Remedy
"Yes," growls Boromir. This laying-on of hands was not his idea, and Aragorn
seems determined to tear his muscles from his spine rather than to ease the ache
in his shoulders which has made him restless all evening.
"Good." Oh, Aragorn is cruel; Boromir scowls at him, only to receive a smile in
response. "Now remember to breathe, and this will go much more easily."
"I am trying, but it is difficult with your thumb pressing me there." Shifting,
Boromir plants his feet in the soft, fragrant grass, chilly under his bare
soles. In truth, it is not the uncomfortable pressure from Aragorn's fingers but
the uncomfortable closeness of Aragorn's body that has constricted his throat.
When Boromir is less tired and sore—when he is on his guard—it is easy to
remember who Aragorn is, whom he may yet become, and the anger and frustration
that rise in Boromir at such thoughts quickly quell the impulses that sometimes
surge in him when the other man is near, quickening his breath, making his
fingers and lips itch to...
"I can't get rid of this without my thumb pressing there," Aragorn interrupts
his reverie. "Think about something else. Imagine...home. A warm bed. A
crackling fire."
The image flickers easily to life within Boromir's mind. He can smell the smoke
of the fire he built for the hobbits earlier, some distance from where he now
sits, for he and Aragorn left camp so that they could talk without waking the
exhausted little ones. He thinks of his bed in Minas Tirith, of the last time he
was home, when it was his brother's hands rubbing the soreness from his back, of
the pillow stuffed with feathers and the soft blanket that Faramir draped over
him when he was too tired to remain upright...
"Now I am just aware of how cold I am," he complains to Aragorn, hissing at the
fingertips pinching and prodding him.
"Then think about..." Aragorn pauses, digging his thumb in a little deeper,
while his other hand holds firm on Boromir's shoulder. He leans over, and his
breath is hot in Boromir's ear as he whispers: "Think about having me on my
knees."
Boromir cannot repress the grunt that bursts from his throat, nor the way his
body jerks in response, his neck snapping to the side with an audible crack.
"That was easy," Aragorn chuckles. And...brushes his lips against...the side of
Boromir's throat as he moves his hands again, seeking out more knots.
"What...are you..." Boromir stammers. The hands that were battering him a moment
ago have suddenly become gentler, and his entire body is responding with
alarming speed.
"Mm? Oh." Aragorn nuzzles at a spot just below Boromir's ear. "Well, I assumed I
had caused enough pain for the time being. Now we need to see about making sure
you are relaxed. You've been tense lately."
He had thought that maybe Aragorn's lips had brushed him inadvertently the first
time, but twice in two minutes cannot be an accident. "I am relaxed," Boromir
rumbles, much more forcefully than he intends.
"Oh, indeed? If that is the case, then it's your turn." Aragorn moves away to
stand in front of Boromir, making shooing motions with his hands. "Up."
Boromir gapes, then stumbles to his feet, tugging his vest across his lap as he
does so. He is certain that the gesture looks awkward, but not nearly so awkward
as he would feel if Aragorn got a look at what he was trying to hide beneath his
clothing. Turning quickly, he circles behind the Ranger and orders, "Down,"
again more gruffly than he should.
Grinning at him, Aragorn sits down and wriggles himself into a comfortable
position. "Pay particular attention to my lower back, if you don't mind."
Boromir moves in close behind him, placing tentative hands just below Aragorn's
ribcage and telling himself he is imagining things when he thinks he feels
Aragorn shudder. He pushes down on the muscles, noting that Aragorn does not
feel very tense; he moves with Boromir's fingers, undulating, and Boromir must
scoot away before Aragorn's back comes into contact with his groin.
Aragorn sighs, tilting his head back. "Oh, that's nice. Don't stop."
In spite of the warmth radiating from the other man, Boromir shivers and has to
bite his lip to keep from groaning. He presses harder, thinking that maybe
Aragorn will stop squirming and sighing if he hits a sore spot, but Aragorn
doesn't seem to have any cramps or pulls. In fact, he feels perfectly relaxed,
at ease with his body as he leans back a little to speak: "You have an exquisite
touch, Boromir."
Boromir is almost too close to continue what his hands are doing; his fingertips
splay against the warm fabric of Aragorn's tunic, pushing the Ranger upright. In
a few moments he knows that he will have to make his apologies and do something
about the swelling ache in his groin. Having the other man's hair brushing his
face is not helping matters.
Aragorn twists around to look at Boromir. He lifts his hand until the backs of
his fingers touch Boromir's cheek. "You look flushed," he murmurs.
"I am warm," Boromir answers automatically, turning his face away from the
fingers but not quite managing to detach them from his skin. "If your back is
better, then perhaps you should sleep."
"But I'm not tired. Would you like me to work on yours again? I think there were
a few knots I couldn't get rid of." Aragorn turns around completely, looking up
at Boromir with a bit of a frown. "It felt as though you had been carrying the
weight of the world on your shoulders."
Boromir takes an automatic step back; Aragorn's mouth is inches from his cock,
hidden for now under his clothing but straining toward that warm breath. He does
not think that Aragorn will believe him if he claims to be relaxed, and fears if
he says he would like to walk that Aragorn might offer to accompany him. "Er,"
he blurts. "If you believe...it would be helpful."
"I think it would, but what is more important is whether or not you do." Aragorn
stands, smiling. "Do you?"
What would be helpful, Boromir thinks, would be to push Aragorn back against a
tree and...he flinches, closing his eyes, hoping that the other man assumes it
is his aching muscles and not what is going through his mind that has made him
turn. He tries to shake his head, but it comes out as a nod.
Aragorn reaches out for Boromir's arm, pulling him closer. His fingertips trail
up Boromir's spine. "Where does it ache?" he whispers, his mouth close to
Boromir's ear again.
Much too close, he is much too close: Boromir has grabbed Aragorn's arm to still
it before he can stop himself, but he cannot release it from his grip once his
fingers have closed around the bicep. Either Aragorn has decided to drive him
mad, or Boromir is already mad and seeing unintended meanings in innocent
gestures. Because it is the only way to know which is true, he leans back far
enough to look into the Ranger's eyes.
Aragorn's hand slides up under Boromir's hair, his fingers gently kneading the
back of his neck. "Where does it ache?" he asks again, his eyes darting to
Boromir's mouth.
Roughly, Boromir returns the gesture, digging his fingers through coarse dark
hair to cup the base of Aragorn's skull. He does not speak but presses with his
fingers, unsure himself whether he is trying to knead the skin or draw Aragorn
toward him.
"You could have me on my knees, if that is what you want." Aragorn's other
hand rests now on Boromir's hip, drawing him ever closer as Boromir stiffens,
then trembles at his words.
"I thought..." Boromir's voice is alarmingly hoarse. He swallows, though his
mouth is dry. "I thought you were jesting." Still propelled forward by Aragorn's
hands, Boromir's torso comes to rest against the other man's, and he discovers
that Aragorn is as aroused as he is.
"I don't jest about such things, Boromir."
"What are you..." Boromir decides that verbal communication is remarkably
ineffective, and if Aragorn dares to mock him after making such an offer, he
will be able to scoff at him in turn. He tilts his head and presses his mouth
over Aragorn's, nudging his lips apart with his tongue.
Aragorn's arms encircle Boromir, pressing him tight to his body. He eagerly
sucks Boromir's tongue into his mouth, moaning softly. A few heartbeats later,
he is working to remove the barriers of clothing between them. Sweating and
shivering at the same time, Boromir twists as Aragorn tugs at his many layers
without letting his mouth break contact.
His own hands are itching to touch Aragorn, but this has happened very quickly
and Boromir has no idea what it means. Is this about helping them sleep?
Loneliness? Boredom? Or does Aragorn know that Boromir watches him when he finds
himself unobserved, and has he somehow given himself away, seeking the man's
company too often? Should he speak, or take what is offered without needing
answers?
"Please don't tell me to stop," Aragorn whispers against Boromir's lips as his
fingers seek the ties of Boromir's breeches.
"I was not..." Boromir moans helplessly as Aragorn's hand brushes his cock
beneath the laces, and he arches forward. "Why are you doing this, why now?"
Aragorn's fingers mold themselves over Boromir's cock. "Because now seems as
good a time as any. We have some privacy. And I cannot hold back any longer. I
ache for you."
Boromir cannot hold back any longer either. He begins to tug at Aragorn's
clothing in turn, trying not to grind himself into Aragorn's hand, for this will
all end very quickly if he does. His mouth finds Aragorn's again, and he kisses
him hard.
Aragorn moans and melts against Boromir, reaching into Boromir's breeches to
wrap his cock in his hand. "I have longed for this," he whispers between heated
kisses, stroking Boromir's cock. Then he stops, and drops to his knees, looking
up at Boromir. "Let me?"
"Y-yes," agrees Boromir, ashamed of how his voice shakes but unable to do
anything to control it. Nor can he control the way his hands move over Aragorn's
head, stroking his hair, drawing him in close. If this is a trial of his will,
if he is supposed to be strong enough to refuse, then he has failed utterly. He
hopes fervently that this is not a trial.
Aragorn ducks his head, licking and sucking on Boromir's balls, his hands tight
on the man's thighs. Then he looks up again to see if Boromir is watching him,
and that knowledge sends a surge of excitement through Boromir as Aragorn licks
the base of his cock, runs his tongue around the shaft and over the head,
tasting how much Boromir wants him. He imagines how they look, a King on his
knees, the Steward's son with his fingers tight in his hair, and he moans.
The vibrations from Aragorn's mouth as he echoes the muffled sound and the
slight movement of his fingers up Boromir's thighs make Boromir's legs tremble,
though he tries to hold still, knowing that he will not last if he begins to
thrust and wanting to savor this for as long as he can before surrendering. He
had never thought to see Aragorn like this, crouched before him with his eyes
half-open and his mouth shamelessly rounded to take him in.
Helplessly he cries out and surges forward. Aragorn hums softly, one hand
sliding higher to squeeze Boromir's hip, guiding him forward. "Aragorn," Boromir
warns with what breath he can spare, his hips flexing uncontrollably, trying to
drive his cock deep into Aragorn's throat. He squeezes his eyes shut, unable to
tolerate the sight of Aragorn's mouth wrapped around him so. A few deep breaths
steady him, but then the pressure of Aragorn sucking on him makes him cry out
anew.
Both of Aragorn's hands are now on Boromir's hips, and he urges Boromir to
thrust into his mouth as he sucks more insistently. Boromir lets out a ragged,
broken moan as the Ranger's fingernails drag over his skin—he wants to let
go, desperately, but he squeezes his eyes shut, focusing on the feel of
Aragorn's tongue over the head of his cock. "Oh, I'm..." Boromir swallows the
rest of the words because even this subtle release of breath brings him closer
to the edge. Pulling back, he tries to stand still, to break the rhythm. "Do you
want...is this what you want..."
"Mm-mmm!" Aragorn does not pull away, tugging Boromir toward him again. Boromir
hopes that he has not misunderstood, because he knows that there will be no
stopping. His breath quickens as he thrusts, feeling Aragorn's mouth shift
around him, grateful for the man's broad palms against his hips because he might
collapse otherwise. Aragorn's hair falls over his fingers, which tighten
helplessly.
Then the King on his knees swallows around Boromir's cock, his arms all but
wrapping around Boromir's hips to keep him close. "Aragorn," Boromir barks, too
loudly, before he cannot speak, for it takes all his concentration not to shove
himself down Aragorn's throat. He feels his buttocks clenching, feels his knees
lock together as he lets Aragorn's hands take his weight, and he shouts as he
comes.
Aragorn holds him up, trying to support him for as long as he needs. Boromir
groans, groans again, and falls to his knees in the soft grass, letting his
hands slide from the Ranger's head down to his shoulders, still holding on for
strength. He wants to kiss Aragorn but cannot breathe yet, so he simply holds
on.
Aragorn pulls Boromir against him with one arm and brushes damp hair back from
his face. "You're...exquisite," he whispers. "Boromir."
Boromir echoes the gesture with quaking fingers, though he cannot speak, and
would not know what to say if he could. His fingers fumble downward from
Aragorn's shoulder. He knows that Aragorn must be aching with need, but is
unable to steady his hand enough to stroke him. Gently, Aragorn's fingers circle
his wrist and guide his hand down his body. "Please, Boromir," he whispers, his
lips brushing over Boromir's jaw. "Please, touch me."
Boromir kisses Aragorn because he cannot make his fingers stop shaking; he needs
a moment, but the taste of himself on Aragorn's tongue overwhelms the senses not
already overwhelmed by Aragorn's touch. He wonders whether Aragorn can feel him
shaking, and what he thinks it means—whether he thinks him weak. His fingers
tighten again spontaneously into fists.
"Shh," Aragorn soothes, "I won't let you go." He kisses Boromir, tenderly, a
lover's kiss. "Not unless you ask me to."
Pressing his face to Aragorn's throat, Boromir just breathes for a minute,
clutching Aragorn's shoulder with one hand, simply resting his other hand
against Aragorn's groin. When his heart begins to slow, he lets his lips part
and kisses Aragorn's neck, sliding his hand around the head of his cock. It
feels hot to the touch, surprisingly smooth, and he begins to slide his mouth
down Aragorn's body, wanting to taste.
Aragorn moans softly, arching into Boromir's touch. "I have dreamt of this," he
murmurs, stroking Boromir's hair. "Longed for it...please."
"Lie down," Boromir whispers around Aragorn's nipple, moving a hand to Aragorn's
back to support his weight. His neck is bent at an uncomfortable angle, but he
refuses to give up the contact.
Aragorn lies back, looking up at Boromir. "Please," he says again, his fingers
remaining in Boromir's hair.
Boromir shifts between Aragorn's legs, lowering his head, prodding his tongue
into Aragorn's navel before moving it into the wiry hair beneath. His hands
slide over Aragorn's thighs to rest between his legs, thumbs brushing the balls.
Aragorn's cock surges against his chin, and Boromir lets his lips glide down the
length before he parts them to run his tongue across the base and up.
"Oh," Aragorn says, softly, a shiver coursing its way through his body. "Oh,"
and he shifts his legs further apart, teasing his own nipple with his
fingertips. "Boromir." He moans breathlessly.
Boromir glances up, watching Aragorn lick his lips and move his hand from one
nipple to the other. The sight is painfully arousing despite his very recent
climax, and he exhales forcefully around Aragorn's cock which jumps and twitches
against the roof of his mouth. Then Boromir closes his eyes, taking it in, just
holding it along his tongue for a moment, becoming acquainted with the feel and
taste. He has dreamt of this too.
Aragorn's hand balls into a fist in Boromir's hair, and he breathes harshly
through his mouth, but he makes himself lie still. Nonetheless, Boromir can feel
the tension pooling in the muscles; he sucks gently, releases, and begins to
slide his mouth up and down, bringing one of his hands to the base to pump in
the same rhythm.
Aragorn groans and shudders, rocking up into Boromir's mouth. "Yes," he
whispers, "oh, yes, Boromir. Love—" Boromir does not know whether Aragorn means
that word as an endearment or merely a statement of approval, but he speeds up,
taking Aragorn further into his throat, letting his fingers caress the balls and
behind them. Aragorn's body jerks helplessly, moving to meet Boromir's mouth, to
fill him. Crying out softly, wordlessly, Aragorn tangles his fingers in
Boromir's hair, but does not guide him, merely holds him.
Ah, Aragorn likes this, then—Boromir stretches his mouth wider, refusing to
gag, as he glides a finger along the slick furrow between his buttocks, barely
grazing the wrinkled opening. The Ranger gasps, his back arching off the ground.
"Please!" he cries, spreading his thighs further apart. There is not enough
wetness to press inside, but Boromir pushes a fingertip down to cover the hole,
which twitches at the contact.
A bitter taste grows at the back of Boromir's throat, telling him that Aragorn
must be close. He imagines being inside him, filling him, wondering whether
Aragorn is envisioning the same thing. Then Aragorn covers his own mouth with
his hand to stifle his shout as Boromir's mouth fills with hot liquid.
For a moment Boromir is drowning, until he pulls back enough to breathe and
swallow while Aragorn's cock continues to pulse over his tongue. He looks up to
see that the man's body is covered with a sheen of sweat and his head is tilted
back, hand still clamped across his jaw. Boromir moves his fingers again between
Aragorn's legs, making him jerk in surprise, nearly pulling away from Boromir
before he falls limp to the ground with a whimpered groan. "Ahh, Boromir.
Boromir."
Boromir lowers his head to kiss Aragorn's hip, rubbing his nose against the
bone. "Was that what you wanted?" he whispers.
Aragorn lets out a small whimper. "Yes," he says, "oh, yes." Boromir wants to
slide up and kiss his lips, but he does not know whether Aragorn will allow it
so soon after coming in his mouth; he contents himself with small kisses and
licks low on his body, letting his fingers wander across the damp skin. Then
damp hands reach down to tug him up Aragorn's body. "That was wonderful," the
Ranger says softly. "I could not have asked for more."
At that, Boromir has to kiss him; he devours Aragorn's mouth, hands sliding
into his hair, between Aragorn's head and the ground, as his feet rub along and
tangle with Aragorn's legs.
Aragorn returns the kiss with surprising passion, wrapping his arms around him,
holding him close. "I would like to be able to do this again," he says.
"So would I," Boromir whispers fervently. "I have wanted to do this before."
"As have I," Aragorn admits. "I was afraid...you didn't want to. Wouldn't let
me."
"I wanted..." Boromir pauses, unsure how much is safe to voice, even now. "I
thought you might think it improper. Or dangerous. Or simply wrong."
"No, Boromir. I don't." Aragorn chuckles softly. "Obviously. And I would do it
again. And again."
Boromir has never seen Aragorn laugh from so close before; he did not know his
eyes crinkled so in the corners, and cannot resist kissing him there. "So would
I," he murmurs into the skin.
Aragorn smiles still, and pushes the hair back from Boromir's eyes so that he
can see him. "For that, I am very glad."
It embarrasses Boromir to be so open, for he still does not know what Aragorn
wants, nor expects; the man has a fiancée in Rivendell, and many more years'
experience in the wilds. "I am glad that it pleases you," he nods, feeling
awkward and happy all at once.
"And it does," Aragorn replies, kissing him tenderly. "More than you could
know."
by Your Cruise Director and Ashinae
our knots have knots. Have you been sleeping on rocks again?" demands Aragorn
as he digs his fingers forcefully into Boromir's upper back, making Boromir yelp
and dig his fingers into the tree stump on which he is sitting. "Does this
hurt?" the Ranger asks in a gentler voice.
