The Lord Steward had reason to be satisfied with his staff. The business of administering the dual kingdom was beginning to resolve itself into a story that retained its daily scenes of minor drama, but where each understood their role and his pulse no longer quickened uncomfortably each time a messenger arrived from the North.
His planning, his oversight, must needs extend beyond Minas Tirith’s walls and Boromir could have chosen to set his capable lieutenants to attend to matters close to home whilst he supported his King, wrestling with the unfamiliar challenges of peace, but there was something in him that could not set aside all that the city had meant to him as cradle, nurse and first love.
Refusing to become remote from the streets, Boromir had continued to find time each week to walk the cobbled ways, to talk to market traders and women hanging out the washing, stopping off at bake-houses and small inns for something to sup as he went about. Folk were accustomed to seeing the Lord Steward, accompanied by no more than a couple of guards, a half-eaten pasty in hand, leaning against an open gate deep in conversation, accustomed latterly to hearing his rich laugh and smiling to themselves.
Boromir had received regular despatches from his Southern estates and knew that they had been fetching water by ox-cart to irrigate the young fruit trees, but it was from merchants in the lower levels of the city that he knew how far the recent dry spell had spread across Gondor.
It had been a chancy summer all around; too much rain all at once, followed by not enough sun and then days on end when the city baked under cloudless skies. They had begun harvesting in the heat-wave, but it would not be as heavy a yield as of late, would need careful husbandry to see out the year with seed corn to spare. Nevertheless, the bulk of the grain was safely in and now there was rain coming, he could feel it in the air pressing close and clammy on his skin.
He was stood in the blue-darkness of his garden at night. The grass plot beneath his naked feet felt damp. He did not have his Captain’s cat-like vision in the dark, but even so he had moved with confidence through this private realm, letting his fingertips brush against plants as he passed, guided by the scents - lemon verbena and lavender, a path edged with cottage pinks, the cuttings a gift from Sam, and honeysuckle twining through old musk roses.
From far off, Boromir heard the first faint rumble of thunder. He stepped back into his shoes and meandered slowly back towards the house. It would be a few minutes yet before the first drops fell, just time to make a brief round.
He moved noiselessly about the great house, pausing now and then to check some detail; the kitchen ranges were warm still, the fires tamped down and dough for the morning’s bread proving beside them. Moving up through the floors, the new shutters on the library windows fitted close and well and the glaziers had done a fine job on the stained glass. When he came to the top of the staircase, the great dog lifted its head and regarded him quizzically as though to ask what he might be doing there, when he was on guard.
Boromir drew Rullo’s ear gently through his hand and as the dog settled down again, Boromir looked beyond him to the mound under the bedclothes that was the sleeping boy and wondered once more how he could have been so blessed. Often and aye he had gone through this ritual on the road, watching Arin sleep, but then there had been an under-current of anxiety always, knowing that he was alone, wondering whether he would fail in this too. Now, whatever his fate, their son’s future was secure, surrounded by those who loved him – a father, much-loved uncles and aunts. Boromir knew too, that Arwen would not hesitate to kill to protect the boy, not only because he was Aragorn’s child, Eldarion’s brother, but for himself.
Returned to his own chamber as he entered another, closer, rumble made him hasten to the window to close the long shutters before the storm broke. For a moment he stood, looking out over the city below, at the scattering of pinpricks of light.
A faint shiver passed over his skin that was nothing to do with the approaching storm and as the next roll of thunder, pealed about the city walls and the first sheet of lightening lit up the chamber, he turned to see the still figure, kneeling, patiently beside their bed.
Boromir did not need to ask whether he had moved. Aragorn had come to him strung as taut as a bowstring from days of diplomatic manoeuvring with a fruitless outcome; Harad would not be swayed, not yet. Boromir knew it was the strain of remaining true to his principles whilst acting the politic ruler that pulled him this way and that and added to the silver at his temples, knew too that the Queen had sent him to his Steward to have the burden set aside for a while. He had laid the bracelets in Boromir’s hands with an almost audible sigh and Boromir had risen from his chair, leaving the book open, the wine undrunk and led him up the stairs.
He had stripped him, knelt to clasp the bracelets about Aragorn’s ankles, then watched him wash himself, handed him a rough towel and before Aragorn’s skin was properly dry he had taken up a flask of oil, lightly scented with orange and spice, and begun to oil his love’s skin as Aragorn stood there head bowed.
He had worked steadily across broad shoulders, down muscled legs and when Aragorn all but glistened beneath his touch, Boromir broadened his stance and trickled oil into his cleft, taking him in one hand to stroke his cock to hardness, whilst the other teased at his hole, circling, tapping, breaching him gently to bring him to readiness for when Boromir bent him over a sturdy chair and fucked him, not roughly but steadily and strong, without let, until Aragorn shuddered beneath him, and warm stuff spurted between his fingers.
Boromir had withdrawn then, unspent, cleaned his man and led him to bed to doze. Since that time, they had eaten and slept for a while, but when Boromir had risen to walk in the garden, it had been natural for him to rouse his man and a simple thing for Aragorn to await his return sunk into a reverie that was peace.
Now he stood over the kneeling man and watched as Aragorn’s cock filled and hardened to match his own.
“You may lick,” he said quietly and gasped as a hot tongue flickered about the head of his cock, laved down the shaft, pressed against the throbbing vein.
As Aragorn’s ministrations continued he was becoming light-headed and eventually, grasping Aragorn by the shoulder, he raised him to steer them both to lie across the great bed, top to tail.
“Suck it down, man,” he muttered and felt a wail rise in his throat at the pressure, the heat that engulfed him. His face was laid against Aragorn’s thigh and he had only to open his mouth to let his tongue slip out and lip the salt bead from the head of his cock. As he probed at the tiny slit feeling Aragorn’s every shiver, he matched it with busy fingers, reaching between Aragorn’s legs to screw three fingers into his arse, still slick, stroking and pressing until Aragorn could endure no more and his mouth was filled with gouts of cum. Boromir felt it trickling down his beard and half smiled, even as his own climax washed over him, leaving him limp and sated. This time it would be Aragorn who would bathe his master before the fire.
Sated by Alex Quine
Summary: Boromir knows what will ease them both.
Rated: NC-17
Categories: LOTR FPS Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 1352 Read: 939
Published: 10 Sep 2010 Updated: 10 Sep 2010
Story Notes:
DISCLAIMER: "These characters originate with their copyright holders. I borrow them for entertainment, not profit."