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Title: Hope Prevails
Fandom: Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Pairing: Boromir/ Faramir
Rating: NC-17
Words: 6130 (76900 total)
Summary: “You are a warrior,” says Aragorn. “Of Gondor.” His hand closes tight over Boromir’s shoulder, as if lending Boromir his strength, tethering him to life. “Is there one for whom you fight? A lady-love?”
In his agony from the Uruk’s wounds, Boromir’s answer is entirely too honest. “A brother,” he gasps. “I have a brother.” In arms, in blood, and in bond.
“Then think of him, and live,” Aragorn commands. “He will look for your coming from the White Tower, and you will return home to him.”
A/N: Boromir Lives AU. Boromir survives the events at Amon Hen and reunites with Faramir, but together, they face an even greater peril still.
Incorporates a mixture of both movie and book canon, for a gentler version of what could have been. OST notes will be included at the end, for a sample of the official LOTR tracks and other independent pieces that inspired certain scenes or that scenes were written to.
~
The next day brings a series of endless meetings, regarding the resettlement of lands in northern Ithilien, which until recently had been ravaged by Mordor’s forces, and the rehabilitation of the fields surrounding Minas Tirith into farmland. It is only after they have a hasty dinner of roasted lamb, grapes, and wine and return to their office—to draw up shorter trade routes with Rohan before retiring for the night—that Boromir finally notices something.
“What about establishing a route through here?” Faramir asks. He slides his finger along the map they have spread on the desk, pausing just above the Drúadan Forest. Dips a quill into his inkwell to mark the potential route. “Granted, we would need guards to protect the caravans. But this route, at least, would circumvent the need to pass through the Dead Marshes and the Emyn Muil.”
Boromir strokes his jaw, thoughtful. “Even if we were able to obtain permission from the men of the forest to traverse their lands, and the caravans were able to make it through, the mountain passes might still prove impenetrable for—” He catches himself staring, and turns away, chuckling.
“What is it that amuses you so?” asks Faramir, quill poised mid-air. He looks up to where Boromir is standing just behind him.
“Ah, nothing, just—it is the way you are sitting on the chair.” He eyes the way Faramir is poised gingerly on his seat, the back half of his rump hovering just over the cushion.
“I see,” Faramir says dryly. “If I recall, the fault is entirely yours.” He smiles then, devious. “No matter, I will repay you in kind tonight,” he says casually, as if remarking upon the weather.
“Oh.” Boromir’s throat goes dry at the thought. “Yes. If that is what you—yes.”
He finds it immensely difficult to focus on drawing up the trade routes for the rest of the night.
When, for the third time, Faramir asks his opinion of selling the potential of wheat crops to Rohan and Boromir simply nods in response, Faramir huffs a laugh. “Perhaps we should retire for the night,” he says, covering Boromir’s hand with his. Lets his fingers curl into the spaces between, his thumb stroking the underside of Boromir’s just so, in shameless invitation.
“Perhaps we should,” Boromir replies. And beneath the thoughts of Drúadan Forest, of trade with Rohan and even Mirkwood, all he can think of is that tonight his brother will have him, that he will finally be Faramir’s in the way Faramir has been his, and they will be each other’s, wholly, utterly and completely.
~
Faramir insists that they wash first, so they make their way to the newly furnished private baths, readying soap and towels before slipping into the lovely warmth of the water.
“Mmhn,” Faramir hums, as he sinks in neck-deep. His hair floats along the surface of the water, like liquid gold, and Boromir takes a moment to tangle fingers in it, appreciative. “It has been too long since I had a proper bath.”
Boromir snorts. “That was only two days ago, yet you speak as though you have not bathed in a month.” He runs a washcloth over soap, working up a lather, and smiles as Faramir stalks toward him, his movements fanning out tiny ripples like wind on the water.
“Spoilsport,” says Faramir, and before Boromir can respond, he scoops a wave of water in Boromir’s direction, playful. Laughs when the wave soaks Boromir fully, leaving him looking like a drenched cat.
Boromir rakes his hair back from his eyes, before mashing Faramir’s head underwater, chuckling when Faramir flails about, his arms thrashing in the water. His laughter is short-lived, however; Faramir retaliates by pressing nibbling kisses to his belly, like an eager fish. Tickles the sides of his waist with fingertips light and fond, before giving Boromir’s cock a teasing tug.
“Faramir!” Boromir yelps, letting Faramir surface at the last action. He might be a spoilsport, but his brother is a cheat. Already he can feel heat suffusing his cheeks and manhood, in embarrassment and arousal both.
Faramir rises from the water, his laugh a wet gurgle as he brushes the hair from his eyes. “I had planned for us to behave until we returned to your chambers,” he says, his grin entirely too predatory. “But if you cannot wait…” He wades closer to Boromir, arms closing about his waist. Pitches his voice low, sultry, his lips hot against Boromir’s. “Perhaps I should take you into my mouth, beneath the water’s surface. Give you pleasure of a different sort. Or,” Faramir adds, arching a brow as he switches tack, “perhaps you should take me?” He nudges his half-hard length into Boromir’s thigh, suggestive.
“I,” Boromir tries, swallowing, his throat dry. “I think perhaps we should wait. Not that we may not try that another time,” he says hastily, when Faramir’s brow furrows and his lower lip juts out, in something resembling a pout. “I only wish to wash properly this time, that you may have all of me, as you wish to.”
With a solemn nod, Faramir’s arms close tighter about Boromir’s waist, snug. “You are right. We shall save such leisurely pursuits for next time.” There is a promise in Faramir’s deeply possessive grip that sends a thrill of anticipation down Boromir’s spine. “For now, however…” He takes up the washcloth in Boromir’s hand, and works up a new lather with the soap, smiling as the scent of warm milk and honey pervades the air.
The genuine sweetness of his smile secretly pleases Boromir; he had gone out of his way to search for a unique soap they might use in the baths from the shops in the second circle of the city. Had scoured through ones scented lilac, lavender, and even plum before settling on this one.
Faramir nudges him into position, his chest pressing warm against Boromir’s back. Lays a kiss on skin after each corresponding point of contact from the front has been washed, like a stamp of completion: a kiss to the nape of Boromir’s neck as he laves the space beneath his jaw; a touch of tongue to each shoulder as he cleans Boromir’s arms; a bruising, sucking kiss to the small of Boromir’s back after he has swiped lazy circles over Boromir’s chest and the plane of his belly.
And as Faramir trails fingers, teasing, along Boromir’s hardening flesh, he nips the corner of Boromir’s buttock, leaving a bite mark, cherry-bright and livid.
Boromir laughs and swats Faramir lightly, wrenching the washcloth from his hand; with the exception of Faramir’s teeth sinking into skin, shocking him from his daze, Faramir’s bathing of him has been immensely sensual, and Boromir aims to return the favor, immediately.
He hitches Faramir against him, folding one arm over his waist, the other free to move the washcloth along Faramir’s throat. The jut of his collarbone and the smooth muscle of his chest. The solid plane of Faramir’s abdomen. And with each pass of the cloth over muscle, Boromir spends a moment tracing with the fingers of his other hand, the trail of the washcloth. Lets his fingertips skim the corded muscle of Faramir’s arms, his chest.
“I remember these,” Boromir frowns, the pads of his fingers sliding gentle against the scarred skin of Faramir’s chest. “These wounds you bear—they are from our last attempt at Osgiliath, are they not?” There are yet other scars, of more battles past; here, a jagged one, along the junction of Faramir’s arm and shoulder. And there, the score of a blade over his belly, that has left a pale, arcing crescent in its wake.
Boromir has seen them in the times they lay curled together in their rooms, and again when they made love, but always in the rosy hue of candlelight or the soft glow of sunrise. Never like this, where the stark light of the bath’s lanterns throws Faramir’s scars into sharp relief. When Boromir can see the crudely healed skin he is touching, run fingers along each ragged remnant of their battles.
Any one of these wounds could have taken Faramir from him, and Boromir is only dimly aware of the keening sound issuing from his throat before he winds arms snug around Faramir’s waist. Buries his face into the hollow of Faramir’s neck, desperate, as if he can protect his brother from the ills of the world if only he clings hard enough, presses in close enough. The memory of that near-hopeless battle at Osgiliath is still too near, and Boromir berates himself for taking Faramir’s presence for granted. For not giving each of Faramir’s scars the care they were due when last they made love, in his haste.
He would have kissed each scar, as if his lips could cauterize the wounds that inflicted them. Worshipped each ridge of raised skin as if he could heal each one of the hurts Faramir had suffered.
“Boromir,” Faramir says, his voice on the commanding side of gentle. He tangles their fingers together, lifting one of Boromir’s hands from around his waist to his lips. “You see, then,” he says. “We are the same.” Faramir turns in Boromir’s arms, tracing the roughened skin on Boromir’s own torso, arrow wounds and blade scores the same. “And now you know how I felt.”
“Yes,” Boromir whispers. Too late he remembers the broken, wounded sound Faramir had made when they lifted Boromir’s bandages away, days after the army’s return from Barad-dûr. The way he had brushed fingers against Boromir’s scars, gentle, before folding Boromir into his arms, crushingly tight, as if he would never let him go again.
He lets Faramir trace the scar from the deepest arrow wound on his chest, pensive, for all of a moment longer before catching Faramir’s wrist.
“Enough,” says Boromir, twisting the edges of his washcloth until he has something resembling a rope. Loops it behind Faramir’s neck and tugs him forward, until Faramir is forced to step closer, so Boromir can kiss him, slow and warm and languid. Can touch his tongue to Faramir’s and taste the lingering flavor of cherry wine. “I intend to enjoy myself in these new baths,” Boromir says, twitching a brow as he reaches down and gives Faramir’s cock a sharp, playful tug. “And I would have you join me.”
They have spent time enough on sorrow and regrets; Boromir would have them use what time has been given them now to live their lives, whether it be for passion, or pleasure, or—
“Oh,” Faramir blinks, before the slowest, sharpest grin spreads from one corner of his mouth to the other. “Oh, I see.” With small, insistent pushes to Boromir’s shoulders, Faramir bullies him into a corner of the bath. Slips a leg in between Boromir’s as he boxes Boromir in, his hands braced on either side of Boromir’s head. “You would have us focus on the present,” he grins, nipping Boromir’s lower lip, tugging it with teeth. “And on the future.” Faramir draws back for all of a moment, allowing Boromir a shaky breath before taking his mouth, hot and wet and rough, his tongue pressing firmly into Boromir’s. “Yes, I intend to do exactly that.”
Boromir is caught somewhere between a whimper and a groan, before Faramir tugs him off balance. Pulls Boromir toward him as he takes a seat on one of the steps of the bath.
“Come here,” Faramir commands. The tone of his voice sends a delicious shiver down Boromir’s spine, and he obeys, straddling Faramir in the warmth of the soapy water. It is not often that his brother takes the lead like this, and to cede control to him is a luxury. A privilege.
Faramir winds the washcloth behind Boromir’s neck, dragging him down further into his lap for a kiss that mirrors Boromir’s earlier, but is harder, hungrier, a scrape of teeth and lips and tongue that has Boromir panting into Faramir’s mouth, breathless.
“I would know the taste of you,” Faramir murmurs. “Your mouth.” His tongue darts out to taste Boromir’s. “Your length.” He wraps fingers around Boromir’s hardened flesh, teasing, stroking, before twisting thumb and forefinger at the head, making Boromir jolt in his arms and moan against his mouth. At the sound of Boromir’s moan, Faramir smiles, sharp, and he tugs Boromir closer. Winds an arm around his waist, while the other snakes down the curve of Boromir’s spine, his fingers dipping into the cleft of Boromir’s ass.
“Faramir, wait—” Boromir manages, writhing in Faramir’s grip. But Faramir’s hold is a vise, and already it is too late, because Faramir has touched the tips of his fingers to Boromir’s entrance, gentle.
“All of you,” Faramir finishes, fierce, hooking fingers into Boromir and stroking at sensitive pink flesh. He watches Boromir writhe and keen in his grasp, enjoying Boromir’s tiny, breathless gasps. “This is but a taste of the pleasure I will give you,” he says, his breath hot against Boromir’s neck, his teeth grazing the lobe of Boromir’s ear.
Boromir shivers at the promise implicit in those words, but dips his head to touch it to Faramir’s. “That is all fine and well,” he says, trying to fight back a smile, “but perhaps we should consider a change of locale. It would not do for our cries to be echoing across this circle of the city, after all.” In truth, he is not averse to experimenting with their surroundings, and the baths are as good a place as any. But for his first time, he would have Faramir take him on their bed, where Boromir might take comfort in a room familiar and warm. Where they might burrow into the soft sheets after, curled together, as they had when they were small.
“I am sure there are ways around that,” Faramir frowns, eyeing the washcloth thoughtfully, but at Boromir’s anxious look, his expression softens. “Oh, Boromir,” he says, winding arms around his waist, gentle, and laying his head on Boromir’s shoulder. “Forgive me. I should have thought of—I should have known. To our rooms then, as you wish?”
Boromir nods, pressing a peck of a kiss to Faramir’s temple, grateful, and together, they exit the water to towel themselves dry. Clothe themselves in the white robes readied for those who have finished bathing, before Faramir leads Boromir back to his own room, their hands knit together, snug, their footsteps quiet.
Faramir lights the fire in the grate of Boromir’s room this time, then the candles, turning to Boromir when he has finished and pulling him close by the lapels of his robe. “Well? Is everything to your liking?” Faramir teases, nosing at Boromir’s cheeks. “Or shall I have the maids fetch us a new set of sheets? A band of minstrels to serenade you as we—”
“Stop, stop,” laughs Boromir, walking Faramir backward toward the bed. “I have all that I need right here.”
“Oh, you are sure of that, are you?” Faramir grins, sitting as his knees make contact with the bed. He tugs at the sash of Boromir’s robe, humming appreciatively at the reveal of Boromir’s chest. “What about a band of maidens instead?” He noses at the line of Boromir’s ribs, his belly; dares an experimental lick, taking the measure of him through touch and scent and taste. “Nubile, beautiful?”
“There is only one whom I want,” Boromir growls. He straddles Faramir’s hips and presses him to the bed. Slips hands beneath the collar of his robes to revel in the clean, damp warmth of his skin. “And he is no maiden.”
His words seem to stoke a fire within Faramir, as Faramir lunges toward him, wrenching free the sash holding Boromir’s robe closed and dragging Boromir down for kisses heated, desperate. Twists fingers into Boromir’s hair, tight, as he throws an arm around Boromir’s waist to hitch him close, and heaves them over in the bed. He draws aside the cloth of Boromir’s robe with sharp, jerky pulls until all of Boromir is exposed, open. Kisses a hungry trail along the four freckles lining his belly—three in line above his navel and one to the left—mapping the constellation they form, before laying his head against Boromir’s chest, listening, breathing, silent.
“Faramir?” Boromir asks, dazed, his limbs sprawled out along the bed. He cards fingers through Faramir’s hair, gentle. Waits.
Faramir lifts his head and presses a kiss to Boromir’s jaw. “Boromir, I—” he tries, as if there is a torrent of words, of feeling behind what he wishes to say, but Boromir never hears what is behind this rush of emotion, as Faramir swallows hard and sinks into Boromir’s arms. Kisses Boromir again and again, each press of lips soft and slow and sweet, like Boromir is precious, like something Faramir cannot live without.
He traces a slow, lazy circle with his thumb over Boromir’s temple as his lips move lower, roving over the line of Boromir’s jaw. Peppers a trail of kisses along Boromir’s throat before touching lips to Boromir’s chest. His stomach. Lets his tongue swirl the inside of Boromir’s navel.
Despite Faramir’s promise to return the favor of taking Boromir apart, Boromir can tell his brother intends to take his time, with the way Faramir worships each inch of him with a kiss. As if each press of lips is a method of tattooing his name into Boromir’s skin, a way of saying Mine, mine, mine, while making every inch of Boromir feel wanted and loved.
Boromir is just about lost in the sensation of Faramir’s mouth around his fingers, when Faramir laves his tongue over the surface of Boromir’s cock, a velvet scrape of pleasure that has Boromir arcing into his touch.
“More,” Boromir says, dismayed when Faramir moves away. He nudges Faramir with his knee, hopeful.
Faramir only chuckles, and kisses the head of Boromir’s cock. “Another time,” he says, apologetic. “I shall bring you to pleasure this way, but it is not this night.”
Already Boromir misses the lovely hollowing of Faramir’s cheeks when he swallows Boromir down, and the sight of his lips closed around Boromir’s cock. But tonight, tonight, Faramir has promised they have something different to try, and he swallows his complaints, letting Faramir drown out the bitter taste of them with more kisses, lingering and warm, to thighs and calves and toes. Lets Faramir urge him onto his front, with gentle, guiding pushes, until he is on his hands and knees against the bed, enjoying the nibbling kisses Faramir presses into skin, from the soles of his feet to the backs of his thighs.
With a swift tugging motion, Faramir relieves Boromir of his robe and drops it on the floor. Nudges Boromir’s legs apart, his path of reverent kisses continuing up into the line of Boromir’s buttocks.
“Faramir,” Boromir says, uncertain. He knows his brother will have care with him where it is needed, but if Faramir is indeed planning to—
“Do you trust me?” Faramir asks softly. His palms span the length of Boromir’s buttocks, his fingers digging just the right amount of possessive into flesh.
“I—yes,” Boromir breathes. Faramir has never hurt him, has never taken of Boromir’s what he would not give. “Completely.”
“Good.” Faramir presses another kiss, gentle, to Boromir’s hip, before spreading him open, leaving him vulnerable, exposed. But Boromir has given his word that he trusts Faramir in this, so he lets Faramir have this. Lets Faramir in when he touches the tip of his tongue to Boromir’s entrance, tracing the sweet pucker of flesh before pressing up and in.
“Fara—Faramir, wait,” Boromir gasps, trembling, his fingers tightening in the sheets and leaving gouges in the soft fabric. He had not thought there could be bliss like this. Suddenly, the thought of Faramir trying this first with another makes something curl leaden and cold in the pit of his belly. “Who taught you this?” he demands, when he finds his voice again. “Who showed you this pleasure?”
Faramir remains unperturbed, even chuckles as he cups Boromir’s sac, careful. Licks a stripe from balls to hole again, the sensation of it impossibly pleasurable. “Did you think the archives of Minas Tirith housed only stories of battles past?” he asks, amused. “Or tomes only on weaponry and the like?” He strokes a palm along the curve of Boromir’s back, soothing. “You are the first, Boromir.” Kisses the crease of his thigh, tender. “You are the only.”
And though shame burns in Boromir’s cheeks, for he has as good as accused Faramir of being unfaithful, Faramir leaves him no time to dwell on this mistake. He laps the sensitive flesh around Boromir’s hole. Continues licking into Boromir, hungry, sharp, the pleasure his tongue bringing Boromir as he presses in, probing, indescribable. Then with one flick of his tongue over the hole, he delves in with a finger, pressing it up and in even as he lets his tongue trace each ridge of puckered flesh.
Boromir groans, deep, his hole clenching instantly around Faramir’s finger. “Faramir,” he pants, “please.” It occurs to him that he knows not what he is pleading for; just knows that he wants Faramir, wants more of him, in him, on him and around him.
With a nod of acquiescence that Boromir feels against the back of his thigh, Faramir obliges. He gives Boromir’s twitching hole one last kiss, before licking a stripe over the small of Boromir’s back. Covers the dimples and crease of Boromir’s ass with tantalizingly slow, delicious kisses. Along Boromir’s back, Faramir sucks a bruise, berry-red and bright into each knob of Boromir’s spine. Bites nipping kisses into Boromir’s shoulders as he claws his way back up, like a predator stalking its prey. And when he reaches Boromir’s neck, he sweeps Boromir’s hair aside, gentle, to touch lips to the nape of his neck. Drapes himself along the length of Boromir’s body, teasing him by pressing his hardened flesh against the cleft of Boromir’s buttocks, but never quite sliding in.
“Nngh,” Boromir manages, a muffled sound against the pillow, as he nudges his backside into Faramir. He means to say Are we to do this or not? but Faramir has robbed him of all eloquence, even the ability to form words, with his deeply intimate exploration.
Faramir laughs. “Rascal,” he huffs, fond. “Who is the impatient one now?”
When Boromir purses his lips and buries his face into the pillow in answer, Faramir kisses his shoulder in apology. Touches his lips to the space between Boromir’s shoulder blades for a gentle circle of kisses. “We will do this,” he reassures, “but not as we are now.”
He guides Boromir onto his back, shifting until Boromir lies sprawled beneath him, as if a delectable dessert to consume. Cups Boromir’s cheek with a roughened palm.
“I would see your face,” Faramir says softly, “as you did mine.” He traces an idle path with his thumb from the corner of Boromir’s eye to his jaw. “I would know the look in your eyes as I make you come undone. The sounds of your rapture as I ravish you, and break your limits, one by one.” His length brushes against Boromir’s belly, angry and red and full, as he leans in to purr his poison, dangerous and tempting. “I will make you abandon your inhibitions—until there is no line you will not let me cross, no thing you would not let me do—to give you the utmost in pleasure.”
With that, he takes Boromir’s mouth, wild and wet and rough, his tongue plundering and his teeth nipping until Boromir is left gasping for air, dizzy for want of him, his mind reeling from Faramir’s cleverly spun words.
“Faramir, please,” Boromir breathes, his voice hoarse with need. “Please.”
“So beautiful,” Faramir murmurs, his lips grazing the hollow of Boromir’s throat, “when you beg me like this.” He touches a finger to Boromir’s entrance, allowing the tip of it to slip just inside, eliciting a soft moan from Boromir. “When you cry out beneath me. When you cry out for me.”
He continues on his quest to take Boromir apart, slowly, carefully, using teeth and lips and tongue, kissing the breath from him even as he reaches for an unguent from Boromir’s night table. Uncaps it and starts preparing Boromir with fingers to ease the way.
“That unguent is supposed to be for injuries only,” says Boromir stubbornly, even as he slides his rump down along the bed and lets Faramir press in between his legs. The mixture is cool and moist, at complete odds with the heat of Faramir’s clever fingers.
Faramir huffs a laugh. “If we do not use this, you will have an injury of another sort,” he says. “One that I am in no hurry to explain to the healers.”
Boromir mirrors his grin, before the stretch from Faramir’s fingers becomes uncomfortable, then nearly unbearable; it seems the further Faramir’s fingers slide, the more it burns. “Faramir, please—I cannot—” Boromir gasps, and Faramir stills until Boromir has had more time to adjust.
“You can, Boromir,” Faramir says, kissing him again. He lets his fingers close gently around Boromir’s length, a distraction of pleasure from the burn below, then crooks the fingers he has inside, and oh—Boromir arches off the bed, startled; that must be what Boromir finds when Faramir cries out sudden, like that.
“Fara—” Boromir manages, before Faramir seals his mouth against Boromir’s, swallowing his cries. Kisses Boromir again and again, each touch of lips soft and sweet and intimate as he twines fingers into Boromir’s hair. Slides his tongue into Boromir’s mouth, to know the taste of Boromir in the same moment his fingers slip away and he nudges his length against Boromir’s entrance.
Faramir enters him slowly, nearly too gentle, their motions the very definition of lovemaking rather than the rutting of beasts, and Boromir feels a measure of shame as he thinks back to the night before; in spite of the kisses he had bestowed upon Faramir, he had taken Faramir with the barest of preparation, and he resolves to take more care with Faramir in the future.
Faramir’s mouth is hot against his, and the rasp of his beard against Boromir’s rough, but still his brother shows restraint, moving his hips only in the smallest, slowest rolling motions. “Boromir?” he whispers. “Are you all right?”
The time Faramir has given him to adjust, first to his fingers and now to his length is a boon, and already Boromir can feel the initial burn giving way to a welcome ache, one that has him nodding as he pulls Faramir to him. Deeper within him. Has him gripping Faramir’s shoulders, tight.
“Harder,” Boromir breathes. “Harder.”
Only then does Faramir quicken his pace, the rolling of his hips turning into sharp, jabbing thrusts, and when Boromir bites back a moan, his hands scrabbling against the bed for purchase, the sheets, Faramir hisses, “To me. Hold onto me.”
Boromir obeys, looping his arms around Faramir’s neck instead. Tangles fingers in his brother’s hair, tight, as Faramir moves within him, rocking inside him, urgent.
“Boromir,” Faramir breathes, desperate. “My Boromir.” As if saying his name again and again, a mantra, a prayer, will make his wish to keep Boromir forever come true. He swallows Boromir’s wounded cries with more kisses, capturing the tip of Boromir’s tongue with his lips, and sucking it down, hungry, eager. Starts rocking in harder, faster, and impossibly deep before it’s somehow not enough, in skin and warmth and heat, and he wrenches Boromir’s legs over his shoulders. Grips his ankles in a vise-like hold and presses forward, bending Boromir nearly in half, until Boromir is left clutching the bedframe, teeth clenched against the pillow in an effort to muffle his cries.
To Boromir’s horror, Faramir tears the pillow from his grasp and shoves it beneath his rump, leaving Boromir to sink teeth into the back of his hand to stifle his howls. And when it is in position, Faramir presses in deep, deeper, further than fingers have gone before, grinning sharply when Boromir groans. When his breathy cries turn into short, desperate gasps. At that, Faramir presses forward again, until the muscles in Boromir’s calves and thighs burn, until his knees are pressed against his chest, and at that—when Boromir is left vulnerable and open, speared so deeply and completely—that is when Faramir’s tongue snakes into his mouth, tasting him, testing. When Faramir kneads Boromir’s lower lip with teeth, sharp and greedy, drawing a perfect pearl of blood, the tang of metal on their lips as Faramir seals his mouth against Boromir’s for kiss that is hot and hard and wet. Drinks in the taste of Boromir, hungry, to slake an unquenchable thirst.
Blood calls to blood, thinks Boromir, the thought errant and wild, as the taste of sin and blood and Faramir melds thick and dark upon his tongue.
“Fara—Faramir—ah,” Boromir tries, his voice a strangled sob. He rakes nails along Faramir’s hips at each brutally perfect thrust, clawing hard enough to draw blood. Works a hand down between the join of their bodies to wrap fingers around his cock, to stroke it in time with the rhythm of Faramir’s thrusts.
“No,” Faramir snaps, catching Boromir’s wrist. “You will spend from the feeling of me within you, or not at all.”
Boromir cannot draw breath enough to argue, whimpering as Faramir pins his wrists to the bed in punishment, thrusting into him viciously hard. Leaves him dizzy, lightheaded, as Boromir fights for breath, spots of light dotting his vision from the overwhelming pleasure Faramir gives him, as he strikes that spot within him again and again.
“Is this everything you had hoped for?” Faramir whispers, as he drives Boromir into the sheets, hard and deep and wanting. Lets Boromir’s legs down to rest against the small of his back again. “Desired?”
Boromir struggles to catch his breath, stifling a cry as Faramir pushes deep within him again. “I should hope there is love, too, in this.” He hopes he sounds properly affronted, but the tug of a smile at the corner of his mouth gives him away.
Faramir laughs against Boromir’s mouth, his breath warm, and curls arms beneath Boromir’s shoulders. “Always.”
“So it is a given, is it?” Boromir grins. “Then yes; you are everything I have hoped for.” He tucks a lock of Faramir’s sweat-slick hair back behind his ear. “Everything I have desired.”
Faramir blinks, dazed, at Boromir’s answer, before giving him a smile that is all kinds of wicked. “Good,” he says, rolling his hips into Boromir and relishing his sharp cry at the unexpected push. “Because I intend to give you love and pleasure both.”
Boromir’s words seem to spark some strange sense of possessiveness in Faramir, as he claims Boromir’s mouth with renewed fervor, sealing their lips together in a kiss that is rough and hot and hard, stealing the breath from his lungs. Seem to act a reassurance, a key to unlock the words Faramir has been holding back, because after one push, two, Faramir buries his face into Boromir’s neck, his arms curling tighter beneath Boromir’s shoulders.
“I love you,” Faramir whispers, fierce, as if he has built up the courage to say this again. At Boromir’s noise of surprise, he lifts his head from Boromir’s neck. Cradles Boromir’s face in his palms, as his thumbs brush the corners of Boromir’s eyes, where crow’s feet from years of laughter and happiness and sorrow shared between them have formed. “I love you so dearly, that a thousand years, a thousand lifetimes with you would not be time enough to share the depth of my feelings for you.”
Boromir blinks, stunned, Faramir’s words having struck a chord deep within his chest. “Ever the poet,” he says finally, smiling, because Faramir, without even trying, has eclipsed Boromir’s sentiment from the day before. Leaves his own words lacking, inadequate to convey the depth of his own all-consuming feelings for Faramir. Fortunately, he more than makes up for it through his actions, in sweet, lingering kisses to Faramir’s jaw. Wandering fingers that stroke Faramir’s thighs, before gripping them, heartened. Toes that run slow, adoring, along the length of Faramir’s calf, to show his brother his feelings are reciprocated in full.
He demonstrates his devotion in all the ways he knows how, through gentle kisses and sweet nothings, murmured like secrets into Faramir’s mouth, his neck.
And even after Faramir has spilled inside him, hot and deep and wet, when he has brought Boromir over the precipice time and time again, Faramir winds fingers into Boromir’s hair, tight. Holds his brother in his arms as if he cannot bear to let him go.
“I would gather the stars for you, if you wished,” Faramir whispers. “I would hang the moon for you, if only I could.”
Boromir only shakes his head and gathers Faramir into his arms, gentle. Noses at his neck and the softness of his hair, as he skims fingertips over Faramir’s back. Lets Faramir settle into the warmth of his arms, before sharing his most heartfelt words.
“I have all the stars and moon I need,” Boromir says, touching lips to Faramir’s softly, “right here.”
~
The mild chill of their early spring is what wakes Boromir before dawn has broken. By now, the candles have guttered to waxen stumps, allowing the full radiance of the moon to light the room, and it shines now upon Faramir’s face—not the harsh, bone-pale light that Boromir is accustomed to, but a soft glow, accentuating the arch of Faramir’s brow. The delectable dip of his neck. The curve of his shoulders.
Faramir looks lovely in the moonlight, and Boromir cannot help but card fingers through his hair, gentle. Cannot help but reflect on the fact that they have consummated their relationship now in all the ways there are. It makes him wonder if Faramir will tire of him, now that he has tasted of the forbidden fruit, though Boromir would not blame him for finding another; he is hardly the epitome of a lover, and even less the epitome of an elder brother. A proper brother would not have let them come this far. Would have had the restraint to never start this at all.
The fear strikes him then, that with the rising of the sun, Faramir will finally see him. Will really look at him, and reflect upon the nature of what they have.
Will find it wanting, and think that Boromir is undeserving of his affections.
It takes Boromir a moment more before he realizes that the insecurities and worries that plague him are mostly unfounded, and he breathes deep to prevent his further spiral into darkness. Thinks to slip away to Faramir’s room, to clear his mind, or at least let Faramir have the space he needs, to determine if this is what he truly wants.
Faramir must have been dozing lightly, for his arms close around Boromir’s waist, drawing him back from the edge of the bed. As if he senses Boromir’s intent from the way he shifts in the sheets.
“You think entirely too much,” Faramir mumbles, his breath warm against the nape of Boromir’s neck. He goads Boromir into facing him, with gentle tugs and nudges, until their hips and knees slot together, seamless, perfect. “My feelings will not change with the coming of the dawn.”
Boromir swallows the lump of guilt knotting his throat. “You say that now,” he says, forcing a carefree laugh, “but you may think differently in the morning. The light of day has a way of illuminating things.”
“I have loved you through the moonlit nights,” Faramir murmurs, drawing Boromir closer. “And I will love you with each rising of the sun. Through the changing of the seasons, and the passing of the years.” He tucks a stray lock of hair behind Boromir’s ear and cups the back of his neck, pulling him in for a kiss that is unhurried and sweet. “You need not worry, brother.”
Brother. Faramir holds no illusions about who they are or what they have between them. With that single word, he has assured Boromir that this is indeed what he wants, and always will.
His words quiet the warring voices of self-doubt and guilt in Boromir’s mind, and he finds himself curling deeper into Faramir’s embrace. Allows Faramir to pamper him with proof of his affection, from the arms wrapped around his shoulders to the press of lips against his hair.
And finally, he lets himself believe—revels in the knowledge that he is so very loved, and will be, for the rest of his days.
(tbc - Chapter 12)
End Notes:
Only one more chapter to go! Thank you for staying with this fic so far! :D
This entire fic is a labor of love, so if you’ve enjoyed it, or it moved you in some way, I’d love to hear from you!
Fandom: Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Pairing: Boromir/ Faramir
Rating: NC-17
Words: 6130 (76900 total)
Summary: “You are a warrior,” says Aragorn. “Of Gondor.” His hand closes tight over Boromir’s shoulder, as if lending Boromir his strength, tethering him to life. “Is there one for whom you fight? A lady-love?”
In his agony from the Uruk’s wounds, Boromir’s answer is entirely too honest. “A brother,” he gasps. “I have a brother.” In arms, in blood, and in bond.
“Then think of him, and live,” Aragorn commands. “He will look for your coming from the White Tower, and you will return home to him.”
A/N: Boromir Lives AU. Boromir survives the events at Amon Hen and reunites with Faramir, but together, they face an even greater peril still.
Incorporates a mixture of both movie and book canon, for a gentler version of what could have been. OST notes will be included at the end, for a sample of the official LOTR tracks and other independent pieces that inspired certain scenes or that scenes were written to.
The next day brings a series of endless meetings, regarding the resettlement of lands in northern Ithilien, which until recently had been ravaged by Mordor’s forces, and the rehabilitation of the fields surrounding Minas Tirith into farmland. It is only after they have a hasty dinner of roasted lamb, grapes, and wine and return to their office—to draw up shorter trade routes with Rohan before retiring for the night—that Boromir finally notices something.
“What about establishing a route through here?” Faramir asks. He slides his finger along the map they have spread on the desk, pausing just above the Drúadan Forest. Dips a quill into his inkwell to mark the potential route. “Granted, we would need guards to protect the caravans. But this route, at least, would circumvent the need to pass through the Dead Marshes and the Emyn Muil.”
Boromir strokes his jaw, thoughtful. “Even if we were able to obtain permission from the men of the forest to traverse their lands, and the caravans were able to make it through, the mountain passes might still prove impenetrable for—” He catches himself staring, and turns away, chuckling.
“What is it that amuses you so?” asks Faramir, quill poised mid-air. He looks up to where Boromir is standing just behind him.
“Ah, nothing, just—it is the way you are sitting on the chair.” He eyes the way Faramir is poised gingerly on his seat, the back half of his rump hovering just over the cushion.
“I see,” Faramir says dryly. “If I recall, the fault is entirely yours.” He smiles then, devious. “No matter, I will repay you in kind tonight,” he says casually, as if remarking upon the weather.
“Oh.” Boromir’s throat goes dry at the thought. “Yes. If that is what you—yes.”
He finds it immensely difficult to focus on drawing up the trade routes for the rest of the night.
When, for the third time, Faramir asks his opinion of selling the potential of wheat crops to Rohan and Boromir simply nods in response, Faramir huffs a laugh. “Perhaps we should retire for the night,” he says, covering Boromir’s hand with his. Lets his fingers curl into the spaces between, his thumb stroking the underside of Boromir’s just so, in shameless invitation.
“Perhaps we should,” Boromir replies. And beneath the thoughts of Drúadan Forest, of trade with Rohan and even Mirkwood, all he can think of is that tonight his brother will have him, that he will finally be Faramir’s in the way Faramir has been his, and they will be each other’s, wholly, utterly and completely.
Faramir insists that they wash first, so they make their way to the newly furnished private baths, readying soap and towels before slipping into the lovely warmth of the water.
“Mmhn,” Faramir hums, as he sinks in neck-deep. His hair floats along the surface of the water, like liquid gold, and Boromir takes a moment to tangle fingers in it, appreciative. “It has been too long since I had a proper bath.”
Boromir snorts. “That was only two days ago, yet you speak as though you have not bathed in a month.” He runs a washcloth over soap, working up a lather, and smiles as Faramir stalks toward him, his movements fanning out tiny ripples like wind on the water.
“Spoilsport,” says Faramir, and before Boromir can respond, he scoops a wave of water in Boromir’s direction, playful. Laughs when the wave soaks Boromir fully, leaving him looking like a drenched cat.
Boromir rakes his hair back from his eyes, before mashing Faramir’s head underwater, chuckling when Faramir flails about, his arms thrashing in the water. His laughter is short-lived, however; Faramir retaliates by pressing nibbling kisses to his belly, like an eager fish. Tickles the sides of his waist with fingertips light and fond, before giving Boromir’s cock a teasing tug.
“Faramir!” Boromir yelps, letting Faramir surface at the last action. He might be a spoilsport, but his brother is a cheat. Already he can feel heat suffusing his cheeks and manhood, in embarrassment and arousal both.
Faramir rises from the water, his laugh a wet gurgle as he brushes the hair from his eyes. “I had planned for us to behave until we returned to your chambers,” he says, his grin entirely too predatory. “But if you cannot wait…” He wades closer to Boromir, arms closing about his waist. Pitches his voice low, sultry, his lips hot against Boromir’s. “Perhaps I should take you into my mouth, beneath the water’s surface. Give you pleasure of a different sort. Or,” Faramir adds, arching a brow as he switches tack, “perhaps you should take me?” He nudges his half-hard length into Boromir’s thigh, suggestive.
“I,” Boromir tries, swallowing, his throat dry. “I think perhaps we should wait. Not that we may not try that another time,” he says hastily, when Faramir’s brow furrows and his lower lip juts out, in something resembling a pout. “I only wish to wash properly this time, that you may have all of me, as you wish to.”
With a solemn nod, Faramir’s arms close tighter about Boromir’s waist, snug. “You are right. We shall save such leisurely pursuits for next time.” There is a promise in Faramir’s deeply possessive grip that sends a thrill of anticipation down Boromir’s spine. “For now, however…” He takes up the washcloth in Boromir’s hand, and works up a new lather with the soap, smiling as the scent of warm milk and honey pervades the air.
The genuine sweetness of his smile secretly pleases Boromir; he had gone out of his way to search for a unique soap they might use in the baths from the shops in the second circle of the city. Had scoured through ones scented lilac, lavender, and even plum before settling on this one.
Faramir nudges him into position, his chest pressing warm against Boromir’s back. Lays a kiss on skin after each corresponding point of contact from the front has been washed, like a stamp of completion: a kiss to the nape of Boromir’s neck as he laves the space beneath his jaw; a touch of tongue to each shoulder as he cleans Boromir’s arms; a bruising, sucking kiss to the small of Boromir’s back after he has swiped lazy circles over Boromir’s chest and the plane of his belly.
And as Faramir trails fingers, teasing, along Boromir’s hardening flesh, he nips the corner of Boromir’s buttock, leaving a bite mark, cherry-bright and livid.
Boromir laughs and swats Faramir lightly, wrenching the washcloth from his hand; with the exception of Faramir’s teeth sinking into skin, shocking him from his daze, Faramir’s bathing of him has been immensely sensual, and Boromir aims to return the favor, immediately.
He hitches Faramir against him, folding one arm over his waist, the other free to move the washcloth along Faramir’s throat. The jut of his collarbone and the smooth muscle of his chest. The solid plane of Faramir’s abdomen. And with each pass of the cloth over muscle, Boromir spends a moment tracing with the fingers of his other hand, the trail of the washcloth. Lets his fingertips skim the corded muscle of Faramir’s arms, his chest.
“I remember these,” Boromir frowns, the pads of his fingers sliding gentle against the scarred skin of Faramir’s chest. “These wounds you bear—they are from our last attempt at Osgiliath, are they not?” There are yet other scars, of more battles past; here, a jagged one, along the junction of Faramir’s arm and shoulder. And there, the score of a blade over his belly, that has left a pale, arcing crescent in its wake.
Boromir has seen them in the times they lay curled together in their rooms, and again when they made love, but always in the rosy hue of candlelight or the soft glow of sunrise. Never like this, where the stark light of the bath’s lanterns throws Faramir’s scars into sharp relief. When Boromir can see the crudely healed skin he is touching, run fingers along each ragged remnant of their battles.
Any one of these wounds could have taken Faramir from him, and Boromir is only dimly aware of the keening sound issuing from his throat before he winds arms snug around Faramir’s waist. Buries his face into the hollow of Faramir’s neck, desperate, as if he can protect his brother from the ills of the world if only he clings hard enough, presses in close enough. The memory of that near-hopeless battle at Osgiliath is still too near, and Boromir berates himself for taking Faramir’s presence for granted. For not giving each of Faramir’s scars the care they were due when last they made love, in his haste.
He would have kissed each scar, as if his lips could cauterize the wounds that inflicted them. Worshipped each ridge of raised skin as if he could heal each one of the hurts Faramir had suffered.
“Boromir,” Faramir says, his voice on the commanding side of gentle. He tangles their fingers together, lifting one of Boromir’s hands from around his waist to his lips. “You see, then,” he says. “We are the same.” Faramir turns in Boromir’s arms, tracing the roughened skin on Boromir’s own torso, arrow wounds and blade scores the same. “And now you know how I felt.”
“Yes,” Boromir whispers. Too late he remembers the broken, wounded sound Faramir had made when they lifted Boromir’s bandages away, days after the army’s return from Barad-dûr. The way he had brushed fingers against Boromir’s scars, gentle, before folding Boromir into his arms, crushingly tight, as if he would never let him go again.
He lets Faramir trace the scar from the deepest arrow wound on his chest, pensive, for all of a moment longer before catching Faramir’s wrist.
“Enough,” says Boromir, twisting the edges of his washcloth until he has something resembling a rope. Loops it behind Faramir’s neck and tugs him forward, until Faramir is forced to step closer, so Boromir can kiss him, slow and warm and languid. Can touch his tongue to Faramir’s and taste the lingering flavor of cherry wine. “I intend to enjoy myself in these new baths,” Boromir says, twitching a brow as he reaches down and gives Faramir’s cock a sharp, playful tug. “And I would have you join me.”
They have spent time enough on sorrow and regrets; Boromir would have them use what time has been given them now to live their lives, whether it be for passion, or pleasure, or—
“Oh,” Faramir blinks, before the slowest, sharpest grin spreads from one corner of his mouth to the other. “Oh, I see.” With small, insistent pushes to Boromir’s shoulders, Faramir bullies him into a corner of the bath. Slips a leg in between Boromir’s as he boxes Boromir in, his hands braced on either side of Boromir’s head. “You would have us focus on the present,” he grins, nipping Boromir’s lower lip, tugging it with teeth. “And on the future.” Faramir draws back for all of a moment, allowing Boromir a shaky breath before taking his mouth, hot and wet and rough, his tongue pressing firmly into Boromir’s. “Yes, I intend to do exactly that.”
Boromir is caught somewhere between a whimper and a groan, before Faramir tugs him off balance. Pulls Boromir toward him as he takes a seat on one of the steps of the bath.
“Come here,” Faramir commands. The tone of his voice sends a delicious shiver down Boromir’s spine, and he obeys, straddling Faramir in the warmth of the soapy water. It is not often that his brother takes the lead like this, and to cede control to him is a luxury. A privilege.
Faramir winds the washcloth behind Boromir’s neck, dragging him down further into his lap for a kiss that mirrors Boromir’s earlier, but is harder, hungrier, a scrape of teeth and lips and tongue that has Boromir panting into Faramir’s mouth, breathless.
“I would know the taste of you,” Faramir murmurs. “Your mouth.” His tongue darts out to taste Boromir’s. “Your length.” He wraps fingers around Boromir’s hardened flesh, teasing, stroking, before twisting thumb and forefinger at the head, making Boromir jolt in his arms and moan against his mouth. At the sound of Boromir’s moan, Faramir smiles, sharp, and he tugs Boromir closer. Winds an arm around his waist, while the other snakes down the curve of Boromir’s spine, his fingers dipping into the cleft of Boromir’s ass.
“Faramir, wait—” Boromir manages, writhing in Faramir’s grip. But Faramir’s hold is a vise, and already it is too late, because Faramir has touched the tips of his fingers to Boromir’s entrance, gentle.
“All of you,” Faramir finishes, fierce, hooking fingers into Boromir and stroking at sensitive pink flesh. He watches Boromir writhe and keen in his grasp, enjoying Boromir’s tiny, breathless gasps. “This is but a taste of the pleasure I will give you,” he says, his breath hot against Boromir’s neck, his teeth grazing the lobe of Boromir’s ear.
Boromir shivers at the promise implicit in those words, but dips his head to touch it to Faramir’s. “That is all fine and well,” he says, trying to fight back a smile, “but perhaps we should consider a change of locale. It would not do for our cries to be echoing across this circle of the city, after all.” In truth, he is not averse to experimenting with their surroundings, and the baths are as good a place as any. But for his first time, he would have Faramir take him on their bed, where Boromir might take comfort in a room familiar and warm. Where they might burrow into the soft sheets after, curled together, as they had when they were small.
“I am sure there are ways around that,” Faramir frowns, eyeing the washcloth thoughtfully, but at Boromir’s anxious look, his expression softens. “Oh, Boromir,” he says, winding arms around his waist, gentle, and laying his head on Boromir’s shoulder. “Forgive me. I should have thought of—I should have known. To our rooms then, as you wish?”
Boromir nods, pressing a peck of a kiss to Faramir’s temple, grateful, and together, they exit the water to towel themselves dry. Clothe themselves in the white robes readied for those who have finished bathing, before Faramir leads Boromir back to his own room, their hands knit together, snug, their footsteps quiet.
Faramir lights the fire in the grate of Boromir’s room this time, then the candles, turning to Boromir when he has finished and pulling him close by the lapels of his robe. “Well? Is everything to your liking?” Faramir teases, nosing at Boromir’s cheeks. “Or shall I have the maids fetch us a new set of sheets? A band of minstrels to serenade you as we—”
“Stop, stop,” laughs Boromir, walking Faramir backward toward the bed. “I have all that I need right here.”
“Oh, you are sure of that, are you?” Faramir grins, sitting as his knees make contact with the bed. He tugs at the sash of Boromir’s robe, humming appreciatively at the reveal of Boromir’s chest. “What about a band of maidens instead?” He noses at the line of Boromir’s ribs, his belly; dares an experimental lick, taking the measure of him through touch and scent and taste. “Nubile, beautiful?”
“There is only one whom I want,” Boromir growls. He straddles Faramir’s hips and presses him to the bed. Slips hands beneath the collar of his robes to revel in the clean, damp warmth of his skin. “And he is no maiden.”
His words seem to stoke a fire within Faramir, as Faramir lunges toward him, wrenching free the sash holding Boromir’s robe closed and dragging Boromir down for kisses heated, desperate. Twists fingers into Boromir’s hair, tight, as he throws an arm around Boromir’s waist to hitch him close, and heaves them over in the bed. He draws aside the cloth of Boromir’s robe with sharp, jerky pulls until all of Boromir is exposed, open. Kisses a hungry trail along the four freckles lining his belly—three in line above his navel and one to the left—mapping the constellation they form, before laying his head against Boromir’s chest, listening, breathing, silent.
“Faramir?” Boromir asks, dazed, his limbs sprawled out along the bed. He cards fingers through Faramir’s hair, gentle. Waits.
Faramir lifts his head and presses a kiss to Boromir’s jaw. “Boromir, I—” he tries, as if there is a torrent of words, of feeling behind what he wishes to say, but Boromir never hears what is behind this rush of emotion, as Faramir swallows hard and sinks into Boromir’s arms. Kisses Boromir again and again, each press of lips soft and slow and sweet, like Boromir is precious, like something Faramir cannot live without.
He traces a slow, lazy circle with his thumb over Boromir’s temple as his lips move lower, roving over the line of Boromir’s jaw. Peppers a trail of kisses along Boromir’s throat before touching lips to Boromir’s chest. His stomach. Lets his tongue swirl the inside of Boromir’s navel.
Despite Faramir’s promise to return the favor of taking Boromir apart, Boromir can tell his brother intends to take his time, with the way Faramir worships each inch of him with a kiss. As if each press of lips is a method of tattooing his name into Boromir’s skin, a way of saying Mine, mine, mine, while making every inch of Boromir feel wanted and loved.
Boromir is just about lost in the sensation of Faramir’s mouth around his fingers, when Faramir laves his tongue over the surface of Boromir’s cock, a velvet scrape of pleasure that has Boromir arcing into his touch.
“More,” Boromir says, dismayed when Faramir moves away. He nudges Faramir with his knee, hopeful.
Faramir only chuckles, and kisses the head of Boromir’s cock. “Another time,” he says, apologetic. “I shall bring you to pleasure this way, but it is not this night.”
Already Boromir misses the lovely hollowing of Faramir’s cheeks when he swallows Boromir down, and the sight of his lips closed around Boromir’s cock. But tonight, tonight, Faramir has promised they have something different to try, and he swallows his complaints, letting Faramir drown out the bitter taste of them with more kisses, lingering and warm, to thighs and calves and toes. Lets Faramir urge him onto his front, with gentle, guiding pushes, until he is on his hands and knees against the bed, enjoying the nibbling kisses Faramir presses into skin, from the soles of his feet to the backs of his thighs.
With a swift tugging motion, Faramir relieves Boromir of his robe and drops it on the floor. Nudges Boromir’s legs apart, his path of reverent kisses continuing up into the line of Boromir’s buttocks.
“Faramir,” Boromir says, uncertain. He knows his brother will have care with him where it is needed, but if Faramir is indeed planning to—
“Do you trust me?” Faramir asks softly. His palms span the length of Boromir’s buttocks, his fingers digging just the right amount of possessive into flesh.
“I—yes,” Boromir breathes. Faramir has never hurt him, has never taken of Boromir’s what he would not give. “Completely.”
“Good.” Faramir presses another kiss, gentle, to Boromir’s hip, before spreading him open, leaving him vulnerable, exposed. But Boromir has given his word that he trusts Faramir in this, so he lets Faramir have this. Lets Faramir in when he touches the tip of his tongue to Boromir’s entrance, tracing the sweet pucker of flesh before pressing up and in.
“Fara—Faramir, wait,” Boromir gasps, trembling, his fingers tightening in the sheets and leaving gouges in the soft fabric. He had not thought there could be bliss like this. Suddenly, the thought of Faramir trying this first with another makes something curl leaden and cold in the pit of his belly. “Who taught you this?” he demands, when he finds his voice again. “Who showed you this pleasure?”
Faramir remains unperturbed, even chuckles as he cups Boromir’s sac, careful. Licks a stripe from balls to hole again, the sensation of it impossibly pleasurable. “Did you think the archives of Minas Tirith housed only stories of battles past?” he asks, amused. “Or tomes only on weaponry and the like?” He strokes a palm along the curve of Boromir’s back, soothing. “You are the first, Boromir.” Kisses the crease of his thigh, tender. “You are the only.”
And though shame burns in Boromir’s cheeks, for he has as good as accused Faramir of being unfaithful, Faramir leaves him no time to dwell on this mistake. He laps the sensitive flesh around Boromir’s hole. Continues licking into Boromir, hungry, sharp, the pleasure his tongue bringing Boromir as he presses in, probing, indescribable. Then with one flick of his tongue over the hole, he delves in with a finger, pressing it up and in even as he lets his tongue trace each ridge of puckered flesh.
Boromir groans, deep, his hole clenching instantly around Faramir’s finger. “Faramir,” he pants, “please.” It occurs to him that he knows not what he is pleading for; just knows that he wants Faramir, wants more of him, in him, on him and around him.
With a nod of acquiescence that Boromir feels against the back of his thigh, Faramir obliges. He gives Boromir’s twitching hole one last kiss, before licking a stripe over the small of Boromir’s back. Covers the dimples and crease of Boromir’s ass with tantalizingly slow, delicious kisses. Along Boromir’s back, Faramir sucks a bruise, berry-red and bright into each knob of Boromir’s spine. Bites nipping kisses into Boromir’s shoulders as he claws his way back up, like a predator stalking its prey. And when he reaches Boromir’s neck, he sweeps Boromir’s hair aside, gentle, to touch lips to the nape of his neck. Drapes himself along the length of Boromir’s body, teasing him by pressing his hardened flesh against the cleft of Boromir’s buttocks, but never quite sliding in.
“Nngh,” Boromir manages, a muffled sound against the pillow, as he nudges his backside into Faramir. He means to say Are we to do this or not? but Faramir has robbed him of all eloquence, even the ability to form words, with his deeply intimate exploration.
Faramir laughs. “Rascal,” he huffs, fond. “Who is the impatient one now?”
When Boromir purses his lips and buries his face into the pillow in answer, Faramir kisses his shoulder in apology. Touches his lips to the space between Boromir’s shoulder blades for a gentle circle of kisses. “We will do this,” he reassures, “but not as we are now.”
He guides Boromir onto his back, shifting until Boromir lies sprawled beneath him, as if a delectable dessert to consume. Cups Boromir’s cheek with a roughened palm.
“I would see your face,” Faramir says softly, “as you did mine.” He traces an idle path with his thumb from the corner of Boromir’s eye to his jaw. “I would know the look in your eyes as I make you come undone. The sounds of your rapture as I ravish you, and break your limits, one by one.” His length brushes against Boromir’s belly, angry and red and full, as he leans in to purr his poison, dangerous and tempting. “I will make you abandon your inhibitions—until there is no line you will not let me cross, no thing you would not let me do—to give you the utmost in pleasure.”
With that, he takes Boromir’s mouth, wild and wet and rough, his tongue plundering and his teeth nipping until Boromir is left gasping for air, dizzy for want of him, his mind reeling from Faramir’s cleverly spun words.
“Faramir, please,” Boromir breathes, his voice hoarse with need. “Please.”
“So beautiful,” Faramir murmurs, his lips grazing the hollow of Boromir’s throat, “when you beg me like this.” He touches a finger to Boromir’s entrance, allowing the tip of it to slip just inside, eliciting a soft moan from Boromir. “When you cry out beneath me. When you cry out for me.”
He continues on his quest to take Boromir apart, slowly, carefully, using teeth and lips and tongue, kissing the breath from him even as he reaches for an unguent from Boromir’s night table. Uncaps it and starts preparing Boromir with fingers to ease the way.
“That unguent is supposed to be for injuries only,” says Boromir stubbornly, even as he slides his rump down along the bed and lets Faramir press in between his legs. The mixture is cool and moist, at complete odds with the heat of Faramir’s clever fingers.
Faramir huffs a laugh. “If we do not use this, you will have an injury of another sort,” he says. “One that I am in no hurry to explain to the healers.”
Boromir mirrors his grin, before the stretch from Faramir’s fingers becomes uncomfortable, then nearly unbearable; it seems the further Faramir’s fingers slide, the more it burns. “Faramir, please—I cannot—” Boromir gasps, and Faramir stills until Boromir has had more time to adjust.
“You can, Boromir,” Faramir says, kissing him again. He lets his fingers close gently around Boromir’s length, a distraction of pleasure from the burn below, then crooks the fingers he has inside, and oh—Boromir arches off the bed, startled; that must be what Boromir finds when Faramir cries out sudden, like that.
“Fara—” Boromir manages, before Faramir seals his mouth against Boromir’s, swallowing his cries. Kisses Boromir again and again, each touch of lips soft and sweet and intimate as he twines fingers into Boromir’s hair. Slides his tongue into Boromir’s mouth, to know the taste of Boromir in the same moment his fingers slip away and he nudges his length against Boromir’s entrance.
Faramir enters him slowly, nearly too gentle, their motions the very definition of lovemaking rather than the rutting of beasts, and Boromir feels a measure of shame as he thinks back to the night before; in spite of the kisses he had bestowed upon Faramir, he had taken Faramir with the barest of preparation, and he resolves to take more care with Faramir in the future.
Faramir’s mouth is hot against his, and the rasp of his beard against Boromir’s rough, but still his brother shows restraint, moving his hips only in the smallest, slowest rolling motions. “Boromir?” he whispers. “Are you all right?”
The time Faramir has given him to adjust, first to his fingers and now to his length is a boon, and already Boromir can feel the initial burn giving way to a welcome ache, one that has him nodding as he pulls Faramir to him. Deeper within him. Has him gripping Faramir’s shoulders, tight.
“Harder,” Boromir breathes. “Harder.”
Only then does Faramir quicken his pace, the rolling of his hips turning into sharp, jabbing thrusts, and when Boromir bites back a moan, his hands scrabbling against the bed for purchase, the sheets, Faramir hisses, “To me. Hold onto me.”
Boromir obeys, looping his arms around Faramir’s neck instead. Tangles fingers in his brother’s hair, tight, as Faramir moves within him, rocking inside him, urgent.
“Boromir,” Faramir breathes, desperate. “My Boromir.” As if saying his name again and again, a mantra, a prayer, will make his wish to keep Boromir forever come true. He swallows Boromir’s wounded cries with more kisses, capturing the tip of Boromir’s tongue with his lips, and sucking it down, hungry, eager. Starts rocking in harder, faster, and impossibly deep before it’s somehow not enough, in skin and warmth and heat, and he wrenches Boromir’s legs over his shoulders. Grips his ankles in a vise-like hold and presses forward, bending Boromir nearly in half, until Boromir is left clutching the bedframe, teeth clenched against the pillow in an effort to muffle his cries.
To Boromir’s horror, Faramir tears the pillow from his grasp and shoves it beneath his rump, leaving Boromir to sink teeth into the back of his hand to stifle his howls. And when it is in position, Faramir presses in deep, deeper, further than fingers have gone before, grinning sharply when Boromir groans. When his breathy cries turn into short, desperate gasps. At that, Faramir presses forward again, until the muscles in Boromir’s calves and thighs burn, until his knees are pressed against his chest, and at that—when Boromir is left vulnerable and open, speared so deeply and completely—that is when Faramir’s tongue snakes into his mouth, tasting him, testing. When Faramir kneads Boromir’s lower lip with teeth, sharp and greedy, drawing a perfect pearl of blood, the tang of metal on their lips as Faramir seals his mouth against Boromir’s for kiss that is hot and hard and wet. Drinks in the taste of Boromir, hungry, to slake an unquenchable thirst.
Blood calls to blood, thinks Boromir, the thought errant and wild, as the taste of sin and blood and Faramir melds thick and dark upon his tongue.
“Fara—Faramir—ah,” Boromir tries, his voice a strangled sob. He rakes nails along Faramir’s hips at each brutally perfect thrust, clawing hard enough to draw blood. Works a hand down between the join of their bodies to wrap fingers around his cock, to stroke it in time with the rhythm of Faramir’s thrusts.
“No,” Faramir snaps, catching Boromir’s wrist. “You will spend from the feeling of me within you, or not at all.”
Boromir cannot draw breath enough to argue, whimpering as Faramir pins his wrists to the bed in punishment, thrusting into him viciously hard. Leaves him dizzy, lightheaded, as Boromir fights for breath, spots of light dotting his vision from the overwhelming pleasure Faramir gives him, as he strikes that spot within him again and again.
“Is this everything you had hoped for?” Faramir whispers, as he drives Boromir into the sheets, hard and deep and wanting. Lets Boromir’s legs down to rest against the small of his back again. “Desired?”
Boromir struggles to catch his breath, stifling a cry as Faramir pushes deep within him again. “I should hope there is love, too, in this.” He hopes he sounds properly affronted, but the tug of a smile at the corner of his mouth gives him away.
Faramir laughs against Boromir’s mouth, his breath warm, and curls arms beneath Boromir’s shoulders. “Always.”
“So it is a given, is it?” Boromir grins. “Then yes; you are everything I have hoped for.” He tucks a lock of Faramir’s sweat-slick hair back behind his ear. “Everything I have desired.”
Faramir blinks, dazed, at Boromir’s answer, before giving him a smile that is all kinds of wicked. “Good,” he says, rolling his hips into Boromir and relishing his sharp cry at the unexpected push. “Because I intend to give you love and pleasure both.”
Boromir’s words seem to spark some strange sense of possessiveness in Faramir, as he claims Boromir’s mouth with renewed fervor, sealing their lips together in a kiss that is rough and hot and hard, stealing the breath from his lungs. Seem to act a reassurance, a key to unlock the words Faramir has been holding back, because after one push, two, Faramir buries his face into Boromir’s neck, his arms curling tighter beneath Boromir’s shoulders.
“I love you,” Faramir whispers, fierce, as if he has built up the courage to say this again. At Boromir’s noise of surprise, he lifts his head from Boromir’s neck. Cradles Boromir’s face in his palms, as his thumbs brush the corners of Boromir’s eyes, where crow’s feet from years of laughter and happiness and sorrow shared between them have formed. “I love you so dearly, that a thousand years, a thousand lifetimes with you would not be time enough to share the depth of my feelings for you.”
Boromir blinks, stunned, Faramir’s words having struck a chord deep within his chest. “Ever the poet,” he says finally, smiling, because Faramir, without even trying, has eclipsed Boromir’s sentiment from the day before. Leaves his own words lacking, inadequate to convey the depth of his own all-consuming feelings for Faramir. Fortunately, he more than makes up for it through his actions, in sweet, lingering kisses to Faramir’s jaw. Wandering fingers that stroke Faramir’s thighs, before gripping them, heartened. Toes that run slow, adoring, along the length of Faramir’s calf, to show his brother his feelings are reciprocated in full.
He demonstrates his devotion in all the ways he knows how, through gentle kisses and sweet nothings, murmured like secrets into Faramir’s mouth, his neck.
And even after Faramir has spilled inside him, hot and deep and wet, when he has brought Boromir over the precipice time and time again, Faramir winds fingers into Boromir’s hair, tight. Holds his brother in his arms as if he cannot bear to let him go.
“I would gather the stars for you, if you wished,” Faramir whispers. “I would hang the moon for you, if only I could.”
Boromir only shakes his head and gathers Faramir into his arms, gentle. Noses at his neck and the softness of his hair, as he skims fingertips over Faramir’s back. Lets Faramir settle into the warmth of his arms, before sharing his most heartfelt words.
“I have all the stars and moon I need,” Boromir says, touching lips to Faramir’s softly, “right here.”
The mild chill of their early spring is what wakes Boromir before dawn has broken. By now, the candles have guttered to waxen stumps, allowing the full radiance of the moon to light the room, and it shines now upon Faramir’s face—not the harsh, bone-pale light that Boromir is accustomed to, but a soft glow, accentuating the arch of Faramir’s brow. The delectable dip of his neck. The curve of his shoulders.
Faramir looks lovely in the moonlight, and Boromir cannot help but card fingers through his hair, gentle. Cannot help but reflect on the fact that they have consummated their relationship now in all the ways there are. It makes him wonder if Faramir will tire of him, now that he has tasted of the forbidden fruit, though Boromir would not blame him for finding another; he is hardly the epitome of a lover, and even less the epitome of an elder brother. A proper brother would not have let them come this far. Would have had the restraint to never start this at all.
The fear strikes him then, that with the rising of the sun, Faramir will finally see him. Will really look at him, and reflect upon the nature of what they have.
Will find it wanting, and think that Boromir is undeserving of his affections.
It takes Boromir a moment more before he realizes that the insecurities and worries that plague him are mostly unfounded, and he breathes deep to prevent his further spiral into darkness. Thinks to slip away to Faramir’s room, to clear his mind, or at least let Faramir have the space he needs, to determine if this is what he truly wants.
Faramir must have been dozing lightly, for his arms close around Boromir’s waist, drawing him back from the edge of the bed. As if he senses Boromir’s intent from the way he shifts in the sheets.
“You think entirely too much,” Faramir mumbles, his breath warm against the nape of Boromir’s neck. He goads Boromir into facing him, with gentle tugs and nudges, until their hips and knees slot together, seamless, perfect. “My feelings will not change with the coming of the dawn.”
Boromir swallows the lump of guilt knotting his throat. “You say that now,” he says, forcing a carefree laugh, “but you may think differently in the morning. The light of day has a way of illuminating things.”
“I have loved you through the moonlit nights,” Faramir murmurs, drawing Boromir closer. “And I will love you with each rising of the sun. Through the changing of the seasons, and the passing of the years.” He tucks a stray lock of hair behind Boromir’s ear and cups the back of his neck, pulling him in for a kiss that is unhurried and sweet. “You need not worry, brother.”
Brother. Faramir holds no illusions about who they are or what they have between them. With that single word, he has assured Boromir that this is indeed what he wants, and always will.
His words quiet the warring voices of self-doubt and guilt in Boromir’s mind, and he finds himself curling deeper into Faramir’s embrace. Allows Faramir to pamper him with proof of his affection, from the arms wrapped around his shoulders to the press of lips against his hair.
And finally, he lets himself believe—revels in the knowledge that he is so very loved, and will be, for the rest of his days.
(tbc - Chapter 12)
End Notes:
Only one more chapter to go! Thank you for staying with this fic so far! :D
This entire fic is a labor of love, so if you’ve enjoyed it, or it moved you in some way, I’d love to hear from you!
