Under the cover of the night

Title: Under the cover of the night (4/?)
Author : Mimine (mimine101@hotmail.com)
Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir
Rating: NC-17
Summary: movieverse. Aragorn and Boromir set aside some of their differences.
Disclaimer: Not mine, Tolkien’s. Perhaps it’s better that way.
Author’s Note : My gratitude to Roman who did a great job betareading this. All the mistakes are mine


The morning comes. He looks haggard. He doesn’t smile back to the hobbits who once more bring him his breakfast. Pippin looks crestfallen. As Merry leads his cousin away, my gaze connects with Boromir’s. He stares past me then covers his face with his large hands giving out a heavy sigh.

I can understand it, I think. We’re getting closer and closer to Minas Tirith. I’ve called it my City often enough but I’m not really her child, not the way Boromir is. He longs to go back. His desire strengthened in Lothlorien and is consuming him. To what extent will he go? I have seen the way he looks at Frodo. I can only pray to whatever deity might be willing to hear me that I will never have to raise my sword against Boromir to protect the Ringbearer.

I echo his heavy sigh, stubbornly refusing to accept that his sadness has affected me. We start for our journey downriver again and I paddle vigorously, ignoring my screaming muscles. The pain is strong at first but then lowers to a burning ache. I do not turn to look at Boromir at all, and avoid another kind of ache, one located in my chest.

We camp again. Boromir leaves straight away to gather firewood. Legolas points in his direction and says that someone should help him, at the same time holding down G who who had been ready to volunteer. Gimli stares at me in confusion at first but then his expression hardens. I wonder whether I have offended the dwarf’s sensibilities. He motions for me to go after Boromir then turns to Legolas and shakes his head. I note the camaraderie between them and for once it fails to please me for I suspect they are both secretly laughing at me.

I find him hacking savagely at a tree with his sword.

“This is no way to treat your weapon, Boromir.”

He doesn’t turn to face me. “Better a tree than one of you,” he replies through clenched teeth.

I approach him enough to put my hand on his shoulder. He shakes it off.

“Boromir, about last night…”

“No!” he cuts me off. “This is not about last night.” hack This is not about you!” hack “It’s…” He breathes in heavily and throws his sword on the ground. “We’re so close, Aragorn. So close I can almost smell home. And my people are in danger. They do not know of Saruman’s treachery. Does it not worry you that there might be nothing of your Kingdom by the time you decide to grace it with your presence?” He turns and spits the last words to my face.

Before I knew what I wanted to do myself I grab him and slam him against the tree he’d been attacking. “Let me tell you something,” I hiss. “I didn’t ask for this. Any of it. But it is my legacy and I will fulfil it. I cannot promise anything to you. I cannot promise that we will march in Minas Tirith victorious,” his eyes widen and brim with tears as I mention his words in Lothlorien. My resolve abandons me. “You can leave if you want,” I say tiredly. “You can go back to Minas Tirith but do not ask of Frodo to come with you.”

“Or you,” he adds softly.

“Or me. It is not my time yet. You have to understand that.”

“I can’t leave,” he murmurs, lowering his eyes. “I do not know why anymore.” He leans towards me until his forehead is touching my shoulder. “Perhaps it is because of you,” he whispers.

What am I doing to him? How have I mislead him so?

“Do not count on me, Boromir. Do not read more into the release we found with each other. I’m promised to Lady Arwen…”

His soft laughter cuts me short.

“I did not ask of you to make me your Queen.” He raises his head from my shoulder to face me, eyes harsh and dry now.

“I care for you, Boromir,” I say quietly. “And I care about our people…”

“Do not speak of them. You have no right!”

I push him hard against the tree again. “I have *every* right, you whining cub,” I growl. “Do you think you will do them some great service by stealing the Ring? It will lead you straight to Sauron!”

“Your Ringbearer can barely stand upright most days and you think that he will fulfil his mission? I will not use the Ring, Aragorn…”

His eyes have the feverish quality of a drunk’s eyes promising not to drink again. “Do not think of it,” I say softly, cutting him off. “Do not let it consume you. Do not confuse your lust for it with lust for me.”

He flinches at my last words. He is flustered and a look at the front of his breeches gives me a good explanation. “I assure you that it is you I lust for right now, not any piece of metal,” he whispers bitterly.

I swallow hard. I cannot deny my own arousal. I lean forward until our lips touch and from then on I no longer control my actions. My tongue seems to have developed a will of its own as it explores his mouth. It’s bitter, not fresh and flowery and making me think mine must stink like week old fish, which is always the case when I’m kissing Arwen. I revel at the newfound freedom. My hand wanders south and finds the bulge in his breeches. I press gently and he moans in my mouth. I break the kiss, still stroking him, enjoying how his hips thrust forward to press his warm flesh against my hand. He quickly drops his breeches and leads my hand to his weeping erection. It is so hot I feel the outline even before my fingers have closed around it. I pleasure him slowly, ignoring his grunts of frustration. We both drop in front of the tree in a fluid motion. He rests his back against the trunk, biting on his lip not to cry out. I stroke his cheek with my free hand and it is my turn to stifle a cry when his mouth sucks in my exploring fingers. He licks them and gently bites the pads and the action is so suggestively erotic that my breath hitches. I let go of his erection. His hips arch towards my retreating hand and a moan of frustration is stifled against my fingers.

I lower my head over his hardened manhood, the heady scent intoxicating me. I dart my tongue and get a taste. He exhales against my palm giving out a small whimper. Perhaps there is pleasure to be attained from this action. I’ve always accepted it very gratefully in the past but never reciprocated it. My lips close around the purple tip and I tease it with my tongue. I’m careful not to scrape on the sensitive skin with my teeth. I sit back on my heels, one hand still against Boromir’s face and the other holding on his manhood so I can explore it with my mouth. Instinctively I rub my thighs together. I’m so hard it hurts but I focus on Boromir’s pleasure.

I lick him awkwardly, with broad swipes then try to take him in but cannot go much farther than the head. It is not that he is uncommonly endowed, just about as big as me, I should think, a thought that somehow makes my cheeks burn. This is no time for shame, however. I admire once more how well he had managed it when he was servicing me, how he’d taken me all the way in until I had hit the back of his throat. I slide down a little but I immediately choke and my eyes water. I focus on the tip again, sucking and probing with my tongue. He has pulled my fingers in his mouth again and is licking and gently sliding his mouth up and down. I finally understand that he means to show me what he’d like me to do to him. I take him in as far as I can go then pull up again until he’s almost out of my mouth. I cover my teeth with my lips to make sure I will not hurt him and repeat the movement. He gives out a strangled cry and I know that I’m finally doing shinghing right. I establish a rhythm. His hand tangles in my hair and strokes gently. A whine leaves his lips. He yanks at my hair to give some sort of warning. He is close. I can taste his bitter essence on my tongue.

I quicken my rhythm on him, almost forgetting that I need to breathe in the midst of all that is happening. He stifles a cry against my palm as he fills my mouth. I pull back a moment later, gasping and trying to swallow his juices with little success. I wipe at my mouth fighting a very strong urge to spit. I liked his needy cries and the way his body trembled under my ministrations but this is not a part of the experience that I would hurry to repeat.

Boromir is still giving out soft moans. He leans and kisses my hair. Reluctantly I raise my head to face him, very much aware of how undignified I must look. Adoration shines in his eyes.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs and leans to clean my face with his tongue, lapping at me like a very large, very enthusiastic kitten. My cheeks burn in humiliation as I wonder what possessed me to do this. Arousal extinguishes it, born of his gentle touches, his warm breath against my skin and most of all, how his deft fingers stroke me as they quickly work to lower my breeches. I sit up on my knees to rub against his hand.

“No, don’t waste it,” he purrs. He drapes a leg around me, leaning his weight on the tree. He takes once more my hand in his mouth, moistening my fingers. He then leads them to his most private entrance. I breach him hesitantly. He gives out a hiss as he pulls my fingers in.

“Do it,” he whispers breathlessly and I pull out my fingers and slowly lower him on top of me. We have become a tangle of limbs as I thrust shallowly in his tight heat. I stifle my moans with difficulty, my face buried in his shoulder. He does the same, sobbing and whimpering against me. I trust he will stop me if I’m hurting him. Going by the sounds he makes I should probably have stopped already but he is holding me tight, his hands running down my back then up again to stroke the nape of my neck, my hair… I thrust harder and harder until I see nothing but white light. His legs have closed around me in a vice-like grip and his whole body is trembling… or is that me? I can’t tell where I end and he begins anymore.

I withdraw slowly and we untangle from each other. I gasp at the sight of a thin trail of blood down his thigh.

“You… you are bleeding,” I murmur. “I’m sorry.”

He gets up. “It is nothing,” he says softly. “I just need to wash up.”

“Let me… I have an ointment that would help.”

He shakes his head and leaves, walking a little further up the river. I want to follow him but something stops me. I walk to the river for a quick wash. I welcome the shock of cold water on my flushed face.

He comes back and finds me sitting down, staring at the river. I look back to him. Am I imagining the slight hesitancy in his step? He is holding an armful of firewood and it occurs to me that this is supposed to be the reason why we left our companions. Quickly I also gather some twigs and follow him back to the campsite.

We find a fire, it would have been too much to expect of our companions to wait for us to bring the wood. I feel Legolas’s gaze on me as I sit by the fire. Boromir settles down close to Merry and Pippin, opposite me. He is rather subdued, smiling wanly to the hobbits, who joke with him, trying to lighten his mood. Eventually they abandon the effort and retire to their corner.

Gimli asks for first watch, Legolas takes second and I leave last to Boromir. He drops on his sleeping place. I inch closer to him and reach to trail a finger down his coarse cheek. He shies away from my touch.

“Are you alright?” I whisper to him.

He nods in reply. “I’m tired,” he whispers back. “That is all.”

I feel that there is more than that but I say nothing. I listen until I hear his light snore. It is a comforting sound which lulls me to sleep.

I awaken from Legolas’s gentle touch on my shoulder. He smiles to me as I raise my face from Boromir’s back. I wonder how I ended up spooned against the other man and how tired indeed he must have been not to wake up.

Legolas sits next to me as I assume my watch.

“Did you manage to sort things out at all?” he says softly.

I rub tiredly at my forehead. “I don’t think so,” I reply. “I think things have become even more complicated.”

TBC