Request: Hot sex, bit of angst, kink would be very welcome, gloves

Summary: Aragorn contemplates the seasons.

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Boromir and Faramir - two gloves. Brothers, yet not mates. Both from the same maker, yet as dissimilar as the seasons of the year.

In the summer when it�s hot, Boromir�s skin will take on the color of newly tanned leather and this is Aragorn�s favorite time of year to lie with his Steward. The prelude for Aragorn shaping this glove to his hand always beings the same, sword practice within the confines of a small private garden. Both bare-chested, Aragorn and Boromir trade blows with wooden swords until the sweat is pouring off them. Each blow of wood sends a jolt through Aragorn, and the longer he and Boromir fight the more his arousal grows. Boromir sees this, he knows what is coming, but he never comments. Aragorn is the king and it is he who takes the lead. One twist of Aragorn's sword and Boromir is disarmed.

Boromir inclines his head, an acknowledgement of a battle well sparred and his submission to his king's will. Despite his discomfort with Aragorn's demands, he cannot deny that the very disdain with which Aragorn treats him causes his ardor to rise.

When he looks up, he encounters Aragorn's appraising stare and the barest hint of a smile upon the king�s lips. He follows Aragorn into the castle and up to the private suite, the one reserved for the king's conquests. The guards pretend not to notice as the two pass them, they were selected for their stony discretion and their eyes show no judgment, for which Boromir, as every time, is grateful.

Within the room, Boromir strips off his clothes without request or pause. He is naked in a trice, the redolence of the sweat from his exercise, and his nervousness, mingling into a titillating, musky tang. Aragorn, still fully clothed, circles him slowly, like a hawk judging the palatability of a field mouse. Boromir tries not to tremble, but his vulnerability is acute and Aragorn is wearing the gloves...

He closes his eyes, trying to control his breathing, which is coming fast and shallow, and the hawk strikes. A sudden slap of leather against flesh and Boromir loses his struggle to remain still, to hide the quivering of his muscles.

"Look at me," Aragorn orders. "Do not think to hide yourself, to pretend another commands your body. Who owns you, Boromir? Who do you serve?"

Boromir looks stricken, knowing what the answer must be but loath to say it. Aragorn waits patiently. There can be only one response.

"I serve you, my king," Boromir avows, with just the slightest hint of evasion. Aragorn lets it pass this time. He can afford to be benevolent.

Aragorn reaches out a leather-clad hand and Boromir gasps at the contact. The grip is firm and the leather a bit rough here, a bit smooth there, from constant wear. The combination is intoxicating, as much as is Aragorn's breath on his shoulder as he moves to stand beside him.

"You made a pretty sight on the practice field today. Do you know what seeing you like that does to me?"

Boromir swallows hard as the hand pulls at him, once, twice, the thumb nestling against his balls on the down stroke. "Yes, my king."

"Yes, you do, because this is what you want, what you need. No pretty maids for you, no wife, no child. Duty is your mistress, duty to your king, is it not?"

"It is, my liege," Boromir gasps as another gloved hand glides beneath his hair and grips the nape of his neck. Soft lips brush his throat, just beyond where the thumb rests, and Boromir shudders and comes with a strangled cry.

"So soon, my beauty?" Aragorn chides, increasing his grip on the back of Boromir's neck. His gloved hand moves from front to back, slipping between Boromir's muscular cheeks, eased by his own seed. Deeper the thick finger probes, tunneling inward, making Boromir's chest and stomach heave with his breathing, and fresh rivulets of sweat trickle from his brow in his effort to accommodate the leathery interloper. "The night has barely begun and yet you spend yourself like a schoolboy at my touch? What then shall you do when we bed?"

�I will do as you command, my king.�

Aragorn adds another gloved finger. This isn�t necessary, for Boromir has long been accustomed to the girth of the king, but it is one more way to prove his ownership of this lovely glove made of strong leather. He sets up a slow in and out rhythm the bit of extra length provided by his glove allows him. Time and time again he brushes that spot deep within Boromir and the loins of his Steward rise once again.

Aragorn is King and he has inherited gifts from his ancestors that others do not have. He focuses his thoughts inward, to that secret place where Boromir resides. Boromir is naught but a Steward but he too has inherited gifts from his ancestors. He cannot block the king from doing what he will with his body but he can deflect Aragorn from discerning his innermost thoughts and feelings.

Aragorn slaps Boromir hard across the face with his other gloved hand. It makes a resounding smack. �Even now you hold yourself away from me.�

Boromir hears the danger in his king�s voice but he feels no fear, this is not new territory between Aragorn and his Steward. �That was never part of our agreement, my liege.�

"No, indeed it was not," Aragorn says, "yet in denying me access you as much as admit your guilt. You are treading upon thin ice, Boromir. Have a care that it does not break."

Boromir looks boldly into Aragorn's eyes. �Long ago I fought beside a man who would be king. We battled bravely together to destroy a ring and restore peace to a land that had known none for many generations. I loved that man with all my heart and I would have followed him into the very fires of Mordor. But that man is long gone. The king may do what he will with my body, but my heart...� Boromir pauses, and it is several moments before he continues, �My heart belongs to one who is good and kind.�

Aragorn�s eyes narrow dangerously. �You will never have that one; punishment is death upon the hanging tripod for anyone who practices that abomination.�

"The ice beneath my feet is as the summit of Caradhras," Boromir replies. "You need not fear, my king. I remain your servant and Steward in all things save one."

�You have taxed my good will today, Boromir," Aragorn snaps. Since you will act the dog then I will treat you as such.� One gloved hand forces Boromir painfully to his knees upon the stone. The glove is yanked out and replaced by the king's turgid member. Reflexively Boromir tightens up at the last moment and the penetration is excruciating, but not a sound does he make. This is his punishment for holding himself back, for loving another who is not Aragorn, and he accepts it as his due.

When Aragorn is done he does not even offer Boromir the reciprocity of stimulation, instead he shoves himself off his Steward.

�You stink of corruption, Boromir. I suggest you bathe before next we meet.�

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Summer fades into fall and as the color of the trees wane, so does Aragorn�s interest in his Steward. Once again Aragorn remembers he has a wife. Arwen is a Queen to his King, she is beautiful, kind and he listens to her wise council when they are in court. But she is not the same as the gloves that Faramir and Boromir are to his hand. The curve of his finger never elicits a moan. Her voice, like silver bells, does not have that husky undertone, and sometimes he cannot quicken when he is with her. The blood will not flow and he cannot stay warm as he can when swathed in one of his gloves. She accepts these times with a noble grace and Aragorn loves her even more for it, grateful that she does not make him choose. And choosing too, in his own right, to ignore the pain in her eyes when he turns away, the same pain that later he will see reflected in Boromir�s eyes when he knows that the king has lain with his brother.

Fall gives way to winter. Snow covers the lands and cold fills the bones. Now Aragorn turns to Faramir as his blood begins to heat once again. Lady �owyn knows of the king�s intent and unlike the other subjects of his land she tries what Boromir dares not, dissuade Aragorn. Though heavy with Faramir�s first child, she blocks his way, even going so far as to offer herself in the same way she knows he will take Faramir.

Aragorn moves her aside, �Nay, my lady. What you offer is but a pale imitation of what your husband will surrender to me. Should you not step aside now, he will not fare so well under my hand this time, and it shall be many months before your precious Faramir will be well enough to sire another child with you.�

�owyn hears the threat and she knows there is truth in the king�s words, for Aragorn has never lied. She lowers he eyes and steps aside, �As you command, my liege.�

Slipping into Faramir feels like he is being gripped by the finest of silk from far off Harad. This is a glove that has been sewn by the finest of tailors. One wrong move and it will rip beyond repair, and Aragorn prepares his entrance with exquisite care. The most expensive of oils from the east of Rh�n, and the finest of perfumes, anything his Prince of Ithilien should desire. But there is nothing that the King can provide, for Faramir does not desire his attentions. He lies beneath Aragorn, sensitive to the king's moods and compliant to Aragorn�s every whim, but he never quickens. Here, it is Aragorn who must press his advantage. Aragorn knows the dichotomy of the situation but he refuses to acknowledge it. The one whom he truly desires has no feeling for him in return. Boromir, who he desires only for the body of a true warrior, gives his body but not his love.

'Even unimpassioned lips are sweet when the control belongs to you,' thinks Aragorn as he claims Faramir�s lips with his own.

He does not break their embrace as he pushes Faramir back onto a bed made from the golden wood of a Mallorn tree. Faramir does not resist and Aragorn falls on top of him, pressing him into the bed. He kisses Faramir, receiving no response, then looks deeply into his eyes. Faramir stares back unflinchingly, but there is no challenge in his eyes. There is no need. Aragorn knows he can only have the bit of him Faramir will allow.

But Aragorn persists in trying to elicit a response. He kisses Faramir roughly, then rips open his tunic, planting love bites down his chest. His hands move down, breeching the laces of Faramir's leggings, exposing him, and Faramir's disinterest is plain to see. For Faramir, Aragorn wears his archery gloves, fingerless, the leather covering only his palm and his fingers to the bottom knuckle. He wants Faramir to feel his flesh, to minimize the barrier to their contact. Using his mouth and fingers, his touch becomes gentle, almost pleading. After a time, Faramir's breath quickens, as does his arousal, and he closes his eyes, pretending it is �owyn who is pleasuring him. Aragorn would not allow such with Boromir, but he has his own pretense with Faramir. He pretends that each surge and gasp is a declaration of love from his recalcitrant prince.

When Aragorn has brought him to the near edge, he rolls Faramir over and takes him. Faramir squeezes his eyes shut and endures, his pretense ripped away, but Aragorn is in ecstasy and his pleasure is complete. He would give up the whole of his kingdom if only Faramir would return his affections.

Winter gracefully sheds her cloak for spring. This is the time of year that is hardest for Aragorn, when the true measure of his desire becomes known, to have both Boromir and Faramir with him - together.

But in his land a mating of brother with brother is an abomination and death from the hangman�s noose the only allowable outcome. Valar on high he is the King and he could change that law, should he so desire. But to allow these two gloves to pair would mean stepping aside, allowing them to find the fit that is right for them, molding leather and silk to other hands. Lady �owyn is the only unknown here, but he has seen her with his two gloves, there is a harmony he knows he could never achieve in his own home. She loves Faramir and Boromir fiercely and she wields a sword every bit as aggressively as any warrior under his command. The three of them linked would be a threat to his Kingship.

During these months the only glove Aragorn knows is his hand upon himself. He closes his eyes and sees Boromir and Faramir, summer and winter. Secretly he is pleased that his gloves may only take the shape he desires as he spills himself upon the sheets. Until once again the land becomes hot and the smell of leather reminds him he has a glove that needs oiling.