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alex_quine
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir
Summary: Denethor meddles and Boromir suffers
Warnings: Cold Pressing AU, informal kink
Disclaimer: The originals of these characters belong to their copyright holders. I borrow them for amusement not profit.
A.N: ![[info]](https://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
caras_galadhon who asked for - Warmth in the midst of winter, an emphasis on the tactile nature of fabrics and fastenings and a spot of Kink or informal BDSM. Season's Greetings!
The tunic had been their father’s idea. Small matter if his son preferred the sombre greys and dark hued stuffs of the plain shirts that sat under his armour, or the homespun wool, dun-coloured like the fleece, that made up the tunics he favoured on patrol, he must have new and splendid clothes to show Gondor’s worth to Rivendell.
His old cloak had been re-lined and handsome silver clasps attached at the shoulder. A new surcoat, of supple leather, went beneath and Boromir had to admit that the tailors had done well, making him swing his blade about their workshop whilst they trimmed and re-set the arm-holes for comfort. That left the tunic and here their father was insistent that the Elf Lords would see and acknowledge Gondor’s dignity, no supplicant but a leader and champion of his people, every time they set eyes upon his tall son.
Nothing must do for Denethor but that some of their mother’s sewing maids were tracked down amidst the flotsam of the displaced swilling about the lower levels of the city, to be elevated once more to the citadel and sit hunched in open windows to save on candles, blowing on their hands to keep old fingers from dropping the needle.
He had selected the silk stuff himself, a rich wine colour, not too likely to draw an arrow from ambush, Boromir muttered to his brother as they stood out of earshot, watching Denethor rifling through the dealers’ bolts of cloth. But plain and rich was not good enough for the Captain of the White Tower on his first visit to Rivendell, and Denethor would have the material stiff with bullion thread at sleeve and collar.
Faramir heard his brother’s breath come through Boromir’s teeth with a soft hiss and leant in to murmur in his ear, “Peace, brother, I’ll smuggle a plain shirt into your saddlebags,” and when Boromir turned grimly laughing eyes on him, he added mildly, “you can change for the journey once you’re out of sight of the walls and save your finery for impressing the Eldar.”
Denethor would have spared a smith from the armouries to draw out fine copper wire, dip it in silver and then in molten gold, to make the thread, had there been one alive who still knew the craft. As it was, Faramir had come across two of the women scurrying along an upper corridor laden with square bundles, wrapped in white silk. It was only as they passed and the faint smell of lavender wafted through the air, that he realised Denethor had raided their mother’s chest, where her dresses had lain, undisturbed, for so many years. As he watched them whisk out of sight down a side passage, he wondered whether to tell Boromir, but decided to keep his peace. His brother need never know.
Finduilas had come to Minas Tirith with a great dowry in bullion cloths but she had rarely worn the heavy stuffs, so that unwrapped from its casings, the gold threads glittered in the sunlight and once the unpicking had begun the individual strands unravelled cleanly.
Having made his provisions, Denethor left all to the women. For lack of any sanctioned pattern they had copied the edging of a grass-green silk gown and Boromir had been surprised to see tiny gold butterflies dancing on the sleeves when he had come to be fitted. There were flowers besides, in profusion, and he had half-opened his mouth to protest that this was hardly the dress of a warrior, when the sound of a bird outside the casement, stopped the words in his mouth.
It was a song thrush, chest puffed out, proclaiming his territory to the morning air and for a moment, Boromir was carried back to childhood memories of Minas Tirith and the gardens that his mother had loved. Startled by the lump that had appeared unbidden in his throat, he fingered the edge of one sleeve, skin rasped by the metallic thread, for something to distract him. It was surely the weight of the quest before him that unmanned him so and Boromir, son of Denethor II, set his jaw against the feeling of aching loss, turned to the room, nodded slowly and grinned widely, so that the women blushed and smiled in their turn.
Denethor, when first he saw his son arrayed in all his new finery, declared himself well pleased that the effect was sombre but rich…as would make plain the consequence of the wearer. On his coming closer, Faramir could see that his father’s eye had also been caught by the little butterflies, but although his eyebrows gathered, Denethor was not proof to his eldest son’s lifting his chin defiantly and saying,
“Plants and insects, Father, Elves like such things, do they not? Gondor will show that the White Tree can bloom again in our care.”
He had told Faramir that he was not minded to ride through an uneasy land with a wealth in portable riches displayed for any-and-all to see, so he had waited until he was out of sight of the city walls, turned his horse into a small copse and exchanged the silk for plainer stuff. However, months later, as the end of his travels approached, and Rivendell came in sight, in a valley so lush and green that he was almost giddy from the scent of flowers crushed beneath his horse’s hooves, he had been glad of their father’s rule and to have something of substance of his own to display.
He knew that he was watched from the edges of the green road, but took Faramir at his word as a scholar of Elvish that he was safe, and unpacked the wine-coloured tunic from where it had been carefully folded in his saddlebag, taking his time about changing into his finery, smoothing out the silk, before remounting to complete the journey.
……………………………………………………………………
He could not sleep, turned uneasy in the soft bed, pummelled at the bolster beneath his head and finally, threw back the coverlet with a curse to rise, shrug on a long robe and cross to the window where he opened the shutter and let the moonlight stream in on him.
It was surely that he was more used to sleeping on the ground than such luxury? But even as he leant his face against the cool wood, closed his eyes against the silvery light, willing the heart that thudded painfully in his chest to slow a little, Boromir knew that he lied to himself, as he had lied earlier at Council…perhaps Gondor needed a King, for it was surely failed by its Captain of the White Tower.
The quiet Ranger was Isildur’s heir, and remembering those dark eyes that skewered him in their sight, at war in Boromir was anger, a faint hope and a sense of shame so bitter in his throat that he could barely breath; anger at this ‘king’ who had let them, his people, fight and suffer alone for so many years, and a flicker of hope that here might be another to help carry the burden. And how should Isildur’s Heir meet with the Stewards’ line but in a clumsy boor, a common soldier with no grace and apparently scant regard for his solemn charge.
He had lifted The Sword the Was Broken, this most precious of relics of Gondor, and all but dishonoured it. Small matter that it was stained now with his blood, for his heart’s blood to the last drop was Gondor’s to use, to spill as she had need, but like a child he had dropped the blade and fled – had left it on the floor of a foreign place, the clang echoing after him in the corridor. The tiny cut, throbbed on his finger, so that Boromir brought it to his mouth to feel the heat. Surely the Eldar had shown Isildur more respect than his own Stewards!
With a sour smile, Boromir reflected that he had left the Ranger to pick up the blade. Yet today, in council, Aragorn had, in his quiet grace, made him feel like a raw recruit, who was the only one there who truly knew how men had struggled against the evil alone…and he had blurted out the first insult that came into his head and knew his father stood at his elbow then, urged him on.
He could not believe that this journey into the darkness was their only choice, but he stood for Gondor and his duty to join with the Fellowship was clear; he was a seasoned warrior and they a raw crew, and he would hope to persuade them to better council in time.
But even as he repeated this to himself, in his mind’s eye he saw the Ranger’s lean face, the long limbs clothed in soft greys and black, who had no need for display to show his dignity, his worth. They all had listened to him.
With deep shame Boromir realised that he was grown hard, the throbbing in his blood as relentless as the gaze from those dark eyes. His cock jutted out from the robe, all but dripping on the tiled floor. This was madness… perhaps Faramir was wrong and an elvish magic had hold of him…but there were eyes boring into him, stripping him naked.
There could be no sleep till he had spent, but he deserved no pleasure from this…not so much as a dry, calloused, hand should give. Whirling about to face the room, he sought for some scourge for his flesh and saw the tunic, its gold embroidery winking in the moonlight.
Boromir snatched up the cloth and squeezed a section of the heavy stitching about him, working his hand furiously, till the tender head was red, raw, and stung him when at last the cream bubbled through his fingers. He was breathless, cold with sweat and barely able to stumble back to his lonely rest.
In the morning, Boromir sat for many minutes on the edge of the bed, wondering how such troubling thoughts could have taken hold of him. The ale must have been stronger than he realised. Today, he was resolute and would show the best of Gondor...and he would take the measure of that Ranger.
He grimaced when he saw the discarded tunic lying on the floor. There was a small area of embroidery at the hem that showed the gold threads scuffed and bloodied to his close inspection. It would be mostly covered by the leather surcoat and he had no opportunity to clean it properly, but he took water from a jug to dab at the faint stain around it. He would needs ride with this secret ever about him.
…………………………………………………………………………
What had brought that sad scene to mind? Boromir wondered, willing himself to sink further into the nest of soft blankets. Behind his closed lids he could almost imagine the snowstorm beyond the thick walls of the hunting lodge, but it could not reach them here and the wind rattled in vain at the heavy shutters.
He had finally burnt the tunic before leaving the Beorning, picked little drops of gold out of the cold ashes of the fire to provision him and the infant on their way, perhaps to see them through the first winter. Galadriel’s belt had been cast into the same blaze. He had wanted Grimbeorn to accept it as some small enough recompense for all they had done for him and Arin, but Grimbeorn had waved a huge hand before his face in dismissal and would not be argued with. To press the matter would have been ill-mannered, so he had broken up the belt for the fire, but gifted to the womenfolk the white gemstone that had been Arin’s comforter through teething, and never knew that they had told the infant solemnly that they held it in trust for his return.
But why the sparks of red and gold should skitter across the edge of his memory now was a mystery.
The game had gone on for hours. At first Boromir had been the one free to look, to touch, to lave and suckle. He had only to follow his Captain’s voice, his commands and he found himself all but trembling, trying to stop the whine from rising in his throat as his knuckles showed white, clutching the far edge of the chest he was bent over. His Captain’s cock, slippery and hot, had breached him, barely, but now he waited, still, on his Captain’s pleasure, whilst beneath him Boromir ached to be filled up and ridden hard.
His cum had spattered the top of the chest and his Captain had him lick the leather clean, then kissed him hard, and slipped the rope about his wrists as Boromir swayed in his arms.
The ringbolt in the roofbeam was old, but it held his weight securely, stretched on tiptoe, free to spin about if he did not have a care. The drops of candle wax stung dully. His Captain let him see him select a patch of skin to be adorned, let him watch the hot stuff fall before the kiss of pain, but how much more piercing the thrill, the jolt to his pounding heart, when he was blindfolded and had to wait unknowing for the sting to come, anywhere. He was flinching at every drop, his skin afire with the waiting and it came to Boromir that he was trying too hard to hold on to some control and he began to will himself to relax.
But he gasped aloud when a warm hand was laid beneath his stirring cock that was beginning to fill again, enfolding it. Now he held quite still, imagining his Captain tilting the taper to let the wax spill, that he could all but see it fall towards the little slit. Then he cried out when a stream of molten wax coated one nipple, sharp teeth bit down on the other and a squeeze to his cock and he was jerking in his bonds, garbled words of love choked out of a throat dry from gasping, open mouthed.
Aragorn had taken him down, half carried Boromir to slump in a chair beside the fire, wrapping him in a warm gown before fetching him a beaker of hot cider, thick with honey for his throat, whilst he massaged the aches from Boromir’s ankles and wrists. Then with a gentle kiss to his lips, his Captain told him he had done well and in his sight removed the bracelets and returned them to their velvet wrappings.
He had grinned at his dark-eyed man then, that had turned into a yawn and together they had taken to their bed, to entwine beneath the covers and sink into sleep listening to the storm outside.
In the morning, Aragorn could not see beyond the blindfold, could not move far tied at ankle and wrist, but he could hear, and he could feel. A faint smile played about the corners of his mouth, as his Steward whispered in his ear all the things he had planned for his King’s flesh – and they were many, but first there was a sweep of what felt like silk being drawn across his body, a whisper, rippling over his skin.
The slippery stuff was creeping up his leg and across his cock, straining flat against his stomach before sliding back down towards his other ankle and all the while, Boromir’s honeyed voice murmured sweet and low, with promises of violence far removed from this tender usage, so that Aragorn was becoming giddy with the strangeness of it all.
He felt the stuff being slid under one leg and he thought one end tied about his thigh. The silk was laid over his cock and balls, fabric pulled taut and a sharp edge, a fingernail, was drawn up the length of the throbbing vein, making his breath catch in his throat. The nail flicked at the little web of skin at the underside of the head and again and again. Each time a jolt ran through his groin and he could feel himself straining in his bonds, trying to thrust up towards the delicious torture…and then it was that a hot, wet mouth descended to lick at his balls through the silk, to suck them in and he howled his rapture to the morning light.
In the snowy waste of the garden beyond the thick walls, the wolf-pack skulking by the tree-line heard the sound and answered their brother, whilst breathless in the tangle of bedding, Boromir used the silk stuff to wipe the sweat from his lover’s face as he gazed into that man’s dark eyes.
-oo0oo-
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no subject
Date: 2009-12-25 06:48 am (UTC)The contrast between the sections is fantastic. I really did adore the lighter feel of the first section, and then was swept along into the frustration of the second. I love how here Boromir is not just frustrated with the way things went at the Council, but his own reflection on his behaviour. I love how you restore some of his grace and nobility there through his thoughts on what has happened, and his recognition of how important Narsil is. And oh, the part where he punishes himself for being aroused by the thought of Aragorn... I was so torn between feeling terrible for him and fascinated that he'd go that far. I love how you've worked the tunic back in, and made it integral to carrying the stain of his shame with him.
And then to move from that to the last section... I love how easily it all folds into the greater part of your Cold Pressing AU (especially with the womenfolk telling Arin they will keep the jewel in trust), and I can't fully articulate how wonderfully hot their game is. It's such a fascinating "torture" to set alongside Boromir's self-flagellation (of sorts) from the previous scene, and all the sweeter for coming from a place of caring and love. My goodness, and you've packed that section full of wonderfully kinky delights; I'm not sure which one is my favourite. ^_^ I adore the fact that they're sharing power here, too, that it goes back and forth, depending on who is in charge of the game. This is simply wonderful, Alex! (And to top it all off, I freaking love wolves -- but not in an illegal way ^_~ -- so that last section is just a grand juxtaposition of the kink, the clothing, the scene and the joy Aragorn and Boromir take in each other.
In short, thank you so much, Alex! This is brilliant! I'm going to revisit this story many, many times, I'm certain of it. *happysigh*
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Date: 2009-12-29 12:01 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-01 12:16 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-02 09:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-01 03:29 am (UTC)*goggles*
you have outdone yourself. the red tunic was charismatic enough to begin with. we have its history now, from denethor's insistence on his son's rich new clothes, faramir's comments, boromir's changing views on his finery and his place in the world as he saw it at the time, to the sleepless night in rivendale *meep!* boromir hiding the bloodstain for the duration of the fellowship, finally its funeral pyre in the place of the beornings.
in one instant to the next we (and boromir) are jolted out of the reverie... and you call that mild kink ?? filthy and exhilerating is what it was. and then what boromir did to aragorn in the morning... that was some major imagery-squee! wow, alex. i need to revisit your 'verse... saw there was more recently. anyway, this blew my mind.
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Date: 2010-01-02 09:31 pm (UTC)...the last section was just fun!
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Date: 2010-01-01 05:41 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2010-01-07 10:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-27 03:33 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-31 03:29 pm (UTC)