Penance

Penance
By Rainchilde (rainchilde_lotr@hotmail.com)

Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Boromir/Beregond, Beregond/Faramir, Boromir/Faramir
Warnings: Shades of rape, incest, and dom/sub mindgames
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, aren't making any money off of 'em
Archival: Just let me know :)

Author's Note: I'd like to make one thing very clear right off the bat -- I adore Boromir. I say he was a good man and a wonderful brother, and I get quite frothy at the mouth when confronted with poorly-written "Boromir the rapist asshole" stories. That being said: I have no idea where this plotbunny came from, and it's got an even less pleasant potential twin waiting in the wings involving a decidedly underage Eomer... *pets Boromir apologetically* I'm sorry, sweetheart. I'll make it up to you. I promise.


************


He tried to tell himself afterward that he hadn't known. That he couldn't have known. If noblemen wanted to play such bizarre games, it was not his place to question...merely to do as he was tol
He
He tried to tell himself that it had not been wrong to entertain a stir of pride that Captain Boromir would notice a wet-behind-the-ears guardsman, especially at such an occasion. Social events in Minas Tirith were few and far between, for the Steward did not approve of such foppish foolishness, but for the first time in years Gondorian forces had achieved a significant victory on the eastern border -- under the command of Captain Boromir. So when the Captain cajoled his father for a celebration, how could even the dour Lord Denethor say him nay?

And so, new-recruited and uncomfortable in a heavily embroidered black-and-silver tabard, he'd found himself standing ceremonial guard. The audience chamber seethed bright-colored with anyone in the city who could claim even the smallest connection with the Stewards' line. The chatter, the scents, the bewildering finery...he'd finally been forced to close his eyes to steady himself, and when he opened them again...

"Your name, soldier?"

His cheeks flamed as his eyes flew open, mortified to be caught in such a moment. His mortification turned to leaden horror as he found himself staring into the warm, neutral gaze of the Steward's heir himself. Still clad in sensible dark leathers from his victory afield, Boromir looked more amused than angry, but this detail was lost on the terrified lad.

"B...Beregond, sir."

"Bereg" " Boromir nodded, drumming his fingers against his own belt, head tilted slightly in an measuring manner. He stood close enough that Beregond could smell a hint of sweet wine on his breath, but a bit of wine was surely not enough to affect the captain. "You are no myo my father's service, yes?"

"Yes sir."

"Hmm."

Beregond desperately wanted to squirm under that penetrating gaze, wondering how much trouble he was in. He'ard ard the heir was not the stern taskmaster that his father was; surely a moment's lapse at a dull post was not enough to earn a reprimand...

He squeaked through chedched teeth, eyes flying wide, as the captain stepped very close and -- confidently, very confidently, as if they were alone in a private chamber rather than awash in a fluttering sea of minor nobility -- slid his hand beneath Beregond's tabard and between his thighs.

If he had not been taught practically since birth to obey without question, Beregond might have jerked away. Instead, cheeks alight and a muscle in his clenched jaw twitching, he willed his body not to react as the Steward's son calmly handled his attributes like a man considering a horse. Boromir seemed pleased with what he found, and with the manner in which the young guard weathered the intrusion without protest. Intrigued, his touch became deliberately provocative. Beregond almost choked on his own tongue as every inch of his groin was explored and caressed...

A bare moment before Beregond felt he would surely groan aloud, Boromir withdrew and stepped back. "Accompany me. I have a task for you." He spoke like a man who expected to be obeyed, of course, and as he turned away Beregond could only follow.

So follow he did, across the crowded floor, a tide of finery parting before the two men in their dark simple colors and closing again behind them. Boromir exchanged light pleasantries with all and sundry, never slacking his stride, and Beregond felt small and forgotten in his wake. Which, to be honest, quite suited him. Blood wtilltill roaring in his ears -- among other places -- and his knees were shaking as he strove to come to grips with what had just happened. What seemedabouabout to happen. He was old enough to serve in the guard and thus no innocent, but this...

They left the party behind, two sets of boots thudding dully on ancient flagstones as Boromir led the way deeper into the Citadel. Beregond had never been here, and with good reason: this was the Stewards' quarters, the home of the White City's rulers since the last of the kings fell. It was no place for a simple guardsman such as himself. At one point they passed a pair of senior Citadel guards; he felt disdainful scrutiny on the back of his neck, and he could feel himself burning red again. He wondered if they knew...if they could tell...

He drew his shoulders up and lifted his chin and trie loo look less like a virgin being paraded to the wedding bed. The silence was unnerving. Boromir had said nothing since they'd left the audience chamber, nor had he changed pace. Beregond was starting to wonder if the captain even remembered that he had a companion...

And then the captain stopped and turned. They were alone now, in a richly tapestried corridor that was obviously a living area of some sort.

"Remove your clothing, Beregond." The captain's words were playful, yet held the unmistakeable edge of an order.

Here? In the hall? Where anyone could... Beregond thought this, but did not say it. Fighting the blush rising to his ears and the urge to peer nervously over his shoulder, he shrugged out of the tabard and pried off his boots. When he reached for the lacing of his leggings, however, another hand had already beaten him there. The captain pressed him back until he was pinned against the wall, calloused fingers unravelling knots as teeth closed gently against his throat. Head thus forcibly tilted back, the young guardsman could barely breathe as cloth slackened and fell away and those same fingers moved in to stroke the aching arc of his cock once more.

Beard brushed against his cheek and he startled, thinking the Steward's heir might kiss him, but no -- Boromir was merely resettling, one hand teasing and stroking while the other -- what was he doing? Beregond could not look down to see, but he could hear cloth rustle. For a wild moment he thought he was to be taken in the corridor like a kitchen wench, but again he was mistaken. His lord was searching for something amid his own garments...

A moment later Beregond at crt cracked his skull on the stone wall as warm oil dripped over his cock, and two hands worked it smoothly in. His hips jerked involuntarily, he was certain he'd never been harder, but as climax beckoned he was denied, over and over, and finally his dogged composure cracked. He seized Boromir's shirtfront in one fist and gasped, "You're...driving me mad, m'lord...please..."

"You are ready, then?" The murmur was soft but clear, a tenor purr against the flushed curve of his jaw. "And you will do exactly as I tell you, lad?"

Beregond nodded, almost unable to form coherent speech, not knowing what was to be asked of him and not caring, either. He dredged up just enough manners to let go and stammer, "Y-yes, sir."

He almost whimpered as the captain released him as well and stepped back, and yet part of him welcomed the respite. His blush would not go away, and only deepened as his head cleared enough to realize how ust ust have sounded, how he must have seemed...how he must still seem, clad only in a light tunic, traitorous cock bobbing merrily as he followed his lord across the hall throa doa door...

Into what appeared to be private chambers. The room was lit only by a few low candles, but as his eyes adjusted he was able to pick out a cluttered worktable, scattered cushions, and a bed. He stopped short. The bed was occupied -- by a young man his own age, long-haired and fair, completely nude. Beregond could not make out his face, for he was on his knees facing away, head low and arms wrapped around a pillow. As if he was waiting... How long had he been waiting like this?

He started as an embroidered sleeve scraped his elbow. Boromir moved to his side, arm wrapping around his bare waist, urging him forward. Towards the bed. The heir was still fully clothed; with one last push he let go and stepped back to sink into a comfortable chair, reaching for a glass of wine. And Beregond understood what he was to do. Why he was here. And if there was any doubt still left...

"Take him." The order lay heavy and indolent in tloselose warm darkness. "This is my prize, his gift to me. Do not think, Beregond. Take him NOW."

Something felt wrong about this, but the pulse which pounded through him made it hard to think, and never had an order sounded so inviting. He hadn't even known he'd stepped forward but now his hands were pressed against those inviting thighs, caressing soft-skinned buttocks, thumbs prying and slippery cockhead probing and THERE--

The young man gasped sharply beneatm, am, ass tensing tight, and for a fleeting moment Beregond hesitated...but out of the the corner of his eye he caught sight of Boromir leaning forward in his chair, all masks and casualness fled as one hand slid within his own unlaced breeches. Eyes glittering in the candlelight. Watching him. Waiting for him to claim this...gift.

And so with a surrendering groan Beregond drove in, sheathing the length of his oil-slick cock deep. The sensation almost shattered him, the heat, the tight trembling resistance, the flesh and muscle under his weight, in his hands... No. He had to have more. He could not stop now. Unthinking he pumped again, harder, and again, and more, and faster, breath hitching in deep animal grunts as he mounted the beautiful boy given to him in this manner...

Orders, orders, I was ordered to to this, he kept hazily telling himself, but to tell the truth it was a thin veneer of civilized excuse for what now knew he was doing. What he was doing... Oh yes. He was neither stupid nor deaf -- the cries pounded out beneath his thrusting body were cries of pain, the stunned wordless protest of a virgin roughly used. And yet he could not stop, could not stop driving harder, deeper, the harsh slap of damp flesh and Boromir's encouraging groans of pleasure spurring him to close his eyes and slam in deep one last time, all the way, wringing a full-throated scream from his partner and a gasping, clenching, blood-roaring flood of ecstasy from his own body...

When he came back to himself, he was sprawled over the other young man -- who was no longer on his knees, but rather pressed flat into the blankets. The bare shoulder under Beregond's cheek shuddered, once, twice, and again, and with an icy shock he realized that his partner was wracked with silent sobs. His mind reeled as the haze of sensuality faded. Yet even as part of him cried out in horror, another protested He did not have to stay! The door was not locked! He did not have to kneel still for that, he was here of his own will, he LET me...I didn't...I'm not...I was told to!

A hand wandered up his spine to grasp his shoulder. He looked up, dizzily, and saw only warm approval in Boromir's eyes. Approval? More than that...far more than that...

"Up," the Steward's son ordered, and as Beregond obeyed -- sticky with sweat and seed and oh gods, blood, he WAS a virgin, what have I done?! -- he suddenly understood two very important facts. For one, the searing need in the captain's gaze was not intended for him. And for two...

The young man he'd just violated rolled onto one side, pushing himself up to sit shakily on the edge of the bed, bringing his tear-streaked face into the flickering candlelight. Beregond's heart thudded sickeningly in his throat as he scrambled off of the bed, backing away in cold sho He He knew that face. He knew this man. This "boy" was the Steward's other son, Faramir.

He'd been ordered by the elder to rape the younger.

Stricken, he expected retribution -- anger, disgust, something, anything -- but he recd nod nothing of the sort. Boromir's entire attention was upon his brother, burning bright with unholy lust...and when Faramir raised his own gaze to meet it, Beregond was stunned to see nothing but the lost desperate look of a boy seeking approval. And that approval was now granted in the form of a hand cupping Faramir's cheek, a callused thumb tracing his lips...

"You are dismissed, Beregond," Boromir said calmly, without turning. His other hand was busy at his own waist, and still his younger brother sat naked on the bed before him -- pale and trembling, yes, but still he stayed... "Report to the captain of the Citadel guard in the morning. I will sign your transfer orders myself."

And Beregond obeyed, quickly, numbly, but not before his mind was irrepairably branded with the sight of strong fingers clenching on stubbled jaw and a thick heavy cock shoved into Faramir's mouth.

Once in the hallway, the young guard was so dazed that he might have staggered home stark naked had he not tripped on his own discarded clothing. He saved himself from a nasty fall only by the barest of luck...but then he slumped to the ground anyway, shoving the door closed and leaning back against it.

The wood was solid against his back but the cold paving stones seemed to rock and whirl under him as he wrapped his arms around his knees and tried to breathe. How could he have done that? How could he have obeyed such a command? He remembered his father once saying that a good soldier not only follows orders, but knows when not to obey. But tonight he'd been so blinded by his eagerness to be a good servant...and, yes, he admitted inwardly with a sick lurch, he'd been swayed by the heady illusion of being the Captain's favorite, just for one night.

You let your cock lead you, he snarled at himself, and look what a mess you're in! LordLord Faramir recognizes me on the morrow...

But he won't, another voice whispered. And ever if he did, why would that matter? Listen...

Beregond tilted his head back, resting his skull against the door. And sure enough, dimly through the heavy wood, he could hear soft deep satisfied rhythmic grunts as Boromir used his unprotesting brother in whatever way pleased him this night.

Faramir belongs to him, the voice noted dryly as Beregond jerked away from the door as if it had bitten him. You only did as you were bid. Walk away. Forget this ever happened.

"I will walk away," he replied grimly under his breath, rising with an armful of clothing. "But I will not forget. I owe Faramir a debt for my actions tonight."

You owe him nothing. He does not know, he does not care!

With a growled oath, Beregond shook his head hard to dispell the persistant whispering. "I know. I care. I owe him. I will pay with my loyalty."

He won't know why...

"No. And he never will."