell PWP.  Angst and power struggles 
abound.
Disclaimer: 1. Too young?  Flee.  2. Not mine.  Why sue?
Warning: Almost-rape, not-quite-comfy sex.  Violence.  Don't read it if it 
that bothers you.
Author's Note: My first attempt in the fandom.  My knowledge of the LotR 
universe is sort of limited to seeing the movies and a very long ago reading 
of the book.  Forgive any mistakes.  Just wanted to try something new.

***

It was over; it had just started.  They had all come and argued, and 
eventually they stopped arguing and pretended to reason.  And when reason 
failed in the face of what they had to do they faced it, argued a little more 
and then resigned themselves.  The Fellowship was formed.  Nine of them would 
take the One Ring to Mount Doom.  They would spend a last night in Rivendell 
and set out in the morning.

Figuring all this out didn't make Aragorn feel any better.  In fact he felt 
an unbearably heavy weight that threatened to drag him through the softly 
glowing ground of Rivendell into the depths of the earth.  Not that he 
thought their quest was impossible- well, not entirely.  He was thankful to 
have Gandalf, relieved to have Legolas, confident in Gimli, and willing to be 
surprised by the hobbits.  Boromir was the only one who filled the corners of 
his heart with shadow.  The Son of Gondor felt fated to follow in his 
people's footsteps, felt a weakness in him like blood, and he could barely 
disguise the desire that bubbled behind his eyes when he gazed at the chain 
that wound down Frodo's neck.  It didn't help matters any that he was 
completely disdainful of Aragorn and unlikely to follow him across the 
street, much less into the depths of Mordor.  He was going to be trouble, and 
the last thing they needed was trouble from within.

Dinner would be served soon, but though he loved Elven cuisine he retreated 
to his quarters.  He needed this night to gather his strength, to rest 
himself for the dangerous journey ahead.  He would be sorry to leave 
Rivendell, sorry to leave the familiar company of the Elves, their 
understanding, the safety of their borders and the mystery of their ways.  
But they were all leaving for the Grey Havens, and soon no places in Middle 
Earth would be left like this.  He sat down on his bed, watching the 
shimmering moonlight diffuse through the twisted wooden panes of the window.  
The shadow of a tree moved across his tired knees.  Soon it would all be 
gone.  Everything in the world was changing now.  He was afraid, waiting for 
the shadows to appear, waiting for everything familiar to break apart.  He'd 
felt this way since he first laid his eyes on the Ring.

He dragged his tunic over his head, ran a hand over his sweat-stiff chest, 
and decided on a bath.  In the center of the bathroom floor stood a bathtub, 
built around what seemed to be a natural hot spring.  Flowers danced around 
each other in the softly rippling water, heavily-scented steam curled in the 
moonlight, and the entire pit sang with serenity and peace.  Aragorn stripped 
off his pants and slipped into it, the heat instantly bringing a flush to his 
skin and a sigh from his lips.  He could trust this heat and comfort.  He 
stretched out on the smooth bottom of the tub, the stone so warm it almost 
felt yielding.  Closing his eyes covered him in a sense of dreamy 
displacement.  It was like going back in time, away from the Ring, away from 
Boromir.  If only he could stay with the Elves forever; if only he could see 
the Grey Havens.  He wouldn't carry his mortality with him there.  He 
wouldn't carry his kingdom...

Someone was there.  His Ranger instincts told him not to panic, that he had 
fallen asleep and now he was waking up because someone else was in the room.  
He was in water and had no weapon nearby.  He was in Rivendell.  In a bath.  
Safe.  He opened his eyes.

Boromir stood in the doorway.

He leaned against the frame on the point of a shoulder, arms folded across 
his chest, looking down at Aragorn with a bit of his hair falling in his face 
like a slash of sunlight.  His eyes were completely unreadable.  Aragorn sat 
up and rushed damp hair off his forehead, trying to gather his wits.

"You missed dinner," Boromir said, voice ringing unusually deep in the little 
room.

"So I did," Aragorn answered noncommittally.  "Is the hour late?"

"Quite late.  They've all gone off to bed but me."

"I hope I didn't worry you."

"They supposed you might be hungry."

"Why would they send you on such a mission?"

"They didn't.  I thought I would come find out for myself."

Boromir stepped away from the door, and Aragorn closed his eyes for a moment 
and then opened them again.  He focused his attentions on reading the energy 
around him and keeping himself calm to its responses.  Boromir circled and 
eventually stopped at the edge of the tub.  He stared down into the water 
above Aragorn's feet.  Aragorn waited but nothing came.

"You have something to say," he supplied at last.  The other Man's eyes 
flickered briefly to his face.

"Aye, I do.  It is about the Fellowship.  I don't trust the Halfling with the 
Ring."

The Ring.

"It has been given to him, Boromir.  This must be for a reason."

"I feel someone a little stronger should carry it."

"Whom would you recommend?"

Boromir's mouth moved to form the word "me" but stopped.  Surprise flickered 
across his face at the automatic response.  Of course.  The Ring called so 
loud to Boromir it practically screamed.  It begged him to restore the glory 
of his people.  What a struggle it must be, to feel what he thought was 
salvation right before him, yet all of it unattainable.  Aragorn knew; he 
heard it too.

"You know," Boromir whispered urgently.  "I would do all to bring glory to 
Gondor."

"As would I.  But-"

"But /you/ would do nothing!  You are terrified of who you are!"

"We mustn't fight like this, Boromir.  The Fellowship needs the strength of 
each for the other.  We cannot use the Ring.  You're going to have to trust 
me."

"Bow to you, you mean.  You would destroy us.  You've been among the Elves 
too long, you've been too long with the Halflings.  You've lost your faith in 
your people!"

"I will never lose faith in Men.  But Men fall to pride, to desire, to fear.  
The Elves have taught me to look beyond all of these, to see clearly and with 
strength."

"And what do you see now?"

"I see a very dangerous quest for us.  I see the easy answer too hard to be 
truthful.  I see a very painful sacrifice.  I see a brother who stands before 
me, a proud Son of Gondor, stronger than he believes himself to be and just 
as weak as he fears."

He stopped talking.  Boromir was frozen, eyes fixed at the flowers and 
currents wandering through his vision, and only by the tension in his hands 
and eyebrows could Aragorn tell his words had struck as true as the Elves had 
taught him to aim. 

"A son of Gondor," he repeated softly, "who will not fail his people."

Boromir raised his gaze at last.  His green eyes met Aragorn's boldly, 
crossed with anger and something like pride.  Aragorn stared back, 
concentrating on keeping his face unreadable.  The rage that lashed from 
Boromir danced on the knife-edge of being dangerous; he would not provoke it.

"You talk like a king," Boromir flung across accusingly.  "You talk like a 
king when you aren't one.  Who are you to know anything about me, anything 
about what's best for my people?  I would say "ours" but you have denied 
them."

"Is that what this is about?  You think I hate Men?"

"You find nothing redeeming in us."

"I find plenty redeeming in Men."

"In me as well?"

"Especially you."

Boromir looked down into the water again, but this time straight at Aragorn.  
The corner of one eyebrow twitched, and suddenly his entire face changed 
under the skin.  It went hard, with a kind of contemptuous amusement.  
Aragorn followed Boromir's eyes.  Where their gazes met, Aragorn's penis was 
growing inescapably hard by minor degrees.  The water, maybe, the talk.  The 
stress of the upcoming journey.

Hm.

"Well," Boromir said darkly, "/something/ in you is fond of Men, isn't it?"

He stepped off the edge into the tub, his pants growing weighted and black as 
the water rose to his waist.  He knelt before Aragorn, and the dry front of 
his shirt became soaked as it pressed against Aragorn's chest.  Their mouths 
met, or rather Boromir took Aragorn's mouth, stole his lips and branded them 
with his tongue.  Aragorn heard their breath clash together sharply as he 
sank in the burning cavity of Boromir's mouth.  He let loose a smothered cry, 
not quite one of protest- not that Boromir would have taken protests to 
heart.  In fact he was nearly dragging Aragorn under, pinning him with his 
weight, tongue still searching for something in the back of the Ranger's 
mouth.  

And then he was under.  In a flash Boromir had flung him under the surface, 
and he was being dragged by his hair, swallowing lungfuls of hot water.  Then 
his face met the stones at the other end of the tub.  He breathed rock like 
air.  

"What are you doing?" he choked.  Boromir had his body bent in half over the 
rim and was holding him there with a terrifying strength.  But as he breathed 
again he realized he wasn't terrified.  In fact he was powerfully excited.

"Isildur's heir," Boromir spat, throwing his weight over Aragorn's back and 
talking near his ear.  "A Ranger who steers clear of Men.  But I saw the way 
you looked at me by the statue, saw you watching.  You're afraid your kin 
will deny you.  Well let me tell you, Aragorn son of Arathorn- Men want you 
as much as you want them."  He chuckled, deep and low in his throat, more 
like a growl.

He lay hot kisses along the back of Aragorn's neck, hard and needy.  Aragorn 
groaned.  He felt the spreading soak in Boromir's clothes, as well as the 
erection that was defined by the clinging fabric.  His own erection hurt 
where it pressed against the tub.  Boromir bit down firmly, driving a moan 
from Aragorn as his teeth drew pressure, then pain, then blood.  Boromir 
released and then attacked again, his mouth tearing into the side of 
Aragorn's neck and nearly crippling him.  Aragorn struggled, only to have his 
cheek thrown roughly to the stone.  He pushed up hard.  With a roar they fell 
backwards into the tub.  Aragorn thrashed for freedom but Boromir got him in 
a bear hug.  He kicked hard at nothing and struggled as lines of his own 
blood tangled by him.  He tried to bite one of the wrists clenched over his 
nipples but couldn't reach.  His lungs tightened- was Boromir going to drown 
him?  He thrashed and flailed, but nothing moved the arms around his chest.  
He wanted to breathe.  He looked up at Boromir's face, set to show no signs 
of airlessness.  Panic set in.  Aragorn stopped fighting.  He relinquished 
himself to the iron hold.  And the moment he submitted he was freed.

He sprang out of the tub, stumbled a few steps and collapsed.  The room spun. 
 He got to his hands and knees and fell again.  Behind him, he heard Boromir 
laugh.

"Don't be afraid.  I'm not going to kill you."  Silence.  "You don't believe 
me."

"I'm not afraid," Aragorn grunted through his burning chest.  He turned his 
head enough to see Boromir standing over him, clothes like a black second 
skin, eyes sharp as arrowheads.

"Good, because I don't want you to be afraid of me.  You've been too long 
afraid of Men as it is.  Now: get up and lie on the bed."

"You nearly drowned me."

"I'm very aware.  Do as I say."  Aragorn didn't move.  "By your own will or 
not, you will be on that bed.  So I suggest you make it easy on yourself."

The fierceness of the tone got him moving.  He got off the floor, shivering 
now that he knew he would live, and laid himself on the  bed on his back.  
Surprisingly his penis still stood at full attention, pointing directly into 
Boromir's face.  Boromir came to stand over him.

"He isn't used to taking orders.  That's fine- he can learn.  But he's 
shivering.  Is he cold?  Tell me you're cold."

"Yes," Aragorn answered shortly.  He wouldn't admit, even to himself, that 
the disdain in Boromir's words thrilled him.  Even the ragged ache around his 
bites made him hard.

Boromir lay down atop him, the warmth in his clothes a delicious counterpoint 
to the air of the room.  Their mouths were made to meet.  Less startled now, 
Aragorn became aware of the subtleties of the kiss, of the delicate probing 
under the force, the ownership implied by the exploration.  Secret parts of 
him wanted to submit.  They were the same parts that heard the call of the 
Ring.  Was it that call that made Boromir act this way?  He didn't know.  He 
didn't know the Man at all.  But he trusted his own strength and Boromir's 
nobility, so he let go into the kiss.  He melted into the bed and the body 
over him.  He moaned encouragingly.

Boromir's face drew back.  His eyes darted over Aragorn, looking for 
something that he seemed to find.  His teeth fastened to Aragorn's throat, 
where they rolled his jugular up and down.  The fear and the pain were 
exciting.  Aragorn squirmed against him, and Boromir chuckled, and Aragorn's 
heart thudded in his ears as he was forced to change his breathing.  Then 
Boromir was on his collarbone, his chest, tongue drawing a map toward his 
nipples.  Tongue, lips and teeth fell  in line over the nub, and just as it 
hardened Boromir bit down.  Pain blossomed like an orchid, exquisitely 
forming under Aragorn's skin.  He hissed.  His whole frame arced into Boromir 
and his erection crushed against the other's belly.  Boromir returned the 
force as he loosened his teeth.  His tongue soothed the pain with rapid 
flicking motions that got Aragorn writhing and whimpering.  The other nipple 
received the same treatment, and though there was the threat of teeth it was 
never actualized.  Boromir was clearly enjoying keeping Aragorn guessing, 
keeping his desire to let go tempered with the wary expectation of pain.  His 
hands pinned Aragorn's wrists to the bed, fingers so tight they both knew he 
would bruise.  Every time Aragorn struggled a little Boromir gave an 
appreciative growl.  

"You should see yourself," he said.  "It's beautiful how badly you want 
this...  Ah," he exclaimed softly, as Aragorn spread his knees without 
realizing it.  The little gasp drew Aragorn's attention, and though he tried 
to close them again Boromir trapped them with his own legs.  Aragorn 
struggled, earning nothing but more delight from Boromir.  "When I release 
your wrists, you will put your arms above your head.  Do nothing else."

He did as he was told.  Boromir peeled off his reluctant tunic, revealing a 
wide chest brimming with hair, nipples straining at the confines of skin.  He 
picked open his pants and shoved them down his thighs until his erection 
sprang out.  Boromir wrapped a hand around it with a grateful sigh, giving it 
a few appeasing strokes.  The angle of his wrist made Aragorn draw a sharp 
breath.  Boromir kneaded the head of his penis and smiled.

"Like that, do you?  Maybe I'll just make you watch.  Maybe I'll describe 
every feeling in detail and never give you a taste.  Hm?"

"No," Aragorn whispered softly, surprised at his urgency.  

Boromir released his penis and found his way, without pause, to Aragorn's.  
Warm fingers engulfed him, unforgiving pressure.  He groaned loud enough to 
send it bouncing off the walls.  His hips flew up to press himself through 
that gracious channel.  Boromir purred and gave him what he wanted, stroking 
Aragorn's length up and down.  Relief overwhelmed him.  He let his head fall 
back and his eyes close, let everything fall away to pleasure, to this 
beautiful release.

Which was when Boromir stopped.

Aragorn jerked his hips a few more times but Boromir held him still.  
Reluctantly he opened his eyes.

"What?" Boromir said.  "You think you're going to get it that easily?"

He was on his back.  He didn't even have time to wonder how it happened.  He 
tried to get on his hands and was of course thrown down.  Boromir spread a 
hand on the back of Aragorn's skull and the other on the small of his back.  
Aragorn struggled, his strength against Boromir's, and honestly failed.

"I could watch you fight me all day.  That's a spirit that will serve us 
well."

The hand on the back of his head moved, but Aragorn didn't.  He waited for 
the next contact.  He felt hot breath on his ass, then the soft lave of 
Boromir's tongue.  It twisted along the crack, drawing trembles from Aragorn, 
then dove into the hole.  The tight muscle parted instantly under the 
onslaught.  Aragorn sighed as he felt it as hot as a branding iron reaching 
for his deepest parts.  He wriggled his ass against Boromir's face, trying to 
get more, relishing Boromir's hands on his waist and tongue inside him.  
Boromir's tongue thrashed wildly, then withdrew.

"You want more, right?" he asked, panting.

"Yes."

"Ah..."

"Yes, please.  Please."

"One more."

"Please."

"Perfect."

There wasn't warning or foreplay.  One second they were talking and the next 
Boromir thrust himself, heavily slicked with precum but not nearly wet 
enough, all the way into Aragorn's body.  The burning invasion made Aragorn 
bellow like a bull.  He tried to climb away but Boromir held him until his 
entire length was buried in the Ranger.  Aragorn felt he might rip in half.  
He burst into a sweat.

"That hurt, didn't it?" Boromir mocked.  "But you'll survive.  Should I give 
you a moment to recover?"

Of course not.

Boromir started up a driving rhythm.  The pain in his hole was astoundingly 
equal to the pleasure that flowed from his prostate and lashed through his 
body.  His muscles knotted out of his control.  His cries against the torment 
morphed into exclamations of joy.  But there was a fire in the friction that 
couldn't be ignored.  Despite himself, he had to bury his tears in the 
blanket. 

"Get on your knees," Boromir panted, taking hold of Aragorn's hair to help 
him.  Aragorn upended his ass and received thrusts perfectly angled for his 
pains.  It wasn't enough.  He was crying.  It wasn't entirely for the pain- 
it was also for the proximity of a Man on a night like this.  "What's that?  
You're making noises.  What are you doing?"

Aragorn turned his head over his shoulder so Boromir could see the turbulence 
in the sea of his eyes.  Boromir's thrusts lost some of their violence, and 
he couldn't disguise the concern that wet his eyes as well.  Aragorn just let 
him see, let him see all the emotions that bound them together as Men.  It 
wasn't something Boromir expected.  He licked his lips to speak but nothing 
came.

"You're the first Man to touch me in...  I don't even know how long," Aragorn 
admitted with a choke to his voice.  Boromir nodded.

"You're only the second I've..."

"You're kidding."

"This is a strange place," Boromir said, as if it excused him.  "And who 
knows where we'll be soon?  And... well, you are my king."

"I'm not asking you to explain."

"I didn't mean to hurt you.  I only wanted...  I don't know."

"And you still want it, don't you?"  Aragorn wriggled his ass against Boromir 
in response to the throbbing in Boromir's penis.  Boromir gasped and began to 
rock again in earnest.  His eyes checked with Aragorn, who turned his head 
away humming his encouragement.  At least they'd stopped fighting.  He 
focused above the pain, pinned himself to the pleasure.  Boromir was more 
gentle now, each thrust going right to the point of joy.  Aragorn managed to 
let go into it, to use the discomfort as counterpoint.  He moaned and 
vibrated in time with Boromir.  His nerves turned to flame, his skin to ash.  
Their twining sounds went wild; they yelled and snarled and yipped like dogs. 
 Aragorn was sure every Elf in Rivendell could hear them and he wasn't 
ashamed of it.  Let them know what Men did.  Let them know how close Men 
could be.

"I suppose," he panted playfully, "this is the last position in which you 
expected to meet your future king."  

Boromir chuckled.  Then he bent forward and grabbed Aragorn's penis.  

One furious yank caused it to explode.  Aragorn howled his surprise as he 
unraveled over Boromir's wrist onto the bed.  He felt Boromir thrust one more 
time and come as well, filling Aragorn with a molten heat.  They trembled and 
gripped each other, conversing in moans.  The glinting Rivendell light fell 
all over them like snow.  Aragorn lost them in it.

He returned to himself released, lying on his side beside Boromir.  Boromir 
had removed his pants and was spooned around Aragorn, arms and legs a net to 
hold them together.  He was cold and exhausted, his wounds stinging.  He 
turned his head and took a bit of Boromir's stubble in his teeth, waking a 
small moan from his dozing companion.

"It's very late," Boromir said immediately.  "Shall I leave you to your 
sleep?"

"Do you wish to go?"  Boromir shifted closer.

"I wouldn't expect you to want me to stay."

"I do.  Besides, it's too late to send you wandering through Rivendell on 
your own.  The bed is big enough for both of us."

"You're trembling."

"I'm cold.  Can we get under the blanket?"

Boromir raised his head, as if this was an invitation to intimacy too 
dangerous to face.  But he allowed Aragorn to guide them under the lightly 
damp green blanket.  Under its cover they twisted and knotted themselves into 
a position too familiar to share where they could see it, mistaking limbs for 
their own, overlapping in space.  Aragorn found his face pressed to Boromir's 
shoulder, breathing hot skin and dying to taste it.  Boromir nuzzled his hair 
and stroked his neck.  The speed of his fingers gradually took on the 
lethargy of sleep, then ceased, palm hot in the crook of the Ranger's neck.  
Their body heat warmed the bed to perfection.  Aragorn closed his eyes, but 
the moonlight persisted behind his eyelids.  He listened to the tenor of 
Boromir's breath.  Perhaps it wouldn't be his last night with Elves.  Perhaps 
not with Men, either.