Faramir Fiction Archive

After a Lifetime (NC-17)

Written by December

07 January 2012 | 46599 words | Work in Progress

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Notes: thanks to Alcardilmë and balrog for the beta.

Chapter 4. Of Sea Pearls and Almond Blossoms

Their eyes met – and, like a crust of brittle ice vainly aiming to contain a mountain torrent, the stupefaction shattered.

At once they were kissing like mad.

How was it possible to simultaneously experience such blissful, unearthly relief and such unquenchable, torturous ache?

The taste and feel of the boy’s mouth were no novelty to Boromir, but if anything only the more tantalising for it. Grinding his lips against Faramir’s with such force it hurt, Boromir strove to fit his tongue all the way in, thrusting with a savage brutality more fit for a military conquest. Faramir, far from being intimidated, fought him back just as vehemently, eager himself to win entrance to Boromir’s mouth. In turn, this passionate defiance served only to confirm to Boromir that his onslaught was fully welcome, and that even more was necessary.

This war was of a special variety, and the older brother’s code of honour did not apply here (although in that moment his honour was generally far from the top of his mind), and Boromir wasted little time making an outflanking maneuver, namely to assault Faramir from the rear as well. Gripping him on the uncovered buttocks, Boromir jerked his brother forth – and the boy gasped, shaken by the new bout of arousal from this ungentle touch. This momentary pause was all Boromir required. Before Faramir knew it, he had irreversibly lost the sweet battle, Boromir irrefutably claiming his mouth.

Unlike in real war, being conquered felt just as glorious as victory. Surrender was intoxicating bliss, and, once overpowered, Faramir was rapturous to give himself over. To push his backside into Boromir’s palms with shameless neediness, to softly moan against the older brother’s insatiable lips and suck on his hot aggressive tongue.

Much as his need had a final destination, he was past the point of caring which particular road they took. In fact, he was well past even registering the course, blindly willing to play whichever way, to provide whatever Boromir asked.

But Boromir was made otherwise, to him victory was essential. Faramir’s sudden pliancy poured like hot oil on the already raging fire, making him crave even more, making him burn for ultimate dominance, even though he hardly comprehended what that actually required. He only knew he had to get Faramir under himself, had to have him and never lose him.

Boromir half pushed, half carried him the short distance to the wide uncovered bed. They tumbled heavily down – all in a frenzy, in such senseless hurry. In the process Faramir dropped the lavender oil bottle onto the sheets, and it rolled under him to prod coolly against his thigh, but he would not have noticed had he lain on a pin cushion. There was something magical about acquiring a horizontal position together, and everything besides the alignment of their bodies became irrelevant.

Boromir’s weight was crushing on him – and Faramir rejoiced in it. It was right, it had to be substantial, real, pressing him breathless into the mattress, trapping him sweetly, leaving no space for movement, no space for loneliness. He wrapped his bare legs tightly around Boromir’s waist, as though afraid his brother would change his mind and draw back. Predictably, such concerns proved unfounded: the young man only ground himself harder against Faramir’s naked body, while his hand went straight for what was openly offered between the younger brother’s spread thighs, Faramir’s cock already engorged beyond belief, blushed and brimming with tension.

Involuntarily Faramir bit him hard on the lip as Boromir’s hand firmly clasped the boy’s manhood – clasped it with such undoubting, unhesitating confidence as though it was and had always been Boromir’s personal property, as though he had an innate non-sequestrable right to handle it whichever way he chose to.

And Faramir let him, half-alive with strain and pleasure beneath him. Just as before, all had become a wildly dancing blur for the boy, a whirlwind of sensations and colours, heart pounding painfully against ribs, the air impossibly condensed to inhale. The thick metallic tanginess of his brother’s blood, fleetingly mixed into their kiss, skidded through his mind like a flash of glowing scarlet, like a stray spark from the hearth, and he was so unraveled he could not recognise it for what it was, nor fathom where it had come from all of a sudden.

Everything seemed to be happening all of a sudden and all at once, time and space having gone mad around him. His own flesh was going mad…

All thinking ability had long since deserted him, as though he had never had any – and now that his senses were melting away also, coming loose and escaping him, scattering all over his burning skin – he could no longer understand where he was or what was happening, except that it was something painfully wonderful that should never stop. Never.

Although, if their fierce kissing did not halt for a second, he would literally suffocate… Faramir was having severe trouble coordinating his breathing to inhale through the nose, and every time he tried to do it through the mouth Boromir prevented it by immediately resealing their lips together and shoving his tongue inside. Faramir’s most basic function, the self-preservation instinct, appealed to him – and, moaning, the boy broke the kiss off to gasp for air, arching beneath Boromir and throwing his head back.

So Boromir set his mouth to his brother’s throat instead, smothering it with burning demanding kisses, licking it wet with lewd hungry drags of his tongue, while his hand worked in its own frantic rhythm. His passion carried him through it, he did not need to think what to do, how to touch. He had never held anyone but himself in this way, yet there was no awkwardness to it – if anything, it made more sense to be doing this to Faramir’s sex than his own. It seemed to Boromir he had never taken in his hand something so finely, smoothly textured, so silky and delicate, so alive – so hot and hard… That his little brother, the gentle Faramir, should have such a powerful manly thing between his legs…

Manly, yes…

Boromir had never allowed there could be more than one sort of masculinity, the sort he had always striven towards and honed in himself. But now in his brother he encountered indeed a very different kind: in Faramir, somehow, masculinity and gentleness did not clash, but rather highlighted and complemented one another to a piercingly captivating degree.

Faramir’s hips beat forcefully into Boromir’s brash strokes, attesting the boy would know how to exercise the power nature had blessed him with. His hands roamed over his older brother’s broad shoulders and chest with frenetic esuriency, famished from ever handling only cold steel and hard wood. Now greedy for the feel of the fully sculpted curves of Boromir’s muscular shape, Faramir gripped untenderly, feeding on the living heat of the man’s skin.

Likewise, the hold of Faramir’s arms and legs on Boromir’s body was close and strong – stronger by far than any lass could have ever embraced him, and all the more arousing for it. And yet… Faramir’s skin was no rougher than a maiden’s – his mouth, if anything, only sweeter; the blush of passion on his cheeks so endearingly rosy… And the boy’s surrender to Boromir’s supremacy over him was absolute, his response to the man’s passion fiery, yet not challenging. The uninterrupting moans and sighs leaving Faramir’s soft red lips were so… so helpless, so mellifluous, so devoid of any vulgarity whatsoever…

Pleasuring him was not obscene – pleasuring him was beautiful, a blessing, a divine gift…

Breathing in heavy gasps, ecstatic and disoriented, Boromir traced his lips up Faramir’s neck and to his ear. The smell of desire was hot and sharp on Faramir’s skin, and Boromir was inhaling it so greedily, his head was beginning to spin. The man’s whole body seemed to be getting dizzy and slipping out of his grasp, yet that mattered little, for nothing he was doing required any conscious effort on his behalf. As his hand continued its rapid exertion, as his hips grated against his brother’s naked body – with great gentleness his tongue licked behind and along the edge of Faramir’s earlobe, a delectable tease amid all his masterful ungentleness, showing Boromir was not technically incapable of physical tenderness.

Uttering yet another heavy moan, the boy turned his head to the side, thus allowing his brother better access. For a moment, Boromir let his hot breath tickle the ear’s sensitive skin, naught more, and he felt Faramir shudder convulsively beneath him.

Then, as the young man plunged his tongue inside, Faramir cried out in shock, for it seemed to him that he had been touched on an open nerve. His lithe body gave a violent jerk below Boromir’s heavier form, and it felt to the boy as though a thousand arrows were released from a thousand taught bows, a thousand strings ringing triumphantly in unison, striking a clear note of finesse and glory.

This note rang so deafening he was entirely unaware of his own exclamation joining the chorus, nor of Boromir’s hoarse gasp as Faramir’s hot seed spilt abundantly onto the man’s fingers.

A thick oppressive wave of delirious languor suddenly toppled over Boromir, and he closed his eyes, for a moment feeling so spent he thought he might faint. Several ragged breaths after, he let go of his brother’s manliest part, its hardness not yet abating, and rolled off the boy heavily.

Faramir hardly noticed, so stunned he was. Drained of all strength, his body had slackened, slender legs releasing their grip on his brother’s waist, and the boy lay limp, motionless, his lustrous lashes low upon his cheeks, his effortfully heaving chest the only sign he was at least partly conscious.

Boromir glanced at him uncomprehendingly, then closed his eyes again, deep radiant red coming to pulse and swirl behind his lids. He did not feel sorry for what his hand had just done, for what his mouth had just done. He hardly felt any human emotions at all. He was hardly aware of himself.

And whereas for Faramir this had been the first experience with another, and he did not know that it could be otherwise, Boromir was no virgin, and for him it had always been otherwise. He had even used to derive a certain sort of pride from being unfazed by sex, from being able, had he so wished, to get up, pull his things back on and depart a mere minute after finishing.

Not tonight.

He swallowed hard. Time had become dense and sticky like treacle, stretching and stretching without moving, and he could not come to his senses. Blood pounded painfully in his head, in his face, in his throat. Between the legs, too – between the legs worst of all. He still burnt.

Boromir frowned. He could feel wetness at the front of his leggings, a sizeable stain of it, and he knew that when Faramir had cried out and thrashed under him, when Faramir’s warmth squirted into his hand, he too had found his pleasure. It had been short and nearly painful, like a curt stab in the groin – but it was unmistakable, he had come.

Yet still he burnt. His loins were as though in a fever, his erection harder than he had ever known it, as though it was made of some material other than living flesh.

No, it would not be this easily appeased, by merely rubbing against a warm body through an insinuation of fabric. It wanted more, and would not unchain him until it got more.

Licking his lips, Boromir turned his head to gaze at his younger brother.

Faramir’s breathing had evened out, but he was still completely dazed, as though his own pleasure had all but knocked him out.

And seeing him so utterly undone, splayed on the bed with eyes closed, a bright glow on his cheeks, Boromir knew he would have to hold his own desire at bay. He simply could not assault Faramir when he was… defenseless like this. It almost made the young man smirk, this notion – to merely hold at bay what he had earnestly tried to defy and deny only… well, it could not have been more than ten minutes ago.

Ten minutes – but an entirely different world. And he did not smirk, for much as his very desire had seemed monstrous to him only a while back, now he could see nothing strange or unnatural in that he should have witnessed Faramir’s moment of ecstasy, in that he had actually brought it about. Boromir’s arousal, cruelly stifled by his trousers, was burning – burning for Faramir, and that commanded all his thoughts, determined his very mode of thinking. It was as though he had somehow slipped through a wall of thin glass, through some ethereal veil into a different reality – one where there is no shame, no morality and no tomorrow. There was no going back, and nothing besides the two of them would ever matter from now on.

Within reach day and night. Indeed, he had spared himself the torment. When left one on one with what he craved so desperately, how long had he lasted? How long had his denial endured against the undeniable? Same ten minutes.

And having kissed Faramir once, having touched him like he had, Boromir had as though given himself permission to treat him thus from now on, to find pleasure with him however many countless times he wished to and in whatever fashion he chose to. And this permission ensured he could no longer see anything deviant in his need. Take, for example, Faramir’s seed on his palm and fingers – while he had never liked to soil his hand with the release of his own tension, Faramir’s cream he would never wish to wipe off himself. What more, he would fain like to get himself covered in it from head to toe…

So he took off his tunic, its dark fabric bearing the proud mark of Faramir’s pleasure on the front – and after it the rest of his raiment, casting it all carelessly on the floor. Stretching then alongside Faramir, Boromir kissed the boy’s reddened lips with a slow passion, delighting in their sated lazy response, in the heat slowly emanating from their moist delicate skin, and only marvelling at how little embarrassment he felt at letting his naked arousal come in such proximity to his little brother’s body.

Some scrumptious minutes later, when his resolve to rein himself was beginning to wear dangerously thin, Boromir called on what remained of his will to lean out of the kiss. He did so out of hope that Faramir would protest, would pull him back in, at the very least would look at him questioningly – despite the stiff hunger between his legs, Boromir could not, simply could not continue all on his own, without a little more help from Faramir. But Faramir did not provide any such help. The boy merely sighed, a dreamy smile spreading his lips. He looked perfectly content and happy just as he was, definitely not ready to be assailed anew… And, strangely, this was not something the older brother could step over, not even in his current state.

Yes, Boromir may have always had the leading role in their relationship, which to both of them had ever seemed proper to the extent of being the only possible way of things – and yet, now… He would still lead, yes, but… In order for it to work, it was vital that Faramir actively accept his lead – or at least that was the way the man saw it. He did not yet perceive – and, being who he was, he would hardly ever be able to perceive it – that in truth it was Faramir who would guide him, that only when Faramir’s mood fully reflected his own, could he act on his desire, that only when Faramir’s fire scorched him, could he give way to his own flame. No, the man that Boromir was, he would not only never accept – he would never even entertain the notion that the inexorable want ruling him was in fact born as though outside of him, was so much beyond his control that he was not even master enough over himself to give in to it when he would. Much as he ached to surrender to it immediately, he could do so only when called on – yes, even the time would be chosen for him…

But, of course, he told himself it was his own choice to bide his time and not rush for the sake of his little brother’s comfort. And in that case, Boromir decided, he would be better off to refrain from touching the boy at all – instead he would indulge himself by taking a long and proper look, and bask in the knowledge that so very soon it would all be his…

And naturally, the man had not foreseen that what he envisioned as indulgence would turn into a fresh portion of torture.

He had never seen the boy like this, had never thought Faramir could possibly look any more ravishing than when standing naked with that perfume before him, so seductive in his untouched ripeness. It had not occurred to Boromir that it was precisely through being touched that his brother would become even more breath-taking. No, Faramir was no delicate butterfly, whose weightless kaleidoscopic splendour would be forever ruined if a man’s fingers gripped its wings but once. No, the contact with his brother’s hands had not robbed the boy of the essence of his beauty, had not defiled his wholesomeness, or spoilt his charm. It had merely awoken his body to its full potential of life and joy, and now the carnal energy flowing in him was no longer merely implied by his shapes and bearing, but plainly exposed to anyone who would have the fortune of beholding him in that moment.

Even in the golden-orange light of the fire, even in spite of the bright afterglow on his lips and cheeks, it was impossible not to observe how exceptionally fair Faramir’s skin was. Now, to elucidate why this trait had the effect that it did on Boromir, it ought to be noted that generally pallor was not something recognised as a hallmark of attractiveness. Among the Lesser men, who were now numerous in Gondor, it came forth in many shades, but only ever as a companion of some unhealthy condition, be it the chalky wanness of fatigue and malnutrition, the livid marbly bleachedness of cold, or the sallow etiolation of not having seen the sun for too long. Thus little else was deemed better testimony of a man’s salubrity and prosperity than a seasoned tan or a hearty well-fed ruddiness. Even the nobler ladies went to great lengths to achieve a skin-tone with a youthfully rosy undertone, and a hale radiant blush, fresh and appetising as a ripe raspberry.

Indeed, few now remained who looked the lovelier for their paleness, who bore it as a token of the highest pedigree, of the true blood of the West running high in their veins. It did not wane in the sun, did not wane with age, did not wane from toil – even as the keen astute clarity of their grey eyes never faded.

And Faramir’s complexion was of this rare kind, for he was not so much pale as rather fair, in no way deficient of colour, but rather gifted with a colour light and pure, perfectly wholesome and sound in itself. There was a pleasant luminous quality to it, the quality that made one think of sea-pearls and ivory, of moon-shine and morning clouds, of fresh milk and almond blossoms. And it so aptly corresponded to the time-honoured palette of Gondor’s ensigns, that one look at him could provide an exhaustive explanation as to why some flashier combination had not been chosen to represent the state. Indeed, what could better set off the air of natural yet unassuming dignity characteristic of the Númenorean race than the reticent silver-and-black? A man of such make had no need of opulent jewelry or sumptuous vestures to demonstrate his heritage, and the subdued elegance of Gondor’s customary patterns would suit him the way no other style ever could.

No other, that is, except for that of having no attire at all…

In their father’s halls there remained a few statues of the Eldar make from times long gone, and as a child Boromir used to snigger at them, asking whether the Elven sculptors had run out of rock or if they simply could not have been bothered to carve some clothing for their models. Denethor would reply that, having apparently been better connoisseurs of beauty than his son, they had known that oftentimes no match could be found for the glory of the nude body – Boromir would understand when he grew older. Boromir had never liked being told he would understand when he grew older… So sometimes, when no one was around, he would come and spend up to a quarter of an hour in front of a particular figure, scrutinising it this way and that, striving to fathom what such amazing glory was being lost on him – ever to arrive at the same conclusion that adding a set of alwhite armour, a flowing cape and a battle helmet would do no harm.

In fact, the only detail out of the ordinary he had been able to detect was that two of the statues, a pair alcoved at the opposite ends of a corridor, gave the impression that the original design had meant for them to stand together as a single composition. Their poses being complementary to one another, they would fit seamlessly, and then the tall royal-looking Man – a fine warrior, judging by his build – would be about to pull to himself the lithe long-haired Elf with ageless features, who in turn would be reaching out to caress him on the face. Odd as the idea of two divested males embracing had seemed to him back then, Boromir had had to admit they would have actually looked much better that way, more… complete.

Yet when the boy had proudly shared this little observation with Father, Denethor, far from praising Boromir’s flair for harmony in sculpture, had – without a single word – dealt him such a sharp blow on the back of the head that Boromir had nearly keeled over. It was on that day that the young lord had lost all hope of ever coming to understand art – as well as all of his already mild interest for it.

This episode may not have surfaced in Boromir’s memory as he lay studying his little brother all these years later, and he did not think back on their father’s words about the glory of nudity, nor was it ever likely to occur to him to compare Faramir’s seductive loveliness to the undying perfection of a marmoreal statue. His admiration of Faramir’s grace was not in any way rational or even fully conscious at that, especially in this moment when he could think of little else besides how much he wanted the boy. And yet…

Here it was: along with the lust the view of his brother stoked in him, the young man was filled with the sensation of astounded wonder he had so tried – and failed – to achieve when perusing an Elven marble. Elusive when chased after, it now came unbidden, descending on him with such silent, weightless grace he did not even recognise it for the same notion. It did not register with him that to witness such transcendence, and even more so to see it embodied in a living person, made him feel special, and proud, and even faintly overpowered. He did not realise that he was now one of the privileged few to whom true beauty was revealed, and who were blessed to be able to fully appreciate it.

But appreciate it he did, without trying to understand why it touched him so deeply, why it stirred in him both joy and ache – nor did he try to chain it down with words, to ascribe some specific term to it and come up with fancy metaphors for it. In fact, were the man asked to give it a name, he would have likely been baffled. What he now saw, and the sentiments it aroused in him, did not conform to the understanding of beauty he had in his head. Boromir had always rather defined the concept in terms of richness and expensiveness than consonance and clarity. He had never viewed it as the underlying, inherent property of things, but rather a superficial, decorative and therefore facultative aspect, by far less worthy of attention than the practical characteristics.

Most importantly, Boromir had never perceived that the supreme, divine degree of perfection could be reached only in simple things, when all the unnecessary, distracting details were left out. And, having never encountered it before, he did not know that the resplendence obtained in spite of a complete lack of embellishment, based solely on the faultless simplicity of form and undiluted pureness of the content, could have a literally spell-binding power over the beholder –that merely being in the presence of this calibre of excellence could in itself prove a venture perilous for a man’s sanity. He had not anticipated it could convey a meaningfulness so bottomless as to border on sacral, and brim with the promise that to partake of it would render him extraordinary by association and lift him beyond the heights accessible to common men. He did not fathom that the longing, the lust for possession thus engendered would be by nature obsessive, insatiable, and nothing else would as much as give hope of relief but the unparagonable original.

Boromir had not known this before, and even now he did not take it in, for he trusted only what he himself had seen in the past and what his beliefs led him to expect to see – definitely not something like this, and definitely not in such settings.

Ironically, he would not have described his brother as beautiful, for to do so would have defied the logic of the world as Boromir saw it.

Boromir’s world was a familiar, comprehensible place that functioned according to straightforward unchanging laws, a place where everything was organised in order and consistence. When it came to men, for instance, all that was of relevance was strictly divided into what one was born with, and therefore could be envied for – and what one acquired by the sweat of his own brow, and therefore could be respected for. In the first category, above all, fell what one received with the blood his father had passed him, namely the place one ought to occupy in society and the traits of character through which he could become worthy of that place: the flame of his valour and the sharpness of his wit. All else the man built himself: he trained his will, perseverance and hardihood, he cultivated his pride, confidence and patience, and he tirelessly shaped his body with whichever was his trade.

Yes, as a man gifted with covetable health, a powerful physique and a flair for all athletic activities, Boromir believed that all that was good about his body – with the possible exception of his height and the size of his manhood – was a merit resulting exclusively from his own back-breaking work, and no thanks to nature. He deemed it likewise for everyone else, and so reckoned that aside from the strength and endurance visible in a man’s frame, there was little about it to inspire awe. It must be said in support of his cause that until most recently he had had every reason to think thus, for all the specimens of mankind he had previously chanced to see in various states of undress had led him to a firm certitude that if a man, whatever his lineage, wanted to look venerable, and illustrious, and generally impressive, he would be prudent to start by covering himself up.

It was fabled that in the ages past every high lord bore his eminence upon his very brow, and was made such that his features and poise alone would bespeak majesty sufficient to have people bow before him, even were he to walk about dressed in tattered rags. But Boromir had little regard for legends, and in Gondor as he knew it the better part of the image a man projected by day could be easily taken off before bed and hung on the back of a chair, for a man, when one came down to it, was just a man.

Without their official attire, would not the hoary venerable elders from the Steward’s Counsel appear little more than stooping old people with sagging muscles? Likewise, when showering together at the barracks, did not the esteemed high-ranking officers look little different from the undistinguished soldiers?

Following this line of thought, what intrinsic singularity, what striking exquisiteness could possibly show in the vision of a divested lad of fifteen? And if anything, when spread out supine amid crumpled sheets, ruffled, flushed and reeling from a recent climax, such a boy was definitely not meant to fall in the domain of beautiful. Not even to the eyes of someone whose consciousness was admittedly expanded by sexual fever to a rather worrisome extent.

And yet, much as Boromir preferred to stand by whatever convictions he happened to entertain, he could not now fail to sense a major discrepancy in his picture of the universe.

Faramir may have looked defenseless for his peaceful, relaxed unawareness, for his undoubting trust in his brother’s fortitude and consideration – but he did not look defenseless for his nakedness. He did not look bare, stripped, exposed. There was an inborn harmony, a dignity in the very make of his body, a timelessness and continuity such that his loveliness would have been praised by the first of the First-born as much as by those who were to come thousands of years after Faramir had lived his term. His perfection was unconditional, absolute, true. In fact, how could have it ever been expected that simply for being the same gender as him, Boromir would be numb to its sway? This was not the kind of allure women had once had over the young captain, appearing fine and pretty while he was in need, then suddenly turning plain and unremarkable once his fire had had its due and burnt over. No, this charm would last unfading, no matter how sated he got on worshipping it with his body.

And starker than by anything else, this outstanding exceptional fineness was embodied by the flawless whiteness of Faramir’s skin, by its limpid youthfulness, its unadulterated freshness – the whiteness that on many others and to many other eyes might have seemed a flaw, but to Boromir was the clearest proof conceivable that when it came to Faramir, no rules applied. For even this very quality itself refused to rely on its own predicates: shining in the boy’s face it had ever implied naught but the virtues of purity, innocence, and modesty – yet when his garments were cast away and the lucency clothed him from head to toe, making it appear as though he were actually made of it, it turned upon itself and came to bespeak inexhaustible, ever-blazing sensuality and a capacity for unearthly, scorching passion.

The delicate shade of his skin in itself became an averment of wonders unimaginable that touching him would unfold.

But of course that was not all in him that pleased the eye, for in delectable contrast to the whiteness, those parts of him that were brightly coloured drew the gaze all the more inexorably. And as Boromir moved his eyes down the boy’s body, he stopped at the first such point of colour.

As a warrior and older brother, Boromir had always liked the look of Faramir’s chest, his pectorals prominent and well-sculpted, perfectly befitting the good fighter and strong man he would one day grow into. Yes, Boromir had always liked it, yet it had not come to his mind that this part of his brother’s body could be prized in some other way, too. It was common knowledge that only the female bosom had a sexual quality to it, both its aesthetic comeliness and the apparent reproductive application immediately turning a man’s thoughts in one particular direction. Even when chastely covered in clothes, it would intrigue with its shape and weight, making one wonder about what exactly was under the fabric… What form would the breasts assume when rid of the bodice’s support? Would the hue of the delicate tips match that of her lips? Would the teats be girlishly bashful and undeveloped, or maternally large and salient? There were so many titillating questions…

But men’s chests were flat save for a mild muscular curve, their nipples small and purposeless, naught more than a rudiment – what could there be to look at, to speculate about?

Yet now that Boromir was viewing the matter in a new light, he clearly saw that there was one great wondrous pretext why a man, too, had been granted this part of the body, although no babe would ever suckle on it.

Pleasure. The only reason it was there was pleasure.

Faramir’s nipples were very pert and flushed with blood, so sexually rubescent in comparison to their usual subdued brownish shade. And how they stood so upright and full… It had nothing to do with the way Boromir had previously seen them harden, when cold made them tighten and shrivel up – this time it was Faramir’s inner heat directing the change. And Boromir saw now that the purpose they were made to serve lent them the power to arouse that no girl’s bust could ever match.

How he wished to plant just one fleeting caress, to brush his palm over one of them, to make Faramir inhale deeply and arch up towards his hand… Perhaps then Boromir would allow himself to take it between his thumb and index finger, and tweak it slowly, and rub it, and then Faramir would…

But the man knew he ought not touch, not just yet.

So he tore his eyes away and looked a little lower, where across Faramir’s flank ran a thin stripe of a recent scar, too recent to have had time to become pale and silvery.

A mark of a man. A mark of a warrior.

It reminded Boromir that this seemingly docile boy before him could be fierce, and valiant, and dangerous – that Boromir had a just cause not only to want him, but to respect him, to be proud to have him. But it also made the man once more become painfully aware of the dreadful thing he had first realised upon receiving the tidings of his brother being wounded in battle.

Faramir could be lost – he could lose Faramir.

For the past decade and a half, pretty much all of Boromir’s conscious life, his little brother had been there, a reassuring ever-present constant, changing and growing even as Boromir himself grew, but always there.

It did not make sense that one day he could be gone – yet he could. Much as Boromir could tell himself he would never allow it, it was not in his power to exterminate this possibility.

And if there was one thing that could have by any means made Faramir any more precious to him, it was precisely this possibility, this incessant lurking threat. It put Boromir in a state similar to the one always overcoming him before combat, one he considered among the foundations of masculinity, that of experiencing an ardent, undauntable necessity to safe-keep his property.

Yes, there would always be reason to yearn for him, if only to protect him…

And what could be a better instance of protection than making him happy?

Slowly Boromir trailed his eyes yet further down, to where the chief source of Faramir’s pleasure was.

It was soft now, yet not as the man had seen it all the previous times, not the modestly pale and asleep kind of soft, but rather the satisfied for the time-being sort of soft – noticeably swollen, still moist where its cream had been spread over it, and a deep, heady pink in colour.

It too beckoned to be touched, to be reawakened from its – hopefully – brief respite…

Faramir’s balls, too, seemed tauter and fuller than usual, no doubt preparing a fresh portion of his priceless essence…

The whole package was richly offset by the lustrous inky blackness of the boy’s intimate hair, sufficiently abundant to betoken potency and fertility, yet staying well within the borders of good taste and not taking that abundance into the realms of vulgarity.

Boromir’s hand twitched for a feel of it all. How cheekily springy and coarse those curls would appear after he had first gently squeezed and rolled in his fingers the laden roundness tangible through the delicate velvety skin of Faramir’s sack…

At these musings a tear of seed seeped from Boromir’s straining manhood – and so sensitised was its tip that the otherwise barely noticeable sensation of the droplet crawling down from the slit made his breath catch and a shiver run through his thighs. Or was it not a shiver, was it in fact cramps beginning to twist his muscles, the ever-growing tension finally starting to take its toll on him?

It had been a bad, bad idea to look.

Boromir suppressed a groan of misery and forced himself to return his gaze to Faramir’s face, the sight of which, alas, proved no more calming than that of the rest of him.

Merciful Valar, he could not endure this…

And then, at last – a movement.

Faramir sighed and shifted, and although his eyes remained closed, there came a far more telling sign. His member stirred and stretched in its superficial sleep – a sure foretoken it was soon to once again come to full wakefulness.

This was permission enough to Boromir.

The man brought the hand with which he had pleasured Faramir up to the boy’s mouth and brushed his fingertips against his lips. Faramir licked at them leisurely, unabashed at the note of his own taste lingering on Boromir’s skin. Faramir then wrapped his lips around his brother’s index finger and pulled it inside his mouth. He sucked on it hard, then let it almost slide out, and then took it back in, his eyes not opening once throughout the process. An obvious analogy such play brought to Boromir’s mind, and, having to allow some expression for his neglected ever-increasing need, he moaned softly and rocked his hips forth in a short futile thrust.

Yet the prospect Faramir’s torrid lips offered did not appear to Boromir an adequate solution for alleviating his suffering: it was too elaborate a road to completion, too much of a game, whereas the man craved a simple and straightforward course, one that would leave no ambiguity as to whether they had ‘done it’ or not. Not to mention that such a service, disrespectful to be asked for even when with a woman, was quite out of the question when it came to an unspoilt youth. So Boromir sought in his mind for another way to have his heat quenched – and to make certain Faramir was his, would ever be his.

He took his hand away and proceeded to reassume his earlier position atop his brother, and Faramir spread his legs and bent his knees a little to give him a snug welcome. It made Boromir gasp and reel, to have his body come into such full contact with Faramir’s, now that they were both unclothed and fully aligned against each other, touching skin to skin from shoulder to foot.

His manhood was so overwrought it felt intense and good even to simply touch its head to Faramir’s belly and cock. For a moment Boromir allowed a daring hope that a light taction like that would miraculously tip him over – after all, he had had such precedents, albeit several years ago. When he had been an adolescent boy, sometimes he would get so sharply, tremblingly excited that a single brushing caress over the edge of his cock would be enough to make it burst.

But of course it did not work that way tonight. After all, did not Boromir like for his victories to be glorious and spectacular…?

“I want more of you,” Boromir whispered against the side of Faramir’s face.

These words, the first verbal acknowledgement of what was passing between them, a sign of conscious acceptance, stirred Faramir to awareness, and the boy peered up at his brother. Faramir’s gaze was hazy, his eyes dilated and dark, yet there was a profound reflective gentleness in them. The boy smiled, and the smile was warm and almost calm, attesting the inner certainty and consummate happiness he had strangely managed to derive from what had just passed between him and his older brother.

The stupefaction of when Boromir had pulled him into that compulsive desperate embrace had passed, as had the ruthless frenzy of their ravenous kissing and groping. His passion was presenting him with yet another version of itself. His need had been acknowledged and appeased, and was now running even and deep, no longer a violent and turbulent mountain torrent, but a full-flowing river, just as self-willed and ungovernable as before, yet majestic and peaceful in its matchless potence.

He felt again that overwhelming sensation of Boromir’s power over him that he had experienced months ago when Boromir had looked at him seductively and told him to come over and have a kiss bestowed upon his lips. Only now he was not standing before Boromir, he was lying on his back under him, naked and with parted legs, the rigid proclamation of Boromir’s desire resting against his lower abdomen… This last notion made him dizzy – dizzy but neither frightened nor unsettled: he had undoubting faith in his brother, would always have faith in him, there was nothing for him to fear, nothing to withhold.

The boy looked at him in thoughtful affection, and raised his hand to caress Boromir’s shoulder and upper arm, his fingers curious for the powerful tautness of Boromir’s muscles, for the dependable breadth of his frame.

Nevertheless, Faramir shook his head. “I would gladly, only… I don’t know what more to give. But I shall not halt you… to take whatever it be that you wish of me,” he said with a vague shrug. In the nighttime dreams Faramir had had about his brother, there had been only an undefined and undetailed sensation of innermost, guttural pleasure, of overall physical happiness – and upon waking he had never much dwelt on it anyway, for what had mattered most was that Boromir held him and everything was well. And in his conscious fantasies he had never treaded past Boromir stroking his erection, for even that much had seemed ludicrous in its unfeasibility and shameful in its lustiness.

No, he did not know what more he could give. He only knew something infinitely important was bound to happen between them now, something that would forever materialise and seal what they felt for each other, what they were to each other.

And it never occurred to him Boromir might not know the way himself.

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