Faramir Fiction Archive

The King's Rule (NC-17)

Written by Minx

04 July 2006 | 3697 words

Title: The Mantle
Pairing: Aragorn / Faramir, Boromir/Faramir
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Darkfic, non-con, OOC
Disclaimer: All characters and places are Tolkien’s.
Author’s Notes: Written for the ‘Wax’ prompt for the 50_darkfics community.

This is part of an ‘Dark!Aragorn takes the ring and rules from Minas Tirith’ arc titled The King’s Rule. In this little universe, pretty much everyone except Faramir is nasty and under the influence of the ring (barring perhaps Gandalf or maybe Elrond, but there is no news of them) Boromir lives, as does Denethor and so do many other characters, and they’re all there to pile on Faramir’s misery :o

Summary: Boromir remembers his mother’s mantle

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II – The Mantle

Faramir shivered as cold autumn winds wafted through the open windows of the king’s study; the coarse tunic and pants he was allowed to wear in the colder weather offered little protection as he knelt on the cold stone floor by Aragorn’s large chair. The king had called for him after nearly a week, and although his body had welcomed the respite, the younger man knew the king would make up for it all in one night. He still had the marks from a week ago.

Aragorn’s myriad other lovers shared his tastes for exotic forms of lovemaking, unlike Faramir. The king often declared Faramir a welcome change; when he cried out in pain, he was actually hurting.

Aragorn glanced down at him. Faramir was a little relieved to note that he was smiling. Perhaps tonight, it would not be so bad. The king ruffled his hair, tenderly, and Faramir leaned desperately into the gentle touch that was so rare nowadays.

“Poor dear. It is getting very cold these days, isn’t it? Aren’t you glad you can wear these? Even if it does cover your pretty little body. Perhaps, if you behave well, I could allow you to wear a cloak?”

“Or perhaps, you could just keep him nude in your bed all winter long?” Boromir announced from near the door.

“Oh that would certainly be far better,” Aragorn said brightly, “What do you think, dear?”

Faramir glanced up at him uneasily, unsure of what to say. A sudden gust of wind through the windows caused him to shiver again instead. The cold draught seemed to swirl up through his thin clothes and coat his bare skin underneath, giving him goosepimples all over.

“Perhaps the cloak then,” Aragorn said, “But then you must forsake these ugly clothes you wear. You will wear just the cloak, and nothing else. And you will stay like that all the while. Even in council, or perhaps on horseback.”

“Speaking of cloaks,” Boromir said suddenly, “Our mother had a fine blue mantle. Do you remember that, Faramir dearest?”

Faramir looked up at that, nodding eagerly, for a brief moment forgetting himself. His thoughts wandered instead to the fleeting memory he had of a slender, graceful dark haired woman who would hold him in her arms and sing to him. He remembered the soft, warm mantle he would cuddle against, a rich, dark blue, and the tiny stars sewn along the hem.

“A blue mantle,” Aragorn said interestedly, and then smirked, “Faramir looks very fetching in blue.”

“Aye,” Boromir said, “It is a pity it is lost. He would have looked fine clad in just that and nothing else.”

“I like him best in nothing else,” Aragorn declared.

“That we all do,” Boromir said, his grey eyes appraising Faramir’s hunched frame slowly.

“He is yours anytime you wish, my friend,” Aragorn said smiling.

Faramir flushed unhappily as the two men stared at him, their eyes lit with more than just a mere interest. It would be a long night, he could tell.

“’tis a pity the mantle is lost. But I do have an idea though,” Boromir said slowly and softly.

“Oh,” Aragorn said curiously.

“You can watch if you like,” Boromir said, smiling suddenly, and Faramir felt terror well up inside him.

Once, Boromir’s smiles had the power to make Faramir smile too. Now they just sent him cowering.

They tied him to the bare wooden pallet he often slept on, when staying in Aragorn’s rooms, using strips of red silken cloth. He allowed them to, knowing resistance would only meet with a bad beating and worse pain. His hands were bound together tied over his head. His legs were bent at the knees and spread wide apart, the ankles bound to the other end of the bed.

Boromir pushed his tunic up and looked at the younger man’s flat and smooth stomach appraisingly. He placed a palm against it, his hands cool against the warmth of the other man’s skin. Faramir stared quietly, almost fearfully up at him. He then undid the ties of the pants, and pulled them down, exposing his navel and lower belly. Faramir felt his breath hitch involuntarily as Boromir’s fingers brushed his crotch.

“You are most beautiful,” his brother sighed, and then pulling out his knife, cut away the pants completely. The metal was icy against his cold skin, and Boromir especially paused deliberately over his limp penis, smirking as the flesh seemed to shrivel even more under his gaze. Faramir turned his head away from the gaze, feeling utterly humiliated, trying to ignore the cold. Boromir then proceeded to do the same with the tunic, pausing the knife over each nipple, finally leaving Faramir naked and shivering, and exposing him completely to the watching eyes.

Faramir felt a warm flush spread across his face and neck as the appraising eyes stared down at him, cold and thoughtful. He’d been tied up like this before, and displayed to even more lust-filled gazes from other people, but it still mortified Faramir each time.

Aragorn would tell him each time he needed to get used to it, for that was all he was needed to do.

“And now for the blue mantle,” Boromir crowed softly. He picked up something from the table nearby and then held them out. Faramir gasped softly. Boromir held a set of candles in his hands, bright blue decorative candles, made of rose scented wax from Ithilien.

Aragorn lit the first candle, and the soft fragrance of fresh wild roses wafted through the room. Once the fragrance would have transported Faramir to a forgotten time, to lost memories of days spent lying in a sunny glade, a stream gurgling near, warm grass tickling his skin, gentle hands roving his body, touching him intimately, spreading him tenderly, and entering him with a gentleness he had not felt in months. He felt a slight stirring in his groin at the thought and blushed more.

“Poof,” Boromir said, “It smells like a courtesan’s dressing chamber!”

“Faramir could make a very fine courtesan,” Aragorn said, “With his pretty eyes, and his shapely mouth that can open so wide, and his fine legs…And such soft skin,” he added, stroking Faramir’s stomach slowly.

He handed the lit candle over to Boromir, and Faramir felt all sensation in him subside.

“Please,” Faramir gasped. He knew what they wanted to do, and it terrified him.

“You did agree you were cold, dearest,” Aragorn said.

Boromir held the candle over Faramir’s bare chest. Hot, melting tallow dripped down from the candle, slowly. Faramir felt his breath quicken. He tugged miserably at the restraints, his body arcing up as the drops began to fall from the candle.

They splattered onto his skin, over his ribs, searing and painful. He cried out involuntarily, even though he knew Aragorn would be angry if he were to scream.

“I think it a close approximation of the shade,” Boromir declared, and moved the dripping candle lower.

Faramir whimpered as the candle moved slowly, wax dripping onto the flat planes of his stomach. Boromir then held it over his navel, letting it melt, hot and burning into the sensitive depression. Faramir cried out again, as the wax continued to collect inside.

And then moaned as more wax was dribbled slowly in, splattering all over the soft skin of his belly, forming patterns of bright blue on his pale skin.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see Aragorn leaning casually against the mantelpiece watching.

Boromir finally moved the candle away and studied Faramir’s naked body. Faramir took a loud heaving breath, and struggled against his restraints again; Sweat poured down his face and his hands ached to scrape the melting wax off. It hurt worse than he’d thought it could, his entire skin felt afire and he heat seemed to sear into him.

Boromir brought the candle forward again, this time towards Faramir’s torso. Faramir yelped and bucked painfully as the burning wax dripped onto his left nipple in a spiral pattern, and then the right one. Faramir felt his breathing turn heavier, even as he screamed. Boromir waited until the pale brown nubs were completely covered in tiny peaks of blue, and then slithered an abstract pattern over Faramir’s smooth chest. Boromir used up the entire candle on the pattern over the chest and stomach.

And then blessedly, it was all used up. Faramir ached all over, a persistent, burning ache, so different from the pain of Aragorn’s roughness.

Aragorn moved forward and came to stand by the bedside.

“I didn’t think it was possible for you to look lovelier than you already do, but I think we may be close. Dearest, every day you make me delight in the fact that you are mine.”

“I’m not done yet,” Boromir said and lit another candle.

“P-please…” Faramir whimpered. He could think of little else to say.

The candle strayed over his lower abdomen. He felt his heart beat frantically, as it moved lower onto the dark clump of hair between his legs. A lump of wax dropped onto the hairline, bright blue against the jet black mass.

“Please,” he begged again.

“Is that all you can say, dearest?” Aragorn said, “I was told you were a man of words. You disappoint me now.”

His voice turned from soft to hard and his grey eyes glinted impatiently. Faramir felt his heartbeat quicken even more and tears filling his eyes. His legs were trembling, aching to draw close, and protect his most intimate parts.

Boromir reached between his shaking legs, and lifted his shrunken member. Faramir felt his legs stiffen involuntarily as every nerve in his body screamed to run.

“Don’t worry, a tiny little thing like that won’t take long to cover,” Aragorn told him pleasantly. Boromir laughed in response.

He let out a howl as the hot wax dribbled onto the tip of his penis. He felt it, hot and sticky, burning drops all along the length of his shaft as Boromir’s fingers skilfully handled the pliant flesh. He wept as more drops were dribbled on the tender underside of his shaft, splattering down to his shrivelled balls.

Large hands pushed his legs further apart, and the heat moved closer to his entrance. Faramir let out a soft shuddering breath and prepared himself for the pain.

“Not there!” Aragorn said suddenly, sharply. Faramir glanced up at him, relieved. The king gave him a stony look.

Boromir shrugged and moved onto Faramir’s legs and arms, running a quick swirling pattern down each.

“I’d like to cover his back, if I may?” he said.

“Yes,” Aragorn said agreeably, “It would add to the marks Denethor had left on him.”

Faramir let them untie him and turn him around. The now tender flesh of his front pressed onto the hard wooden surface of the pallet, but he bit back the pain.

He felt the wax on his back.

“Follow the scars. They are quite symmetric,” Aragorn suggested, “Denethor always did such a tidy job of it, did he not?”

Faramir felt drops of wax dribble over his back, and then the contours of his buttocks, the back of his thighs and arms.

Aragorn then pulled him up to his feet, and led him, stumbling to the mirror, tugging his neck back to force him to stare at himself.

He stared at his thin, naked body, coated with sweat and streaked with bright blue, all over.

“You are so beautiful,” Aragorn said, “Boromir, you can have him now. Use my bed. I’d like to watch.”

Boromir’s eye glinted with pleasure, as he undid his pants. His arousal was thick and glistening; working the wax over Faramir’s naked body had excited him considerably.

Boromir had him lie on his back and entered him quickly and unprepared as was his usual custom, rougher than usual. Faramir felt his entrance stretch to accommodate the larger man’s girth, the burn almost unnoticeable compared to the pain that he’d felt all this while. The large hands grabbed his aching body, pressing the melting wax into his skin, as the larger man thrust in and out of him in rapid, forceful strokes.

Aragorn sat on a chair by the bed, and undid his robe. His arousal was hard and heavy. He began stroking himself, his fingers moving lazily over the shaft.

Boromir came with a loud cry, his release filling Faramir’s channel, and trickling out in rivulets down his aching legs. He pulled out with a satisfied grunt. Faramir continued to lie where he was, awaiting Aragorn’s instructions. The drying wax stretched at his skin. The king continued stroking himself. Boromir wiped himself clean and did up his pants.

Aragorn came with a soft, sensual, satisfied cry, spilling himself onto his hands. Slowly, he rose, stretched himself and walked over to Faramir.

“There were stars sewn onto the mantle I believe,” he told Boromir.

“White candles, dearest?”

Faramir whimpered, “N-no. Please.”

Boromir smirked.

“Very well,” Aragorn said, and flicked his semen-filled hands on Faramir’s lower body in a contemptuous gesture. Globs of white speckled the blue marks.

Boromir burst out laughing

“Go to your chambers and clean up.” Aragorn told Faramir dismissively.

Faramir rose slowly and painfully, and reached for his torn clothes. They would barely cover him but it would be better than walking naked through the king’s halls. The guards would leer, but none would do worse than grab him and give him a quick fondle. At least his ordeal for tonight was over.

“And then return here,” the king said, dashing away that hope.

“Boromir and the others are joining me for supper. I think we can ensure you have enough bedmates to stay warm through the night.”

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