Faramir Fiction Archive

Reasons Not to Trust an Elf (NC-17)

Written by RubyElf

21 January 2011 | 12129 words

Epilogue

Boromir watched suspiciously as Aragorn retrieved the dark blue bottle Arwen had left on his bookshelf and set it down next to a pair of mugs on the table.

“I think I’ve learned better than to drink anything out of strange bottles. Especially ones that your wife had anything to do with.”

“Nonsense,” Aragorn said, twisting the cork out of the bottle. “You and Arwen have a peace agreement, and she never goes back on her word.”

“She covered the elf’s room with itching powder.”

“True, but I don’t recall Legolas ever asking for or being granted any sort of truce, do you?”

Boromir grudgingly admitted that he did not recall any such thing, watching Aragorn pour the dark red liquid into the mugs.

“That doesn’t look like ordinary wine.”

Aragorn laughed. “You worry too much. Weren’t you going to take Finn out one more time for the night?”

Boromir muttered to himself as he took the puppy’s lead down from its hook on the wall. Finn, obviously aware of what this meant, came galloping across the room toward him, stumbling over the shredded remnants of the carpet.

The two men walked slowly through the dark streets, nodding to the occasional guard as they passed. Finn barked at the first few, but it was really much too late in the evening for such things, and after a few scoldings from Boromir she kept quiet and trotted along beside him, shooting the guards dirty looks as if they had dared to get her into trouble with her master. Boromir scowled into his mug.

“This stuff is rather strong.”

Aragorn nodded, still slightly breathless from the last swallow of the liquor.

“Doesn’t taste too bad,” Boromir admitted. “Still not entirely convinced that it’s not going to do something strange to me, though.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Turn me blue, or make me grow tits, or something like that.”

Aragorn laughed. “I don’t think blue would suit you.”

“Oh, but tits would, hmm?”

Aragorn studied him with a rather poor attempt at a serious expression. “No, I don’t think so. They’d probably affect your sword-fighting. And they’d probably be hairy, too.”

“Ugh,” Boromir groaned, shoving him. “Go away, you daft bastard.”

“You’re a soldier. I thought soldiers laughed at any joke about tits.”

“Generally the tits in our jokes belong to women.”

“If you’d finished up what was in your mug, you’d probably think that was as funny as I did.”

Boromir chuckled. “Are you admitting that people have to be drunk to find you funny?”

Aragorn rolled his eyes and tipped his mug up, emptying it. Boromir, never one to back down from a challenge, did the same. Finn dragged them forward, eager to sniff in every corner and niche, and Boromir was content to allow her to lead him, letting the warmth of the drink flow through him.

“That is strong,” Aragorn muttered. “Seem to be feeling a bit light-headed.”

A low rumbling chuckle from Boromir. “Good. I was afraid I was the only one.”

Another moment of silence, and then Boromir spoke again.

“I believe we should be heading back soon. Perhaps immediately.”

Aragorn grinned. “Good. I was afraid I was the only one.”

“Well, if we don’t get back to my rooms soon, the guards are going to be wondering what we’re trying to smuggle past them in our pants.”

A hurried walk back to Boromir’s rooms, and then Finn was deposited in front of the hearth with a bowl of bacon trimmings from the kitchen, which was sufficient to keep her distracted. Otherwise, she would have been unable to resist chasing after and mauling the boots, gloves, coats, and heavy over-tunics that seemed to be getting tossed about all over the room behind her. She looked up for a moment with some concern when the bedroom door slammed shut rather abruptly, but then returned her attention to sniffing out any bits of bacon she might have missed.

The abrupt slamming of the bedroom door was due to Aragorn being slammed rather firmly into it, the metal handle digging hard into his back. He considered protesting this treatment, but then Boromir’s cock was digging insistently into his groin, and Boromir was kissing him hard enough to bruise his mouth and leaving him gasping for air.

“Were you going to say something?” he asked, green eyes burning in the lantern light.

Aragorn shook his head, and immediately found himself spun around and shoved again; at least this time Boromir’s soft bed met him as he fell, sprawled on his back with Boromir pinning him hard to the mattress and chuckling to himself.

“What’s so funny?” Aragorn demanded.

“You look terribly offended.”

“Perhaps it’s from being tossed around like a rag doll.”

“Sorry,” Boromir said, and Aragorn noted a distinct lack of apology in his tone, but allowed the other man to gently roll him over as strong hands began to work soothingly into the muscles of his neck and shoulders. If there was a man with hands stronger than Boromir’s, Aragorn had never met him, and the steady rubbing lulled him into a haze of contentment, although he noted absently that he was still quite hard, and that eventually that part of his anatomy would demand relief.

“You’re going to fall asleep,” Boromir said.

“Oh, no, I’m…”

The sharp slap of strong hand on lean buttock rang out clearly in the small room. Aragorn gasped and rolled halfway over to stare at Boromir. Despite his propensity for handling his lover rather roughly, Boromir had never struck him. Now, though, he was sitting back on his knees, and Aragorn took note of the dilated pupils, the rapid rise and fall of the muscular chest. So Boromir had enjoyed that, he thought. Deliberately, he rolled back over onto his stomach and stretched his arms out. He could feel Boromir studying him, reading the implicit consent in the lazy arch of Aragorn’s back and the open hands spread across the sheets, and then he felt Boromir move and braced himself.

The sound was startlingly loud, but the impact of the blow was mild, and Aragorn’s hands twitched slightly, but other than that he did not react. Boromir watched him for another moment before the hand came down again, and this time the echo off the stone walls was not the sharp crack of a slap, but the firm smack of a real blow. Boromir inhaled sharply, and Aragorn felt the impact shudder through his body, his hips rising involuntarily, brought abruptly to full hardness. He felt Boromir’s eyes run over him again, reading the familiar body for any sign of hesitation, and Aragorn knew that if he intended to protest, now would be the time, but he kept still, waiting.

Three more strikes, swift and relentless, leaving skin flushed fiery red, and then he felt Boromir’s weight shift, and three more rapid blows descended on the other buttock, and then Boromir sat back on his knees again, breathing hard, admiring his work, the perfect prints of his strong swordsman’s fingers across the exposed, reddened skin.

“Beautiful,” he murmured. “Finest marks I’ve ever left on you.”

He paused, waiting with sudden concern for a response from Aragorn, but relaxed into a grin when the only answer was a soft, contented chuckle.

“What’s so funny?” Boromir asked.

“If you don’t do something with this problem of mine that’s jammed into the mattress, I’m going to leave some marks on you to the tune of a black eye.”

Boromir laughed and his powerful hands grasped Aragorn’s hips hard, hauling him to his hands and knees before groping for the bottle of oil in the stand by the bed where he’d stuck it earlier in the evening. Aragorn felt one hand rubbing roughly over his still-reddened skin while the other fumbled and finally managed to pour a trickle of oil, startlingly cool against the burn of the blows, before the bottle clinked unnoticed to the floor and one hand was on Aragorn’s side, stilling and soothing him while the other busily worked the oil over the exposed opening. Then two fingers were sliding in, briskly and without mercy, spending just enough time to oil and stretch and open before they were abruptly withdrawn.

Aragorn did not expect the sharp blow that burned across his already sensitized skin, felt his body arch unconsciously into the impact, and Boromir took that opportunity to take a bruising grip on the wiry hips and shove himself steadily and relentlessly inside, driving Aragorn forward until his long, low groan was buried in the mattress, hands reaching out to brace himself against the headboard. Boromir drew back, thrust, and then drew back again, this time laying another stinging slap on Aragorn’s buttocks before pushing forward again.

Between the stinging burn that seemed to draw all of his attention to his lower body and the steady force of Boromir driving into him, forcing him to keep shifting his weight to balance the force of the other man’s tremendous strength, Aragorn realized dimly that at this moment, he would allow anything Boromir wished to do to him, reveled in the possessive grip on his hips, the relentless force of the thrusts hard enough to be just on the edge of more than he could stand, but never harder.

Suddenly Boromir pulled away from him, and before he could protest or even question he was flipped forcefully onto his back, knees shoved up firmly toward his chest, Boromir’s fingers locked into a grip on the backs of his thighs that would leave bruised outlines of each fingertip in the morning, and as he resumed his steady pounding, he leaned forward and buried his face into the soft hollow at the base of Aragorn’s throat, his lips on the pounding pulse, sweat-streaked bodies rubbing hard against each other until Aragorn arched blind and gasping and shouting as his hands tightened in Boromir’s hair, until Boromir growled and bit hard into the muscle below Aragorn’s collarbone and muffled a roar into the skin as his teeth marked it.

As both of them regained some rhythm to the frantic racing of their pulses, Boromir raised his head.

“What is that awful noise?”

Aragorn cocked his head to listen, and then grinned at the anxious, desperately sorrowful howls that rose from just outside the bedroom door.

“Is that the dog?” Boromir asked, trying to contain his laughter.

“She apparently thinks we’re killing each other.”

“I’m not entirely sure we weren’t,” Boromir said, his tone apologetic as he pushed himself up on his arms and studied the deep bruise his bite had left on Aragorn’s chest.

“I’m fine.”

Boromir raised an eyebrow.

“Well, I’m not at all sure I could walk at the moment, but other than that I’m fine.”

“I suppose it’s a good thing you’ve nowhere to go for the rest of the night, then.”

Aragorn snorted. “If I don’t, you’re likely to do that again, and I don’t think I’d survive it.”

Boromir grinned and rolled him over again, gently this time, and his powerful hands resumed their kneading and stroking of the long muscles of the other man’s back and shoulders, sliding down occasionally to run a soothing palm over the over-sensitized skin of his buttocks.

“I’m not falling for that again,” Aragorn said sleepily.

“No tricks. Time for sleep.”

Aragorn yawned, suddenly exhausted, and allowed his eyes to slip closed.

Boromir continued the steady motion of his hands, humming tunelessly to himself.

“Been too long since I woke up with you next to me, love. Entirely too long.”

Aragorn’s eyes did not open, but a small smile slipped across his face. “It has been too long, love. But I should warn you of one thing.”

“Really? What’s that?”

“If Arwen did slip something into that bottle and you do wake up with tits, I’m throwing you out of the bed.”

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