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04 July 2006 | 3697 words
Title: The Painting
Characters: Aragorn/Faramir, OCs/Faramir
Prompt: 063. Masterpiece
Warnings: Non-consensual situations, AU
Author’s Notes: This was written for the ‘Masterpiece’ prompt on the LJ community 50_darkfics.
Much thanks to Iris for handholding!
Note: T 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: Aragorn paints a painting
I – The Painting
The painting hangs on the wall in front of Aragorn’s bed, a vast affair of blue silk and satin. Aragorn likes the sheets to be blue because when Faramir spreads himself out on the sheets, the sight of all that soft, pale skin on soft, blue cloth provides a beautiful contrast. Often he says he wishes the bed had been the setting for the painting, but then the pose would have been difficult to attain.
It is not very large but the detailing is intricate and the colours and effects are beautifully done. Aragorn is very proud of it, for he painted it himself and completed it in a single afternoon. It is the best he has done so far, he feels, and often watches it as he smokes his pipe after he has lain with Faramir. Faramir knows that because he watches Aragorn warily each time, taking in the smirk that crosses that handsome face, the pipe that is always within reach and the glint of the ring he never removes, and tries not to think of what their lives have become.
He tries not to look at the painting. But he is forced to, often, each time Aragorn takes him on this bed.
Whether Aragorn makes him lie on his stomach or his back, he ensures he faces the painting. He is not to shut his eyes while they couple so he must look at it each time. The likenesses are accurate. Others who see it say so as well. They look at the painting, and then at Faramir as he sits on the floor by Aragorn’s feet, and smirk as they notice the likeness. And if they recognise the others in the painting, envy too flits in their eyes. Some of the more foolish ones also let the lust show in their leering eyes as they stare at Faramir.
It was painted in the earlier days, when Faramir had still sought to protest. He had tried to do so lovingly first, with kisses and soft touches as he tried to cajole Aragorn into giving up the ring of power that he had claimed after defeating Sauron, which Faramir knew would only destroy them all just as it had done his brother and father and Aragorn’s other companions. And later when that had not worked through open rebellion in Aragorn’s council hall, in front of the assembled captains that led Gondor’s army now.
Aragorn had dismissed the council in a rage and then confronted Faramir.
“I am tired of your behaviour,” he said coldly, “Clearly you forget that I am your king. I have indulged your inane blithering thus far but it must stop now. I gave you one last chance, and you chose to forfeit that.”
He had called in nine of his captains – some Uruk-hai, some elves, and bade them teach Faramir a lesson. And to ensure Faramir remembered the lesson, he would record it.
They were too many for Faramir to handle and had him overpowered in no time at all, his hands tied behind his back.
They had used an empty terrace in the citadel where the light would be better, neither too harsh, nor too light. They had dragged Faramir there, white-faced and scared despite himself, and thrown him over a bench on his stomach. His kicking legs were spread and tied down to the legs of the bench. A small but sharp knife was used to cut his clothes off him, leaving him spread out naked and helpless on the stone bench.
Aragorn had placed the canvas to the side.
“Aragorn, don’t do this, please,” Faramir had cried out.
“You beg now,” Aragorn said coldly, “Yet you do not ask for my forgiveness, for you clearly do not see your error. You will learn your lesson and you will learn that I must not be disobeyed!”
He barked out an order.
The first had been one of the Uruk-hai captains. Faramir had heard the rustle of clothing and felt the thick, rough hands on the claw-like nails digging into the tender skin of his buttocks, parting them so that he was exposed completely to those assembled. And then one of the elven captains had stepped forward, and lifted Faramir’s head, and run a long, slender finger over his lips.
Faramir had felt the hardness pressing against his unprepared entrance and bucked involuntarily. The elf held him down and then Faramir cried out in pain and surprise as the Uruk-hai entered him, breeching his tight entrance and then kept pushing into him. He bucked again, crying out soundlessly as the swift thrusts dug deeper and deeper into him, only to be held down firmly again, unable to resist in any way.
He would endure it, he thought through a pain-fogged mind as he was relentlessly pounded into, his hips grinding against the hard stone bench, rough hands grasping his slender hips. He had gasped aloud, repeatedly, until the sticky warm release had spurted inside him and trickled down his legs. And then he had sagged down relieved.
“I haven’t finished yet,” Aragorn had said calmly, “One of you others take your turn.”
He should have expected that, Faramir knew. As he should have expected the next one. It got no better. The pain worsened with each intrusion and he felt skin tear after a particularly violent thrust.
“Use his mouth too,” Aragorn called out, as the fourth captain had parted Faramir’s buttocks, now sticky with semen and blood, “He’s very talented with that.”
The elven captain in front of him had slipped off his robes and poised his erect member at Faramir’s mouth. He felt soft hands cup his chin, and felt the silken skin enter his gasping mouth. Too exhausted to do otherwise, he sucked slowly and painfully.
It continued through the afternoon, until Aragorn was satisfied with the painting, each captain taking a turn until Aragorn finally declared the painting completed, as Faramir lay slumped over the bench, exhausted and aching.
He had covered every little detail. The flagstones on the floor, the dried plants in the pots, the chains around Faramir’s ankles, the knots on the rope around his hands, the half-naked captains standing around, each with an expression of lust mingled with excitement or satisfaction. And Faramir himself had been depicted perfectly, being taken from behind by a huge Uruk-hai captain and with his mouth wrapped around an elven captain’s erection, his sweat-soaked face a mix of exhaustion and misery, the muscles in his legs straining as he they were held stretched out, the pool of semen flecked with blood that trickled down his legs.
Aragorn forces him to see the painting each time, and Faramir obeys each time. He hates the painting; it is one of the things that forced him to finally yield before Aragorn, quenching his own protests, submitting to Aragorn’s will, and serving him in bed as Aragorn desires.
“You are far, far more beautiful,” Aragorn says as he blows a smoke ring, “I have not done you justice, and the bed is a much better backdrop.”
Faramir turns onto his back and spreads his legs.
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Thank the author
The following people read the story, enjoyed it, and would like to thank the author: Jeanne