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rugbytackleFiclet: A/B (2,027 words: NC-17)
Title: The Captain’s Man
Author:![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
alex_quine
Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir
Rating: (NC-17)
Summary: Aragorn and Boromir come to a beginning
Archive: Rugbytackling, my LJ
Disclaimer: These characters belong to their copyright holders. I borrow them for entertainment, not profit.
A.N. Sequel to the Double Drabble “Bound” – It will make a lot more sense if you read it first. Drabble below or at http://alex-quine.livejournal.com/1242.html#cutid1
I know I played with timelines in “Bound”. If you’re really concerned - they camped by natural hot springs.
Feedback: Received with thanks.
Boromir let out the breath he hadn’t realised he was holding, accepting the challenge in the ranger’s eyes. They were alone.
Title: The Captain’s Man
Author:
alex_quinePairing: Aragorn/Boromir
Rating: (NC-17)
Summary: Aragorn and Boromir come to a beginning
Archive: Rugbytackling, my LJ
Disclaimer: These characters belong to their copyright holders. I borrow them for entertainment, not profit.
A.N. Sequel to the Double Drabble “Bound” – It will make a lot more sense if you read it first. Drabble below or at http://alex-quine.livejournal.com/1242.html#cutid1
I know I played with timelines in “Bound”. If you’re really concerned - they camped by natural hot springs.
Feedback: Received with thanks.
Boromir let out the breath he hadn’t realised he was holding, accepting the challenge in the ranger’s eyes. They were alone.
The others had scattered to go about their business, wanting to give Aragorn some privacy after the initial very public intervention. Boromir straightened up and began to undress, folding each garment on a flat rock.
“I suppose you want a body-servant now? I know that your blades are cared for, your arrows set fair, and I know that Rangers have their own way of doing things – Faramir doesn’t smell much sweeter coming off patrol – but you are not my brother and your blood…” he paused, gazing past the fringe of trees around the pool to the reddening clouds on the horizon “…a captain of Gondor reflects his command.”
He sat down on the bank to pull off his boots and then stripped down to linen drawers. In the setting sun, his skin was burnished gold, the fading light sweeping away scars and Aragorn thought he had never seen a man, broad-shouldered and clean-limbed, who looked more the warrior of song.
Boromir set the comb and soap within reach and approached Aragorn briskly. At first he grasped the knotted cords around Aragorn’s chest and ankles, going to lift him like a parcel, but changed his mind, went down on one knee and gently raised his shoulders, to wrap one arm beneath, whilst the other slid under his knees. Then he took a deep breath and stood up, thigh muscles straining against the ranger’s weight. As he went to step into the pool, his foot found a tilting rock and he stilled suddenly, clasping the man to his chest. He was focused ahead, finding his balance on the gravel bottom, but Aragorn’s eyes had never left his face. It was the same concentrated gaze he had felt at that first meeting in the Library and then it had finally unnerved him, but now his way was clear.
As Boromir moved waist-deep into the warmth, he let the water begin to take Aragorn’s weight. The Ranger relaxed his neck to let his hair dip into the pool and eventually he floated, his torso steadied against Boromir’s stomach and his gaze swept the sky.
Boromir looked down at the water moving his dark chest hair like weed, sculpting muscle, curving around the aureoles of his nipples. Aragorn had begun to sing softly, a gentle Elven tune and Boromir could feel the vibration in the man’s chest, travelling out as a faint tingle to his abdomen. His eyes met the ranger’s, who said quietly, “Now we’ll have these bonds off.”
He feared the water might have tightened the knots, but the rope was soft under his shaking fingers and unravelled from Aragorn’s body; who had returned to his song. Boromir coiled the rope and flung it onto the bank. Aragorn let his arms and legs spread and drifted a few feet from Boromir, who stood hesitating…what had seemed straightforward…
He turned, the wake of his sudden movement rocking Aragorn on the surface of the pond, and ploughed through the water to the rock where he’d placed the soap and comb. He collected them and waded back to Aragorn. He watched him floating for a moment, before he gripped the comb between his teeth and cautiously laid his hands on a foot, working the soap into a lather along the lean lines and up-and-over a bony ankle.
“Here.” Aragorn beckoned to him, he leaned in and Aragorn plucked the comb from his mouth and set it on his chest. When Boromir wanted to lay the soap aside he carefully placed it beside the comb. Aragorn sighed and clasped his hands over them, letting his eyelids grow heavy. Boromir thought back to sea-otters that he’d seen, dark pelts dripping, drifting with oyster shells balanced on their chests as they fed.
To reach up long legs, he’d lift Aragorn’s ankle and place it on his shoulder, running his thumbs down the taut thigh muscles, working gently at the kneecaps, where scarring criss-crossed the reddened skin, coaxing out knots in the calves with small circles of his fingertips.
Now he moved up past the man’s torso to focus on his head and neck, towing Aragorn out into slightly deeper water, to stand chest-deep by his shoulder, looking down at him. “Captain?” The dark man opened his eyes questioningly. Boromir retrieved the comb from under long fingers and placed his other hand gently at the base of the man’s skull, lifting his head clear of the water.
As Aragorn’s hair dripped into the pool, knowledge of what he was truly doing flowed over and through Boromir like an electric charge and he gasped and stilled. Suddenly, his mouth was dry and a part of him feared the power of the Dunedain this man wielded, strongest at twilight and dawn. Aragorn’s voice came low and sweet. “Boromir…mellonamin. We both of us do this freely.”
He willed the hammering in his chest to subside and as he began to run the comb through Aragorn’s wet hair, the tightness faded. The initial tangles subdued, he looked at Aragorn who obediently held out his hand for the comb. Boromir laid it in his palm and closed his fingers around it, saying
“Legolas will be wroth if we lose it.”
“It probably floats.”
“I’d not make the experiment.”
He worked up a lather on Aragorn’s hair, kneading the scalp and stroking soaped fingers over his temples and around his ears. Aragorn’s eyes were heavy again. He began to breathe shallower until a faint moan bubbled in his throat. Boromir scooped up some water to rinse the soap away from his face. “I want to get rid of all of this lather.”
Eyes shut, Aragorn’s hand reached up to grasp him behind his head and to draw his face down. He let his mouth hover for a moment above Aragorn’s lips, feeling the hot breath. Ere the kiss could be completed, he twisted and mouthed at Aragorn’s ear, nipping the lobe with his teeth, before catching the flesh between his lips, finally melting the pain away with his tongue and dropping soft open-mouthed caresses on the skin below.
Aragorn’s eyes were wide and glittering when next Boromir gazed at him and there was tension vibrating in his throat. Boromir let a smile play at the corners of his eyes, took a deep breath, said “And now to rinse…” and swooped to wrap his arms around the man, sealing Aragorn’s mouth with his own and plunging them both down into the warm depths of the pool.
Under the surface his arms were filled with a lithe, surging, twisting form that sucked the breath out of him and then wriggled free of his embrace – before they surfaced almost together.
Boromir threw his head back, grinning and breathing hard, clearing his nose of water, whilst Aragorn watched him, drawing the comb lightly across his chest, stood in water not nearly deep enough to hide his arousal. Boromir’s own case was no better, soaked linen abrading sensitive nerve-endings and he wriggled out of the wet drawers and threw them onto the bank. He turned again to Aragorn.
“I have not done with you yet, Captain.”
Aragorn smiled and held up the comb.
“The soap?” he enquired.
“Long gone…but I felt knots in your back that will dull your sleep and pull on your sweep of that long sword, should we have need of it tomorrow.”
He reached out, grasped Aragorn by the wrist and they waded across to some great boulders, fringed in rushes and wild iris at the water’s edge. Boromir, leaving Aragorn leaning against one, absently drawing the comb through his hair, hopped out onto the bank and jogged around to his pile of clothing. As he searched through his gear, the ranger marvelled at the length of flank of him, the narrow waist, the flat planes of his stomach and long, curved member, jutting from the red-gold curls at his groin.
Boromir returned with a vial. “Sweet almond oil from Rivendell…a scent from home.” He stepped down into the warm water again and moved over behind Aragorn, who was leaning forward, stretching his arms up to pillow his head on the rock.
“Boromir, are there still orchards around Minas Tirith?”
Boromir paused in warming some oil in his palms and his face and voice grew soft. “Nay, they were burnt by raiding Orcs, years ago now. But the land is good, we can replant.”
The men were largely silent for some score of minutes, soft grunts and gasps, muttered curses bearing witness to the effort they put into uncording the painful muscles in shoulders, arms and back. One stubborn knot at his lower back had both men swearing hard and when it finally gave way, Boromir with the fingers of one hand gentled the breathless man, stroking his flank, whilst he leant his forehead to Aragorn’s shoulder. His other hand reached around to trail fingertips across his stomach and finally Boromir’s arms encircled Aragorn completely once again.
This time there was no struggle. Aragorn leant back into the embrace, feeling the hard cock nestling against his cleft, the man’s hot breath at the nape of his neck in a pulse that echoed the throb of his own body. He turned gently in the arc of Boromir’s embrace and now they faced one another, leaning in, cocks aligning in a symmetry that took their breath away.
Each moved to claim the other with lip and eye and touch and tongue. Beginning in gentle exploration, driven on by need and want. Hands grasped and kneaded, teeth bit and scraped, Boromir’s nails dug into Aragorn’s hip and Aragorn raked the teeth of the bone comb bloody down Boromir’s back.
At Boromir’s stifled cry, Aragorn dropped the comb and captured the other man’s face in both his hands to still them, murmuring gentle words. He spoke to Boromir in Westron, the Common Speech, of honour and service and faith…and fear, until Boromir kissed him hard and arched back to bring Aragorn’s mouth down to suckle at his breast.
At the last, Aragorn took the vial from its rock ledge, caught Boromir to him fiercely with an arm around his waist and poured the remaining oil down between them. Boromir gasped and swayed in his grasp at the cool oil, hitting burning skin and groaned as Aragorn reached down to slick it over both of them. Through kisses that stretched lungs to burning, each man stroked the other, until Boromir entwined their fingers together and if their cries echoed into the dusk – none came to disturb the lovers as they clung together.
When easy speech had returned and what needed to be said had been shared willingly, begrimed with sweat and oil, together they waded out into the centre of the pool and sank into the warm depths, diving and twisting, rolling over eachother like otter cubs.
When they stepped from the water, Boromir was first with soft cloths to dry his Captain’s body, but Aragorn took them gently from his hands, draped one around his shoulders against the evening chill and used the other to towel off Boromir’s chest and back, who had brought fresh linen for both of them.
When all was good, they dressed quietly, gathered scattered clothing and the Elven rope, and walked from the clearing, shoulders touching and at the edge of the pool, a fine bone comb floated, caught in the rushes beside a clump of wild irises.
Elvish words/phrases
mellonamin – my friend
“I suppose you want a body-servant now? I know that your blades are cared for, your arrows set fair, and I know that Rangers have their own way of doing things – Faramir doesn’t smell much sweeter coming off patrol – but you are not my brother and your blood…” he paused, gazing past the fringe of trees around the pool to the reddening clouds on the horizon “…a captain of Gondor reflects his command.”
He sat down on the bank to pull off his boots and then stripped down to linen drawers. In the setting sun, his skin was burnished gold, the fading light sweeping away scars and Aragorn thought he had never seen a man, broad-shouldered and clean-limbed, who looked more the warrior of song.
Boromir set the comb and soap within reach and approached Aragorn briskly. At first he grasped the knotted cords around Aragorn’s chest and ankles, going to lift him like a parcel, but changed his mind, went down on one knee and gently raised his shoulders, to wrap one arm beneath, whilst the other slid under his knees. Then he took a deep breath and stood up, thigh muscles straining against the ranger’s weight. As he went to step into the pool, his foot found a tilting rock and he stilled suddenly, clasping the man to his chest. He was focused ahead, finding his balance on the gravel bottom, but Aragorn’s eyes had never left his face. It was the same concentrated gaze he had felt at that first meeting in the Library and then it had finally unnerved him, but now his way was clear.
As Boromir moved waist-deep into the warmth, he let the water begin to take Aragorn’s weight. The Ranger relaxed his neck to let his hair dip into the pool and eventually he floated, his torso steadied against Boromir’s stomach and his gaze swept the sky.
Boromir looked down at the water moving his dark chest hair like weed, sculpting muscle, curving around the aureoles of his nipples. Aragorn had begun to sing softly, a gentle Elven tune and Boromir could feel the vibration in the man’s chest, travelling out as a faint tingle to his abdomen. His eyes met the ranger’s, who said quietly, “Now we’ll have these bonds off.”
He feared the water might have tightened the knots, but the rope was soft under his shaking fingers and unravelled from Aragorn’s body; who had returned to his song. Boromir coiled the rope and flung it onto the bank. Aragorn let his arms and legs spread and drifted a few feet from Boromir, who stood hesitating…what had seemed straightforward…
He turned, the wake of his sudden movement rocking Aragorn on the surface of the pond, and ploughed through the water to the rock where he’d placed the soap and comb. He collected them and waded back to Aragorn. He watched him floating for a moment, before he gripped the comb between his teeth and cautiously laid his hands on a foot, working the soap into a lather along the lean lines and up-and-over a bony ankle.
“Here.” Aragorn beckoned to him, he leaned in and Aragorn plucked the comb from his mouth and set it on his chest. When Boromir wanted to lay the soap aside he carefully placed it beside the comb. Aragorn sighed and clasped his hands over them, letting his eyelids grow heavy. Boromir thought back to sea-otters that he’d seen, dark pelts dripping, drifting with oyster shells balanced on their chests as they fed.
To reach up long legs, he’d lift Aragorn’s ankle and place it on his shoulder, running his thumbs down the taut thigh muscles, working gently at the kneecaps, where scarring criss-crossed the reddened skin, coaxing out knots in the calves with small circles of his fingertips.
Now he moved up past the man’s torso to focus on his head and neck, towing Aragorn out into slightly deeper water, to stand chest-deep by his shoulder, looking down at him. “Captain?” The dark man opened his eyes questioningly. Boromir retrieved the comb from under long fingers and placed his other hand gently at the base of the man’s skull, lifting his head clear of the water.
As Aragorn’s hair dripped into the pool, knowledge of what he was truly doing flowed over and through Boromir like an electric charge and he gasped and stilled. Suddenly, his mouth was dry and a part of him feared the power of the Dunedain this man wielded, strongest at twilight and dawn. Aragorn’s voice came low and sweet. “Boromir…mellonamin. We both of us do this freely.”
He willed the hammering in his chest to subside and as he began to run the comb through Aragorn’s wet hair, the tightness faded. The initial tangles subdued, he looked at Aragorn who obediently held out his hand for the comb. Boromir laid it in his palm and closed his fingers around it, saying
“Legolas will be wroth if we lose it.”
“It probably floats.”
“I’d not make the experiment.”
He worked up a lather on Aragorn’s hair, kneading the scalp and stroking soaped fingers over his temples and around his ears. Aragorn’s eyes were heavy again. He began to breathe shallower until a faint moan bubbled in his throat. Boromir scooped up some water to rinse the soap away from his face. “I want to get rid of all of this lather.”
Eyes shut, Aragorn’s hand reached up to grasp him behind his head and to draw his face down. He let his mouth hover for a moment above Aragorn’s lips, feeling the hot breath. Ere the kiss could be completed, he twisted and mouthed at Aragorn’s ear, nipping the lobe with his teeth, before catching the flesh between his lips, finally melting the pain away with his tongue and dropping soft open-mouthed caresses on the skin below.
Aragorn’s eyes were wide and glittering when next Boromir gazed at him and there was tension vibrating in his throat. Boromir let a smile play at the corners of his eyes, took a deep breath, said “And now to rinse…” and swooped to wrap his arms around the man, sealing Aragorn’s mouth with his own and plunging them both down into the warm depths of the pool.
Under the surface his arms were filled with a lithe, surging, twisting form that sucked the breath out of him and then wriggled free of his embrace – before they surfaced almost together.
Boromir threw his head back, grinning and breathing hard, clearing his nose of water, whilst Aragorn watched him, drawing the comb lightly across his chest, stood in water not nearly deep enough to hide his arousal. Boromir’s own case was no better, soaked linen abrading sensitive nerve-endings and he wriggled out of the wet drawers and threw them onto the bank. He turned again to Aragorn.
“I have not done with you yet, Captain.”
Aragorn smiled and held up the comb.
“The soap?” he enquired.
“Long gone…but I felt knots in your back that will dull your sleep and pull on your sweep of that long sword, should we have need of it tomorrow.”
He reached out, grasped Aragorn by the wrist and they waded across to some great boulders, fringed in rushes and wild iris at the water’s edge. Boromir, leaving Aragorn leaning against one, absently drawing the comb through his hair, hopped out onto the bank and jogged around to his pile of clothing. As he searched through his gear, the ranger marvelled at the length of flank of him, the narrow waist, the flat planes of his stomach and long, curved member, jutting from the red-gold curls at his groin.
Boromir returned with a vial. “Sweet almond oil from Rivendell…a scent from home.” He stepped down into the warm water again and moved over behind Aragorn, who was leaning forward, stretching his arms up to pillow his head on the rock.
“Boromir, are there still orchards around Minas Tirith?”
Boromir paused in warming some oil in his palms and his face and voice grew soft. “Nay, they were burnt by raiding Orcs, years ago now. But the land is good, we can replant.”
The men were largely silent for some score of minutes, soft grunts and gasps, muttered curses bearing witness to the effort they put into uncording the painful muscles in shoulders, arms and back. One stubborn knot at his lower back had both men swearing hard and when it finally gave way, Boromir with the fingers of one hand gentled the breathless man, stroking his flank, whilst he leant his forehead to Aragorn’s shoulder. His other hand reached around to trail fingertips across his stomach and finally Boromir’s arms encircled Aragorn completely once again.
This time there was no struggle. Aragorn leant back into the embrace, feeling the hard cock nestling against his cleft, the man’s hot breath at the nape of his neck in a pulse that echoed the throb of his own body. He turned gently in the arc of Boromir’s embrace and now they faced one another, leaning in, cocks aligning in a symmetry that took their breath away.
Each moved to claim the other with lip and eye and touch and tongue. Beginning in gentle exploration, driven on by need and want. Hands grasped and kneaded, teeth bit and scraped, Boromir’s nails dug into Aragorn’s hip and Aragorn raked the teeth of the bone comb bloody down Boromir’s back.
At Boromir’s stifled cry, Aragorn dropped the comb and captured the other man’s face in both his hands to still them, murmuring gentle words. He spoke to Boromir in Westron, the Common Speech, of honour and service and faith…and fear, until Boromir kissed him hard and arched back to bring Aragorn’s mouth down to suckle at his breast.
At the last, Aragorn took the vial from its rock ledge, caught Boromir to him fiercely with an arm around his waist and poured the remaining oil down between them. Boromir gasped and swayed in his grasp at the cool oil, hitting burning skin and groaned as Aragorn reached down to slick it over both of them. Through kisses that stretched lungs to burning, each man stroked the other, until Boromir entwined their fingers together and if their cries echoed into the dusk – none came to disturb the lovers as they clung together.
When easy speech had returned and what needed to be said had been shared willingly, begrimed with sweat and oil, together they waded out into the centre of the pool and sank into the warm depths, diving and twisting, rolling over eachother like otter cubs.
When they stepped from the water, Boromir was first with soft cloths to dry his Captain’s body, but Aragorn took them gently from his hands, draped one around his shoulders against the evening chill and used the other to towel off Boromir’s chest and back, who had brought fresh linen for both of them.
When all was good, they dressed quietly, gathered scattered clothing and the Elven rope, and walked from the clearing, shoulders touching and at the edge of the pool, a fine bone comb floated, caught in the rushes beside a clump of wild irises.
Elvish words/phrases
mellonamin – my friend
no subject
Date: 2006-04-11 10:02 am (UTC)And this - “Legolas will be wroth if we lose it.” - that made me giggle. Wonderful piece.
no subject
Date: 2006-04-11 06:45 pm (UTC)p.s. love the icon.
no subject
Date: 2006-04-11 10:16 am (UTC)Boromir paused in warming some oil in his palms and his face and voice grew soft. “Nay, they were burnt by raiding Orcs, years ago now. But the land is good, we can replant.”
So beautiful! :)
no subject
Date: 2006-04-11 06:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-11 10:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-11 07:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-11 01:36 pm (UTC)“Legolas will be wroth if we lose it.”
“It probably floats.”
“I’d not make the experiment.”
*That* made me giggle, imagining the looks on their faces, like kids wanting to try a science experiment.
Wonderful!
~Kris
no subject
Date: 2006-04-11 07:30 pm (UTC)I felt that, at this point, Aragorn could both trust Boromir with his body in an intimate situation as well as in battle, and was empowered by demonstrating that absolute trust. Whilst Boromir, could learn to trust his own instincts that took him towards Aragorn, to see him as the man, rather than the bogey from the prophecy, or to continue in the isolated vein that Denethor had established for the Stewards.
Actually reading that back it looks much more analytical than I was probably being. I like these characters together in this setting and was trying to let them explore those edges where they felt safe and where the footing was crumbling underneath them.
The little exchange about the comb I relished too. I did wonder about the tone, but felt that even in situations of heightened emotion these were two men who would be allies, partners in crime - even if that involved facing down an outraged elf...
no subject
Date: 2006-04-11 04:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-11 07:36 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-11 04:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-11 07:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-11 09:28 pm (UTC)Your choice of detail is just amasing. You're describing something rather small, like water curving around Aragorn's nipples, and I suddenly see the whole picture without any effort (and feel it as well :D).
Aragorn floating on the pool's surface, singing softly and placing that comb on his chest... Unexpected, strange and so natural at the same time.
no subject
Date: 2006-04-11 11:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-12 01:38 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-12 08:55 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-12 04:05 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-12 09:39 am (UTC)From the moment Aragorn spoke the word to re-tie the rope in 'Bound' he'd given Boromir a glimpse of potential and also called his bluff - you've got me naked, but I'm not going to do what you want easily, so now what?
Boromir accepts the challenge - he'd want to finish what he'd started - to make a proper 'Captain' of Gondor of this man, but it's the actual physical contact between them (and the action is slow enough that I could work on detail), giving and taking, that allows both to go past their initial roles.
Aragorn can eventually admit to fear and take comfort/strength from Boromir and Boromir can get past the steward, or the seasoned NCO rubbing the rough edges off a newly-commissioned officer, to acknowledge the man under his hands - and the want for him.
no subject
Date: 2006-04-12 04:11 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-12 09:48 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-12 08:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-12 09:58 am (UTC)...of course in the comedy version, they'd walk slowly out of shot at the end, there'd be a brief pause, an off-camera outraged shriek, and they'd re-enter running and into the pool again, searching for the comb.