Under the cover of the night

Title: Under the cover of the night
Author: Mimine
Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir
Rating: NC 17
Feedback: Yes please! mimine101@hotmail.com Or leave a review
Archive: Still a WIP but you’re welcome to it. Just ask first, I’m sure I won’t say no.
Disclaimer: Let me check… Hmm, still not mine. Perhaps it’s better that way.
Notes: Beta read by Roman who did a terrific job. All the mistakes are mine.

Chapter he mhe moonlight paints silver the calm waters of the lake. Calm, unlike the river which has not welcomed us and our tiny boats with good grace. My shoulders ache constantly from rowing, as his do. I’m just too proud to complain. He does not let pride stop him and he has often gotten nimble hobbit fingers easing away the tension as a reward. Merry and Pippin take charge of one shoulder blade each. They adore him and with good reason. He, more than anyone, has embraced their presence in this quest.

I smile in the darkness at the thought of the two ever cheerful hobbits we have left asleep back at the campsite. At least, I like to think they remained asleep during our lovemaking. I’m not as unworldly as Boromir, to see them as children just because of their small size, yet the thought of them too having heard what went on makescheecheeks burn.

Soon I discern his form in the dark forest. He stops by the lake and he lets his cloak slide down to reveal his nakedness. Slowly, deliberately. He turns to me, only a fraction, still offering me an ample view of his backside. Each sinew clearly defined and interlocked, a thin waist, firm, round buttocks, muscular thighs and calves. Definitely a male and oh, so beautiful! Jealousy rises in my chest before that perfection. Followed by pride for, however briefly, I have possessed it.

He walks steadily in the water, drawing a sharp breath for it must be cold, but not breaking his graceful stride. He’s in up to his waist when he turns and looks at me, wordlessly asking me whether I plan to join him at some point.

I set down my cloak and my sword slowly, wishing with a misplaced modesty that he would look away for a moment. I walk reluctantly in the water, clenching my jaws firmly to keep my teeth from chattering. If I’m spared a heart attack I suspect pneumonia will be the end of me. I’m no stranger to hardships and had not expected a warm, scented bath but this is simply too cold. It appears that I’ve underestimated the Steward’s son. He’s casually letting some water splash on his chest now and moving his hand on it in a circular motion. I’m up to my thighs in the water, my testicles frantically trying to draw up so they will not be immersed and he’s simply washing away, humming under his breath! Is this a contest, I wonder?

His seed has almost dried on my middle and I cannot turn back. Resolutely I go further in, closer to where he is standing. A curse escapes my lips as the water reaches a little above than my waist.

“I forgot ton yon you that the water is cold,” he says teasingly.

I don’t trust my teeth not to chatter if I open my mouth to speak so I glare at him.

He laughs and beckons me closer. I take it my glare was lost in the darkness. I’m surprised at how strongly my senses register the rich sound of his laughter. I hadn’t heard it in entirely too long.

I take it, I haven’t gotten as close to him as he would like for he reaches and takes a hold of my upper arm, then pulls me to him firmly. I nearly lose my balance. I find it hard to believe but he has kept a measure of warmth in the freezing water. I feel his broad chest against my back, his nipples two hard points pressing against me. It is not an unpleasant feeling yet my mind rebels against the sight we must present. I’m in his arms, if I relax my head will rest against his shoulder. I don’t relax and I feel him pull back until we’re not touching at all. But then… then he does something that tips the scales in his favour. His hands find a spot right on the nape of my neck and press gently. I’m undone. With a heavy sigh I melt. One of his arms snakes around my chest to keep me up, my head leans against his shoulder while his other hand works a primitive magic on my tense muscles. Where and how and most importantly why… why is he doing this?

“I will be back,” he murmurs and leaves me barely standing in the cold water. A very undignified whimper of protest leaves my lips.

He is back only a few moments later and I feel his touch again on my shoulders, then on my chest.

“Soap,” I murmur with wonder for indeed that is what has made the feel of his hands so slippery.

“Soap,” he repeats with a chuckle. “You seem surprised, Ranger.”

“I didn’t know you carried it with you.”

“I haven’t let anyone know. The hobbits would more likely attempt to eat it. I assume you and Gimli would have told me to dispose of the extra weight… I am no elf to wash with my tongue, Aragorn!”

I laugh, overlooking his affront to my personal hygiene. I too have wondered how Legolas remains so impeccably groomed. I remember the look on his eyes as I left him earlier. I wonder how I’ll be able to face him when Boromir and I go back.

He must have seen my expression darken. His hands draw lazy circles on my chest, then move slightly lower. He washes away the last traces of his seed, gently, lovingly, humming under his breath some tune I do not recognise.

A vague disappointment pulses through me as his hands wander away from the area where a tingling feeling has started to make itself known, convincing me that a third erection tonight might well be possibThe The pleasure of his fingers on the nape of my neck is purer, almost innocent. They tangle in my hair, stroking softly, scratching. I have leaned against him now, against his wide, warm chest, mumbling something that sounds suspiciously like “there” and “please” and “don’t stop”.

I obediently allow him to push me down. My head is already in the water when what I presume is common sense, cries to me about how imprudent it is to give myself over to his mercy so fully. What if he doesn’t let me come up for air? What a death that would be for the future King of Gondor…

He does pull me up again. His fingers start carding through my hair in slow, hypnotic movements. I do not remember ever having had someone wash my hair for me. I assume my mother must have when I was a child but I suppose I asserted my independence early enough. It is a sinfully pleasant feeling, these broad, calloused fingers massaging my scalp. I moan in protest when the fingers stop.

“I need more soap,” he says with a chuckle. “Don’t go anywhere.”

As if I can, just barely standing, my eyes stinging since they have received an unneeded washing, my whole body trembling with sweet anticipation.

He’s back sooner than I had expected and this time I feel no fear as he pushes my head underwater again. It’s up to him to pull me out again since even that common sense that had been so vocal before has now taken a holiday. He pulls me up finally and I take large gulps of air, my head resting in the crook of his neck. I breathe in that scent which is uniquely his. That scent that had left me unable to sleep in Moria, unsettled by his closeness. We’d all needed to feel the presence of another in Moria, to reassure us that we were still alive in the midst of all that death. I’d felt Boromir’s eyes on me, I’d felt him inch closer to me, bundled in his blanket. I could have had him then, I realise. I could have had him but it had not occurred to me to ask, certain he would refuse and be appalled at my presumption. How little I really know him. Will I ever get a chance? Will I march with him in Minas Tirith? I don’t like this feeling in my chest, this strange foreboding. I press against him to make sure that he is still there. He is. Indeed he is, as I can feel against my backside.

It is a feeling that makes my cheeks warm. He is hard. No small a feat in the freezing water. I deliberately press against him, surprising myself with my wantonness. I am no stranger to dalliances with men, but, before, all my encounters had been hurried, focused primarily on tending to my own pleasure, though I would always see to the pleasure of my companion as well. But now, even though I am not aroused I’m overcome with tenderness for the man behind me, I want to pleasure him in any way he wishes. Surrender to him the way he surrendered to me.

He presses against me again and I panic. I think I’d been fooling myself into believing I could do this. I cannot let him use me as a woman even though it was something he easily allowed… nay… *demanded* of me.

He strokes me there under the water. His hands are gentle, reassuring, simply stroking the curve of my buttocks without trying to gain entrance. He walks us back, towards the edge of the lake. The water only reaches up to our calves there. He lies down, like a human mattress under me. I feel his lips on my neck, his manhood pressing against me. I force my body to relax on top of him. We don’t have the luxury of time. Should enemies happen upon us now we’d be done for.

He doesn’t try anything with a self control I rather admire. I’m the one who starts squirming, rubbing against him, delighting in his laboured breathing. I turn and search his lips. He lets himself be kissed, clearly showing to me that no matter what happens next, if anything, I’m in charge. It is a strange position to be in, considering that I can feel the swollen head of his manhood against my entrance.

I break the kiss. I cannot do this. I cannot just offer myself like this… Why? Why won’t he take me? I’m frustrated to near tears. It is not that the lacks experience, rather that this proud soldier by day is completely different at night. A cryptic remark Gandalf had made becomes clearer. *He has secrets* the wizard had said. *Secrets that bear on him, prey on his mind. He wishes to unburden himself. He wishes to be led.* How crazy the words had sounded then… I’d been convinced that the warrior had wanted nothing more than to get me out of the way and secure his stewardship.

Not true. I know that now. Perhaps he’d despised me at first but that is no longer how he feels. I press my lips to his again and turn, still atop him, until we’re face to face. A muffled curse tells me I didn’t manage to do that without elbowing him in the stomach. Instead of an apology I reach and take a hold of his erection. Steel sheathed in velvet. The position is awkward yet it might as well be myself I was pleasuring. He arches into my touch. I do not need to look at what I’m doing so I focus on his face instead. So beautiful, eyes half closed, lips parted and the soft sounds he makes... Music to my ears. He squirms, arching his lower body and I quicken my pace. I’m propped up over him, one hand in the cold water while the other pleasures him. It is n com comfortable position but I do not want to smother him or force him to keep us both over the water. He does not seem to worry about that. He raises his upper body slightly, the muscles on his flat stomach appearing firmly with the strain. He takes a hold of the hand I’d been propping myself with and puts it on him. He has raised his legs. Even without an erection he wants me to mount him again.

I use my fingers to enter him while my other hand does not slacken its rhythm on his hardened manhood. I suppose it is a twin pleasure for him to arch into my fist then slam back to my penetrating fingers. I have four in his tight heat and stroke him on the inside in time with my fist sliding on his erection. He’s crying out now and I have no third hand to clap over his mouth so I try to silence him with words. I wish I could kiss him but I cannot reach him without breaking the rhythm of my hands on his body.

He curls up and tries to muffle his cry on my shoulder. His inner muscles clamp against my fingers, his whole body tense as a wound bowstring. He finds his release sobbing against me. He’s trying to be quiet like I told him but I have no doubt that Legolas has heard the cries, if not everyone at the campsite with the certain exception of Gimli who sleeps like a log.

After another, much quicker wash, we both walk back to the campsite. Boromir drops on his sleeping place without a word, covers himself with his cloak and appears to fall asleep within seconds. I cannot help thinking that he is naked, that the morning will find him naked, and soft and warm and quite possibly sore. He doesn’t seem to mind. We are among males, after all.

I do, however, turn my back to Legolas as I quickly dress, keeping the inadequate cover of my cloak on my shoulders. I can feel his eyes on my back. I cannot turn to face him. I sense his presence next to me. *What does he want? I can’t discuss it…*

“I was wondering when this would happen.”

His kind tone infuriates me. He knew, intelligent, superior Firstborn that he is. He looked down upon us with amusement, knowing what would happen before we did.

I feel his hand on my wet hair.

“Estel…”

“Let me sleep,” I say harshly. “I did not mean to endanger us all by… neglecting my watch. Thank you for covering for me. Now let me be.”

I can feel his sad smile. He pats my back through my cloak and leaves my side. I hear his soft whisper to Gimli. As usual, the dwarf wakes up with a start no matter how gently we try to rouse him from his deep slumber. I try to remember whether it was so before our passage through Moria and I think it wasn’t though I cannot be certain.

Moria comes to my mind again, a memory that accompanies the darkness, the moments when I strive to find some peace. Moria and Gandalf… had he known too? That the antagonism between Boromir and myself would develop into something else? Is that what he had been trying to tell me when he spoke of Boromir? Did I reject his concern, then, the way I rejected Legolas’, now?

Can I lead Boromir? Can I be what he needs? I try to dismiss what has just happened between the two of us as something casual, no different than all the other times I’ve lain with men. Eventually sleep claims me although I haven’t quite managed to convince myself of that.

TBC