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Ficlet: Arwen/Aragorn/Boromir
Title: Dreamer
Author: Archet
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Arwen/Aragorn/Boromir
Summary: Boromir attempts to be stubborn, and fails miserably.
Disclaimer: these characters are not mine, I only made the ficlet.
Note: set in an alternate universe, or AU, where naturally Boromir did not die at Parth Galen..Boromir-worship, sap, in other words, the usual.
Archive: Rugbytackle
Feedback: welcomed and appreciated
Note: many thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
seleneheart for beta!
~*~
Boromir lies in the bed unmoving and he is not asleep, yet neither is he truly awake, but drifts in that in-between moment, that gentle place between dreams and waking. He’s aware of the soft bed linens tangled around his waist and of the brightness of the sun pressing against the insides of his closed eyes, of the sheer warmth enveloping him. It’s morning and he should rise to meet the day, but he’s simply too content to move, and it is this contentment that brings dreams back to him, beckoning, and so it’s an easy thing to ignore the dawn and linger in the cradling warmth, to allow it to bear him back into dreams with the ease of a trim boat’s prow slipping through still waters.
He’s drifting just at the very edge of slumber when a voice, soft and low, whispers near his ear.
“Wake, my dreamer.”
A touch, just the pads of fingers it seems, is soft and light but determined where it drifts across his bare chest, ghosting a nipple with warmth before moving down to trace the flat planes of his belly. A finger dips into his navel and circles it, an enticement, a tease, a promise.
“Wake, my lover.”
Moments before Boromir had been ready to sink back into dreams, yet now slumber’s hold is subtly slipping away as his body recognizes this voice, this touch. The lazy smile that curves his lips names it and even as the siren call of sleep fades his plan is formed and made, and so he keeps his eyes closed. He’s learned there can be great rewards in stubbornness, and he’s a stubborn man by nature anyway and never more so than now when he’s warm, content and comfortable.
“Open your eyes, my Steward,” instructs the soft voice that is so inviting and so very hard to deny, and already it is an effort for Boromir to keep his eyes closed, yet he does.
“Open your eyes. I know you can hear me.”
Boromir’s smile broadens in answer to the teasing patience of his lover’s voice, to the sweet command present in it, a command he’s determined to disobey, for as along as he’s able. His lover wants to see his eyes, wants to watch them turn dark with want and Boromir knows this, but for now he resists. He lies still as he can, too pleased with this gentle waking, with the tone in his ear and the touch on his skin that now feels flushed with the beginnings of true desire. He cannot hide a shiver as he feels the bed linens being drawn away, sliding down over his hips and then his legs, revealing him to the cool morning air. More fingers brush the hair away from his face and linger there, combing through the tangles, a palm rests warmly, low on his belly.
Another touch, this one less soft, rougher, brushes across Boromir’s lips and it is nearly enough to make him forget his obstinacy and open his eyes. He struggles to remain still, fingers curling into his palms as these new, familiar fingers trace his smile before gliding over his beard, as they drag down over his neck and pause to stroke slowly at the hollow of his throat. They travel a determined line across the hard ridge of his collarbone, across the slope of his shoulder and down his arm, mapping the curve of his bicep, sliding past his elbow to finally wrap around his wrist in a firm grip.
Boromir feels the rub of a callused thumb glide across the pulse of his wrist and it is as if that simple caress strokes all his secret places with warmth. His breaths quicken and sweat prickles at the nape of his neck, his armpits, the small of his back and it is a true task to lie quiet. He curses the blush he feels warming his face, his neck and chest.
The hand in his hair and the one resting low on his belly has not moved from their places, but linger, caressing tenderly and patiently, a counterpoint to the tight grip encircling his wrist, to the thumb that slowly strokes him there. For Boromir the comforting warmth surrounding him is fast becoming heat, and that heat need. As an ember borne up on hot drafts, he is a fragment of fire drifting amidst heat; only he is not cooling as he’s taken higher, but quite the opposite.
“Open your eyes, Boromir.”
The voice is nearer this time, so close that its owner’s breath feathers warm against the shell of his ear, as warm as where their bodies are pressed together, as where the thumb massages the vulnerable, soft skin of his wrist. The whisper soft caress of hair slides over him, tendrils that tease where they drag across his skin, tickling over his face and neck as his lover leans close and presses an open mouthed kiss to his temple.
Undone so easily, Boromir thinks, and then thinks no more for the mouth on his skin is insistent, moving down to nip at his jaw, and the fingers curled around his wrist are suddenly tighter than before. His pulse pounds beneath their wrap and he trembles as another touch, this along his inner thigh, begins a slow teasing stroke. The hand that caresses his thigh wanders further, fingers slipping behind his knee, kneading the soft, tender spot and suddenly Boromir is panting, caught and held in a tangle of rising heat and gentle touches. At last he cannot deny himself the sight that is waiting, and so he abandons his stubbornness, and opens his eyes.
He blinks against the morning that has dawned bright while he slept. Aragorn lies on his side at Boromir’s right, body naked and golden in the sunlight spilling through the clear paned glass of the tower windows, his hair dark and tangled and falling around his face. As always in the morning, he looks less the King and more the Ranger, and Boromir cannot look away from the sight.
Staring at his Steward with a hungry smile Aragorn tightens his hold on Boromir’s knee, tugging at the captive leg and hooking it over his own. Supported on his elbow, Aragorn keeps his grip firm around Boromir’s knee with one hand, while the other still holds Boromir’s wrist tight. He leans down, presses his lips to Boromir’s wrist, then laves the pulse point with his tongue before turning his attention to Boromir’s fingers, kissing each with a tenderness that does little to disguise the fierce desire in his shining eyes. Aragorn tickles his tongue over each of Boromir’s knuckles, taking obvious delight in each warm, wet swipe.
Boromir sighs beneath the tender onslaught, yet again undone by the simplest of things, his free leg shifts restlessly, heel digging down into the feather stuffed mattress. His other is still held fast, hooked over Aragorn, and Boromir shivers when Aragorn tugs it higher before sliding his hand down over Boromir’s inner thigh with a owning caress. Heated skin, just damp with sweat, slide together and Boromir has to bite back a moan.
Aragorn, as ever, does not miss the reaction and his grin is immediate and triumphant and he presses another kiss to Boromir’s knuckles then falls into his particular, familiar habit of savoring the scars of past battles and childhood antics found on Boromir’s fingers with his clever tongue. As he does his heated gaze drifts up from Boromir’s flushed face.
His senses wrapped in the slow burn of desire, Boromir’s eyes follows the path of Aragorn’s gaze unthinking, and there finds Arwen where she lies pressed into his left side, and like Aragorn, is propped up on one elbow. She smiles down at him and he smiles back, ensnared as always by her beauty but more so by the look of loving in her ageless eyes. She fairly shines in the sunlight, a star of morning now instead of evening with her long dark hair curling against her pale unmarked skin. Her hands are on him as they have been all morning, one sifting through his hair and the other still caressing his belly, just above the beginnings of wiry curls. Her hair trails over her shoulder, a gleaming curtain tumbling down to brush against him, and Boromir could not have moved from her side in that moment even if a whole host of orcs came crashing through the window.
Boromir knows from experience that his stubbornness has not earned him the use of his hands, so he does not reach for either of his lovers but lies as still as he is able, which is not nearly so still. He thinks of how he must look, legs pulled open, flanked by his lovers on each side, their hands on him, their eyes on him and he fairly shudders. Sleep has fled completely now and he bites his bottom lip to keep silent when Aragorn’s hand releases his knee to join Arwen’s hand where it rests low on his belly.
Arwen shifts slightly toward Aragorn, a gentle smile upon her lips, and keeping her eyes fixed on Boromir’s until the last moment, kisses her husband. Aragorn leans heavily into the kiss and as he does his fingers tighten around Boromir’s wrist just as Arwen’s own tightens in Boromir’s hair. Breaking their kiss after long moments both gaze down at Boromir as their now joined hands drift lower, threading into springy curls, seeking and finding the hard proof of Boromir’s desires.
Together they wrap their fingers round their Steward’s hot hard shaft and began to give firm, steady strokes done with a surety born of much practice. All thoughts of stubbornness vanished, Boromir presses up in their touch, into the tunnel their fingers make, helpless beneath it as his King and Queen work his cock. The desire for teasing, lingering pleasure has seemingly fled, as Aragorn and Arwen do not cease their concerted stroking until Boromir’s fingers are curled into the bed linens beneath him, until he is bucking between them, stifling moans, arching up off the bed beneath their hands, granting them a view of him lost and undone in the pleasure only they are allowed to bring forth.
Normally they might chose to keep him on the edge of release for long, long minutes, taking pleasure in the sight of their beautiful Steward so abandoned and open beneath their hands, under their eyes. But this morning they are merciful and their passion to give Boromir what he needs outweighs all. Their combined touch moves harder, faster, giving and taking and for Boromir the world itself melts away leaving nothing but the white hot heat of the hands on him, nothing but his muscles straining, sending him arching into those hands, giving over to what he’s learned his lovers want most: his surrender, his pleasure.
When his release comes Boromir bites down on a growling shout of sheer bliss, unable to let go this last bit of stubbornness, and the ecstasy that takes him blots out the bright morning and every thought or care he might have had. The joy of it is too strong and his eyes shut tight against it as it seems to go on and on. Long moments pass where his strong frame shudders in the aftermath, until finally he collapses back onto the soft bed, boneless and spent.
Breath ragged, skin flushed and shining with sweat, Boromir slowly opens heavy eyes for the second time this morning to find Aragorn and Arwen gazing down at him with wide smiles and dark eyes, their fingers streaked with his release are still stroking him gently, milking his pleasure to its last, then at last simply cradles his softening shaft in their hands.
Aragorn speaks for the first time, his voice rough with desire but teasing. “What does one do with beautiful, stubborn, disobedient Stewards, I wonder?”
The question is for Arwen, but Aragorn’s smiling eyes are fixed on Boromir, whose already flushed cheeks turn a shade redder at Aragorn’s words.
“I should think,” Arwen begins, gazing down with an indulgent smile, “that he should be
made to suffer.”
Boromir’s eyes go wide and he opens his mouth in protest but cannot even utter a word before Aragorn’s lips are sealed over his. Clever fingers dance along his ribs and it is nearly impossible to breathe as he laughs into Aragorn’s mouth and attempts to twist away.
The punishment lasts long into the morning, and if Boromir makes any true effort to escape it, neither Aragorn nor Arwen notices. When his lovers come to him, asking again for his surrender, he yields, but only after his ever present stubbornness is pleasured out of him by clever hands and mouths, by words and promises remade that nearly stills the very breath in his lungs.
Together in their passion they celebrate that which binds them to one another, now and always.
Together they love, and in loving make real a rare dream: joy.
Author: Archet
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Arwen/Aragorn/Boromir
Summary: Boromir attempts to be stubborn, and fails miserably.
Disclaimer: these characters are not mine, I only made the ficlet.
Note: set in an alternate universe, or AU, where naturally Boromir did not die at Parth Galen..Boromir-worship, sap, in other words, the usual.
Archive: Rugbytackle
Feedback: welcomed and appreciated
Note: many thanks to
seleneheart for beta!~*~
Boromir lies in the bed unmoving and he is not asleep, yet neither is he truly awake, but drifts in that in-between moment, that gentle place between dreams and waking. He’s aware of the soft bed linens tangled around his waist and of the brightness of the sun pressing against the insides of his closed eyes, of the sheer warmth enveloping him. It’s morning and he should rise to meet the day, but he’s simply too content to move, and it is this contentment that brings dreams back to him, beckoning, and so it’s an easy thing to ignore the dawn and linger in the cradling warmth, to allow it to bear him back into dreams with the ease of a trim boat’s prow slipping through still waters.
He’s drifting just at the very edge of slumber when a voice, soft and low, whispers near his ear.
“Wake, my dreamer.”
A touch, just the pads of fingers it seems, is soft and light but determined where it drifts across his bare chest, ghosting a nipple with warmth before moving down to trace the flat planes of his belly. A finger dips into his navel and circles it, an enticement, a tease, a promise.
“Wake, my lover.”
Moments before Boromir had been ready to sink back into dreams, yet now slumber’s hold is subtly slipping away as his body recognizes this voice, this touch. The lazy smile that curves his lips names it and even as the siren call of sleep fades his plan is formed and made, and so he keeps his eyes closed. He’s learned there can be great rewards in stubbornness, and he’s a stubborn man by nature anyway and never more so than now when he’s warm, content and comfortable.
“Open your eyes, my Steward,” instructs the soft voice that is so inviting and so very hard to deny, and already it is an effort for Boromir to keep his eyes closed, yet he does.
“Open your eyes. I know you can hear me.”
Boromir’s smile broadens in answer to the teasing patience of his lover’s voice, to the sweet command present in it, a command he’s determined to disobey, for as along as he’s able. His lover wants to see his eyes, wants to watch them turn dark with want and Boromir knows this, but for now he resists. He lies still as he can, too pleased with this gentle waking, with the tone in his ear and the touch on his skin that now feels flushed with the beginnings of true desire. He cannot hide a shiver as he feels the bed linens being drawn away, sliding down over his hips and then his legs, revealing him to the cool morning air. More fingers brush the hair away from his face and linger there, combing through the tangles, a palm rests warmly, low on his belly.
Another touch, this one less soft, rougher, brushes across Boromir’s lips and it is nearly enough to make him forget his obstinacy and open his eyes. He struggles to remain still, fingers curling into his palms as these new, familiar fingers trace his smile before gliding over his beard, as they drag down over his neck and pause to stroke slowly at the hollow of his throat. They travel a determined line across the hard ridge of his collarbone, across the slope of his shoulder and down his arm, mapping the curve of his bicep, sliding past his elbow to finally wrap around his wrist in a firm grip.
Boromir feels the rub of a callused thumb glide across the pulse of his wrist and it is as if that simple caress strokes all his secret places with warmth. His breaths quicken and sweat prickles at the nape of his neck, his armpits, the small of his back and it is a true task to lie quiet. He curses the blush he feels warming his face, his neck and chest.
The hand in his hair and the one resting low on his belly has not moved from their places, but linger, caressing tenderly and patiently, a counterpoint to the tight grip encircling his wrist, to the thumb that slowly strokes him there. For Boromir the comforting warmth surrounding him is fast becoming heat, and that heat need. As an ember borne up on hot drafts, he is a fragment of fire drifting amidst heat; only he is not cooling as he’s taken higher, but quite the opposite.
“Open your eyes, Boromir.”
The voice is nearer this time, so close that its owner’s breath feathers warm against the shell of his ear, as warm as where their bodies are pressed together, as where the thumb massages the vulnerable, soft skin of his wrist. The whisper soft caress of hair slides over him, tendrils that tease where they drag across his skin, tickling over his face and neck as his lover leans close and presses an open mouthed kiss to his temple.
Undone so easily, Boromir thinks, and then thinks no more for the mouth on his skin is insistent, moving down to nip at his jaw, and the fingers curled around his wrist are suddenly tighter than before. His pulse pounds beneath their wrap and he trembles as another touch, this along his inner thigh, begins a slow teasing stroke. The hand that caresses his thigh wanders further, fingers slipping behind his knee, kneading the soft, tender spot and suddenly Boromir is panting, caught and held in a tangle of rising heat and gentle touches. At last he cannot deny himself the sight that is waiting, and so he abandons his stubbornness, and opens his eyes.
He blinks against the morning that has dawned bright while he slept. Aragorn lies on his side at Boromir’s right, body naked and golden in the sunlight spilling through the clear paned glass of the tower windows, his hair dark and tangled and falling around his face. As always in the morning, he looks less the King and more the Ranger, and Boromir cannot look away from the sight.
Staring at his Steward with a hungry smile Aragorn tightens his hold on Boromir’s knee, tugging at the captive leg and hooking it over his own. Supported on his elbow, Aragorn keeps his grip firm around Boromir’s knee with one hand, while the other still holds Boromir’s wrist tight. He leans down, presses his lips to Boromir’s wrist, then laves the pulse point with his tongue before turning his attention to Boromir’s fingers, kissing each with a tenderness that does little to disguise the fierce desire in his shining eyes. Aragorn tickles his tongue over each of Boromir’s knuckles, taking obvious delight in each warm, wet swipe.
Boromir sighs beneath the tender onslaught, yet again undone by the simplest of things, his free leg shifts restlessly, heel digging down into the feather stuffed mattress. His other is still held fast, hooked over Aragorn, and Boromir shivers when Aragorn tugs it higher before sliding his hand down over Boromir’s inner thigh with a owning caress. Heated skin, just damp with sweat, slide together and Boromir has to bite back a moan.
Aragorn, as ever, does not miss the reaction and his grin is immediate and triumphant and he presses another kiss to Boromir’s knuckles then falls into his particular, familiar habit of savoring the scars of past battles and childhood antics found on Boromir’s fingers with his clever tongue. As he does his heated gaze drifts up from Boromir’s flushed face.
His senses wrapped in the slow burn of desire, Boromir’s eyes follows the path of Aragorn’s gaze unthinking, and there finds Arwen where she lies pressed into his left side, and like Aragorn, is propped up on one elbow. She smiles down at him and he smiles back, ensnared as always by her beauty but more so by the look of loving in her ageless eyes. She fairly shines in the sunlight, a star of morning now instead of evening with her long dark hair curling against her pale unmarked skin. Her hands are on him as they have been all morning, one sifting through his hair and the other still caressing his belly, just above the beginnings of wiry curls. Her hair trails over her shoulder, a gleaming curtain tumbling down to brush against him, and Boromir could not have moved from her side in that moment even if a whole host of orcs came crashing through the window.
Boromir knows from experience that his stubbornness has not earned him the use of his hands, so he does not reach for either of his lovers but lies as still as he is able, which is not nearly so still. He thinks of how he must look, legs pulled open, flanked by his lovers on each side, their hands on him, their eyes on him and he fairly shudders. Sleep has fled completely now and he bites his bottom lip to keep silent when Aragorn’s hand releases his knee to join Arwen’s hand where it rests low on his belly.
Arwen shifts slightly toward Aragorn, a gentle smile upon her lips, and keeping her eyes fixed on Boromir’s until the last moment, kisses her husband. Aragorn leans heavily into the kiss and as he does his fingers tighten around Boromir’s wrist just as Arwen’s own tightens in Boromir’s hair. Breaking their kiss after long moments both gaze down at Boromir as their now joined hands drift lower, threading into springy curls, seeking and finding the hard proof of Boromir’s desires.
Together they wrap their fingers round their Steward’s hot hard shaft and began to give firm, steady strokes done with a surety born of much practice. All thoughts of stubbornness vanished, Boromir presses up in their touch, into the tunnel their fingers make, helpless beneath it as his King and Queen work his cock. The desire for teasing, lingering pleasure has seemingly fled, as Aragorn and Arwen do not cease their concerted stroking until Boromir’s fingers are curled into the bed linens beneath him, until he is bucking between them, stifling moans, arching up off the bed beneath their hands, granting them a view of him lost and undone in the pleasure only they are allowed to bring forth.
Normally they might chose to keep him on the edge of release for long, long minutes, taking pleasure in the sight of their beautiful Steward so abandoned and open beneath their hands, under their eyes. But this morning they are merciful and their passion to give Boromir what he needs outweighs all. Their combined touch moves harder, faster, giving and taking and for Boromir the world itself melts away leaving nothing but the white hot heat of the hands on him, nothing but his muscles straining, sending him arching into those hands, giving over to what he’s learned his lovers want most: his surrender, his pleasure.
When his release comes Boromir bites down on a growling shout of sheer bliss, unable to let go this last bit of stubbornness, and the ecstasy that takes him blots out the bright morning and every thought or care he might have had. The joy of it is too strong and his eyes shut tight against it as it seems to go on and on. Long moments pass where his strong frame shudders in the aftermath, until finally he collapses back onto the soft bed, boneless and spent.
Breath ragged, skin flushed and shining with sweat, Boromir slowly opens heavy eyes for the second time this morning to find Aragorn and Arwen gazing down at him with wide smiles and dark eyes, their fingers streaked with his release are still stroking him gently, milking his pleasure to its last, then at last simply cradles his softening shaft in their hands.
Aragorn speaks for the first time, his voice rough with desire but teasing. “What does one do with beautiful, stubborn, disobedient Stewards, I wonder?”
The question is for Arwen, but Aragorn’s smiling eyes are fixed on Boromir, whose already flushed cheeks turn a shade redder at Aragorn’s words.
“I should think,” Arwen begins, gazing down with an indulgent smile, “that he should be
made to suffer.”
Boromir’s eyes go wide and he opens his mouth in protest but cannot even utter a word before Aragorn’s lips are sealed over his. Clever fingers dance along his ribs and it is nearly impossible to breathe as he laughs into Aragorn’s mouth and attempts to twist away.
The punishment lasts long into the morning, and if Boromir makes any true effort to escape it, neither Aragorn nor Arwen notices. When his lovers come to him, asking again for his surrender, he yields, but only after his ever present stubbornness is pleasured out of him by clever hands and mouths, by words and promises remade that nearly stills the very breath in his lungs.
Together in their passion they celebrate that which binds them to one another, now and always.
Together they love, and in loving make real a rare dream: joy.