by Your Cruise Director

"Your 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.

"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 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 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 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."


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