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Long Live the Captains
A place for the proud Gondorians and our love for them.
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I would NOT miss this opportunity.
Can i ask
☠️ angry
🌸sex
Headcanons for Boromir pretty please 🫣❤️
Why am I not surprised? 😊 Well, let’s see...
☠️ Angry.
I don’t know if I can add anything of interest to what we’ve all seen and read already. Boromir is most clearly an explosive type. And I bet, apart from the unfortunate incident with Frodo, he’s a no-regrets explosive type. The bad thing about it no post-anger regrets mean he’ll probably never learn not to throw angry fits when things are not going the way he believes they should, because someone has a different opinion on that matter. The good thing about it is, he honestly means no offence or harm. He might mean to strangle you with his bare hands at some point, but never to offend you verbally.
Oh, and now that I come to think about it, if you’re someone he considers weaker or more defenseless, the good way to stop his tantrum is to yell louder and be more aggressive than him. There is probably no chance he wouldn’t find it funny and eventually relax and give up. You can’t be mad, when you’re laughing. Yes, it’s not that flattering, but do you need flattery or results? :)
If the adversary is his equal or someone stronger…good luck to them not finding themselves a part to that strangling scenario.
🌸sex
Ok…ok…Just imagine. Anger (not that kind of anger). Aggression. Lovebites. Sneers. Absolute control. Or absolute worship. Or unmixed tenderness. Or patience without a limit, or none whatsoever.
Call me delusional, but I think Boromir is much more versed in lovemaking than one can conclude by watching his interactions out of the bedchamber. It pleases him greatly to control himself and his own kinks to the point when all that happens between him and his partner is entirely based on his partner’s preferences. And he learnt to read those off their faces, gestures and manners very-very well.
Don’t get me wrong, those generally accepted headcanons about his own preferences are probably true. He’s the dominant one. One of those who actually barely restrain themselves, if there’s nothing to stop them. Even less so if there is. But. Being the best expectation – being a skeleton key strokes his pride the right way, and we all know there’s no greater satisfaction for him than that. He doesn’t need to be put up with. He needs you to lay in his arms and be sure no one is as good as him. May be, not even himself.
So, open up and ye shall receive. Giving back is optional, but highly appreciated.
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It's my 8 year anniversary on Tumblr 🥳
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You are spoiling us!! 😍 ! Okay I wish you would write something with Boromir, maybe where he is tired and reader takes care of him :") something soft ♡
@noldorinpainter So sorry it took me long. :) Also I deviated from your request, but just a little. Hope you enjoy. Oh, in case you're interested, the songspiration was Gorod 312 - Pomogi mne - loosely, but still. The art is by The-Wizard-of-Art
Tagging @scyllas-revenge @glassgulls @fizzyxcustard @absentmindeduniverse @court-jobi @middleearthpixie @sotwk @emmyspov @evenstaredits @guardianofrivendell @way-too-addicted-to-fandoms and sorry, sorry if I forgot anyone, I got lost somewhere between Discord and Tumblr.
Ok, here it is:
Before the Storm
“Your lips are softer than they look,” you lean out of the kiss unhurriedly, basking in the feeling of his breath upon you face.
“Hmm?”
“Your…lips…are…soft,” you alter your own statement – and the sense of it, too, “But only when I kiss you. Why aren’t they soft, when you kiss me?”
You don’t need the answer as much as you need to see that deceitful mouth twitch and tighten, as too predictable images float up before his mind’s eye. The sight is fleeting, yet you cherish it better than any words he could say.
“You utter the strangest things, dove,” your Captain states with no particular expression.
His eyes are still closed. Your heart forgets how to beat, shrinking in sweet pain, as you touch the very tips of his eyelashes and stroke them as carefully as you can afford it.
“I do them, too,” you whisper more to yourself than to him.
He looks so distant, and so close, and stern, and defenseless.
The armchair by the fire is built sturdy enough to hold the weight of you, curled on his laps and clinging to his exhausted self like bindweed.
It is unkind – wicked of you to enjoy such moments, when you have to thank his tiredness for that.
For a blissfully long sting of minutes all you can think of is how his breath becomes more and more even, tamed by the movements of your hand, running through his hair over and over again.
“I must go down.”
“Yes, do,” you agree easily, “Nobody wants you here.”
“Shall I stay and make them?” there’s no single kind note in his voice, but the gleam in his eyes makes up for it to the full.
You allow yourself a laugh that is more of a sigh.
“Stay and sleep. They will look for reasons to put up with you meanwhile.”
The arm, which was up to now slack around your waist, gains strength and presses you to him too hard for a caress.
You lose yourself in another endless kiss.
“Consider this one,” offers he as evenly.
You nod, not ashamed of letting him see how you’re learning to breathe again. Lifting his spirits is worth the fear of denial in your book.
“I’ll bring you the furs,” you say, as he finally relaxes back into the tattered seat.
“No,” the protest is sharp and almost order-like.
Startled by this sudden harshness, you pull back, yet he doesn’t let you to slip away too far. It is not his embrace, but his look that stops you this time. The weariness and despair in it drive a knife through your chest, wiping out everything except your love for him – that and pity you hope he’ll never know you harbour for him.
“Please, dove,” asks he under his breath, “I need…”
“I know,” you cut in, unable to bear it any longer, “Take your rest, Boromir.”
His palm ghosts against your cheek in gratitude, and you wish you could shut out every emotion that comes with it. You wish for it to end and to go on.
You close your eyes, too, and dissolve in his arms, longing to be reborn into a safer world tomorrow.
With him.
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Imagine Faramir inviting you to spend a dreamy day and a dreamy night by his side for your birthday.
Author: @dawn-petrichor-world
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Dandelions (Boromir x she/her one-shot)
Summary: Boromir brings flowers to his lady love.
Word count: 2k
Content: G-rated Romantic fluff, pining, unnamed love interest, shy, love-sick Captain of Gondor, little brother supporting big brother
Warnings: None
To read on Ao3: Link
Dedication: For the 57% + 10% who answered this poll by @bored-artist and said they would love getting flowers:
Inspiration: This goes out especially to my friend @scyllas-revenge, whose anecdote about her childhood admirer immediately inspired me to write this. The flowers don't matter as much as the giver, and here is the flower-giving experience I think you should have.
Divider credit: @firefly-graphics
Dandelions
Third Age 3015
Minas Tirith, Gondor
“Bring her some flowers.”
Faramir’s advice seemed helpful and practical enough at the time he offered it. But it was also something he just muttered hastily to Boromir as he helped the Steward's elder son slip away from the Citadel before dawn could rouse the other residents of the White Tower. Lord Denethor was expected to remain preoccupied that entire day, conducting councils and tours for the visiting delegation from Dol Amroth. But Faramir had also assured his brother that he would cover for him should anyone come inquiring about the Captain's whereabouts.
Cloaked and hooded and bearing neither armor nor arms save for one dagger at his hip, Boromir rode his horse through the dark, winding streets of Minas Tirth and descended to the city’s bottom level. Flowers, flowers. The word tumbled around in his thoughts, but his mind could not fully conceive a plan to procure this particular item. Boromir had never visited a flower vendor in his life, although he knew stalls existed in the city markets. He could not even recall ever plucking wild-growing ones off the ground.
Or was it from trees? Shrubs? Where did beautiful flowers grow, and how could he hope to secretly obtain them if he did not know the answer?
He pondered on the matter so deeply that he barely noticed he had already reached the Great Gate, where he must face the night watch on duty before he could flee towards his day of freedom.
Dark eyes underneath a silver helm squinted up at Boromir’s face, showing recognition but registering no surprise. After a brief pause, nothing more than a cough left the sentry's lips. No names uttered, no interrogation, not even an order to lower his hood. The lead guard gave a signal to his fellow watchmen to open the great door and then stepped back, waving the Captain through the City Wall.
Concerns over being stopped had never even crossed Boromir’s mind; not once in their shared lifetime had Faramir ever failed to deliver on a promise.
And so out of the White City Boromir rode, driving his horse off the Gateway and galloping into the grassy fields of Pelennor. He headed north-east, traversing farmlands and cutting fresh trails through rough terrain just to forge the shortest possible route to his destination.
To her.
His heart thundered in competition with the pace of his horse’s hooves. Just conjuring her face in his mind, imagining how it would feel to stand within reaching distance of her, close enough to receive her smiles and be caressed by her sweet scent…
He shifted his weight forward and increased the pressure of his legs on his horse’s sides. The mare responded by surging forward with full vigor, as though charging into one of their many battles together, and Boromir made a silent promise to reward his faithful steed accordingly upon their arrival.
Bring her flowers. Faramir’s parting advice hounded him throughout the ride, refusing to be dismissed as an optional gesture. His brother meant well, but the suggestion did little to bolster and plenty to shake Boromir’s confidence. The Captain-General of Minas Tirith, Heir to the Stewardship of Gondor, commanded plenty of admirable skills, but wooing ladies had never been one of them. At least not in ways considered customary, if his ignorance on gifting protocols was of any indication. Courting traditions were something he never considered worth taking the time to learn, since there were no women who motivated him enough to care about such frivolities.
And then he met her, in whom he found every motivation to start caring. Every reason to even continue being. Boromir had come face to face with a battle he could not rely on his sword or strength to conquer. This confused and frustrated him in ways that should have made him angry. Instead, he could not think of another time in his life when he had ever been happier.
She was worth feeling like an idiot for.
Halfway through his journey, he stopped by a small stream to give his hardworking horse some water and a brief rest. As he paced up and down the loamy bank, ruminating upon reunion scenarios and conversation topics in his head, Boromir's gaze drifted across the running waters. It idly scanned the open fields that stretched out all the way to the nearest farmhouse, located at least a mile off. Suddenly, his anxiety-ridden brain registered the sight of bright yellow dots scattered about the freshly sprung carpet of pale wild grass, bobbing merrily upon their long stalks with the passing breezes.
Flowers! Boromir rushed forward eagerly, drawing his dagger to immediately start cutting up bunches and bunches of the yellow blooms, until he had enough to fill the clutch of his left hand. He produced a passably clean cloth from his saddle pack and used it to tie together the bundle of wildflowers, finally feeling relieved and mayhaps even a little proud of his victory.
The rest of his journey passed with greater ease in the knowledge he would not be arriving empty-handed. The sun had completed its ascent into the cloudless azure sky as he approached the small farming village known simply as Northmere. Once a place of such meager consequence that the Captain of Gondor did not even know of its existence, it had become the most precious location outside of the White City to him before he even had a chance to set foot in it.
A straw-roofed cottage with a fenced-in front garden and a blue-painted door. She had told him exactly how to find her house, and there were not many around to choose from. Walking alongside his horse, Boromir crossed what seemed to be the market square, just a handful of shops to provide the locals with basic essentials.
One store keeper, a burly older man with flour-dusted arms and apron, came out to his doorway to watch the stranger pass through. He caught Boromir's gaze over the distance and simply nodded his head, perhaps even cracking a smile behind his bushy gray beard. Boromir suspected some other curious eyes tracked him from surrounding windows, but no further interactions were attempted.
He found the blue painted door towards the end of a long, worn dirt road that bisected the cluster of houses comprising most of the village. Like reaching mythical treasure at the end of a quest, it filled him with triumphant excitement to approach it.
And nervousness. Valar, his hands never trembled this much clutching his sword as he faced down death on the battlefield. But there he stood at the pathwalk of the cheery cottage, unarmoured and weaponless, preparing to stand in the presence of his greatest weakness, the one who made him feel more vulnerable than any deadly foe from Mordor ever could.
He felt a sudden, firm shove on his back that made him stumble slightly. He chuckled and reached over to pat his horse's neck; he had stood there frozen for so long that his friend felt the need to check on him. "Yes, yes, yes…" he muttered, half to himself. "I am going!"
"Boromir?"
His heart soared at the voice that spoke his name, a sound fairer than any birdsong, and he turned sharply in its direction, pulsing with anticipation from head to toe.
The image of her face had scarcely left his thoughts since they parted exactly one week past. But his memory was a lying, grasping fool that had done no justice to the vision that now stood before him. She stepped out of her little front garden and walked the short path to him, her ear-to-ear smile and sparkling eyes flooding Boromir with mutual joy, even though she could not possibly be as happy to see him as he was to finally gaze upon her.
She had been tending her garden while waiting for his arrival; he noticed the potting soil that lingered on her slender hands and the smudges on the white apron over her skirt. Her cheeks bore the rosy flush of physical labor, and the long waves of her unpinned hair blew freely around her shoulders. She was so effortless in her natural grace, so wonderfully different from the prim and powdered ladies of Minas Tirith that his father regularly forced (or forced themselves) into his company.
It still astonished Boromir how such beauty could have escaped his notice for so long, and he had praised Eru ever since for opening his eyes to Ioreth's young apprentice from the Houses of Healing. For all the times he had teased Faramir for burying his nose in books instead of looking at the world around him, it turned out he had been the one cursed with certain blindness all along.
“You came,” she said softly, stopping tantalizingly short of his arm's reach. She stared up at him with open affection that warmed the Captain to his deepest fibers. "I had hoped for it, but I did not think you would be able to get away."
“I told you I would come, and nothing would have stopped me," Boromir said quickly, and perhaps too fervently.
"I… I have missed…" Her voice failed her on the last word as shyness overpowered her excitement over his arrival. She ducked her head, hiding her blush behind her curtain of hair, as she twisted up the fabric of her apron between her jittery hands.
"I just could not wait to see you again," Boromir said hoarsely. "I could not have borne a second longer without you."
"O-Oh. Y-You honor me, my lord." And the blushing maiden answered his abrupt confession with a polite curtsy.
Her sweetness and modesty crushed Boromir with a sense of unworthiness to even stand in her presence. He felt torn between a strange compulsion to fall to his knees, and an utterly improper desire to seize her and just hold her close against him.
How did he get by a whole seven days away from her? And the more agonizing thought: how would he force himself to part from her again after this?
"Are… are those for…what are those for?"
Boromir stared blankly at the bundle of yellow flowers he clutched in his right hand, an overlong pause passing before he remembered their purpose. “These are for you,” he confirmed, reaching out with the offering. “I… I thought you would like them.”
In accepting the flowers, she stepped closer to decrease the distance that separated them, and her fingers grazed against his in the transfer. Boromir’s hand twitched as impulse rebelled against manners, and he very nearly made a greedy grab for her hand.
“They’re beautiful,” she said, gracing him with a gentle smile that was real beauty beyond comparison. By Eru, Boromir thought in sudden despair. What was he thinking coming to her with such a pathetic gift, so far below what she deserved?! For a maiden as gloriously fair as the sun itself, he should have brought the finest treasures from the most expensive shops in Minas Tirith, if not the very jewels from the coffers of the Steward.
She held the posy up to her nose, sweeping the golden petals across her freckled cheeks and berry-pink lips, and Boromir felt overcome with a feverish desire to trade places with the flowers at that moment.
“It is nothing…” he mumbled weakly.
She shook her head, her face at once firm and determined. “It is everything,” she corrected, raising her gaze to meet his with renewed courage. “You are everything.”
And with two more steps to eliminate the gap, she pressed herself against the warmth of his chest, tucking her head neatly underneath his chin, their bodies already a perfect fit for each other’s embrace. Boromir enveloped her in his arms, promising with all his strength that he would find some way to be worthy of this, of her, even if he had to scour all of Middle-earth for the right flower to profess just how deeply he had fallen in love with her.
Perhaps his wise little brother could help him again.
Tagged by request: @aduialel @fizzyxcustard @laneynoir @auttumnsayshi @achromaticerebus @friendofthefellowshipsnerdblog @blueberryrock @scyllas-revenge @glassgulls @ladyweaslette @heilith @absentmindeduniverse @undeniableadrenaline
For more of my stories, please see My Masterlist.
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Imagine singing your favourite songs to Boromir, and him loving them, no matter if you're good or bad at it.
Author: Anonymous
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Boromir Beloved (open for better quality </3)
(watercolor/ink/digital)
✧ Please do not repost ❤️
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Imagine Faramir being embarrassed to confess he accidentally saw you bathing in a lake, but you don't mind because you spy on him whenever you can.
Author: @dawn-petrichor-world
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Imagine complimenting Boromir on his looks, and him being secretly flattered, because although he's praised quite often, it's never about his appearance.
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Night by Night
For @noldorinpainter and @scyllas-revenge
The Fluff bingo, Bed sharing with Boromir. It’s not all fluff, but I think it’s not that bad. :) Hope you find it interesting. The title sucks, I know.
Tagging @glassgulls @lathalea (you asked!) @mismaeve Not sure who else likes the Captain here.
Night by Night
You were quite generous with him this night.
It’s been an hour since you took in a soundless breath and shifted yourself closer to him, burying your face between his shoulder blades.
Your nose was cold. Not the thing a man was meant to notice, when a fine lady graced his bed with her presence.
Holding in his inhales and exhales, Boromir bent his arm at an awkward angle and rummaged behind his back for the blanket to pull over you and himself. The only action he could afford, pressed down to the sheets with the soft weight of your embrace.
Keep reading
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Imagine hating winter celebrations, and Faramir being determined to change your mind. He spends this time only with you, thus creating your new tradition.
Author: @dawn-petrichor-world
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Imagine being wounded in a fight, so you have to drop out of the Fellowship, and Boromir choosing to stay by your side.
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Imagine Faramir eyeing you for weeks, but having no bravery to offer you courtship, until one day he sees you with your Elf best friend, and his behavior changes completely.
Author: @dawn-petrichor-world
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Boromir + touch if u still accept!
Enjoy, dear Anon...;) Drop me a word, if you read it!
@mismaeve @scyllas-revenge @glassgulls Some Boromir at your service.
Touch Me Not
“You shouldn’t be afraid. I’m not touching you.”
The heavy “yet” hang in the air unspoken.
Your lips were too dry for someone who had afforded the highest honour a woman of this Kingdom could dream of.
Not thinking twice, you ran your tongue against them on pure instinct, and regretted it the very next moment. Absurd as it was, you longed to avoid whatever acts or gestures could promote what you knew had to happen this night.
You could be blowing on cold water, though…His posture didn’t change - no strain came into the way he’d leaned against the door relaxedly, as if to decorate it with himself and look at you was all he meant to do for hours. The only alteration in him was how the edges of his mouth were curving upward now, so slightly you were doubting your own vision.
It must have been the damned weightless veil that let the sight you had made of yourself pass unnoticed for his eyes.
“I can leave, if you wish.”
His voice was low and soft.
He was playing with you. Suffocating in this bedchamber, like a bird in a trap, you resented it deeply. Like there was, indeed, a chance to help yourself out of your duty.
“No, please,” was all you could rasp out.
You wouldn’t have the whole Minas Tirith despise you for how you had failed to consummate your marriage to its best and most admired prize.
His smile turned into a smirk. You’d had no time to bat an eye, before his tunic met the floor, and the undershirt followed it, leaving him half-naked and you – half-dead with consternation.
“I’m not touching you,” repeated he in a slow, mollifying undertone, “But I won’t scream murder if you touch me.”
Blood surged to your face quicker than your heart could bear it.
Feeling like an utter fool, you allowed your legs to buckle under you and have you land onto the soft wedding bed, as if someone had suddenly cut the strings which held you upright.
The man nodded, regarding you with as calm an air.
“Not the time yet, then,” said he flatly, “Do not trouble yourself.”
His was bigger than you remembered even since morning. He hadn’t been that close to you then, or you hadn’t perceived it so acutely as now, when he took a seat next to you, his shoulders down, but still proudly broad.
An almost indifferent hand closed down on yours. You held a breath, as he pulled it up and against his chest, and let it stay there, against the skin so hot it seemed he was burning on the inside.
You bit through your lip – and realized it only when the taste of flesh rose in your mouth, sweet or sour – it was all the same to you. It was impossible to stop staring at the interlacement of his fingers and yours, pressed to his torso so closely that not even a hair could be pulled in between.
“Isn’t it awful?” murmured Boromir with a look of a boy, ready for a mischief unimaginable.
…You couldn’t say how you’d ended up lying next to him under the dusty furry canopy in the bed too huge for two.
Neither could you remember how he’d lulled your vigilance and cradled you into a loose embrace.
All you knew was that your hand was still draped over his chest, touching him lightly and quite willingly now.
And your veil was still hiding your face from those sharp and smiling eyes.
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What You Wish For
Based off this imagine at Gondorimagines - Imagine Faramir always kissing your hand as he’s greeting you, and while you think it’s just a court formality, he can hardly wait for another chance to do it. A short exercise. :)
What You Wish For
Your scent was mind-spinning. It tested his willpower more and more cruelly with each new kiss he laid on your delicate fingers.
Just like hundreds of times before, he didn’t let go off your hand immediately, and, just like hundreds of times before, you either didn’t notice it or ignored him violating the rules of propriety in front of your very eyes.
Keep reading
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Would you mind writing a sequel to imagine slipping a love potion to Boromir? Thank you!
I have no idea how I missed it, considering it was sent on Aug 4. Seriously, no idea. I’m so sorry, Anon, I wasn’t ignoring you on purpose, it’s Tumblr being an asshat.
I promise to think of it.
In any case, I hope you’re still here. :)
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For your warmup ask (I assume I'm not the first one but you never know) I'll request Boromir and jealousy -either he's jealous or his love interest is, either one would be great
Thanks!
Ok, here it is. :) I hope it's to your liking. Forgive me, if it's not.
“Your hands are not just kind. But skillful.”
His voice was still drained of air, making him sound unpleasantly alien. The past week had taught you to look at him, when he spoke, to get rid of the feeling you were keeping company to a gruff stranger.
It felt good to stretch your muscles after a night of vigil by his bed.
“You woke up,” you put away the paper and the coal and reached for the mug of water to hand it to him carefully, “Do you want anything?”
The Captain ignored the question, just as each time you offered it to him. You both knew the answer would change nothing in your daily routine. There would be your squeamish grimaces and his clenched jaws, as you would unwind the bandages, that hugged his chest, and rub that greasy herbal balm into the ugly wounds, which had barely started to skin over. There would be meals, scanter than what you had shared with the Fellowship, and empty talks. At times he would yield to pain and exhaustion, and drift off into slumber, leaving you free to steal an hour of sleep, too.
And when you snapped back into wakefulness, he would stare at you with one and the same hostile look in his eyes, like you were the last one he’d wish to set them upon.
“An Elf?”
Grazed by the edge in his tone, you turned the drawing face down.
“Just someone we met in Lorien.”
“I envy your memory.”
The lack of friendliness he was showing was finally telling on your patience. Nursing him back to health proved a more challenging task than you had expected.
“I’m an artist, Boromir. I remember beauty, when I see it,” you said testily.
“Beauty,” repeated he in a flat voice, “So you choose beauty.”
“Who ever doesn’t? You would, if you had a choice.”
You had no fondness for that particular expression of his. A blend of harshness and arrogance in the way his lips were bent into a sneer.
“I have a choice,” his intonation wasn’t nice, either.
“So do I,” you shrugged, standing up for a much-needed exercise, “But my choices don’t choose me.”
There was no answer. For the better – you found no entertainment in conversations of the kind. And definitely not with him.
It was that time of the morning when you came down to the kitchen to humbly beg for another breakfast you couldn’t pay for just now.
“Do you want anything, Boromir?” you tried again by force of sheer habit.
“Yes.”
You jerked your head up, taken by surprise at the sudden change of heart.
It was like he was determined to keep his eyes locked with yours as he spoke to you, too.
And much like he had finally settled on not what he had worded in his mind before the yes left his mouth.
“Help me stand up,” asked he after a moment of silence, “Please.”
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