Faramir Fiction Archive

The King's Rule (NC-17)

Written by Minx

04 July 2006 | 3697 words

Title: The Painting
Characters: Aragorn/Faramir, OCs/Faramir
Prompt: 063. Masterpiece
Rating: R
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

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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.

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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