"It could have been mine. It should have been mine! Give it to me!"

Frodo tried to get away, stumbled, and felt Boromir's large hands close around his ankles. He was dragged to the ground and spun around as though he was a toy.

Boromir loomed over him, tearing at his shirt, snapping the Elven brooch where it held his cape together, ripping off buttons and pulling at the simple silver chain... He was fumbling for the ring with the desperation of a dying man when salvation was near.

"No!" Frodo screamed, helplessly overpowered, swatting away Boromir's hands. He sent a silent call for help to Aragorn, knowing he could not be heard and would probably not be missed by his companions for some time yet.

Boromir snarled at him to keep still. To let him have the ring, just the ring, as if it was nothing. As if this was some simple act of theft, rather than an attempt to possess the most dangerous thing in all of Middle Earth and allow it to corrupt him into pure evil.

"I cannot let you have the ring!" Frodo cried, trying to kick Boromir away, but he barely impacted on his physically more powerful and determined attacker.

"I will have it, Frodo," Boromir threatened. "There is no way in which you can stop me now." He reached for the gold token, his fingers trembling, his eyes wide and his mouth parted as he drew quick, panting breaths.

Frodo whimpered as if in pain, and the momentary distraction confused Boromir into looking up from the ring to the tear-filled blue eyes of the Hobbit - the very Hobbit he had sworn to protect from harm. "Frodo..." he said softly, his heart sinking.

"Let go off me!" Frodo screamed, kicking and flailing his little arms, unsucessfully trying to push Boromir away; the Hobbit was too panicked to realize that Boromir's demeanour had changed.

Boromir grabbed first one wrist, then the other - both easily fitting within the same hand - and pushed Frodo's hands down to the leafy ground above the Hobbit's head.

Panicking, Frodo kicked harder, and Boromir tried to fend off the kicks in the only way he could, by covering Frodo with his own weight across his middle, his free hand pressing down the knee poised to impact with his stomach. His hand slid upwards, dislodged by the erratic movements of the Hobbit, and one moment, it was on Frodo's inner thigh, the next it was pushed down against his groin.

Frodo groaned and shuddered, his eyes widening impossibly. Then he lay deathly still.

Boromir stared down between them, to where his hand had inadvertently landed. Then he looked back up at Frodo's face - flushed and utterly vulnerable. His movements slowed at first, but he stilled completely when he realized that Frodo's groan had driven every last remnant of desire for the ring from his mind.

Frodo watched the expressions chase over Boromir's face, and what he saw there frightened and excited him at once. A sudden, sharp pain at the back of his neck made him cry out, and he realized Boromir had torn the chain from his neck. He watched the ring being tossed aside like a worthless trinket, and his confusion turned to fear as dark as night - he was so afraid, he did not even dare to struggle.

Boromir's hand tightened over him, squeezing experimentally.

Frodo arched into the touch, no matter how hard he tried not to. He tried to slow his breathing, but with that iron grip on his quickly growing arousal, he could not even hope to regain his equilibrium.

An awed gasp tore from Boromir's throat when his eyes fell on Frodo's now unadorned chest - unadorned save for milky white skin peeking out above the shimmering mithrail shirt.

"Let me go, Boromir," Frodo pleaded weakly. "Please."

Boromir's eyes roamed over the hobbit's face ravenously. He watched the soft, parted lips; and the flaring nostrils; and the wide, darkened eyes, and whimpered low in his throat. His thigh pushed upwards a little, parting Frodo's legs further, and Boromir squeezed once more.

Frodo muttered something that may have been either a curse or a plea, and his lids fluttered closed as he let out an unsteady breath.

At that moment, Boromir could no longer remember what possible lure the ring could have had. What influence it could have wielded compared to this. How it could have made him want it so badly when there was this... this... beauty. This innocence. What was the cursed ring compared to its bearer: a mere token of corruption around the neck of the purest being to walk Middle Earth.

No, if he was to be corrupted, it would be by this new, this overwhelming and inevitable, desire for the ring bearer. Was it so new? Had there not all along been an element of desire for Frodo in his need for the ring?

Boromir's face had moved closer to Frodo's while he had pondered this, and when their gasping mouths were only inches apart, Boromir whispered roughly, "I will not proceed with this if you reject me." As if to prove the truth of his words, his hand shifted from Frodo's arousal to rest on the juncture of the hobbit's thigh and hip.

Frodo whimpered, but no words left his lips.

"Frodo, I will not force you. But you must speak."

"No."

Boromir's heart sank, but he did draw back instantly as promised.

"No!" Frodo's wrists were still in Boromir's grasp, so he used his body to reach for the man, by arching up against the retreating form. He blinked, his eyes boring into Boromir's pleadingly.

"Are you certain?" Boromir gasped out.

Frodo bit his lip and nodded. "Touch me." He swallowed. "Please."

The hand which had left him did not return immediately. Instead, Boromir's face came nearer once again.

Frodo's eyes strayed to the man's lips before they closed, and then Frodo's mouth was sealed and invaded. He barely hesitated in his reciprocation of the kiss. And once the last trace of resistence was gone, he curled his little tongue around Boromir's. Shuddering, he pressed up against the man, who released his wrists and slipped his hand beneath Frodo's nape instead, tilting his head just a little to the side.

Frodo gasped for breath when his mouth was released, only to inhale sharply when Boromir's lips touched the strong line of his jaw, the man's beard drawing a tickling warmth over his soft skin as the kiss moved below Frodo's chin and down his throat. Lingering there, Boromir flicked out his tongue, and Frodo groaned, sending Boromir into a frenzy.

"Frodo," he breathed. "Frodo, you are... so much more..." Boromir's tongue lapped at the hollow of Frodo's throat when the hobbit's neck arched, supported by the large, warm hand behind it. "So much more than any trinket... more powerful..." Frodo gasped when he felt fingers struggling to unbutton his rough linen shirt. "More beautiful..." Boromir's lips whispered against the spot where the ring had been minutes earlier, his tongue laving it as if to wash away its contamination from the gentle being forced to carry the vile thing. "More..."

Frodo felt blinded by pleasure. He had never been touched in such a way - ravished and yet soothed all at once. He wanted more of that touch, struggled with the fastenings of his own pants to allow Boromir to proceed more quickly.

"A revelation." Boromir stopped what he was doing, lifting his head and staring at Frodo oddly.

Frodo held his eyes, his own - dark with need - pleading for more.

When Boromir did not proceed, Frodo snagged the hand which lay on his breast and moved it lower, between them. Back to where it had been when all this had begun.

Boromir clenched his jaw, suppressing whatever sound he might have made when his palm met hot, now bare skin... a solid, slender shaft around which to curl his long fingers... a light trickle of moisture, easing his hesitant touch into a smooth glide.

Frodo gasped in rhythm with the strokes, his eyes attempting to focus on the man's, his perception of the now darkened blue eyes blurred by desire.

"Frodo." Boromir's mouth curled in a way peculiar to him, a sight so erotic, it had robbed Frodo's breath once or twice before. The warm hand, now dampened with Frodo's trickling seed, moved faster and faster, and Frodo's fingers gripped the embossed fabric of Boromir's sleeves tight while his panting breaths and incontrollable shudders wracked his small body.

"Give me your greatest gift, Frodo," Boromir pleaded, his voice unusually soft and husky all at once. "Even though I do not deserve it."

Frodo's breath hitched, his eyes widened and, letting out a deep groan, he spilled himself into Boromir's hand.

Boromir muttered something unintelligible, his mouth once more descending on Frodo's for a fierce kiss.

Frodo had not yet fallen from his high when he felt the slickened hand slide through his thighs to probe at the crease between his buttocks, his soft skin parting easily with the wet touch and his deep relaxation. He gasped into Boromir's mouth, shifting, and causing the probing fingers to slide into his body. The world stilled around him, and all he could hear was his own ragged breathing, leaves shifting beneath him, and the wet, erotic sounds of his body being invaded.

Boromir did not appear to be breathing at all. The man's eyes were unfocused, brimming with tears but not crying. Not yet.

Frodo forced himself, through the blinding pleasure that kept rolling through him over and over, to focus enough to reach up and touch Boromir's face. His small fingers ghosted over the strong line of Boromir's jaw, traced his lips he had seen them smiling too rarely, but on those few occassions, he had been left breathless, for those smiles were the very path to the man's true heart. He cupped Boromir's cheek.

"Frodo," Boromir whispered, leaning very slightly into the touch against his face, nothing but tenderness shining from his misty eyes.

Then the touch inside Frodo felt suddenly more intense, and to his astonishment, he came once again, more sweetly than the first time. Or maybe this had been continuous, for he could barely grasp the concept of time passing at all.

Boromir blinked then and, as he did so, his eyes did finally overflow even as he himself climaxed quietly, almost painfully. He sobbed raggedly and, without a moment's thought, Frodo reached up with both arms and drew the man close, cradling his head against his neck and stroking soothingly over the sleek, dark hair. "I am a monster," Boromir muttered, not daring now to wrap his arms around Frodo.

Frodo shook his head, his dark curls sliding against Boromir's temple as he did so, and his strokes grew more soothing and tender still. "No, Boromir. But you have defeated one."

Boromir caught a glimpse of the ring on a bed of rotting leaves, and he heard it beckoning to him, promising to help him save his beloved Gondor.

Frodo must have heard it too, for he held him more tightly still.

When Boromir did not move towards the ring, its whispers changed, taunting him for his desire for the ringbearer and, when he still did not move, it told him something else: a dark, imminent prophecy.

This time, Frodo had not heard. The small arms around Boromir's neck had not tightened, and the slender little hands were stroking his hair in the same smooth, continuous rhythm.

No, these last words the ring had spoken concerned only Boromir. He lifted his head off Frodo's chest and gazed at him one last time, taking comfort in finding no trace of hatred in the blue depths of his eyes. And he dared one last kiss as well - a mere brush of his lips against Frodo's. Then he stood, his head hung low.

"Boromir?" Frodo questioned. There was no fear in his voice, only confusion, as he gazed up at the man.

"Never listen to it, Frodo," Boromir said, his voice soft but urgent nonetheless. "To what it tells you. Never."

Then he turned and walked away, his entire posture speaking of defeat, and his retreating form vanished between moss-covered tree trunks like a ghost.

End