Entertainment

Title: Entertainment
Author: Mimine
Pairing: Boromir/Faramir/Grima
Rating: NC-17
Feedback: Much appreciated. At mimine101@hotmail.com
Archiving: Ask and it’s all yours.
Summary: In Minas Tirith, Grima unearths a dirty little secret and uses it to his advantage.
Warning: Incest, m/m. Lots of it. Don’t like, don’t read. Also, some non-con elements but nothing too bad (I think)
Notes: I could never thank Roolark enough for her beta. All the mistakes are mine (although some of my English teachers should share the blame)

Grima assumed his position on the table. The Steward had him sit opposite him, well out of earshot. Grima ought to take offence, he was in Minas Tirith as an emissary of Rohan and was owed the courtesy of sitting at Denethor’s side. However, the Steward had been in every way a gracious host and it would not be fitting to reproach him the breach of protocol considering the fact that the celebration was for the return of Boromir, Denethor’s elder son, from some errand that no one had wished to inform Grima about. Furthermore the Rohirrin knew well that even if he had been seated in his proper place, Denethor would reveal nothing of interest.

Grima had made no progress with the sly old fox. He could not help admiring the Steward and thinking how much more challenging the position of Denethor’s advisor would be. But as much as the Steward’s devious nature appealed to him, he could see plainly that he would never hope to hold over Denethor a fraction of the influence he held over Theoden.

It had been easy to convince Theoden that Grima would be the ideal envoy to Gondor, to meet with Denethor and see whether the Steward’s support in the event of an attack on Rohan would go beyond mere words. Grima would never miss an opportunity to go to Minas Tirith. He found the general atmosphere of the White City much more suited to him than Rohan. He had no great respect for his compatriots, often finding them to be as dim-witted as the horses they bred.

Grima most gladly extended his visit, lost in the anonymity of the busy streets, where no one would point at him and whisper the hateful name his eloquence had earned him. And when he was not outside, he would explore the Steward’s vast library, reading until his eyes felt as though they would fall on the yellowish scrolls.

It was in the library that he had first met Denethor’s second son, a tight-lipped young man who had paid no attention to Grima. Flattery had left him cold, as had Grima’s seemingly innocent questions about the Steward and Gondor’s relations with its neighbours.

The Rohirrin had had no choice then than to rely on his talents. Hiding in the shadows, eyes and ears open, he found some amusement, though nothing noteworthy. A thieving cook who when blackmailed had no useful information, two nobles who, thinking themselves unobserved, had shared rather unfavourable opinions on the Steward and his Heir, and an attractive servant girl that Denethor had chosen to have in his rooms but who could tell Grima precious little about the old man besides what his tastes ran like in bed. That had been all.

Grima’s gaze swept the Hall. Denethor’s elder son had yet to make his appearance. Everyone was already seated and most were eyeing the overloaded platters with impatience.

A murmur spread and even though Grima had his back to the door he realised that Boromir had finally arrived. There were cheers, one would have thought the young man was returning from having single-handedly won a war. Hardly likely. The Rohirrin turned to look at the cause of all the excitement. He could not get a good look at Boromir for he was currently in the warm embrace of one of the nobles who only a few days before had described him as a “reckless, thick-skulled, warmongering, fool, very unlikely to have sprung from that hyena’s loins but equally dangerous to Gondor”. It was a while before the young man finally made it to his seat. He seemed to have a hearty laugh, a smile, an embrace with everyone. How many genuinely loved him, how many were gifted sycophants, Grima could not tell.

Most conversation was replaced by the scrape of forks on plates as soon as Boromir had taken his seat. A bewitching blonde had been strategically placed to his left. Boromir was fitfully attentive to her but Grima could have sworn his expression had darkened for a moment as he exchanged a long look with his brother.

Grima observed both brothers with interest. They were very much alike in appearance but Boromir seemed to have more of everything. He was taller, his shoulders broader, his eyes a remarkable green in contrast to the greyish blue that Faramir had inherited from their father, his hair gleaming copper and gold next to his younger brother’s ordinary blond. Like an experiment perfectly successful the first time in uniting Denethor and that unlucky beauty who had been his wife. Like an experiment that need not have been repeated.

At some point during the night the lovely blonde appeared to have tired of Boromir’s lukewarm interest and retired for the night. Faramir quickly filled her seat leaving a very disgruntled brunette who before long also lefe tae table.

As he studied Denethero’s sons, Grima wondered whether it was obvious only to him. The looks between them, the seemingly accidental touches, the angry glare Boromir shot Grima for staring at his little brother. They were a secret worthy of discovery. It would perhaps take a while but knowing what he was looking for would certainly make things easier for Grima. He was a patient man.

~*~

It was too late by the time Boromir thought of the door he had forgotten to latch. Too late when a current of cold air and the soft sound of the door closing again informed him that he and Faramir had an audience. Too late to pretend that he wasn’t nuzzling Faramir’s neck, that their breeches were not down on their ankles, and that he didn’t have two fingers in the younger man up to the last knuckle. It was also quite difficult to pretend that the moment Faramir opened his eyes and looked over Boromir’s shoulder in r hor horror, was not also the time when his younger brother’s seed fell all over his hand, his belly and his very prominent erection in seemingly unending bursts, testifying as to how much Faramir had missed him. And although Boromir would normally be pleased about that, it was the furthermost thing in his mind at the moment.

“Oh, don’t mind me. Do carry on.”

Boromir turned to face the intruder shielding his brother with his body and trying to cover his own nakedness.

“It is Theoden’s advisor,” Faramir whispered.

The raven-haired man walked towards the two brothers until he was leaning on the wall, right next to them, hands crossed over his chest, a very aggravating amusement on his pale face.

“Like I said. Continue.” The last word was most explicitly an order.

Boromir was shocked to discover that although his stomach was in upheaval and his heart felt like it was beating at the back of his throat, his arousal had remained undiminished. A look at his brother’s face had the effect of ice cold water. Faramir’s eyes were round with fright, his skin as white as the wall behind him and he was biting his lower lip so hard blood had started to run down the corner of his mouth.

The elder brother turned to his father’s guest, picturing his disembowelled body hanging from the city walls. He was angry enough to do that with his bare hands at the moment. The man appeared undaunted by Boromir’s gaze.

“I do not think you understand me. I said: continue with what you were doing.”

“You want us to perform for you?” Boromir sounded more bewildered than angry.

“Precisely.”

“And if we don’t?”

“I will find I have a tale to share.”

“Who will believe you?”

Grima smiled. “Do you think that the servants here are blind? Quite a few would verify my words. It will be interesting to see your father’s face when he realises what sort of a reputation his two heirs will be getting inside and outside Gondor’s borders.”

“Do what he wants,” Faramir murmured shakily.

“And then I will have to trust you to keep your word?” Boromir sneered, finally succeeding in pulling up his breeches as he discreetly surveyed the room for any sort of weapon. He was sure Faramir had a dagger somewhere.

“It does not seem to me like you have much choice in the matter. Now, go on, my patience is running thin.”

Boromir finally located that blasted dagger and lunged for it. His breeches slid down again, hobbling him and he came close to slitting the man’s throat instead of only pressing the dagger on it to intimidate him. He steadied himself against the wall. Grima had pulled back, eyelids fluttering in fear.

“I do not think Rohan will take that well, Boromir”, the younger brother said quietly. After a while, Boromir let go, bowing his head. He threw the weapon aside.

Grima took a deep breath, rubbing on his neck abjectly. “You should listen to your brother. Now shall we go on?”

“I am obviously not up to the task,” the Steward’s heir said through clenched teeth.

The Rohirrin smiled. “Indeed. Let us do something about that.”

With those words the man reached, casually scooped some of Faramir’s release and took a hold of Boromir’s manhood. In spite of himself, Boromir gave out a moan. Grima’s hand was soft, his grip sure and gentle. The green-eyed man was quickly hard again under the steady caress. He stared from under his lashes at the Rohirrin. He had to admit that there was a certain appeal to the strange little man who now had him and his young brother at his mercy. A certain reptilian charm.

“Now, Boromir,” the man whispered, “since you are ‘up to the task’ as you put it, I believe we may proceed?”

Boromir shivered at the sound of his name from Grima’s lips. The older man had a strange accent, pronouncing it in a drawn out way… Bo-ro-meer… It made it sound sinister and indeed quite fitting for a man who had seduced his younger brother.

Grima let go of Boromir’s erection with a slight regret. He had rather enjoyed the feel of the firm flesh in his hand. A glance at young Faramir was enough to convince him that watching the two brothers would be a far more rewarding sight. The young man had stepped out of his breeches and was in the process of removing his shirt. His skin was white, almost hairless apart for a slight shading of golden hairs on his chest. Faramir was staring straight ahead, completely unselfconscious as he disrobed fully. He had started to get excited again, Grima was pleased to note. He felt his breath hitch as the young man’s storm-grey eyes fell on him. At first glance Boromir had appeared fairer but judging by how Grima’s manhood practically jumped as he perused the naked young man, he had to reconsider.

“How do you want me?” Faramir asked quietly.

“Face the wall.” Boromir had no right to be giving orders and Grima would have told him as much had he not been struck speechless by the sight that greeted him when Faramir did turn to face the wall. His back was like the most idealistic of marble statues come alive, his waist narrow, his buttocks two perfect globes.

The Rohirrin adjusted himself, his hand pressing firmly for a moment on his clothbound erection. Next to him, Boromir also seemed to appreciate the sight although for him it had to be quite familiar. The tall man had himself in hand, his own wetness leaking on his fingers.

Faramir looked behind him briefly, giving a faint smile to his brother, then bent in perfect submission, bracing his arms in front of his face.

Grima took a step towards the young man who had just exposed his most private entrance, loosened and ready for the taking.

“You have trained him well,” he said to Boromir with wonder.

Boromir jumped, stung. “Don’t touch him,” he growled.

Grima laughed but pulled back all the same. He wanted to do much more than simply touch the expanse of white skin but something told him that King Theoden would find himself one advisor short should he push Denethor’s hot-headed heir too far.

Boromir spread wider the younger man’s buttocks, gripping harshly the fair skin. He then claimed his brother with a sure, steady thrust, perhaps painful, for Faramir let out a gasp, yet pushed back firmly to meet it. Grima pressed his palm flat on the bulge in the front of his robes, feeling some moisture seep through. He fisted his erection harshly through the black cloth, imagining the gripping heat of the young man’s body. He had to admire Boromir’s restraint. Had Grima been the one to sink into that willing young body it would all end ridiculously quickly. He was already so aroused that he could feel his release humming inside him.

Boromir’s thrusts were quick, desperate. He prided himsin bin being in control but it had been very long since the last time. Too long. He darted a glance to their spectator. The man was touching himself over his clothes, biting on his wrist to stifle his moans.

Faramir was making enough noise for all of them, giving out an odd sort of mewling that increased in volume as Boromir stood still for a moment and then angled his thrusts. He was pleased to get it right the first time, Faramir had complained about his aim in the past. He reached and found the younger man hard and leaking even though, respecting Boromir’s wishes in the matter, he had not touched himself at all.

Theoden’s advisor gave out a strangled moan. Boromir glanced at him. A telling wetness was spreading on the front of his robes. He was leaning against the wall, breathing heavily, his knees ready to buckle. There was embarrassment in his expression. Perhaps he was ashamed at having reached his climax first.

A few more seconds and there would have been no need for that, thought Boromir, feeling his control slipping. He thrust wildly, his hand abandoning Faramir’s erection to steady both himself and his brother against the wall.

Grima had sunk to the floor, sated but still feeling certain twinges in his groin as he stared at the two men. Boromir was driving into his younger brother’s body as though he was trying to force the other man pass through the wall headfirst. They both lost their balance for a moment and stepped to the side, looking like an odd four-legged beast. Boromir let go of Faramir’s erection then to steady both of them. It was enough. Grima made his way to them, or rather, crawled, but he did not give much thought to how he must have looked. Wormtongue they called him but there was one talent his tongue possessed that most ignored, a talent that he had to put in Faramir’s service or die trying. He closed his mouth around the stiff organ. He nearly choked as Boromir’s thrust pushed the head to the back of his throat. He felt fingers in his hair. He did not know to which brother they belonged and whether they intended to stop him or encourage him. He did not care. He swallowed repeatedly around the hard flesh. He had to aid his mouth with his hand as Boromir’s next movement nearly pulled the slick erection out. Another thrust forward and Grima nearly cracked his skull on the wall behind him.

A loud curse heralded Boromir’s climax. The tall man sagged on top of his younger brother, what was apparently his hand, tangled painfully in Grima’s hair. The Rohirrin had no desire to abandon his mouthful although he was by now quite dizzy from lack of air and from his impact with the wall. Faramir pulled back a little, his juices coating Grima’s tongue, then pushed in once more shooting straight the other man’s throat.

When Grima next opened his eyes he nearly laughed aloud. All three of them were on the floor, sticky and in different states of undress. Boromir was staring at him as though he would gladly trample on him with his horse at the nearest opportunity. Faramir’s eyes were also on Grima. Wonder was burning in the grey-blue depths. He gave out a chuckle then reached to touch Grima’s mouth.

“You are good,” he murmured and on that instant Grima realised that the only power Boromir had over his brother was the power the younger man had given him. The Steward’s elder son appeared the picture of misery as his eyes darted between his brother and Grima.

The raven-haired man got up slowly. He looked down to Faramir. “You haven’t known anyone else’s touch, have you?”

Faramir nodded with a smile which left his face the moment his gaze fell on Boromir’s expression.

“It… you were here, Boromir. It meant nothing, really!” Faramir stammered.

Grima’s sore throat, abused mouth and aching skull protested that but he did not contradict the young man. Faramir was giving his older brother what he needed. Someone to protect. In a sickening way it was quite touching.

Boromir’s jade gaze ignored his brother to fall on Grima.

“Have we performed sufficiently for you?” he asked harshly.

Grima nodded, finding his famed eloquence rather lacking.

“Will you keep our secret?” Faramir asked.

And although Grima meant to have them both at least once more before he would have to leave he heard himself reassure the young man that indeed he would. Because Faramir’s expression had been warm, his tone entreating. Perhaps also because Boromir’s eyes had been wet, his posture defeated.

He briefly looked back as he was letting himself out. Faramir had put his head on his older brother’s lap. Boromir gave Grima an angry glare as he started to stroke the sandy hair.

And Denethor had asked Grima at dinner whether he knew of any fitting brides among the Rohirrin for his firstborn. Grima chuckled all tay tay to his rooms at the thought.