Characters: Young Boromir, Young Théodred
Rating: PWP smut warning, m/m
Source: Pre Ring War
Disclaimer: They may belong to Tolkien - but he doesn’t want this bit!
The Stud Farm lay just east of the River Glanhir, a moated manor house, fortified by having its back to the Ered Nimrais and its feet surrounded by the race of mountain melt-water that turned the mill-wheel; thus local wits often called it ‘the Grindhouse’. It was used by Anórien’s northern border-guard, and Rohan’s most southerly outposts.
The adjacent main settlement held an assembly of scouts, messengers, merchants, it also housed the Beacon-keepers sturdy, stone keep, and the Rohirrim’s stables, allowing rest on the long journey to Minas Tirith.
‘The perfect place for a little schooling,’ thought young Boromir, smiling.
The two parties had arrived the night before, Gondor’s honour-guard there to greet Prince Théodred and his cohort, and bring the new bloodstock to Minas Tirith. They planned to stay here and be entertained for three nights. During the feast given to honour their guests there’d been much boasting and teasing about horsemanship from both sides.
Boromir had in mind a lesson for Prince Théodred, some tutorage in the more acrobatic riding techniques he’d acquired from the Southrons of Belfalas. He looked over his preparations, fine ropes, leather stays, blindfold and halter, fresh bedding… he just needed the young stallion.
The Stud Farm held guest wings; Boromir had taken the furthest and quietest, one with its own yard under surrounding trees, all the better to study and apprehend ‘The Grindhouse’ library’s illustrated manuals.
The wild, blond mane was damp with sweat, his chest heaving with exertion, he whinnied with nervous energy. Boromir was yet to mount; first he wanted to illustrate the exquisite control that could be achieved with leather stays and a blindfold. The sleek muscled flank shivered at the man’s touch.
He leaned in, allowing his weight to be anticipated
“Trust me…” Boromir whispered, ‘That’s it … trust…”
The golden stallion bucked as the man mounted, snorting and groaning beneath him, but the soft bridle muffled him and anchored his head, while the stays tied to the posts prevented him from rolling away from under his soon-to-be rider.
Boromir gasped at the engagement of his thighs to fevered flanks, partly in pleasure and partly in understanding that those seemingly complex illustrations of mount and rider could be resolved into startling lessons learned.
‘Who said libraries were not of use?’ He grinned.
Easing forward, Boromir steeled himself for the bucking to start afresh. ‘Aaah, these Rohirric mounts had stamina!’
Boromir lay, dappled by sunlight, under the trees. Théodred rinsed-off under the yard’s tiny waterfall. He shook out his mane, splashing Boromir… who winced, calling out, “No!” He was ignored… a pail of icy water hit Boromir square in the face, leaving him spluttering.
Suddenly, warm heaviness pressed against his body.
“I deserve a prize for being a good student,” muttered the pupil, “Now… I should show you Rohan’s knowledge of knots… how to tether this…” his hand snaked down… “…and these,”
Boromir gasped. “Wouldn’t you like a break?”
Théodred had other things to do with his tongue than speak.