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Lord of the Rings Drabbles - Adult

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He lay spread out beneath me, his knees drawn up, holding himself wide, waiting. I could see the pulse beating in his throat, syncopated against his rapid breath. He was hard in his own desire, as hard as I was as I smoothed oil over skin so hot I thought I would set it aflame. He looked at me and his lips formed the word "meldanya" as I sank forward into him, the tight flesh opening to receive me just as his heart had embraced me long before. I rested inside, not sure whether I would melt or drown first.

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Théodred asks Boromir what takes him northward, but Boromir will only say that it is the will of his father, the dream of his brother, and Théodred asks no further. They have not seen each other in nearly three years; sleep will be unimportant tonight.

There are new scars on Boromir's body, visible when he strips off the sweat-stained traveling garb, and Théodred touches them gently, honoring Boromir's strength. He kisses Boromir's throat, follows fine dark hair down, down, to where Boromir's cock juts out stiffly. Théodred takes it in his mouth. Boromir sighs and reaches down to caress Théodred's cheek. Théodred's own cock is hard. He can feel the blood pulsing there, faster than in Boromir's as he runs his tongue along the distended veins. Boromir quivers; his legs part as Théodred reaches between them, stroking the soft skin behind the tight-drawn pouch and then back further.

No need to speak. Théodred releases Boromir and reaches for the flask of oil. Boromir rolls over and rises to his knees to let Théodred prepare him. As Théodred enters, he is nearly undone – how could he have forgotten how it felt to have Boromir beneath him? He catches his breath at the tight heat, and hears Boromir's answering groan as he begins to move. Théodred is the only man to have taken Boromir so, he knows, and he treasures the thought. He grasps Boromir's cock in his hand and pumps it in time to his thrusts. It has been so long. Théodred feels the release flooding out of him, and soon Boromir has also spilled his seed into Théodred's hand.

They make love twice more before morning, filling the time between with words and touches that mean nothing and everything, knowing that anything may happen before such a time comes again.

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Winter was a terrible time of year to be traveling. Boromir saw that the Hobbits had the sensible idea of pairing their bedrolls for warmth, and convinced Aragorn to do the same.

On the fourth night out he cooked supper for the Fellowship. When he came to lie down, Aragorn sniffed at him. "You smell of... buttermilk biscuits." Which was ridiculous, of course.

"Is that good or bad?" Boromir answered warily.

"Good." Aragorn wriggled closer, and Boromir felt the press of an erect cock against his thigh. He rolled and reached for it, gasping as Aragorn caressed him intimately in return.

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Minas Tirith lay near enough to the mountains that even in summer ice could be obtained, and the cooks did marvelous things with it, concocting chilled soups and iced sweets and the like.

Having grown up there, Faramir knew where the ice was kept, and reprised his youth by stealing a bowlful from the kitchens. He watched drops of water roll down quivering skin as he passed the ice over Aragorn's bare chest. When he slid it along the crease of Aragorn's thigh, the king wailed Faramir's name. Then Faramir bent to give Aragorn the heat he so desperately craved.