Faramir Fiction Archive

Bound (NC-17)

Written by Ithiliana

06 March 2007 | 4770 words | Work in Progress

Title: Bound
By: Ithiliana
Rating: Adult
Warning: Incest, bondage, s/m, cutting, spanking. AU.
Characters: Aragorn/Boromir/Faramir
Feedback: Always Appreciated! Some explanation of what that means to me is here if you wish to see it
Disclaimer: All characters belong to the Tolkien estate, modified by film production. This story is not written for money and therefore has no no intent to infringe upon copyright.
Notes: This piece is pure crack, porn without plot, hard core (for me). Basic sumary: Aragorn and Boromir decide to turn Faramir into a sex slave. Faramir likes it. You have been warned!
Dedicated: To the um inspirational savageseraph who more or less said “DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO IT!” when I told her about this fantasy.

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Faramir squinted. Ahead he could see the glow of torchlight through a half-open door. He breathed out a sigh of relief, glad he was not lost in the maze of passages deep in the mountain. The message from the King had been brief, simply ordering him to the vaults.

Suppressing the memory of Boromir chasing him through the twisting dark halls when they were children, Faramir quickened his pace, pushing the heavy door open. He stepped into the room, then stopped, shading his eyes from the light.

“Welcome.”

Aragorn’s voice was lost in the slam of the door.

In the silence that followed, Faramir heard the clang of bolts. Turning his head, he saw Boromir standing in front of the door. He slid forward, hands wrapping around Faramir’s arms.

“Brother, what—?”

“Silence,” Boromir’s voice was low as he pushed Faramir forward. He choked back angry words, stumbling, pulled upright by strong arms.

He could not believe his eyes, seeing Aragorn rise from a stone bench. A fire burned in a brazier, supplying heat and light which flickered off glossy pelts spread over the rough-cut stone of the floor. Aragorn’s dark hair was loose on his shoulders and he did not wear his fine robes and crown. Here, in this room, he wore leather.

Boromir stopped, pulling Faramir back to stand pressed against his body, his strength and heat burning through Faramir’s linen shirt. The page had come to Faramir’s rooms, waking him in the middle of the night. Convinced that the ill news must have come, perhaps from Ithilien where orcs and men from the east still roamed after Sauron’s downfall, Faramir had scrambled into boots and leggings and shirt and hastened into the vaults beneath the Citadel.

Aragorn stepped so close Faramir could feel breath on his face and slid his fingers into Faramir’s hair. Unable to pull away, he tried to speak but as his mouth opened, Aragorn leaned forward to kiss him, mouth hard and greedy.

Straining to breathe, Faramir flinched as Aragorn rubbed against him, buckles catching soft cloth and rasping against his skin. Teeth clashed against his, and he felt one hard hand at the back of his neck, the other ripping his shirt. The knowing mouth slid away from his, wet over hair and skin, biting as it moved down his neck.

Head resting on his brother’s shoulder, eyes closed, Faramir jerked his hips, moaning, as he felt Aragorn’s mouth lift away from his skin. A hand, he was not sure whose, slid between his legs, pressing against the hardness there.

“You were right.” Aragorn’s voice was dark velvet.

“I always am.” Boromir laughed, the vibration in his chest and belly striking deep into Faramir’s body.

Aragorn pulled Faramir’s head forward. Opening his eyes, dazed and panting, Faramir looked into deep blue. Since he had awakened in the Houses of Healing, naked, Aragorn’s hands on him, Faramir had wanted something he could barely name to himself save deep in night’s dreams.

Aragorn spoke, interspersing words with kisses. “You. Will. Not. Speak.”

Biting his lips, Faramir nodded, once, and was rewarded by a wide smile.

“Bring him.”

Faramir took a step away from Boromir to follow as Aragorn turned to cross the room, was pulled up short before Boromir moved in turn.

Sitting on the bench, Aragorn gestured at the floor in front of him. “There. On his back.”

Faramir let Boromir push him down, turning to lie on his back. His head rested between Aragorn’s booted feet. He leaned forward, arms resting on knees, to look down at Faramir who lay still as Boromir tugged off his boots, unlaced his leggings and pulled them off over his hips, down his legs, then tore the rags of his shirt off him. Cold and heat stroked over his skin, the brazier to his right, Boromir’s hands on his legs.

Faramir shook.

Aragorn’s foot rose and moved to press down on Faramir’s right shoulder. “I want to watch your brother swyve you,” he said softly.

He dared not speak. Faramir tilted his head back, gripping the slick and heavy pelt beneath him, and waited, eyes closed.

Calloused hands slid between his legs, under his thighs, lifting and spreading him, hooking his legs over Boromir’s shoulders. Cold and open, he forced himself not to fight although muscles in belly and thighs tightened.

A finger trailed over soft skin, light and teasing, stroking over shaft, sliding below and around. Faramir’s body jerked as the dry finger tried to push into him.

He could not help clenching, bit his lip until he tasted blood.

“Use this.”

The finger withdrew.

“Breathe, Faramir. Deeper.”

He tried to obey, felt the waxy coolness spread over his skin, the slick pressure, steady and slow, breaching him. Pain. Boromir pulled back, then, as Faramir relaxed, muscles in his legs loosening, pushed in again, quick and hard.

“Ahhh.” Faramir whimpered, then cried out, arching his back as the finger twisted inside him, pain and pleasure so mixed he could not tell one from the other. He could feel his member straining.

Leather, at first cool but warming against his skin, pressed against his neck and cheek. “More,” Aragorn said, voice warm.

Pressing his cheek against the boot, Faramir felt his body opening, tried to relax as Boromir pressed deeper, pulled back, pushed further in. The rhythm soothed him, and he moved, slightly, in response, startled when he was suddenly empty.

Then Boromir’s hands slid under him, lifted and spread him. The hard length that followed sparked stars of pain, so much larger than what had gone before.

Grunting, Boromir thrust into him over and over, hands sliding on slick skin, gripping hard enough to bruise, pushing Faramir against Aragorn’s legs. The only stability Faramir had was the pelt clenched in his aching hands as his body was taken. His legs cramped. As Boromir’s movements quickened, grunts marking each thrust, Faramir could feel only the hardness within him, felt his body strain and pull to keep that strengh inside, felt each stroke burn, the tautness in legs and belly and member pulling him up higher and higher until, shouting, Boromir pushed deep within, halting his motions.

Desperate, Faramir twisted, trying to force more, feeling his body aching, the heat inside falling away.

Hands unexpectedly gentle, Boromir held him still, sliding out from under Faramir’s legs, laying them on the floor, patting him.

Faramir turned his head, moaning.

“Bind him.”

Blinking away sweat, Faramir watched as Boromir yanked one of the laces off his red tunic. The thin leather thong stretched between his hands. Boromir smiled as he bent over Faramir. He shuddered, feeling the strap sliding between his belly and member, flinched as leather tightened around him, tightness at the base of his member.

He shook his head.

Bending, Aragorn stroked Faramir’s head, winding fingers in his hair, tugging sharply. Stilling, Faramir looked up.

“You are mine, Captain. You will have to earn your release. Do you understand?”

Faramir forced himself to nod, relaxing under Aragorn’s touch. “Good.” Aragorn released him, standing, rolling his shoulders. He stepped around Faramir to stand behind Boromir who was kneeling by Faramir’s legs.

Forcing his stiff hands open, Faramir flexed aching fingers, watching through half-closed eyes as Aragorn stroked Boromir’s head, combing through bright gold hair, then rubbing his shoulders. Boromir finished lacing his leggings, leaned back into Aragorn’s caress.

“How long have you wanted to do that?”

“Years.” Boromir smiled down at Faramir.

He did not move, feeling sweat cooling on his body.

Aragorn moved suddenly, dropping to his knees, touching the scar from the Southron dart on Faramir’s shoulder, hand probing. Faramir winced.

“You’ve been marked, Faramir, son of Gondor. By Mordor.”

Faramir opened his mouth to protest, but remembered in time. His scar would fade in time. He shrugged. Aragorn gripped his arm and rose, pulling Faramir to his feet. Shocked by the easy strength, Faramir stumbled over the loose pelts. The ache in his lower body was subsiding. The reek of sweat and leather and seed hung in the air.

“Boromir, sit there.”

Boromir settled on one end of the stone bench, shifting back as far as he could in response to Argorn’s gesture.

Turning Faramir, Aragorn gripped his arms from behind, holding him, then moved him around to stand at the end of the bench.

“On your knees.”

Faramir started to kneel, but Aragorn moved sharply, shoving Faramir forward, still holding his arms, guiding him to half fall, half lie across Boromir’s legs. Breathless from the impact, Faramir felt hard muscle under his belly, the end of the bench hard against his upper thighs. Aragorn still gripped his lower arms. He was ill balanced, felt as if he could fall, tried to move into a safer position. One of Boromir’s arms slid under his chest, the other over his back as Aragorn released him.

“Hold.”

Faramir tried to relax into the grip. His breathing was constricted, the muscles of his lower back straining. He could not kneel, and he could not get his feet under him, knees blocked by the bench. He made what small movements he could, trying to steady himself, then jumped as leather cracked across his skin.

Boromir’s arms tightened around him as blows fell rapidly, robbing him of what breath he had left, stinging. After his first shock, he realized the pain was not as great as he’d first thought. His father had punished him harder when he was young.

He rested his forehead on the cool stone, shuddering as one blow struck low, between ass and thigh, resonated through his body. A pause, a halt, in the steady rhythm, then it began again, the leather falling in that same spot again and again, pain transmuted into pleasure burning through him. He felt himself hardening, could not help twisting, desperate for relief, trying to rub against Boromor who held him still, chiding under his breath.

Between one heartbeat and another, the blows stopped. Desperate, Faramir rocked, wishing he could beg. When hands gripped his hips, he stopped, holding his breath. Coolness trailed over burning skin, then sharp teeth bit down, chewing, the warm mouth sucking.

Over the roaring in his ears, Faramir heard Boromir whispering obscenities.

Finally, blunt warmth stroked down his body, moving so slowly into position, hands sunk into the flesh of his hips, pressing on bone. Forcing stillness on himself, Faramir waited, was rewarded as Aragorn slowly pushed into him, inch by inch, until Faramir could feel leather against his skin, legs caught between Aragorn’s.

And then Aragorn paused. Waited.

Held by his brother, braced by Aragorn, Faramir waited, breath uneven. Some uncounted time later, Aragorn began to move, strokes slow and sure, lazy. The sense of power, controlled, wrapped around Faramir, more warming than the heat from dying flames. He raised his head, arching. Argorn tugged him back, moving faster, harder.

Hips rocking, feeling as if he were floating, Faramir rode the pound of his blood higher, each breath moving him closer. Aragorn jerked against him.

Holding his breath, pushing and flexing, Faramir felt his body falter as Aragorn’s heat left him, as Boromir slid him into Aragorn’s arms. Pain flared in thighs and lower back as Aragorn lowered him to the floor, stone cold against sweating skin.

Fingers touched closed eyes and lips, slid down over throat and chest. Faramir waited, feeling pleasure waver back into pain, muscles of belly and legs twitching. He jerked as a warm hand wrapped firmly around his straining member.

“You’ve done well.” Aragorn’s voice, soft as a breath, was warm. “Wait for my command. Boromir, unbind him. Carefully.”

Sensation pooled in his belly, swelling, contained by the calloused hand, as he clenched, feeling the tug as the leather thong was unbound, pulled away. Faramir could not breathe, could not move.

“Now.”

Aragorn’s hand twisted, flexing against hard flesh, and Faramir spasmed, feeling the flood of seed and heat leaving him, as if every beat of his heart bled into the air. He lay, muscles loose, held only by Aragorn’s hand, until a dark wave rose and he slept.

“Faramir!” Hard hands pulled him up, wrapped warmth around his shoulders.

Forcing his eyes open, Faramir yawned, not wanting to leave his bed.

“What? Leave me.”

Half laughing, Boromir said “You won’t thank me in the morning if I do.”

Shocked, Faramir realized he was sitting on hard stone, naked save for Boromir’s heavy cloak slung round his shoulders.

All that had happened came back to him. He shook his head, looked around.

The room was lit only by one torch, burning low. The furs and brazier were gone, as was Aragorn. Only Boromir leaned over him, offering him a flask.

Dazed, Faramir took it, drank, surprised by the rich taste of the wine, handed it back. He licked sweetness off his lips, did not know what to say..

“Can you stand?”

Faramir nodded, scrambled to his feet. The heavy cloak fell around him, the fur lining soft against his skin.

Taking the torch, Boromir swung the heavy door open. “Come.”

They did not speak as they moved through dark passages, climbing a narrow stair that Faramir could not remember having used before, one which ended at a locked door.

Handing Faramir the torch, Boromir unlocked the door which swung open on well-oiled hinges, pushing a dusty tapestry away. Shocked, Faramir stepped through to stand, bare feet on polished stone, in the hall that led to his and Boromir’s rooms.

The clear silver of a full moon shone through windows patching the white stone with light. When Boromir let the hanging of the White Tree, the stars of Gondor glimmering in flame and moonlight, fall back against the wall, it was as if the door did not exist.

He took the torch from Faramir and slid it into a heavy jug half full of sand.

They walked down the hall, moving from light to shadow.

Standing outside Faramir’s door, Boromir tugged him around to face him, hands on his shoulders.

“Are you well?”

Faramir breathed deep, the familiar scent of his brother’s body and hair spiced with something new, and slid one hand around his neck, tugging him close, pulling him into a kiss, mouth hot and open.

Oh, yes, he was well.

Boromir pushed against him, trapping him betweeen stone and flesh, tongue deep in his mouth.

Then pulled away, shaking his head.

“If I dared,” he said, then stopped. “Sleep well, brother.”

Faramir watched him walk away then turned and entered his room. He washed himself, water cool on his body, then not bothering to dry himself, wrapped himself in Boromir’s cloak and lay on his bed in the moonlight, waiting for sleep.

Faramir bent over the table, holding the parchment flat with both hands, studying the map of Ithilien.

Behind him, the council over, a few commanders lingered. Wine was being passed. When the page offered it to him, Faramir shook his head.

A few moments later, a cup, smooth sides cool and damp, was pushed against his hand. Frowning, Faramir looked up, mouth opening to give clearer orders.

“Drink.” Aragorn stood beside him holding his own cup, eyes darkening as he watched Faramir.

Straightening, Faramir let the map roll shut, picked up the cup in both hands to drink. The voices behind him faded. He felt his heart pounding, could not savor the wine which burned down his throat.

It had been ten long nights. He lowered the cup, empty now, to the table, trying to still the tremor in his hands.

Aragorn’s voice was soft but clear. “Come to the vaults tonight, at moonrise.”

Faramir nodded, not daring to speak.

Aragorn smiled, teeth gleaming. “Wear something blue.”

Pulling Boromir’s cloak around him, Faramir walked through dark passages. Even though the days had been warming, the halls beneath the mountain kept the chill of winter. His body felt hot and eager despite the cold stone beneath his feet.

He pushed the door wider, stepped inside. In the moment before the cloth was wound round his eyes, he saw the room looking just as it had before. He felt a tug as the cloth was knotted, then hands pulled the heavy cloak off him. Unable to see, he heard the hiss of breath, half smiled as he felt stroking hands.

He had hesitated between a dark blue tunic and this robe, the blue of early spring flowers in Ithilien, which was meant to be worn over a nightrobe. He was not wearing a nightrobe. The loose cloth fell to his knees, soft folds hiding slits that the hands were now discovering.

Skin slid across skin, touch sparking pleasure. Too soon, the warm hands left him, and he stood, alone.

“Bind his hands.”

Faramir tensed, instinct fighting knowledge, as someone, he thought Boromir, pulled his wrists in front of him, looped them with rope. When it was finished, Faramir pulled, testing the knots.

“Imagine you have been captured.” Aragorn was standing behind Faramir, hands on his shoulders. “Bound. You have been taken to the enemy leader who desires to question you.”

Faramir nodded, then felt a hard shove from behind that sent him stumbling forward, unable to see the heavy fur that tripped him. He fell awkwardly to his knees, flinging his bound hands forward to catch himself before sprawling on his face.

Something narrow and smooth stroked his throat, and he froze, waiting.

“Who is this?” Boromir’s voice, pitched deep, speaking the harsh language of Harad.

“The son of Gondor’s steward.” Aragorn was speaking the same language.

Crouching on the floor, Faramir felt what he was sure had been a blade lift away, then a hand gripped his hair, pulling his head up.

“Tell us of your forces, son of the Steward.”

Imagine you have been captured…bound…taken to the enemy leader.

Faramir shook his head, gasped as the grip tightened and he was pulled upright, kneeling, braced against Aragorn’s legs. His head was released, but then Aragorn’s hands dropped on his shoulders.

A whisper of boots on stone, then Faramir felt Boromir move closer. Flat coolness stroked along his throad, moved down his chest, then lifted away from his body. He felt the tug as the first of the robe’s ties was cut, the shiver of the blade against his skin. Then another, and a third.

“Are you sure he’s a noble of Gondor and not some lord’s bed-slave?”

The silk robe was tugged off his shoulders, falling around his body, over his arms.

“He could be both.”

Heat rose in his chest and face but he did not move, feeling the blade come to rest at the base of his throat.

“Test him,” Aragorn said.

The flat of the blade slid down, over a nipple, hard in the chill air, then down Faramir’s side, to halt at the bottom of his rib cage. A pause, as Faramir breathed out, cautious, then, quick as a striking snake, the blade twisted to cut him across his belly and chest.

Faramir jerked but made no sound, trying to judge the wound. He could feel the warmth of blood on his skin, but no real pain. He thought the cut was long and shallow, not deep. He’d taken worse in many bouts with his brother. He forced tight muscles to loosen, leaned back against Aragorn’s legs, feeling the hardness between them.

“He’s brave.”

“Mmm-hmmm. Open your mouth,” Boromir said.

Faramir did so, controlling the recoil when he felt the blade on his tongue, tasting of salt and metal. He did not breathe, did not move, even when the knife was pulled back, until Boromor’s mouth took his, hot and healing, his brother’s body molded against his in front, Aragorn behind, bracing him.

The kiss went on until Faramir gasped, and Boromir pulled back, slightly, breath hot on Faramir’s cheek. He could feel sweat trapped behind the blindfold, the chafed skin of his wrists, then felt only calloused hands sliding down his hips, moving under his bound hands, to slide between his legs.

He moaned, rocking, head tilted, as Boromir gripped his hard member, the pressure against sensitive skin more painful than the cut.

“You want this, little brother.” Boromir’s mouth moved against Faramir’s neck, words half lost in skin and sweat and heat.

He did.

Lost in the taste and feel of his brother’s mouth, Faramir jumped when Aragorn spoke as a Haradrim.

“Will you tell us what we want to know?”

Boromir pulled back, freeing Faramir’s mouth who did not know if Aragorn’s earlier command still applied.

Faramir shook his head.

“Strip him and tie him down.”

Faramir was thrown off-balance as Aragorn released him, moving away. He swayed, was caught by Boromir who pulled him up to his feet, cutting his hands free, pulling the nightrobe off then steering him across the room. Blindly trusting, Faramir followed, feeling the silky pelts under his feet give way to chill smoothness.

“Here.”

Stopping, Faramir felt the hands on his shoulders, pressing down. He knelt, then, obedient to the signals, stretched out on the stone, chill against him, arms stretched over his head. Hands pulled his legs apart, snapped cuffs around his ankles, then cuffed his wrists. Spread-eagled, he tried to relax into the posture, turning his head to breathe more easily. The cloth around his eyes slid up, enough for him to see the rich leather of the boots, Aragorn’s he thought, close to his head.

Aragorn knelt, re-arranging the cloth so that all Faramir could see was the soft glow of the brazier. A hand stroked down his back, once, twice, then loosely gripped his neck.

“Any who pass can take you, son of Gondor.” The harsh sounds seemed to change in Aragorn’s mouth, the sound of his voice soothing despite the words. “You are a captive, will serve to give us pleasure. What say you?”

Before Faramir could speak, before he could even think what he might say, calloused hands stroked along his inner thighs, from the space between his legs down, then up, kneading, then moving down and up again.

Faramir strained against the metal that held him, could not speak as pleasure sparked through his body.

His breath halted as hands settled on his ass, gripping, pulling him open. Slick hardness slid over his skin, probing. Aragorn rubbed his neck, shoulders, and Faramir relaxed as much as he could as he was breached.

Slow pressure in, then out, as Boromir worked patiently.

Gasping, forced finally to breathe, Faramir bit his lip, straining in turn, held by metal and Aragorn’s hands. Finally, Boromir was deep inside, bare chest pressing against him, arms gripping his sides, moving as slow and sure as the rise of Anduin in spring fed by the melting snows.

Finally, Boromir gasped, body still against Faramir’s. He schooled himslf to wait, patient, despite the ache between his legs, only half conscious of Aragorn moving away. Faramir counted his heartbeats, reaching a hundred before Boromir stirred, rising, pulling out of him, a hundred more before he was surprised to feel his wrists free.

“What are you doing?”

Aragorn’s voice was amused. He spoke in Westron to Faramir’s surprise. “He’s being rescued. Free his ankles.”

Confused, Faramir did not move, felt the cuffs fall away, did not fight as Aragorn gripped him, pulling him over and tugging him to lie between outstretched legs, head on Aragorn’s thigh, skin cool against his. The cloth over Faramir’s eyes was pulled free and he blinked, dazzled by the dim light of the brazier, to see Aragorn bending over him, hair shadowing his face.

Sweat stung the open cut on Faramir’s chest, and he winced.

“Rescued?” Boromir sat cross-legged beside Aragorn, naked, skin gleaming in the faint light. He pushed back tangled hair, shook his head. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Aragorn laughed, low. “Give me your tunic and you’ll see.”

Boromir shrugged, leaned over and pulled his red tunic out of a pile of cloth, handing it to Aragorn. He draped it over Farmir’s thighs, the soft cloth harsh against sensitive skin.

“Watch.”

Aragorn’s eyes closed, and he set one hand high on Faramir’s chest, breathing deeply, then pulling it slowly across his body, tracing the cut.

Faramir’s back arched as a net of fire wrapped him round, stealing breath and thought, pulsing in time to his heart, pulling pleasure from deep within him and feeding it back, the cycle greater than his body could hold.

Faramir’s throat hurt. He drifted. He slept, he thought, or wished to, did not wish to open his eyes. He remembered what he had tried to forget.

“Faramir.”

He could not ignore the king’s voice so opened his eyes.

Aragorn smiled down at him. “You are healed,” he said.

Faramir looked down to see no sign of the open wound, rubbed his hand across his chest and felt smoothness, and echoes of pleasure.

“Does that happen with every healing?” Boromir’s voice was rough.

“No. It’s rare.”

“Good.”

Aragorn leaned over, pulling Boromir’s head close enough for a long kiss, then spoke so softly that Faramir was not sure he heard.

“Do you remember your healing?”

A long silence, then Boromir nodded.

Aragorn smiled.

Faramir sat, back stiff, muscles sore, aware of dampness behind him and the sogginess of Boromir’s tunic still draped across him. He was not quite sure what had happened, but as the others moved to dress and leave, he did not dare ask.

Light shone through the high windows of the Great Hall. High above Faramir’s head, he could see dust motes turning to bars of gold as they were caught in the sunlight. He watched as the delegation of richly clad men rose from deep bows. Aragorn sat on the throne, face nearly as remote as those of the status lining the hall.

The layers of court dress Faramir wore were heavy, tight sleeves rubbing the chafed skin of his wrists, the heavily embroidered collar of the tunic tight around his throat. The heat of the day mixed with heat from the close-packed bodies filled the hall, and he closed his eyes, dizzy.

The leader stepped forward, speaking loudly enough to be heard throughout the hall.

He was speaking the language of Harad, the most formal dialect.

Faramir blinked, suddenly back in the dark vault.

Sweat trickled down his back. His member twitched, swelling against the tight leggings. Cautious, he moved back, one slow step, then another, until his shoulders rested against one of the black columns which sprang from stone floor to high vaulted ceiling.

Aragorn leaned forward to reply, smiling. He accepted the box a younger man held up for him, then stood. In formal language, he welcomed the delegation and made them free of the City for the time they were here.

“He knew they were coming today.” Boromir’s voice was soft, only for Faramir’s ears, or so he hoped.

He looked sidways, seeing Boromir standing close to him, leaning against the pillar. He was watching Aragorn as he moved down the stairs. Taller by a head than most of the men around him, he spoke to the Lord from Harad, introducing him to Imrahil.

Swallowing, Faramir looked away, from his brother and from his king. “Shouldn’t you be at his side, Steward?”

“Not today.”

The crowd began to move, slowly, swirling around the center of power at the end of the Hall, and after some moments, Faramir and Boromir were left standing in an empty space.

“He wanted Dol Amroth.”

Faramir nodded. It made sense.

“Now later tonight…”

Boromir’s voice was still quiet, but a dark tone made it seem louder. Or perhaps he had moved unobtrusively, was standing closer. Faramir told himself that the layers of fabric each of them wore meant he could not feel the warmth from Boromir’s body. He felt the muscles of his belly and thighs tighten.

To Be Continued

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